CHAPTER XI.
Never in their lives before had Debby and Tom been thrown into such astate of such rapturous joy and excitement as when they heard of theinvitation which had been accepted for them, and never, never had theybeen called upon to face so bitter a disappointment as that which befellthem before the week was out, when news came to the Vicarage that thevisit 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 followsuit.
"It is almost too dreadful to be borne!" cried Debby tragically, meaningthe disappointment, not the measles. "Don't you think it is only a baddream, and we'll wake up presently?"
Tom shook his head gloomily. "I'm awake right enough," he said, "so areyou."
"I wish I wasn't; I'd never been asked away before, in all my life, andthere 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 suchthings can happen, and all because of measles--as if measles are anythingto 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 themsome 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 againsome day, and you see you can't go, neither can Irene, so we shall haveher 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 andsympathy. Relief, when she thought of the scanty, shabby little outfitswhich were all they had to take with them. Sympathy with theirdisappointment. She knew what it was to feel the latter.
Irene was frankly dismayed. To land oneself suddenly on new friends for aday or two was bad enough, but to be told that you must not return homefor some weeks--indeed, for no one knew how long--was most embarrassing.
"I am so sorry," she said apologetically to Mrs. Carlyle, "I expect motherwill arrange for me to go somewhere as soon as possible, I--I hope itwon'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 canstay--that is, of course, if you would like to. The Vicar wrote to yourmother at once to know if we might keep you during the time, and we arewaiting to hear."
"Like to! Oh, Mrs. Carlyle, how good you are to me! I would like itbetter than anything," she cried enthusiastically, bending down to givethe invalid a warm kiss. Then, turning swiftly, she caught up Baby Joanand danced with her round the room. "Oh, isn't it perfectly lovely, Joandarling. I am going to stay with you, Joany Carlyle, for weeks, insteadof going to strangers. If you were only half as pleased as I am you wouldclap your hands and sing."
"She would if she understood," laughed Mrs. Carlyle. "I would too, if Icould."
Irene stood still suddenly in the middle of her pirouetting. "Would you?Would you, really?" she exclaimed; her cheeks were flushed and her eyesshone. "Are you really sure I shall not be a bother?"
"Indeed, indeed, I love to have you here, darling." There was nomistaking the meaning in Mrs. Carlyle's voice. "It is like lettingsunshine into the house. We all love having you--and it is so good forthe girls. They have no real companions here."
When, a few minutes later, Irene went downstairs and into the garden, herface was grave, but her eyes still glowed. "Sunshine!" Mrs. Carlyle hadcalled her. She was like sunshine in the house. What a glorious thing tohave 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 dayswithout 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 understandit," she said, in a puzzled voice, as Irene drew dear, "there seem to beseedlings, or something, coming up all over it. They look like realflowers, don't they? Or do you think they are weeds? If they are, theyought 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 atthose, they are sweet peas, I am certain they are, and this is youngmignonette."
Faith's face was as puzzled as her voice. "It is a most extraordinarything about this bed," she said soberly, "I made it, and then Audreydidn't like it because we hadn't any nice bedding plants for it, so I putin a few things that I had given me, phloxes and sunflowers, andwallflowers, and--oh, I forget quite what, but I forgot all about wateringthem, and I thought they were dead, but they aren't. They pulled throughsomehow; I never planted any seeds, though, I am quite sure. Yet the bedis getting to look quite full! I think the fairies must have come atnight, and sown them!"
"Or the brownies," suggested Irene. "We won't watch for them, thenperhaps they will plant some more. They stop working if they arewatched!" she laughed.
"Well, it's brownies, or something, and I want to thank them," said Faithgratefully, if ungrammatically. "I want to dreadfully. What are yousmiling at, Irene?"
"Was I smiling? Oh Fay, I can't help it, I am so happy. Your father andmother have asked my mother to let me stay here with you until the measleshave gone. Isn't it lovely of them!"
"Have they? Have they really?" Faith's face was a picture of gladsurprise. "Oh, Irene, how lovely! how jolly! They hadn't said a word tous. 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 beperfectly lovely having you here." And she threw her arms round Irene'swaist and hugged her. "Oh, I am so glad," she sighed, "I don't know whatto 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."
"We will write them letters, to cheer them up, shall we? and send them allsorts of things--for fun."
Audrey came out and joined them, "Mother has told me," she said."Oh, Irene, I am so delighted." Her pleasure shone in her face, and herspeaking eyes. Irene already knew the worst there was to know of theshabbiness of the home, and Audrey's heart was at rest. "I think, though,you ought to come in now, and lie down, you know you are not really wellyet."
"You must give me something to do then, sewing, or darning, or something.I simply could not lie still doing nothing. I am too excited. Haven'tyou some stockings that need mending? We always have a basketful athome."
"I took the basket up to mother a day or two ago," said Audrey."We didn't get them done, somehow, so mother said she would try what shecould do. But don't bother about work, Irene. Lie down and read, I amgoing up to my room to work for a little while."
"And I must put Joan in her cot for her morning nap," said Faith, takingthat little person from Irene's arms.
Audrey strolled away to her beloved attic, Faith to her bedroom, and Irenewas left alone to go to her bedroom, or the dining-room, as she pleased.For a few seconds she lay on the sofa in the dining-room, thinking; thensuddenly she got up, and went softly up the stairs to Mrs. Carlyle's room.
"Come in," said the gentle voice, in answer to her knock. "Oh, Irene, isthat you. Are you come up to sit with me? How nice?" The invalid's facebrightened perceptibly.
"I came for the stocking basket," said Irene. "I am ordered to keepstill, but I simply can't while I am so excited. I feel I want to bedoing something to work it off me. Would you mind if I sat here with youfor a little while, Mrs. Carlyle, and did some darning?"
"It would be the greatest pleasure to me, dear. I was longing for someoneto talk to. I tried to mend some of the stockings myself, but I onlymanaged to do one pair for Debby to put on. My eyes ached so. One seemsto twist them if one tries to do fine work when lying down."
"Of course one does. Mrs. Carlyle," eagerly, "will you let the stockingbasket be my cha
rge while I am here? I love to have a big pile of work todo, and make my way through it. Would it bother you if I worked up heresometimes?"
"Not in the least, dear child. There is nothing I should enjoy more.I often long for company, but ours is a busy household. With only oneservant, it takes the girls all their time to keep the house in order."
Irene stooped low over the stocking-basket, lest her face should revealanything.
"Of course it is too much for them," Mrs. Carlyle went on anxiously,"and we shall have to have in extra help when the holidays are over, andtheir new governess comes. They can't possibly do their lessons and thehousework as well. Next year I hope to be about again, and able to takesome of the load off their shoulders, but," with a little sigh, "next yearis a long way off."
"I wish I could help," said Irene. "I love housework, and keeping thingsnice. I am longing for the time when we shall have a house again.Mrs. Carlyle, have you any dark blue darning wool that I can mend Tom'sstockings with?"
"No, dear, I have not, I have taken up that pair ever so many times andput them down again because I had no wool to mend them with."
Irene thrust her hand in, "Um!" Someone had not been so particular, shethought, as her eye fell on a brown darn on the heel, and a black one atthe back of the leg.
"Irene, don't you think you could drop the formal name, and call me'Aunt Kitty'? I wish you would, dear. I have no nieces or nephews of myown, and I have always longed to be 'aunt' to someone."
"Why, of course I will, I should love to, Aunt Kitty--don't you have aglass of milk about this time? Shall I ask for it for you?"
"Thank you--I think they must have forgotten it." She did not add thatfive days out of every seven the glass of milk was forgotten eitherentirely, or until it was so close on dinner-time that she could not takeit.
"I won't bother Mary to bring it, I will go and get it, if you don't mindmy going into the kitchen?"
Mrs. Carlyle was of the same happy, easy-going nature as Faith, and mindednothing of that sort. Even if she had known the state of muddle thekitchen was in, she would not have been troubled by Irene's going into it.
But though the muddle was there, as usual, and worse than usual, Irene didnot see it. The shock she received when she opened the kitchen door,drove everything else from her thoughts, and it was not until some timelater that she had eyes for the kitchen itself.
In the middle of the floor sat Mary, propped against the table leg, whileon either side of her knelt Audrey and Faith, trying to staunch the bloodwhich flowed freely from Mary's hand. Mary's face was as white as chalk,her eyes nearly popping out of her head with alarm. Audrey and Faithlooked almost as frightened.
When Irene appeared on the scene they turned their faces to her in evidentrelief. "Oh, Irene, Mary has cut her poor hand fearfully, and--and itwill not stop bleeding, and we don't know what to do, we have been hereever so long, and it isn't stopping a bit. Do you think we ought to sendfor Doctor Gray?"
"I shouldn't think so," said Irene reassuringly, "not if it is an ordinarycut. Let me see it, may I?"
"Oh, no, you mustn't look at it. You will faint!"
"I don't faint from that kind of thing, I am used to it. We are alwaysdamaging ourselves, and I doctor them all. Anyhow, I know that Mary oughtnot to hold her hand down like that,"--gently raising it to check theflow--"it will bleed for hours if she does. Have you any soft rag?"
"Plenty, I should think," Audrey replied sarcastically, "but I don't knowwhere to find any." Irene, looking at her closely for the first time, sawthat she was white to the lips, and trembling.
"Look here," she said quickly, "I came down for a glass of milk for yourmother, and some biscuits, will you take them up to her? She will bewaiting, and wondering what has become of me. Then you stay with her andtalk to her. Don't tell her what has happened--simply say that I am busy.Don't come down again, Audrey, you will be fainting if you stay here, andwe can manage by ourselves. Don't cry, Mary, it will be all right.I am sure it will."
"I--I believe I've taken a bit of my finger right off," sobbed Mary."I am sure I have, p'raps it's gone. Do look, miss."
"Oh no, it isn't gone. Don't scream so, Mary, you will frighten Mrs.Carlyle and make her very ill. Now just be as plucky as ever you canwhile I dress it. Faith, where can I find some rag?"
"Oh, I don't know," groaned Faith. "Irene, do you think a piece of herfinger has really come off?"
"No!" Irene, who had been examining the wound, spoke almost impatiently."The cut is a deep one, but it will be all right in a few days. Do tryand find some rag or bandage, Faith. I want to bind it up as tightly aspossible to stop the bleeding. If you haven't any I will get one of myhandkerchiefs."
Faith, much relieved in her mind, ran off hurriedly. Mary's sobs becamequieter, but as she grew less frightened about herself, she grew moreworried about her work.
"Whatever shall I do!" she wailed, "there's the dinner to get, and I'vegot to make cake to-day! Oh, what can I do! We'll have to have in awoman, and see what that costs!"
Poor Mary's innocent words brought Irene's wandering thoughts to astandstill. Mary's concern for her master's purse touched her, and filledher with a deep respect for the simple, loyal, country girl.
"Oh, but we need not do that, Mary," she said kindly, "you will be able touse your other hand quite well, and this one too, for some things.Of course, you can't make cake, but I can. I often made it at home; and Ican cook the dinner too, if you will tell me what you want."
"Oh! but Miss Irene, I couldn't let you!" Mary was so taken aback sheforgot all about the cut hand, and let Irene bathe it without oncewincing. "Oh, miss! I--I couldn't. The master wouldn't like it, and--and----"
"The master need not know anything about it, at least, not until it isdone, then I will ask him if he approves of his new cook. I expect hewill say he prefers his old one! Now Mary--you are not to say anythingabout it. I love cooking, and I want to practise, and I think it will bethe greatest fun."
Faith came dashing in with an old pillow-case in her hand. "You will haveto use some of this, I am afraid. I know there is a heap of real ragsomewhere, but I can't stay to look any further. Joan has pulled over thewater-jug and drenched herself to the skin. I must fly!"
Irene looked at Mary, and Mary looked at the pillowcase. "Seems a pity totear that up," she said anxiously, "it wants a bit of mending, but it isone of the best. If you will wait a minute, miss, I think I know where Ican put my hand on a piece," and Mary scrambled to her feet, forgetful ofher faintness.
"Law me! 'tisn't nothing to have made such a fuss about, after all," sheremarked shamefacedly, as Irene bathed the cut in clean cold water,"I thought for certain the top of my finger was lying round on the floorsomewhere, and the thought of it made me feel that ill."
"Well, don't think about it any more," laughed Irene, as she deftly toreup strips of linen, "it is too horrid. Tell me now if I am binding yourfinger too tightly. There! Isn't that neat! I daresay a doctor or anurse would laugh at it, but if it answers the purpose, that is all thatreally matters, isn't it? Now I am going to make you a sling."
"But I can't use it if it is in a sling, miss."
"No, that is just why I am going to give you one. I want you to keep yourhand up, at any rate for an hour or two, to prevent its beginning to bleedagain. There, I am sure that looks like a First-Aid professional sling.Now, when I have washed, I want you to tell me what you were going to cookfor dinner to-day."
"There's a round of beef to roast, miss, and fruit to stew, and a milkpudding to make."
"That is easy enough, I feel I would like something more difficult.I daresay, though, I shall find it enough, by the time I have done!Do you have a suet pudding with the beef?"
"No-o, miss, we--we haven't had one lately. I believe they used to, but--well, I don't seem able to make them proper, so I never tries now."
"Well, I daresay everyone would like one--the children will, for certain.I'll show y
ou how I have made them at home, then you will be able to do itanother time. My mother taught me."
"Nobody never taught me," said Mary, apologetically, "I just had to pickthings up as I could."
"Don't they teach you at school?"
"Oh no, miss. I learnt a lot about hygiene, and how to draw an apple, butI was never no good with a pencil--and what good would it do me if I coulddraw apples? Mother said, 'better fit they taught me how to peel oneproperly.'"
Irene laughed. "Well, it does seem that it would have done you more goodto have learnt how to grow them, or how to cook them! Now, to begin!First of all I am going to wash the breakfast things, or we shall have noroom to move."
Mary looked really shocked. "Oh no, miss! You mustn't. Just think aboutyour 'ands."
"I am thinking about my hands," said Irene cheerfully. "Did you ever hearabout the Thanksgiving of the Hands, Mary?"
Mary, looking puzzled, shook her head.
"Well, if you feel very, very glad and grateful for something, you canshow your gratitude and your gladness through your hands."
"Oh, music!" said Mary, with sudden inspiration.
"No, it is something that everyone's hands can do. It is just making themdo some little service as a thanksgiving. I am very, very glad, Mary,that your accident is no worse than it is, and I am very, very grateful toMr. and Mrs. Carlyle and all of them, and to you too, Mary, for being sokind to me, but most of all I am grateful to God for sparing my life thatday, and for sending Mr. Carlyle to me that day, and giving me such kindfriends when I needed them so badly, and I feel I can never give thanksenough--except through my hands. So, the more I have to do the better Iam pleased. Do you understand, Mary?"
"Yes, miss," said Mary huskily, and to Irene's surprise there were tearsin her eyes. "I--I've often felt like that, miss, but I--never could sayit, and I--I never met anyone else who did. But what about me, miss?I am sure I ought to be grateful for having you come to help me like this,yet I don't seem to be doing anything."
"But you will--you are always doing something, Mary. Now you can tell mewhere the things are kept--the soap and the dish-pan, and the dishcloth."
"And I can put the things away in their places," said Mary, somewhatcomforted.
Audrey, after being banished from the kitchen, sat with her mother for alittle while, but her thoughts were so pre-occupied, and she sat so longgazing abstractedly out of window, evidently hearing nothing that wassaid, that presently Mrs. Carlyle gave up trying to talk to her, andgradually fell asleep. Recalled to herself by the sound of the deep,regular breathing, Audrey rose, and tiptoeing softly from the room madeher way swiftly to her beloved attic.
Faith, after a busy half-hour spent in mopping up water from the floor,and changing Joan's wet clothes, popped that young person into her cot totake her long-delayed nap, and laid her own weary body on her own littlebed beside her.
"I _must_ rest for just a few minutes," she sighed, "and then I will godown and see how Mary's hand is getting on." She picked up from the tablebeside the bed, the alluring book she was in the middle of.
It certainly was a very jolly story, perfectly fascinating, but somehowshe could not get on with it. She read a few lines, and then the nextthing she knew, she was finishing it off in her own brain. She triedagain and the same thing happened, then at last when she was trying toread the end of the paragraph she had begun so many times, her eyelidsdropped before she could even find it, the book slipped from her hand andfell forward on her face, and she had not the strength to hold it upagain.
The clang of the dinner-bell was the next thing she was conscious of, andthen the savoury smell of cooking. Then she opened her eyes and saw Joansitting up in her cot, playing with the book she herself had dropped.
Faith sprang off her bed, lifted Joan out of hers, and, untidy as she was,hurried down the stairs. Suddenly the remembrance of Mary's injured handand the scene in the kitchen came back to her. "I suppose it is allright, as she has got the dinner ready. Oh, Irene!"
Irene came running up the stairs, looking flushed and hurried, but verywell pleased. She had a big apron on over her cotton frock, and as shecame along she was turning down her sleeves.
"I've got to wash my hands and tidy my hair, and I mustn't keep youwaiting," she said as she whisked past. "I won't be more than a moment."
Audrey, descending from her attic, joined the little group. Her head wasfull of what she had been writing, and it took her a second or two torealise things.
"Oh, Irene, I hope you haven't been dull. I never meant to leave youalone so long, but I was working, and--and forgot. How hot you look.What have you been doing?"
"I am rather. I have been cooking. Oh, I have had a lovely time. Do rundown and look at my pudding--but I must fly, or everything will be cold!"and Irene whisked away and into her bedroom.
Audrey and Faith did not rush down at once to look at Irene's pudding.They looked at each other instead, and in the eyes of each dawned a lookof shame and remorse.
"I quite forgot," gasped Faith. "I never remembered," gasped Audrey,"was Mary--couldn't Mary?"
But Faith had flown, leaving Joan to toddle after her. In the hall shemet Mary hurrying to the dining-room with a big dish. Her hand was boundup, but was out of the sling, and she looked quite gay and cheerful.
"Oh, Mary!" she said, following her into the room, "I never thought aboutyour not being able to manage, I _am_ so sorry. It is not much use to besorry now, though, is it?"
"No," said Mary, laughing, "it isn't, Miss Faith--but it's all right, MissIrene helped me. Oh, she is a clever young lady, Miss Faith, and so nice,she--she will wash dishes, and make cake, and sweep the kitchen, or--oranything, and be a lady all the time!"
"Cook! Can Miss Irene cook?"
"I should think she can, miss. It's a long time since we had a dinner sonice, or--or my kitchen either," added Mary honestly, as she hurried outto it again. "You come and look, Miss Faith. She's washed away all thedishes and has made the place look like a little palace."
"Washed the dishes!" Audrey groaned in bitterness of spirit, as she andFaith followed Mary out. In spite of dinner having just been cookedthere, Audrey saw at a glance that this was the kitchen of her dreams--theneat, clean kitchen she had longed for, but had never attempted to create.
Mary looked at them both, her face glowing. Irene's interest andencouragement had quite inspired her; and her practical help had shown herthe way. Every one of her few chance words, too, had gone home.
"'I can't bear to see a kitchen littered with dirty dishes, can you,Mary?' she said to me. I hadn't thought about it before, but when it wasput to me like that I felt all of a sudden that I couldn't bear to see iteither. 'And the longer they are left the nastier they are, aren't they?'she said, and that's true too, Miss Faith. 'The kettle is boiling, and wecan have some nice hot soapy water. We will see how soon we can geteverything cleared away,' she says, and up she turns her sleeves, and--well, she washed all those things as well as I could myself, and better.Look at the shine on them, Miss Faith."
"I am looking," said Faith; but it was something else that she saw theshining of. The shining of a brave spirit, and a warm heart--of anexample that she never forgot.
"Miss Irene wouldn't let me do more than put the things back in theirplaces, 'cause of my hand."
Without another word Audrey turned and walked away. The shame in herheart burned in her cheeks, and in her eyes. "And I--I talk, and donothing. I tell other people what they ought to do--Irene helps them doit." And through her mind passed the thought; "What kind of dinner wouldthey all have had, if they had to rely on her? What would the kitchenhave been like at that moment, if it had been left to her?"
Debby came rushing out of the dining-room tempestuously. "Have you madeyourself ready for dinner?" asked Audrey, laying a detaining hand on her.
"Yes, yes, ever so long ago. We are waiting for you. There is the nicestpudding for dinner that we have had for ever
so long, but daddy says wemustn't begin it till you all come. Oh, _do_ make haste."
Irene came flying down the stairs. "I am so sorry to be so long," shecried apologetically, "the string of my apron got into a knot, and Ireally began to think I should have to wear it at dinner."
"I am late, and have no excuse," thought Audrey dejectedly. "I never haveone."
"I shall be glad to see anyone, no matter what they are wearing," said Mr.Carlyle, coming to the door. "Who is that talking of kitchen aprons?"
Irene looked at him with merry eyes laughing above her flushed cheeks."Please, sir, it's the new cook," she said, dropping him a curtsey.