Anxious Audrey Part 11

With a heart as heavy as lead, she crept slowly down the stairs.

In the hall Faith met her, Faith with eyes sparkling with an anger Audrey had never seen in them before.

"Oh, how could you!" she cried, her voice trembling with indignation, "how could you be so cruel! And why are you ashamed of us, because we are poor? because we are shabby? and untidy? If it is because we are untidy, why don't you show us how to do better, why don't you help? If it is because we are poor, and everything is shabby--it isn't our fault.

We would have everything fresh and beautiful if we could. I don't mind, for myself, what you say or think--but oh, Audrey, how could you hurt mother so; how could you; how could you?"

The anger died suddenly out of Faith's eyes, washed away by tears.

"I am so awfully, awfully sorry," said Audrey, the pain in her heart sounding in her voice.

"But you--you didn't mean it!" Faith asked, but in more gentle tone.

"You didn't mean it?"

"I--I did," stammered Audrey, with quivering lip, "but--I don't now.

I myself am the only thing I am ashamed of now," and bursting into tears she flew upstairs again and shut herself in her attic.

CHAPTER VII.

Almost before her eyes were open the next morning, Audrey felt as though some big black weight lay upon her, as though something very dreadful had happened. And then gradually sleep cleared from her brain, and recollection came back.

She had been petty, mean, and everyone knew it, everyone must despise her.

She had hurt her own mother, she had hurt them all. She had shown them that she was ashamed of them--and why? Not because they had done anything wrong, or despicable, but because they were poor and were obliged to live in a shabby house, shabbily furnished!

"Oh, I can never live it down," she thought miserably. "I can never make them forget, and think well of me again!" She buried her face in her pillow and groaned aloud. She wished wildly for all sort of impossible things to happen, that she could put miles and miles, and oceans and continents between herself and everybody--or that she could wipe out all recollection of her foolishness from everyone's mind, or never, never have to meet the Vivians again.

There is no way, though, of blotting out in a moment our wrongdoing, our foolishness, our mistakes. They cannot be wiped off, as a sum off a slate, nor the results, nor the memory of them. There is nothing to be done but to face the consequences bravely, to live them down hour by hour; so, profiting by the lesson thus learnt, that in time those about us will find it hard to believe that we ever were so foolish, or wicked.

Through genuine repentance and sorrow only can we expiate our faults, and Audrey had sense enough to know this.

"I have just got to live through it," she sighed miserably, "but oh, I wish I hadn't hurt mother so."

As she was pa.s.sing her mother's bedroom door on her way downstairs, a sudden impulse made her knock.

"Come in," said the sweet kind voice; but as she turned the handle Audrey's courage nearly failed her. "Oh, it's nothing," she began, and was turning away when fortunately the thought came to her--how glad she would be after, if she were brave now, and did what she came in to do.

"It will be a beginning," she told herself feverishly, "I shall be much happier after," and allowing herself no more time for thought, she marched bravely in and up to the bed.

"Mother," she said, and the tears rushed to her eyes again. "I want you to try to forget--please, _please_. It was all a mistake. I was all--all wrong. I am so sorry."

"My dear, I know, I understand." Her mother threw her arms round her, and drew her gently down beside her. "I know how these things happen, if we are not always loyal in thought and in deed. I have failed often, Audrey dear, so I understand. But we will both forget, darling." And then Audrey broke down entirely. "Mother, I can never forget, I can never forgive myself, but I will try never to be so mean again, never.

I am going to begin to-day to do better. I really mean to."

"We all will, we will begin by trying to understand each other, shall we?

Try to be more patient, and to see how things seem to others. Don't you think a good motto for us all would be 'others first.'"

"I don't think Faith needs that motto, mother," said Audrey wistfully, which was a great admission for her, and the first step on the new road she meant to tread.

"Oh yes, she does, dear. We all do, some more, some less."

"Well, I am one who needs it very much more," and Audrey smiled ruefully as she raised herself. "Now I am going down to see what I can do to help.

I will begin by laying her breakfast-tray as nicely and temptingly as ever I can," she thought, as she hurried away. She felt so lighthearted she wanted to do something for everyone, to make all feel as happy as she did herself. But alas, alas! when she got downstairs her happiness received a check. Joan was ill.

In the kitchen Audrey found Faith seated by the kitchen fire with Joan upon her lap. Joan drowsy and feverish, and fretful. Faith anxious and pale.

"I believe she is ill," said Faith, looking up at her with eyes full of alarm, "she has been so restless all night. I wonder what can be the matter. I have been so careful about her food, and I don't see how she can have got a cold."

Joan turned uneasily, and began to whimper, Mary came over and looked anxiously at the flushed baby face. "She's feverish, Miss Faith, she's got a cold somehow. She is so hot, and it seems to hurt her to move."

With a swift shock of fear Audrey remembered what had happened the previous evening--the little thinly-clad body lying outside the bed-clothes, exposed to the draught from the open window. She coloured guiltily, but for a moment she hesitated to speak. It was so dreadful to have to heap more blame upon herself--to have to make everyone think more hardly of her, just when she had begun to try to make them think better.

But once again she conquered herself, and so took another step, and a long one, along the new but stony road she had set out to tread.

Faith looked grave as she listened. She adored her baby sister, and she found it hard not to blame Audrey. "I ought not to have gone away," she began irritably, but stopped, as it struck her what a self-righteous and conceited thing it was that she was saying. "I had better put her back to bed again, I expect," she concluded, more gently.

"I suppose so," agreed Audrey doubtfully. She did not in the least know what to do in a case of illness. Mary came to the rescue. Mary had lots of brothers and sisters at home, and had had a good deal of experience.

"I shouldn't, miss," she said, "in this summer weather it is so hard to keep them covered up, and restless as Miss Joan is, she wouldn't have the bedclothes over her more'n a minute at a time. I'd give her a nice deep hot bath here by the fire, and then wrap her up in a big shawl, and keep her by the fire. It'll be hot for anybody that's holding her, but I believe it'll drive the chill out of her quicker than anything."

"I'll do anything to get her well again," said Faith eagerly. So a bath was made ready--all the water that was needed for breakfast was used for it, but that was a trifling matter, and Mary's advice was followed to the letter.

"Now I'll get her some hot milk," said Mary, as she arranged the last wrap around the little patient, and put the cookery book under Faith's feet for a footstool.

"Oh!" gasped Faith, "don't make up too big a fire, Mary, or I shall really explode!"

Audrey, ashamed and sorry, moved about un.o.btrusively trying to do what she could; but it was mortifying to her to find how little she could do.

At last it occurred to her to go upstairs and see if Tom and Debby wanted any help in the fastening of strings and b.u.t.tons, and the brus.h.i.+ng of hair.

"Oh dear," she sighed, "you have only one b.u.t.ton left on your frock, Debby, and the string of your ap.r.o.n is broken. Can't you put on another?"

"They've all only got one string, you will find a safety pin somewhere, I have it pinned gen'rally."

"Oh! well, I will mend them for you when I've got time."

"Faith said she would when she'd got time, but when she'd got time she hadn't got any tape, and when we remembered to buy some tape we couldn't find a bodkin. Where does one buy bodkins, Audrey?"

"I don't know, but I have two in my work-box. I will put in the tapes for you. Now run down while I turn out the beds. Oh no, come here," as the pair went das.h.i.+ng away, "come and fold up your nightgowns, you should never leave them lying on the floor like that. Who do you think is going to fold them for you? I believe you never think of the trouble you give."

Tom and Debby went back patiently, and picking up their offending garments, struggled with them valiantly. But, however careful they were, it seemed as though one sleeve would hang out, or the folds would go crooked, simply for the purpose of aggravating two impatient little people.

"I wish we didn't have sleeves," sighed Deborah.

"Let's cut them off," cried Tom, and in a spirit of mischief, picked up a pair of scissors and pretended to cut the sleeve.

He was only pretending, but Audrey misunderstood, and, with a sharp slap on the hands, sent the scissors skimming across the floor.

The unexpectedness of the blow, the pain, and the indignity, roused Tom to real anger, and for a few moments there was an ugly scene. Debby cried, Tom raged, and Audrey scolded. "You can fold the old thing yourself,"

cried Tom, flinging out of the room. Audrey dragged him back.

"I shall not, you shall do it yourself if you have to stay here all day.