Anxious Audrey

  CHAPTER XIII.

  The last day for sending in the 'Plays' was July 31st. That was now but afortnight off, and Audrey, in a state of feverish nervousness, hadcompleted her last clean copy. She had worked hard each afternoon, andconscientiously, only to be filled at the last with despair anddespondence. She had read, re-read, written and re-written it, until sheknew every word by heart, and all seemed stale, dull, and trivial.

  Irene, coming up to her room one afternoon, had found her with flushedcheeks and swelled eyelids, and despair plainly visible in every line ofher face and form.

  "It is no good," she groaned. "I shall not send it. I couldn't sendanything so dull and foolish. They will only laugh."

  "That is what you want them to do, isn't it?" asked Irene, cheerfully.

  "Not the kind of laughter I mean. Oh, Irene, it is miserably bad."

  Irene shook her head. "I simply don't believe it. You have been throughit so often, you can't judge. Will you let me read it? I will tell youquite honestly how it strikes me."

  Audrey coloured, but she looked grateful. "If you would care to, but I amashamed for anyone to see it. And, oh, I _am_ so disappointed, and, oh,"throwing herself wearily on her bed, "oh, so tired of it. The mere sightof it almost makes me ill."

  "Poor old girl, you are tired and over-anxious. Is this it?" pointing toa little heap of MS. on Audrey's writing-table in the window.

  "Yes."

  "May I read the old one, too? The first copy you finished, I mean, beforeyou began to alter it."

  Audrey opened her desk and took out another heap of paper, tumbled,scribbled over, and evidently much used.

  "Now I am going to shut myself up in my room, and," with a laugh and a nodat the despairing author, "I want no-one to come near me until I showmyself again."

  "Very well," said Audrey, "but I shall not come near you then. I shall bemuch too nervous."

  "Then I will come to you and stalk you down. Look here, Audrey, don'tshut yourself up here all the afternoon. You have no writing to do now.Take my advice, and go for a good long walk, and try not to think aboutthe play, or--or anything connected with it. Keep your heart up, oldgirl. I am sure it is good, even if it won't be the best."

  Audrey sighed heavily. She had long since given up hoping that it mightbe the best, or even second best, or third. To be 'Commended' was anhonour she had ceased to hope for. She had written and re-written, andaltered and corrected, until all the freshness and originality were gone,and the whole was becoming stiff and stilted, and she was incapable ofseeing whether she was improving or spoiling it.

  It was with a distinct sense of relief that she gave in to Irene'ssuggestion, and handed it over to her for her opinion.

  And, as soon as Irene was gone, she took her second piece of advice andwent out for a walk. By going quietly down the back-stairs to theback-door she escaped from the house unnoticed; then by going through thevegetable garden she got into a little lane which skirted the village,one end of it leading to the moor, the other to the high road toAbbot's Field. Her one idea was to escape meeting anyone. She felt in nomood for talk. She could not force herself to play with the children, orto chatter to the old village people, who would all be at their doors justnow, anxious to see someone with whom to gossip. She meant to go up tothe moor, where she could be sure of solitude. The air and the peace upthere always did her good. The sight of a figure coming towards her madeher turn the other way, though. She felt she could not meet anyone, andbe pleasant and sociable. She was sorry, for she loved the moor betterthan any place. However, this other way there was the shade of the treesand the hedges, she consoled herself. And she walked on, well contentthrough the silence and solitude of the hot summer afternoon.

  Well content, at last, until suddenly she saw a well-remembered horse andrider coming along the road towards her.

  Audrey was vexed. She wanted only to walk and think, and walk and think.But, though she would have found it difficult to realise, it was best forher that the break should come. She had already walked two miles, and,oblivious of everything but her thoughts, and of every thought but one--her play--was as full of nerves, and hopes and fears, as though she hadstayed at home.

  Mr. Vivian's sturdy common-sense was as good for her as a tonic.At sight of her he reined up Peter and dismounted. "Miss Audrey," hecried, "it is the greatest treat in the world to see you. I have scarcelyseen a friend to speak to for weeks. And I was tired to death of my owncompany. No, I will not shake hands, and we will keep the width of Peterbetween us, though I am really safer than nine persons out of ten,for I have lived in such an atmosphere of disinfectants I must besaturated through and through. I honestly believe I could not catch ameasle, or any other disease, if I wanted to."

  "I am not afraid," said Audrey, stroking Peter's soft nose. "How are youall? Are you all out of quarantine?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh!" Audrey's face fell, and her tone was not one of congratulation.

  "You don't seem quite as pleased as we are, Miss Audrey."

  Audrey laughed and blushed. "I am--I am, really," she said, looking up athim with an apologetic smile. "But I am afraid I was selfish. I wasthinking of Irene. You will want her home now, of course, and--well, I donot like to think of her going. I--we shall miss her horribly."

  Mr. Vivian had slipped the reins over his shoulder, and was searching hispockets. "I have a letter here for your mother and father. I was on myway to deliver it. We don't want to part you, but of course we wantIrene. We have missed her sadly."

  "It has been lovely having her," said Audrey softly. In her overwroughtstate, she felt inclined to cry at the mere thought of losing her.Indeed, she felt so stupid, so miserable, so tongue-tied, she could notstand there any longer lest the sharp-eyed old gentleman should see thetears in her eyes. What a weak, silly baby she was!

  She turned away abruptly as though to resume her walk. "Oh, you are notgoing yet.--I forgot, of course you were walking away from home.I just wondered----"

  She had intended to, for she was tired, and it would be tea-time beforeshe got home, if she did not hurry. But her longing was to go in anydirection but his.

  "I--I am soon," she said lamely, forcing down her feelings and her tears."Did you want me to do anything?"

  "I just wondered if you would take this note to your parents for me.I have to go to the mill first, and be at the station by five o'clock, andI am afraid I shall hardly do it."

  "Of course I will. I beg your pardon. I did not understand."

  The old gentleman's kind eyes looked at her very keenly as he handed herthe letter. "You don't look very well, Miss Audrey; I hope you aren'tgoing in for measles too! Or have you been working too hard, taking careof Irene? You look tired."

  Audrey smiled back at the face so full of sympathy and kindly concern."I don't think I am really tired," she said, speaking as brightly as shecould, "and I am quite sure I am not going in for measles, and I certainlyhaven't been doing too much for Irene. I have walked rather far, that isall, and it is dreadfully hot, isn't it? I think I will go home now,after all. It must be nearly tea-time."

  Tea was laid and waiting for her by the time she reached home. But beforeshe noticed that, her eyes had sought Irene's face, as though she expectedto read her verdict there.

  Irene's face was beaming. "Splendid," she whispered, reassuringly.Audrey felt as though a great load had been lifted off her heart."I will just run up and take off my hat and shoes," she said, more gailythan she had spoken for a long time. Irene followed her to her room."I couldn't wait," she panted, as she reached the top stair. "Oh, Audrey,I do like it; it is lovely. I am sure it--will be one of the best."She wound up with sudden caution, remembering that it would be cruel toraise her hopes too high. "But do send the first one--the untidy one.Copy that one out just as it is; it is ever so much the better of the two.You have tried to improve and improve it until you have improved most ofthe fun out of it. Now I must fly down t
o tea. I am so excited, I hardlyknow what I am doing."

  But her excitement was nothing compared with Audrey's. She, in her joy,forgot everything--Mr. Vivian, the letter, the news he had brought, andnever remembered either again until some time later, when Mr. Carlyle camein.

  "I met your grandfather at the station, Irene," he said at once."He told me----"

  Audrey leaped out of her chair. "Oh, I had _quite_ forgotten," she criedremorsefully. "I am so sorry. I had a letter----" and she darted away andup the stairs, leaving them all startled and wondering. "I don't seemable to think of anybody or anything but that play," she thought."I shall be glad when I have seen the last of it."

  When she went down again she fancied Irene looked at her reproachfully."How was grandfather looking?" she was asking Mr. Carlyle, "and theothers--did he say how they were?"

  Audrey felt more and more ashamed. Irene had been so good to her, andthis was her return.

  "Yes, he said they were all perfectly well now, and they are all going toIlfracombe for a long change, as soon as they can arrange matters."

  Irene clapped her hands ecstatically. "Keith and Daphne will love that,and mother too. Ilfracombe suits her so well. Will they want me to gowith them?"

  Mr. Carlyle smiled ruefully. "I am afraid so. Where is the letter,Audrey. Have you taken it to your mother?"

  "Yes, father, and she wants you."

  Mr. Carlyle rose, picked up Baby Joan, and went upstairs with her in hisarms, leaving Audrey to tell her tale, and make her apologies to Irene.

  Faith came in presently from the garden, where, rather late in the day,she had been tying up the sweet peas and sunflowers Debby and Tom hadplanted. "Oh, dear, I don't like weather quite as hot as this; it makesone so dreadfully tired," she sighed wearily, as she stretched herselffull-length upon the shabby sofa. "Has anyone seen Joan? I ought to begiving her her supper."

  Irene looked at her attentively. "Let me give her her supper, and put herto bed to-night, Fay. I would love to. Do let me. She will be quitegood with me now."

  Faith stirred lazily and half rose. "Oh no--we shall leave everything toyou soon, Irene. I can do it quite well. I am not so very tired, really;only hot and limp."

  She was very pale, though, and Irene noticed for the first time how whiteher lips were, and how dark the marks under her eyes. She got up, and,going over to the sofa, pressed Faith back on to the cushions again."Do let me, Faith," she pleaded, "please. You see, I shall not be ableto many times more." And Faith, anxious to give what pleasure she could,let her have her way.

  Irene, satisfied, folded her work, and departed. Faith sank downcontentedly, and fell into a doze. Audrey sat for a while, wondering whatshe should do next. "I think I will go up and work at that manuscript,as long as the daylight lasts," she decided; "the sooner it is done thebetter," and crept softly out of the room, so as not to disturb Faith.But halfway up the stairs she met Irene dashing down like a wild thing.

  "Oh, Audrey," she cried, "come quickly! Where is Faith? and, oh, I wantDebby and Tom too. Such news! Oh, do call them. Mr. Carlyle wants youall." But the end of her sentence came in broken gasps as she trippedover the mat and disappeared into the dining-room.

  A moment later three flying figures dashed up breathlessly, with Faithpanting on more slowly in the rear. "What has happened?" she gasped."What is it all about?"

  "I don't know," cried Audrey, "but it can't be anything bad." And theyhurried after the others into their mother's room.

  Mrs. Carlyle was sitting up on her couch looking happy and excited.Mr. Carlyle looked pleased too, but a little grave.

  "Irene, dear, you tell them, will you?" said Mrs. Carlyle, eagerly.And Irene told, and what she told seemed to them all too wonderful to betrue. Mrs. Vivian had taken a furnished house at Ilfracombe for twomonths, a house much larger than she needed for her own brood, and shebegged Mrs. Carlyle to let her have her brood too for three or four weeks,"to fill the house up comfortably."

  It was so wonderful, so unlooked-for, such an undreamed-of event in theirlives, that for a second an awed silence filled the room. Then came along-drawn "O-o-oh-h-h!" of sheer amaze and delight; and the spell wasbroken.

  "Is it really, truly true!" gasped Debby, "or is it only a 'let'spretend'?"

  "It is a really--truly true, Debby darling," cried Irene, seizing her inher arms and lifting her high enough to kiss her.

  "Wants _all_ of us?" gasped Audrey, incredulously. "What,_ all five_!"

  "' All--if you can spare them,'" read Mr. Carlyle, turning to the preciousletter once more.

  "But you can't spare them," said Faith, suddenly sitting down on a chairat her mother's side. Then, with a little gulp, and a little laugh,"You can't spare me, mummy, you know you can't. We will send off Audreyto be nursemaid to the babies, and--and you and I will have a nice quiettime at home alone!" Her lip quivered just for a moment, but her bigbrown eyes, full of a strained look of excitement, glanced from one to theother with half-laughing defiance, as though daring them to say her nay.

  Audrey's spirits dropped from fever-heat to several degrees below zero.For one moment the prospect had been so beautiful, so ideal. A change, aholiday, a journey, the sea, servants, comforts--no more dishwashing orcooking. Oh, it was unbearably enticing. But almost with the same sherealised that none of these were for her. Faith was to go, if no one elsewent. A glance at Faith's face made that quite plain. Yes, Faith mustgo; and she, Audrey, must stay at home. And so she told her when, afterall the rest of the household was asleep, she crept down in herdressing-gown to Faith's room. Fearing to knock, she had entered the roomwith no more warning than a gentle rattle of the handle. But her warningwas lost on Faith who, hot night though it was, was lying with her headburied under the bed-clothes, to deaden the sound of her sobs.

  "Faith! What is the matter? tell me. Oh, what is it? do tell me!"

  At the touch of Audrey's hand, Faith had thrust her head up suddenly.

  "Oh, I was afraid it was father! I mean, I was afraid he had heard me."

  "What is the matter?" asked Audrey, her voice full of anxiety."Oh, Faith, do tell me. Perhaps I can help."

  "It--it isn't about not going to Ilfracombe," declared Faith stoutly."Audrey, I don't want to go, I would rather not. You must go. I reallywant to stay at home."

  "Why?"

  "Because I do."

  "That is no reason. You need a change and a holiday more than any of us,and you know you would love it. You must go."

  "I can't."

  "But why?"

  "I am too tired. I don't want the fag of it all."

  "But you will be less tired if you do go. The change will do you heaps ofgood, and it will not be a fag. I will pack for you."

  Finding herself thus cornered, Faith's usually sweet temper gave way."I haven't anything to pack," she snapped impatiently, "nor anything topack in. I can't go. I can't possibly go. I haven't any clothes.Don't worry me so, Audrey."

  Audrey showed no resentment. "Oh," she said, thoughtfully. "Oh, I see.Well, we won't bother about that now. But, Faith, I do want you to go.I came down on purpose to ask you to. I want you to go as--as a favour tome. I will tell you why. I want to stay at home, I--I mean I can't goaway just now, for I want to finish some writing very, very particularly,"and she breathed in Faith's ear the precious secret about her 'play.'

  Her ruse answered perfectly.

  "_You_ have _written_ a play!" Faith sat erect in her bed, all hertiredness, all her depression gone. "A real play! Oh, Audrey, do youmean it? How clever you are! Of course I'll go and take the children, toleave you here in peace to finish it. I don't care how shabby my clothesare!"

  Audrey winced. She would have liked--or, rather, it would have beenpleasant--if Faith--and all--could just have realised her self-sacrifice--how much it cost her to stand aside, and give up so great a pleasure.

  "Oh, I could----" she began, but, to her lasting joy, recovered herself ina moment,
and never finished her sentence.

  "Audrey, will you let me read it, some day?" Faith's eyes were full ofappeal.

  Audrey coloured. "Some day, perhaps," she said shyly. "Now I must go tobed."

  "Thank you," said Faith simply. "Oh, Audrey, I _am_ so happy!"She turned her pale face to the window, her eyes to the stars in theblue-black sky. "I am so happy that I feel I must get out and say myprayers again. A few minutes ago everything seemed black and dreary, butnow----"

  "I will say mine too," said Audrey gently, "before I go." And the twosisters knelt down side by side in the darkness, and said their prayersagain together, 'because they were so happy,' with the happiness whichcomes of giving up something for one another.

  The next morning Audrey got up early, and, going to the box-room, draggedout from their coverings her pretty green box and portmanteau. Then shewent back to her room, and from her cupboards and drawers she collected apair of house-shoes and a pair of boots, gloves, stockings, a soft greycashmere dress that she had a little grown out of, and a Leghorn hat,which, she knew, had long filled Faith's heart with envy. All these shepopped into the trunk.

  "There is something towards going away," she said, as she dragged theboxes into Faith's bedroom; "the dress is as good as new, but I have grownso, and--and I will lend you my writing-case, and a nice hairbrush."And before Faith had recovered herself sufficiently to speak, Audrey haddarted away again and locked herself in her own room.

  The sacrifice had cost her more than anyone would ever know. The thoughtof the lost holiday, and such a holiday, was hard to bear, and a greatlonging for the sea was tugging at her heart-strings until the pain of itwas almost unendurable.