Anxious Audrey Part 20

"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-b.u.t.ter 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 grat.i.tude."

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 G.o.d had spared my life instead of punis.h.i.+ng 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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.

CHAPTER XI.

Never in their lives before had Debby and Tom been thrown into such a state of such rapturous joy and excitement as when they heard of the invitation which had been accepted for them, and never, never had they been called upon to face so bitter a disappointment as that which befell them before the week was out, when news came to the Vicarage that the visit must be postponed indefinitely, for measles had broken out at 'The Orchard.' One maid was down with it, and Daphne was, they feared, sickening. And if Daphne developed it, Keith was almost certain to follow suit.

"It is almost too dreadful to be borne!" cried Debby tragically, meaning the disappointment, not the measles. "Don't you think it is only a bad dream, and we'll wake up presently?"

Tom shook his head gloomily. "I'm awake right enough," he said, "so are you."

"I wish I wasn't; I'd never been asked away before, in all my life, and there would have been the train, and the donkey cart when we got there, and a s-s-swing in the orchard. Oh, Faith, isn't it dreadful, that such things can happen, and all because of measles--as if measles are anything to make a fuss about."

"Some people make such a fuss about a little thing," scoffed Tom, "I wouldn't have minded going and catching them. I've got to have them some time, I s'pose, so I might as well have had them there as at home-- better, too!"

"I doubt if Mrs. Vivian would have thought so," said Faith. "Cheer up, both of you, and try not to mind. Perhaps Mrs. Vivian will ask you again some day, and you see you can't go, neither can Irene, so we shall have her here for a long time yet--and won't that be jolly!"

When Audrey had first heard the news she had breathed a sigh of relief and sympathy. Relief, when she thought of the scanty, shabby little outfits which were all they had to take with them. Sympathy with their disappointment. She knew what it was to feel the latter.

Irene was frankly dismayed. To land oneself suddenly on new friends for a day or two was bad enough, but to be told that you must not return home for some weeks--indeed, for no one knew how long--was most embarra.s.sing.

"I am so sorry," she said apologetically to Mrs. Carlyle, "I expect mother will arrange for me to go somewhere as soon as possible, I--I hope it won't be very inconvenient my staying here until I hear."

Mrs. Carlyle smiled at her affectionately. "Inconvenient! Irene, dear, how could it be. We should simply rejoice to have you as long as you can stay--that is, of course, if you would like to. The Vicar wrote to your mother at once to know if we might keep you during the time, and we are waiting to hear."

"Like to! Oh, Mrs. Carlyle, how good you are to me! I would like it better than anything," she cried enthusiastically, bending down to give the invalid a warm kiss. Then, turning swiftly, she caught up Baby Joan and danced with her round the room. "Oh, isn't it perfectly lovely, Joan darling. I am going to stay with you, Joany Carlyle, for weeks, instead of going to strangers. If you were only half as pleased as I am you would clap your hands and sing."

"She would if she understood," laughed Mrs. Carlyle. "I would too, if I could."

Irene stood still suddenly in the middle of her pirouetting. "Would you?

Would you, really?" she exclaimed; her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone. "Are you really sure I shall not be a bother?"

"Indeed, indeed, I love to have you here, darling." There was no mistaking the meaning in Mrs. Carlyle's voice. "It is like letting suns.h.i.+ne into the house. We all love having you--and it is so good for the girls. They have no real companions here."

When, a few minutes later, Irene went downstairs and into the garden, her face was grave, but her eyes still glowed. "Suns.h.i.+ne!" Mrs. Carlyle had called her. She was like suns.h.i.+ne in the house. What a glorious thing to have said of one--and she had done nothing to deserve it either. Well, here was her chance. She had not been in the Vicarage those few days without learning that there was a lot to be done, and few to do it.

Here was her opportunity!

Faith was in the garden looking at the flower bed. "I can't understand it," she said, in a puzzled voice, as Irene drew dear, "there seem to be seedlings, or something, coming up all over it. They look like real flowers, don't they? Or do you think they are weeds? If they are, they ought to be pulled up, but I don't like to until I know."

"Oh no, let them stay. I am sure they aren't weeds, Faith. Look at those, they are sweet peas, I am certain they are, and this is young mignonette."

Faith's face was as puzzled as her voice. "It is a most extraordinary thing about this bed," she said soberly, "I made it, and then Audrey didn't like it because we hadn't any nice bedding plants for it, so I put in a few things that I had given me, phloxes and sunflowers, and wallflowers, and--oh, I forget quite what, but I forgot all about watering them, and I thought they were dead, but they aren't. They pulled through somehow; I never planted any seeds, though, I am quite sure. Yet the bed is getting to look quite full! I think the fairies must have come at night, and sown them!"

"Or the brownies," suggested Irene. "We won't watch for them, then perhaps they will plant some more. They stop working if they are watched!" she laughed.

"Well, it's brownies, or something, and I want to thank them," said Faith gratefully, if ungrammatically. "I want to dreadfully. What are you smiling at, Irene?"

"Was I smiling? Oh Fay, I can't help it, I am so happy. Your father and mother have asked my mother to let me stay here with you until the measles have gone. Isn't it lovely of them!"

"Have they? Have they really?" Faith's face was a picture of glad surprise. "Oh, Irene, how lovely! how jolly! They hadn't said a word to us. I expect they knew how disappointed we should be, if your mother said 'no.' But she mustn't say 'no '! She _must_ let you stay. It will be perfectly lovely having you here." And she threw her arms round Irene's waist and hugged her. "Oh, I am so glad," she sighed, "I don't know what to do!"

"Keith and Daphne will be wild with envy," said Irene, returning the hug.

"Poor dears, they will have a dull time, I am afraid."