Anxious Audrey Part 13

"Anyhow, we couldn't get it done by Thursday, and what I wanted was to try and get the place looking nicer by the time the Vivians come. Now I am going in to see if I can do anything to the drawing-room."

"Oh!" Faith's face grew grave. "Do you think we need use the drawing-room? Won't the dining-room do? You see we have taken some of the nicest things from there for mother's room--to make that as nice as possible. The curtains, and the carpet."

"Whatever are we going to do!" cried Audrey in genuine dismay.

"It really is too dreadful. Father oughtn't to ask people here if we haven't a room fit to ask them into. You see we _must_ use the drawing-room."

"What for?"

"Why, for tea, of course, for one thing."

"Oh!" cried Faith, "don't let's have a dotted-around-the-room tea!

The children make such a mess with their crumbs, they can't help it, and they are sure to upset their cups, and drop their plates--and we shall be in one big worry all the time. They hate those teas, and so do I!

Let's have a nice comfortable one in the dining-room, and sit up to table."

"And spend all the rest of the time there too, I suppose?" sarcastically.

Faith looked pained. "Well, I don't suppose they would mind very much if we did, as long as we were all jolly and happy. They seemed so kind and friendly, and not a bit stuck up."

"Oh," cried Audrey impatiently, "you seem to think anything will do, as long as you are happy and jolly. You don't realise what other people are accustomed to, and expect."

"I think I am glad I don't," said Faith gravely, "it only seems to worry one."

"I do wish you would keep your blind straight in your bedroom," retorted Audrey irritably, "no house could possibly look nice with the blinds all anyhow, as ours are."

"Um, yes, they do look bad, we ought to have sticks for them, tape is always getting loose. Audrey," eagerly, "suppose we take our tea up on the moor, and have a kind of picnic, when the Vivians come. Wouldn't that be rather jolly?"

Audrey's face brightened. "Yes, that might be a good plan. They would not be in the house much then."

"Mother would want to see them."

"Would she? Oh, well, she could. I'd like them to know mother--and her room is quite presentable. We shall have to get some nice cakes.

I wonder if we have any baskets that will do to carry the things in?

And oh! I do hope that Mary will wash the cups and saucers properly that day. She is so horribly careless, one can't trust her the least little bit. I always have to look at my cup before I drink, to see if it is clean."

Faith looked at her with troubled eyes. "The best plan would be to wash them all yourself that day," she suggested, "then you would be sure they would be all right, and have quite a load off your mind. You can easily offer to wash the dishes and things for Mary, because she will have extra work to do, and then you can put aside those that we shall want in the afternoon. I will go and look out the baskets by and by. Do remind me if I forget. Oh, I must hurry in now, poor Mary is sitting by the fire all this time holding Joan, she will be roasted alive."

Audrey made no reply to her sister's suggestion. She liked things to be dainty, and clean, but she did not like the task of making them so; and to expect her to wash the dishes herself was really rather too much!

The head of a house did not expect to have to do the work herself.

Her part was to tell others what to do, and see that they did it.

At least that was her opinion.

CHAPTER VIII.

The next two or three days simply raced by, in what, to Audrey, seemed a hopeless struggle against all odds. It certainly was a struggle, but not quite a hopeless one, for by the time Thursday dawned bright and beautiful, a day to cheer even the most uncheerful, many small changes had been wrought in the Vicarage and in the garden. And Audrey had brought them about. Not by herself, certainly, but by the simple process of worrying others until they did what she wanted done.

It is only fair, though, to admit that hers had been the ruling spirit.

If it had not been for her, none of the improvements would have been made.

Mary had cleaned all the windows, Faith had, somehow, managed to get rods, and had straightened all the blinds. By offering a ha'penny to the one who swept and raked the garden paths most thoroughly, the garden path was swept and raked until the weeds and the soiled gravel had been turned over and buried out of sight, and with no worse damage than a b.u.mp on Tom's forehead, where the handle of the rake had struck him, and some tears on Debby's part because she had lost the prize.

Job Toms too had even been coaxed into bringing a scythe and cutting the gra.s.s.

"It would look quite nice if Faith had not made that silly bed all along that side," Audrey admitted.

This was Faith's reward for getting up early, and slaving through the whole of a long hot day to remove the worn turf from a narrow strip of the lawn, the whole length of the path, and dig over the moist brown earth beneath. "I would do the other side too," she said, generously, when she displayed her handiwork, "only I really believe my eyes would drop out if I stooped any more. You see I'd only the trowel to do it with."

"I suppose that is why you have made such a mess, and the bed is all crooked. You should have left it for a gardener to do," said Audrey, ungraciously. "Of course, the turf should have been chopped down, and the whole thing done properly. It would have been better not to have touched it, if you couldn't do it properly."

"Don't you like it?" asked Faith, disappointedly.

"Well, it spoils the look of the place, doesn't it? And just when I had got it made almost fit to look at, for once. I daresay it might be quite pretty if the bed was full of flowers," she added, in a less caustic tone, "as I suppose it will be some day. As it is--well, you must admit it looks a hopeless botch, doesn't it?"

Faith did not reply. There was no need to, and she felt that she could not. Instead, she walked away and down to the village, where she had many friends, and a little later returned with a collection of roots and cuttings and seedlings, which would have taken another person hours to plant properly, but which Faith got into the ground somehow in less than one. She had been too dead beat to get water and put round their roots, and it never occurred to Audrey to do so for her; so the poor things hung wilting and dejected-looking in the early morning suns.h.i.+ne, and only added to the unsightliness of Faith's new border.

On Thursday morning early, Tom, strolling round the garden to walk off a little of his excitement, noticed the poor drooping, dying things, and was filled with pity. Tiptoeing back to the house again for a can of water, he gave them all a drink. Deborah, coming out a few minutes later, found him standing, can in hand, rather wet about the feet and legs, gazing thoughtfully at Faith's new garden.

"I've got an idea," he whispered mysteriously, "such a jolly one!

Have you any money?"

"I've got a penny. Daddy gave it to me yesterday."

"I've got two ha'pennies, the one Audrey gave me, and one I had before.

Let's go down to Miss Babbs' and buy two penny packets of flower seeds, and sow them, and not say anything about it. Then when they come up everybody'll be surprised."

Debby was enchanted. She loved s'prises, and this was such a pretty one.

She loved, too, to back Tom up in anything he suggested.

Miss Babbs was only just taking down her shutters when her early customers arrived, so Tom was able to help her. At least, he thought he helped, and Miss Babbs would not have undeceived him for the world--even though she could have done the work herself in half the time, and with less than half the trouble.

But an even harder task than taking down the shutters, was that of deciding which of all that glorious collection of penny packets should be theirs. Such poppies! such lupins! nasturtiums of such glorious colours were pictured on each.

"I want them all!" replied Debby. "Wouldn't the garden look lovely, and wouldn't Faith be excited!"

"Why, you'd have a flower show all on your own, Miss Debby," laughed Miss Babbs, "and all for five s.h.i.+llings. I don't call it dear, do you?"

"Five s.h.i.+llings!" gasped Debby, "could I have all those for five s.h.i.+llings? I've got ten in the bank----"

"Best keep it there," advised Miss Babbs, sagely. She was rather alarmed by the spirit she had roused. "You never know what may 'appen."

Tom pulled Debby's ap.r.o.n. "Don't be silly," he said in her ear, "the flowers would all be gone by Christmas, and you know we are saving for a----" he ended his sentence by a regular fusilade of mysterious nods and winks.

"Donkey!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Debby, innocently completing his sentence for him.

"So we are. I had forgotten. I'll take one packet, please, Miss Babbs; and I'd like lupins, please, they are _so_ beautiful."

"And I'll have mignonette, please, 'cause mother loves it, and Faith too.