CHAPTER X.

A few days later Mr. Carlyle was upon the moor again, but this time everything was very different. There was no happy party, no picnic, no sunshine nor soft breeze.

Instead, there lay about him one unbroken stretch of desolation, above him a sky almost frightening in its aspect, with its banked-up masses of black and copper clouds, over which the lightning ran like streams of liquid fire.

He had been to visit a parishioner in a cottage at the farthest corner of his parish, and while there the storm, which had been threatening all day, had broken with a violence such as he had never known before. For nearly two hours he had remained a prisoner in the little lonely house, which had seemed merely a fragile toy, to be their only shelter from the floods of rain, the deafening thunder, the flaming, darting lightning. Again and again it had seemed as though the roof and walls must crack and fall about them, or the rain come through and wash them from their shelter.

But those who had built the sturdy little house had built well, if roughly, and the stone walls stood as though they were one solid block of stone, the rain beat on the roof, but streamed off it, not a drop came through. The little deep-set windows stared at the flashing lightning as though with a patient unconcern, until at last the storm seemed to grow tired of its sport, and swept away to find other victims.

In spite of the fact that the ground was like a sponge, that the little cart-track, which was the only approach to the house, was filled up with water, and that rain still fell, Mr. Carlyle made his way to the highest point of the moor to look about him. It was not often he could see so fine a sight, such a storm-swept sky, such curious lights and shadows.

Before the gusty wind the black clouds were rolling heavily away to the west, where Abbot's Field lay. Mr. Carlyle's face grew anxious as he looked at the dense mass of fiery blackness, and the heavy mist, which seemed to envelop the place as with something evil. Every now and again the black clouds appeared to open and show something of the glory and radiance behind them, a radiance which human eye would not look upon. Then close on the flashes came the crackling and booming thunder again, only more distant now.

"I hope the Vivians are not nervous," he murmured. "I am afraid King's Abbot is having it even more severely than Moor End."

Moor End stood at the edge of the extreme end of King's Moor. Abbot's Field, the larger village, lay two or three miles further along the edge, while behind both the great moor rolled away and away to the south, desolate, barren, until it reached the sea and the little villages scattered along the coast.

Mr. Carlyle turned and looked at the rolling stretches of grey-green land all round him. Besides himself, and that one tiny dwelling, there was not a sign of human life to be seen. Overhead the storm still threatened and grumbled; below, the man and the house stood powerless, but undaunted. Far away to the south the sun shone out brightly through a rift in the clouds. "Always God's promise somewhere. God's sign to us that He cares."

Suddenly, out of the inky murkiness to the west a horse came galloping swiftly. In such a scene of desolate solitude, the sight of any living creature came as a surprise, and held one's gaze. Mr. Carlyle watched the creature fascinatedly. "Frightened, I suppose, poor beast," he muttered sympathetically. "Whomever it belongs to should have taken it in; they must have seen the storm coming. Oh!" his words broke off suddenly, for, as the horse drew near, he could see that it had on a bridle and a saddle—a lady's saddle too!

"It must have thrown its rider," he cried anxiously, and pondered helplessly what he could do. How was he to catch the frightened creature without frightening it more, and where, in all that expanse, was he to begin to look for the fallen rider? Then suddenly it came to him that there was something familiar about the horse.

"Peter!" he called, "Peter! Peter! Peter!" He tried to imitate the note and voice Peter's master had used on the day of the picnic. "Peter, good boy, come here." The horse's ears twitched. He had heard him, and his pace slackened. He was really a friendly, tame creature, but a specially violent clap of thunder, followed by a flash of lightning which had shot across his eyes, had, for the moment, given him such a shock that he had lost his usually sober senses, and flown panic-stricken from the neighbourhood of such horrors. He was not accustomed either to a side-saddle, nor to so gentle a hand upon his mouth.

Already, though, his fears were vanishing, and he was longing for the sound of a human voice and the grip of a hand on his bridle.

"Peter! Peter!" Mr. Carlyle called again. Peter turned swiftly in answer to the call, caught his hoof in the dangling bridle, and fell heavily on the soft, wet turf.

This gave the Vicar his chance. Peter was soon on his feet again, but his bridle was gripped firmly enough now.

"Peter, you ought to be ashamed of yourself." Peter was. He stood beside his captor shamed, shaken, genuinely distressed. "I wish you could show me where you dropped your rider, Peter." Peter only flapped his ears, and threw up his head.

Mr. Carlyle got on his back, in order to get a wider view. "I suppose he has come from his home; perhaps I had better go in that direction."

Peter seemed to agree with this decision, and, with apparently recovered spirits, walked on willingly. The Vicar's spirits, though, did not recover so lightly. His eyes swept the moor anxiously, but in vain, and his fears increased, for a rider who had been not much hurt would surely appear soon, coming in search of her horse. If she did not appear it might forebode the very worst of disasters. For more than half an hour they searched, but vainly, then suddenly, far ahead of him, almost out of the ground it seemed, a small white fluttering something appeared, and he quickened Peter's pace to a gallop.

It was Irene who had been Peter's rider, Irene who, recovering from the shock and blow of the fall, had struggled up, and waved her handkerchief in the desperate hope of attracting someone.

She was scratched, bruised and bleeding, and wet to the skin; but her concern was all for Peter, and her one feeling was joy at seeing him alive and sound. "Oh, I am so glad!" she cried in a rapture of relief. "Oh, I am so glad—I could never have gone home and faced grandfather if anything had happened to Peter." Then suddenly she broke down and burst into tears. "Oh, I am so thankful," she sobbed. "I have been nearly crazy with fear!"

"But, my poor child, what about yourself? Peter is all right, but you are hurt—your face is bleeding, you—you——" He could not tell her what a pitiable little object she was. One of her eyes was swelled, and fast discolouring; on her forehead a great lump stood out, scratches decorated her cheek, from which the blood still oozed.

"I—fell on my face," she explained brokenly, "near a bramble bush. I think I have hurt my arm too." Against the increasing pallor the scratches stood out horribly. She was on the point of collapsing again, when Mr. Carlyle picked her up without a word, and seated her on Peter's back. "Try to keep up," he said encouragingly; "hold on to the pummels; I will manage Peter. And try not to think about the accident; give all your attention to holding on; we will go to that cottage over there, and get you some water. They have a pony-cart there, too, I will borrow it and drive you to the Vicarage as quickly as I can. You certainly can't walk, and you can't go all the way to Abbot's Field until you are better. But we will take care of you, Irene. Don't cry any more, my child. You will feel better soon, and you have very much to be thankful for."

"I know, I know!" gasped Irene. "I don't know how to be thankful enough; we might have been killed on the spot. Oh, that lightning! It was awful, perfectly awful. There seemed to be fire all round us, nothing but fire!" She buried her face in her hands, as though to shut out the sight. "It looked as though some awful fiery furnace had opened before us, it was like the place of torment——"

"But God's protecting love was about you. His arm was shielding you."

"I know," said Irene softly, "and that was my only hope. I remember saying, 'From lightning and tempest, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us,' and then I think I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I felt the rain on my face, and the thunder crashing overhead, and my first thought was——" she broke off in sudden shy confusion, and a faint flush rose to her cheeks.

"May not I know, Irene, what your first thought was, when you woke and found yourself still in this world? was it that God had spared you yet, that you might do more work for Him?"

"That was it!" she cried eagerly; "that was my thought—'God has not taken me—He must have something for me to do, and—and——'"

"You mean that, God helping you, you would do it?"

Irene looked away; again the colour rushed into her pallid cheeks.

"Yes," she whispered softly, but could say no more.

"By His help, and in His Name." Mr. Carlyle's hand shook a little as he clasped hers. "Thanks be to Him," he added, with deep feeling. "Irene, my child, never forget this afternoon, nor the vow you have taken."

"I will try never to," said Irene humbly, and then the cottage was reached, and the Vicar lifted her down, and led her into shelter.

After that, matters were soon arranged. One of the big boys at the cottage was to take Peter home, and deliver him over safely, and he was to take a note of explanation and reassurance, and a request for clothes for Irene, which he would bring by train, and then take home the pony and cart which the Vicar was borrowing to transport the poor little patient to the Vicarage.

Irene did not demur at anything. She could only smile the gratitude she felt; after her last outburst she had become exhausted. When lifted into the cart she half sat, half lay in the bottom of it, rolled in blankets, seemingly only half conscious of what was happening.

When the little cart at last drew up at the Vicarage, Audrey was standing at the door looking out. The rain had ceased by that time, and the air was laden with a sweet freshness which told that the storm had passed. When she saw the cart draw up, she thought only that her father had had a lift homewards—as they had hoped he would. Then she saw that he was holding the reins, and was apparently alone in the cart, and at the same moment he caught sight of her and beckoned to her vigorously.

"I have Irene Vivian here," he said. "She has met with an accident. Hold the pony's head, dear, while I lift her out, and carry her into the house. We must get a room ready, and get her to bed as soon as possible, with hot blankets and bottles. You will know what to do, Audrey."

Audrey did not. She did not know in the least what to do. She should have felt flattered by her father's confidence in her, but she only felt ashamed.

And the spare room, where Irene must go! It was she knew, in a state of neglect and confusion. In her anxiety to speak to Faith and Mary, Audrey almost let the pony go, and ran into the house.

Fortunately, though, when Irene was safely deposited on the ground, stiff and bruised though she was, she could, she declared, walk through the garden to the house. "I am not so faint now; I feel better already. Oh, Audrey, I am so sorry to come and give you so much trouble. I am sure I shall be able to get home when—when I have rested. I am nearly all right."

But when she, with the same, reeled and almost fell, Mr. Carlyle picked her up bodily, and carried her quickly into the house. "You are not to talk any more," he commanded peremptorily, "but you are to remember that you are no bother to us whatever, that we are only too pleased to have you, and the more you give us to do, the better we shall be pleased." Then, catching sight of her troubled face as he laid her on the sofa in the dining-room, "Some day we may want your help, and I should not hesitate to ask you for it, Irene, because I should know that it would be a joy to you to give it. Will you believe the same of us, my child?"

Irene looked up at him gratefully. "Oh, yes, yes," she cried, but her glance travelled swiftly from him to Audrey, wanting her assurance too.

"Of course we are very glad to have you," Audrey answered, meeting the eager eyes; but her voice lacked that ring of genuineness which means more than any other; the ring which sounded so clearly in her father's. She knew it, and was sorry; but she could not help it. There was that to be said for Audrey—she was honest. She could not feign a pleasure she did not feel; and she had yet to learn to feel the pleasure which comes with trying to make others happy.

"You couldn't help it," she added lamely; "don't worry about it, Irene," but that seemed only to make matters worse. Irene's face showed that, and her own heart told her so.

Oh, how she longed to be one of the happy-go-lucky, don't-care people, like Faith, who felt nothing but gladness at welcoming people, and were quite unconcerned as to what they were welcoming them to! It was really her care for her visitor's comfort which lay at the bottom of her seemingly cold welcome, her over-anxiety that everything should be as nice as she was accustomed to.

"No, I couldn't help it. But—I think I ought to go home presently. I can manage to, I can really, and mother would be so glad."

Tears came into her eyes. She was feeling so shaken and faint, and in such pain all over, she seemed to lose grip on herself. A sudden longing to be petted and made much of, swept over her. Fortunately at that moment Faith came rushing in.

"What has happened?" she cried anxiously. "I have only just heard that there has been an accident.—Oh, Irene! you poor darling, you do look bad. Here, lean back, and let me arrange the cushions more comfortably. Oh, your poor face, how it must hurt you. Wouldn't it be more comfortable if I bathed it with warm water?"

"We have got to get the spare room ready as quickly as possible," said Audrey, briskly, rousing herself to action. "She is wet through, she must go to bed as soon as she can."

"Here? Irene is going to stay here? Oh, how lovely! I am awfully sorry for you, Irene, but, oh, I am so glad." Faith's face was one beam of welcome. No thought of their unpreparedness troubled her.

"Well, Irene won't be glad, unless we hurry and get a room fit for her to go into," Audrey retorted sharply. "She must be cold and miserable."

"Oh, we will soon get the room straight; she can go into mine if she likes."

"She must have peace and quiet," said Audrey dryly, "and she ought to have a hot bath at once. Granny always made me have one if I got wet; it takes the pain and stiffness out of one's bones."

Faith lifted up one of the poor scratched hands, and looked at it. "We sometimes have mustard in our baths," she said mischievously, "when we have colds, but I don't think we will give Irene mustard in hers now!"

Irene chuckled faintly, though she could not help shuddering. Faith's welcome had raised her spirits considerably. "A hot bath without mustard would be lovely, if it isn't inconvenient. My clothes are soaked through, and I am growing so chilly——"

"Inconvenient!" cried Faith, scornfully, "as though it could be! You ought to be in it by this time, though. Come along at once, or a nice cold you will have, and while you are bathing we will get the bed made, and all the hot-water bottles and hot bricks and things we can find, to put in it!"

"Thank you, but don't cook me," groaned Irene. "When I have had my bath I shall be so hot, I shall be able to warm the bottles instead of the bottles warming me."

Audrey hurried away to begin the preparations, though she had very little idea of what to do. She wanted to be alone, and busy, to try and work off her vexation. Why could not she have welcomed poor bruised, hurt Irene, as Faith had done! She had followed her mood of the moment, thinking only of herself, and she had made an impression, left a feeling, that she would never now be able to wipe away. Oh, it was unendurable to feel so mean, so unlovable, when—when she really did not mean to be either, when she wanted to be so different! At the door of the spare bedroom she turned, and walked swiftly down the stairs again to the dining-room.

"Irene," she said, her voice trembling a little with shyness at her first effort, "I think my nightdresses would fit you best. Would you like a nun's veiling one, or a cotton? I will get one aired by the time you are ready for it."

Faith looked at her sister admiringly, almost enviously. She would have found it very difficult to have provided Irene with the necessary garment, for she had but three to her name, and all were more or less buttonless and torn. If the younger Carlyles had nightgowns enough to go round, they thought themselves fortunate; to have different ones for summer and winter was a luxury they never dreamed of. "Oh—and, Audrey," Faith cried eagerly, "do lend Irene your pretty dressing-gown too."

"I was going to," responded Audrey stiffly—Faith never gave one a chance to be gracious—"if you had given me——" She drew herself up sharply, with a genuine effort to master her vexation.

"I will run up and see about getting the bath ready," said Faith. "It won't take more than ten minutes. Irene, use my room if you will, until your own is ready. Audrey, you will help her to take off her wet boots and stockings, won't you? I'll call Mary to come and make the bed."

Within an hour Irene lay in the bed, rolled up in a blanket, with a hot-water bottle at her back, and a hot brick at her feet, for, after all, there was only one bottle in the house that did not leak, and that was Audrey's. She was very hot, but she felt revived and cheerful.

Faith came into the room with a cup of steaming tea, and some bread-and-butter on a tray. She had profited by Audrey's example sufficiently to remember to put a tray-cloth over it, and to try to make it look dainty. Irene turned a hot but grateful face towards her. "How good you all are to me!" she said.

Audrey was standing by the fire, looking from the creeping flames to the dust upon the mantelpiece. She wished Mary had dusted the room a little. It did not occur to her that Mary could not possibly have found the time; that she had been flying round ever since Irene's arrival making the bed, lighting the fire, pushing furniture into place, putting up curtains, and filling the hot-water bottle; that since then she had spread Irene's clothes to dry, and had made her tea.

"This room is dreadfully dusty," she said at last, feeling that she must apologise for it. "I am very, very sorry, Irene."

"Oh, don't worry about me," said Irene cheerfully. "You leave it until I get up again. I will dust all the house for you then, out of sheer gratitude."

Audrey did not reply, but with heightened colour she walked away, and returned a few minutes later with a duster in her hand. She had always thought she hated dusting, but after all there was, she decided, as she nearly completed her task, some pleasure in it. It was nice to see things grow clean and bright under her hand, and it was such a relief to have the work done, instead of waiting and waiting for someone else to do it, waiting vainly, too, as a rule! And when, a little later, Mrs. Vivian was shown into the room, Audrey felt an even greater pleasure in knowing that all was neat and spotless for her to see.

The relief and the satisfaction brought a glow to her face, and warmth to her manner, such as she seldom showed. For almost the first time in her life she escaped the irritation of seeing them left undone by others, and knew the pleasure of doing things for oneself. As she softly left the room she felt happier than she had all day. Irene, in her nest of blankets, looked up at her mother with eyes full of remorse, mingled with pleasure.

"Poor child! are you in great pain?" Mrs. Vivian leaned down over her daughter and kissed her. She was so agitated she could scarcely speak. Irene drew her left arm out from the blankets, and threw it round her mother's neck.

"Oh, mother, mother, I deserve it all! I deserve ever so much more. I—I ought to be whipped and kept on bread-and-water."

A ghost of a smile flickered over Mrs. Vivian's white face. "We will forgive you this time, but oh, Irene, when I saw Peter being led in riderless I—I——"

Irene drew her mother down to her again. "Mother darling, it shall be a lesson to me. I will never, never go against your wishes again. When I woke up—I think I must have fainted—and knew where I was, and all that had happened, and when I realised that God had spared my life instead of punishing me—oh, mother, I promised Him that I would dedicate the rest of it to Him, and to you."

With a low cry of deep joy Mrs. Vivian clasped her little daughter in her arms, her emotion too great for words. And so they remained, heart to heart, cheek to cheek, talking in soft, low tones, talk too sacred and precious for other ears to hear, until at last they were brought back to everyday things by a gentle knock at the door.

"May we come in?" asked Audrey, opening it a little way. "We have brought you some tea, Mrs. Vivian. We thought you might be tired."

"Oh, how kind!" Mrs. Vivian looked up at her gratefully. "I feel as though I should enjoy a cup of tea, as I never have in my life before." With her relief at finding Irene's injuries so comparatively slight and with her heart full of the deep, almost sacred joy their talk had brought to her, the paleness had vanished from her cheeks, and the happiness in her heart glowed in her pretty, kind eyes.

"Audrey dear, do you think it would be possible for your mother to see me for a little while? I want so much to thank her for all the kindness you are all showing to my bad girl. And as it seems that she will have to stay here for a day or so, I want to ask her to make an exchange, and spare me one of you in Irene's place."

"Oh!" Audrey's heart leaped with pleasure. A visit to 'The Orchard' would be lovely—to have servants, horses and carriages, gardens, and all the comforts and luxuries she loved so much; what joy! And she had nice clothes, too, and everything suitable for such a visit. But Mrs. Vivian, little dreaming of the thoughts rushing through Audrey's head, brought her castles tumbling to the ground.

"I know I must not ask for you, for you have not long been home, and you cannot be spared, but I thought, perhaps, Faith would come, or the little ones—it might be a change for them, and would make a little less work for you here."

She looked at Audrey inquiringly. For a second there was silence, then "I am afraid Faith could not be spared—either," Audrey answered in a tone Mrs. Vivian could not understand, it seemed to hold both shame and triumph. "She—she is really more useful than I am—much more," she added emphatically, as though to press home the stab she was dealing herself.

A wave of hot colour poured into her cheeks, then ebbed away, but the glow in her heart remained, for she had once more conquered herself.