Anxious Audrey Part 8

Mr. Carlyle's voice broke in on their laughter so peremptorily and unexpectedly, that Audrey and Faith above, and Mary below, lost their hold of the clumsy bit of furniture, and let it slip backwards.

"Is dinner nearly--I say, girls, do be careful. If that thing were to fall on Mary it might injure her seriously--and what should we do without her?" With a strong grasp he seized and raised their c.u.mbersome load, while Mary, red, embarra.s.sed, laughing, dishevelled, struggled out from underneath. She was not really hurt, but she was dismayed at the thought of the time, and the work which lay neglected.

"Half-past one!" she gasped, "and I've got all the dinner to get."

Faith had already flown downstairs.

"And I have to be at the Cemetery at half-past two," said Mr. Carlyle gravely, but not unkindly. Mary was only seventeen, and, after all, young things did enjoy anything out of the routine, he knew. But such a lack of all sense of responsibility was serious, especially in a house where there was an invalid, and young children.

"And what about your mistress's lunch?" he asked, when they had succeeded in getting the chest of drawers safely into the attic. Mary, overcome with remorse, flew down to the kitchen without a word.

Mr. Carlyle turned to Audrey. "Had you forgotten your mother?" he asked in a voice full of reproach.

Audrey coloured with shame. "I--I--yes, I had, father. I didn't know it was so late--the time flew so.

"It does, when we are occupied with anything that pleases us. But it was your duty to know how the time was going. You reminded me to-day that you were the eldest, and that, therefore, certain privileges were due to you.

You must remember, dear, that with certain privileges, certain responsibilities are yours too."

"I am very sorry, father. When I--when I am settled in--I will try to see to things better."

"That's right. I hope the having a room of your very own will not prove a temptation to you to s.h.i.+rk your duty; that your privileges will not block your view of your duties. Come down now, and help Mary, in return for all the help she has given you."

"Yes, father. I will as soon as I have washed my hands."

It took her so long though to find soap and nailbrush, and a towel, and a brush and comb, that when, at last, she did get down to the kitchen she found Faith just leaving it with a cup of hot beef tea on a tray, and a plate of stewed fruit and custard. Joan sat on the floor, this time happy with the bellows, while Mary chopped cold potatoes as fast as she could in the frying-pan over the gas ring.

"If I can only get something ready for the master to have, I don't mind,"

she gasped, pausing for a moment. "There is plenty of cold beef, that is one comfort, and some stewed fruit; but I did mean to have had a hot dinner, and have kept the cold meat for supper."

"Never mind, that will be all right. It is lucky we had it."

Audrey's ideas as to what was suitable for dinner, and what should only be had for suppers, had undergone a sharp and swift change. She resented a little Mary's tone of proprietors.h.i.+p, but she decided that it would be wiser to await another opportunity to tell Mary that it was for her, Audrey, to arrange what they should have for this meal and that.

She took up a magazine which was lying on the table. "There doesn't seem to be anything for me to do," she said, contentedly dropping into a chair.

She was very glad, for she was very tired. "Oh, dear! how my legs ache.

I feel as though I don't want to do a thing more to-day."

Mary looked at Audrey once or twice with disapproval, as she sat lazily turning over the pages. She hardly liked to say what was in her mind, for she was a little in awe of her master's eldest daughter, who seemed to know so much better than anyone else how things should be done, and to have been accustomed to everything so much grander than they were at the Vicarage.

Loyalty to Faith, though, gave her courage. Faith, so good-tempered and willing, at the beck and call of everyone. If Audrey was tired, so were they all--and with working for her, too--and Faith was feeling quite sick with the pain in her head.

"There is the cloth to lay, miss," she said, reluctantly. "I haven't been able to do that yet. Miss Faith said she would, but she is feeling so bad----"

"Oh, isn't the cloth laid!" in a disappointed voice, "then I suppose,"

reluctantly, "I had better do it. Where do you keep it, Mary, and where shall I find the gla.s.ses, and the table napkins, and the silver?"

Mary stopped and showed her, running back between whiles to attend to the potatoes. Audrey laid the cloth, and turned to the plate-basket.

"I suppose I ought to polish each fork and spoon as I lay it," she thought, ruefully, "it all looks smeary; but, I can't bother. I am too tired to-day. The things shouldn't be put away smeary," she added crossly, "it is only leaving the work for someone else to do."

When she had finished laying the silver, she went out to the kitchen again and collected the gla.s.ses. Every one had the smeary look that gla.s.ses have if they have been wiped with a damp, and not too clean, cloth.

At the sight of them she exclaimed with impatience: "Oh, bother the things!" she cried irritably, "I can't stay to wipe them all, I am tired out." She was putting them on the table when her father came into the room. "That is right, dear, I am glad you are showing Mary how things should be done. She is very young, and has had no proper training.

Example is everything with Mary, she is very imitative; but poor little Faith has had too much on her hands to be able to attend to the daintinesses of life."

Audrey coloured, but not, as her father thought, with pleasure.

"Example!" That was what Dr. Gray had said. How tiresome it was of people to keep on about example, and how difficult it made life!

It was so much more difficult to do things oneself, than to tell people how they should be done.

In a gust of impatient anger she caught up the gla.s.ses again. "I wish I could teach Mary to wash tumblers properly," she said crossly, "and silver. There is not one thing fit to use----"

"Well, can't you? If you showed her the way once or twice I am sure she would learn. She is very anxious to improve herself."

The hot words on Audrey's lips died away, but not the anger in her heart, as she dashed out to the kitchen again. "I want some hot water,"

she demanded peremptorily, "every tumbler needs was.h.i.+ng, Mary," she said sharply, "there isn't one fit to use."

Mary's face fell. "There isn't any hot water, miss, the fire has gone clean out."

"Then it's the only thing that is clean," said Audrey rudely.

Mary's eyes flashed. "Serves me right for not tending to my own work, and leaving others to tend to theirs," she retorted. She was tired, hot, and thoroughly put out by the upset of the morning, and while she was doing all she knew to make up for her fault, out came Audrey nagging at her. "Another time I'll know better than start moving furniture and was.h.i.+ng floors late in the morning, when I ought to be getting my dinner forward."

"That didn't prevent your was.h.i.+ng the gla.s.ses properly last night, did it?" snapped Audrey. "If you did things properly once, they wouldn't need doing a second time."

Mary lost her temper entirely. "It is easy for them to talk as don't do anything," she muttered sullenly; "it's them that work that knows----"

Fortunately Faith came into the kitchen at that moment, bringing word that someone had knocked twice at the front door, and Mary departed hurriedly.

But though her coming checked any further hot words, it could not drive away the recollection of what Mary had said.

"It's easy for them to talk as don't do anything." Was that what Mary thought of her? Did others think the same? Was that the character she had earned? The words rang in her ears, the mortification bit deep.

It was hateful to be so spoken to by a little ignorant country servant; but the sharpest sting lay in the knowledge that Mary was right. No one knew, and Audrey would not have liked anyone to know how she loathed doing the things that she blamed others for not doing.

"What is the matter?" asked Faith, "can't you find something you want?"

"The gla.s.ses aren't clean, and there is no hot water to wash them with.

I suppose it is my fault for taking Mary away to help with my room.

I didn't think--I didn't know----"

"Oh, that's all right," said Faith cheerfully, "wash them in cold water.

Here, give them to me, and I will do it."

But Audrey's eyes had been opened, and for the time, at any rate, she saw some things very clearly. "No," she said promptly, "if you can wash them in cold water, I can. You sit down and rest, and talk to me. You must be dead tired," and Faith obeyed, wondering.

That night Audrey, in a state of great delight, slept in her new room.

It was very warm certainly, so close up under the roof, but it was as clean and neat as a new pin--all the untidiness was left behind in Faith's room. Audrey never gave a thought to the muddle and discomfort there.

When she closed her door behind her for the night her heart was full of nothing but pleasure and pride in her new possession. She went to the open window, and looked out on the moonlit world below, on the pretty cottages, the old church nestling at the foot of the hill, at the wide, white road, winding up and up in the misty distance until she could not see where it ended. For the first time the beauty of the spot where her home stood, and the love of it, entered her heart.

"If only--if only," she thought, "if we were not so poor, and could have pretty things; if only it was more beautiful, more dainty, I could love it very much."

But, as yet, she had not the eyes to see, nor the heart to feel that her home possessed beauties beyond all others--the most precious beauties of all--love, sympathy, cheerfulness under poverty, patience with each other's faults, and, above all others, a great unselfishness.