Chapter XX: The Holidays

"Oh Gift of God, a perfect day,
Whereon let no man work, but play
Whereon it is enough for me,
Not to be doing, but to be."
LONGFELLOW.

THE Easter holidays found Audrey still at Horsborough College. Neither she nor Mrs. Bonar left their post, as they had several small boys spending their holidays with them. But as the summer came on, Audrey again began to wonder where she should go when school broke up. A letter from Mr. Blunt saying that his sister-in-law was going abroad with her husband again, and so leaving her house, and also reminding her that her lease of her old home would be up on Michaelmas Day, decided her to take lodgings in the village. And she wrote to Pauline about finding her cheap rooms near her. She had just posted her letter when Miss Vernon called upon her.

"Well," she remarked in her abrupt way, "are you, like the rest of us, going to shake off this scholastic veneer which is making us so objectionably priggish? What are your plans? Every term I am hoping that Everard, may be offered some deanery. He has been here too long."

"Oh!" cried Audrey. "He is not old enough or feeble enough to retire into a deanery."

"Stuff, my dear! He ought to be a dean or a bishop before long, and I'm expecting to end my days in an ecclesiastical palace: I am hinting at it already in my biography of him. We don't want decrepit bishops, and I think the authorities are waking up to that fact. But we won't talk about Everard. I have to come to ask you if you would care to join me in a small tour through Switzerland? I should like to have you with me, and I ask you as my guest."

Audrey's eyes sparkled.

"How good of you! I have never been abroad in my life. But I should prefer it if you would let me share expenses. Would it be a very expensive trip?"

"My dear, the expense will be mine. I want a companion. Everard may be with us for a part of the time, but he is going to Germany first, and I have declined to accompany him there. I don't like the Germans. I never did. You and I will try to imagine for the first time, whilst we are away, that there is no such thing as a boy, or football, or exam., in the world! I am getting heartily sick of the whole crew!"

"The only thing is," said Audrey hesitatingly, "that I must go down and make arrangements for the sale of the furniture of my old home. When do you start?"

"I shall be a fortnight in London first. Will that give you time?"

"I think so. Oh, Miss Vernon, how can I thank you? I've never had such a treat! I can hardly believe I am going."

Miss Vernon laughed.

"Ah, well, I'm more selfish than you think. All my life I have dreaded getting old and prosy, and I want someone to keep me young, or make me feel so, at all events. You will be very good company. I am assured of that."

So Audrey wrote a second letter to Pauline, telling her of her good fortune, and a shadow fell across Pauline's sunny eyes as she read. She was fonder of Audrey than of anyone else, and the thought of having her near her for the summer holidays had been real and keen delight. But, as usual, she suppressed her own feelings and wrote back a warm, loving letter.

"It will be splendid for you in every way," she wrote. "I shall look forward to your letters, for if you write as descriptively as you do about the school, I shall imagine myself with you in it all. And your fortnight here first will be a real joy to me."

"Poor Pauline!" mused Audrey. "Why should the good things of life always pass her by? I used to think myself the most ill-used of human beings, but I can't say that now. And yet, compared with Pauline, I am not nearly so happy as she is. What a wonderful nature she must have, to live year in and year out in a sick-room and yet keep that glad, joyous nature of hers! She finds as much pleasure in a sunny day, and in the flowers and the birds, as I would in a foreign tour. She faces north, and never flinches from it."

Pauline found her rooms in the village. It was an empty time. No tourists came to stay at Criscombe, for there was nothing to draw them—neither sea nor moor, and no good fishing within reach.

Mr. Broughton and family had just gone for a month to the seaside. A locum tenens from the neighbouring town rode over every Sunday to take the services.

Mrs. Daventry was abroad. Even the Blunts had gone away for their summer outing, and Mr. Danby was the only one who still came and went in his erratic fashion. Just now, he had started a caravan to take him about the country for his lectures. Pauline had asked him why he preferred such a slow mode of locomotion to that of a motor. His answer was characteristic of himself:

"Miss Erskine, pace is the curse of our age! If I give out, I must take in; and food does you no good if gobbled. Can I lecture on the beauties and lessons of Nature, which is my next subject, if I rush through the air, besmattering and befouling the sweet country lanes with fumes of petrol and clouds of dust? I am going to learn before I teach, and my caravan will aid me to do so."

Pauline met Audrey at the station upon a sweet evening towards the end of July.

Audrey was shocked at her looks.

"Pauline, how thin you are! What have you been doing to yourself? Oh! My dear, you're killing yourself, and no one can help you."

"Not at all. I am very well. I have felt the heat this summer, and my mother has not been so well this last month or so. You are looking radiant, Audrey. Now tell me your plans."

"About my furniture? I am going to sell it. I shall pack up a few treasured possessions and get Sands, in Gadsborough, to store them for me. The rest, he must sell. Then I shall be homeless indeed. But I have not the money to keep a room going when I should be in it so seldom."

"I wish our cottage was a little bigger," said Pauline wistfully.

"My dear Pauline, your house, if you had a mansion, would never be big enough for your heart."

Audrey made arrangements for her luggage to be sent up after her, and, linking her arm in Pauline's, she walked to the village, talking hard as she went.

"Can't you have a change, Pauline? Tell me when you left your mother last."

"Oh, I never leave her. We went up to town, you know, not so very long ago."

"But you really ought to have a thorough rest. I shall speak to Mrs. Erskine about it. Don't shake your head at me. Outsiders can do what insiders can't!"

"I am afraid my mother will not be well enough to see you. Now I must leave you, Audrey dear. Do you think you could run in and see me this evening after eight o'clock? I have settled mother for the night by that time, and I have two hours before I go up to her."

"I shall love to. Of course I'll come."

In the dusky summer evening, they sat and talked together.

Pauline said, after a time:

"Audrey, there's a happy ring in your voice that used not to be there. I think you have come through your difficulties, haven't you?"

Audrey's bright face softened at once.

She clasped her hands round her knees and looked up at her friend a little wistfully.

"Oh, I hope—I hope I'm settled; but I'm such a slow, such a stupid learner! I'm happy, Pauline; I know I'm on firm ground, and when I compare myself now with myself a year ago, I really do thank God for teaching me to know and love Him. I can't talk well about myself, but as I came to you with my difficulties, it is only fair I should tell you when they're gone. I realise now what it is to be in personal touch with Christ. Dr. Vernon's favourite verse, 'Without Me ye can do nothing,' is my continual reminder and comfort. And I long now to get my small boys to see what a power and what a delight the truth of that verse is.

"I think when you see your need and open your heart, all the rest follows, does it not?—forgiveness, justification, and sanctification; I'm only on the threshold of this last. But it comforts me to think of Nature, which is so slow—so much growth underground—before the result is seen. When I wake every morning, I think: A fresh day to test my faith and prove the faithfulness of my Redeemer."

Pauline's eyes shone, but she was silent for some minutes. Then she said emphatically:

"'If we believe not, yet He abideth faithful.'"

"Yes, that's it; that's the comfort. We may waver and fall and fail, but He never changes; and I believe in Him and love Him with all my heart and soul."

They talked on till the dusk deepened into night.

And then when the clock struck ten, Audrey slipped away to her lodgings.

But she was determined to speak to Mrs. Erskine if she could, for her landlady told her that the "village" considered that Pauline's long confinement to her mother's sick-room was wearing her to death. They all loved Pauline.

"She have such a royal way of walkin' with her head up and her eyes so shinin', but many's passed the remark that her body be not half so strong as her sperrit, and her cheeks be fallin' in wonderful!"

So when, a day or two later, Mrs. Erskine of her own accord said she would like to see Audrey, the latter responded willingly, and told Pauline that she was to make herself scarce during her visit.

Mrs. Erskine had taken some interest in Audrey since her father's death. Now she looked at the girl critically.

"Well, your work seems to suit you," she said. "You are fortunate in being with friends. It must make a difference."

"I don't know that it does much," said Audrey, smiling. "The doctor is always official, you know. I keep my distance, and look up to him with the necessary deference and awe. And he regards me as one of his staff—a young woman who must be kept in her place."

"Have you seen Mr. Danby yet?" Mrs. Erskine asked impatiently.

"No; he is away for a fortnight, so I shall miss him."

"I am glad he is away."

Mrs. Erskine moved her hands restlessly, then continued with a little catch in her breath:

"I wish you would find out—you and Pauline are such friends—whether there is anything between them; he is always here."

Audrey looked genuinely astonished.

"My dear Mrs. Erskine, you don't think Pauline would look at a little, erratic man like that! He isn't fit to tie her shoe-strings."

"I don't know what she might not do," said Mrs. Erskine fretfully. "Girls will do anything to get a home, but I don't mean to die yet. I have wonderful vitality—all the doctors tell me that. I wish Mr. Danby had never come to the village. He must be an odious little creature, from all accounts!"

"Oh, he isn't that. He is a character, of course. But he isn't fit for Pauline. I'm sure she wouldn't dream of such a thing. Don't you want her to marry, Mrs. Erskine?"

"And leave me?"

Such a frightened, anxious look came over the invalid that Audrey hastened to soothe her.

"No; I don't believe Pauline would ever do that, and there is no one marriageable in these parts, Mrs. Erskine. Marriage would never take Pauline from you, the only thing that might—"

"Well? Speak out."

"Illness might," said Audrey firmly. "Pauline is looking very ill. Haven't you noticed it? She ought to have a change of air and scene. You would not like her to break down, would you?"

"Pauline break down!"

Mrs. Erskine gave a little sceptical laugh. "Pauline is as strong as a horse. She has a most wonderful constitution, but then her quiet life has not tried it in any way. I wish I had had half her strength to fight this disease which is killing me by inches. I don't think you need be at all troubled about Pauline."

"But I am; and so is everybody who cares for her," said Audrey warmly. Then on the impulse of the moment she said: "Wouldn't you let me do things for you and allow Pauline to go away for a week? If it was only for a week, it would do her good."

"Has she suggested such a thing?"

Angry spots of colour showed on Mrs. Erskine's cheeks.

"No, indeed! Would she be likely to? You know Pauline. The last thing she thinks of is herself."

"I did not know waiting upon a sick mother was such a hardship," said Mrs. Erskine bitterly. "She won't have me much longer. If she chooses to leave me, she can. But I will go on with Mary. I will not be dependent on outside friends to do what a daughter is weary of doing."

Audrey bit her lips to keep back the impatient words that were on her tongue.

"I am so glad you think you could manage with Mary for a little. I am sure you will be able to persuade Pauline to go. And I will come in every morning and see how you are getting on. I have ten days longer here before I leave for Switzerland. But Pauline will need your persuasion. She does not realise how badly she wants the change. I will tell her what we have arranged together."

Audrey sped downstairs, determined to strike while the iron was hot. She told Pauline of the conversation, and got angry when Pauline shook her head.

"My dear Audrey! You do not understand my mother in the least."

"Oh, don't be so obstinate! Go up at once, 'at once,' whilst I am here, and keep her to her word. Pauline, I will never try to help you again if you won't lift your little finger to help yourself."

Pauline did not reply, but went upstairs.

Audrey waited in the sitting-room below, and was rather dismayed to hear Mrs. Erskine's voice raised in shrill, hysterical cries and sobs.

"What an awfully selfish, hard-hearted brute of a woman!" she exclaimed hotly. "She wouldn't care if Pauline were dying before her eyes!"

It was a long time before Pauline came down, and when she did so, she looked white and weary.

"Audrey dear, it is of no use. You did it with the best intentions, but my mother has had a very bad half-hour in consequence. I can never, never leave her. She is half frantic at the very idea."

"I don't see why she should try to kill you," said Audrey impatiently. "I think she ought to be made to do without you. What would she have done if you had married?"

Pauline smiled.

"Don't you see that this is my life's work, the only natural course for any single daughter to take?"

"I am not objecting to your nursing your mother, but to your never getting a rest from it."

"I am very strong. Every back is suited to its burden."

"I don't believe that. Numbers are done to death by overwork."

"Can you and I not trust ourselves to God? I have left my life in His hand, and He arranges for me. Of this I am positively certain. Don't let us spoil your visit by over-anxiety about my concerns. I will try and get out a little more whilst you are here. That will do me more good than anything. One of my biggest mercies is living in the country. Imagine our life in a town, mother and I, where it would be simply impossible to enjoy pure air and all the delights of the country! Do you know that I have two tame linnets who visit me regularly? They have their dining-parlour under the old medlar tree, and they wait for me twice every day. You don't know what dainties I take them."

"Oh, I don't care a rap for linnets; I only care for you!" cried Audrey, and tears of vexation and disappointment filled her eyes. "No wonder we gave you the Northern gate. I was wanting to turn you from it for a little."

"Ah! Don't try to do that. I fear poor Honor turned away from hers, and I'm dreading the result."

"Have you heard from her?"

"Such short, unsatisfactory letters! She seems moving about so much that it is difficult to write to her."

They began to talk of Honor, and then of the Rectory household; and for the time Pauline's affairs were forgotten.

But Audrey's visit did her good; and though she had failed in getting her to go away, she did manage to get her out for a whole day just before she left.

They hired a village trap and drove to a famous hill about nine miles away. And on the way there, they met Mr. Danby jogging along in his caravan. He was delighted to see them, and wanted them to drive on with him. He showed them over his caravan, and informed them that he had had a most successful audience the night before on the village green.

"My lecture was 'Country or Town?' I showed them a thing or two, and was in the midst of politics before I knew it! Miss Erskine, do try my lounge chair on my 'upper deck,' as I call it. I can sit under my awning, smoke a pipe, and read a book whilst I am driving."

"What a lot of the country you must see!" said Pauline, laughing.

"I want company to enjoy the country with me," said Mr. Danby dolefully. "I do wish conventionality wouldn't prevent you from coming with me."

"It would be rather slow," said Audrey meditatively, then corrected herself with a laugh. "I don't mean your society, but the progress."

"Miss Erskine and I like the slow, sweet march of time," said Mr. Danby; "and, by the by, I met a man the other day who knew you, Miss Erskine. He's going to do a small tour with me in the west of England for the benefit of some charity in which he is interested. We are going to sandwich 'Bush Aborigines' and 'Man's Highest Development.' He's a traveller; do you remember him—Justin Pembroke?"

"Yes," said Pauline very quietly. "I met him not so very long ago."

"A nice chap—fond of music, too. He thinks me somewhat of a freak. I got into a church, and he was blower. Told me that if he could play as I did, he wouldn't tack so many other things on to it. He's a man of one idea. I'm a man of many."

They chatted on, and then separated.

For a time they drove on in silence.

Then Audrey said:

"Who is Justin Pembroke? Don't tell me if you would rather not."

Her quick eyes had seen that Pauline's extreme quietness and attention when his name was mentioned showed that he was no chance acquaintance to her.

"I met him some years ago," said Pauline; "and then he came down to this part, and I saw him again. Don't look so interested, Audrey. There is nothing remarkable about our acquaintance."

"I wish someone would meet you and carry you off."

"Not from my mother?"

Audrey was silent; then she said abruptly:

"Pauline, do you ever look forward to the time when—when you will not have your mother?"

"I try not to do so."

"But if the doctors are right, it may come soon. Have you any plans?"

"How can I? I do not even know what my mother's income is. And she may be spared for several years yet, Audrey. She has been wonderfully better this year on the whole. Last year she seemed rapidly getting worse. One can never tell. I hope she may live longer than the doctors think."

"I don't believe you care what becomes of you," said Audrey. "You're a marvel!"

"I cannot imagine life for me without my mother," said Pauline; and then they dropped the subject.

The rest of the day was spent in enjoying Nature at its best.

As Audrey parted with Pauline at her gate that evening, the latter said, with much feeling:

"How small the petty trials of life seem after a day in the open air! I feel so much stronger, mentally and physically, for my day out, as if nothing will ever trouble me again."

Audrey kissed her warmly.

"You're a dear! And if Nature has done you good, you have done me good. I will write long letters to cheer you up when I'm abroad. Not that you will want that, but I know you like letters. Oh, how I wish you were going with me!"

And in her heart, Pauline echoed that wish.

Audrey departed, and soon wrote glowing descriptions of her first sight of Swiss mountains. Miss Vernon was a good traveller. She took her to Grindelwald for a fortnight, then to Interlaken and Thun, and then across the Simmenthal by railway down to the Lake of Geneva, where they met Dr. Vernon. And then all three went to Zermatt, where Audrey had her first experience of glacier climbing.

The last fortnight there was a dream of delight to her. Dr. Vernon laid aside his stern gravity and showed himself a genial spirit.

He and Audrey were the best of friends, and learnt to know each other in a very different way from what they would have done at Horsborough College. And Miss Vernon, with her private notebooks and humorous views of human nature, was a general favourite in the hotel.

"I never thought," wrote Audrey to Pauline, "that I should ever get to like Dr. Vernon as I do now. I almost hated him at first, then I got to respect and admire him, now I have learnt to like him for himself. He is very masterful, and, of course, gets a little spoilt by his position, but underneath all his determination and iron will, there is wonderful tenderness and consideration. One of the guides got hurt the other day, and had to be taken to hospital. He went to break the news to his wife, and Miss Vernon and I found him with her youngest baby on his knee, talking to her and comforting her like a woman. And though he is full of fun and humour, there is always the streak of real goodness running side by side with it. He is never ashamed of his religion; it comes out spontaneously; it is his very life. Yesterday, he preached for the chaplain here, and I never heard him preach better. He took for his text:

"'I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it
more abundantly.'

"And when he spoke of the 'more abundant' life each Christian was meant to have on earth, he thrilled one through and through. Life is getting fuller and deeper to me, Pauline. I feel I am walking through Ezekiel's river, but I think I am not much more than ankle deep at present."

As she read this letter, Pauline lifted her blue eyes in all their shining serenity to the sky above her and murmured:

"'Him that is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or
think.'"