Perhaps, after all, Audrey's move to the attic was a good one.
She herself was certainly happier, and the others were happier too, for to
feel that someone is always discontented and miserable, is very
depressing, and to know that someone is finding fault with everything one
does, is apt to make one irritable and faultfinding too.
In her new room Audrey found a great interest. She did all she could to
make it pretty--it was the only part of the house that she did try to make
pretty. On her writing-table she had always a vase of fresh flowers, and
another on her dressing-table, and a jar of tall ferns in the grate.
All that was easy enough to manage, but she found it rather a trial to
have to make her own bed every day, and keep her room swept and dusted.
Living with her granny, where everything was done for her, and the
housework went on with the regularity of machinery, and without any share
in it, or interest in it, on Audrey's part, she had grown up with a
knowledge only of how things should look when done, but without the
faintest idea of how to do them, or of the trouble it cost to make things
nice, and keep them so. It had never occurred to her that to keep
furniture brightly polished, and brass and silver too, windows gleaming,
and window curtains spotless, meant constant care on somebody's part,
and hard work too. She was beginning, though, to learn the value now of
many things that she had taken for granted before.
"If one did all that needs doing about a house," she said, excusingly to
herself, "one would have no time for anything else, and I do want to
write. If I could sell my stories I could help father tremendously, and
that is far more important than dusting and cooking, and looking after the
children. Faith can do that, she has no taste for writing. When lessons
begin I shall have less time than ever for it, so I really must do all I
can now." And fired with enthusiasm and importance, she shut herself up
more and more in her attic, and Faith was left to look after her mother,
and the children, and the house, pretty much as she was before; and if the
muddle did not grow greater, it certainly did not grow less under Audrey's
rule.
"If you want to keep this house tidy you must always be tidying it,"
she grumbled, and to be always tidying it was certainly the last thing she
wished or intended. So, as long as her own attic was neat and fragrant,
she closed her eyes to the rest and was, apparently, content to let things
go on as she found them.
"Audrey, will you sit with mother this evening while I go to church?"
Faith opened her sister's door nervously, and the face which appeared
round it was decidedly apologetic. She was always afraid that she might
be interrupting Audrey at a critical point in the story she was writing,
and she generally was too.
This May Sunday was an exception though. Audrey did not write stories on
Sundays, she only thought about them. Occasionally she wrote a letter to
her granny, or to a school friend. She was thinking of a story now, when
Faith disturbed her, a very sentimental one, as she sat by her bedroom
window and gazed at the road winding up to the moor. 'He'--the lover--was
striding along it with set jaws and haggard eyes, while 'she'--the
heroine--sat at just such a window as Audrey's own, and gazed after him
through tear-filled eyes. And Audrey was just trying to decide whether
'she' should wave a relenting handkerchief and call him back, or watch him
depart for ever and die of a broken heart, when Faith popped her head in.
"Very well," she said, and sighed.
"And will you get her a glass of milk at seven? She must not have it
later or she will have indigestion all night----"
"Oh, I know all about that, of course." Faith so often forgot that she,
Audrey, was the eldest,--and mistress of the house for the time.
"And will you read to her----"
"Oh there is no need to do that, mother and I can always find plenty to
talk about, we have so many tastes alike----"
"She likes to have the Evening Service read to her, and the hymns and the
lessons. The numbers of the hymns are on a slip of paper on the
mantelpiece. I will go now and see that Tom and Debby are getting ready."
"All right." It never occurred to Audrey to go and see to them for Faith,
while she got herself ready.
"Oh, and Audrey, Joan is in bed, but will you go in and look at her after
I have gone to see that she is covered up? she throws off----"
"Oh yes, of course, I'll attend to everything. Don't worry so."
"Thank you. I will see to the supper when I come back. Mary is out
to-night."
"Oh, is she! What a bother. Never mind, I'll look after things and sit
with mother. I want to talk to her about a story I am going to write."
"Oh, Audrey, how lovely!" Faith gazed at her sister with eyes full of
wistful admiration. "I wish I could hear about it too."
"Oh, you wouldn't understand." Nevertheless, Audrey was very well pleased
with her sister's appreciation.
"But I could listen, and try to. Will you have done before I come home?"
"Oh yes, of course."
Tom began to shout from down below and Faith started off at a run.
"He can't find his hat and I promised to help him look for it," she added
hastily.
"Faith," Audrey called after her, "don't say anything to anybody else
about my story," she added in a lower tone as she leaned over the stairs.
"Don't tell father, or the children, or--or Mary. I don't want anyone to
know anything about it until I have sold some--at least, only mother and
you."
Faith nodded back brightly, immensely pleased at being trusted with the
mighty secret. She was very proud of Audrey and thought her cleverness
quite remarkable.
Mrs. Carlyle was proud of her daughter too, and pleased that, at any rate,
one of her children inherited her talent for writing. At least her
taste--she hoped that in time it would prove a talent. And for nearly an
hour she patiently listened and advised.
"You must not be too sure of yourself yet, dear," she said at last, a
somewhat weary note in her voice. "You must be content to read and
practise for a long time yet----"
"But mother, I am sure I could write a story as good as one I read a few
days ago--there was simply nothing in it."
"But Audrey, you surely would not be content to write a story only as good
as a very poor one! Your aim should be to write one better than a very
good one."
"To begin with, mother! I couldn't do that to begin with--and oh, I do
want to see one in print!"
Mrs. Carlyle sighed. She was very tired. "I thought you wanted my
advice, dear," she said gently. "Now, will you read me the Psalms,
please. My books have been waiting such a long time for you to begin.
They will be home from church before we have read the lessons, I am
afraid. Oh, I am afraid I must trouble you to get me my glass of milk
now, before we begin. I shall not be able to take it if I leave it any
later. I wonder if Joan is all right? I have not heard her call, have
you?"
Audrey jumped up hurriedly and ran into the next room.
Baby Joan was asleep, but with the bed-clothes kicked back and all her
little body exposed to the night breeze from the open window.
"Oh dear," sighed Audrey impatiently, "I think children do things on
purpose to annoy one." She was cross because she was really alarmed.
Joan was very cold, she must have been lying uncovered for nearly an hour.
"She really deserved a whipping." Audrey covered the little body up
warmly and hurried back to her mother's room with her tale of woe.
She had quite forgotten the glass of milk.
Mrs. Carlyle did not grow irritable as she listened, though she had every
reason to be, but she was greatly worried. "I should have reminded you to
go in and see that she was all right," she said, full of self-reproach.
"Isn't it dreadful to think that if Faith goes out we can none of us be
trusted to take care of anything properly!" She did not again remind
Audrey of the glass of milk.
Audrey did not relish the reproach. She was always a little sore about
Faith's pre-eminence in the house. "You see it isn't my work," she said
shortly, "if it had been I expect I should not have forgotten.
It is frightfully hard to remember other people's little odds and ends of
work when they happen to be out."
"Did not Faith ask you to look after baby while she was away?"
"Yes--but----"
"Then it was your work, Audrey."
"Oh, well, I am very sorry. I quite forgot, but I expect Joan will be all
right. Now I will read to you, mother. Which hymn would you like?"
Mrs. Carlyle's mind at that moment was not in tune for any reading.
She was troubled about her baby girl, and almost more troubled about her
big girl. Her heart was heavy, her head ached, she felt tired too, and
faint.
Audrey also was out of humour with herself and everything. She was
disappointed in her mother's advice about her writing. She was angry with
herself for failing in her duty, she was nervous about Joan, and over and
above all she was disappointed in her Sunday. It did not seem like a
Sunday--the happy beautiful day that comes bringing sunshine to the heart
and sweetness and peace to the home, giving to all strength and courage to
take up the burden of daily work again, and go singing on one's way.
Audrey had been late for prayers in the morning, and Debby had annoyed her
on her way to church by appearing with a hole in her stocking; while at
dinnertime she had been so annoyed by the sight of finger-marks on her
tumbler, that she had neither given thanks for her food nor returned them.
The afternoon which she had longed to give up to reading she had had to
devote to the Sunday School. She did not like children, and she detested
teaching, "but, of course, if you very much dislike a thing you are bound
to have it thrust on you, and if you love a thing very much, well, that is
quite enough to prevent your being able to have it." She cried bitterly
in the solitude of her own room. She went to the school and she took her
class, but neither pupils nor teacher benefited by the lessons. To the
children she was cold and unsympathetic. She took no interest in them or
their doings; and they in their turn did not like her. And, more than
that, they judged other teachers by her.
"If that's what Sunday School teachers is like, you don't catch me coming
again," declared Millie Pope, who had been coaxed by a friend into coming
for the first time. "If being good makes you as sharp and sour as she
is--well, I don't want to be good."
Audrey had not heard the remarks that were made, but she felt that she had
been a failure, and her heart was heavy. She was vexed and sorry, and
annoyed with herself and everything, for she knew that she had not done
her best, that she had failed in her duty. And she knew as well as though
they had told her that the children had not liked her.
Oh, it had been a failure, that May Sunday. The birds had sung their
blithest, the hedges were white with hawthorn, the air sweet with the
scent of flowers, the sun had shone all day--and yet it had been a grey
Sunday, begun badly, continued badly, ending badly--because the right
spirit was lacking.
"Would you like me to read to you now, mother?" she asked again,
but doubtfully. Something told her that the time was past, that the sweet
calm pleasure was not to be caught now. And before Mrs. Carlyle could
answer her, footsteps sounded in the garden, and Faith, followed by Debby
and Tom, came rushing up the stairs.
"Oh, we have had such a lovely time," but Faith catching sight of her
mother's wan face, stopped abruptly. "Aren't you feeling so well, mummy?
--are you faint? Have you had anything since we have been gone?"
Audrey sprang up with a cry of dismay and flew from the room. "It is too
late now, dear," said the invalid feebly, but Audrey did not hear her.
"It is too late now," called Faith, rushing after her. "I will make her
some Benger----" Their footsteps and voices died away.
"Oh, what a pity!" sighed Deborah, "we've got such a lot to tell, and we
wanted you to be well enough to listen, mother."
"We've had quite an advencher," cried Tom, his eyes wide with excitement,
"and father asked them to supper----"
"But you mustn't tell," interrupted Debby reprovingly, "not till Faith
comes. It wouldn't be fair--and Audrey too, 'cause it's Audrey that knows
them."
Mrs. Carlyle beckoned Debby to her side. "Run down, darling, and tell
Faith not to make me any Benger, it takes so long, and I don't want her to
stay now. I will have some jelly instead, and a slice of bread. Tell her
to come quickly, and Audrey too. I am longing to hear about your
'advencher.'"
Mrs. Carlyle kissed her little daughter very tenderly. She loved to have
them come to her with all their little joys and woes. It was one of the
chief pleasures of her slowly returning health.
In a very short time Debby came racing back again, a plate in her hand
with a slice of bread on it. "It's all right," she cried triumphantly,
"it hasn't fell'd, I put my thumb on it so's it shouldn't!"
Mrs. Carlyle smiled to herself. "I hope it was a nice clean thumb," she
said gently. "Another time, dear, it will be better to walk more slowly,
for you should never put your finger on another person's food."
"Oh!" Debby looked disappointed. "But it was such a safe way, mummy, it
never fell'd once. Audrey and Faith were so slow. Faith was dusting a
tray and Audrey was turning out all the drawers looking for a tray-cloth
to put on it, and--and I couldn't wait. I wanted you to hear all about
who we've seen--oh, here they are at last!"
They had evidently been successful in finding a cloth of some kind, for
Audrey came in carrying a neatly laid tray, with a plate of jelly on it,
a spoon, and a table-napkin; while Faith walked behind, her face beaming
with triumph.
"Doesn't that look tempting, mother?"
"Indeed it does! and what a luxury to have the table-napkin remembered.
Is that Audrey's doing?"
"Yes--and oh, Audrey, I've been longing all this time to tell you.
What _do_ you think--we've met some friends of yours. There were
strangers in church--I didn't know them, but father and Debby and Tom
did--at least they recognised them, and after service was over they were
standing about in the churchyard as if they were looking for someone--and
it was you! And who do you think they were?"
Audrey groaned. "What do you mean?" she asked irritably. "Who was me?
and who was looking for what? and how should I know who anyone was if you
don't explain? Can't you tell all about it so that anyone can understand
you?"
Faith put a restraint upon herself and began again. "I mean it was you
that the strangers were looking for. They are called Vivian--they are the
grandchildren of Mr. Vivian at Abbot's Field. You know, mummy," turning
to her mother. "They said they travelled with Audrey the day she came
home. Why didn't you tell us, Audrey?"
"Perhaps Audrey did not know who they were," suggested Mrs. Carlyle
gently, seeing that Audrey looked confused and remained silent.
Audrey grew red and uncomfortable, but made no reply.
"They said they saw daddy and me and Tom on the platform," burst in Debby,
breaking an awkward pause. "They didn't know he was the vicar, but they
came over to try and see you at church, and then they saw daddy, and then
they looked round and saw me and Tom, and Faith--of course they didn't
know Faith, but they guessed she was another of us because of her red
hair. And they waited until we came out of church to speak to us--they
wanted to inquire for Audrey."
"And oh, they are so nice, mother dear," chimed in Faith excitedly.
"You will love them. They are coming here to see you."
"I am so glad, dear, it will be nice for you to have companions. Did you
not know who they were, Audrey, and where they were going to stay?"
Audrey nodded. She was looking embarrassed, troubled and vexed.
"Yes, mother, at least, they said they were going to stay with a Mr.
Vivian, but--but I did not know him--and I--I didn't know them----"
"Did you like them, dear?"
"Yes, but I only saw them for a little while, of course. We did not
travel all the way together. They weren't with me when daddy met me."
She spoke quickly, hurrying out a jumble of excuses.
"They are so jolly and friendly one could not help liking them," cried
Faith enthusiastically.
"Daddy asked them to come back with us to supper," chimed in Tom,
"and they did wish they could, but they had to walk the three miles home
and their mother would be anxious about them if they were late."
"Their mother! Was their mother with them, Audrey, when you travelled
together?"
"Yes."
"Oh, what must she think of us," cried poor Mrs. Carlyle, really
distressed. "Such near neighbours, and to have taken no notice of them
all these weeks. We knew her husband quite well before he married----"
"But they are coming to see us, mummy," cried Debby consolingly.
"They are coming one day very soon. They said so."
Audrey nearly groaned. She thought of the ragged garden, the shabby
house; the ill-cooked, untidily served meals--and she felt she could have
cried. "Why couldn't they have stayed at home? Why must they come
tearing over to Moor End? and oh, what must they think of her for never
having mentioned them to her people, after their kindness and friendliness
too, in inviting her over to see them! Oh dear, how wrong everything in
this world did go!"
"Are you not pleased, Audrey? Don't you want to see them again?"
Mrs. Carlyle inquired anxiously.
"Oh, yes--oh, yes, mother, I should like to see them if--if we had a nice
place to ask them to, but they must be rich, they probably have
everything, and 'The Orchard' is such a big house.----"
"You--you were not ashamed of us--of your home, were you, Audrey?"
The words and the tone went to Audrey's heart like a knife twisted in a
wound. She would have given all she possessed to be able to say 'no' with
all her heart and soul. But she could not. Nor could she tell a lie.
So she stood there, silent and ashamed, and grieved to her heart by the
knowledge of the pain she was inflicting.
No one spoke to break the horrible silence which fell on the room.
With all their pleasure gone, Faith and the little ones crept quietly
away, and, after a moment, Audrey, not knowing what else to do, turned and
followed them. She longed for some word, some sign from her mother, but
none came. It was too soon to ask for her forgiveness yet. It was too
much to ask, for it would be only asking for comfort for herself, it would
not lessen the pain she had given to others. Nothing could do that,
nothing, at least, but time, and never-ceasing effort on her part.
With a heart as heavy as lead, she crept slowly down the stairs.
In the hall Faith met her, Faith with eyes sparkling with an anger Audrey
had never seen in them before.
"Oh, how could you!" she cried, her voice trembling with indignation,
"how could you be so cruel! And why are you ashamed of us, because we are
poor? because we are shabby? and untidy? If it is because we are untidy,
why don't you show us how to do better, why don't you help? If it is
because we are poor, and everything is shabby--it isn't our fault.
We would have everything fresh and beautiful if we could. I don't mind,
for myself, what you say or think--but oh, Audrey, how could you hurt
mother so; how could you; how could you?"
The anger died suddenly out of Faith's eyes, washed away by tears.
"I am so awfully, awfully sorry," said Audrey, the pain in her heart
sounding in her voice.
"But you--you didn't mean it!" Faith asked, but in more gentle tone.
"You didn't mean it?"
"I--I did," stammered Audrey, with quivering lip, "but--I don't now.
I myself am the only thing I am ashamed of now," and bursting into tears
she flew upstairs again and shut herself in her attic.