CHAPTER VIII

The next two or three days simply raced by, in what, to Audrey, seemed a hopeless struggle against all odds. It certainly was a struggle, but not quite a hopeless one, for by the time Thursday dawned bright and beautiful, a day to cheer even the most uncheerful, many small changes had been wrought in the Vicarage and in the garden. And Audrey had brought them about. Not by herself, certainly, but by the simple process of worrying others until they did what she wanted done.

It is only fair, though, to admit that hers had been the ruling spirit. If it had not been for her, none of the improvements would have been made.

Mary had cleaned all the windows, Faith had, somehow, managed to get rods, and had straightened all the blinds. By offering a ha'penny to the one who swept and raked the garden paths most thoroughly, the garden path was swept and raked until the weeds and the soiled gravel had been turned over and buried out of sight, and with no worse damage than a bump on Tom's forehead, where the handle of the rake had struck him, and some tears on Debby's part because she had lost the prize.

Job Toms too had even been coaxed into bringing a scythe and cutting the grass.

"It would look quite nice if Faith had not made that silly bed all along that side," Audrey admitted.

This was Faith's reward for getting up early, and slaving through the whole of a long hot day to remove the worn turf from a narrow strip of the lawn, the whole length of the path, and dig over the moist brown earth beneath. "I would do the other side too," she said, generously, when she displayed her handiwork, "only I really believe my eyes would drop out if I stooped any more. You see I'd only the trowel to do it with."

"I suppose that is why you have made such a mess, and the bed is all crooked. You should have left it for a gardener to do," said Audrey, ungraciously. "Of course, the turf should have been chopped down, and the whole thing done properly. It would have been better not to have touched it, if you couldn't do it properly."

"Don't you like it?" asked Faith, disappointedly.

"Well, it spoils the look of the place, doesn't it? And just when I had got it made almost fit to look at, for once. I daresay it might be quite pretty if the bed was full of flowers," she added, in a less caustic tone, "as I suppose it will be some day. As it is—well, you must admit it looks a hopeless botch, doesn't it?"

Faith did not reply. There was no need to, and she felt that she could not. Instead, she walked away and down to the village, where she had many friends, and a little later returned with a collection of roots and cuttings and seedlings, which would have taken another person hours to plant properly, but which Faith got into the ground somehow in less than one. She had been too dead beat to get water and put round their roots, and it never occurred to Audrey to do so for her; so the poor things hung wilting and dejected-looking in the early morning sunshine, and only added to the unsightliness of Faith's new border.

On Thursday morning early, Tom, strolling round the garden to walk off a little of his excitement, noticed the poor drooping, dying things, and was filled with pity. Tiptoeing back to the house again for a can of water, he gave them all a drink. Deborah, coming out a few minutes later, found him standing, can in hand, rather wet about the feet and legs, gazing thoughtfully at Faith's new garden.

"I've got an idea," he whispered mysteriously, "such a jolly one! Have you any money?"

"I've got a penny. Daddy gave it to me yesterday."

"I've got two ha'pennies, the one Audrey gave me, and one I had before. Let's go down to Miss Babbs' and buy two penny packets of flower seeds, and sow them, and not say anything about it. Then when they come up everybody'll be surprised." Debby was enchanted. She loved s'prises, and this was such a pretty one. She loved, too, to back Tom up in anything he suggested.

Miss Babbs was only just taking down her shutters when her early customers arrived, so Tom was able to help her. At least, he thought he helped, and Miss Babbs would not have undeceived him for the world—even though she could have done the work herself in half the time, and with less than half the trouble.

But an even harder task than taking down the shutters, was that of deciding which of all that glorious collection of penny packets should be theirs. Such poppies! such lupins! nasturtiums of such glorious colours were pictured on each.

"I want them all!" replied Debby. "Wouldn't the garden look lovely, and wouldn't Faith be excited!"

"Why, you'd have a flower show all on your own, Miss Debby," laughed Miss Babbs, "and all for five shillings. I don't call it dear, do you?"

"Five shillings!" gasped Debby, "could I have all those for five shillings? I've got ten in the bank——"

"Best keep it there," advised Miss Babbs, sagely. She was rather alarmed by the spirit she had roused. "You never know what may 'appen."

Tom pulled Debby's apron. "Don't be silly," he said in her ear, "the flowers would all be gone by Christmas, and you know we are saving for a——" he ended his sentence by a regular fusilade of mysterious nods and winks.

"Donkey!" ejaculated Debby, innocently completing his sentence for him. "So we are. I had forgotten. I'll take one packet, please, Miss Babbs; and I'd like lupins, please, they are so beautiful."

"And I'll have mignonette, please, 'cause mother loves it, and Faith too. Won't they be glad when it comes up! Do you think mother will be able to smell it from her room?"

"More than likely," said Miss Babbs, encouragingly. "It's wonderful strong when it's a good sort like this."

In the box where all the packets of seeds lay shuffled together, some stray seeds rolled about loose, as though looking for nice soft earth in which to bury themselves.

"Now these seeds must have come from somewhere," cried Miss Babbs, when she caught sight of them, "and somebody or other'll be 'cusing me of giving short weight, and a pretty fine thing that'll be! I never knew nothing so aggravating as what seeds is, they'll worm their way out of anything. Here Master Tom," as she chased and captured some, "take 'em home and plant 'em. Miss Debby, you 'old out your 'and too. I don't know what they are, but they're sure to be something. Those two are sunflowers, and that's a 'sturtium. I do know those, and there's a few sweet peas."

"Oh!" gasped Debby, her face beaming. "Oh, Miss Babbs, how very kind you are!" and she held up her beaming little face to kiss the prim but tenderhearted woman who had been her lifelong friend. "Faith has made a new flower bed," she explained, "she has made it all by herself, but she hasn't very much in it yet. So we wanted to put some seeds in it without her knowing anything about it, so's she would have a s'prise. Now she'll have lots of s'prises. She'll think it's the piskies, won't she?"

"Two-legged piskies, I guess," laughed Miss Babbs, knowingly, and the children were too polite to remind her that piskies never had more. "When your peas come up, Miss Deborah, you come along to me, and I will give you some fine little sticks for them."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Debby, and in the excitement they both ran off still clutching their pennies, and had to go back again with them.

They had spent so much time over their purchases, that they had only just got their seeds planted by the time the breakfast bell rang. Their great fear was that Faith might have seen them, and would ask them what they had been doing; but Faith had been so busy dressing Joan, and helping Mary in the kitchen, she had had no time to look out of the window.

Audrey, though, came full upon them as they came in with their hands earthy, and their pinafores wet, and Audrey was irritable because she was so nervous and anxious.

"I do think you children might have kept yourselves decently clean until breakfast time," she snapped, crossly. "But I am sure you must try to see how much trouble you can give. Whatever have you been doing? Something you oughtn't to, of course." She stood glowering darkly down at them, and the two bright little faces lost their brightness.

"We've been—'tending to Faith's new flower-bed," said Tom, sturdily, "the plants would have died if we hadn't watered them."

"Faith's flower-bed? It isn't Faith's any more than it is mine, or—or——"

The two looked at each other in consternation. If they had known that, they would not have spent their precious pennies in buying seeds for it. Tom's annoyance found vent in words. "If it was yours, why didn't you give it some water, then?" he demanded.

Audrey made no reply. "If you don't behave yourselves, you won't be allowed to go to the picnic this afternoon," she said sternly, as she walked away to the dining-room, leaving two mortified, angry little hearts behind her.

"I don't want to go to her old picnic," stormed Tom in his bedroom, as he scrubbed his earthy hands.

"Oh, yes, you do—it isn't Audrey's picnic," urged Debby anxiously, "it is all of ours. It is daddy's really, and—and I shall have to go, Tom, and I can't go without you, there wouldn't be anybody to talk to. Say you'll come, Tom, do. There's going to be a cake with cherries and nuts on it, and one with jam—and Faith would be so mis'rubble if you didn't come."

"All right," Tom assented, with a lordly air, "I'll come, just to show Audrey the picnic isn't hers, nor the moon neither. Don't worry."

The Vivians were to arrive soon after lunch, and not return until the seven o'clock train in the evening.

"I suppose I had better go and meet them," said Audrey, at dinner-time, "as they were my friends first."

"And as I have met them twice since then, I think I will go too," said Mr. Carlyle, laughingly. "I have to be at one of the cottages near the station this afternoon, so I will manage to be at the station by time their train comes in."

"Then I shall have time to make Joan tidy, and change my frock before they get here," said Faith quietly, as she helped the now quite recovered Joan to spoon up her pudding. Tom and Debby did not speak, but they exchanged glances which would have told a tale to anyone who had intercepted them; and as soon as they were allowed to leave the table, they strolled in a casual way to the back door, and through the yard. Then suddenly they started as though they had been stung, and raced away as fast as their legs would go.

"I wish I hadn't forgotten to take off my overall," panted Debby, as they reached the station.

A little country station does not afford many good hiding places. In common with most of its kind, Moor End had only the ticket office, station master's office, and one bare little general waiting-room, the door of which always stood invitingly open. For a second the pair stood pondering deeply, then marched up boldly, and knocking in an airy fashion at the station master's door, opened it hurriedly and marched in.

"We have come to have a little talk with you, Mr. Tripp," said Debby, with her most insinuating smile. "It is such a long time since we saw you. Tom, unfasten my overall at the back, please, and I will carry it over my arm. It is very hot to-day," she added, by way of explanation to her host.

"It is, missie, and you look hot too, Have you been running?"

"Ye-es—we did run a—a little."

"Ah! and not long had your dinner, I'll be bound. Running on one's dinner is always hot work, and apt to cause a good bit of pain sometimes."

"We didn't run on it—we ran after it," said Debby, crushingly.

"Well, anyway, miss, you didn't have to run for it," and the old man chuckled at his own joke. Tom and Debby, though, refused to smile, they felt that they were being laughed at, and they resented it.

"We ran," explained Tom, formally, "because we—we wanted to get here before the next train comes in. You—you are so busy when there's a train in, that there is no chance of talking to you."

"Ay, ay, sir," agreed Mr. Tripp, with a twinkle in his eye, "sometimes I have one passenger getting out here, sometimes I have as many as four! Market days there's a reg'lar crowd coming and going."

"Well, you'll have three, at least, by the next train," said Tom, knowingly.

"O—ho! and you have come to meet them, I suppose. A sort of a pleasant little surprise for them. I thought you'd come to have a little chat with me!"

"So we have—both. Father's coming too, and our eldest sister."

"I see, but you came on ahead. You didn't wait for them." A knock at the door broke in on the conversation. Tom and Debby grew very red, and looked slightly nervous.

"Tripp, can I speak to you a minute?" Round the door came the vicar's head.

"Oh—h! I beg your pardon, you are engaged. Hullo! Why, you young scapegraces, what are you doing here, taking up Mr. Tripp's time, and—and filling up his office!"

The two scarlet faces lost their nervous look, and became wreathed in smiles. When daddy spoke like that, all was well.

"The train is signalled, sir," said the station master, and led the way out to the platform. At that same moment Audrey came sailing down the road, hurrying as fast as she could, with dignity. She was looking as dainty and fresh as a flower in her clean white frock. She wore a pretty sun hat, trimmed with blue ribbon, and the scarf hung around her neck exactly matched it. Her long hair was tied at the nape of her neck with a black bow.

"Oh, doesn't Audrey look pretty!" Debby's enthusiastic admiration died away in a sigh as she looked down over her untidy self, and, for the first time in her life, she felt ashamed of her appearance.

"I—I wished I'd stayed to wash my hands," she whispered nervously to Tom, "and had put on my hat, it would have covered up my hair—I never brushed it."

"Oh, you are all right," responded Tom, consolingly "just button up your shoes."

"I can't, the buttons are off. Oh! and you haven't got on any tie! Oh, Tom, what will they think?"

"Well—I couldn't find it. I looked and looked. Here's the engine. Oh, Deb, doesn't she look fine?"

"Splendid," said Deborah, but only half-heartedly. She was so sorry Tom had not a tie on, and that she had not made herself look as nice as Audrey did. And when there stepped out of the train two trim figures in spotless blue cotton frocks, and a boy in an equally spotless grey flannel suit, Debby could not face them, but turned and raced off the platform and up the street as fast as her legs could take her. Too fast, indeed, for her slippers, for they dropped off very soon, and she hadn't time to stop and pick them up. It was easier to run along in stockinged feet, than in shoes that slopped off at the heels with every step she took. It was rather painful work, though, and Debby was glad when she reached the shelter of home.

"Oh, Faith!" she cried, almost falling into the room. "They have come, and they are so—so tidy, and pretty! They have on blue frocks, and big hats with cornflowers on them; and, oh, please do try and make me look tidy and pretty too!"

Faith was standing before the glass, tying up her hair. She had been taking unusual pains with her appearance to-day, and she was rather late— which was not unusual. Joan, looking a perfect darling in her little long white frock, was sitting on the bed, playing with reels of cotton.

"Where are your shoes?" asked Faith, looking in dismay at Debby's much-darned stockings.

"I lost them—down the village. They fell off when I was running. Somebody will bring them back all right," she added, consolingly, "they've got my name inside."

It was Irene Vivian who brought them back. "Your brother said they were yours," she smiled, as she handed the shabby brown shoes to the blushing Debby.

"I am so sorry," said Debby, apologetically. "Tom should have carried them. You see, I'd lost the buttons, and they dropped off when I was running. I—I couldn't stay to go back, I was in—in rather a hurry."

She took the shoes, and was putting them on as they were. "I'm going to wear them to-day, 'cause they're comfortabler than my best ones, and the heather and brambles and things would scratch up my best ones," she added, confidentially. "I am going up on the moor to tea—we are all going. All except Joan." Has Audrey told you?

"I am glad of that, only I'd like Joan to go too. But you can't walk comfortably without any buttons on your shoes. If you could find me two, and a needle and cotton, and a thimble, I would sew them on for you. Oh, here is a work-basket. I will take what I want from here. Shall I?"

"Oh, oh!" gasped Debby, "that is Audrey's. I don't think we had better touch that—she is dreadfully particular. She gen'rally keeps it up in her room; but she brought her best things down here to-day, 'cause you were coming."

"How kind of her," said Irene. She felt somewhat embarrassed by these confidences. "And I am sure then she would not mind my using her work-basket. I won't hurt it the least little bit in the world."

She looked round for Audrey, to ask her permission, but she could not see her, and helped herself to a thimble, and needle and cotton. It never entered her head that there could be any reason why she should not do so. Mr. Carlyle had gone off to collect the baskets, Audrey had run upstairs to see if her mother was ready and able to see the guests for a little while before the start. Faith was showing Joan to Daphne. The two boys, very anxious in their first shyness to have something to do, had followed Mr. Carlyle.

When Audrey came down, Irene was putting the finishing stitches to the second shoe. Audrey looked shocked and displeased. "Oh, Debby, how dare you!" she cried, scarcely knowing, in her indignation, what she was saying.

"You should say 'how dare you' to me," laughed Irene, as she returned the thimble and needle to their places. "I asked if I might sew on Debby's buttons, and I used your basket. I hope you don't mind. I haven't done any harm, I think."

Audrey did mind, but she could hardly say so. "I never did know such children," she cried, trying to conceal her vexation. Debby's shoes were decidedly shabby, yet she could not have displayed them more thoroughly. It almost seemed as though she took a pride in their shabbiness. "They never seem able to keep a button on for two days together. I really think they pull them off on purpose."

"Oh, Audrey! I don't, you know I don't. I told you days ago that one was off, and the other one was loose—and then the loose one came off too."

Irene strolled over and looked out of the window. "What a jolly garden," she said, anxious to put an end to the discussion. "I wish we had a large plain piece of grass like that. At grandfather's the turf is all cut up with flower-beds, and one can hardly step for ornamental flower pots—and things. We three never seem able to do anything without damaging something."

Audrey's face cleared a little. "Well, we haven't too many flower beds," she laughed. "In fact, one can hardly call ours a garden. The children play there, and, of course, that spoils it. But, of course, they must have somewhere to play." She had put on her best company manner and grandmotherly speech. "Will you come up now to see mother? Then I think we ought to start. No, Debby, you must stay down, we don't want you." Debby's face fell, but Irene looked back with a smile, which made up for the hurt.

It was a great satisfaction to Audrey that her mother, and her mother's room, were both so dainty and pretty, as she ushered Irene and Daphne in. It was the first satisfaction she had felt that day, so far.

"I have been longing to see you," said Mrs. Carlyle, warmly, kissing them both, "ever since I heard you were so near. I used to know your father when he was a boy, and I am so glad that his children and mine should have met. I hope you will become real friends, dear."

"I hope so," said Irene, her face alight with pleasure. "Did you really know father? I am so glad. Abbot's Field seems so like home, for he told us so much about it, and he loved it so."

"Mrs. Carlyle," broke in Daphne, "did you guess who we were when Audrey told you who she had travelled home with? We told her where we lived; but we didn't know then who she was."

Audrey blushed painfully, and waited in dread of her mother's reply.

"I—no, dear, not then. I was rather ill when Audrey came home. I did not realise."

"I—I think we had better start now." Audrey got up from her chair, and went to the door hurriedly. She was so nervous she felt she could not bear any more. "The nicest part of the afternoon will be gone if we don't go."

Daphne sprang to her feet, but Irene rose more reluctantly. "Will you be alone while we are away?" she asked, lingering by Mrs. Carlyle's sofa. "It seems so selfish to go away and leave you. I wish I could be with you—or you with us."

Mrs. Carlyle looked up at her with shining eyes. "I would love a picnic on the moor above all things," she said. "Another summer, perhaps, if you are here, we will all go. I shall look forward to that, Irene, as eagerly as if I were a child. Perhaps Joan will be able to go too—the big baby and the little one!"

"Oh, I hope so," said Irene, her beautiful eyes glowing, "and I hope we shall be here. We want mother to take a house somewhere near, we love this part better than any—Coming, Audrey, coming!" She stooped and kissed the invalid affectionately. "Is there anything I can do for you before I go? Is the window as you like it? Do you want a book or anything handed to you?" While she spoke she was spreading the rug smooth over the invalid's feet.

"Yes, dear, please if you will pass me that book and lower the blind a little, I shall be able to read myself to sleep."

"Irene! Irene! are you coming?" a voice called up the stairs again.

"Run, dear, I must not keep you any longer. I am so comfortable now, with everything put right."

"Good-bye then for the time," said Irene, smiling back brightly as she stood at the door.

"Good-bye, little nurse. Try to enjoy yourself, dear; and thank you for all you have done for me."

But, though she was so comfortable and 'had everything she wanted,' Mrs. Carlyle did not fall asleep for a long while after the girls had left her, but lay gazing thoughtfully before her, and more than once tears shone in her eyes and fell on to her pillow.

"They are such darlings, too," she murmured at last, rousing herself with a little shake, as though trying to shake off her thoughts. "They are such dear children, it is wicked to wish them other than they are, yet sympathy is very sweet; and—and understanding makes life very, very pleasant."