Between Moor End vicarage and the road stretched a long narrow strip of
garden, at least, a strip of ill-kept grass and some shabby bushes.
A wall divided the garden from the road, a wall so low that garden, house,
and all, were exposed to the view of every passer-by. The strip of grass
was the children's play place, for the garden behind the house was divided
up into beds of carrots, cabbages, turnips, potatoes and all manner of
other things, so that there was no room left for a good game.
Not only was there no room, but old Job Toms, who came once or twice a
week to 'do' the vegetable garden, threatened such dire punishment to
anyone who made a footmark on one of his beloved beds, that the children
were almost afraid to step inside the gate.
However, the front garden made up for it, there were no beds there--at
least none to worry about. There had been two down by the gate at one
time, but there was nothing in them now, and the children were allowed to
do just as they liked there. They had the added joy too of seeing
everyone who passed along the road and everyone who came to the house.
Deborah and Tom had been playing there when their father called them to
know if they would like to go with him to the station; and their toys were
lying about just as they had left them when they flew away to wash their
hands and brush their hair.
Audrey glancing over the wall, eager for a first sight of her home after
all the long time she had been absent from it, saw an old pair of kitchen
bellows, numberless scraps of paper, a broken battledore, a shabby straw
hat, and three grubby, battered dolls perched up against an old tub, which
had once contained flowers, but had long since ceased to do so.
The sight would have jarred on most, but to eyes accustomed to the
primness of Granny Carlyle's house it was ugly and unsightly in the
extreme. To Audrey, tired, irritable, already depressed, the sight was as
jarring as it possibly could be. "Was this really home? Was this the
sort of thing she would have to endure for twelve long, weary months?"
A great gloom weighed upon her. She walked in without a word, her heart
full to bursting.
The look of the house was not more cheering than the garden. In three of
the four bedroom windows facing her, the low blinds sagged in the middle
and fell away from the sides. In the fourth window alone were the
curtains clean and neat, this was the room which was being got ready for
Audrey. Over the top of the low blind Faith's head suddenly appeared,
and Faith's face beamed out a welcome.
"There is your sister," said Mr. Carlyle, more cheerfully than he had
spoken since they left the station. "I expect she is putting finishing
touches to your room. Come down," he called up to the open window,
but Faith was already coming over the stairs with a rush.
"You have come!" she cried excitedly, hopping over two pairs of shoes and
a rattle which strewed the hall floor, "the train must have been very
punctual. I was hurrying to clear another shelf in my cupboard for
Audrey."
Audrey's heart sank even lower. Then she was expected to share a room
with Faith. "Couldn't I--need I disturb--couldn't I have another room,"
she stammered. "It--it seems too bad to turn you out."
"Oh, you aren't turning me out," laughed Faith. "We have the old nursery
for our room, it is so nice and large; there is heaps of room too for
Joan's cot to stand beside my bed. I have cleared two shelves in the
wardrobe by tipping everything out on to my bed. I must find somewhere to
put it all before I go to bed, or I shall have to sleep on the floor--but
we shall both settle down in time. Come and see mother, Audrey, she is
longing to see you."
"How is she," asked Audrey, as they mounted the stairs together.
"Is she really very ill?"
"No--not what you would call very ill. She was last year, and she will
never be really well again unless she rests for a whole year."
"It's an awfully long time, isn't it?" said Audrey dejectedly. "When does
it count from? From when she was so ill, or--or from when father wrote
for me to come home?" She was already calculating in how many weeks time
she would be able to get away, and back to Farbridge and granny.
Faith looked at her sister, her soft brown eyes full of mild surprise.
"Oh, I don't know. I don't suppose Dr. Gray can tell to a few weeks, or
even months. A lot depends on how quiet she keeps. He said that perhaps
by next spring or summer she would be quite well again, and able to go
about."
"Oh!" Audrey's face fell, but before she could say anything more,
Faith opened a door and in another moment Audrey was in her mother's arms.
"Oh, my dear, my dear, I am so glad to see you. I hardly realised what a
great big daughter I possessed. How you have grown, Audrey, and how nice
you look, darling. You are going to be tall, like your father, and you
have his features." Audrey's face brightened, fond as she was of her
mother, it was her father she wished to resemble. Faith had her mother's
short tip-tilted nose and big brown eyes, and Audrey had many times envied
her the latter, but if she herself had her father's straight nose and
aristocratic features, she felt she would not grudge Faith her pretty
eyes. Faith was short too--as her mother was--a soft, sweet dumpling of a
girl. Audrey admired tall people.
She glanced about her mother's room interestedly and with a happier face.
Here, at any rate, all was comfortable and orderly. The litter that lay
about was the litter of books and papers, which was what Audrey liked.
Perhaps things would not, after all, be as bad as at first they seemed.
"I expect, dear, you would like to take off your hat and coat and have
some tea. You must be tired and hungry." Mrs. Carlyle loosened her arm
from round her daughter, but reluctantly. "Well," she said, looking after
her as she left the room with Faith; "you have your father's features, but
you have my mane, I see. Shocking, isn't it, to have six red-headed
people in one house!"
"Six red-headed tempers too," laughed Faith, "no five--you haven't a
temper, mummy. Come along, Audrey." She hurried along the narrow
corridor and opened a door at the other end, "There--that is our room--
won't it be jolly? I am sorry it is so untidy now, but it will be lovely
when we have settled in, won't it?"
Audrey glanced about her, speechless, "How--how small and--and
old-fashioned the room looks," she said at last. "At granny's they are so
high, and they look so light and bright. Where am I to put all my things?
You see I have rather a lot of clothes."
"Have you?" said Faith wistfully, "well it's lucky that I haven't.
I will give you another drawer in my chest of drawers. Now I must run
down to baby. Mary is cooking, and there is only Debby to look after her.
Will you come down when you are ready? It will soon be tea-time, and I
want you to see baby. Oh, Audrey, she is such a darling. You'll be sure
to love her. Doesn't it seem odd that you have never seen her--your very
own sister!"
"Yes," said Audrey, but without eagerness. "I wish though that she had
been a boy. We were too many girls before."
Faith went downstairs with a shadow on her bright spirits. Why was it
that nothing seemed quite right? Perhaps she had expected too much.
Somehow she had a feeling that Audrey was not pleased with anything,
nor comfortable. She could give her another drawer or two and more room
in the cupboard, but she could not change the long, low rooms to high,
light ones, nor her baby sister into a brother.
"And I don't want to!" she cried as she met the young person in question
crawling along the hall to meet her.
"Fay! Fay! Fay!" cried Joan joyfully, and chuckled with delight at sight
of her.
Faith caught her up in her arms and hugged her. "Oh, Joan, you darling--
but what about your clean pinny that I had put on on purpose to make you
look nice when your new big sister saw you for the first time?"
But Joan only caught Faith's curls in her two plump little hands, and drew
her face down until she could rub her own soft baby face against it.
A few minutes later Audrey came out of her room, she had made herself as
tidy as she could without hot water to wash with, or a brush or comb.
Her own were not unpacked, and Faith's were nowhere to be seen.
As she descended the stairs a strong smell of cooking poured up to meet
her. "Sausages," she thought to herself, "what a funny time of day to
have them." She was so hungry though, she could forgive the appearance of
such a dish at such an hour.
In the dining-room Tom and Debby were trundling a small tin train across
the table from side to side, trying to avoid collisions with forks and
spoons and cups and saucers, et cetera, by moving such things away.
Faith was playing on the hearthrug with Joan. "Look, Audrey," she cried
as her eldest sister entered, "this is baby! isn't she a darling!"
Audrey looked down at the sweet little upturned face, at the big, velvety,
violet eyes fixed so earnestly on herself. "Oh, you are a darling," she
cried impulsively. "Will you come to me, Joan dear?" But Joan was shy at
first and shrank back against Faith, though her eyes still scanned
Audrey's face with interest. A moment later there was a crash against the
door followed by a rattle of plates and dishes, diverting everyone's
attention. Audrey swung round with a cry of alarm. She was not
accustomed yet to the ways of the household.
"It is only Mary bringing in the dishes and things," remarked Faith
placidly, "she always bumps the door with her tray." Audrey wondered what
granny would say if any one so treated the doors at 'Parkview.'
She wondered too, when she saw her, what granny would think of Mary;
round-faced, untidy, good-tempered Mary, with her crumpled apron, torn
dress and untidy head. Audrey did not know then how patient, willing and
hard-working Mary was. She only saw an untidy head with hair and cap
falling over one ear, a red face and smutty hands, and wondered how her
father, who followed her into the room could look at her and not send her
away to make herself neat, or give her notice on the spot.
Granny would not allow her to come into the room looking so untidy, and
oh! what would Phipps think of her?
She did not know then that poor Mary did more hard work in one day than
prim Phipps did in four; did it willingly too, and for far less reward.
"Tea's ready, miss," Mary announced loudly. "Master Tom, you'll have to
pick up your toys now; and look at the litter you've made the table in!
Miss Faith, shall I hold baby while you have your tea? I'll rompsy with
her a bit, and that'll tire her out and make her sleepy."
"Oh, thank you, Mary, she will love that." Faith handed her precious
burthen over to the grimy, willing hands without a vestige of the shudder
which ran up and down Audrey's spine at the sight of them.
"Oh! oh! sausages for tea! sausages for tea!" Debby and Tom pausing in
their entrancing game realised for the first time the unusual luxury
spread before them. "Sausages _and_ jam too! That's 'cause Audrey has
come. Faith, may we have some too? Are we always going to have sausages
for tea now? Oh, I am glad Audrey's come home. Don't you love sausages,
Audrey?"
Debby looked up at her sister with eager, happy eyes.
"Yes--rather--I mean yes, I do." Audrey was glancing about her for a
table-napkin. Mr. Carlyle saw and understood.
"Faith, dear. Audrey would like a table-napkin. Can you get her one?"
"Never mind," said Audrey, "it really doesn't matter." But Faith had
already flown. When she came back again it was with a troubled face and a
very ragged piece of damask in her hand.
"I know we have some better ones somewhere," she said, "but I can't think
where they have got to. I can't find anything but this."
"Oh, don't bother," pleaded Audrey, embarrassed by the trouble she was
causing.
Mr. Carlyle sighed softly, but not so that Faith could hear. "I think we
shall have to put you in charge of the linen-cupboard," he said, smiling
down at his elder daughter, and Audrey's face brightened. She loved
granny's nice neat linen cupboard, with its neat piles of towels and
pillow-cases, sheets and tablecloths all in such beautiful order.
She picked up her knife and fork to begin her meal, trying not to see that
the knife had not been cleaned, but when she felt the handle of her fork
sticky in her clasp her patience gave out, she could not eat with dirty
messy things, and she would not. With a face like a thunder-cloud she
laid down both again, "I don't think I will have any, thank you," she said
huskily. "I--I----" She was so thoroughly put out she could scarcely
speak, for she really was very hungry and she really wanted her tea.
Her father, with a very concerned face, laid down his own knife and fork
and looked at her anxiously. "Perhaps it was not a very wise choice to
have made for you after a journey," he said, "would you rather have some
cold meat, dear?"
"No, thank you, it is very nice, but--but----"
"You would rather have some bread and butter."
She would not at all prefer bread and butter, at that moment she felt she
hated it, she was so hungry and longed for the savoury sausage and potato.
It was not the food she objected to but what she had to eat it with.
After the fuss, though, about the table-napkin she had not the courage to
speak out. So she sat and ate bread and jam sulkily, and almost choked
over her tea and refused to smile at anyone or at anything that was said.
In her heart she wondered how she could ever endure the hopeless muddle,
the dirt and untidiness, for fifty-two long weeks. "Three hundred and
sixty-five days of it!" she thought angrily, "and I haven't lived through
one yet! Oh, I must write to granny and beg her to let me come back to
her again. They must manage without me here, I simply cannot bear it."
Again a shadow fell on the happiness of all. Mr. Carlyle, looking at his
eldest daughter's downcast face, wondered if he had done right by her; not
so much in having her home now, as in ever letting her go away. Was she
going to be the comfort to her mother, and the help to the younger ones
that he had hoped she would, after her four years of training; or had the
years simply taught her to be selfish, and to love luxury?
Faith, too, felt unusually depressed. She was accustomed to feeling tired
in body, but to-night she felt tired in spirit also. Debby and Tom,
instead of rejoicing that they had a big sister to make home happier,
felt as though they had a stranger amongst them, who disapproved of
everything.
In her heart of hearts Audrey knew it too. She felt that she was being
disagreeable, that so far she had given no one cause to be glad that she
had come home; and, once her first anger had subsided, the feeling added
greatly to her sadness. She longed to be able to get away by herself for
a while; but in that busy house she knew there was but little chance of
solitude.
"I must have a room to myself, I must! I must!" she thought desperately,
"if it is only an attic. Somewhere where I can put my books and desk."
Suddenly she remembered that the house had attics, some of which were not
used--at least, two were unused when she lived at home. Her heart gave a
great leap of excitement. If one were still empty, could not she have it?
She felt she could put up with everything else, if she might but have one
place of her very own.
She longed to ask about it at once, and set her mind at rest, but second
thoughts showed her that it would be too selfish, too ungracious to be
inquiring about a room for herself on the very first evening of her
home-coming, especially after the nursery--an extra large room--had been
given up to them that they might be happy and comfortable.
She would wait a day or two, she decided, and then make the suggestion to
Faith. Faith would agree, she was sure, if she thought it would give
pleasure. She was always so easy-going and good-tempered; so ready to
fall in with any plan for making others happy.
Audrey's spirits brightened, and the brightness showed in her face.
Her father, watching her anxiously, saw that the cloud had lifted, and
thought that perhaps after all it might only have come from
over-tiredness, and a very natural sorrow at leaving her grandmother and
her home of four years.
"I have taken your boxes upstairs," he said, laying his hand caressingly
on her shoulder, "you will be able to unpack after tea if you like."
Audrey looked up at him with the brightest look he had yet seen on her
face.
"Oh, thank you, father, so much, I will go up and unpack at once, if I
may, there are presents in my big box for everyone."