Anxious Audrey

by William Henry Giles Kingston

  CHAPTER VI.

  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 tofeel that someone is always discontented and miserable, is verydepressing, and to know that someone is finding fault with everything onedoes, is apt to make one irritable and faultfinding too.

  In her new room Audrey found a great interest. She did all she could tomake it pretty--it was the only part of the house that she did try to makepretty. On her writing-table she had always a vase of fresh flowers, andanother 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 tohave 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 thehousework went on with the regularity of machinery, and without any sharein it, or interest in it, on Audrey's part, she had grown up with aknowledge only of how things should look when done, but without thefaintest idea of how to do them, or of the trouble it cost to make thingsnice, and keep them so. It had never occurred to her that to keepfurniture 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 ofmany things that she had taken for granted before.

  "If one did all that needs doing about a house," she said, excusingly toherself, "one would have no time for anything else, and I do want towrite. If I could sell my stories I could help father tremendously, andthat is far more important than dusting and cooking, and looking after thechildren. Faith can do that, she has no taste for writing. When lessonsbegin I shall have less time than ever for it, so I really must do all Ican now." And fired with enthusiasm and importance, she shut herself upmore 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 themuddle did not grow greater, it certainly did not grow less under Audrey'srule.

  "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 shewished 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 thingsgo 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 appearedround it was decidedly apologetic. She was always afraid that she mightbe 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 onSundays, she only thought about them. Occasionally she wrote a letter toher granny, or to a school friend. She was thinking of a story now, whenFaith disturbed her, a very sentimental one, as she sat by her bedroomwindow and gazed at the road winding up to the moor. 'He'--the lover--wasstriding along it with set jaws and haggard eyes, while 'she'--theheroine--sat at just such a window as Audrey's own, and gazed after himthrough tear-filled eyes. And Audrey was just trying to decide whether'she' should wave a relenting handkerchief and call him back, or watch himdepart 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 itlater 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 totalk about, we have so many tastes alike----"

  "She likes to have the Evening Service read to her, and the hymns and thelessons. The numbers of the hymns are on a slip of paper on themantelpiece. 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 afterI 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 outto-night."

  "Oh, is she! What a bother. Never mind, I'll look after things and sitwith 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 ofwistful admiration. "I wish I could hear about it too."

  "Oh, you wouldn't understand." Nevertheless, Audrey was very well pleasedwith 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 addedhastily.

  "Faith," Audrey called after her, "don't say anything to anybody elseabout 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 toknow anything about it until I have sold some--at least, only mother andyou."

  Faith nodded back brightly, immensely pleased at being trusted with themighty secret. She was very proud of Audrey and thought her clevernessquite 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 hertaste--she hoped that in time it would prove a talent. And for nearly anhour she patiently listened and advised.

  "You must not be too sure of yourself yet, dear," she said at last, asomewhat weary note in her voice. "You must be content to read andpractise for a long time yet----"

  "But mother, I am sure I could write a story as good as one I read a fewdays ago--there was simply nothing in it."

  "But Audrey, you surely would not be content to write a story only as goodas a very poor one! Your aim should be to write one better than a verygood one."

  "To begin with, mother! I couldn't do that to begin with--and oh, I dowant to see one in print!"

  Mrs. Carlyle sighed. She was very tired. "I thought you wanted myadvice, 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 amafraid. Oh, I am afraid I must trouble you to get me my glass of milknow, before we begin. I shall not be able to take it if I leave it anylater. I wonder if Joan is all right? I have not heard her call, haveyou?"

  Audrey jumped up hurriedly and ran into the next room.

  Baby Joan was asleep, but with the bed-clothes kicked back and all herlittle body exposed to the night breeze from the open window.

  "Oh dear," sighed Audrey impatiently, "I think children do things onpurpose 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 upwarmly 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 everyreason to be, but she was greatly worried. "I should have reminded you togo 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 betrusted to take care of anything properly!" She did not again remindAudrey of the glass of milk.

  Audrey did not relish the reproach. She was always a little sore aboutFaith's pre-eminence in the house. "You see it isn't my work," she saidshortly, "if it had been I expect I should not have forgotten.It is frightfully hard to remember other people's little odds and ends ofwork when they happen to be out."

  "Did not Faith ask you to look after baby while she was away?"

  "Yes--but----"<
br />
  "Then it was your work, Audrey."

  "Oh, well, I am very sorry. I quite forgot, but I expect Joan will be allright. 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 herbig girl. Her heart was heavy, her head ached, she felt tired too, andfaint.

  Audrey also was out of humour with herself and everything. She wasdisappointed in her mother's advice about her writing. She was angry withherself for failing in her duty, she was nervous about Joan, and over andabove all she was disappointed in her Sunday. It did not seem like aSunday--the happy beautiful day that comes bringing sunshine to the heartand sweetness and peace to the home, giving to all strength and courage totake 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 heron her way to church by appearing with a hole in her stocking; while atdinnertime she had been so annoyed by the sight of finger-marks on hertumbler, 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 todevote to the Sunday School. She did not like children, and she detestedteaching, "but, of course, if you very much dislike a thing you are boundto have it thrust on you, and if you love a thing very much, well, that isquite enough to prevent your being able to have it." She cried bitterlyin the solitude of her own room. She went to the school and she took herclass, but neither pupils nor teacher benefited by the lessons. To thechildren she was cold and unsympathetic. She took no interest in them ortheir doings; and they in their turn did not like her. And, more thanthat, they judged other teachers by her.

  "If that's what Sunday School teachers is like, you don't catch me comingagain," declared Millie Pope, who had been coaxed by a friend into comingfor the first time. "If being good makes you as sharp and sour as sheis--well, I don't want to be good."

  Audrey had not heard the remarks that were made, but she felt that she hadbeen a failure, and her heart was heavy. She was vexed and sorry, andannoyed with herself and everything, for she knew that she had not doneher best, that she had failed in her duty. And she knew as well as thoughthey had told her that the children had not liked her.

  Oh, it had been a failure, that May Sunday. The birds had sung theirblithest, the hedges were white with hawthorn, the air sweet with thescent of flowers, the sun had shone all day--and yet it had been a greySunday, begun badly, continued badly, ending badly--because the rightspirit 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 sweetcalm pleasure was not to be caught now. And before Mrs. Carlyle couldanswer her, footsteps sounded in the garden, and Faith, followed by Debbyand Tom, came rushing up the stairs.

  "Oh, we have had such a lovely time," but Faith catching sight of hermother'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 toolate 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 hersome Benger----" Their footsteps and voices died away.

  "Oh, what a pity!" sighed Deborah, "we've got such a lot to tell, and wewanted 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 Faithcomes. It wouldn't be fair--and Audrey too, 'cause it's Audrey that knowsthem."

  Mrs. Carlyle beckoned Debby to her side. "Run down, darling, and tellFaith not to make me any Benger, it takes so long, and I don't want her tostay now. I will have some jelly instead, and a slice of bread. Tell herto come quickly, and Audrey too. I am longing to hear about your'advencher.'"

  Mrs. Carlyle kissed her little daughter very tenderly. She loved to havethem come to her with all their little joys and woes. It was one of thechief pleasures of her slowly returning health.

  In a very short time Debby came racing back again, a plate in her handwith 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," shesaid 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, itnever fell'd once. Audrey and Faith were so slow. Faith was dusting atray and Audrey was turning out all the drawers looking for a tray-clothto put on it, and--and I couldn't wait. I wanted you to hear all aboutwho we've seen--oh, here they are at last!"

  They had evidently been successful in finding a cloth of some kind, forAudrey 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 beamingwith 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 werestrangers in church--I didn't know them, but father and Debby and Tomdid--at least they recognised them, and after service was over they werestanding about in the churchyard as if they were looking for someone--andit 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 youdon't explain? Can't you tell all about it so that anyone can understandyou?"

  Faith put a restraint upon herself and began again. "I mean it was youthat the strangers were looking for. They are called Vivian--they are thegrandchildren of Mr. Vivian at Abbot's Field. You know, mummy," turningto her mother. "They said they travelled with Audrey the day she camehome. Why didn't you tell us, Audrey?"

  "Perhaps Audrey did not know who they were," suggested Mrs. Carlylegently, 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 theycame over to try and see you at church, and then they saw daddy, and thenthey looked round and saw me and Tom, and Faith--of course they didn'tknow Faith, but they guessed she was another of us because of her redhair. And they waited until we came out of church to speak to us--theywanted 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 younot 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 nottravel 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," criedFaith 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 homeand their mother would be anxious about them if they were late."

  "Their mother! Was their mother with them, Audrey, when you travelledtogether?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh, what must she think of us," cried poor Mrs
. Carlyle, reallydistressed. "Such near neighbours, and to have taken no notice of themall 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 shabbyhouse; the ill-cooked, untidily served meals--and she felt she could havecried. "Why couldn't they have stayed at home? Why must they cometearing over to Moor End? and oh, what must they think of her for neverhaving mentioned them to her people, after their kindness and friendlinesstoo, in inviting her over to see them! Oh dear, how wrong everything inthis 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 niceplace to ask them to, but they must be rich, they probably haveeverything, 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 awound. She would have given all she possessed to be able to say 'no' withall 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 theknowledge 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 quietlyaway, and, after a moment, Audrey, not knowing what else to do, turned andfollowed them. She longed for some word, some sign from her mother, butnone came. It was too soon to ask for her forgiveness yet. It was toomuch to ask, for it would be only asking for comfort for herself, it wouldnot 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 Audreyhad 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 arepoor? 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 isbecause 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 hurtmother 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 heartsounding 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 tearsshe flew upstairs again and shut herself in her attic.