A year had passed since Granny Carlyle went to her rest and Audrey
returned to the Vicarage to take up her duties there again.
Another summer has come and gone, for it is September now, but a September
so warm and sunny and beautiful that, if it were not for the changing
tints on the trees, one might well imagine it was still June.
In the Vicarage garden the 'herb bed' had developed into a handsome
herbaceous border, varied by patches here and there of feathery parsley,
a bush of sage, a clump of lemon-thyme, and mint. Job Toms had retired
again to his kitchen-garden, for "he didn't hold with messing up flowers
and herbs together, and nothing wasn't going to make him believe but what
planting poppies next to parsley was bad for the parsley. Poppies was
p'ison, so he'd been always led to believe, and he didn't believe in
p'isonous things being planted 'mongst what folks was asked to eat."
So Audrey and Faith and the children had taken the beds in their charge,
and in aiming at showing Job what a beautiful, if not useful, thing a
herbaceous border could be, they had laboured hard, and were now reaping
their reward.
Occasionally, as a great favour, the old man could be coaxed into cutting
the grass--as to-day, for instance, which was a great day in the family
history, for it was Mrs. Carlyle's birthday; and not only that, but she
was to go to the Mill House to tea. Her first real 'outing' for two long
years at least.
To her husband and children, and even to Mary and Job, to have 'mother'
about amongst them again was a cause for such rejoicing that they hardly
knew how to express it.
Early in the morning Debby and Tom were up and knocking at Miss Babbs's
shop door before Miss Babbs was fully dressed or had raked the ashes out
of her kitchen stove.
"Why, Master Tom," she cried, somewhat ruffled by the importunate
hammering on her new paint. "Shops ain't supposed to be open till the
shutters is down."
"I will take them down for you," offered Tom, blandly.
"I don't want them took down yet, thank you, sir. Why I haven't had time
even to light my kitchen fire yet----"
"I'll light your kitchen fire, Babbs dear," said Debby, quite undisturbed
by Miss Babbs's wrath. "I'll have it burning like anything by the time
you've got your hair on."
Miss Babbs backed away into the dark shop. "I don't want any help, thank
you, Miss Deborah," she said, stiffly. "If you'll come again in an hour's
time, when the shop is open, I'll be ready to serve you."
"Babby dear, don't be cross," pleaded Deborah. "It's mother's birthday,
and we want some flags to decorate the garden, 'cause she's coming out
to-day for the first time."
Debby's tone was pathetic in the extreme. Her expression and her words
went straight to Miss Babbs's heart, and brought the tears to her eyes.
"Oh, my dear children, you don't say so! Oh, I _am_ glad! Whoever'd have
thought it. Come right in--not that I believe I've a flag left, unless
'tis Coronation ones. Come in and shut the door, Master Tom. We don't
want all Moor End dropping in, before I'm dressed for the day, and my
place tidy. No, never mind the shutters, Master Tom, we'll leave them up
for a bit. I'll carry the box into the parlour for you, and you can turn
it out for yourselves, while I light my fire, or I shall be I don't know
where all day."
Tom and Debby, expressing their thanks as they went, groped their way
delightedly past barrels of potatoes, soap-boxes, and goods of many kinds.
The sacks looked quite alarming in the dimness, the barrels as though they
might have held all manner of mysterious dangers. The air was heavy with
the mingled smell of onions, bacon, scented soap, leather, and groceries.
"Oh, I _must_ keep a shop when I grow up," whispered Debby. "Miss Babbs,
when you retire will you sell your business to me? I've got three pounds
in the bank already, and I'll save every penny,"--but her plans came to an
end in a hamper, into which she plunged head first.
"Babbs isn't going to retire," grunted Tom, as he dragged his sister out.
"Don't talk rubbish, Deb."
Miss Babbs staggered out into the light parlour with a large wooden box,
and dumped it down on the table before her customers. "There's bandana
handkerchiefs on top," she panted, "but there may be a flag or so under."
"The quickest way will be to turn the box upside down, and begin at the
bottom," suggested Tom, as soon as Miss Babbs had retired to her kitchen--
and suited the action to the word.
"Here's one!" cried Debby eagerly, and unfolded a flag with 'God Save our
King and Queen' on it, and portraits of their Majesties.
"And here's one of 'God Bless our Sunday School,'" cried Tom. "Oh, look,
there are three of them. If we nail them upside down they will look all
right. They'll be flags, anyhow."
"It's an insult to hang a flag upside down," corrected Debby, severely.
"All right, I don't mind. Here's a Union Jack, that's jolly, though they
are rather a worry to hang. I never can remember which way they should
go. Not that anyone in Moor End would know if they were right way up or
not."
"Then they ought to be ashamed of themselves," retorted Debby, "and it's
time they were taught." She had lately been reading an article on the
subject and her opinions were very strong with regard to the ignorance
shown by so many. "One Coronation, one Union Jack," she counted, "three
Sunday School--that's five altogether. We ought to have one more to make
the money up to sixpence. I'll have a red and white handkerchief, it will
come in afterwards for Jobey for Christmas."
When, by and by, Mrs. Carlyle passed downstairs to go out through the
garden to the carriage Mr. Vivian had sent to drive her to the Mill House,
she found the banisters festooned with rings of coloured paper, and the
garden ablaze with paper roses and flags. From every tree fluttered a
flag, more or less inappropriate, and on every bush and plant, poppy and
rose, sage and phlox, laurel and sweet briar, blossomed roses of a size
and colour to make a florist's heart rejoice--had they been real.
Suspended across the gateway hung an old white sheet, with 'Many happy
returns,' in red letters, sewn on crookedly.
Smiles and tears fought for mastery in her heart. "It is all meant for
you, mummy," explained Debby, eagerly. "You must pretend what is on the
Coronation flag is 'God save our Mother,' and on the Sunday School ones
'God bless our Mother.' Can you pretend like that, mummy? I can."
"Yes, darling, for it is no pretence. He has saved me, and blessed me,"
she said softly.
The carriage was to drive slowly through the village that the heroine of
the day might see it all again, and note all the changes which had taken
place during her long seclusion. Joan was to go with her to share the
novelty of a drive. But the other four and their father formed a guard of
honour, and marched beside them, or behind. Mary was to share in the
outing too. As soon as she had tidied herself and put things straight,
she was to hand the care of the house over to Job Toms, and go to the Mill
House as early as she could, which was only a few minutes later than her
mistress.
The slow drive turned into a veritable triumphal progress. Everyone
rejoiced to see the Vicar's wife amongst them again, every heart in the
village shared in the joy of the Vicar and his family. Miss Babbs was out
at her shop door, waving her best lace handkerchief. The old sexton's
wife ran into the road in order to present a bunch of the best flowers in
her garden. All stood out at their doors with welcoming smiles and glad
greetings.
By the time they reached the Mill House, Mrs. Carlyle was almost borne
down with the weight of love and tenderness which had been poured out upon
her--but, oh! so happy, so glad, so grateful.
At the Mill House, where all were out awaiting her. Mrs. Vivian soon
carried her off to her own little room. "You are to rest here quite
alone," she said firmly. "I shall not allow anyone to see you for half an
hour--unless, perhaps, it is your husband or Audrey."
Mrs. Carlyle looked up at her with grateful eyes, and a brave smile on her
pale, happy face. "You understand," she said gently. "I would like to be
quite alone just for a little. Oh, I feel so--unworthy, and so--so rich
beyond my deserts. I must ask for help to--to try to merit some of all I
have."
Downstairs in the long low dining-room, the table was prepared for tea.
Daphne had decorated room and table with autumn leaves, and ferns, and
flowers. In the centre stood a handsome birthday cake of Irene's making
and decorating, and surrounding it was dish after dish of tartlets, and
cakes, and other things such as made the children gaze at the clock
anxiously, fully assured that it had stopped.
"It _must_ be five o'clock, or six," sighed Tom. "I am sure it is three
or four hours since dinner-time."
"I didn't eat any dinner," announced Daphne, "when I saw what Irene had
made, I thought I would wait. You see, it was a boiled mutton dinner, and
I can't bear boiled mutton."
"Some of the things you saw are for supper," laughed Irene, "so I am
afraid you have a long time to wait yet."
Daphne's face fell. "Four hours more! Never mind, I don't want the time
to hurry past--though it will."
Faith, the same happy, bright-faced Faith, strolled up to the window, one
hand tucked affectionately through old Mr. Vivian's arm, the other leading
Joan. In the sunshine her hair glowed like a halo round her head; on the
bosom of her white dress glowed her ruby cross. Her frock was only of the
cheapest soft muslin, but it was sound and neat, her shoes had all their
buttons on, her stockings were guiltless of darns of another colour.
In her pretty brown eyes love beamed on all, and happiness.
"Who would like a donkey ride?" called out Mr. Vivian. "Tom, Daphne, are
you coming? Debby, where's my little Debby?"
Debby was never far from Tom, nor from Mr. Vivian when she could be with
him.
"Audrey, are you coming too?"
"I don't know," said Audrey, smiling. "I want to go with you, and I want
to be here in case mother needs me."
"And I want you," said Irene, in the midst of bustling round. "I want you
very particularly."
"The truth is," said Mr. Vivian, his kind old eyes resting on her very
tenderly, "we all need you. We can't get on without you. Never mind,
wait for your mother, child. She needs you most of all." And with a wave
of the hand they left.
Audrey went outside and rested on a seat in the sunshine. On the roof
Keith's pigeons sat cooing amiably; the mingled sweetness of 'cherry-pie'
and mignonette filled the warm air. Daphne's cat Snowdrop, once Debby's
kitten, lay stretched out comfortably on the warm, red-tiled path.
How beautiful it all was, how peaceful. Audrey sitting lost in almost a
rapture of enjoyment, did not hear soft footsteps approaching, until Irene
dropped on to the seat beside her.
"Audrey," she said eagerly, "I do want a few minutes alone with you.
There is something--very special--I want to talk to you about."
Audrey looked round interestedly. "Well?" she said. "You know Christmas
is not so very far off."
Audrey laughed lightly. "Christmas! Just imagine being able to think of
Christmas--winter--on a day like this!"
"I am not thinking of winter, only of Christmas--and our party."
"A Christmas party? Oh, Irene!"
"Yes. I must tell you quickly, or someone may come. Mother suggested it
only this morning--that we have a party, and--and act your play!"
Irene looked at her triumphantly, her pretty eyes bright with excitement.
"My play? Oh!" Audrey blushed scarlet. She seemed quite overcome.
"Irene, Irene," called her mother from within the house, and Irene sprang
to her feet. "Think about it," she said, lightly touching Audrey's hot
cheek with her finger, "think of the fun of the rehearsals, and all the
rest."
"Think about it!" There was little need to tell Audrey to do that.
She thought and thought, and at first she felt she could never face it
all; then, by degrees, the idea grew less distasteful, more pleasant, then
at last she laughed.
"A penny for your thoughts, Audrey," a sweet soft voice broke the silence,
and brought Audrey back from a happy future to the blissful present.
Looking up she saw her mother leaning on Irene's arm.
"I couldn't sell them," she said, laughing and springing to her feet,
"they were too, too lovely, but not nearly as lovely, mother, as seeing
you here and walking about."
Mrs. Carlyle sank on to the seat with a happy sigh. "I can hardly believe
I am myself," she said, smiling. "I am almost afraid I shall wake up and
find it is all a dream--as I have done so often."
"Oh, this is no dream," laughed Irene, "it is all very real. Look at
those bad sparrows, fighting over a piece of bread. Listen to the pigeons
calling for their tea, and look at my bed of verbenas, all raised from
seeds by my very own hand. It is only Audrey who dreams. Audrey, will
you give us your thoughts, as they are not to be bought?"
"Yes," said Audrey, her grey eyes shining bright with happiness.
"I am thinking that in all the world there is nothing so beautiful as
home, no happiness so great as----"
"As that which comes from helping others," said Mrs. Carlyle softly, and
drawing her dearly loved daughter to her. "Oh, my dear, how blessed I am
in my children, and in their friends;--my children too," she added softly,
as she drew Irene to her, and kissed first one and then the other.
Mrs. Vivian came to the door and looked out, smiling at them.
"Will you come now? Tea is ready," she called cheerfully. And, with one
supporting her on either side, Mrs. Carlyle went in to the house to cut
her birthday cake.
THE END.
[Transcriber's note:
Chapter III
'and the mudde which reigned in both'
corrected to:
'and the muddle which reigned in both'
Chapter IX
'innocent little oke'
corected to:
'innocent little joke']