CHAPTER II.
Old Mrs. Carlyle, or 'Granny Carlyle' it would be politer, perhaps, tocall her, lived at Farbridge, which was a whole sixty miles from thelittle village where her only son was vicar.
Granny Carlyle had been born in Farbridge, married, and spent all her lifethere, and hoped, so she often declared, to remain there to the end of herdays. And there seemed no reason why she should not attain her wish.
Farbridge was a large country-town, with wide streets, good shops, and apark. To Audrey Carlyle, when first she went there, it appeared asplendid place; she felt sure none of the big cities of the world couldoutdo it, even if they equalled it. The park, with its close-cut grass,its trees and flower-beds, asphalt paths, and green-painted seats, was toher one of the beauty spots of England.
"Oh, it does look lovely," she sighed happily, as she gazed at it."After the untidy old moor at home, it looks beautiful, granny."
"It is certainly different," agreed granny, with a twinkle in her eyes.Nevertheless she was well pleased. "I am bound to say I am no lover ofthe depths of the country. When I walk I like to walk in comfort, and tofeel that there is no risk of my twisting my ankle in a rabbit-hole, or bytumbling over a tussock." She was glad that Audrey shared her taste,but she was not quite sure that the taste was a good one.
Granny Carlyle's house, 'Parkview,' solid, double-fronted, handsome, stoodon the opposite side of the roadway, facing the park. As Audrey sat atmeals in the dining-room, she looked across at the prim patches of greengrass, intersected by black paths, the whole outlined by gay, trimflower-beds. Two of the patches of green had large trees in the middle,with wooden seats encircling their trunks; on several of the other patcheswere green seats with backs to them; the backs were all towards'Parkview,' so that those who rested on them might be able to enjoy theview, for, though the railway-station stood on the opposite side of theroad which ran along the lower side of the park, the tree-clad hills rosehigh beyond that again, and showed over the low roof of the littlestation, and if the hills happened to be covered with mist, why, there wasthe park itself to look at.
On that March morning when, just as Audrey and her granny sat down tobreakfast, Mr. Carlyle's letter came, the park was quite gay with people,even though it was early, for, after a long spell of wet weather, the sunwas shining quite warmly, and everyone was glad to be out of doors again.
Audrey thought it all looked more beautiful than ever that morning.If she could have done just as she liked, she would have gone out thereherself, taking a book with her to read. But she knew that hergrandmother would not allow that, so she did not let herself dwell on it.
"Isn't it lovely!" she remarked again enthusiastically. She had saidexactly the same thing three times already without receiving any reply,but this time she noticed it, and, withdrawing her eyes from thefascinating scene without, looked instead at her granny for anexplanation. Apparently there was no reason why Mrs. Carlyle should nothave answered. She was only turning over the lumps of sugar in thesugar-basin, trying to find a small one, yet Audrey felt certain thatthere was something unusual in the air, that something out of the commonhad happened, and something not very pleasant either. Granny looked graveand troubled, and at the same time annoyed. However, there was nothingfor Audrey to do but to go on with her breakfast, for she knew that hergrandmother did not like to be questioned, and, after all, it might onlybe that the laundress had torn a sheet, or that the boot-boy had been rudeto the cook. Granny was always greatly upset if people did not do theirduty.
It was not until they had nearly finished breakfast that Audrey knew whatwas really the matter.
"I have had a letter this morning from your father, Audrey."
"Oh," said Audrey, absently, "have you, granny?" She was not deeplyinterested, and at that moment one of her schoolfellows went by with a newhat on, a light blue one, with a white 'bottle-brush' bobbing about on it,and she found that much more absorbing. "How is mother?" she asked, whenthe 'bottle-brush' had bobbed out of sight.
"Don't be staring out of window, child, while I am talking to you.I want your undivided attention."
Audrey coloured, and looked not too well pleased, but she only said,"I did not know you wanted me."
"Well, I do. I have some important news for you."
"Yes, granny," with increased interest, for this sounded very thrilling.
"Your father wants you at home."
Mrs. Carlyle, having brooded over the news for more than an hour, did notrealise how startling it might be to her grand-daughter to have it blurtedout in this abrupt fashion. Audrey's colour faded, leaving her quitewhite. "Is mother worse?" she gasped. "Granny, please tell me quickly."
Mrs. Carlyle realised the mistake she had made, and roused herself."Oh, no, dear. Your mother is better--a little, I mean, and she isstronger, but her doctor says she must lead an invalid's life, lie down,and not walk about, or exert herself, for a whole year, and your fathersays they need you at home. They need your help, and your mother will beglad of your companionship."
The relief from her first dreadful fear was so great that Audrey's spiritsrose high. Change is always exciting too, and to feel that one is neededis very pleasant; it makes one feel grown-up and important.
"When am I to go, granny? Soon, I suppose? Am I to keep house?"Audrey's face was very bright as she turned it to her grandmother."Oh! but I shall have to leave school, shan't I, granny?" Her face fellat that thought, and her granny said to herself, with a little pang ofpain, "She is more sorry to leave school than she is to leave me."
"Of course you will have to leave your school," she said tartly."You could hardly come sixty miles in the morning, and home again atnight. You might as well live here for all the company you would be toyour mother. Think before you speak, Audrey; it would save you fromsaying many foolish things."
"Then shan't I go to school?"
"I don't know what arrangements your father will make; he doesn't go intoevery detail in this letter. Perhaps he will get a governess for you all;perhaps you will have to teach the younger ones."
"Oh!" Audrey did not care for that prospect. She was not fond ofchildren, they made a house untidy and noisy, and required so muchattention. All the same, though, it was very nice to be going home asmistress of the house, and companion to her mother. Perhaps her motherwould help her with her story-writing. It would be grand if she couldwrite stories and sell them, and earn enough money to buy her own clothes.Granny Carlyle did not approve of her writing, or reading either.Indeed, there was scarcely a book in the house.
Audrey recovered her spirits as she remembered the books and papers athome; they seemed to overflow and spread all over the house.
"I shall have my own bookcase, and keep my own books in it, away from thechildren," she thought to herself. "I hope I have a bedroom to myself.Oh, I must!" But the little doubt she could not get rid of sobered heragain. She thought of her pretty bedroom upstairs, how lovely the comfortand peace of it had seemed to her after the bare ugly room at home, whichshe had shared with Faith.
"Granny, do you think I shall have a room to myself at home?" she askedanxiously. "I shall hate sharing one with Faith!"
"I daresay Faith will not relish sharing one with you," remarked granny,severely, "if she has to."
"But she is so untidy, and after having had such a nice one all to myself,I shall miss it dreadfully."
"I wonder if you will miss me," exclaimed Granny sharply, and for thefirst time Audrey thought of her grandmother, and her feelings.
"Why, of course I shall, granny, and everything here. I expect I shalloften wish I was back again." But it was not until the last day came, andshe sat at breakfast for the last time in the handsome, comfortabledining-room, that she fully realised the pain of parting.
She was looking across to the sun-bathed park, at the children already atplay there, and the 'grownups' sitting on the seats gazing at the view, orreading their papers, when the thought came to her that to-m
orrow, and thenext day, and all the days that followed, they would be there, but shewould not see them. She would be miles away from that dear peaceful spot,with only a rough country road to look out on, and the desolate-lookingmoor in the distance. And with the same the shrill whistle of a departingtrain cut the air, and the melancholy of it, and of the day, and of allthat was to happen, poured over Audrey, until the pain seemed almost morethan she could bear.
"Oh, granny, I don't want to go away," she cried. "I don't want to go.I can't bear leaving you, and--and everything. I want to stay with youalways."
Oddly enough, at the sight of Audrey's sorrow, some of the sadness whichhad weighed on her granny's heart for days was lifted from it, and, thoughit was their last day, she felt happier. "Then the child does care,she does feel leaving me, she has some deep affections! I knew she had,"thought the lonely old grandmother with a sense of triumph over the doubtswhich had troubled her. She put out her hand and patted Audrey's."I am so--" she almost, in her relief, said "I am so glad!""I would like you to stay, dear, but I feel it is your duty to go, andmine to spare you."
"May I come back, granny, when the year is up?" pleaded Audrey, keepingback her tears by remembering that her eyes would be red for her journey."It would be lovely to think that this day twelve-months I shall be seeingit all again."
"If your father and mother can spare you, and you still wish to come,I shall be very glad to have you, and your room will be waiting for you."
That was comforting, but the thought of leaving that pretty, beloved roomfor a whole year set the tears flowing again. "Oh, I mustn't cry,I mustn't," she said to herself fiercely. "Everybody at the station willsee, and everyone in the train, too." But, as her eyes wandered from oneto another of the familiar things, the pretty cups and saucers, the silvercoffeepot, the funny old tall cosy that granny used, and all the rest ofthem, the sense of loss and parting again became too much for her,and this time the tears flowed without thought of appearances.
"I think I love things more than people," she said to herself, as shestood in her bedroom putting on her hat and coat; and she stooped andkissed the two old foreign shells on the mantelpiece with a sudden feelingof sympathy. They must have travelled so far from their home, and wouldnever, never go back. She leaned out of the window for the last time, andtook a long look at the well-filled garden, and at the flat countrybeyond, and the river shining in the sunlight.
The sight of the river and the hills brought her some comfort. They hadbeen there so long, and would be there unchanged whenever she came back."And I am coming! I am coming! I _will_ come!" she cried passionately.
A knock sounded at her door. "Mistress wants to know if you are ready,miss," said Phipps, granny's maid, who had been with her forfive-and-twenty years. "The sandwiches and milk are ready for you in thedining-room, Miss Audrey. The train leaves in half an hour."
"I will be down in a minute," said Audrey, in a choked voice. She hopeddesperately that Phipps would go away and leave her alone to say her lastgood-bye to her room. But Phipps showed no such intention.
"I'll fasten up the bag, and bring it down, miss," and she laid hands onthe straps and began to secure them in a manner which gave Audrey no hope."I'm sorry to be doing up luggage for you to go away altogether,Miss Audrey. We shall all miss you," she said kindly. "The house willseem dreadfully dull and empty. I think you had better come down and havesomething to eat, or the mistress will be worrying. She likes to be atthe station in good time."
Audrey hurried out of her room for the last time, without a backwardglance, for her heart was too full to talk.
Once out in the sunshine, though, and walking across the park with hergrandmother, some of her unhappiness lightened. It was all so familiar,so exactly as it always was, so calm and unchanged, it seemed impossiblethat she could be going away from it all for more than a very littlewhile. There were several things, too, that could not fail to cheer her.In her rug-strap were two new umbrellas, one for herself and one forFaith. Her own had a white handle, and Faith's a green one. In her trunkwas a new coat for Faith, and a present for each and all from granny,while in the new dark-blue hand-bag that she carried was a dark-bluepurse, and in the purse were a half-crown for Faith, and a new shillingeach for Debby and Tom.
"To do what they like with," said granny, as she popped in the coins,"but granny hopes that they will like to put them in their money-boxes."
On the platform, when they got there, they found Audrey's neat green trunkand portmanteau, with the rug-strap lying on top, and a porter mountingguard over them. Audrey was very proud of her luggage when she travelled,it looked so neat and nice, all green alike, and all with her initials,'A. M. C.', in white. Granny had bought it all for her when they went fortheir first annual visit to Torquay. Her old boxes, which she had takenwith her from home, had been sent to a Jumble Sale.
They were, after all, so early for the train that the last few momentswere rather painfully long and trying for them both. Granny bespoke acorner seat, and ordered a foot-Warmer, and they had walked the wholelength of the platform until granny, at last, was weary, and still thetrain had not come. At last Mrs. Carlyle, in her anxiety to fill up thetime, even went to the bookstall and bought some magazines for Audrey totake with her. She did not approve of magazines as a rule. Audrey did,though, and was overjoyed at having them; but while she was trying to geta peep at the contents there came the sound of a shrill whistle, then arattle and a roar, and the train thundered down on the little station, anddrew up.
After that it was all soon ended. A good-bye, a kiss, a promise to write,and a "be sure and let me know how your mother goes on. I shall count onyou to send me bulletins frequently, your father is so busy. Good-bye,dear, good-bye--keep away from the door," and the engine, puffing a littlelouder, and a little louder, moved on its way again. Neither Mrs. Carlylenor Audrey were sorry when the strain was over. It had to be; the painlay in that; a few minutes more or less of each other's company was butlittle pleasure when the life they had enjoyed together was ended.
For a while after the engine steamed out, and the last glimpse of thestation was gone from Audrey's sight, she felt utterly miserable, and thetears would have their way. She loved her grandmother very much, and sheloved living with her, and, for the moment, at any rate, she was notcharmed with the thought of life at home, the noisy children, the plainfood, the shabby clothes, and even shabbier house. Tears trickled downher cheeks, and one actually dropped on the new blue bag. "Oh, dear!"exclaimed Audrey, vexedly, "I expect there will always be a mark!"
The engine began to slow down before stopping at the next station.
"Oh, dear," cried Audrey again, "I expect I look an object!" She jumpedup and tried to see herself in the strip of looking-glass convenientlyplaced along the back of the opposite seat. "What a bother it is that onecan't cry without getting to look so----" She subsided on to her seathastily, leaving her thought unfinished, and pulled her hat down over hereyes, turned her back on the platform end of her carriage and gazedfixedly out of the opposite window, for a whole party of people had caughtsight of her nice empty carriage, and were making for it.
"There are heaps of room here, mother, and such a nice carriage too!" saida boy's voice eagerly.
Audrey could not help looking round, but she pretended it was to pick upone of her magazines, and, being still afraid that her eyes and nose werered, she continued to pretend to be absorbed in the contents. She was sovexed with the newcomers for invading her carriage that she would not havelooked at them--so she told herself--even if her eyes had not been red;but, if she refused to look, she could not refuse to hear, and she soonknew that there were two girls of the party, as well as the boy and hismother; and that their voices were pretty and refined. They were all sohappy and jolly, too, that, in spite of her vexation, Audrey could nothelp growing interested and amused, and, finally, even rather glad oftheir company. It had certainly been rather melancholy, travelling withnothing but one's
sad thoughts for company.
She felt, too, rather than saw, that they in their turn were interested inher, and were inclined to be friendly, and once again she experienced athrill of satisfaction that she was so well dressed, and that all herbelongings were so good and so dainty.
Before very long she grew tired of her self-imposed task of reading.It seemed so silly to be continually holding open the pages and castingher eyes over and over them without taking in a word. It gave one a crickin the neck too, keeping it bent so long, and, after all, the people inthe carriage were so much more interesting than the people in the stories.If she could hold her head out of the window a little while and blow awaythe last signs of weeping, she would be able, she thought, to look abouther. She threw aside her magazine, took off her hat, and, lowering herwindow, thrust her head out. The sun turned her red hair to a goldenradiance about her; the wind, catching the heavy locks, blew them out likefluttering red-gold pennons. All the Carlyles had red hair of varyingshades and natures. Audrey's was long and heavy, with a pretty wave init. Faith's was shorter, darker, and curly. Tom's curled tightly overhis head, a fiery mat of curls. Deborah's, finest and silkiest of all,hung in soft auburn waves to her waist. Baby Joan's fluffy curls were thecolour of newly-spun silk.
Audrey was not thinking of her hair, but of her tear-disfigured face,until, in half turning round from the window, she caught sight of herselfin the strip of mirror, and of two large smuts ornamenting her brow andher nose! After that she thought of them, and of how ridiculous she mustlook, and she glanced quickly with shamed eyes at her companions.
They were looking at her, but there was not the ghost of a laugh on eitherof their faces; indeed, on one there was gentle concern.
"That cinder is so close to your eye; may I flick it off for you?" askedthe taller of the two girls, springing to her feet. "If you had tried todo it yourself you might have sent it into your eye," she explained, whenshe had done, "and then sometimes they take hours to get out again."
"Thank you very much," said Audrey, gratefully, then suddenly grew so shythat she subsided into her corner without another word. She made a bigeffort, though, to recover; it seemed so ungracious, so rude, to receive akindness in so _gauche_ a fashion. She took up some of her magazines."Would you--would you like to look at these?" she asked, holding them outtowards the elder girl, and at the same time colouring with embarrassmentand with pleasure.
"Oh, thank you!" the three spoke with one voice. "We would love to, but--have you done with them all for the time?" asked Irene, the elder girl."Wouldn't you like one for yourself? Daphne and I could look at onetogether."
Audrey shook her head. "No, thank you. I have looked through them, and Ihave a book here if I want to read."
"Perhaps you would take some lunch with us instead?" suggested the mother,looking up from her paper with a smile. "Keith, before you begin todevour _The Boys' Own_, lift up the lunch-basket for me, and I will unpackit. We don't stop again for some time, so we can feel sure of not beingdisturbed."
Audrey was really not hungry, but more for the pleasure of joining thehappy party than because she wanted anything, she accepted the kind offer,and was always afterwards thankful that she did, for it was the jolliest,pleasantest meal she had ever had in her life. Almost before it was begunall stiffness and shyness had vanished, and if Audrey had ever resentedher travelling companions coming, she had quite forgotten it.
"I shall be sorry when the journey is over," she said with a sigh, as shelay back weary with laughter. "I never had such a jolly one!"
"Have you far to go?"
"Not so very, very much farther," she said, half ruefully. "I am going toMoor End, but I have to get out at Kingfield, and change."
"Oh, how funny! We get out at Kingfield too, but we are going on toAbbot's Field. That is the same line as yours, isn't it?"
"Yes, Abbot's Field is a station further on."
"What an extraordinary thing! Was ever anything so strange!" Daphne, theyounger girl, was overcome with excitement at the coincidence. "I wonderif we shall see you sometimes! We might each walk half-way and meet.Wouldn't it be fun! Are you going to stay long?"
"Oh, yes, for a year, most likely. It is my home."
"Oh!" They all looked puzzled. Most people lived at home always; theydid not come on a twelve-months' visit, or speak in quite that tone abouttheir home-coming. But Audrey offered no explanations, and they were toopolite to ask for any.
"Oh," said Daphne again. "Well, I don't suppose we shall be at Abbot'sField as long as that. We are going to stay with grandpapa, Mr. Vivian.He lives at 'The Orchard.' Do you know him?"
Audrey shook her head. "I--I don't remember the people round about MoorEnd--at least, not very well. I have been living with my granny for fouryears!"
All the laughter and joy had died out of her heart, and from her face.She was visibly embarrassed. She thought of her home, the shabbiness anduntidiness of it as it used to be, and she did not expect it to be muchbetter now, even though Faith was four years older, and she felt a shamedshrinking from letting these strangers see it. She had spoken the truthwhen she said she did not know Mr. Vivian, but she did remember that'The Orchard' was a large place, and the house one of the finest in theneighbourhood.
She hoped, she hoped, oh, so fervently, that they would never come over toMoor End to look her up; that they would not ask her her name, or whereshe lived. If they knew her father was the vicar, they would be comingover to hear him preach, and then she would not be able to avoidintroducing them, and then they would see and know all!
A shade of embarrassment hung over the rest of the journey. Audrey wasuncomfortable. She was ashamed and nervous, and troubled at her own lackof frankness. She was also, fortunately, ashamed of being ashamed,but she had yet to learn how to rise above herself; to know what are thethings she should feel shame for.
It was almost a relief to her when at last the train drew up at Kingfield,and they all had to change carriages; for no one could help feeling thatlittle shade of embarrassment. And she was even more glad when theporter, who looked after her luggage for her, put her into a carriageapart from the Vivians, for now she felt she could escape the necessity ofintroducing to them whoever might be at the station to meet her at MoorEnd. Indeed, it was just possible that they might not see if anyone mether.
Yet, when the feeling of relief entered her heart, all other joy went outof it, for she did love her father, she did love them all, and it hurt herto feel ashamed. She liked her new friends too, so much, and wanted themto like her. Tears rose in her eyes as the truth came home to her thatshe was being false to those who loved her, and to those who had been sokind to her--and all for what?
She did not answer the question, but stood up and stared out of thewindow, that those within the carriage might not see her face. And so Mr.Carlyle, Deborah and Tom saw her as the train drew up, and her father'sheart rejoiced at her--as he thought--anxiety to catch the first glimpseof them after their long separation.
"Has it been a very long and dreary journey, dear?" he asked, as he puthis arm round her shoulders and kissed her. "Did you have company, orhave you had to come all the way alone?"
"I had very nice company, part of the way," she answered, and blushedhotly, as, glancing out under the brim of her hat, she caught sight ofKeith Vivian and Irene hanging out of their window looking at her."Perhaps I had better get a porter and see about my luggage," she addedhastily. It was very tiresome that they should have to wait on theplatform until the train went out, before they were allowed to cross theline by the footway. But it always was so on the down platform of thelittle Moor End station.
To Tom and Debby one of their greatest treats was to stand and see theengine puff in and puff out on its way again. Audrey grew quite crosswith the eager and shabby little pair who would stand so prominentlyforward, and stare so hard. With a hoot and a puff and a snort the enginemoved slowly on, and the Vivians' carriage drew nearer. Daphne
was at thewindow now, as well as Irene and Keith, their hands waving wildly infarewell greeting.
"Good-bye! Good-bye!" they called out, as cheerfully as though they hadnot noticed the cloud which had fallen on the end of their happy journey."Perhaps we shall see you----" the rattle drowned the end of theirgreeting, and saved Audrey the necessity of replying.
"Oh! oh! Audrey, you pushed right in front of me. I couldn't see a thing,and your elbow bumped me in the eye!"
Audrey stepped back quickly; she blushed and looked embarrassed. She hadnot meant to bump her little sister in the eye, but she had meant to getin front of her and hide from view her shabby frock and patched boots.She had done it deliberately.
"I am very sorry, Debby, if I hurt you," she said stiffly, "but you do makea fuss about a trifle!"
"Debby doesn't," contradicted Tom, fierce in his favourite sister'sdefence, "Debby has more pluck than--than----"
"Tom, boy, come here," interposed Mr. Carlyle quietly. "You and Debby cancarry this rug-strap between you, can't you?"
"Were those your travelling-companions?" he asked interestedly turning toAudrey as the little pair, their indignation forgotten, trotted homewardsproudly with their burden.
"Yes," answered Audrey briefly. She said no more, she felt she could not,but she knew that the shadow which had fallen on her own pleasure, hadfallen also on others.