The last day for sending in the 'Plays' was July 31st. That was now but a
fortnight off, and Audrey, in a state of feverish nervousness, had
completed her last clean copy. She had worked hard each afternoon, and
conscientiously, only to be filled at the last with despair and
despondence. She had read, re-read, written and re-written it, until she
knew every word by heart, and all seemed stale, dull, and trivial.
Irene, coming up to her room one afternoon, had found her with flushed
cheeks and swelled eyelids, and despair plainly visible in every line of
her face and form.
"It is no good," she groaned. "I shall not send it. I couldn't send
anything so dull and foolish. They will only laugh."
"That is what you want them to do, isn't it?" asked Irene, cheerfully.
"Not the kind of laughter I mean. Oh, Irene, it is miserably bad."
Irene shook her head. "I simply don't believe it. You have been through
it so often, you can't judge. Will you let me read it? I will tell you
quite honestly how it strikes me."
Audrey coloured, but she looked grateful. "If you would care to, but I am
ashamed for anyone to see it. And, oh, I _am_ so disappointed, and, oh,"
throwing herself wearily on her bed, "oh, so tired of it. The mere sight
of it almost makes me ill."
"Poor old girl, you are tired and over-anxious. Is this it?" pointing to
a little heap of MS. on Audrey's writing-table in the window.
"Yes."
"May I read the old one, too? The first copy you finished, I mean, before
you began to alter it."
Audrey opened her desk and took out another heap of paper, tumbled,
scribbled over, and evidently much used.
"Now I am going to shut myself up in my room, and," with a laugh and a nod
at the despairing author, "I want no-one to come near me until I show
myself again."
"Very well," said Audrey, "but I shall not come near you then. I shall be
much too nervous."
"Then I will come to you and stalk you down. Look here, Audrey, don't
shut yourself up here all the afternoon. You have no writing to do now.
Take my advice, and go for a good long walk, and try not to think about
the play, or--or anything connected with it. Keep your heart up, old
girl. I am sure it is good, even if it won't be the best."
Audrey sighed heavily. She had long since given up hoping that it might
be the best, or even second best, or third. To be 'Commended' was an
honour she had ceased to hope for. She had written and re-written, and
altered and corrected, until all the freshness and originality were gone,
and the whole was becoming stiff and stilted, and she was incapable of
seeing whether she was improving or spoiling it.
It was with a distinct sense of relief that she gave in to Irene's
suggestion, and handed it over to her for her opinion.
And, as soon as Irene was gone, she took her second piece of advice and
went out for a walk. By going quietly down the back-stairs to the
back-door she escaped from the house unnoticed; then by going through the
vegetable garden she got into a little lane which skirted the village,
one end of it leading to the moor, the other to the high road to
Abbot's Field. Her one idea was to escape meeting anyone. She felt in no
mood for talk. She could not force herself to play with the children, or
to chatter to the old village people, who would all be at their doors just
now, anxious to see someone with whom to gossip. She meant to go up to
the moor, where she could be sure of solitude. The air and the peace up
there always did her good. The sight of a figure coming towards her made
her turn the other way, though. She felt she could not meet anyone, and
be pleasant and sociable. She was sorry, for she loved the moor better
than any place. However, this other way there was the shade of the trees
and the hedges, she consoled herself. And she walked on, well content
through the silence and solitude of the hot summer afternoon.
Well content, at last, until suddenly she saw a well-remembered horse and
rider coming along the road towards her.
Audrey was vexed. She wanted only to walk and think, and walk and think.
But, though she would have found it difficult to realise, it was best for
her that the break should come. She had already walked two miles, and,
oblivious of everything but her thoughts, and of every thought but one--
her play--was as full of nerves, and hopes and fears, as though she had
stayed at home.
Mr. Vivian's sturdy common-sense was as good for her as a tonic.
At sight of her he reined up Peter and dismounted. "Miss Audrey," he
cried, "it is the greatest treat in the world to see you. I have scarcely
seen a friend to speak to for weeks. And I was tired to death of my own
company. No, I will not shake hands, and we will keep the width of Peter
between us, though I am really safer than nine persons out of ten,
for I have lived in such an atmosphere of disinfectants I must be
saturated through and through. I honestly believe I could not catch a
measle, or any other disease, if I wanted to."
"I am not afraid," said Audrey, stroking Peter's soft nose. "How are you
all? Are you all out of quarantine?"
"Yes."
"Oh!" Audrey's face fell, and her tone was not one of congratulation.
"You don't seem quite as pleased as we are, Miss Audrey."
Audrey laughed and blushed. "I am--I am, really," she said, looking up at
him with an apologetic smile. "But I am afraid I was selfish. I was
thinking of Irene. You will want her home now, of course, and--well, I do
not like to think of her going. I--we shall miss her horribly."
Mr. Vivian had slipped the reins over his shoulder, and was searching his
pockets. "I have a letter here for your mother and father. I was on my
way to deliver it. We don't want to part you, but of course we want
Irene. We have missed her sadly."
"It has been lovely having her," said Audrey softly. In her overwrought
state, she felt inclined to cry at the mere thought of losing her.
Indeed, she felt so stupid, so miserable, so tongue-tied, she could not
stand there any longer lest the sharp-eyed old gentleman should see the
tears in her eyes. What a weak, silly baby she was!
She turned away abruptly as though to resume her walk. "Oh, you are not
going yet.--I forgot, of course you were walking away from home.
I just wondered----"
She had intended to, for she was tired, and it would be tea-time before
she got home, if she did not hurry. But her longing was to go in any
direction but his.
"I--I am soon," she said lamely, forcing down her feelings and her tears.
"Did you want me to do anything?"
"I just wondered if you would take this note to your parents for me.
I have to go to the mill first, and be at the station by five o'clock, and
I am afraid I shall hardly do it."
"Of course I will. I beg your pardon. I did not understand."
The old gentleman's kind eyes looked at her very keenly as he handed her
the letter. "You don't look very well, Miss Audrey; I hope you aren't
going in for measles too! Or have you been working too hard, taking care
of Irene? You look tired."
Audrey smiled back at the face so full of sympathy and kindly concern.
"I don't think I am really tired," she said, speaking as brightly as she
could, "and I am quite sure I am not going in for measles, and I certainly
haven't been doing too much for Irene. I have walked rather far, that is
all, and it is dreadfully hot, isn't it? I think I will go home now,
after all. It must be nearly tea-time."
Tea was laid and waiting for her by the time she reached home. But before
she noticed that, her eyes had sought Irene's face, as though she expected
to read her verdict there.
Irene's face was beaming. "Splendid," she whispered, reassuringly.
Audrey felt as though a great load had been lifted off her heart.
"I will just run up and take off my hat and shoes," she said, more gaily
than she had spoken for a long time. Irene followed her to her room.
"I couldn't wait," she panted, as she reached the top stair. "Oh, Audrey,
I do like it; it is lovely. I am sure it--will be one of the best."
She wound up with sudden caution, remembering that it would be cruel to
raise her hopes too high. "But do send the first one--the untidy one.
Copy that one out just as it is; it is ever so much the better of the two.
You have tried to improve and improve it until you have improved most of
the fun out of it. Now I must fly down to tea. I am so excited, I hardly
know what I am doing."
But her excitement was nothing compared with Audrey's. She, in her joy,
forgot everything--Mr. Vivian, the letter, the news he had brought, and
never remembered either again until some time later, when Mr. Carlyle came
in.
"I met your grandfather at the station, Irene," he said at once.
"He told me----"
Audrey leaped out of her chair. "Oh, I had _quite_ forgotten," she cried
remorsefully. "I am so sorry. I had a letter----" and she darted away and
up the stairs, leaving them all startled and wondering. "I don't seem
able to think of anybody or anything but that play," she thought.
"I shall be glad when I have seen the last of it."
When she went down again she fancied Irene looked at her reproachfully.
"How was grandfather looking?" she was asking Mr. Carlyle, "and the
others--did he say how they were?"
Audrey felt more and more ashamed. Irene had been so good to her, and
this was her return.
"Yes, he said they were all perfectly well now, and they are all going to
Ilfracombe for a long change, as soon as they can arrange matters."
Irene clapped her hands ecstatically. "Keith and Daphne will love that,
and mother too. Ilfracombe suits her so well. Will they want me to go
with them?"
Mr. Carlyle smiled ruefully. "I am afraid so. Where is the letter,
Audrey. Have you taken it to your mother?"
"Yes, father, and she wants you."
Mr. Carlyle rose, picked up Baby Joan, and went upstairs with her in his
arms, leaving Audrey to tell her tale, and make her apologies to Irene.
Faith came in presently from the garden, where, rather late in the day,
she had been tying up the sweet peas and sunflowers Debby and Tom had
planted. "Oh, dear, I don't like weather quite as hot as this; it makes
one so dreadfully tired," she sighed wearily, as she stretched herself
full-length upon the shabby sofa. "Has anyone seen Joan? I ought to be
giving her her supper."
Irene looked at her attentively. "Let me give her her supper, and put her
to bed to-night, Fay. I would love to. Do let me. She will be quite
good with me now."
Faith stirred lazily and half rose. "Oh no--we shall leave everything to
you soon, Irene. I can do it quite well. I am not so very tired, really;
only hot and limp."
She was very pale, though, and Irene noticed for the first time how white
her lips were, and how dark the marks under her eyes. She got up, and,
going over to the sofa, pressed Faith back on to the cushions again.
"Do let me, Faith," she pleaded, "please. You see, I shall not be able
to many times more." And Faith, anxious to give what pleasure she could,
let her have her way.
Irene, satisfied, folded her work, and departed. Faith sank down
contentedly, and fell into a doze. Audrey sat for a while, wondering what
she should do next. "I think I will go up and work at that manuscript,
as long as the daylight lasts," she decided; "the sooner it is done the
better," and crept softly out of the room, so as not to disturb Faith.
But halfway up the stairs she met Irene dashing down like a wild thing.
"Oh, Audrey," she cried, "come quickly! Where is Faith? and, oh, I want
Debby and Tom too. Such news! Oh, do call them. Mr. Carlyle wants you
all." But the end of her sentence came in broken gasps as she tripped
over the mat and disappeared into the dining-room.
A moment later three flying figures dashed up breathlessly, with Faith
panting on more slowly in the rear. "What has happened?" she gasped.
"What is it all about?"
"I don't know," cried Audrey, "but it can't be anything bad." And they
hurried after the others into their mother's room.
Mrs. Carlyle was sitting up on her couch looking happy and excited.
Mr. Carlyle looked pleased too, but a little grave.
"Irene, dear, you tell them, will you?" said Mrs. Carlyle, eagerly.
And Irene told, and what she told seemed to them all too wonderful to be
true. Mrs. Vivian had taken a furnished house at Ilfracombe for two
months, a house much larger than she needed for her own brood, and she
begged Mrs. Carlyle to let her have her brood too for three or four weeks,
"to fill the house up comfortably."
It was so wonderful, so unlooked-for, such an undreamed-of event in their
lives, that for a second an awed silence filled the room. Then came a
long-drawn "O-o-oh-h-h!" of sheer amaze and delight; and the spell was
broken.
"Is it really, truly true!" gasped Debby, "or is it only a 'let's
pretend'?"
"It is a really--truly true, Debby darling," cried Irene, seizing her in
her arms and lifting her high enough to kiss her.
"Wants _all_ of us?" gasped Audrey, incredulously. "What,_ all five_!"
"' All--if you can spare them,'" read Mr. Carlyle, turning to the precious
letter once more.
"But you can't spare them," said Faith, suddenly sitting down on a chair
at her mother's side. Then, with a little gulp, and a little laugh,
"You can't spare me, mummy, you know you can't. We will send off Audrey
to be nursemaid to the babies, and--and you and I will have a nice quiet
time at home alone!" Her lip quivered just for a moment, but her big
brown eyes, full of a strained look of excitement, glanced from one to the
other with half-laughing defiance, as though daring them to say her nay.
Audrey's spirits dropped from fever-heat to several degrees below zero.
For one moment the prospect had been so beautiful, so ideal. A change, a
holiday, a journey, the sea, servants, comforts--no more dishwashing or
cooking. Oh, it was unbearably enticing. But almost with the same she
realised that none of these were for her. Faith was to go, if no one else
went. A glance at Faith's face made that quite plain. Yes, Faith must
go; and she, Audrey, must stay at home. And so she told her when, after
all the rest of the household was asleep, she crept down in her
dressing-gown to Faith's room. Fearing to knock, she had entered the room
with no more warning than a gentle rattle of the handle. But her warning
was lost on Faith who, hot night though it was, was lying with her head
buried under the bed-clothes, to deaden the sound of her sobs.
"Faith! What is the matter? tell me. Oh, what is it? do tell me!"
At the touch of Audrey's hand, Faith had thrust her head up suddenly.
"Oh, I was afraid it was father! I mean, I was afraid he had heard me."
"What is the matter?" asked Audrey, her voice full of anxiety.
"Oh, Faith, do tell me. Perhaps I can help."
"It--it isn't about not going to Ilfracombe," declared Faith stoutly.
"Audrey, I don't want to go, I would rather not. You must go. I really
want to stay at home."
"Why?"
"Because I do."
"That is no reason. You need a change and a holiday more than any of us,
and you know you would love it. You must go."
"I can't."
"But why?"
"I am too tired. I don't want the fag of it all."
"But you will be less tired if you do go. The change will do you heaps of
good, and it will not be a fag. I will pack for you."
Finding herself thus cornered, Faith's usually sweet temper gave way.
"I haven't anything to pack," she snapped impatiently, "nor anything to
pack in. I can't go. I can't possibly go. I haven't any clothes.
Don't worry me so, Audrey."
Audrey showed no resentment. "Oh," she said, thoughtfully. "Oh, I see.
Well, we won't bother about that now. But, Faith, I do want you to go.
I came down on purpose to ask you to. I want you to go as--as a favour to
me. I will tell you why. I want to stay at home, I--I mean I can't go
away just now, for I want to finish some writing very, very particularly,"
and she breathed in Faith's ear the precious secret about her 'play.'
Her ruse answered perfectly.
"_You_ have _written_ a play!" Faith sat erect in her bed, all her
tiredness, all her depression gone. "A real play! Oh, Audrey, do you
mean it? How clever you are! Of course I'll go and take the children, to
leave you here in peace to finish it. I don't care how shabby my clothes
are!"
Audrey winced. She would have liked--or, rather, it would have been
pleasant--if Faith--and all--could just have realised her self-sacrifice--
how much it cost her to stand aside, and give up so great a pleasure.
"Oh, I could----" she began, but, to her lasting joy, recovered herself in
a moment, and never finished her sentence.
"Audrey, will you let me read it, some day?" Faith's eyes were full of
appeal.
Audrey coloured. "Some day, perhaps," she said shyly. "Now I must go to
bed."
"Thank you," said Faith simply. "Oh, Audrey, I _am_ so happy!"
She turned her pale face to the window, her eyes to the stars in the
blue-black sky. "I am so happy that I feel I must get out and say my
prayers again. A few minutes ago everything seemed black and dreary, but
now----"
"I will say mine too," said Audrey gently, "before I go." And the two
sisters knelt down side by side in the darkness, and said their prayers
again together, 'because they were so happy,' with the happiness which
comes of giving up something for one another.
The next morning Audrey got up early, and, going to the box-room, dragged
out from their coverings her pretty green box and portmanteau. Then she
went back to her room, and from her cupboards and drawers she collected a
pair of house-shoes and a pair of boots, gloves, stockings, a soft grey
cashmere dress that she had a little grown out of, and a Leghorn hat,
which, she knew, had long filled Faith's heart with envy. All these she
popped into the trunk.
"There is something towards going away," she said, as she dragged the
boxes into Faith's bedroom; "the dress is as good as new, but I have grown
so, and--and I will lend you my writing-case, and a nice hairbrush."
And before Faith had recovered herself sufficiently to speak, Audrey had
darted away again and locked herself in her own room.
The sacrifice had cost her more than anyone would ever know. The thought
of the lost holiday, and such a holiday, was hard to bear, and a great
longing for the sea was tugging at her heart-strings until the pain of it
was almost unendurable.