CHAPTER V

Audrey had been at home two weeks, but, she wrote to her granny, "it seems like two months, and such long ones. Mother seems to be going on very well, but nothing else does. Everything else seems all wrong. The house is so shabby and untidy, and no one seems to try to keep it neat. I am always telling them about it, and then they turn round and say I am nagging. Oh, granny, I shall be so glad when next year comes, and I can come back to you. I miss you dreadfully."

What she really missed was her comfort, and the little luxuries her grandmother had surrounded her with as a matter of course. "I am going to try to have a room to myself, I simply can't bear things as they are. With love, your affectionate grandchild, Audrey."

Having sealed and directed her letter, Audrey rose, crept softly out of the bedroom, and up the steep stairs to the attics. She really was going to see about getting one for herself. If the empty one was at all suitable she was going straight to her mother to ask if she might have it. If it was not suitable! She did not let her mind dwell on such a possibility, it would be too dreadful to bear—after all the hopes she had built up.

She had shared the room with Faith and Joan for a fortnight, and she simply could not stand it any longer. The children seemed to forget that it was not their nursery still, and spent half their time there. She had never been able to put out her writing-case and work-basket, or her books and ornaments, for there was no room. Nor would she have done so if there had been, for the children would have been always handling them, and spoiling them all.

And now, even while she was writing, Debby had upset the water-jug all over the floor, and Joan had danced all over the beds; and really it was more than Audrey could endure any longer.

"I can't be expected to," she said to herself, as she mounted the attic stairs, "anything would be better than that muddle."

The attic on the extreme left was a box-room, she knew, and the one in the middle was the servant's room, so she opened the third door. The box-room faced the east; the servant's room looked out over the front garden and the road; the third one—Audrey's—looked out to the west, and down over the village and the church, to where the hill wound up and up to the heather-clad moor.

As she opened the door the room felt close and musty, but a flood of sunshine poured in through the closed window, to welcome her. "Oh, how jolly! I must have this! I must! I must! I could make a splendid room of it."

She went over and threw up the window wide, then faced about and examined the place more closely. "There is heaps of room, and I am sure I could make it ever so nice. The bed could stand there, and the chest of drawers facing the window, and—oh, I could have a real writing table by the window. I could do real work if I had this all nice and quiet to myself, with my things about—and this view to look out at! I shall go and ask mother this very minute!" and with cheeks pink with excitement she tore down the bare stairs and along the corridor as though she was afraid she would lose her chance if she waited a moment.

But at her mother's door she found her father standing, talking to Dr. Gray. The doctor looked round at her with a little frown on his brow, and put up his finger for silence. "Your mother is trying to sleep," he said rather sharply. "She had a bad night. Will you try and keep the house as quiet as possible, Miss Audrey, please?"

Audrey's face clouded. She was disappointed at not being able to put her request to her mother, and she was annoyed at being reproved. Audrey never could endure reproof.

"I will try," she answered glumly; "but it is almost impossible to get quiet here. The children are so noisy, and they never do what they are told."

Mr. Carlyle sighed. Dr. Gray's eyebrows lifted a little. "They are very imitative," he said. "If you explain to them how necessary it is, for their mother's sake, and set them the example, I will answer for it that they will be good."

But Audrey only tossed her head, and retired to her bedroom.

Presently, after what seemed a long time, Faith came up, carrying Joan, asleep in her arms. She looked tired and hot. "She has dropped off at last," she panted, "I am going to put her in her cot. I think it is the warm weather that makes her so restless. She hasn't slept for hours."

Audrey did not reply. She sat on the chair beside her bed, and watched her sister lay the sleeping child carefully on her pillow, without disturbing her; then draw the blanket carefully over her.

That done to her satisfaction, Faith flung herself on her own bed with a sigh of content. "Oh!" she sighed, "how lovely it is to lie down. I am so tired, and my head aches so—and my feet."

The warm days had come in suddenly; though it was only April they seemed to have stepped from winter right into summer, and everyone felt it.

Audrey looked at her sister with disapproving eyes. "A nice sight your bed will be, when you get off it, and look at mine. Joan did that. With that great slop on the floor, too, the room isn't fit to look at."

"I should think this heat would soon dry up anything," said Faith placidly, "no floor could stay wet long, even if one wanted it to." She turned over, and stretched her aching limbs contentedly. "If my bed is untidy, I must tidy it again—that is all. I am so dead tired I must lie down somewhere. Where have you been? In with mother?"

"No. I was here part of the time, trying to write to granny, and—and then I went up to the attics. Faith, I do want to have that west attic for my very own. It would make a jolly bedroom. I am going to ask mother if I may. I should think she would let me when she knows how much I want it."

"Do you?" Faith opened her tired eyes, and looked at her sister wistfully. "You don't care for being here with me?"

Audrey looked somewhat embarrassed. "It—it isn't that—but I do want a room to myself, where—where the children won't be always bursting in and banging the place about. You see, I have been accustomed to having my own room, and my things about, all the time I was with granny. It—it seems senseless, too, doesn't it? for three of us to sleep in one room, and leave that one up there standing empty."

"But Joan only sleeps here because mother mustn't be disturbed at night."

"I know, but she makes three sleeping here. Do you think mother and father would mind my having the attic?"

"Oh, no—not if you want it so much. It makes more work for the servant to have another room to clean, and one so high up too."

"Oh, I will keep it clean, and—and all that sort of thing. I wonder when mother will be awake? I want to go and ask her."

"I don't know. Not for a long while yet, I hope, for Dr. Gray gave her a sleeping draught. But you need not bother mother about it, ask father, it will be just the same. He is in his study."

Audrey was on her feet in a moment. "Shall I? Do you think he will understand as well as mother would? You see, I really need a quiet place where I can work in peace. Do you think father would let me have the attic?"

"Oh, yes, father will let you have it." Faith turned her head on her pillow with a weary sigh. "Audrey, will you draw down the blind? My head is simply splitting."

"All right. I will go down to father this very minute, then I must see about getting it cleaned out, and—oh, I wonder if I could possibly get it ready to sleep there to-night!"

"To-night!" In spite of her pain, Faith opened her eyes wide with surprise. "But there is no furniture there, no—no anything. What a hurry you are in, Audrey." She felt a little hurt, and the hurt sounded in her voice; but Audrey did not hear, she was already on her way to the study.

Faith got off the bed, drew down the blind herself, then clambered on to her bed again; but there was no pleasure in the rest now. She was conscious all the time that she was crushing the pillows and the quilt and spoiling the look of everything. "I wish I had a rug and a cushion, that I could lie on the floor. It seems wrong to be lying here." However, as she was there, she thought she might as well stay, and presently she dozed, until Audrey's return woke her.

"Father says I may have the attic," she announced bluntly, but she was not as exuberant about it as Faith had expected her to be. Without saying anything more, she went to a drawer and took out a large apron.

"Are you going to begin at once?" asked Faith, sitting erect in her excitement.

"I may as well. What is the use of waiting?"

"I was only thinking of the heat—and the noise. We shall have to be so awfully careful not to disturb mother. What did daddy say, Audrey?"

"Oh," he said: "'Yes, certainly,'" a pause.

"Was that all?"

"No, he—he seemed to think I was going to take Debby with me—as you had Joan; but I might as well stay here as do that! Better, in fact. If Debby thought the attic was as much hers as mine, I should have no peace in my life. I should never be able to keep her out."

Faith got slowly off the bed. "I don't suppose Debby would care to go, either," she said quietly. "I will have her in here with me. There will be plenty of room, and I shall be able to keep an eye on her."

"Yes—that's a capital idea," Audrey's face brightened. "She will love being here with you and Joan. Now I am going down to get a brush and some dusters. I shall first of all sweep out the attic. I am going to have it as nice and clean and pretty as ever I can get it."

"I will come and help you," said Faith with as much energy as she could muster. She was very hot and tired still, and her head ached as badly as ever.

When Mary heard what Audrey wanted the brushes for, she came too, to lend a hand. She even washed the floor, to take up any loose dust, and "make it sweet," as she said. "It dries as fast as I wash it," she added, "it is that hot up here to-day, and such a breeze blows in." Good-tempered Mary also cleaned the window, and put up a pair of holland curtains—the best that could be found.

"They will do for the time," said Audrey, somewhat scornfully. "I shall make myself a pretty pair as soon as I can, and embroider roses on them. I think I will write to granny, and ask her to send me the materials. Granny has some sweet ones. She cuts out great sprays of flowers from cretonne, and appliqué's them on to Bolton sheeting. You have no idea how sweet they look."

"I wish we had some for the drawing-room," sighed Faith, "the curtains there are too shabby for words."

Debby and Joan had drifted up by this time, and were allowed to help, and Joan sat on the floor contentedly playing with the hammer. When she had put up the curtains, Mary helped Faith to unscrew the bed and carry it up, and screw it together again, the mattress she carried in her strong arms as easily as though it were Joan; while Tom and Deborah staggered up with the pillows, sheets, and blankets.

When, though, it came to carrying up the chest of drawers, they all had to give a hand. It was so clumsy, and slipped through their hands so persistently that more than once they all sat down suddenly on the stairs with the chest on top of them. By that time they had all begun to giggle, and that made matters worse, for it took away all the strength they had. Audrey's new room was growing quite ship-shape, but every other duty in the house was at a standstill, everything else was forgotten, and time was lost count of.

"Audrey! Faith! Mary! Where are you all? Do you know that it is half-past one?"

Mr. Carlyle's voice broke in on their laughter so peremptorily and unexpectedly, that Audrey and Faith above, and Mary below, lost their hold of the clumsy bit of furniture, and let it slip backwards.

"Is dinner nearly—I say, girls, do be careful. If that thing were to fall on Mary it might injure her seriously—and what should we do without her?" With a strong grasp he seized and raised their cumbersome load, while Mary, red, embarrassed, laughing, dishevelled, struggled out from underneath. She was not really hurt, but she was dismayed at the thought of the time, and the work which lay neglected.

"Half-past one!" she gasped, "and I've got all the dinner to get." Faith had already flown downstairs.

"And I have to be at the Cemetery at half-past two," said Mr. Carlyle gravely, but not unkindly. Mary was only seventeen, and, after all, young things did enjoy anything out of the routine, he knew. But such a lack of all sense of responsibility was serious, especially in a house where there was an invalid, and young children.

"And what about your mistress's lunch?" he asked, when they had succeeded in getting the chest of drawers safely into the attic. Mary, overcome with remorse, flew down to the kitchen without a word.

Mr. Carlyle turned to Audrey. "Had you forgotten your mother?" he asked in a voice full of reproach.

Audrey coloured with shame. "I—I—yes, I had, father. I didn't know it was so late—the time flew so.

"It does, when we are occupied with anything that pleases us. But it was your duty to know how the time was going. You reminded me to-day that you were the eldest, and that, therefore, certain privileges were due to you. You must remember, dear, that with certain privileges, certain responsibilities are yours too."

"I am very sorry, father. When I—when I am settled in—I will try to see to things better."

"That's right. I hope the having a room of your very own will not prove a temptation to you to shirk your duty; that your privileges will not block your view of your duties. Come down now, and help Mary, in return for all the help she has given you."

"Yes, father. I will as soon as I have washed my hands."

It took her so long though to find soap and nailbrush, and a towel, and a brush and comb, that when, at last, she did get down to the kitchen she found Faith just leaving it with a cup of hot beef tea on a tray, and a plate of stewed fruit and custard. Joan sat on the floor, this time happy with the bellows, while Mary chopped cold potatoes as fast as she could in the frying-pan over the gas ring.

"If I can only get something ready for the master to have, I don't mind," she gasped, pausing for a moment. "There is plenty of cold beef, that is one comfort, and some stewed fruit; but I did mean to have had a hot dinner, and have kept the cold meat for supper."

"Never mind, that will be all right. It is lucky we had it." Audrey's ideas as to what was suitable for dinner, and what should only be had for suppers, had undergone a sharp and swift change. She resented a little Mary's tone of proprietorship, but she decided that it would be wiser to await another opportunity to tell Mary that it was for her, Audrey, to arrange what they should have for this meal and that.

She took up a magazine which was lying on the table. "There doesn't seem to be anything for me to do," she said, contentedly dropping into a chair. She was very glad, for she was very tired. "Oh, dear! how my legs ache. I feel as though I don't want to do a thing more to-day."

Mary looked at Audrey once or twice with disapproval, as she sat lazily turning over the pages. She hardly liked to say what was in her mind, for she was a little in awe of her master's eldest daughter, who seemed to know so much better than anyone else how things should be done, and to have been accustomed to everything so much grander than they were at the Vicarage.

Loyalty to Faith, though, gave her courage. Faith, so good-tempered and willing, at the beck and call of everyone. If Audrey was tired, so were they all—and with working for her, too—and Faith was feeling quite sick with the pain in her head.

"There is the cloth to lay, miss," she said, reluctantly. "I haven't been able to do that yet. Miss Faith said she would, but she is feeling so bad——"

"Oh, isn't the cloth laid!" in a disappointed voice, "then I suppose," reluctantly, "I had better do it. Where do you keep it, Mary, and where shall I find the glasses, and the table napkins, and the silver?"

Mary stopped and showed her, running back between whiles to attend to the potatoes. Audrey laid the cloth, and turned to the plate-basket. "I suppose I ought to polish each fork and spoon as I lay it," she thought, ruefully, "it all looks smeary; but, I can't bother. I am too tired to-day. The things shouldn't be put away smeary," she added crossly, "it is only leaving the work for someone else to do."

When she had finished laying the silver, she went out to the kitchen again and collected the glasses. Every one had the smeary look that glasses have if they have been wiped with a damp, and not too clean, cloth.

At the sight of them she exclaimed with impatience: "Oh, bother the things!" she cried irritably, "I can't stay to wipe them all, I am tired out." She was putting them on the table when her father came into the room. "That is right, dear, I am glad you are showing Mary how things should be done. She is very young, and has had no proper training. Example is everything with Mary, she is very imitative; but poor little Faith has had too much on her hands to be able to attend to the daintinesses of life."

Audrey coloured, but not, as her father thought, with pleasure.

"Example!" That was what Dr. Gray had said. How tiresome it was of people to keep on about example, and how difficult it made life! It was so much more difficult to do things oneself, than to tell people how they should be done.

In a gust of impatient anger she caught up the glasses again. "I wish I could teach Mary to wash tumblers properly," she said crossly, "and silver. There is not one thing fit to use——"

"Well, can't you? If you showed her the way once or twice I am sure she would learn. She is very anxious to improve herself."

The hot words on Audrey's lips died away, but not the anger in her heart, as she dashed out to the kitchen again. "I want some hot water," she demanded peremptorily, "every tumbler needs washing, Mary," she said sharply, "there isn't one fit to use."

Mary's face fell. "There isn't any hot water, miss, the fire has gone clean out."

"Then it's the only thing that is clean," said Audrey rudely.

Mary's eyes flashed. "Serves me right for not tending to my own work, and leaving others to tend to theirs," she retorted. She was tired, hot, and thoroughly put out by the upset of the morning, and while she was doing all she knew to make up for her fault, out came Audrey nagging at her. "Another time I'll know better than start moving furniture and washing floors late in the morning, when I ought to be getting my dinner forward."

"That didn't prevent your washing the glasses properly last night, did it?" snapped Audrey. "If you did things properly once, they wouldn't need doing a second time."

Mary lost her temper entirely. "It is easy for them to talk as don't do anything," she muttered sullenly; "it's them that work that knows——"

Fortunately Faith came into the kitchen at that moment, bringing word that someone had knocked twice at the front door, and Mary departed hurriedly. But though her coming checked any further hot words, it could not drive away the recollection of what Mary had said. "It's easy for them to talk as don't do anything." Was that what Mary thought of her? Did others think the same? Was that the character she had earned? The words rang in her ears, the mortification bit deep. It was hateful to be so spoken to by a little ignorant country servant; but the sharpest sting lay in the knowledge that Mary was right. No one knew, and Audrey would not have liked anyone to know how she loathed doing the things that she blamed others for not doing.

"What is the matter?" asked Faith, "can't you find something you want?"

"The glasses aren't clean, and there is no hot water to wash them with. I suppose it is my fault for taking Mary away to help with my room. I didn't think—I didn't know——"

"Oh, that's all right," said Faith cheerfully, "wash them in cold water. Here, give them to me, and I will do it."

But Audrey's eyes had been opened, and for the time, at any rate, she saw some things very clearly. "No," she said promptly, "if you can wash them in cold water, I can. You sit down and rest, and talk to me. You must be dead tired," and Faith obeyed, wondering.

That night Audrey, in a state of great delight, slept in her new room. It was very warm certainly, so close up under the roof, but it was as clean and neat as a new pin—all the untidiness was left behind in Faith's room. Audrey never gave a thought to the muddle and discomfort there. When she closed her door behind her for the night her heart was full of nothing but pleasure and pride in her new possession. She went to the open window, and looked out on the moonlit world below, on the pretty cottages, the old church nestling at the foot of the hill, at the wide, white road, winding up and up in the misty distance until she could not see where it ended. For the first time the beauty of the spot where her home stood, and the love of it, entered her heart.

"If only—if only," she thought, "if we were not so poor, and could have pretty things; if only it was more beautiful, more dainty, I could love it very much."

But, as yet, she had not the eyes to see, nor the heart to feel that her home possessed beauties beyond all others—the most precious beauties of all—love, sympathy, cheerfulness under poverty, patience with each other's faults, and, above all others, a great unselfishness.

Nor was it yet brought home to her that those smaller beauties that it lacked, the daintiness, neatness, the order that she so yearned for, it rested with her to supply.