Nor was it yet brought home to her that those smaller beauties that it lacked, the daintiness, neatness, the order that she so yearned for, it rested with her to supply.

CHAPTER VI.

Perhaps, after all, Audrey's move to the attic was a good one.

She herself was certainly happier, and the others were happier too, for to feel that someone is always discontented and miserable, is very depressing, and to know that someone is finding fault with everything one does, is apt to make one irritable and faultfinding too.

In her new room Audrey found a great interest. She did all she could to make it pretty--it was the only part of the house that she did try to make pretty. On her writing-table she had always a vase of fresh flowers, and another on her dressing-table, and a jar of tall ferns in the grate.

All that was easy enough to manage, but she found it rather a trial to have to make her own bed every day, and keep her room swept and dusted.

Living with her granny, where everything was done for her, and the housework went on with the regularity of machinery, and without any share in it, or interest in it, on Audrey's part, she had grown up with a knowledge only of how things should look when done, but without the faintest idea of how to do them, or of the trouble it cost to make things nice, and keep them so. It had never occurred to her that to keep furniture brightly polished, and bra.s.s and silver too, windows gleaming, and window curtains spotless, meant constant care on somebody's part, and hard work too. She was beginning, though, to learn the value now of many things that she had taken for granted before.

"If one did all that needs doing about a house," she said, excusingly to herself, "one would have no time for anything else, and I do want to write. If I could sell my stories I could help father tremendously, and that is far more important than dusting and cooking, and looking after the children. Faith can do that, she has no taste for writing. When lessons begin I shall have less time than ever for it, so I really must do all I can now." And fired with enthusiasm and importance, she shut herself up more and more in her attic, and Faith was left to look after her mother, and the children, and the house, pretty much as she was before; and if the muddle did not grow greater, it certainly did not grow less under Audrey's rule.

"If you want to keep this house tidy you must always be tidying it,"

she grumbled, and to be always tidying it was certainly the last thing she wished or intended. So, as long as her own attic was neat and fragrant, she closed her eyes to the rest and was, apparently, content to let things go on as she found them.

"Audrey, will you sit with mother this evening while I go to church?"

Faith opened her sister's door nervously, and the face which appeared round it was decidedly apologetic. She was always afraid that she might be interrupting Audrey at a critical point in the story she was writing, and she generally was too.

This May Sunday was an exception though. Audrey did not write stories on Sundays, she only thought about them. Occasionally she wrote a letter to her granny, or to a school friend. She was thinking of a story now, when Faith disturbed her, a very sentimental one, as she sat by her bedroom window and gazed at the road winding up to the moor. 'He'--the lover--was striding along it with set jaws and haggard eyes, while 'she'--the heroine--sat at just such a window as Audrey's own, and gazed after him through tear-filled eyes. And Audrey was just trying to decide whether 'she' should wave a relenting handkerchief and call him back, or watch him depart for ever and die of a broken heart, when Faith popped her head in.

"Very well," she said, and sighed.

"And will you get her a gla.s.s of milk at seven? She must not have it later or she will have indigestion all night----"

"Oh, I know all about that, of course." Faith so often forgot that she, Audrey, was the eldest,--and mistress of the house for the time.

"And will you read to her----"

"Oh there is no need to do that, mother and I can always find plenty to talk about, we have so many tastes alike----"

"She likes to have the Evening Service read to her, and the hymns and the lessons. The numbers of the hymns are on a slip of paper on the mantelpiece. I will go now and see that Tom and Debby are getting ready."

"All right." It never occurred to Audrey to go and see to them for Faith, while she got herself ready.

"Oh, and Audrey, Joan is in bed, but will you go in and look at her after I have gone to see that she is covered up? she throws off----"

"Oh yes, of course, I'll attend to everything. Don't worry so."

"Thank you. I will see to the supper when I come back. Mary is out to-night."

"Oh, is she! What a bother. Never mind, I'll look after things and sit with mother. I want to talk to her about a story I am going to write."

"Oh, Audrey, how lovely!" Faith gazed at her sister with eyes full of wistful admiration. "I wish I could hear about it too."

"Oh, you wouldn't understand." Nevertheless, Audrey was very well pleased with her sister's appreciation.

"But I could listen, and try to. Will you have done before I come home?"

"Oh yes, of course."

Tom began to shout from down below and Faith started off at a run.

"He can't find his hat and I promised to help him look for it," she added hastily.

"Faith," Audrey called after her, "don't say anything to anybody else about my story," she added in a lower tone as she leaned over the stairs.

"Don't tell father, or the children, or--or Mary. I don't want anyone to know anything about it until I have sold some--at least, only mother and you."

Faith nodded back brightly, immensely pleased at being trusted with the mighty secret. She was very proud of Audrey and thought her cleverness quite remarkable.

Mrs. Carlyle was proud of her daughter too, and pleased that, at any rate, one of her children inherited her talent for writing. At least her taste--she hoped that in time it would prove a talent. And for nearly an hour she patiently listened and advised.

"You must not be too sure of yourself yet, dear," she said at last, a somewhat weary note in her voice. "You must be content to read and practise for a long time yet----"

"But mother, I am sure I could write a story as good as one I read a few days ago--there was simply nothing in it."

"But Audrey, you surely would not be content to write a story only as good as a very poor one! Your aim should be to write one better than a very good one."

"To begin with, mother! I couldn't do that to begin with--and oh, I do want to see one in print!"

Mrs. Carlyle sighed. She was very tired. "I thought you wanted my advice, dear," she said gently. "Now, will you read me the Psalms, please. My books have been waiting such a long time for you to begin.

They will be home from church before we have read the lessons, I am afraid. Oh, I am afraid I must trouble you to get me my gla.s.s of milk now, before we begin. I shall not be able to take it if I leave it any later. I wonder if Joan is all right? I have not heard her call, have you?"

Audrey jumped up hurriedly and ran into the next room.

Baby Joan was asleep, but with the bed-clothes kicked back and all her little body exposed to the night breeze from the open window.

"Oh dear," sighed Audrey impatiently, "I think children do things on purpose to annoy one." She was cross because she was really alarmed.

Joan was very cold, she must have been lying uncovered for nearly an hour.

"She really deserved a whipping." Audrey covered the little body up warmly and hurried back to her mother's room with her tale of woe.

She had quite forgotten the gla.s.s of milk.

Mrs. Carlyle did not grow irritable as she listened, though she had every reason to be, but she was greatly worried. "I should have reminded you to go in and see that she was all right," she said, full of self-reproach.

"Isn't it dreadful to think that if Faith goes out we can none of us be trusted to take care of anything properly!" She did not again remind Audrey of the gla.s.s of milk.

Audrey did not relish the reproach. She was always a little sore about Faith's pre-eminence in the house. "You see it isn't my work," she said shortly, "if it had been I expect I should not have forgotten.

It is frightfully hard to remember other people's little odds and ends of work when they happen to be out."

"Did not Faith ask you to look after baby while she was away?"

"Yes--but----"

"Then it was your work, Audrey."

"Oh, well, I am very sorry. I quite forgot, but I expect Joan will be all right. Now I will read to you, mother. Which hymn would you like?"

Mrs. Carlyle's mind at that moment was not in tune for any reading.