Anxious Audrey Part 29

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.

CHAPTER XV.

"I think I would like to go for a walk, daddy, if you are going home, and will see that mother is all right."

"Yes, I will take care of mother. Are you very tired, dear? I am afraid you must be, you have worked very hard looking after us all so well."

Audrey smiled up at her father, but it was rather a wistful smile.

"No, I am not exactly tired, but I feel as if I wanted a walk."

"I expect you do, you have been shut up in the house so much.

Well, I will hurry home now; and you will be back in time for tea?"

Audrey nodded, and, with a sigh of contentment, turned up the winding road which would presently lead her out on the moor.

Granny Carlyle's visit was over, and it was as she and her father were turning away from the station after seeing her off, that there had come to her suddenly a great desire to be alone, to be out on the great, wide, open, silent moor, where she could think and think without fear of interruption.

At home there was so little time for thought, and she had so many things to think about. Only yesterday granny had said: "Well, Audrey, and are you coming back to me when the year is up?" And Audrey, shocked at the thrill of dismay the mere suggestion sent through her, had tried to tell her as gently and kindly as possible, that she could not be spared from home, at any rate, until Joan was some years older.

"Even when mother gets about again, she will not be fit for hard work,"

she explained hurriedly, "and, of course, there is a lot of hard work.

Father says we can't possibly keep another servant, for there will soon be the governess to pay, as well as Mary and Job Toms."

"I know, child, I know," granny answered, almost sadly. "I scarcely expected to be able to have you." And Audrey, feeling a little uncomfortable lest she should have even suspected her changed feelings, had again been struck by her aged and fragile look, the weariness in her eyes, and in her voice, and had been troubled by it.

It had troubled her, too, ever since, but she did not know what she could do. Indeed, she knew that she could not do anything, and that was saddest of all.

Up on the moor she threw herself down on a bed of heather, and with only the bees, and the larks, and the little westerly breeze for company, tried to think the matter out. And soon the breeze blew some of her worries away, and the sun and the birds' songs between them so raised her spirits that she found courage to face things more hopefully and trustfully.

"I can't alter things," she sighed, "I can only do the best I know, or what seems best."

Presently remembrance of her play came back to her. For the last week or two she had been so busy, and her mind so occupied with other things, she had really not had time to worry about it, and now: "There are only three days more to wait!" she cried. "Only three days more. I wonder how I shall first know? Will they write? or shall I see it in the papers?

or--or what? And how shall I bear it--if--if, whichever way it is?"

But, in spite of herself, her mind wandered on, picturing what she would do with her money. Should she send away for one of those pretty, cool, cotton rest-gowns for her mother, that she longed so for. They were often advertised, it would be quite easy to get one. She would still have a good deal left for other things. Or should she give the money to her father for a new great coat? His old one was fearfully shabby.

It would take the whole of her money, but it would be lovely when winter came, to know that he was not cold. Oh! but she did want to get some new curtains, or sheets, and--and Faith was dreadfully in need of a rain coat, and: "Oh, dear!" she cried, rousing out of her day-dream, "and, after all, I shall probably not even have a five-shilling consolation prize!

How silly I am to let myself think of it. It is enough to prevent its coming."

She got on to her feet, and shook herself, to shake the dried gra.s.s and heather from her skirt and her long hair--to shake off her foolishness too. Well, five shillings would be useful. It would buy mother some fruit, and wool for socks for father. "I wish though I could forget all about it. I wish something would happen to drive it out of my head again." And already something was happening--was on its way to her.

A letter had come for her while she was out, a letter from Irene.

"I can see that it is from Ilfracombe," said her mother as she handed it to her. "Open it quickly, dear, I have been longing for you to come home and tell me what it says about them all."

But Audrey's eyes were already devouring the pages. "Oh!" she gasped, "oh, how lovely! How perfectly lovely!"

If there is one thing more aggravating than another, it is to hear someone exclaiming over a letter, without giving a clue as to the cause of the excitement.

"Audrey! Audrey, darling, don't tease me any more."

Audrey looked up, ashamed of her selfishness. Her mother's cheeks were flushed with excitement. "Oh, mummy, I am so sorry," she cried, repentantly.

"Never mind, dear. I could see that the news, whatever it was, was pleasant."

"Oh, mother, it is lovely, perfectly--perfectly glorious. What do you think? They are actually coming here to live--no, not in this house,"

laughing, "but in Moor End. Irene says that her grandfather has bought the Mill House for them, and they hope to have it done up and ready for them to move into before winter sets in. Won't it be lovely? Oh, mother, aren't you glad?"

Mrs. Carlyle was more than glad. She was thankful. Her mind was relieved of a care which had increased as the days sped on. Now her girls would have companionship, and with friends whose influence and example would be all for good. Tom, too, would have a companion. And, perhaps, who knows, they could share their lessons too. Mrs. Carlyle's thoughts flew on; but her thoughts were all for her children. She had not yet considered what it would mean to herself,--the companionship, the kind friends at hand in case of need.

"You are very, very glad about it, aren't you, dear?" she asked, her heart and her eyes full of sympathy with her child's gladness.

"Glad! Oh, mother. I was never so happy in my life. It seems now as though everything is just perfect!"

"And granny? Have you given up wanting to go back to her, dear?"

A shadow fell on Audrey's happiness. "Granny was speaking about it,"

she said hurriedly, "only yesterday, and I told her I could not come.

I thought I was--I felt I ought to stay here, even after you are well again, for there is a lot to do, and--and, mother--you don't think I must go back, do you?"

Her voice was full of anxiety. She had little dreamed at one time that she would ever be overjoyed at being told she could not do so; but now.

Her eyes sought her mother's face anxiously. She longed to hear her say rea.s.suringly that there was not the slightest need, that she could not be spared.

But for a moment Mrs. Carlyle did not answer at all, and when she did she spoke slowly and hesitatingly. "I hardly know, dear, what to say.

As she is at present, there is no actual need, and I am glad, for I don't know what we should do without you here. But, well, I feel I could not grudge her one--when I have so many, and she is so lonely. You could be such a comfort to her, Audrey."

Audrey's face grew white and hard. "Of course," she thought bitterly, "it was only for her to feel happy for life to seem jollier and more full of happy prospects than ever before, and she must be dragged away from it all."

If she had been asked what, above all else, she would have chosen, she would have asked for just this: that Irene should come to live close by; and she was really coming. Better still, they were all of them coming, and life, for one brief moment, had seemed full of sunshine. "So, of course, a black and heavy cloud must come up, and shut the sunshine out, and darken all her happiness," she told herself dramatically.

"Audrey, dear. Don't look so unhappy, so--so disappointed. We will not antic.i.p.ate. No one knows what the future may bring. It is seldom exactly what we hope, or dread; and if we just go on trustfully day by day, taking all the happiness G.o.d sends us, and ready bravely to face the clouds.

We know that He will make the sunshine show through. He wants His children to be happy, not miserable."