Audrey finished her clean copy of her play and posted it on the very day
the family departed for Ilfracombe. But she did not tell Faith so.
Faith must still believe that Audrey wanted nothing so much as a peaceful
time at home for her work.
"And now I shall have to wait three whole weeks before I hear anything,"
she thought dolefully, as she hurried home from the post office and into
the house by way of the back door, before any of the others were down.
She was rather surprised and disappointed that she felt none of the
thrills and delight she had expected to feel when she at last sent off her
first piece of work to try its fortune. Indeed, she felt nothing but a
painful consciousness of its faults, which was very depressing.
And still more depressing was it to feel that she would not have Irene
there to talk things over with, and get encouragement from. Those three
long weeks of waiting she would have to live through alone, without anyone
to confide her anxieties to, or to give her fresh hope.
Under the circumstances it was not easy, all things considered, to keep up
a smiling face, and live up to the joyful excitement of the five
travellers. And as she left the station with her father, after the train
with its fluttering array of hands and handkerchiefs had glided away out
of sight round the sunny curve, she had hard work to keep the tears out of
her eyes, and the bitterness out of her heart.
Mr. Carlyle had to go and pay some calls in the village, so Audrey walked
home alone; and very, very much alone she felt, after the lively
companionship of the last month. The garden, when she reached it, wore a
new air of desolation, and when she caught sight of one of Debby's dolls
lying forgotten on the grass, she picked it up and hugged it
sympathetically, out of pity for its loneliness. The silence in the house
and out was just as oppressive. Audrey, still holding Debby's old doll,
hurried through the silent hall and up the stairs to her room, and
dropping on the seat by the window, she leaned her head over the ledge.
Now, at last, she might give way to her feelings and sob out some of the
pent-up misery in her heart.
"But--mother--she will be expecting me." The thought came to her more
swiftly than the tears forced their way through her lids. It was nearly
lunch time too, and there was no one but herself to get it.
"Oh, dear," sighed Audrey, "there is not even time to be miserable!"
But that thought made her laugh, and she ran downstairs to Mary.
Mary had evidently shed a few tears, but she was already cheering herself
up with plans for the homecoming.
"At first it seemed that melancholy and quiet, Miss Audrey, I felt I'd
never be able to bear it, speshully when I remembered that Miss Irene
wouldn't be coming back any more. It's like losing one of ourselves,
isn't it, miss? And when I think of that dear baby gone so far,"--the
tears welled up in Mary's eyes--"and there'll be no rompseying with her
to-night before she goes to bed--well, I can't 'elp it. I may be silly,
but I can't 'elp it, though there, she's happy enough, I daresay, with her
little bucket and spade and all, and she won't miss us 'alf as much as
we'll miss 'er!"
"Yes, baby will love it, Mary, they all will. We have got to cheer
ourselves up by thinking of how happy they all are. And they will come
back looking so well and strong. We shall get more accustomed to the
quietness in a day or two, and the time will soon pass."
"Oh my, yes, miss! The time won't 'ang when once I begin to get my 'and
in. It won't be long enough for all I'm going to do by time they come
back. I am going to have their rooms as nice as nice can be; and I'm
going to paint Master Tom's barrow, and I'm going to make a rabbit 'utch
for Miss Debby and mend her dolls' pram----"
"But Mary, what about your holiday. You must have that while the house is
so empty. I must speak to mother about it."
"Oh, I don't want any holiday, Miss Audrey." Mary's voice was quite
decisive. "I mean, I don't want to go away. I haven't got any money to
waste, and holidays do cost more'n they are worth. Leastways, mine do,
for I'm so home-sick all the time, I'm only longing for them to be over.
It seems waste, doesn't it, miss?"
"It does," agreed Audrey gravely, "but I suppose you have the joy of
coming back, and you appreciate home all the more for having been away."
"Well, miss, it seems rather a lot to pay, for only just that. And a lot
to bear too, when you are 'appy enough already. What I do want to go to
is our own treat, when it comes, and I'd like to go to the sea for a day."
"Well, I am sure you can, Mary. I will speak to mother and father about
it."
Audrey was busily collecting the things for her mother's lunch-tray.
She had to make her an omelette, and she felt nervous about it, for
hitherto Irene had helped her, and Mary was not capable of doing so.
As soon as it was ready she hurried upstairs with the tray. She had not
seen her mother yet since they had all departed, and she had suddenly
begun to wonder how she was bearing it.
"Of course I ought to have run in at once to see her," she thought
remorsefully, "but I did feel miserable."
Mrs. Carlyle was lying propped up on her cushions with Debby's kittens
beside her. "Well, darling," she said, looking up with a glad smile of
welcome, "how did they all go off, I am longing to know. I have been
picturing their enjoyment of everything they see and do on the journey,
and their joy when they first catch sight of the sea."
"Oh dear," sighed Audrey, "everyone is thinking of their happiness.
I can only think how miserable it is without them; and I should have
thought you would have felt it even more than I do, mother."
"Perhaps it is that I have had more experience, dear, I seem to live again
my own first visit to the sea; and time does not seem so long to one when
one is older either, and it passes only too soon. I feel too full of
gratitude to feel miserable, I had been thinking for such a long time
about a change of air for them, and worrying myself because it seemed
absolutely out of the question. Then quite suddenly the way was opened
and all was made possible without my help or interference. One could sing
thanksgiving all day long one has so many blessings to be thankful for."
"I shouldn't have thought you felt that, mother, shut up here week after
week as you are; with nothing to look out at but the garden and the road."
Audrey strolled over to the window, "and such a garden too!" she added
sarcastically.
Mrs. Carlyle glanced out at it and sighed. "I often wish,"--she said, but
did not finish her sentence.
"What do you often wish, mother?"
"I often long for the time when I shall be able to go out there again and
help to keep it nice. If I ever am permitted to," she added in a lower
tone.
"Well, at any rate I can," cried Audrey, with an effort to recover her
spirits. Here was something more waiting for her to do. It was hard that
her mother, having a garden to look on, should have only this neglected
place with but one spot of brightness in it--the bed that Faith had made
and Debby and Tom had sown with seeds.
Job Toms' herbaceous border was but a melancholy spectacle as yet. He had
sown parsley and put in roots of mint and sage; and then, in Job's own
way, had left the things to look after themselves, to grow or not to grow
as they could or would.
Here was a task to set herself. She would get that bed, and Faith's too,
as pretty as she could. Faith would be so delighted when she came home
and saw it, and they would be able to vie with each other in keeping them
nice, for mother's sake. If Jobey objected, well, he must go on
objecting, and they would try and make him understand, without hurting his
feelings, that a herbaceous border and a herb bed were not one and the
same things.
Audrey's spirits went up with a bound.
"Are you awfully tired with what is called 'Gay'?
Weary, discouraged, and sick,
I'll tell you the loveliest game in the world--
Do something for somebody quick!
Do something for somebody quick!"
She sang blithely and felt in her heart that there was nothing like it for
lifting a load off one's spirits.
"Mother dear," she said, when her mother had eaten her omelette, and laid
aside her knife and fork, "I have been talking to Mary about her holiday.
I thought she ought to have it while the house is so empty, but she does
not want to go. She only wants one day for the Sunday School treat and
one to spend by the sea."
"Yes, dear, of course she can. She must, she so thoroughly deserves it.
And Audrey, I have another plan that I want to talk to you about.
Don't you think it would be nice to ask granny to come and stay with us
while the house is quiet?"
"Granny!" For a moment Audrey's heart leaped with pleasure, then it sank.
Even with all the improvements they had wrought in the house, and the
meals, and the way they were served, everything seemed very different from
what granny was accustomed to at home. What would she do without her
comforts! Audrey's mental eye ran over the carpets, the bed and table
linen; even the best was as shabby as that which granny, at home,
condemned and put aside.
"Are you ashamed for her to see our poverty?" asked Mrs. Carlyle in her
patient, gentle voice, and Audrey coloured at finding her thoughts thus
read.
"Darling, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Granny knows what our means
are, and she must realise what heavy expenses we have to meet, so she
should not expect us to be anything but shabby. She would understand that
with five children things need replacing more often, and that there is
less to replace them with."
"Oh, I know, mother, I know. But granny had only one little boy, and a
very well behaved one, and I think she couldn't realise how five of us
knock the things about."
"But don't you think she would be so glad to see her one little boy, that
she would overlook that?"
Audrey still looked doubtful.
"Think of it in this way, dear. Suppose we missed this opportunity, and
suppose dear granny died before we invited her here. Do you think we
should ever cease to feel remorseful? And don't you think she would
rather be asked to come, and made to feel that we wanted her, than remain
unasked because our home is shabby? Try by all means in one's power to
have things as neat and nice and comfortable as possible, but don't let us
put outward show before kind feeling."
Audrey listened eagerly. She had learnt one great lesson--not to trust
entirely to her own opinion and she was very, very anxious to learn what
was right, and to do it.
Mrs. Carlyle looked at her smiling. "Don't you think it is often a help
to ask oneself, 'what would I like others to do to me? What would I
myself prefer?'" But Audrey coloured painfully, as the thought of her own
return home came back to her. How entirely she had lost sight of the love
and the welcome in her care about external appearances. She was silent so
long that her mother looked at her anxiously more than once.
"I think you are very tired, aren't you, dear?"
"Oh no, mother."
"Perhaps you need a holiday. Would you like to go back with granny to
Farbridge for a week or two?"
"Oh no, mother, no I don't want any holiday. I don't want anything to do
but stay here. Oh, mother." Her secret hovered on the tip of her tongue,
her longing to confide in her mother almost overcame all her other
feelings, but she checked herself. "Oh mother," she added lamely,
"I want to do so much but--but----"
A voice came calling up the stairs, "Audrey, Audrey, are you coming to
give me my dinner, or am I to dine alone?" Mr. Carlyle put his head in
round the door. "Don't you think the remnant of the crew should cling
together?" Then kissing his wife and lifting away her tray, he drew
Audrey's hand through his arm and made for the door.
"Audrey will tell you of the plans we have been hatching," Mrs. Carlyle
called after them. "Come up here when you have finished your dinner and
tell me what you think about them."
"Mother thought that now would be a good time to ask granny here to stay,"
said Audrey.
"Did she!" Mr. Carlyle looked up with almost boyish pleasure on his face.
Audrey was surprised. She had not dreamed that he would care so much.
"That really looks as though your mother felt a little stronger.
Don't you think so?" he added, and looked at her with such eager
questioning eyes, she had not the heart to say that mother never thought
of herself when she was planning happiness for others. She really was
better though, and stronger. She herself said so, and the doctor said so.
She could do several little things now that she could not have done a few
months ago.
"I am sorry granny will not see the children," her father was saying when
her thoughts came back to him again. "She has never seen Joan yet.
But your mother and she will have a more quiet time for talks together
than they have ever had, and I am glad of that. We must try and make her
as comfortable as we can, Audrey."
"Yes, daddy, we will," she said, but not very hopefully.
The meal ended, she got up from the table and strolled over to the window.
As her eyes fell on the herb bed once more she remembered all her plans
for making it a pleasant sight for her mother to look out on. She thought
of her other plans too. Of all the writing she had meant to do while the
work in the house was slacker, and here were all her plans upset, and a
fresh load laid upon her shoulders.
Across her thoughts came Irene's voice, and a fragment of their merry
talks. "I know I shall never paint a big picture, nor write any great
books, nor be a pioneer of any kind; but I know I can help to make a few
people happier, and it is grand to feel that there is something one _can_
do. Something that is of use. I always feel as though people were my
little children, and I've got to mother them."
With her eyes fixed on the herb bed, Audrey first felt the responsibility
of controlling her own words and temper. "I know I can help to make a few
people happier." It rested with her to make or mar the pleasure of her
grandmother's visit. By letting her feelings have their own way she could
spoil everyone's pleasure. By putting her own feelings aside, and
thinking only of others, she could, to a large extent, make their
pleasure.
"How odd things are," she sighed aloud. "No one is of very great
importance, yet everyone matters to someone----"
"To lots of someones as a rule," said her father, rising and joining her
at the window. "And that is one of the most serious and most blessed
facts of life. I think that almost the saddest thing human beings can
feel is that no one is the better or the happier for their existence."
"But can we help it, father? If I had no relations, nor anyone belonging
to me----"
"You would still have all the world to 'mother,' Audrey. There is always
someone, close at hand too, needing help and sympathy. Always bear that
in mind, my child wherever you may be. Now I am going up to talk to your
mother. I think we had better ask granny to come next week."
"Next week!" thought Audrey. "At any rate then I shall have no time to
worry about my play or anything else before granny comes, whatever I may
do after."
"Oh Mary," she sighed as she took a turn at the ironing while she told her
the news, and Mary washed the dinner things, "I am dreadfully nervous.
I wish we had a cook and a parlourmaid, and I wish we were able to buy all
the best things that can be got. Granny does so like to have nice food
and nice everything. She has always been accustomed to it."
But Mary, never having seen her master's mother, much less lived with her,
was not so filled with fears as was Audrey herself.
"Well, miss, we'll do our best--and we can't do more. And after all,
people don't come to stay with you for what you can give them, but because
they want to see you."
And with that thought Audrey tried to allay her nervous fears, and face
the coming visit with only happy anticipations.
Old Mrs. Carlyle tried to face the coming visit with happy anticipations
only; but, with a lively recollection of her last visit to her son's home
still impressed on her mind, she could not help it if her feelings this
time were a little mixed. Her longing though to see her son and his wife,
and her favourite grand-daughter, overcame every other; and the warmly
affectionate terms in which they invited her, sent a glow to her lonely
old heart.
"There is something better than comfort," she thought to herself,
"and some things that means cannot buy. I wish Audrey had her dear
father's affectionate nature," she added wistfully, for she had never
forgotten the lack of feeling Audrey had shown when the summons came which
was to break up their happy life together.
Granny Carlyle came, and though her visit was but a short one, she learnt
many things while it lasted. One was that her son's home was more
comfortable but more shabby than she had thought. Another was that
poverty and the need to work had developed in Audrey a stronger character
and a sweeter nature than comfort and plenty could ever have done.
The grandmother noticed the change in her almost as soon as she alighted
at Moor End station.
Audrey had not only grown in inches, but, though older-looking, she was
yet younger. She was less self-conscious, but more self-reliant; less
concerned for herself, and more for others. When they reached the
Vicarage, and the luggage had been deposited in the hall, Audrey picked
out the special cap-basket and ran up at once with it to her granny's
room.
"I knew you would want this, the first thing," she said cheerfully,
"and Mary has put hot water ready for you; the can is under the bath
towel. And tea will be ready when you are, granny. It will be in
mother's room, we thought you would like it there."
And as Mrs. Carlyle came out of her bedroom to go to her daughter-in-law's
room she met Audrey flying up the stairs with a rack of dry toast on a
tray. "I remembered that you used to eat toast always for tea, granny, so
I thought you might still. Oh, granny, it is so nice to see you in your
pretty caps again, it seems so--so natural."
It also seemed to her, though, that granny had grown to look much older in
the last three months, and thinner, or was it only that she had been away
from her, and amongst younger people.
With a sudden sense of sadness, Audrey thrust her arm affectionately
through her grandmother's arm. "Mother is longing so to see you," she
said, with a sort of longing on her to make her granny feel that they all
loved her. Her mother's words came back to her hauntingly, "Don't you
think granny would rather be asked to come to us, and be made to feel that
we want her, than remain unasked, because our home is shabby?"
Then Mr. Carlyle appeared, and taking granny by the other arm, they all
entered the invalid's room together.
When she had started for her visit Mrs. Carlyle had wondered how she would
get through a whole week without the comforts and the peace she was
accustomed to. At the end of ten days she sighed that she could not stay
longer. "If I hadn't invited a friend to pay me a visit," she said,
"I should be very tempted to stay the fortnight. I have enjoyed myself so
much, dear Kitty, and feel better for the change." And both Audrey and
her mother felt very very happy, for they were both of them aware that
granny had not enjoyed her former visit. She had not hesitated to say so.
During the ten days granny, too, had done her share in making happiness.
"Gracious me, child," she cried, when she saw the carpetless floor in the
drawing-room, "I did not know that it was as bad as this. I have so much
furniture at home I can scarcely move for it, and two carpets sewn up with
camphor, to keep the moths and mice away, I will send them both as soon as
I get back, and--a few other things that may be useful."
She hesitated for a moment, then, with her old severe manner, "I don't
want to be prying, Audrey, as you know, but how are you off for china--odd
plates for the kitchen, and cups and saucers and things."
"Not very well, granny. We aren't well off in any kind of china. If the
children had been at home we should not have had enough of anything to go
round," she added, with a rueful little laugh. And though granny looked
shocked for a moment, and felt so, she was obliged to laugh too.
"Oh!" she said. "Well, I will pop in some useful odds and ends, so that
when I come again on purpose to see the children, we shall have a plate
each, and not have to share a cup."
But, though they little thought it then, poor Granny Carlyle was never to
come again. And none of those she loved best could feel thankful enough
that they had had that pleasant time which had brought them all closer
together than they had ever been before, and had left not only one happy
lifelong memory, but many.