AUDREY

OR

Children of Light

By

MRS. O. F. WALTON

AUTHOR OF

"CHRISTIE'S OLD ORGAN," "LITTLE DOT," "OLIVE'S STORY," "SAVED AT SEA," "A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES," ETC.

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard, E.C.

STORIES BY MRS. O. F. WALTON.

Christie's Old Organ.

A Peep Behind the Scenes.

Winter's Folly.

Olive's Story.

The Wonderful Door; or, Nemo.

My Little Corner.

My Mates and I.

Audrey; or, Children of Light.

Christie, the King's Servant.

Little Faith.

Nobody Loves Me.

Poppy's Presents.

Saved at Sea.

Taken or Left.

The Mysterious House.

Angel's Christmas.

Little Dot.

Doctor Forester.

The Lost Clue.

Scenes in the Life of an Old Arm-Chair.

Was I Right.

The Religious Tract Society 4, Bouverie Street, & 65, St. Paul's Churchyard

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. THE OLD HOUSE

CHAPTER II. A CURIOUS PLAYGROUND

CHAPTER III. A PAIR OF ROBINS

CHAPTER IV. FORGOTTEN GRAVES

CHAPTER V. THE COLLECTION

CHAPTER VI. ANGELS' VISITS

CHAPTER VII. THE MYSTERIOUS LIGHT

CHAPTER VIII. CHILDREN OF LIGHT

CHAPTER IX. UNDER THE YEW TREE

CHAPTER X. OLD JOE

CHAPTER XI. THE HOT SUMMER

CHAPTER XII. WHITE ROBES

Audrey

OR

CHILDREN OF LIGHT

CHAPTER I

The Old House

"NOW, Audrey!"

"Yes, Aunt Cordelia?"

"That's the third clean pinafore that you've had this week," said Aunt Cordelia severely, "and it's only Thursday. Now, Audrey!"

And when Aunt Cordelia said, "Now, Audrey!" The little girl who was addressed knew that something was seriously amiss.

She was a pretty little girl, with fair hair and brown eyes, and the warm summer sun had tanned her as brown as the nuts in the window of Aunt Cordelia's shop. She stood in the corner of the little back parlour looking ruefully at her pinafore, which was almost as black as if she had sent it up the chimney for five minutes' change of air.

"Now, Audrey!" repeated Aunt Cordelia more solemnly than before.

The poor child could not bear up against this last terrible appeal, and bursting into tears, she sobbed—

"I wish there weren't such things as pinafores; I do wish there weren't!"

"No such things as pinafores?" said Aunt Cordelia. "Why, what would become of careless little girls' frocks, if there were no nice pinafores to cover them, I should like to know?"

"I hate pinafores," sobbed the child, taking no notice of her aunt's words; "I wish the Queen would say nobody was ever to wear them again!"

"For shame, Audrey," said Aunt Cordelia, "you should never say you hate anything; it's very wicked indeed! Least of all you should never hate pinafores, that keep you nice and clean and tidy."

"But that's just what they don't do," said Audrey. "They will get black and grimy. I can't ever have a bit of fun because of them."

Then, as she dried her tears, a bright thought struck her, and she said, "Couldn't I have a black pinafore, Aunt Cordelia, and then it wouldn't show the dirt, would it now?"

"Well," said her aunt, laughing in spite of herself, "it will come to that one of these days, I expect. Now go and get a clean pinafore at once; and remember that's four this week," she called after her, as the little girl ran upstairs.

It was a quaint old house in which Audrey and her aunt, Miss Palmer, lived. Miss Palmer loved to boast about it to the customers who came to the shop. It was three hundred years old, she told them, and the wainscot was real oak, and the bannisters on the stairs were carved, and there were curious old cupboards with black oak doors, and there was a chimney so wide that none of the sweep's brushes were large enough to sweep it.

But though Miss Palmer was very proud of her old house, which had been in the family for so many years that the family had quite lost count of their number, yet it caused her a great deal of worry and anxiety. There never was such a place for dust as that old house; it collected in every corner, it lay upon the window-sills, and it settled upon the bright dish-covers and pewter jugs in the kitchen.

With this dust Miss Palmer was always waging war. From morning till night—week in and week out—she fought perseveringly with the ever-gathering dust, and tried to make her house as prim and as neat as her tidy soul longed to see it. But just as Audrey's pinafores would get black, so the old house would get dusty, and the two together brought many a line of care into Miss Palmer's forehead.

Audrey had lived with her aunt since she was a fortnight old. Her father was a baker in a town two hundred miles away. She had never seen him, and he had never seen her since her aunt had carried her off, a tiny, sickly baby, nearly eight years ago. Audrey's mother had died soon after she was born, and her father had sent a piteous letter to his sister Cordelia, telling her he did not know what would become of him and of his nine motherless children, now Alice was gone.

On receipt of that letter, Miss Palmer had at once put up her shop-shutters, packed a small carpetbag, locked up her old house, and had set off for the town, two hundred miles away, where her brother lived. She had only remained one night, for her business could not be neglected; but she had brought the baby back with her, having adopted it as her own.

A curious little thing Audrey looked, as Miss Palmer rolled her in a warm shawl before starting on her homeward journey, for even then she had a quantity of hair, which made her little face look, if possible, smaller and more fragile. But Miss Palmer, although she was an old maid, had had some experience with babies, having at one time been nurse in a respectable family. So the little one had every care and attention bestowed upon her, and had grown up a healthy, hearty child, always untidy, and never clean for half an hour together, but yet with cheeks like roses, and as plump and strong as even Miss Palmer's heart could wish.

She was very fond of the little girl, although she did not often show it. And though she sometimes rebuked her and said, "Now, Audrey!" in a voice which made her tremble, she was not unkind to her, and did not mean to be harsh.

"It was all for Audrey's good," she said to herself.

Thus Audrey, in spite of her pinafores, did not lead at all an unhappy life. She went to a private school in the next street, where an old woman tried to keep order amongst thirty or forty children, and, at such times as she succeeded in making her voice heard, to teach them reading, writing, and a few sums.

Audrey was a quick child, and learnt well all that it was possible to learn in such a place. She could read easily and distinctly, and would have been praised for her writing, had she not covered both herself and her copybook with blots. But the sums were her delight, and she was fast coming to the end of all the arithmetic which Miss Tapper was able to impart.

But there was one thing which Audrey had never been taught, either at school or at home, and that was the power of the love of Jesus. Her aunt made her say a prayer night and morning, but she never talked to her of the dear Lord who died instead of her, and who longed for her to be His loving and obedient child. If Audrey was good she was praised, if she was naughty she was blamed; but no one taught her who alone could make her good, or could teach her not to be naughty.

She was like a little ship beaten about by the waves, driven first one way and then another by the storm of temper on the wind of wilfulness. She had not yet learnt whose hand must be on the helm if she was to sail onward, and to reach the harbour in safety.

When Audrey appeared downstairs in her clean pinafore, she stood at the shop-door watching her aunt, who was weighing out a pound of tea for a customer—a stout, rosy woman with a basket on her arm.

"Aunt Cordelia," began the child; but the customer's tongue was going so fast that her aunt did not hear her.

"Aunt Cordelia," said the child again, as the woman, having finished her long story, took up her parcels, put them in her basket, and departed.

"Well, Audrey?"

"May I go out and play, Aunt Cordelia?"

"Go out and play? No, indeed!" said her aunt indignantly. "Go out and dirty another clean pinafore? Not if I know it! Take your doll and play with it in the window-seat, and keep yourself clean for five minutes, if you can do such a thing."

Audrey obeyed without a word, for she had been taught to do as she was told. She went into the parlour and took up her poor old wooden doll Olivia, who had lost all the colour from her cheeks and all the hair from her head. Audrey did not play with her; she stood with her in her arms gazing through the small square diamond-paned window into her playground outside.

CHAPTER II

A Curious Playground

AUDREY stood a long time looking out of that window. It opened like a door, and the ground outside was only two feet below it. Audrey could get into her playground in a moment by jumping through the window; and oh, how she longed to be there!

It was a strange place in which to play, for it was a very old and long-disused churchyard. A great tombstone stood close to the window, and shut out much of Audrey's view. A green, moss-grown, dirty old tombstone it looked; but it was only like all the other stones in that melancholy and deserted place.

They had all been put up to the memory of people long since dead—long since forgotten. No loving hands ever brought flowers or wreaths to lay on those old graves, for the ones who loved them and cared for them had themselves been long since numbered with the dead, and were lying in their own quiet resting-places.

Behind the old stones, so black with the smoke of years, so discoloured and weather-stained by the dews of many a summer and the rains of many a winter, Audrey could see the ancient church, which was fully as dismal and deserted as were the graves amongst which it stood. It had been built eight hundred years ago, and at one time large and fashionable congregations had no doubt attended it. Now they had all passed away, and with them had departed the usefulness of the old church. It was shut up and neglected, and was left to the spiders and other creeping things, which had made a happy home there.

That old churchyard was the happiest place in the world to Audrey; she had loved it ever since she was a little child. She knew every corner of it; she felt as if it belonged to her, and as if no one else had a right to be there—no one except little Stephen.

She shared everything with him, and she loved him as if he were her brother. There he was now under the lilac tree, sitting patiently waiting for her to come; and Aunt Cordelia would not let her go out to him. How disappointed Stephen would be! A tear trickled down Audrey's cheek at the thought, and fell on the top of poor Miss Olivia's head.

"What—Audrey crying!" said her aunt, coming briskly into the room. "What is it all about?"

Audrey wiped the tear off Miss Olivia's hair, and made no answer.

"What?" said her aunt. "Because I said you were not to go out? Now, Audrey!"

"Aunt, it isn't that—it isn't that," sobbed Audrey. "It's because Stephen will be disappointed, and it's his birthday. He is five years old to-day, is Stephen."

"Oh, it's his birthday, is it?" said her aunt, relenting. "Well, I did not know that. I suppose I must let you go; but mind your pinafore—that's all!"

"Thank you, aunty!" said Audrey, her face filling with sunshine in a moment, as she climbed on a chair, crept through the small square casement, and jumped to the ground outside.

The little boy gave a cry of joy as he saw her, and came slowly forward to meet her. He could not come quickly, for Stephen was a crippled child, and had never known what it was to run or to jump like other children.

When he was a baby, he was so small that he was quite a curiosity; and the neighbours declared that such a child had never been seen before. But his father had nursed him and watched him as a gardener tends and watches a little sickly plant of which he is very fond. And Stephen had learnt to walk when he was three years old, and could now creep about the churchyard and play quietly with Audrey amongst the old graves. He was his father's only treasure, for Stephen's mother had died when he was a baby; and he loved the little lad with all the love of his heart.

Stephen's father was a cobbler, and his window also opened on the churchyard; and there he sat mending his shoes, and now and then glancing at the children at their play. He was never happy when Stephen was out of his sight, for the child's back was deformed and crooked, and his legs were weak and unsound, and his father always feared some evil might befall him.

And this was Stephen's birthday, and he was five years old.

"Oh, Audrey, I'm glad you've come!" he cried. "I've waited and waited till school should leave, and it did seem so long! I've been looking in at the window of the church and, Audrey, do you know, there's a bird building his nest inside, just over the pulpit. Come and look!"

The two children went round to the other side of the church, and climbing on the top of a large flat tombstone they peered in through the yellow and discoloured panes of the window. What a strange place it was!

The high, rotten old pulpit looked as if it must soon fall; the narrow brown pews, with their high backs, and the large square pews, where the grand people once sat, were all alike gradually slipping into crooked positions, and leaning over on the uneven stone floor.

Audrey and Stephen loved to look into that old church; they peeped in at all times of the day—in the morning, when the church looked bright and almost cheerful, as the sunbeams danced on the old pillars and streamed down the deserted aisles; in the afternoon, when the long shadows fell across the chancel, and the coloured window at the western end threw blue and red lights on the font and on the mouldy pavement below; and again in the evening, just before going to bed, when the old church was weird and ghostly, and the stone figures on the tombs in the chancel looked to the children as if they were alive, and might stand up and call to them as they watched.

Stephen would tremble at such times and cling fast to Audrey; but she was never afraid of the old church by night or by day, and she would have slept as soundly and as happily in one of the square pews as she did in her own bed at home.

This afternoon the church looked very bright, and the sunshine showed the dust and cobwebs which clung to the roof, as Stephen pointed out the nest he had discovered.

It was a swallow's nest, and presently they saw the swallows themselves flying in and out of a broken pane in the east window, and adding finishing touches to their neat little nest.

"Isn't it lovely?" said Audrey. "We will come every day to watch them, and we shall see if any little birds come in the nest."

Then she lifted Stephen down from the stone, and they wandered together through the churchyard. What a forlorn place it was, full of long grass and weeds! All the grave-stones seemed to have fallen out of place, just as all the pews had done. Some were leaning one way and some another.

The names on most of them had long since been worn away, but others were still quite distinct; and Audrey loved to spell them out and to calculate how long it was since those buried in the old graves had died.

In one corner of the churchyard was a swing, which Stephen's father had put up for them; and just underneath the wall of the church was a hutch, where Stephen's white rabbit lived.

It was very, very seldom that any one visited the old church, except the deaf old woman who had the key of the gate; and she only came when some stranger, passing through the old city, happened to discover the whereabouts of the ancient building, and made it worth her while to unlock the door.

CHAPTER III

A Pair of Robins

THERE were three houses the windows of which looked into the old churchyard. Audrey and her aunt lived in one, Stephen and his father in another, but the third had long been empty. The windows were covered with dust, and the spiders and beetles had taken possession of it, just as they had done of the old church. However, to the children's astonishment, when they came back from watching the swallows on Stephen's birthday, they saw that the window of the empty house had been thrown wide open.

"Who can be inside? Dare you go and look, Audrey?"

"Yes, I'm not afraid," said the child; and leaving Stephen sitting on a flat tombstone, she went up to the window and peeped in.

"Who did you see?" said the little boy, when she came back.

"I saw nobody but a mouse," said Audrey, "a little grey mouse, sitting in the corner and eating a bit of bread; but the floor is all washed and clean, and the cobwebs are gone, and I saw a letter lying on the window-sill."

"Who can be there?" said Stephen. "We must watch and see."

They had not long to wait, for that very afternoon a man's face appeared at the window. He was a tall man, dressed in black, quite a gentleman, Audrey thought him. He was an old man, for his hair was very white, and he stooped a little; but he was very active in spite of his age, and his bright dark eyes seemed to be taking in all he saw at a glance. He only looked out for a minute, but as Audrey and Stephen crept nearer, they saw that he was very busy. He put down a bright-coloured carpet on the floor, and brought in a large, leather easy-chair and a little round table, and placed these close to the window, and he hung a canary in its cage just over the casement. Then he nailed up white muslin curtains, and Audrey and Stephen thought the old house looked very pretty, and were glad that some one had come to live in it.

"Will he live by himself, Stephen, do you think?" said Audrey.

But before Stephen had time to answer, Aunt Cordelia's voice was heard calling—

"Now, Audrey, tea-time! What about your pinafore?"

The pinafore was quite clean this time, and Audrey went in with a light heart; and as a reward for keeping clear of dirt, she was allowed to play with Stephen again after tea. She was eager to get out, that she might catch another glimpse of her old man, as she called him; but she found the shutters closed, and she and Stephen could only watch the flickering of the bright light inside.

"He's got a fire," said Stephen; "look at the smoke coming up out of the chimney."

"And he's got a lamp, too," said Audrey. "Look, you can see it through the crack in this shutter."

"THERE'S SOME ONE SITTING IN THE WINDOW!" HE SAID.

"Listen—" said Stephen. "What is he doing?"

The sound of hammering came again and again from the room, the window of which looked into the churchyard.

"He's putting up his pictures," said Audrey. "How pretty it will look in the morning!"

There was, however, no time for her to peep at it before school; but when she came home at twelve o'clock, she found Stephen full of excitement.

"There's some one sitting in the window, and I can't make out who it is," he said. "I can see something white, and it moves, but it isn't the old man's head; it's too white for that."

"Why don't you go and look?" said Audrey.

"I daren't," said Stephen; "I waited for you, Audrey."

The little girl went on tip-toe and peeped in.

"It's an old woman, Stephen," she reported, when she came back to him. "Such a pretty old woman, and she is sitting in that arm-chair, knitting, and she is smiling to herself as she knits. I wonder what she is thinking about that makes her smile. Come and look, Stephie."

Very, very quietly the two children crept to the window and peeped in.

"Is any one there?" said a pleasant voice.

But the children were so startled when she spoke, that they ran away and hid behind the bushes, and it was some time before they dared to venture again near the window.

"Is any one there?" said the kindly voice of the old woman. "I am sure I hear some little feet outside."

"Yes, ma'am," said Audrey; "it's me and Stephen."

"You and Stephen, is it?" said the old woman. "And what are you and Stephen like?"

Instead of answering, the two children put their heads in at the window.