Transcriber's note: Minor punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Inconsistent hyphenation has been retained as it appears in the original. LOVER OR FRIEND by ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY Author of 'Nellie's Memories, ' 'Not Like Other Girls, ' Etc. MacMillan and Co. , LimitedSt. Martin's Street, London1915 * * * * * THE NOVELS OF ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY POPULAR EDITION _Crown 8vo. Cloth extra. 3s. 6d. Each. _ NELLIE'S MEMORIES. WEE WIFIE. BARBARA HEATHCOTE'S TRIAL. ROBERT ORD'S ATONEMENT. WOOED AND MARRIED. HERIOT'S CHOICE. QUEENIE'S WHIM. MARY ST. JOHN. NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. FOR LILIAS. UNCLE MAX. ONLY THE GOVERNESS. LOVER OR FRIEND?BASIL LYNDHURST. SIR GODFREY'S GRAND-DAUGHTERS. THE OLD, OLD STORY. THE MISTRESS OF BRAE FARM. MRS. ROMNEY AND "BUT MEN MUST WORK. "OTHER PEOPLE'S LIVES. HERB OF GRACE. THE HIGHWAY OF FATE. RUE WITH A DIFFERENCE. A PASSAGE PERILOUS. AT THE MOORINGS. THE HOUSEHOLD OF PETER. NO FRIEND LIKE A SISTER. THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS. THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE HILL. THE KEY OF THE UNKNOWN. MACMILLAN AND CO. , LTD. , LONDON. * * * * * LOVER OR FRIEND MacMillan and Co. , LimitedLondon · Bombay · CalcuttaMelbourne The MacMillan CompanyNew York · Boston · ChicagoDallas · San Francisco The MacMillan Co. Of Canada, Ltd. Toronto Copyright_First Edition_ 1890_Reprinted_ 1893, 1894, 1898, 1899, 1901, 1902, 1904, 1906, 1910, 1915 CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE 1. THE BLAKE FAMILY ARE DISCUSSED 1 2. AUDREY INTRODUCES HERSELF 9 3. THE BLAKE FAMILY AT HOME 18 4. MICHAEL 28 5. THE NEW MASTER 36 6. THE GRAY COTTAGE 47 7. KESTER'S HERO 56 8. 'I HOPE BETTER THINGS OF AUDREY' 67 9. MAT 78 10. PRISCILLA BAXTER 88 11. 'A GIRL AFTER MY OWN HEART' 97 12. MOLLIE GOES TO DEEP-WATER CHINE 107 13. GERALDINE GIVES HER OPINION 117 14. 'I AM SORRY YOU ASKED THE QUESTION' 126 15. MRS. BLAKE HAS HER NEW GOWN 137 16. MOLLIE LETS THE CAT OUT OF THE BAG 146 17. AMONG THE BRAIL LANES 155 18. ON A SCOTCH MOOR 165 19. YELLOW STOCKINGS ON THE TAPIS 174 20. 'THE LITTLE RIFT' 183 21. 'HE IS VERY BRAVE' 192 22. 'NO, YOU HAVE NOT SPARED ME' 202 23. 'DADDY, I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU' 210 24. 'I FELT SUCH A CULPRIT, YOU SEE' 222 25. MR. HARCOURT SPEAKS HIS MIND 232 26. HOW GERALDINE TOOK IT TO HEART 242 27. WHAT MICHAEL THOUGHT OF IT 252 28. MICHAEL TURNS OVER A NEW LEAF 261 29. TWO FAMILY EVENTS 269 30. 'I COULD NOT STAND IT ANY LONGER, TOM' 278 31. 'WILL YOU CALL THE GUARD?' 286 32. 'I DID NOT LOVE HIM' 295 33. 'SHALL YOU TELL HIM TO-NIGHT?' 305 34. 'I MUST THINK OF MY CHILD, MIKE' 313 35. 'OLIVE WILL ACKNOWLEDGE ANYTHING' 323 36. 'HOW CAN I BEAR IT?' 332 37. 'I SHALL NEVER BE FREE' 341 38. 'WHO WILL COMFORT HIM?' 351 39. 'YOU WILL LIVE IT DOWN' 360 40. MICHAEL ACCEPTS HIS CHARGE 368 41. 'THERE SHALL BE PEACE BETWEEN US' 378 42. 'WILL YOU SHAKE HANDS WITH YOUR FATHER?' 389 43. MICHAEL'S LETTER 399 44. MOLLIE GOES INTO EXILE 409 45. AUDREY RECEIVES A TELEGRAM 418 46. 'INASMUCH' 426 47. A STRANGE EXPIATION 435 48. ON MICHAEL'S BENCH 445 49. 'LET YOUR HEART PLEAD FOR ME' 456 50. BOOTY'S MASTER 464 51. 'LOVE'S AFTERMATH' 472 LOVER OR FRIEND? CHAPTER I THE BLAKE FAMILY ARE DISCUSSED 'There is nothing, sir, too little for so little a creature as man. It is by studying little things that we attain the great art of having as little misery and as much happiness as possible. '--DR. JOHNSON. Everyone in Rutherford knew that Mrs. Ross was ruled by her eldestdaughter; it was an acknowledged fact, obvious not only to a keen-wittedperson like Mrs. Charrington, the head-master's wife, but even to theminor intelligence of Johnnie Deans, the youngest boy at Woodcote. Itwas not that Mrs. Ross was a feeble-minded woman; in her own way she wassensible, clear-sighted, with plenty of common-sense; but she was alittle disposed to lean on a stronger nature, and even when Geraldinewas in the schoolroom, her energy and youthful vigour began to assertthemselves, her opinions insensibly influenced her mother's, until atlast they swayed her entirely. If this were the case when Geraldine was a mere girl, it was certainlynot altered when the crowning glories of matronhood were added to herother perfections. Six months ago Geraldine Ross had left her father'shouse to become the wife of Mr. Harcourt, of Hillside; and in becomingthe mistress of one of the coveted Hill houses, Geraldine had not yetconsented to lay down the sceptre of her home rule. Mrs. Ross had acquiesced cheerfully in this arrangement. She had losther right hand in losing Geraldine; and during the brief honeymoon bothshe and her younger daughter Audrey felt as though the home machinerywere somewhat out of gear. No arrangement could be effected without agood deal of wondering on Mrs. Ross's part as to what Geraldine mightthink of it, and without a lengthy letter being written on the subject. It was a relief, at least to her mother's mind, when young Mrs. Harcourtreturned, and without a word took up the reins again. No one disputedher claims. Now and then there would be a lazy protest from Audrey--aconcealed sarcasm that fell blunted beneath the calm amiability of theelder sister. Geraldine was always perfectly good-tempered; the sense ofpropriety that guided all her actions never permitted her to grow hot inargument; and when a person is always in the right, as young Mrs. Harcourt believed herself to be, the small irritations of daily lifefall very harmlessly. It is possible for a man to be so cased in armourthat even a pin-prick of annoyance will not find ingress. It is true thearmour may be a little stifling and somewhat inconvenient for work-a-dayuse, but it is a grand thing to be saved from pricks. Mrs. Harcourt was presiding at the little tea-table in the Woodcotedrawing-room; there were only two other persons in the room. It wasquite an understood thing that the young mistress of Hillside shouldwalk over to Woodcote two or three afternoons in the week, to give hermother the benefit of her society, and also to discuss any little matterthat might have arisen during her brief absence. Mrs. Harcourt was an exceedingly handsome young woman; in fact, manypeople thought her lovely. She had well-cut features, a goodcomplexion--with the soft, delicate colouring that only perfect healthever gives--and a figure that was at once graceful and dignified. To addto all these attractions, she understood the art of dressing herself;her gowns always fitted her to perfection. She was always attiredsuitably, and though vanity and self-consciousness were not her naturalfoibles, she had a feminine love of pretty things, and considered it awifely duty to please the eyes of her lord and master. Mrs. Harcourt had the old-fashioned sugar-tongs in her hand, and wasbalancing them lightly for a moment. 'It is quite true, mother, ' shesaid decisively, as she dropped the sugar into the shallow teacup. Mrs. Ross looked up from her knitting. 'My dear Geraldine, I do hope you are mistaken, ' she returnedanxiously. Mrs. Ross had also been a very pretty woman, and even now she retained agood deal of pleasant middle-aged comeliness. She was somewhat stout, and had grown a little inactive in consequence; but her expression wassoft and motherly, and she had the unmistakable air of a gentlewoman. Inher husband's eyes she was still handsomer than her daughters; and Dr. Ross flattered himself that he had made the all-important choice of hislife more wisely than other men. 'My dear mother, how is it possible to be mistaken?' returned herdaughter, with a shade of reproof in her voice. 'I told you that I had along talk with Edith. Michael, I have made your tea; I think it is justas you like it--with no infusion of tannin, as you call it'; and sheturned her head slowly, so as to bring into view the person she wasaddressing, and who, seated at a little distance, had taken no part inthe conversation. He was a thin, pale man, of about five or six and thirty, with a reddishmoustache. As he crossed the room in response to this invitation, hemoved with an air of languor that amounted to lassitude, and a slightlimp was discernible. His features were plain; only a pair of clear blueeyes, with a peculiarly searching expression, distinguished him from ahundred men of the same type. These eyes were not always pleasant to meet. Certain people feltdisagreeably in their inner consciousness that Captain Burnett couldread them too accurately--'No fellow has a right to look you through andthrough, ' as one young staff officer observed; 'it is taking a libertywith a man. Burnett always seems as though he is trying to turn a fellowinside out, to get at the other side of him'--not a very eloquentdescription of a would-be philosopher who loved to dabble a little inhuman foibles. 'I have been listening to the Blake discussion, ' he said coolly, as hetook the offered cup. 'What a wonderful woman you are, Gage! you have asplendid talent for organisation; and even a thorough-paced scandal hasto be organised. ' 'Scandal!--what are you talking about, Michael?' 'Your talent for organisation, even in trifles, ' he returned promptly. 'I am using the word advisedly. I have just been reading De Quincey'sdefinition of talent and genius. He says--now pray listen, Gage--that"talent is intellectual power of every kind which acts and manifestsitself by and through the will and the active forces. Genius, as theverbal origin implies, is that much rarer species of intellectual powerwhich is derived from the genial nature, from the spirit of sufferingand enjoying, from the spirit of pleasure and pain, as organised more orless perfectly; and this is independent of the will. It is a function ofthe passive nature. Talent is conversant with the adaptation of means toends; but genius is conversant only with ends. "' 'My dear Michael, I have no doubt that all this is exceedingly clever, and that your memory is excellent, but why are we to be crushed beneathall this analysis?' 'I was only drawing a comparison between you and Audrey, ' he repliedtranquilly. 'I have been much struck by the idea involved in the word"genial"; I had no conception we could evolve "genius" out of it. Audreyis a very genial person; she also, in De Quincey's words, "moves inheadlong sympathy and concurrence with spontaneous power. " This is hisdefinition, mark you; I lay no claim to it: "Genius works under arapture of necessity and spontaneity. " I do love that expression, "headlong sympathy"; it so well expresses the way Audrey works. ' Mrs. Harcourt gave a little assenting shrug. She was not quite pleasedwith the turn the conversation had taken; abstract ideas were not to hertaste; the play of words in which Captain Burnett delighted bored herexcessively. She detected, too, a spice of irony. The comparison betweenher and Audrey was not a flattering one: she was far cleverer thanAudrey; her masters and governesses would have acknowledged that fact. And yet her cousin Michael was giving the divine gift of genius to hermore scantily endowed sister; genius! but, of course, it was onlyMichael's nonsense: he would say anything when he was in the humour fordisputation. Even her own Percival had these contentious moods. Themasculine mind liked to play with moral ninepins, to send all kinds ofexploded theories rolling with their little ball of wit; it sharpenedtheir argumentative faculties, and kept them bright and ready for use. 'Mother and I were talking about these tiresome Blakes--not of Audrey, 'she said in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. 'If you were listening, Michael, you must have heard the whole account of my conversation withMrs. Bryce. ' 'Oh, you mean Harcourt's sister, with whom you have been staying. Did Inot tell you that I had heard every word, and was admiring youradmirable tactics? The way in which you marshalled your forces ofhalf-truths and implied verities and small mounted theories wasgrand--absolutely grand!' Mrs. Harcourt was silent for a moment. Michael was very trying; he oftenexercised her patience most severely. But there was a threefold reasonfor her forbearance; first, he was her father's cousin, and beloved byhim as his own son would have been if he had ever had one; secondly, hisill-health entitled him to a good deal of consideration from anykind-hearted woman; and thirdly, and perhaps principally, he had thereputation for saying and doing odd, out-of-the-way things; and a manwho moves in an eccentric circle of his own is never on other people'splane, and therefore some allowance must be made for him. Mrs. Harcourt could, however, have heartily endorsed Mrs. Carlyle'sopinion of her gifted son, and applied it to her cousin--'He was ill tolive with. ' Somehow one loves this honest, shrewd criticism of the oldNorth-Country woman, the homely body who smoked short black pipes in thechimney-corner, but whom Carlyle loved and venerated from the bottom ofhis big heart. 'Ill to live with'--perhaps Michael Burnett, with hisinjured health and Victoria Cross, and the purpose of his life allmarred and frustrated, was not the easiest person in the world. Mrs. Harcourt was silent for an instant; but she never permitted herselfto be ruffled, so she went on in her smooth voice: 'I felt it was my duty to repeat to mother all that Edith--I mean Mrs. Bryce--told me about the Blakes. ' 'Please do not be so formal. I infinitely prefer that fine, princess-like name of Edith, ' remarked Michael, with a lazy twinkle inhis eyes; but Mrs. Harcourt would not condescend even to notice theinterruption. 'Mrs. Bryce, ' with a pointed emphasis on the name, 'was much concernedwhen she heard that my father had engaged Mr. Blake for his classicalmaster. ' 'And why so?' demanded Captain Burnett a little sharply. 'He has taken agood degree; Dr. Ross seems perfectly satisfied with him. ' 'Oh, there is nothing against the young man; he is clever and pleasant, and very good-looking. It is only the mother who is so objectionable. Perhaps I am putting it too strongly--only Mrs. Bryce and her husbanddid not like her. They say she is a very unsatisfactory person, and sodifficult to understand. ' 'Poor Mrs. Blake, ' ejaculated her cousin, 'to be judged before the Brycetribunal and found wanting!' 'Don't be ridiculous, Michael!' replied Mrs. Harcourt, in hergood-tempered way; 'of course you take her part simply because she isaccused: you are like Audrey in that. ' 'You see we are both genial persons; but, seriously, Mrs. Blake's listof misdemeanours seems absurdly trifling. She is very handsome; that ismisdemeanour number one, I believe. ' 'My dear, ' observed Mrs. Ross placidly at this point, for she had beentoo busy counting her stitches to concern herself with the strife ofwords, 'Geraldine only mentioned that as a fact: she remarked that Mrs. Blake was a very prepossessing person, that she had rather an uncommontype of beauty. ' 'That makes her all the more interesting, ' murmured Captain Burnett, with his eyes half closed. 'I begin to feel quite excited about thisMrs. Blake. I do delight in anything out of the common. ' 'Oh, Edith never denied that she was fascinating. She is a clever woman, too; only there were certain little solecisms committed that made herthink Mrs. Blake was not a thorough gentlewoman. They are undoubtedlyvery poor; and though, of course, that is no objection, it is so absurdfor people in such a position to try and ignore their little shifts andcontrivances. Honest poverty is to be respected, but not when it isallied to pretension. ' 'My dear Gage, was it you or Mrs. Bryce who made that exceedingly cleverspeech! It was really worthy of Dr. Johnson; it only wanted a "Sir" topoint the Doctor's style. "Sir, honest poverty is to be respected, butnot when it is allied to pretension"--a good, thorough Johnsonianspeech! And so the poor woman is poor?' 'Yes, but no one minds that, ' returned Mrs. Harcourt, somewhat hastily. 'I hope you do not think that anything in her outward circumstances hasprejudiced my sister-in-law against her. As far as that goes, Mrs. Blakedeserves credit; she has denied herself comforts even to give her son agood education. No, it is something contradictory in the woman herselfthat made the Bryces say they would never get on with her. She isimpulsive, absurdly impulsive; and yet at the same time she is reserved. She has a bad temper--at least, Edith declares she has heard herscolding her servant in no measured terms; and then she is soinjudicious with her children. She absolutely adores her eldest son, Cyril; but Edith will have it that she neglects her daughter. And thereis an invalid boy, too--a very interesting little fellow; at least, Idon't know how old he is--and she is not too attentive to him. Housekeeping worries her, and she is fond of society; and I know theBryces think that she would marry again if she got the chance. ' 'Let the younger widows marry. I hope you do not mean to contradict St. Paul. Have we quite finished the indictment, Gage? Be it known unto theinhabitants of Rutherford that a certain seditious and dangerous personof the name of Blake is about to take up her residence in the town--thelist of her misdemeanours being as follows, to wit, as they say in oldchronicles: an uncommon style of beauty, an inclination to replace thedeceased Mr. Blake, imperfect temper, impulsiveness tempered withreserve, unconventionality of habit, poverty combined withpretentiousness, and a disposition to slight her maternal duties--reallya most interesting person!' 'Michael, of course you say that to provoke me; please don't listen tohim, mother. You understand me if no one else does; you know it isAudrey of whom I am thinking. Yes, ' turning to her cousin, 'you mayamuse yourself with turning all my speeches into ridicule, but in yourheart you agree with me. I have often heard you lecturing Audrey on herimpulsiveness and want of common-sense. It will be just like her tostrike up a violent friendship with Mrs. Blake--you know how she takesthese sudden fancies; and father is quite as bad. I daresay they willboth discover she is charming before twenty-four hours are over; that iswhy I am begging mother to be very prudent, and keep the Blakes at adistance. ' 'You agree, of course, Cousin Emmeline?' 'Well, my dear, I don't quite like the account Geraldine gives me. Mrs. Bryce is a very shrewd person; she is not likely to make mistakes. Ithink I shall give Audrey a hint, unless you prefer to do so, Geraldine. ' 'I think it will come better from me, mother; you see, I shall justretail Edith's words. Audrey is a little difficult to manage sometimes;she likes to form her own notions of people. There is no time to be lostif they are coming in to-morrow. ' 'I thought your father said it was to-day that they were expected?' 'No; I am positive Percival said to-morrow. I know the old servant andsome of the furniture arrived at the Gray Cottage two days ago. ' Captain Burnett looked up quickly, as though he were about to speak, andthen changed his mind, and went on with his occupation, which wasteaching a small brown Dachs-hund the Gladstone trick. 'Now, Booty, when I say "Lord Salisbury, " you are to eat the sugar, butnot before. Ah, here comes the bone of contention!' he went on in apurposely loud tone, as a shadow darkened the window; and the nextminute a tall young lady stepped over the low sill into the room. 'Were you talking about me?' she asked in a clear voice, as she lookedround at them. 'How do you do, Gage? Have you been here all theafternoon? How is Percival? No more tea, thank you; I have just hadsome--at the Blakes'. ' 'At the Blakes'?' exclaimed her sister, in a horror-stricken tone, unable to believe her ears. 'Yes. I heard they had come in last night, so I thought it would be onlyneighbourly to call and see if one could do anything for them. I metfather on the Hill, and he quite approved. Mrs. Blake sends hercompliments to you, mother;' and as only an awful silence answered her, she continued innocently: 'I am sure you and Gage will like her. She ischarming--perfectly charming! the nicest person I have seen for a longtime!' finished Audrey, with delightful unconsciousness of the sensationshe was creating. CHAPTER II AUDREY INTRODUCES HERSELF 'Indeed, all faults, had they been ten times more and greater, would have been neutralised by that supreme expression of her features, to the unity of which every lineament in the fixed parts, and every undulation in the moving parts of her countenance, concurred, viz. , a sunny benignity, a radiant graciousness, such as in this world I never saw surpassed. ' DE QUINCEY. In this innocent fashion had Audrey Ross solved the Gordian knot offamily difficulty, leaving her mother and sister eyeing each other withthe aghast looks of defeated conspirators; and it must be owned thatmany a tangled skein, that would have been patiently and laboriouslyunravelled by the skilled fingers of Geraldine, was spoilt in thismanner by the quick impulsiveness of Audrey. No two sisters could be greater contrasts to each other. While youngMrs. Harcourt laid an undue stress on what may be termed the minormorals, the small proprieties, and lesser virtues that lie on thesurface of things and give life its polish, Audrey was for ever ridingfull-tilt against prejudices or raising a crusade against what she choseto term 'the bugbear of feminine existence--conventionality. ' Not that Audrey was a strong-minded person or a stickler for woman'srights. She had no advanced notions, no crude theories, on the subjectof emancipation; it was only, to borrow Captain Burnett's words, thather headlong sympathies carried her away; a passionate instinct of pityalways made her range herself on the losing side. Her virtues wereunequally balanced, and her generosity threatened to degenerate intoweakness. Most women love to feel the support of a stronger nature;Audrey loved to support others; any form of suffering, mental orphysical, appealed to her irresistibly. Her sympathy was oftenmisplaced and excessive, and her power of self-effacement, under somecircumstances, was even more remarkable, the word 'self-effacement'being rightly used here, as 'self-sacrifice' presupposes someconsciousness of action. It was this last trait that caused genuineanxiety to those who knew and loved Audrey best; for who can tell towhat lengths a generous nature may go, to whom any form of pain isintolerable, and every beggar, worthy or unworthy, a human brother orsister, with claims to consideration? If Audrey were not as clever as her elder sister, she had moreoriginality; she was also far more independent in her modes of actionand thought, and went on her own way without reference to others. 'It is not that I think myself wiser than other people, ' she said onceto her cousin, who had just been delivering her a lecture on thissubject. 'Of course I am always making mistakes--everyone does; but yousee, Michael, I have lived so long with myself--exactly two-and-twentyyears--and so I must know most about myself, and what is best for thisyoung person, ' tapping herself playfully. Audrey was certainly not so handsome as her sister. She had neitherGeraldine's perfection of feature nor her exquisite colouring; but shehad her good points, like other people. Her hair was soft and brown, and there was a golden tinge in it that wasgreatly admired. There was also a depth and expression in her gray eyesthat Geraldine lacked. But the charm of Audrey's face was her smile. Itwas no facial contortion, no mere lip service; it was a heartillumination--a sudden radiance that seemed to light up every feature, and which brought a certain lovely dimple into play. And there was one other thing noticeable in Audrey, and which broughtthe sisters into still sharper contrast. She was lamentably deficient intaste, and, though personally neat, was rather careless on the subjectof dress. She liked an old gown better than a new one, was never quitesure which colour suited her best, and felt just as happy paying a roundof calls in an old cambric as in the best tailor-made gown. It was onthis subject that she and Geraldine differed most. No amount of spokenwisdom could make Audrey see that she was neglecting her opportunitiesto a culpable degree; that while other forms of eccentricity might beforgiven, the one unpardonable sin in Geraldine's code was Audrey'srefusal to make the best of herself. 'And you do look so nice when you are well dressed, ' she observed withmournful affection on one occasion when Audrey had speciallydisappointed her. 'You have a beautiful figure--Madame Latouche said soherself--and yet you would wear that hideous gown Miss Sewell has made, and at Mrs. Charrington's "at home, " too. ' 'How many people were affected by this sad occurrence?' asked Audreyscornfully. 'My dear Gage, your tone is truly tragical. Was it myclothes or me--poor little me!--that Mrs. Charrington invited and wantedto see? Do you know, Michael, ' for that young man was present, 'I havesuch a grand idea for the future; a fashion to come in with Wagner'smusic, and æsthetics, and female lawyers--in fact, an advanced theoryworthy of the nineteenth century. You know how people hate "at homes, "and how bored they are, and how they grumble at the crush and thecrowd. ' 'Well, I do believe they are hideous products of civilisation, ' hereturned with an air of candour. 'Just so; well, now for my idea. Oh, I must send it to _Punch_, I reallymust. My proposition is that people should send their card by theirlady's-maid, and also the toilette intended for that afternoon, to beinspected by the hostess. Can you not imagine the scene? First comes theannouncement by the butler: "Lady Fitzmaurice's clothes. " Enter smilinglady's-maid, bearing a wondrously braided skirt with plush mantle andbonnet with pheasant's wing. Hostess bows, smiles, and inspects garmentsthrough her eyeglasses. "Charming! everything Lady Fitzmaurice wears isin such perfect taste. My dear Cecilia, that bonnet would just suitme--make a note of it, please. My compliments to her ladyship. " Now thenfor Mrs. Grenville, and so on. Crowds still, you see, but nohand-shaking, no confusion of voices; and then, the wonderful economy:no tea and coffee, no ices, no professional artistes, only a littlerefreshment perhaps in the servants' hall. ' 'Audrey, how can you talk such nonsense?' returned her sister severely. But Captain Burnett gave his low laugh of amusement. He revelled in thegirl's odd speeches; he thought Audrey's nonsense worth more than allGeraldine's sense, he even enjoyed with a man's _insouciance_ her daringdisregard of conventionality. How difficult it is for a person thoroughly to know him or her self, unless he or she be morbidly addicted to incessant self-examination!Audrey thought that it was mere neighbourliness that induced her to callon the Blakes that afternoon; she had no idea that a strong curiositymade her wish to interview the new-comers. Rutherford was far too confined an area for a liberal mind likeAudrey's. Her large and intense nature demanded fuller scope for itsenergies. With the exception of boys--who certainly preponderated inRutherford--there were far too few human beings to satisfy Audrey. Everyfresh face was therefore hailed by her with joy, and though perhaps shehardly went to Dr. Johnson's length when he complained that heconsidered that day lost on which he had not made a new acquaintance, still, her social instincts were not sufficiently nourished. The fewpeople were busy people; they had a tiresome habit, too, of formingcliques, and in many ways they disappointed her. With her richerneighbours, especially among the Hill houses, Geraldine was the reigningfavourite; Mrs. Charrington was devoted to her. Only little Mrs. Stanfield, of Rosendale, thought there was no one in the world like dearAudrey Ross. Audrey would not have mentioned her little scheme to her mother forworlds. Her mother was not a safe agent. She had long ago made Geraldineher conscience-keeper, but she had no objection to tell her father whenshe met him walking down the hill with his hands behind him, andevidently revolving his next Sunday's sermon. Dr. Ross was rather a fine-looking man. He had grown gray early, and hisnear-sight obliged him to wear spectacles; but his keen, clever face, and the benevolent and kindly air that distinguished him, alwaysattracted people to him. At times he was a little absent and whimsical;and those who knew them both well declared that Audrey had got all heroriginal ideas and unconventional ways from the Doctor. 'Father, I am going to call on the Blakes, ' she observed, as he wasabout to pass her as he would a stranger. 'Dear me, Audrey, how you startled me! I was deep in original sin, Ibelieve. The Blakes? Oh, I told young Blake to come up to dinnerto-night; I want Michael to see him. Very well. Give my respects to Mrs. Blake; and if there be any service we can render her, be sure you offerit;' and Dr. Ross walked on, quite unconscious that his daughter hadretraced her steps, and was following him towards the town. 'For Iwon't disturb him with my chatter, ' she thought, 'and I may as well goto Gage to-morrow; she is sure to keep me, and then it would be ratherawkward if she should take it into her head to talk about the Blakes. She might want to go with me, or perhaps, which is more likely, shewould make a fuss about my going so soon. If you want to do a thing, doit quickly, and without telling anyone, is my motto. Father is no one. If I were going to run away from home, or do anything equallyridiculous, I should be sure to tell father first; he would onlyrecommend me to go first class, and be sure to take a cab at the otherend, bless him!' Dr. Ross walked on in a leisurely, thoughtful fashion, not tooabstracted, however, to wave his hand slightly as knots of boys salutedhim in passing. Audrey had a nod and smile for them all. At the Hillhouses and at the school-house Geraldine might be the acknowledgedfavourite; but every boy in the upper and the lower school was Audrey'ssworn adherent. She was their liege lady, for whom they were proud to doservice; and more than one of the prefects cherished a tremulous passionfor the Doctor's daughter together with his budding moustache, and, strange to say, was none the worse for the mild disease. A pleasant lane led from the Hill to the town, with sloping meadows onone side. It was a lovely afternoon in June, and groups of boys wereracing down the field path on their way to the cricket ground. Audreylooked after them with a vivid interest. 'How happy they all look!' shesaid to herself. 'I do believe a boy--a real honest, healthy Englishboy--is one of the finest things in the creation. They are far happierthan girls; they have more freedom, more zest, in their lives. If theywork hard, they play well; every faculty of mind and body is trained toperfection. Look at Willie Darner running down that path! he is justcrazy with the summer wind and the frolic of an afternoon's holiday. There is nothing to match with his enjoyment, unless it be a kittensporting with the flying leaves, or a butterfly floating in thesunshine. He has not a care, that boy, except how he is to get over theground fast enough. ' Audrey had only a little bit of the town to traverse, but her progresswas almost as slow and stately as a queen's. She had so many friends togreet, so many smiles and nods and how-d'ye-do's to execute; but at lastshe arrived at her destination. The Gray Cottage was a small stonehouse, placed between Dr. Ross's house and the school-house, with twowindows overlooking the street. The living-rooms were at the back, andthe view from them was far pleasanter, as Audrey well knew. From thedrawing-room one looked down on the rugged court of the school-house, and on the gray old arches, through which one passed to the chapel andlibrary. The quaint old buildings, with the stone façade, hoary withage, was the one feature of interest that always made Audrey think theGray Cottage one of the pleasantest houses in Rutherford. Audrey knewevery room. She had looked out on the old school-house often and often;she knew exactly how it looked in the moonlight, or on a winter's daywhen the snow lay on the ground, and the ruddy light of a Decembersunset tinged the windows and threw a halo over the old buildings. Butshe liked to see it best in the dim starlight, when all sorts of shadowsseemed to lurk between the arches, and a strange, solemn light investedit with a legendary and imaginative interest. A heavy green gate shut off the Gray Cottage from the road. Audreyopened it, and walked up to the door, which had always stood open in theold days when her friends, the Powers, had lived there. It was open now;a profusion of packing-cases blocked up the spacious courtyard, and ablack retriever was lying on some loose straw--evidently keeping watchand ward over them. He shook himself lazily as Audrey spoke to him, andthen wagged his tail in a friendly fashion, and finally uttered a shortbark of welcome. Audrey stooped down and stroked his glossy head. She always made friendswith every animal--she had a large four-footed acquaintance with whomshe was on excellent terms--from Jenny, the cobbler's donkey, down toTim, the little white terrier that belonged to the sweep. She had justlost her own companion and follower, a splendid St. Bernard puppy, andhad not yet replaced him. As she fondled the dog, she heard a slightsound near her, and, looking up, met the inquiring gaze of a pair ofwide-open brown eyes. They belonged to a girl of fourteen, a slight, thin slip of a girl in a shabby dress that she had outgrown, and thickdark hair tied loosely with a ribbon, and falling in a wavy mass overher shoulders, and a small sallow face, looking at the present momentvery shy and uncomfortable. 'If you please, ' she began timidly, and twisting her hands awkwardly asshe spoke, 'mamma is very tired and has gone to lie down. We only movedin yesterday, and the place is in such a muddle. ' 'Of course it is in a muddle, ' replied Audrey in her pleasant, easyfashion. 'That is exactly why I called--to see if I could be of anyassistance. I am Miss Ross, from the lower school--will you let me comein and speak to you? You are Miss Blake, are you not?' 'Yes; I am Mollie, ' returned the girl, reddening and looking still moreuncomfortable. 'I am very sorry, Miss Ross--and it is very good of youto call so soon--but there is no place fit to ask you to sit down. Biddyis such a bad manager. She ought to have got things far more comfortablefor us, but she is old--and----' 'Miss Mollie, where am I to find the teapot?' called out a voicebelonging to some invisible body--a voice with the unmistakable brogue. 'There's the mistress just dying for a cup of tea, and how will I begiving it to her without the teapot? and it may be in any of those dozenhampers--bad luck to it!' 'I am coming, Biddy, ' sighed the girl wearily, and the flush ofannoyance deepened in her cheek. Somehow, that tired young face, burdened with some secret care, appealedto Audrey's quick sympathies. She put out her hand and gave her a lightpush as she stood blocking up the entry. 'My dear, I will help you look for the teapot, ' she said in the kindestvoice possible. 'You are just tired to death, and of course it isnatural that your mother should want her tea. If we cannot find it, Iwill run round and borrow one from the Wrights. Everyone knows whatmoving is--one has to undergo all sorts of discomforts. Let me put downmy sunshade and lace scarf, and then you will see how useful I can be';and Audrey walked into the house, leaving Mollie tongue-tied withastonishment, and marched into the dining-room, which certainly looked achaos--with dusty chairs, tables, half-emptied hampers, books, pictures, all jumbled up together with no sort of arrangement, just as the men haddeposited them from the vans. Here, however, she paused, slightly takenaback by the sight of another dark head, which raised itself over thesofa-cushions, while another pair of brown eyes regarded her with equalastonishment. 'It is only Kester, ' whispered Mollie. 'I think he was asleep. Kester, Miss Ross kindly wishes to help us a little--but--did you ever see sucha place?' speaking in a tone of disgust and shrugging her shoulders. 'Mollie can't be everywhere, ' rejoined the boy, trying to drag himselfoff the sofa as he spoke, and then Audrey saw he was a cripple. He looked about fifteen, but his long, melancholy face had nothingboyish about it. The poor lad was evidently a chronic sufferer; therewas a permanent look of ill-health stamped on his features, and thebeautiful dark eyes had a plaintive look in them. 'Mollie does her best, ' he went on almost irritably; 'but she and Cyrilhave been busy upstairs getting up the beds and that sort of thing, sothey could not turn their hand to all this lumber, ' kicking over somebooks as he spoke. 'Mollie is very young, ' returned Audrey, feeling she must take themunder her protection at once, and, as usual, acting on her impulse. 'Isyour name Kester? What an uncommon name! but I like it somehow. I am sosorry to see you are an invalid, but you can get about a little oncrutches?' 'Sometimes, not always, when my hip is bad, ' was the brief response. 'Has it always been so?' in a pitying voice. 'Well, ever since I was a little chap, and Cyril dropped me. I don'tknow how it happened; he was not very big, either. It is so long agothat I never remember feeling like other fellows'; and Kester sighedimpatiently and kicked over some more books. 'There I go, upsettingeverything; but there is no room to move. We had our dinner, such as itwas, in the kitchen--not that I could eat it, eh, Mollie?' Mollie shook her head sadly. 'You have not eaten a bit to-day. Cyril promised to bring in some bunsfor tea; but I daresay he will forget all about it. ' A sudden thought struck Audrey: these two poor children did look sodisconsolate. Mollie's tired face was quite dust-begrimed; she had beencrying, too, probably with worry and over-fatigue, for the reddenedeyelids betrayed her. 'I have a bright idea, ' she said in her pleasant, friendly way, 'whyshould you not have tea in the garden? You have a nice little lawn, andit will not be too sunny near the house. If Biddy will only be goodenough to boil the kettle I will run and fetch a teapot. It is no usehunting in those hampers, you are far too tired, Mollie. We will justlift out this little table. I see it has flaps, so it will be largeenough; and if you can find a few teacups and plates, I will be back ina quarter of an hour with the other things. ' Audrey did not specify what other things she meant; she left that apleasing mystery, to be unravelled by and by; she only waited to liftout the table, and then started off on her quest. The Wrights could not give her half she wanted; but Audrey in her ownerratic fashion was a woman of resources: she made her way quickly toWoodcote, and entering it through the back premises, just as her sisterwas walking leisurely up to the front door, she went straight to thekitchen to make her raid. Cooper was evidently accustomed to her young mistress's eccentricdemands. She fetched one article after another, as Audrey named them: ateapot, a clean cloth, a quarter of a pound of the best tea, a littletin of cream from the dairy, half a dozen new-laid eggs, a freshly-bakedloaf hot from the oven, and some crisp, delicious-looking cakes, finallya pat of firm yellow butter; and with this last article Audreypronounced herself satisfied. 'You had better let Joe carry some of the things, Miss Audrey, 'suggested Cooper, as she packed a large basket; 'he is round aboutsomewhere. ' And Audrey assented to this. Geraldine was just beginning her Blake story, and Mrs. Ross waslistening to her with a troubled face, as Audrey, armed with the teapot, and followed by Joe with the basket, turned in again at the green gateof the Gray Cottage. CHAPTER III THE BLAKE FAMILY AT HOME 'Her manner was warm, and even ardent; her sensibility seemed constitutionally deep; and some subtle fire of impassioned intellect apparently burnt within her. '--DE QUINCEY. There was certainly a tinge of Bohemianism in Audrey's nature. Shedelighted in any short-cut that took her out of the beaten track. Asudden and unexpected pleasure was far more welcome to her than anyfestivity to which she was bidden beforehand. 'I am very unlike Gage, ' she said once to her usual confidant, CaptainBurnett. 'No one would take us for sisters; even in our cradles we weredissimilar. Gage was a pattern baby, never cried for anything, anddelighted everyone with her pretty ways; and I was always grabbing atfather's spectacles with my podgy little fingers, and screaming for thecarving-knife or any such incongruous thing. Do you know my firstbabyish name for father?' 'I believe it was Daddy Glass-Eyes, was it not?' was the ready response, for somehow this young man had a strangely retentive memory, and seldomforgot anything that interested him. Audrey laughed. 'I had no idea you would have remembered that. How I loved to snatch offthose spectacles! "You can't see me now, Daddy Glass-Eyes, " I can hearmyself saying that; "daddy can't see with only two eyes. "' 'You were a queer little being even then, ' he returned, somewhat dryly. 'But I believe, as usual, we are wandering from our subject. You are amost erratic talker, Audrey. What made you burst out just now into thissisterly tirade?' 'Ah, to be sure! I was contrasting myself with Gage; it always amusesme to do that. It only proceeded from a speech the Countess made thisafternoon'; for in certain naughty moods Audrey would term her eldersister the Countess. 'She declared half the pleasure of a thingconsisted in preparation and anticipation; but I disagree with herentirely. I like all my pleasures served up to me hot andspiced--without any flavour reaching me beforehand. That is why I am socharmed with the idea of surprise parties and impromptu picnics, and allthat kind of thing. ' Audrey felt as though she were assisting at some such surprise party asshe turned in at the green gate, and relieved Joe of the basket. Molliecame running round the side of the house to meet her. She had washed herface, and brushed out her tangled hair and tied it afresh. 'Oh, what have you there?' she asked in some little excitement. 'MissRoss, have you really carried all these things? The kettle is boiling, and I have some clean cups and saucers. Kester has been helping me. Ithink mamma is awake, for I heard her open her window just now. ' 'What a nice, intelligent face she has!' thought Audrey, as she unpackedher basket and displayed the hidden dainties before the girl's delightedeyes. 'I am sure I shall like Mollie. She is not a bit pretty--I daresayGage and Michael would call her plain; but she has an honest look in herbrown eyes. ' 'Mollie, ' speaking aloud, 'if your mother has awakened fromher nap, she will be quite ready for her tea. May I go into the kitchena moment? I want Biddy to boil these eggs--they are new-laid; andperhaps you could find me a plate for the butter'; and as Mollie ran offAudrey turned coolly into the kitchen--a pleasant apartment, overlookingthe street--where she found a little old woman, with a wrinkled face anddark, hawk-like eyes, standing by the hearth watching the boilingkettle. The kitchen was in the same state of chaos as the dining-room--the tablecovered with unwashed dishes, and crates half unpacked littering thefloor. It was evident Biddy was no manager. As she stood there in herdirty cotton gown, with her thin gray hair twisted into a rough knot, and a black handkerchief tied loosely over her head, she was the imageof Fairy Disorder; her bent little figure and the blackened poker in herhand carried out the resemblance, as she looked up with her bright, peering eyes at the tall young lady who confronted her. 'Do you think I could find a saucepan, Biddy?' 'I suppose there is one about somewhere, ' was the encouraging answer. 'Perhaps Miss Mollie will be knowing; she boiled some potatoes fordinner. ' 'Do you mean this?' regarding the article with some disfavour. 'Would ittrouble you very much to wash it while I make the tea? I have some nicefresh eggs, which I think they will all enjoy. ' But Biddy only returned a snapping answer that was somewhatunintelligible, and carried out the saucepan with rather a sour face. 'Disagreeable old thing!' thought Audrey, as she made the tea, but sheafterwards retracted this hasty judgment. Biddy was a bad manager, certainly, but she was not without her virtues. She was faithful, and would slave herself to death for those she loved;but she was old for work, and the 'ache, ' as she called it, had got intoher bones. She had slept on the floor for two nights, and her poor oldback was tired, and her head muddled with the confusion and hermistress's fretful fussiness. Biddy could have worked well if any onehad told her exactly what to do, but between one order andanother--between Mr. Cyril's impatience and Miss Mollie's incapable, youthful zeal--she was just 'moithered, ' as she would have said herself. She brought back the saucepan after a minute, and Audrey boiled theeggs. As she looked down at the hissing, bubbling water, an amused smilestole over her features. 'If only Gage could see me now!' she thought; and then Mollie came inand rummaged in a big basket for teaspoons. Audrey carried out her teapot in triumph. Mollie had done her work welland tastefully: the snowy cloth was on the table; there were cups andsaucers and plates; the butter was ornamented with green leaves, thecakes were in a china basket. Kester was dusting some chairs. 'Doesn't it look nice!' exclaimed Mollie, quite forgetting her shyness. 'How I wish Cyril would come in! He does so love things to be nice--heand Kester are so particular. Mamma!' glancing up at a window abovethem, 'won't you please to hurry down? May I sit there, Miss Ross? Ialways pour out the tea, because mamma does not like the trouble, andKester always sits next to me. ' 'Is your mother an invalid, my dear?' asked Audrey, feeling that thismust be the case. 'Mamma? Oh no! She has a headache sometimes, but so do I--and Cyriloften says the same. I think mamma is strong, really. She can take longwalks, and she often sits up late reading or talking to Cyril; but ittries her to do things in the house, she has never been accustomed toit, and putting things to rights in Cyril's room has quite knocked herup. ' 'What are you talking about, you little chatterbox?' interrupted a gay, good-humoured voice; and Audrey, turning round, saw a lady in blackcoming quickly towards them: the next moment two hands were held out invery friendly fashion. 'I need not ask who our kind visitor is, ' went onMrs. Blake. 'I know it must be Miss Ross--no one else could have heardof our arrival. Have you ever experienced the delights of a move? Ithink I have never passed a more miserable four-and-twenty hours. I amutterly done up, as I daresay my little girl has told you; but the sightof that delicious tea-table is a restorative in itself. I had no ideaRutherford held such kind neighbours. Mollie, I hope you have thankedMiss Ross for her goodness. Dear me, what a figure the child looks!' 'Yes, mamma, ' replied Mollie, with a return of her shyness; and sheslunk behind the tea-tray. Audrey had apparently no answer ready. The oddest idea had come into hermind: Supposing Michael were to fall in love with Mrs. Blake? He was agreat admirer of beauty, though he was a little fastidious on thesubject, and certainly, with the exception of Geraldine, Audrey thoughtshe had never seen a handsomer woman. Mrs. Blake's beauty was certainly of no ordinary type: her features weresmall and delicate, and her face had the fine oval that one sees in theportraits of Mary Queen of Scots; her complexion was pale and somewhatcreamy in tint, and set off the dark hazel eyes and dark smooth coils ofhair to perfection. The long black dress and widow-like collar and cuffs suited the tall, graceful figure; and as Audrey noticed the quick changes of expression, the bright smile, and listened to the smooth, harmonious voice, shethought that never before had she seen so fascinating a woman. 'Gage will rave about her, ' was her mental critique. 'She will say atonce that she has never seen a more lady-like person--"lady-like, " thatis Gage's favourite expression. And as to Michael--well, it is neverMichael's way to rave; but he will certainly take a great deal ofpleasure in looking at Mrs. Blake. ' 'Will you sit by me, Miss Ross?' asked her hostess in a winning voice;and Audrey woke up from her abstraction, colouring and smiling. 'I have taken a great liberty with your house, ' she said, feeling forthe first time as though some apology were due; for the queenlybeneficence of Mrs. Blake's manner seemed to imply some condescension onher part in accepting such favours. 'I called to see if you needed anyassistance from a neighbour, and I found poor Mollie looking so tiredand perplexed that I stayed to help her. ' 'Mollie does her best, ' replied Mrs. Blake gently; 'but she is a sadmanager, and so is Biddy. They nearly worry me to death between them. Ifthey put a thing straight, it is sure to be crooked again the nextmoment. ' 'I am sure Mollie works hard enough, ' grumbled Kester; but his motherdid not appear to hear him. 'I am a wretched manager myself, ' she went on. 'If it were not forCyril, I do not know what would become of us. Poor Kester is no use toanyone. Would you believe it, Miss Ross, that, when we arrived lastnight, not a bedstead was up? That was Biddy's fault; she forgot toremind the men. We all slept on the floor except Kester. Cyril would putup his bed for him, though I told him that just for once, and on asummer's night, it would not hurt him. ' Mollie and Kester glanced at each other; and then Kester bit his lip, and looked down at his plate. 'Oh, mamma, ' began Mollie eagerly; but Mrs. Blake gave her a quick, reproving look. 'Please don't interrupt, Mollie. I want Miss Ross to understand; shemust be quite shocked to see such confusion. Cyril said this morning weshould be all ill if we passed another night in that way; so he andBiddy have been putting up the beds, and getting the upstairs rooms inorder, and Mollie was sent down to make the dining-room a little tidy. ' 'But, mamma----' pleaded Molly, turning very red. 'My dear little girl, ' observed her mother sweetly, 'Miss Ross can seefor herself the room has not been touched. ' 'Because Kester was asleep, and Cyril told me I must not wake him, 'persisted Molly, looking ready to cry again; 'and whenever I began, either you or Cyril called me;' and here, though Mollie dashed away atear bravely, another followed, and would splash down on her frock, forthe poor little soul was tired and dispirited, and Miss Ross would thinkshe had been idle, instead of having worked like a slave since earlymorning. 'Don't be a goose, Mollie!' retorted Mrs. Blake, with the readygood-humour that seemed natural to her; 'you are too old to cry at aword. Miss Ross, may I have one of those delicious cakes? I shall feel adifferent woman after my tea. Children, what can have become of yourbrother? I thought he was only going out for half an hour. ' 'He is to dine at Woodcote to-night, I believe, Mrs. Blake. ' 'Yes; Dr. Ross kindly asked him this morning. I must not begin to talkabout Cyril; that must be a tabooed subject. Of course, a mother has aright to be proud of her son--and such a son, too!--but it is notnecessary for her to bore other people. If you were to ask me'--with alow laugh of amusement at her own expense--'if I thought any othermother's son could be as handsome and clever and affectionate as myCyril, I should probably say no; but I will be prudent for once: I willnot try to prejudice you in his favour. Cyril shall stand on his ownmerits to-night; he will not need his mother's recommendation. ' Mrs. Blake made this speech with such a pretty air of assurance, such aconviction that there was something pardonable in her egotism, with suchwinning frankness, that Audrey forgave the thoughtless insinuationagainst poor overtasked Mollie. It was evident that Mrs. Blake idolisedher eldest son; her eyes softened as she mentioned his name. 'Ah, there is his step!' she added hastily. 'No one walks in the sameway as Cyril does; isn't it a light, springy tread? But, ' checkingherself with another laugh, 'I must really hold my tongue, or you willthink me a very silly woman. ' 'No; I like you all the better for it, ' replied Audrey bluntly. She hadno time to say more, for a gay whistle heralded the new-comer; and thenext moment a young man vaulted lightly over the low window-sill. He seemed a little taken aback at the sight of a stranger, shook handsrather gravely with Audrey, and then sat down silently beside hismother. Audrey's first thought was that Mrs. Blake had not said a word too much. Cyril Blake was certainly a very striking-looking young man. 'He is likehis mother, ' she said to herself; 'he is as handsome in his way as sheis in hers. There is something foreign in his complexion, and in thosevery dark eyes; it looks as though there were Spanish or Italian bloodin their veins. She hardly looks old enough to be his mother. Fathersaid he was two-and-twenty. What an interesting family they seem! I amsure I shall see a great deal of them. ' Cyril was a little silent at first. He was afflicted with theEnglishman's _mauvaise honte_ with strangers, and was a little young forhis age, in spite of his cleverness. But Mrs. Blake was not disposed toleave him in quiet. She knew that he could talk fluently enough when histongue was once loosened; so she proceeded to tell him of Audrey'sneighbourly kindness, treating it with an airy grace; and, of course, Cyril responded with a brief compliment or two. She then drew him out byskilful questions on Rutherford and its inhabitants, to which Audreyduly replied. 'And you like the place, Miss Ross?' 'Oh, of course one likes the place where one lives, ' she returnedbrightly. 'I was only a little girl when father came to Woodcote, so allmy happiest associations are with Rutherford. I grumble sometimesbecause the town is so small and there are not enough human beings. ' 'There are over three hundred boys, are there not?' asked Cyril, lookingup quickly. 'Oh, boys! I was not thinking of them. Yes, there are more than threehundred. I delight in boys, but one wants men and women as well. We havetoo few types. There are the masters and the masters' wives, and thedoctors and the vicar, and a curate or two, but that is all. A publicschool is nice, but its society is limited. ' 'Limited, but choice. ' 'Decidedly choice. Now, in my opinion, people ought not to be tooexclusive. I am sociable by nature. "The world forgetting, by the worldforgot" is not to my mind. I like variety even in character. ' 'I think we are kindred spirits, my dear Miss Ross. How often have youheard me say the same thing, Cyril! That is why I took such a dislike toHeadingly--the people there were so terribly exclusive and purse-proud. ' 'Not purse-proud, mother. You are wrong there. ' 'Well, they were very stiff and inhospitable; there was no getting onwith them at all. I think the Bryces were the worst. Mrs. Bryce is theproudest woman I know. ' 'Mother, ' observed Cyril warningly, 'it is never safe to mention names. I think--that is, I am sure I have heard that Mrs. Bryce is a connectionof Miss Ross. ' 'Oh, I hope not!' in an alarmed voice. 'Do--do forgive me my very plainspeaking. ' 'There is no harm done, ' returned Audrey lightly. 'Mrs. Bryce is only aconnection of my sister's by marriage. She is Mr. Harcourt's sister. Iam afraid I sympathise with you there. I have no special liking for Mrs. Bryce myself; she is clever, an excellent manager, but she is a littletoo proper--too fond of laying down the law for my taste. ' 'Oh, I am so glad!' clapping her hands. 'Cyril is always keeping me inorder; he is so afraid what I may say next. ' 'You certainly are a most incautious person, mother. ' 'See how my children keep me in order, ' with an air of much humility. 'Mrs. Harcourt is your sister, and lives at Rutherford. I do hope she islike you, Miss Ross. ' 'No, indeed, ' shaking her head and laughing. 'We are very differentpersons. Geraldine is far better than I am. She is exceedingly clever, most accomplished, and so handsome that everyone falls in love with herat first sight. She is quite a little queen here, and no one disputesher sway. ' Mrs. Blake gave an eloquent shrug, but she did not venture on a moredirect answer; and Audrey sat and smiled to herself as she thought thatGeraldine and Edith Bryce were certainly pattern women. How pleasant it all was! Audrey had never enjoyed herself more; she wasmaking herself quite at home with these Blakes. But surely there was noneed to hurry home; Gage was with her mother. She might indulge herselfa little longer. She longed to talk more to Kester and Mollie, but shefound it impossible to draw them into the conversation. They sat quitesilent, only every now and then Audrey's quick eyes saw an intelligentlook flash between them--a sort of telegraphic communication. 'I hope those two poor children are not left out in the cold, ' shethought uneasily. 'Their brother does not seem to notice them; he andhis mother are wrapped up in each other. It is hardly fair. ' Again Audrey was forming a hasty judgment. 'The country is not very pretty, is it?' asked Cyril at this moment, andshe woke up from her reverie. 'It is a little flat, but it has its good points; it is a splendidhunting country, as you know. Oh yes, I think it pretty. There are nicewalks. I am very partial to the grass lanes we have about here. In fineweather they are delicious. ' 'And you are a good walker?' 'Oh yes. I am strong, and there is nothing I enjoy so much. One is suchsplendid company for one's self. Leo and I used to have suchexpeditions! Leo was a St. Bernard puppy, only he died three weeks agoof distemper. I cannot bear to speak of him yet. He was my playfellow, and so handsome and intelligent! My cousin, Captain Burnett, haspromised to find me another dog. He has a Dachs-hund himself--such aloving, faithful little creature. He is obliged to take Booty whereverhe goes, or the poor thing would fret himself to skin and bone. Is thatretriever your special property?' and Audrey looked at Cyril as shespoke. 'No; he belongs to Kester, ' he returned carelessly. Then, with a quickchange of tone: 'Are you tired, old fellow? Would you like me to helpyou indoors?' and, as Kester languidly assented, he picked up hiscrutches, and taking possession of one, substituted his arm, whileMollie ran before them with a couple of cushions. Mrs. Blake looked after them, and a cloud came over her face. 'Is it not sad?' she said, in a melancholy tone. 'That poor boy--he willbe a drag on Cyril all his life. He will never be able to gain his ownliving. He is fifteen now. ' 'It was the result of an accident, was it not?' But Audrey regretted her abrupt question, as a troubled expression cameinto the mother's eyes. 'Who told you that?' she asked impatiently. 'Of course it was Mollie. She is a sad chatterbox. And I suppose she mentioned, too, that it wasCyril's fault?' 'Indeed it was not Mollie, ' returned Audrey eagerly. 'Kester spoke of ithimself. He did not enter into particulars. He just said his brother hadlet him fall when he was a child. ' 'Yes, it was a sad business, ' with a sigh. 'I wonder if anyone has everhad so many troubles as I have. Life has been one long struggle to me, Miss Ross. But for Cyril I should have succumbed again and again. Nowidowed mother has ever been more blessed in a son;' then, dropping hervoice: 'Please do not mention the subject before Cyril; he is dreadfullysore about it. It was a pure accident: they were all lads together, andhe and his schoolfellows were racing each other. I think they weresteeplechasing, and he had Kester on his back. There was a fence and astony ditch, and the foolish child tried to clear it; they might bothhave been killed, it was such a nasty place, but Kester was the onlyone hurt. He was always a delicate little fellow, and hip-disease cameon. He does not suffer so much now, but he will always be a cripple, andhe has bad times now and then. Cyril is so good to him; he has neverforgiven himself for the accident. ' 'I can understand that, ' returned Audrey in a moved voice; and thenCyril came back and she rose to go. 'I shall see you again, ' she saidsmiling, as he accompanied her to the gate. 'I hear my father has askedyou up to Woodcote this evening to meet the Harcourts. ' 'Yes, ' he returned briefly, looking as though the prospect were aformidable one. 'I could not very well refuse Dr. Ross under thecircumstances. ' 'Did you wish to refuse?' rather mischievously. 'No, of course not, ' but smiling too; 'I feel as though it were aneglect of duty. Look at the muddle in there! and those poor children. Ihave been working like a horse to-day, but there was too much to doupstairs; I left the living-rooms for this evening. ' 'You can work all the harder to-morrow. ' He shook his head. 'To-morrow I have to begin lessons. I suppose the muddle must just goon, and we must live as we can. Biddy is old and worn out, and Mollie istoo young to direct her. ' 'I will come round and help her, ' was Audrey's impulsive answer. 'Thisis just the sort of thing I love. I do so enjoy putting a place torights. ' 'But, Miss Ross, we have no right to trespass on your kindness, ' repliedCyril, flushing slightly as he spoke. But Audrey only smiled and showed her dimple. 'Tell Mollie I shall come, ' was her only answer. '_Au revoir_, Mr. Blake. ' And Audrey walked on rapidly to Woodcote, feeling that she had spent avery amusing afternoon, and quite unaware of the commotion she wouldraise in her mother's and sister's breasts by those few innocentlyspoken words, 'I have been having tea at the Blakes'. ' CHAPTER IV MICHAEL 'And when God found in the hollow of His hand This ball of Earth among His other balls, And set it in His shining firmament, Between the greater and the lesser lights, He chose it for the Star of Suffering. ' UGO BASSI. It is better to draw a veil over the scene that followed Audrey's abruptannouncement. As Captain Burnett said afterwards, 'Geraldine's attitudewas superb; she was grand, absolutely grand. ' Mrs. Ross was, as usual, a little plaintive. 'If you had only mentioned where you were going, Audrey, ' she saidquietly; 'but you are so impulsive, my dear. Geraldine would haveaccompanied you with pleasure a little later, and you could have left mycard, and a civil message for Mrs. Blake; that would have been farnicer, would it not, my love?' with an appealing look at her youngadviser. 'You can send the message by Mr. Blake this evening, ' replied Audrey. She never argued with her mother if she could possibly help it. In thefirst place, it was not filial, and in the second, it was perfectlyuseless, as there was always a mental reservation in Mrs. Ross's mind, and she could seldom be induced to decide any question without referenceto Geraldine. 'I think father might have consulted Percival before he asked anotherguest, ' observed Mrs. Harcourt in rather a dubious tone, for she wasexceedingly jealous of her husband's dignity. 'Percival was told that wewere to be quite alone. I was not going home to change my dress. But ifthis young man be invited----' 'My darling, ' interrupted her mother, 'you must not think of walkingback all that way--that gown is lovely, is it not, Audrey?--and one moreperson does not signify. No doubt your father was anxious that Percivalshould see Mr. Blake and give him his opinion; he thinks so much ofPercival's judgment, does he not, Audrey?' Now here was the opportunity for a douceur, for a nicely-adjustedcompliment, to smooth her sister's ruffled brow; but Audrey was far tooblunt and truthful for such finesse. 'Father told me that he wanted Michael to see Mr. Blake--I don't believehe was thinking of Percival--because of course the lower school hasnothing to do with Hillside. There is not the least need of changingyour gown, Gage, for of course we are only a family party. Will you comeup with me to my room now, or will you go with mother presently?' 'I will come with you, ' returned Mrs. Harcourt. Audrey was inclined to be contumacious, but she would not yield thematter so meekly. Audrey was always more contradictory when Michael wasin the background; they seemed to play into each other's hand somehow, and more than once Geraldine was positive she had heard a softly-uttered'Bravo!' at some of Audrey's ridiculous speeches. 'Come along, then, ' returned Audrey good-humouredly; and as they leftthe room together, Captain Burnett laid down his book. 'I am afraid she is going to catch it, Cousin Emmeline; it will be acase of survival of the fittest--Geraldine is strong, but Audrey canhold her own. I back Audrey. ' 'My dear, ' remonstrated Mrs. Ross, as she put away her knitting, 'youtalk as though my girls were likely to quarrel. Geraldine is far toosweet-tempered to quarrel with anyone; she will only give Audrey alittle advice--dear Audrey is dreadfully careless, she takes after herfather in that; John is always doing imprudent things. Geraldine hasmade me most uncomfortable this afternoon; I am quite sure that Mrs. Blake will be an undesirable friend for Audrey. ' 'Do you always see through other people's spectacles?' he asked quietly. 'I have a habit of judging things for myself--I never take anythingsecond-hand; it is such an unpleasant idea, airing other people'sopinions. Fancy a sensible human being turning himself into a sort ofpeg or receptacle for other folks' theories! No, thank you, my dearcousin; my opinions are all stamped with "Michael Burnett, his mark. "' 'Men are different, ' she replied tranquilly; and then she left him to goin search of her husband. 'What a world we live in, Booty!' observed Captain Burnett, as he walkedto the window and his four-footed favourite followed him. 'Oh, you wanta run, do you?' as the little animal looked at him wistfully. 'You thinkyour master uncommonly lazy this afternoon--you don't happen to have apain in your leg, do you, old fellow--a nasty gnawing, grumbling sort ofpain?--there is nothing like neuralgia for making a man lazy. Well, I'llmake an effort to oblige you, my friend--so off you go'; and CaptainBurnett threw a stone, and there was a delighted bark and an excitedpatter of the short legs, and Booty vanished round a corner, while hismaster followed him more slowly. The garden of Woodcote was the best in Rutherford; even the Hill housescould not compete with it: an extensive lawn lay before the house, witha shrubbery on one side, and the trees and shrubs were exceedingly rare;a little below the house the ground sloped rather steeply, and asuccession of terraces and flower-beds led down to a miniature lake witha tiny island; here there were some swans and a punt, and the tall treesthat bordered the water were the favourite haunt of blackbirds andthrushes. Captain Burnett sat down on a bench facing the water, and Booty stoodand barked at the swans. How sweet and peaceful everything looked thisevening! The water was golden in the evening sunshine; a blue tit wasflashing from one tree to another; some thrushes were singing amelodious duet; the swans arched their snowy necks and looked proudly athim; some children's voices were audible in the distance. There was athoughtful expression in Captain Burnett's eyes, a concentratedmelancholy that was often there when he found himself utterly alone. Captain Burnett had one confidant--his cousin John. Not that he oftencalled him by that name, their ages were too dissimilar to permit sucheasy familiarity; but he had once owned to Dr. Ross, to the man wholoved him as a father, that his life had been a failure. 'Only a failure in the sense that you are no longer fit for activeduty, ' had been the reply. 'You must not forget the Victoria Cross, Michael. ' 'Oh, that was nothing; any other man would have done the same in myplace, ' Michael had retorted with some heat, for he hated to be remindedof his good deeds. Perhaps he was right: hundreds of brave young Englishmen would haveacted in the same way had they been placed in the same circumstances. The English army is full of heroes, thank God! Nevertheless, MichaelBurnett had earned his Victoria Cross dearly. It was in one of the Zulu skirmishes. A detachment of the enemy hadsurprised them at night; but the little handful of men had repulsed thembravely. Captain Burnett knew help was at hand; they had only to holdout until a larger contingent should join them. He hoped things weregoing well. They had just driven the Zulus backwards, when, in the dimlight of the flickering watch-fires, he saw dusky figures moving in thedirection of a hut where a few sick and wounded men had been placed. There was not a second to lose; in another moment the poor fellows wouldhave been butchered. Calling out to some of his men to follow him, andnot perceiving that he was alone, he tore through the scrub, and enteredthe hut by a hole that served as a window. Michael once owned that hefought like a demon that night; but the thought of the few helplesswretches writhing in terror on their pallet beds behind him seemed togive him the force of ten men. 'They shall pass only over my body! Godsave my poor fellows!' was his inward cry, as he blocked up the narrowdoorway and struck at his dusky foes like a madman. More than one poor lad lived to look back on that day, and to blesstheir gallant deliverer. 'No one else could have done it, sir, ' observedone of them; 'but the Captain never knew how to give in. I was watchingthem, and I thought the devils would have finished him. He staggeredback once, and Bob Jaggers gave a groan, for we thought it was all upwith us; and though I would have made shift to fight before I would bekilled like a rat in a hole, one could not do much with a broken arm. When our men rushed in, he was pretty nearly finished; one of thesavages had him by the knees. Of course they gave him the Cross. For thematter of that, he ought to have had it before. 'Did you ever hear how he saved little Tom Blatchley's life? Well, Iwill tell you'; and hereupon followed one of those touching incidentswhich are so frequent, and which gild with glory even the bloody annalsof war. Yes, they gave him the Victoria Cross; but as he lay on his bed ofsuffering, disabled by cruel wounds, Michael knew that he had won it atthe expense of all that men count dear. 'Greater love hath no man thanthis, that a man lay down his life for his friends. ' There were timeswhen, in his anguish, Michael could have prayed that his life--hisuseless, broken life--might have been taken too. How gladly, howthankfully would he have yielded it! how willingly would he have turnedhis face to the wall, and ended the conflict, sooner than endure the farbitterer ordeal that lay before him! for he was young, and he knew hiscareer was ended, and that, brave soldier as he was, he could no longerfollow the profession that he loved. It was doubtful for a long time howfar he would recover from the effects of that terrible night; his woundswere long in healing. The principal injuries were in the head and thigh. One or two of his physicians feared that he would never walk again; thelimb seemed to contract, and neuralgic pains made his life a misery. Toadd to his troubles, his nerves were seriously affected, and though hewas no coward, depression held him at times in its fell grip, and mockedhim with delusive pictures of other men's happiness. Like Bunyan's poortempted Christian, he, too, at times espied a foul fiend coming over thefield to meet him, and had to wage a deadly combat with many a doubt andhard, despairing thought. 'You are a wreck, Michael Burnett!' the grimtempter seemed to say to him. 'Better be quit of it all! Before you arethirty your work is over; what will you do with the remainder of yourlife? You are poor--perhaps crippled; no woman will look at you. Youhave your Cross--a little bit of rusty iron--but does such empty gloryavail? You have aches and pains in plenty; your future looks promising, my fine fellow! A hero! In truth those ten minutes have cost you dearly!no wonder you repent of your rash gallantry!' 'I repent of nothing, ' Michael would rejoin, in that dumb inwardargument so often renewed. 'If it were to come over again, I would dojust the same. "Greater love hath no man than this";' for in hissemi-delirious hours those Divine words seemed to set themselves tosolemn music, and to echo in his brain with ceaseless repetition. 'Alife given, a life laid down, a life spent in suffering--is it not allthe same--a soldier's duty? Shall I shirk my fate? Would it not bebetter to bear it like a man?' and Michael would set his teeth hard, andwith an inward prayer for patience--for in the struggle the man waslearning to pray--girded himself up again to the daily fight. Once, when there had been a fresh outbreak of mischief, and they hadbrought him down to Woodcote, that he might be more carefully nursedthan in the town lodgings which was all Michael Burnett called home, Audrey, who, after her usual pitiful fashion, wore herself out in herefforts to soothe and comfort the invalid, once read to him somebeautiful lines out of a poem entitled 'The Disciples. ' Michael, who was in one of his dark moods, made no comment on thepassage which she had read in a trembling voice of deep feeling; butwhen she left the room on some errand, he stretched out his hand, andread it over again: 'But if, impatient, thou let slip thy cross, Thou wilt not find it in this world again, Nor in another; here, and here alone, Is given thee to suffer for God's sake. ' When Audrey returned the book was in its place, and Michael was lyingwith his eyes closed, and the frown of pain still knitting his temples. He was not asleep, but she dare not disturb him by offering to go onwith the poem. She sat down at a little distance and looked out of thewindow, rather sorrowfully. How strong she was! how full of health andenjoyment! and this poor Michael, who had acted so nobly----Audrey'seyes were full of tears. And all the time Michael was saying to himself, 'After all, I am a coward. What if I must suffer? Life will not last forever. ' By and by Michael owned that even his hard lot had compensations. Hebecame used to his semi-invalid existence. Active work of any sort wasimpossible--that is, continuous work. He had tried it when his friendshad found an easy post for him, and had been obliged to give it up. Hestill suffered severely from neuralgic headaches that left him worn andexhausted. His maimed leg often troubled him; he could not walk far, andriding was impossible. 'You must make up your mind to be an idle man--at least, for thepresent, Captain Burnett, ' one of his doctors had said to him, andMichael had languidly acquiesced. To be a soldier had been his oneambition, and he cared for little else. He had enough to keep him inmoderate comfort as a bachelor, and he had faint expectations from anuncle who lived in Calcutta; but when questioned on this point, Michaelowned he was not sanguine. 'My Uncle Selkirk is by no means an old man, ' he would say. 'Anyinsurance office would consider his the better life of the two. Besides, he might marry--he is not sixty yet; even old men make fools ofthemselves by taking young wives. It is ill waiting for dead men's shoesat the best of times. In this case it would be rank stupidity. ' 'Then you will never be able to marry, Michael;' for it was to Mrs. Rossthat this last speech was addressed. 'My dear cousin, do you think any girl would look at a sickly, ill-tempered fellow like me?' was the somewhat bitter reply; and Mrs. Ross's kind heart was troubled at the tone. 'You should not call yourself names, my dear. You are not ill-tempered. No one minds a little crossness now and then. Even John can say a sharpword when he is put out. I think you are wrong, Michael. You are rathermorbid on this point. They say pity is akin to love. ' 'But I object to be pitied, ' he returned somewhat haughtily; 'and whatis more, I will commend myself to no woman's toleration. I will not bedominated by any weaker vessel. If I should ever have the happiness ofhaving a wife--but there will be no Mrs. Michael Burnett, CousinEmmeline--I should love her as well as other men love their wives, but Ishould distinctly insist on her keeping her proper place. Justimagine'--working himself up to nervous irritation--'being at the mercyof some healthy, high-spirited young creature, who will insult me everyday with her overplus of pure animal enjoyment. The effect on me wouldbe crushing--absolutely crushing. ' 'Audrey is very high-spirited, Michael, but I am sure she sympathiseswith you as nicely as possible. ' 'We were not speaking of Audrey, were we?' he replied, with a slightchange of expression. 'I think it is the Ross idiosyncrasy to wanderhopelessly from any given subject; I imagined that we were suggesting animpossible wife for your humble servant. Far be it from me to denymyself comfort in the shape of feminine cousins or friends. ' 'Yes, of course; and Geraldine and Audrey are just like your sisters, Michael. ' 'Are they?' a little dryly. 'Well, as I never had a sister, I cannot bea good judge; but from what other fellows tell me, I imagine Audreybullies me enough to be one. Anyhow, I take the brotherly prerogative ofbullying her in return. ' And with this remarkable statement the conversation dropped. Captain Burnett spent half his time with his cousins, oscillatingbetween Woodcote and his lodgings in town. Dr. Ross wished him to livewith them entirely; he had a great respect and affection for his youngkinsman, and, as he often told his wife, Michael helped him in a hundredways. 'He has the clearest head and the best common-sense I ever knew in anyman. I would trust Mike's judgment before my own. Poor fellow! he hasgone through so much himself, that I think he sees deeper into thingsthan most people. It is wonderful what knowledge of character he has. The boys always say there is no cheating the Captain. ' Michael owned himself grateful for his cousin's kindness, but hedeclined to call Woodcote his home. 'I must have my own diggings, ' was his answer--'a burrow where I can runto earth when my pet fiend tries to have a fling at me. Seriously, thereare times when I am best alone--and, then, in town one sees one'sfriends. For a sick man, or whatever you like to call me, my taste isdecidedly gregarious. "I would not shut me from my kind. " Oh dear no!There is no study so interesting as human nature, and I am avowedly astudent of anthropology; London is the place for a man with a hobby likemine. ' Nevertheless, the chief part of Captain Burnett's time had been spentlatterly at Woodcote. CHAPTER V THE NEW MASTER 'We agree pretty well in our tastes and habits--yet so as "with a difference. " We are generally in harmony, with occasional bickerings, as it should be among near relatives. '--ESSAYS OF 'ELIA. ' Booty grew tired of barking at the swans long before his master hadroused from his abstraction; it was doubtful how much longer CaptainBurnett would have sat with his eyes fixed dreamily on the water, if atall figure in white had not suddenly appeared under the arching trees, and Audrey stood before him. 'I knew where I should find you, ' she said, as he rose rather slowlyfrom his seat. 'I have christened this bench Michael's Seat. How sweetthe lake looks this evening! I wish I could stay to enjoy it, but I mustgo back to the drawing-room. Percival has come, and, do you know, thedressing-gong sounded ten minutes ago, and you have taken no notice ofit. ' 'I will go at once, ' was the answer, but to his surprise she stoppedhim. 'Wait one moment, Michael; I have to ask you a favour. I want you to bekind, and to take a great deal of notice of Mr. Blake. He is very youngand shy, and though his mother says he is so clever--and, indeed, fathersays so, too--one would not find it out, because he is so quiet, and youknow how formidable Percival must be to a shy person. ' 'And you want me to take your new _protégé_ under my wing?' he returned, dissembling his surprise. She had put her hands on his arm, and was speaking with unusualearnestness, and he knew, by a certain look in her eyes, that somethinghad vexed her. 'He is not my _protégé_, ' she answered quickly. 'You talk as though hewere a boy, a mere child, instead of being what he is--an exceedinglyclever and gentlemanly young man. Michael, you generally understandme--you are always my ally when Percival is on his high horse--and Iwant you to stand Mr. Blake's friend to-night. ' 'And I am not even to form my own opinion? Supposing the moment I shakehands with your pro--I mean your visitor--I become conscious of aninward antagonism? You see, Audrey, I am subject to likes and dislikes, in common with other people. ' 'Oh, you must try to like him, ' she returned impatiently. 'I am verymuch interested in the whole family. We always like the same people, Michael--do we not?' in a coaxing voice. 'I know the Marquis will wearhis most judicial aspect to-night; he will perfectly annihilate poor Mr. Blake;' for this was another sobriquet which Audrey applied to herbrother-in-law. They were walking towards the house, but at this point Captain Burnettthought fit to stand still and shake his head, with a grieved expressionof face. 'My dear Audrey, I should like to see you on more sisterly terms withGage's husband. ' 'Don't be silly, ' was the only response; 'one cannot choose one'sbrother-in-law. The Marquis makes Gage a splendid husband--no one elsecould have mastered her--but I never could get on with a man who alwaysthinks he is right about everything. Percival is too immaculate in hisown and his wife's eyes to be in harmony with a sinner like myself; andI don't mind confessing to you, Michael, that he never opens his mouthwithout my longing to contradict him. ' Audrey said this with such perfect _naïveté_ and candour that CaptainBurnett could only smile, though sheer honesty made him say a momentafterwards: 'I think, indeed I have always thought, that you undervalue Harcourt. Heis a fine fellow in his way. I like a man to be strong, and Harcourt isstrong--he has no pettiness in his nature. He is rather a severe critic, perhaps--and demands a little too much from other people--but you willfind that he always practises what he preaches. ' 'I wish he understood me better, ' was the rueful response. 'Unhappily, he and Gage think their mission is to reform me. Now, Michael, do bequick, or the dinner-bell will ring;' and Audrey waved her hand gaily, and turned into the house, while Michael and his faithful Bootyfollowed her more slowly. When Audrey entered the drawing-room she found her brother-in-lawstanding in his favourite attitude before the fireplace--he wasevidently holding forth on some interesting topic, for Dr. Ross waslistening to him with an amused expression of face, and Geraldine waswatching him with admiring wifely eyes. He broke off, however, to greetAudrey, and there was brotherly warmth in his manner as he shook handswith her and asked after her health--a mere civility on his part, asAudrey was never ill. Mr. Harcourt was a good-looking man of about forty--perhaps he was ayear or two more, but he was young-looking for his age, and the absenceof beard and moustache gave him a still more youthful aspect; the slighttinge of gray in his hair seemed to harmonise with the well-cutfeatures. The mouth was especially handsome, though a sarcasticexpression at times distinguished it. His figure was good, and withoutbeing tall, he carried himself with so much dignity as to give theimpression of height. He was a man who would always be noticed amongother men on account of his strong individuality and sheer force ofcharacter. Audrey was right when she owned that he made a splendid husband forGeraldine. Mr. Harcourt was exceedingly proud of his beautiful wife; butfrom the first hour of her married life he had made her understand thatthough she managed other people, including her own mother, her husbandwas to be the one exception--that, in other words, he fully intended tobe Geraldine's master. Geraldine had to learn this lesson even on her wedding-day. There wassome little confusion at the last--a small hitch in the domesticarrangements--and someone, Dr. Ross probably, proposed that the happycouple should wait for a later train; they could telegraph, and dinnercould be put back for an hour. Geraldine endorsed her father's opinion;perhaps, at the last minute, the young bride would fain have lingeredlovingly in the home that had sheltered her so happily. 'It is a good idea. We should have to drive so dreadfully fast, ' shesaid with some eagerness. 'Yes, we will stay, Percival. ' 'My darling, there is someone else to consult, ' he returned, taking herhand; 'and someone else votes differently. Dr. Ross, will you ask themto send round the carriage. Geraldine has had excitement enough; itwill be far better for us to go. ' Geraldine did not like her husband anythe worse for showing her that he meant to manage for both for thefuture. She was clever enough to take the hint, and to refer to him onall occasions. Before many weeks were over, young Mrs. Harcourt had sofully identified herself with her husband's interests, was so strangelyimpregnated with his opinions, that she insensibly reproduced them--'andPercival thinks so and so' now replaced the old decided 'that is myopinion, ' which had hitherto leavened her conversation. 'Who would have thought that Geraldine, who snubbed all her lovers sounmercifully, and who never would listen to one until Percival "came, saw, and conquered"--who would have imagined that this very exactingyoung woman would have turned out a submissive and pattern wife?' wasAudrey's remark when she returned from her first visit to Hillside. But in her heart she respected her brother-in-law for the change he hadeffected. 'Well, Audrey, ' observed Mr. Harcourt, with a mischievous twinkle in hiseyes, 'so I hear you have been enacting the part of Good Samaritan tothe widow Blake and her children. What do you think of the bewitchingwidow and her Mary Queen of Scots beauty? Did she make an impression, eh?' 'She is very handsome, ' returned Audrey curtly; for she was not pleasedwith her brother-in-law's quizzical tone. How long had she stopped out with Michael? Barely ten minutes; and yetPercival was in possession of the whole story. 'I shall be writing to Edith to-night, and I must tell her all aboutit, ' he went on, for if there was one thing in which he delighted, itwas teasing Audrey, and getting a rise out of her. In reality he wasvery fond of her; he admired her simplicity and the grand earnestness ofher character; but he took the brotherly liberty of disagreeing with herupon some things. He told his wife privately that his one desire was tosee Audrey married to the right man. 'She is a fine creature, but she wants training and keeping in order;and I know the man who would just do for her, ' he said once. But though Geraldine implored him to say whom he meant, and mentioned adozen names in her womanly curiosity, Mr. Harcourt could not be inducedto say more. He was no matchmaker, he thanked Heaven; he would beashamed to meddle with such sacred mysteries. If there were one thing onwhich no human opinion ought to rashly intrude, it was when two peopleelected to enter the holy state of matrimony. It was enough that he knewthe man, though he never intended to take a step to bring them together. 'I think we had better drop the subject, as Mr. Blake will be heredirectly, ' retorted Audrey, in her most repressive tones. 'Father, doyou know you have forgotten to wind up the drawing-room clock? I thinkit must be nearly seven. ' 'It is past seven, ' answered her brother-in-law, producing his watch. 'Mr. Blake is keeping the dinner waiting. No one but a very young manwould venture to commit such a solecism. Under the circumstances, it isreally a breach of good manners. Don't you agree with me, Dr. Ross?' But Dr. Ross hesitated; he rarely agreed with such sweeping assertions. Geraldine murmured 'Very true, ' which her mother echoed. 'That is too bad!' exclaimed Audrey, who never could hold her tongue. 'If you had only seen the state of muddle they are in at the GrayCottage! I daresay Mr. Blake has been unable to find anything; hismother does not seem a good manager. Hush! I hear a bell!'--interruptingherself. 'Now you will not be kept any longer from your dinner, Percival. ' 'I was not thinking of myself, ' he returned, with rather an annoyed air;for he was a quick-tempered man, and he was really very hungry. Thanksto his wife's splendid management, the meals were always punctual atHillside. A deviation of five minutes would have boded woe to the bestcook. Mr. Harcourt was no domestic tyrant; the boys, the servants, always looked upon him as a kind friend; but he was an exactdisciplinarian, and the wheels of the domestic machinery at Hillsidewent smoothly. If Geraldine complained that one of the servants did notdo her duty, his answer was always prompt: 'Send her away and getanother. A servant without a conscience will never do for me. ' But, as amatter of fact, no master was better served. To Audrey's relief, Michael appeared with Mr. Blake. He came in lookinga little pale from the exertion of dressing so hurriedly, and Audrey'sconscience pricked her for want of consideration as she saw that helimped more than usual, always a sign with him of over-fatigue. Mr. Blake looked handsomer than ever in evening dress, and Audrey noticedthat Geraldine looked at him more than once, as though his appearancestruck her. He certainly seemed very shy, and made his excuses to hishostess in a low voice. 'I ought not to have accepted Dr. Ross's kind invitation, ' he said, starting a little as the dinner-bell immediately followed his entrance;'everything is in such confusion at home. ' 'I suppose it was like hunting for a needle in a truss of hay, ' observedMichael, in a genial voice. 'I can imagine the difficulties of making atoilet under such moving circumstances. No pun intended, I assure you. Don't look as though you want to hit me, Harcourt. I would not be guiltyof a real pun for the world. ' Mr. Harcourt was unable to reply at that moment, as he had to offerAudrey his arm and follow Dr. Ross into the dining-room; but as soon asthey were seated and grace had been said, he addressed Michael. 'I need not ask an omnivorous reader as you are, Burnett, if youremember "Elia's" remarks about puns. ' 'I suppose you mean that "a pun is a pistol let off at the ear, not afeather to tickle the intellect. " Poor old "Elia"! what a man he was!With all his frailties he was adorable. ' 'Humph! I should be sorry to go as far as that; but I own I like hisquaint, racy style. Dr. Ross is a fervent admirer of "St. Charles, " asThackeray once called him. ' 'Indeed, I am. I agree with Ainger in regarding him as the last of theElizabethans. I love his fine humour and homely fantastic grandeur ofstyle, ' returned Dr. Ross warmly. 'The man's whole life, too, is sowonderfully pathetic. Few scenes in fiction are so touching as that sadscene where the unhappy Mary Lamb feels the dreaded attack of insanitycoming on, and brother and sister, hand-in-hand, and weeping as they go, perform that sorrowful journey across the fields to the house where Maryis to be sheltered. I used to cry over that story as a boy. ' Audrey drew a long breath of relief. Her father had started on one ofhis hobbies. All would be well now. For one moment she had been anxious, very anxious. Like other men, Michael had his weaknesses. Nothing would annoy him more than to besupposed guilty of a premeditated pun. He always expressed a great dealof scorn for what he called a low form of wit--'and which is as farremoved from wit, ' he would add, 'as the slums of the Seven Dials arefrom Buckingham Palace. ' Mr. Harcourt was quite aware of this fastidious dislike on Michael'spart. It was, therefore, in pure malice that he had asked that questionabout 'Elia'; but Michael's matter-of-fact answer had baffled him, andthe sole result had been to start a delightful discussion on thewritings of Charles Lamb and his contemporaries--a subject on which allthree men talked exceedingly well. Audrey listened to them with delight. She was aware that Mr. Blake, whosat next her, was silent too. When a pause in the conversation occurred, she turned round to address him, and found him regarding her with an airof intelligent curiosity. 'You seem to take a great deal of interest in all this, ' he said, with asmile. 'Most ladies would consider it dry. I suppose you read a greatdeal. ' 'I am afraid not. I love reading, but one finds so much else to do. Butit is always a pleasure to me to hear my father talk. My brother-in-law, too, is a very clever man. ' 'So I should imagine. And Captain Burnett--is he also a relative?' 'Only a sort of cousin. But he has no nearer ties, and he spends halfhis time at Woodcote. My sister and I look upon him as a brother--infact, he has supplied a great want in my life. From a child I have solonged to have a brother of my own. ' Mr. Blake looked down at his plate. 'A brother is not always an undivided blessing, ' he said in a low voice, 'especially when he is a daily and hourly reproach to one. Oh, you knowwhat I mean, ' throwing back his head with a quick, nervous gesture. 'Mymother says she has told you. I saw you looking at Kester thisafternoon, but you are aware it was all my fault. ' 'But it was only an accident, ' she returned gently. 'I hope that you arenot morbid on the subject, Mr. Blake. Boys are terribly venturesome. Iwonder more of them are not hurt. I am quite sure Kester does not blameyou. ' 'No, you are right there; but somehow it is difficult for me to forgetthat my unlucky slip has spoiled the poor fellow's life. He is very goodand patient, and we do all we can for him; but one dare not glance atthe future. Excuse my bothering you with such a personal matter, but Icannot forget the way you looked at Kester; and then my mother said shehad told you the whole story. ' 'I was very much interested, ' she began, but just then Mr. Harcourtinterrupted them by a remark pointedly addressed to Mr. Blake, so thathe was obliged to break off his conversation with Audrey. This time theladies were decidedly bored--none of them could follow the discussion;the conversation at Woodcote was rarely pedantic, but this evening Mr. Harcourt chose to argue a purely scholastic question--some translationfrom the Greek, which he declared to be full of gross errors. Audrey felt convinced that the subject had been chosen with the expresspurpose of crushing the new master; on this topic Michael would beunable to afford him the slightest help. True, he had been studyingGreek for his own pleasure the last two years at her father'ssuggestion, and had made very fair progress, but only a finished scholarcould have pronounced with any degree of certainty on such a knottypoint. She was, therefore, all the more surprised and pleased when she foundthat Mr. Blake proved himself equal to the occasion. He had keptmodestly in the background while the elder men were speaking, but whenMr. Harcourt appealed to him he took his part in the conversation quitereadily, and expressed himself with the greatest ease and fluency;indeed, he not only ventured to contradict Mr. Harcourt, but he broughtquite a respectable array of authorities to back his opinions. Audrey felt so interested in watching the changes of expression on herbrother-in-law's face that she was quite reconciled to the insuperabledifficulties that such a topic offered to her understanding. Thesarcastic curve round Mr. Harcourt's mouth relaxed; he grew less dry anddidactic in speech; each moment his manner showed more earnestness andinterest. The silent young master was by no means annihilated; on thecontrary, he proved himself a worthy antagonist. Audrey was quite sorrywhen Geraldine, stifling a yawn, gave her mother an imploring glance. Mrs. Ross willingly took the hint, and as Michael opened the door forthem he whispered in Audrey's ear: 'He is quite capable of taking careof himself. ' And Audrey nodded assent. She lingered in the hall a moment to look out on the moonlight, and onopening the drawing-room door she heard a few words in Geraldine'svoice: 'Splendidly handsome--dangerously so, in my opinion; what do you think, mother?' 'Well, my dear, I have seldom seen a finer-looking young man; and thenhis manners are so nice. Some clever young people are always pushingthemselves into the conversation; they think nothing of silencing oldermen. Mr. Blake seems very modest and retiring. ' 'Yes, but he is too handsome, ' was the regretful reply; and then Audreyjoined them. 'I knew you would say so, ' she observed, with quite a pleasedexpression. 'Handsome is hardly the word; Mr. Blake has a beautifulface--he is like a Greek god. ' Geraldine drew herself up a little stiffly. 'My dear Audrey, how absurd! do Greek gods have olive complexions? HowPercival will laugh when I tell him that!' 'To be sure, ' returned Audrey calmly; 'thank you for reminding me thatyou are married, Gage; I am always forgetting it. That is the worst ofhaving one's sister married; one is never sure that one's little jokesand speeches are not repeated. Now, as my confidences are not intendedfor Percival, I will learn slowly and painfully to hold my tongue forthe future. ' This very natural speech went home, as Audrey intended it should. Withall her dictatorial ways and clever management, Geraldine had a verywarm heart. 'Oh, Audrey dear, ' she said, quite grieved at this, 'I hope you are notspeaking seriously. Of course I will not repeat it to Percival if you donot wish it; but when you are married yourself you will know howdifficult it is to keep back any little thing that interests one. ' 'When I am married--I mean, if I be ever married, ' substituted Audrey, blushing a little, as girls will--'I hope I shall be quite as capable ofself-control and discrimination as in my single days. I have neverconsidered the point very closely; but now I come to think of it, Iwould certainly have an understanding with my husband on thewedding-day. "My dear Clive, " I would say to him--Clive is a favouritename of mine; I hope I shall marry a Clive--"you must understand oncefor all that, though I intend to treat you with wifely confidence, Ishall only tell my own secrets--not other people's. " And he will reply, "Audrey, you are the most honourable of women. I respected you before; Ivenerate you now. "' 'Audrey, how you talk!' But Mrs. Harcourt could not help laughing. Audrey was looking very nice this evening; white always suited her. Tobe sure, her hair might have been smoother. 'There is some sort of charmabout her that is better than beauty, ' she thought, with sisterlyadmiration; and then she asked her mother if she did not think Percivallooked a little pale. 'He works too hard, ' she continued; 'and he will not break himself ofhis old bachelor habit of sitting up late. ' 'Men like their own way; you must not be too anxious, ' retorted Mrs. Ross tranquilly. 'When I first married, I worried myself dreadfullyabout your father; but I soon found it was no use. And look at him now;late hours have not hurt him in the least. No one has better health thanyour father. ' But the young wife was only half comforted. 'My father's constitution is different, ' she returned. 'Percival isstrong; but his nerves are irritable; his organisation is moresensitive. It is burning both ends of the candle. I tell him he useshimself up too lavishly. ' 'I used to say much the same things to your father, but he soon curedme. He asked me once why I was so bent on bringing him round to myopinions. "I do not try to alter yours, " I remember he said once, in hishalf-joking way. "I do not ask you to sit up with me; though, no doubt, that is part of your wifely duty. I allow you to go to bed when you aresleepy, in the most unselfish way. So, my dear, you must allow me thesame liberty of action. " And, would you believe it, I never dared sayanother word to him on the subject. ' 'You are a model wife, are you not, mother?' observed Audreycaressingly. 'No, dear; I never deserved your father, ' returned Mrs. Ross, with muchfeeling, and the tears started to her eyes. 'If only my girls could haveas happy a life! I am sure dear Geraldine has done well forherself--Percival makes her an excellent husband; and if I could onlysee you happily settled, Audrey, I should be perfectly satisfied. ' 'Are you so anxious to lose me?' asked the younger girl reproachfully. 'You must find me a man as good as father, then. I am not so sure that Iwant to be married; I fancy an old maid's mission will suit me best. Ihave too many plans in my head; no respectable man would tolerate me. ' 'May I ask what you ladies are talking about?' asked Captain Burnett, ashe sauntered lazily round the screen that, even in summer-time, shut inthe fireplace, and made a cosy corner. Mr. Blake followed him. Audrey looked at them both calmly. 'I was only suggesting my possible mission as a single woman. Don't youthink I should make a charming old maid, Michael?' and Audrey foldedher beautifully-shaped arms, and drew herself up; but her dimpledestroyed the effect. Cyril Blake darted a quick look at her; then hecrossed the room and sat down by Mrs. Ross, and talked to her andGeraldine until it was time for him to take his leave. CHAPTER VI THE GRAY COTTAGE 'I think I love most people best when they are in adversity; for pity is one of my prevailing passions. '--MARY WOLSTONECRAFT GODWIN'S LETTER. The next morning, as Captain Burnett was strolling across thetennis-lawn in search of a shady corner where he could read his paper, he encountered Audrey. She was walking in the direction of the gate, andhad a basket of flowers in her hand. She was hurrying past him with a nod and a smile, but he coolly stoppedher. 'May I ask where you are going, my Lady Bountiful?' for this was a namehe often called her, perhaps in allusion to her sweet, bountiful nature;but Audrey, in her simplicity, had never understood the compliment. She hesitated a moment; and this was so unusual on her part, thatCaptain Burnett metaphorically pricked up his ears. To use his ownlanguage, he immediately scented the whole business. 'I am going into the town; but I have a great deal to do, ' she returnedquickly. 'Please do not detain me, Michael. I am not like you: I cannotafford the luxury of idleness. ' 'Well, no; it is rather a dear commodity, certainly, ' he repliedpleasantly, though that hasty speech made him inwardly wince, as thoughsomeone had touched an unhealed wound. 'Luxury of idleness!' how heloathed it! 'If you are too long, I shall come and look after you, ' he continuedsignificantly; but to this she made no reply. She took herself to taskas she walked on. She had not been perfectly open with Michael, but thenhe had no right to question her movements. She had spoken the truth; shecertainly had business in the town--several orders to give--before shewent to the Gray Cottage. Michael was her ally--her faithful, trustyally. No knight sworn to serve his liege lady had ever been morezealous in his fealty. But even to Michael she did not wish to confessthat the greater part of the morning would be spent at the Gray Cottage. Audrey had no idea that her cousin had guessed her little secret--thathe was smiling over it as he unfolded his paper. Her conscience wasperfectly easy with regard to her motives. Pure compassion for those twopoor children was her only inducement. There was no danger ofencountering the elder brother. The windows of the great schoolroom opened on the terrace, and as Audreyhad passed to gather her flowers she had had a glimpse of a dark, closely-cropped head, and the perfect profile that she had admired lastnight, and she knew the new master would be fully occupied all themorning. Audrey felt a little needle-prick of unavailing compunction asshe remembered her allusion to the Greek god yesterday. 'I wish I were not so foolishly outspoken!' she thought. 'I always sayjust what comes into my head. With some people it would not matter--withMichael, for example. He never misunderstands one's meaning. But poordear Gage is so literal. Clever as she is, she has no sense of humour. ' Here she paused at the grocer's to give her orders, but directly sheleft the shop she took up the same thread again: 'I am always making resolutions to be more careful, but it never seemsany use. The thoughts will come tumbling out like ill-behaved childrenjust let out of school. There is no keeping them in order. I fancy Mr. Blake is outspoken, too, when he gets rid of his shyness. I was sosurprised when he blurted out that little bit about his brother. Helooked so sad over it, too. I think I must have made a mistake insupposing that he only cared for his mother. It was odd to make me hisconfidante; but, then, people always do tell me things. He is Irish, ofcourse. Irishmen are always impulsive. ' But here another list of orders to be given at the ironmonger's checkedthese vague musings. Audrey was fully expected at the Cottage. She had hardly lifted thelatch of the gate before Mollie appeared in the doorway. 'I knew you would come, ' she said shyly, as Audrey kissed her and putthe flowers in her hands. 'Oh what lovely flowers! Are they for mamma, Miss Ross? Thank you ever so much! Mamma is so passionately fond offlowers, and so is Cyril. ' 'And not Kester?' 'Oh yes; he loves them too, ' burying her face in the deliciousblossoms--'roses especially; they are his favourite flowers. But, ofcourse, no one thinks of sending them to Kester; he is only a boy. ' 'And I daresay you like them, too?' Mollie vehemently nodded assent. 'Well, then, I shall bring you and Kester some next time. You are rightin thinking those are for your mother. May I go in and speak toher?--for we have to be very busy, you know. ' 'Mamma is not up yet, ' returned Mollie; and as Audrey looked surprised, she added quickly: 'She and Cyril sat up so late last night. She waswanting to hear all about his evening, and it was such a lovely nightthat they were in the garden until nearly twelve o'clock, and so, ofcourse, she is tired this morning. ' Audrey made no reply to this. Mrs. Blake was charming, but she wascertainly a little erratic in her habits. No wonder there was so littlecomfort in the house when the mistress disliked early rising. Mollie seemed to take it as a matter of course; besides, she was toomuch absorbed in the flowers to notice Miss Ross's reproving silence. She rushed off to find a jug of water, and Audrey turned into thedining-room, which presented the same aspect of confusion that it hadworn yesterday. Kester was on his knees trying to unpack a hamper ofbooks. It cost him a painful effort to rise, and he looked so pale andexhausted that Audrey at once took him in hand. 'My dear boy, ' she said kindly, as she helped him to the sofa, 'how veryimprudent! You have no right to try your strength in that way. How couldMollie let you touch those books!' 'She has everything to do, and I wished to help her, ' he returned, panting with the exertion. 'Cyril wants his books so badly, and he hasput up the bookcase, you see. He did that this morning--he had scarcelytime to eat his breakfast--and then he asked Mollie if she would unpackthe books. ' 'I will help Mollie, ' returned Audrey, laying aside her hat. 'Now, Kester, I want to ask you a favour. You will only be in our way here. Will you please take possession of that nice hammock-chair that someonehas put outside the window? and we will just fly round, as the Yankeedomestics say. ' Audrey spoke with such good-natured decision, with such assurance ofbeing obeyed, that Kester did not even venture on a grumblingremonstrance--the poor fellow was too much accustomed to be set on oneside, and to be told that he was no use. But Audrey had no intention ofleaving him in idleness. 'By and by, when the room is a little clearer, you can be of thegreatest help to us; for you can sit at the table and dust the books inreadiness for us to arrange. ' And Kester's face brightened up at that. Audrey was quite in her element. As she often told her mother, she wasrobust enough for a housemaid. The well-ordered establishment atWoodcote, with its staff of trained domestics and its excellent matron, afforded little scope for her youthful activities. Mrs. Ross was her ownhousekeeper, and though she had contentedly relinquished her duties toGeraldine for the last few years, she had not yet offered to transferthem to Audrey. Audrey pretended to be a little hurt at this arrangement, but in realityshe was secretly relieved. Her tastes were not sufficiently domestic. She liked better to supplement her mother's duties than to take theentire lead. In her way she was extremely useful. She wrote a great manyof the business letters, undertook all the London shopping, and assistedMrs. Ross in entertaining her numerous visitors, many of whom were theboys' mothers; and though Mrs. Ross still regretted the loss of herelder daughter, and complained that no one could replace Geraldine, shewas fully sensible of Audrey's efficiency and good-humoured and readyhelp. 'Audrey is as good as gold, and does all I want her to do, ' she said toGeraldine, when the latter had questioned her very closely on thesubject. It was no trouble to Audrey to dash off half a dozen letters beforepost-time, or to drive into Sittingbourne to meet a batch of boys'relatives. She was naturally active, and hated an idle moment; but nowork suited her so well as this Herculean task of evoking order out ofthe Blake chaos. Molly was so charmed with her energy, so fired by herexample, that she worked like a dozen Mollies. The books were soonunpacked and on the table; then Biddy was called in to clear away thestraw and hampers, and to have a grand sweep. Nothing more could be doneuntil this had been carried out, so they left Biddy to revel in dust andtea-leaves, while they turned out another hamper or two in the kitchen;for in the course of their labours Mollie had confided to Audrey thatcertain indispensable articles were still missing. 'The best thing would be to get rid of as many of the hampers aspossible, ' replied Audrey; 'they are only in the way; let us pack themup in the yard, and then one can have room to move. ' When Biddy had finished her labours and all the dirt had been removed, Kester hobbled in willingly to dust the books, and Audrey and Molliearranged them on the shelves. There were not so very many, but they wereall well and carefully chosen--Greek and Latin authors, all Carlyle'sand Emerson's works, a few books of history and philosophy, theprincipal poets, and some standard works of fiction: Dickens, Thackeray, and Sir Walter Scott--the latter bound very handsomely. Audrey feltsure, as she placed the books on the shelves, that this little librarywas collected by a great deal of self-denial and effort. The youngstudent had probably little money to spare. With the exception of SirWalter Scott and Thackeray, none of the books were handsomely bound;that they were well read was obvious, for a volume of Browning's poemshappening to fall from her hand, Audrey could see profuse pencil-marks, and one philosophical book had copious notes on the margin. 'They are all Cyril's books, ' observed Mollie, unconsciously answeringAudrey's thought. 'Poor Cyril! it is such a trouble to him that hecannot afford to buy more books. When he was at Oxford he used to gowithout things to get them; he said he would sooner starve than bewithout books. Is it not sad to be so dreadfully poor, Miss Ross? But Isuppose you don't know how it feels. Mamma bought him that lovelyedition of Thackeray--oh, and Sir Walter Scott's novels too. Don't youlike that binding? it is very expensive. Cyril was so vexed at mamma'sspending all that money on him when Kester wanted things, I am afraid hehardly thanked her, and mamma cried about it. ' Mollie was chattering on without thinking until a bell made her startand hurry away. She did not come back for some time, and Audrey finishedher task alone. 'I have been making mamma some coffee, ' she said gravely; 'she had oneof her headaches. She has sent you a message, Miss Ross; she is sodelighted with the flowers. She wanted to get up at once and thank you, and then she thought she had better lie still until her headache wasbetter; but she will be down presently. ' 'Then we must make haste and finish the room before she comes. Mollie, I can do nothing with those pictures; we will put them up against thewall until your brother can hang them. Let me see; that corner behindthe writing-table--no one can see them there. Quick! hand me another. Isthis a portrait of your father?' stopping to regard a half-length figureof a fine-looking man in naval uniform. 'No, that is only an uncle of mamma's; I forget his name. Do youremember it, Kester? Papa was a merchant--at least, I think so. ' 'Has he been long dead?' 'Oh yes; he died abroad when Kester and I were quite little; that is whywe are so poor. Mamma has often told us that it is her money we areliving on. I don't know how she managed to send Cyril to Oxford; but wehad no house all that time, only poky little lodgings. Are we going toarrange the furniture now, Miss Ross? Oh, how comfortable the roombegins to look, and how delighted Cyril will be when he comes home thisafternoon! He says that Dr. Ross wants him after school, so he will notrun home before dinner. How glad I am that Cyril will always have a nicedinner now! He does so hate Biddy's cooking; he declares everythingtastes alike. You say so, too, don't you, Kester?' Kester's answer was a shrug of the shoulders; he seemed more reservedthan Mollie, who was chattering to her new friend with all the franknessand thoughtlessness of a very young girl. 'Mamma never minds what sort of dinner Biddy sends up, if only Cyrildoes not find fault. I think she would live on tea and dry bread all theyear round if only Cyril could have nice things. ' Cyril--always Cyril! Audrey turned the subject by asking Mollie if shewould like the couch in the window. Mollie clapped her hands delightedlyat the effect. 'It looks beautiful; don't you think so, Kester? And how funny! MissRoss has put your own particular little table beside it, just as thoughshe guessed that it was to hold your desk and your books. There isKester's little box of books, but he will unpack them himself by andby. ' 'Mollie, have you ordered the dinner?' interrupted Kester a littleanxiously--and poor Mollie's face fell. 'Oh dear, I am so sorry, but I have forgotten all about it; the butcherhas not called, and there are only those potatoes and bread and cheese. Mamma is right when she says my head is like a sieve. ' 'Why don't you send Biddy for some chops, my dear?' remarked Audrey verysensibly. Kester had spoken in a loud whisper, but she had overheard every word. Mollie started off with a look of relief to hunt up the old woman, andwhen Audrey found herself alone with Kester she could not help saying tohim: 'Mollie is a very young housekeeper--girls of fourteen are liable toforget sometimes;' but to her surprise he fired up at once: 'They all expect too much of her; I hate to see her slave as she does:it is not right, it is not fair--I tell Cyril so. She has no time toherself; all her lessons are neglected. If only mother would send Biddyaway and get another servant!' 'Who teaches Mollie, then?' she asked, a little curiously. 'Oh, mother gives her lessons sometimes, but they are not very regular, and I help her with arithmetic and Latin. Cyril always gives me an houror two in the evening, when his work is done, but of course Mollie doesnot care to learn Greek. ' 'Do you mean that your brother gives you lessons when he has beenteaching all day?' 'Yes, and he is awfully tired sometimes; but he never likes me to bedisappointed. Mother often tries to make him take a walk instead; butCyril is such a brick: he never will listen to her. ' Audrey felt a little glow of satisfaction as she heard this. What a kindbrother Mr. Blake seemed to be--how truly estimable! she would neverjudge hastily of anyone again. Just then the clock struck one, and shetold Kester that she must hurry away. She was disappointed that Mrs. Blake had not yet appeared--she wanted to see the face that had hauntedher so persistently; but the bewitching widow had not shown herself. 'I am afraid I must go, or I shall be late for luncheon, ' she saidhurriedly. 'I will tell Mollie, ' returned the boy; and then he said a littleawkwardly: 'You have been awfully good to us, Miss Ross; I don't knowhow Mollie and I are to thank you. You must be quite tired out. ' Audrey laughed. 'I am not so easily tired, Kester, and I am rather fond of this sort ofwork. Do you think your mother would mind if I were to look in to-morrowafternoon and help a little with the drawing-room? Mollie said somethingabout it just now, and I half promised--she is to help Biddy put up theplates and dishes this afternoon; that will be as much as she can do. ' 'I am sure mother will be only too delighted, ' replied Kestergratefully; and then Audrey went in search of Mollie, and found heroccupied with the chops, while Biddy cleaned the knives. Mollie turned ascorched cheek to her. 'Dear Miss Ross, thank you ever so much, ' she said fervently as Audreyrepeated her promise of looking in the next afternoon. 'Poor little soul! how interested Michael will be when I tell him allabout her!' she thought as she walked briskly towards Woodcote. Audrey had scarcely closed the green gate behind her before Mrs. Blake'sfoot sounded on the stairs. She looked pale and heavy-eyed, and walkedinto the room a little languidly; but if Audrey had seen her she wouldonly have thought that her paleness invested her with fresh interest. 'Miss Ross has gone, mamma, ' observed Mollie regretfully, as shefollowed her into the room. 'Yes, I know; I felt too jaded to face visitors this morning--Miss Rosslooks at one so, and my nerves would not stand it. How are you, Kester?'kissing his forehead lightly; 'you look better than usual. I don'tbelieve I closed my eyes until four o'clock. Dear me!' interruptingherself; 'there are Cyril's books nicely arranged--did you do them, Mollie? Why, the room looks quite comfortable and homelike. Miss Rossmust have helped you a great deal. ' 'Oh yes, mamma, ' exclaimed Mollie and Kester eagerly; and they wereabout to expatiate on Audrey's wonderful goodness, when their motherchecked them: 'Please don't speak so loud, children, or you will make my head badagain. I will tell you what we will do, Mollie. We will make thosecurtains, and then this room will be quite finished. There are only thehems and just the tops to do. We can have no difficulty in finishingthem before Cyril comes home. The red tablecloth is at the top of theblack box--if you will fetch it, Mollie--and I have arranged the flowersin that pretty green vase. ' 'But, mamma, ' pleaded Mollie, in a vexed voice, 'the room will do quitewell without curtains for one day, and I promised Miss Ross to helpBiddy with the plates and dishes. All the hampers are unpacked, andthere is not a corner in the kitchen to put anything--and it does makeBiddy so cross. ' 'Nonsense, Mollie! Who minds about Biddy's crossness! I suppose I may doas I like in my own house. Let us have dinner, and then we will set towork at once--you and I--and Kester can read to us;' and, seeing thather mother's mind was fully made up, Mollie very wisely held her tongue, probably admonished thereto by a mild kick from Kester. So, as soon as the chops had been eaten, Mollie produced her mother'swork-basket and a shabby little cotton-box that was appropriated to herown use, and sewed industriously, only pausing at intervals to watch thewhite, slender fingers that seemed to make the needle fly through thestuff. Mrs. Blake was evidently an accomplished seamstress, and long beforefour o'clock the curtains were put up, and duly admired by the wholefamily and Biddy. CHAPTER VII KESTER'S HERO 'Measure thy life by loss instead of gain-- Not by wine drunk, but by the wine poured forth; For love's strength standeth in love's sacrifice; And whose suffers most hath most to give. ' UGO BASSI. Audrey was bent on keeping her promise to Mollie, but she found a greatdeal of finesse and skilful management were necessary to secure herafternoon from interruption. First, there was a note from Hillside. Mrs. Harcourt had to pay a roundof visits, and would be glad of her sister's company: and as Mrs. Rossevidently thought that a refusal was impossible under suchcircumstances, Audrey felt that she was in a dilemma. 'Gage will have the carriage, ' she said, with a trace of annoyance inher tone. 'She cannot possibly require me, especially as she knows anafternoon spent in paying formal calls is my pet abomination. ' 'But, my dear Audrey, you would surely not allow your sister to goalone, ' began her mother in a voice of mild remonstrance. She veryseldom interfered with Audrey--indeed, that young person was in mostrespects her own mistress--but when Geraldine's interests were involvedMrs. Ross could be firm. 'You are very good-natured, ' she went on, 'andI am sure it is very good of you to take all that trouble for those poorneglected children'--for Mrs. Ross's motherly sympathies were alreadyenlisted on behalf of Mollie and Kester--'but, of course, your firstduty is to your sister. ' 'But, my dear mother, a promise is a promise, and poor little Mollie isexpecting me. ' And then a bright idea came to Audrey. 'Why should younot go with Gage yourself? It is a lovely afternoon, and the drive willdo you good. Gage would much prefer your company to mine, and you knowhow much she admires your new bonnet;' and though Mrs. Ross faintlydemurred to this, she was in the end overruled by Audrey. 'Dear mother! she and Gage will enjoy themselves thoroughly, ' thoughtAudrey, as she watched Mrs. Ross drive from the door, looking thepicture of a well-dressed English gentlewoman. Audrey had to inflict another disappointment before she could get herown way. Michael wanted her to go with him to the cricket-field. Therewas a match being played, and on these occasions Audrey was always hiscompanion. She understood the game as well as he did, and always took anintelligent interest in it. Audrey was sorry to refuse him and to seehim go off alone. 'Never mind; I daresay I shall only stay for an hour, ' he said, as hetook down his hat and walked with her to the gate of the Gray Cottage. Mollie was on the watch for her, and darted out to meet her. 'Oh, Miss Ross, ' she said excitedly, 'I have so much to tell you! Mammahas had to go up to London this morning on business, and she is so sorrybecause she did not see you yesterday; and I was to give you all sortsof messages and thanks. And now please do come into the kitchen amoment, and you will see how hard we have worked. ' Audrey followed her at once. 'Oh, Mollie, how could you have done so much!' she exclaimed in genuinesurprise, as she looked round her. The plates and dishes were neatly arranged on the dresser, thedish-covers and tins hanging in their places, the crate of glass andchina emptied of its contents and in the yard. The floor had beenscrubbed as well as the table, and Biddy stood by the side of herfreshly-blackleaded stove, with the first smile Audrey had yet seen onher wrinkled face. 'It is not all Miss Mollie's doing, ' she said, with a chuckle, as shecarried off the kettle. 'Did your mother help you?' asked Audrey, for Mollie only lookedmysterious. 'Mamma! Oh dear no! She was busy all the evening with the curtains. Oh, what fun! I do wish Kester were here, but he is studying his Greek. DearMiss Ross, you do look so puzzled. It was not mamma, and it was notBiddy, though she cleaned the kitchen this morning; and of course itcould not be Kester. ' 'I will give it up, ' returned Audrey, laughing. 'Some magician must havebeen at work--and a very clever magician, too. ' 'Oh, I will tell Cyril that!' replied Mollie, clapping her hands. 'Whydid you not guess Cyril, Miss Ross? He is clever enough for anything. ' 'Do you mean Mr. Blake put up all these plates and dishes?' observedAudrey, feeling as much surprised as an Athenian damsel would have beenif she had heard of Apollo turning scullion. 'Yes, indeed! I must tell you all about it, ' returned Molliegarrulously, for she was an inveterate chatterbox. 'You know, I hadpromised to help Biddy because she was in such a muddle, and then mammacame down and said we must get the dining-room curtains ready, tosurprise Cyril when he came home. 'Well, he was very pleased; but I am afraid mamma thought that he tookmore notice of the way his books were arranged than of the curtains; buthe said it all looked very nice, and that we were getting to rights now;and then mamma said that, as she was in the mood for work, we might aswell do the drawing-room curtains too. ' 'But, my dear Mollie, the furniture is not yet arranged. ' 'No, of course not; but you don't understand mamma. She never doesthings quite like other people. She likes either to work all day long, and not give herself time for meals even, or else to do nothing; shelikes beginning things, but she hates being compelled to finish them. That is why I am obliged to wear this shabby old frock, ' looking down atit ruefully. 'Mamma has two such pretty ones half done, and I don't knowwhen she will finish them. ' 'Does your mother make all your frocks, dear?' 'Yes; and she does work so beautifully--everyone says so. But she is notalways in the mood, and then it troubles her; she was in the curtainmood last night. Cyril saw I was vexed about something, and when mammawent out of the room he asked me if I were tired; and I could hardlyhelp crying as I told him about my promise to you; and then he called mea little goose, and pulled my hair, as he does sometimes, and told me toleave it to him. ' 'Yes----' as Mollie paused from sheer want of breath. 'Of course Cyril can always manage mamma. He sent me into the kitchen, and in ten minutes he came after me, and asked what was to be done. Kester dusted all the glass, and Cyril and I did the rest. We were hardat work till ten o'clock; and Biddy was so pleased. ' 'And now we must go upstairs, ' returned Audrey, when Mollie's story wastold. 'Perhaps Biddy will be good enough to help us. ' And in a littlewhile the three were hard at work. Audrey and Mollie arranged the shabby furniture to the best advantage. One or two Oriental rugs were spread on the dark-polished floor; thenthe curtains were hung and draped in the most effective manner, and someold china, that Mollie said was her mother's special treasure, wascarefully washed and placed on the shelves of an old cabinet. 'It really looks very nice, ' observed Audrey contentedly, when Biddy hadgone down to see after the tea. She had enjoyed her afternoon far morethan if she had been paying those calls with Geraldine. 'I always likedthis room so much;' and she gave a touch to the big Japanese screen andflecked some dust from the writing-table. 'I daresay your mother willalter the position of the furniture--people always have their own ideas. But I hope she will not move the couch; it stands so well in thatrecess. Do you think she will like this little table in the window, Mollie? I am sure this would be my favourite seat;' and Audrey took itfor a moment as she spoke, and looked down at the old arches and thequiet courtyard, with its well-worn flagstones. The martins weretwittering about the eaves; some brown, dusty sparrows were chirpingloudly. The ivy-covered buildings round the corner were just visible;and a large gray cat moved stealthily between the arches, intent on somesubtle mischief. Mr. Charrington's boys were all on the cricket-field, watching an exciting match between Rutherford and Haileybury, and theschool-house was deserted. 'That must be your seat when you come to see us, ' observed Mollieaffectionately. 'Mamma was only saying this morning that she had taken afancy to you, and hoped you would come very often; and Kester said hehoped so, too, because you were so very kind. ' 'Did you have many friends at Headingly?' asked Audrey absently. She was wondering to whom Kester was talking. She could hear his voicethrough the open window; it sounded bright and animated. It could notpossibly be his brother; Mr. Blake would be with the boys on thecricket-field. Perhaps Mrs. Blake had returned from town. 'We had no friends at all, ' returned Mollie disconsolately; 'at least, no real friends. People just called on us and left their cards. Mrs. Bryce was very kind to Kester, but mamma never got on with her. We noneof us liked Headingly much, except Cyril. Everyone was nice to him, butwhen mamma fretted and said she was miserable, and that no one in theplace cared for her, he seemed to lose interest, too; and when thisvacancy occurred, he just said he had had enough of it, and that mammawould be happier in a fresh place, and so we came here, and now we havefound you;' and Mollie's brown eyes were very soft as she spoke. 'Oh, you will find plenty of people to like at Rutherford, ' repliedAudrey. 'You have not seen my mother yet, Mollie; she is so good toeveryone, and so is father. And then there is my cousin, CaptainBurnett, who half lives with us; he is one of the nicest men possible. ' But as Audrey spoke, she had no idea that Michael was that minutetalking to Kester. It fell out in this way: Michael found it slow on thecricket-field without Audrey; so many people came up and talked to himthat he got quite bored. Captain Burnett was a general favourite withmen as well as women; he had the reputation of being a hero: womenpitied him for his ill-health and misfortunes, and men admired him forthe cheerful pluck with which he endured them. 'Burnett is a pleasant fellow and a gentleman, ' was one observation. 'Perhaps he is a bit solemn at times, but I fancy that confounded woundof his gives him trouble. Anyhow, he never plagues other people with hisailments. "Grin and bear it"--I fancy that is Burnett's motto. ' Michael found the cricket-field dull without Audrey's liveliness to givezest to the afternoon; she always took people away when he was tired. Hehad had enough of it long before the match was over. Just as he wassauntering homewards he encountered Mr. Blake, and in the course ofbrief conversation he learnt that Mrs. Blake was in town. Michael thought he would call and see if Audrey were ready to comehome--it would do no harm to inquire at the door; but Biddy, who wasscouring the doorsteps, told him abruptly to step in and he would findthe lady; and, half amused at his own coolness, he, nothing loath, accepted the invitation. He found Kester alone in the dining-room busy over his lessons. Helooked up in some astonishment at the sight of a strange gentleman, andZack, the retriever, growled rather inhospitably at Booty. Perhaps theDachs-hund's short legs affronted him. 'Am I disturbing you?' asked Michael in his most genial manner. And helooked at the boy's pale intelligent face with much interest. 'I havecome to see after my cousin, Miss Ross. Is she anywhere about? My nameis Captain Burnett. ' 'Oh, I know, ' returned Kester, flushing a little nervously under thescrutiny of those keen blue eyes; 'Cyril told us about you. Miss Ross isupstairs with Mollie; they are putting the drawing-room to rights, butthey will be down to tea presently. Will you sit down, ' still morenervously, 'or shall I call Mollie?' 'No, no; there is no hurry, unless I am interrupting you, ' with a glanceat Kester's books. 'You are doing Greek, eh?' 'Yes, I am getting ready for Cyril this evening; but I am too tired todo more. ' And Kester pushed away his papers with a movement that betrayed latentirritability. Michael knew that sign of weakness well. 'That is right; shut up your books, ' he said with ready kindness. 'Neverwork when you are tired: it is bad economy; it is using up one's stockof fuel too recklessly--lighting a furnace to cook a potato. The resultsare not worth it. Tired work is bad work--I have proved it. ' 'I am generally tired, ' returned Kester with a sigh. And it was sad tosee the gravity that crept over the young face. 'It does not do to thinktoo much of one's feelings; one has just to bear it, you know. I amignorant enough as it is, and I must learn; I will learn!' setting histeeth hard. Michael shot a quick glance at the lad; then he turned over the leavesof the book next him for a moment in silence. 'I must know more of this fellow, ' he thought; 'Audrey is right; she isgenerally right about people. ' Then in his ordinary quiet tone: 'I wonder your brother finds time for private tuition. I live at thelower school, you know, and so I understand all about the juniormaster's work. Mr. Blake has his evenings free generally, but there isdormitory work and----' 'Cyril says he will always give me an hour and a half, ' interruptedKester eagerly. 'Of course, it is not good for him to have any moreteaching; but he says he would hate to see me grow up adunce--and--and'--swallowing down some secret emotion--' I think itwould break my heart not to know things. ' 'And you want to be a classical scholar?' in the same grave tones. 'I want to learn everything;' and here there was a sudden kindling inthe boy's eyes. 'I must do something, and my lameness hinders everythingbut that--perhaps, if I learn plenty of Latin and Greek, I may be ableto help Cyril one day. We often talk about it, and even mother thinks itis a good plan. One day Cyril hopes to have a school of his own--when heis older, you know--and then I could take the younger boys off his handsand save him the cost of an usher; don't you think that would bepossible?' looking anxiously at Michael, for somehow those steady cleareyes seemed so thoroughly to comprehend him. 'I think it an excellent plan, ' retained Michael slowly; "knowledge ispower"--we all know that. Do you know, ' drawling out his words a little, 'that I have been working at Greek, too, for the last two years? I tookit up as a sort of amusement when I was seedy; it would not be bad funto work together sometimes. I daresay you are ahead of me in Greek, butI don't believe you could beat me in mathematics. We could help eachother, and it would be good practice. I suppose your brother gives youlessons in mathematics. ' Kester shook his head. 'There is not time for everything, and Cyril always says mathematics arenot in his line--he is a classical master, you see. ' 'Oh yes, that is easily understood; but you can have more than onemaster. Come, shall we make a bargain? Will you read Greek with me? andI will give you an hour three times a week for mathematics, or anythingelse you like. I am an idle man, and any fixed occupation would be aboon to me. ' 'Do you mean it?' was the breathless answer; and then he added, a littleshyly: 'I am awfully obliged; I should like it of all things; but youare not strong, are you?--Miss Ross told us so. ' 'Not particularly; I was rather knocked about by the Zulus, you know, and my leg gives me a good deal of trouble. I am pretty heavilyhandicapped--we are both in the same boat, are we not?--but we may aswell make a fight for it. ' 'Someone told me, ' returned Kester, in a tone of great awe, 'that youhave the Victoria Cross, Captain Burnett. ' Michael nodded; he never cared to be questioned on the subject. 'Will you let Mollie and me see it one day?' half whispered the boy. 'Ihope you don't mind my asking you, but I have always so wanted to seeit. I am afraid you won't tell us all about it, but I should dearly loveto hear. ' No one had ever induced Michael to tell that story; the merest allusionto his gallantry always froze him up in a moment--even Dr. Ross, who washis nearest confidant, had never heard the recital from his own lips. But for once Michael let himself be persuaded; Kester's boyish eagernessprevailed, and, to his own surprise, Michael found himself giving theterrible details in a cool, business-like manner. No wonder Kester forgot the time as he listened; the lad's sensitiveframe thrilled with passionate envy at the narrative. At last he had meta hero face to face. What were those old Greek fellows--Ajax, or Hectoror any of those gaudy warriors--compared with this quiet Englishsoldier? 'Oh, if I could only be you!' he sighed, as Michael ended his recital;'if I could look back on a deed like that! How many lives did you save, Captain Burnett?--you told me, but I have forgotten. I think you are thehappiest man I know. ' Kester in his boyish reticence could not speak out his inmost thought, or he would have added: 'And the greatest and the grandest man I haveever seen. ' A dim, inscrutable smile flitted over Captain Burnett's features. 'My dear fellow, happiness is a purely relative term. I am not a greatbeliever in happiness. A soldier without his work is hardly to beenvied. ' Kester was young, but his life had already taught him many things. Hewas acute enough to detect a note of bitterness in his new friend'svoice. It said, more than his words, that Captain Burnett was adisappointed man. He looked at him wistfully for a moment. 'Yes, I know what you mean. You would like to be back with yourregiment. It is very hard--very hard, of course; but you are notsuffering for nothing, like me. Don't you see the difference?'--droppinghis voice. 'I have got this pain to bear, and no good comes of it; it isjust bearing, and nothing else. But you have suffered in saving othermen's lives. It is a kind of ransom. Oh, I don't know how to expressmyself, but it must be happiness to have a memory like that!' Kester had spoken with a sort of involuntary outburst. For a momentCaptain Burnett turned his head aside. He felt rebuked by this crude, boyish enthusiasm, which had gone so straight to the heart of things. Why was he, the grown man, so selfish, so impatient, when this poor ladacquiesced so meekly in his fate? Had Kester deserved his lot? 'You are right, ' observed Michael, in a low tone. 'One ought only to bethankful, and not complain. ' And just at this moment Audrey came in, and stood on the thresholdtransfixed with amazement, until Michael rose and offered her a chair. 'You here!' she gasped. 'I thought I heard voices. Mollie, this is mycousin, Captain Burnett. I suppose we must let him stay to tea. ' Mollie gave her invitation very shyly. The poor child was thinking ofher shabby frock, with the great rent in the skirt, so hastily cobbledup. The pale man with the reddish moustache was very formidable inMollie's eyes. Mollie was sure her hand would tremble when she liftedthe heavy teapot. She had been so looking forward to having a cosy teawith their dear Miss Ross, and now everything was spoilt. When Mollie was shy she always looked a little sulky; but Michael, whonoticed her embarrassment, set himself to charm it away. Biddy had set the little tea-table under the acacia-tree; but as Mollie, blushing and awkward, commenced her arduous duties, she found herselfassisted by the formidable Captain Burnett. Before half an hour was over Mollie thought him quite the nicest manthat she had ever seen. He was so kind, so helpful; he told suchinteresting stories. Mollie forgot her Cinderella rags as she listened. Her eyes sparkled; a pretty colour came to her face; her rough brownhair had gleams of gold in it. Mollie did not look plain or awkwardthen. 'Her eyes are nice, and she has a sweet voice and a ringing laugh, 'thought Michael as he glanced at her. How merry they all were! What nonsense they talked, as they sat therewatching some pigeons circling among the arches! The little garden wasstill and pleasant. Zack was stretched out beside them, with Bootycurled up near him. Audrey was the first to call attention to thelateness of the hour. 'We must go home now, Michael, ' she said, in a tone of regret, which wasloudly echoed by Mollie and Kester. Mollie closed the green gate after them; then she rushed back to Kester. 'Do you like him--Captain Burnett, I mean?' she asked eagerly. 'I was soafraid of him at first; his eyes seem to look one through and through, even when he says nothing. But he is kind--very kind. ' 'Is that all you have found out about him?' returned her brothercontemptuously. 'That is so like a girl! Who cares about his eyes? Doyou know what he is? He is a hero--he has the Victoria Cross. He hassaved a lot of lives. Come here, and I will tell you all about it; itwill make your hair stand on end more than it does now. ' But the story made Mollie cry, and from that hour she and Kester electedCaptain Burnett to the position of their favourite hero. 'We must tell Cyril all about him when he comes home, ' observed Mollie, drying her eyes. 'You are right, Kester. Captain Burnett is quite thebest, and the nicest, and the bravest man I have ever seen. ' 'Hear, hear!' interposed Cyril mischievously, thrusting his dark faceout of the dining-room window. He had heard the whole story with a greatdeal of interest. And then, as Mollie darted towards him with a littleshriek of assumed anger, he laughed, and sauntered out into the garden. 'Let us do our Greek out here, old fellow, ' he said, throwing himselfdown on the grass, while Zack jumped on him. 'Have you got some tea forme, Mollie, or have you forgotten the teapot in your hero-worship? Howlate mother is!' He hesitated and looked at Kester. 'She would like meto meet her; it is such a long, lonely walk. But no'--as a cloud stoleover Kester's face--'perhaps she will take the omnibus. Open your booksand let me see your day's work;' and Cyril quietly repressed a yawn ashe took a cup of cold tea from Mollie's hand. He was tired. A walk through the dewy lanes would refresh him. He was ina restless mood; he wanted to be alone, to stretch himself and tothink--perhaps to indulge in some youthful dream. But he was used tocombating these moods; he would rather bear anything than disappointKester. And then he drank off his tea without a murmur, and the nextmoment the two brothers were hard at work. CHAPTER VIII 'I HOPE BETTER THINGS OF AUDREY' 'Your manners are always under examination, and by committees little suspected--a police in citizen's clothes--who are awarding or denying you very high prizes when you least think of it. '--EMERSON. Mrs. Harcourt had had a successful afternoon. All the nicest people hadbeen at home, and a great many pleasant things had been said to her; hermother had been a charming companion. Nevertheless, there was a slightcloud on Mrs. Harcourt's face as she walked through the shrubbery thatled to her house, and the fold of care was still on her brow as sheentered her husband's study--a pleasant room on the ground-floor, overlooking the garden. Mr. Harcourt was reading, but he put down hismagazine and greeted his wife with a smile. He was just rising from hisseat, but she prevented him by laying her hand on his shoulder. 'Don't move, Percival; you look so comfortable. I will sit by you aminute. I hope I am not interrupting you. ' 'Such an interruption is only pleasant, my dear, ' was the polite answer. 'Well, have you and Audrey had a nice afternoon?' 'Mother came with me. Audrey had some ridiculous engagement with theBlakes. Percival, I am growing seriously uneasy at this new vagary onAudrey's part. Would you believe it?--she has been the whole afternoonat the Gray Cottage helping those children! and Michael has been there, too; we met them just now. ' Mr. Harcourt raised his eyebrows; he was evidently surprised at this bitof news, though he took it with his usual philosophy. 'Never mind, Jerry, ' he said kindly, after a glance at his wife's vexedface, 'we cannot always inoculate people with our own common-sense. Audrey was always inclined to go her own gait. ' Geraldine blushed; she always did when her husband called her Jerry. Notthat she minded it from him, but if anyone else--one of the boys, forexample--were to hear it, the dignified mistress of the house felt shewould never have got over it. In her unmarried days no one had presumedto call her anything but Geraldine or Gage, and yet before three monthswere over her husband had invented this nickname for her. 'It is no use fretting over it, ' he went on in the same equable voice;'you and Audrey are very different people, my love. ' 'Yes; but, Percy dear, it is so trying of Audrey to take up the verypeople that mother and I were so anxious to avoid. I declare I am quitesorry for mother; she said, very truly, how is she to keep an intrusiveperson like Mrs. Blake at a distance now Audrey has struck up thisviolent friendship with her? She has even taken Michael there, for ofcourse he would never go of his own accord. I am so vexed about it all;it has quite spoilt my afternoon. ' 'Burnett was on the cricket-field a great part of the afternoon, 'returned Mr. Harcourt. 'I saw him talking to Charrington and Sayers. ' 'Then she must have asked him to fetch her, ' replied Geraldine, with anair of decision that evidently amused her husband; 'for Michael told usof his own accord that he had been having tea at the Cottage. It isreally very foolish and incautious of Audrey, after Edith's hint, too! Iwish you would tell her so, Percival, for she only laughs at my advice. ' 'And you think she would listen to me?'--still with the same amused curlof the lip. 'I think she ought to listen to you, dear--a man of your experience andknowledge of the world--if you would give her a little of your mind. Itis so absurd for a grown-up person to behave like an impulsive child. Michael is particular in some things, but he spoils Audrey dreadfully. He and father encourage her. It is your duty, Percival, to act abrother's part by her, and guide her for her own good. ' Geraldine was evidently in earnest, and Mr. Harcourt forbore to smile ashe answered her: 'But if she refused to be guided by me, my dear?' 'Oh, I hope better things of Audrey, ' replied Geraldine, in such asolemn voice that her husband laughed outright, though he drew down herface to his the next minute and kissed it. 'You are a good girl to believe in your husband. I don't envy Audrey'sfuture spouse; he will have much to bear. Audrey is too philanthropic, too unpractical altogether, for a smooth domestic life. We are differentpeople, as I said before. Come, cheer up, darling. If I find it possibleto say a word in season, you may trust me to do so. Ah! there is thedressing-bell. ' And Mr. Harcourt rose and stretched himself, and began gathering up hispapers as a hint to his wife that the subject was concluded. Audrey was not so unreasonable as her sister supposed; she had nointention of placing herself in direct opposition to her family--on thecontrary, she was somewhat troubled by Geraldine's chilling receptionthat afternoon. Michael had stopped the carriage and informed the twoladies of the manner in which he and Audrey had spent their afternoon. 'We have both been having tea at the Gray Cottage, ' he said cheerfully. 'I hope you have spent as pleasant an afternoon, Gage. Thatyoungster--Kester they call him--is a bright, intelligent lad, andMollie is a nice child. ' 'Oh, indeed!' was Geraldine's reply; 'I am afraid we are late, Michael, and must drive on;' and then she nodded to Audrey: but there was nopleasant smile on her face. 'Gage is put out with us both, ' observed Audrey, as they turned in atWoodcote. 'I shall be in for another lecture, Michael. ' Audrey had no wish to be a bugbear to her family. For several reasonsshe thought it politic to avoid the Gray Cottage for a day or two:Mollie must not depend on her too much. When her mother and Geraldinehad called, and Mrs. Blake was on visiting terms with them, things wouldbe on a pleasanter footing. She was somewhat surprised, when Sundaycame, to find Mr. Blake was the sole representative of his family in theschool chapel. She had looked for the widow and her children in themorning, and again in the afternoon, and as she exchanged greetings withCyril in the courtyard after service she could not refrain fromquestioning him on the subject. 'I hope Mrs. Blake has not another headache?' she asked rather abruptlyas he came up to her, looking very handsome and distinguished in hiscap and gown--and again Audrey remembered her unlucky speech about theGreek god. Cyril seemed a little embarrassed. 'Oh no, she is quite well, only a little tired; she has rather knockedherself up. Kester had a touch of his old pain, so I told him not tocome. ' 'And Mollie?' But Cyril did not appear to hear the question. 'Will you excuse me?' he observed the next moment, rather hurriedly; 'Ithink Mrs. Charrington is waiting for me--she asked me to go to theschool-house to tea. ' And as he left her, Audrey found herself obliged to join her sister andMrs. Harcourt. 'Have you many people coming to you to-morrow afternoon?' askedGeraldine, as they walked on together. 'Only the Luptons and Fortescues and Mr. Owen and Herr Schaffmann--oh, and--I forgot, father asked Mr. Blake. ' Audrey spoke a little absently. They were passing the Gray Cottage--ablind was just then raised in one of the lower rooms, and a small paleface peeped eagerly out at the passers-by. Audrey smiled and waved herhand in a friendly manner, and a bright answering smile lighted up thegirlish face. 'What an untidy-looking child!' remarked Geraldine carelessly; 'is thatyour _protégée_?' and then she continued, in a reproving tone: 'It isreally disgraceful that none of the family were in chapel. Edith wasright when she spoke of Mrs. Blake's mismanagement of her children; thatpoor girl had a most neglected look. ' Audrey did not answer; she thought it wiser to allow her sister's remarkto pass unchallenged; she had a shrewd suspicion why Mollie was not inchapel--the shabby, outgrown frock had probably kept her at home. 'Poor little thing!' she thought, with a fresh access of pity, forMollie had certainly looked very forlorn. And then she turned herattention with some difficulty to what Geraldine was saying. Dr. Ross was famed for his hospitality, and both he and his wife lovedto gather the young people of Rutherford about them. On Monday afternoons during the summer there was always tennis on theWoodcote lawn; one or two of the families from the Hill houses, andperhaps a bachelor master or two, made up a couple of sets. The elderladies liked to watch the game or to stroll about the beautifulgrounds. Mrs. Ross was an excellent hostess; she loved to prepare littlesurprises for her guests--iced drinks or strawberries and cream. Geraldine generally presided at her mother's tea-table; Audrey would beamong the players. Tennis-parties and garden-parties of all kinds werecommon enough in Rutherford, but those at Woodcote certainly carried offthe palm. Mr. Harcourt had always been considered one of the best players, but onthe Monday in question he found himself ranged against no meanantagonist, and he was obliged to own that young Blake played superbly. 'You would have won every game this afternoon if you had had a betterpartner, ' observed Audrey, as she and Cyril walked across the lawn. Shehad been playing with him the greater part of the afternoon, and hadbeen much struck with his quiet and finished style. 'My brother-in-lawhas always been considered our champion player, but you certainly excelhim. ' 'I have had a great deal of practice, ' returned Cyril modestly. 'I thinkyou are wrong about our respective powers. Mr. Harcourt playsexceedingly well; being so much younger, I am a little more agile--thatis all. ' 'Yes; and you would have beaten him this last game, but for me. I haveplayed worse than usual this afternoon. ' 'You must not expect me to endorse that opinion, Miss Ross. I have neverseen any lady play half so well. You took that last ball splendidly. Nowwe have exchanged these mutual compliments, may I ask you to show me thelake? Kester gave a tremendous description of it when he came hometo-day. Captain Burnett put him in the punt, and he seems to have had agrand time altogether. ' 'Oh, I heard all about it at luncheon. ' 'It is good of your cousin to take all this trouble, ' went on Cyril in alower voice, as they walked down one of the terraces. 'I was quite takenaback when he spoke to me yesterday. I thought he could not be inearnest. You know he asked me to go up to his private room afterluncheon, and we had a long talk until it was time to go to chapel. ' 'Will it be possible for your brother to come here two or three times aweek, Mr. Blake?' 'Oh yes; he can manage that short distance--at least, when he is prettywell; and the change will be so good for him. It is quite a load off mymind to know he will learn mathematics as well as Greek and Latin. Youhave no idea, Miss Ross, how clever that boy is. If he had only myopportunities, he would beat me hollow in no time. I tell my mother so, but she will not believe it; but she thinks with me that it is awfullygood of your cousin to interest himself in Kester. ' 'It will be a godsend to Michael, ' returned Audrey. 'You see, mycousin's health is so bad that he cannot employ himself, and he isdebarred from so much enjoyment. He helps my father a good deal with theboys when he is here, but sometimes the noise is too much for him. Itwill suit him far better to study quietly with your brother. Of course, he meant to be kind--he is always doing good to someone or other--butthis time the kindness will benefit himself. He quite enjoyed hismorning. He told me so in a tone as though he meant it. ' 'And Kester looked ever so much brighter. What comfortable quartersCaptain Burnett has! I had no idea he had a private sitting-room, and hetells me he has rooms in town as well. ' 'Yes; but we do not let him use them oftener than we can help. It is sodull for him to be alone. My father is anxious for him to livealtogether at Woodcote--he thinks the Rutherford air suits him so muchbetter than that of town; but Michael cannot be persuaded to give up hisrooms. I tell him it is all his pride, and that he wishes to beindependent of us. ' 'He is your father's cousin, you say?' 'Yes; and he is just like his son, ' returned Audrey, wondering why Mr. Blake looked at her so intently. 'You know, I told you that we lookedupon Michael as our own brother. Here we are at the pond--or lake, as weprefer to call it--and there are the swans, Snowflake and Eiderdown, asI have christened them. ' 'It is a charming spot, ' observed Cyril, leaning over the fence to lookat the beautiful creatures. He was quite unaware, as he lounged there, that he added another picturesque effect to the landscape, his brightblue coat and peaked cap making a spot of colour against Audrey's whitegown. 'So that is the island where Kester found the forget-me-nots forMollie? It looks as though one could carry it off bodily in one's arms, 'he continued, after a reflective pause. 'Mr. Blake, I will not permit such remarks, ' returned Audrey, laughing. 'I have often paddled myself about the lake. At least, it is deep enoughto drown one. Now tell me how Mollie is. ' 'Mollie is inconsolable because she has not seen you for two wholedays. She spent most of the morning at the window in the hope of seeingyou pass. ' 'Nonsense!' 'Oh, it is a fact, I assure you. My mother told me so herself. Willthere be any chance of your looking in to-morrow, Miss Ross? I am goingback now, and I am sure such a message would make Mollie happy for theremainder of the evening. ' Audrey smiled. 'I do not think I will send the message, Mr. Blake. I half thought ofcalling on some friends of mine who live a little way out of Rutherford, but if I have time----' She paused, not quite knowing how to finish her sentence. 'Well, I will say nothing about it, ' he returned quickly. 'You have beenfar too good to us already. Mollie must not presume on your kindness;'and then he took up his racket. 'Why are you leaving us so early, Mr. Blake? There is surely time foranother game?' 'Thanks; I must not stop any longer now. My mother asked me to take herfor a walk, and, as Kester can do without me this evening, I promisedthat I would. ' 'And you will take Mollie? There is such a pretty walk across the fieldsto Everdeen Wood, if Mrs. Blake does not mind a few stiles. Mollie willnot, I am sure. ' 'I think Mollie will prefer to stay with Kester, ' he replied quickly. 'Iam sorry to leave so early, Miss Ross, but one does not like todisappoint other people. ' 'I begin to think you are one of the unselfish ones, ' thought Audrey, asshe gave him her hand. Then aloud: 'You must come to us next Monday, Mr. Blake, for I am sure my brother-in-law will want his revenge. Oh, thereis Booty, so of course his master is not far off. I will go and meethim. ' Then she nodded to Cyril, and turned off into a side-path just asCaptain Burnett came in sight. 'Are they still playing, Michael?' 'No. Harcourt wants to be off; he and Gage are to dine at theFortescues', so they have agreed to break up earlier. Why is Blakeleaving us so soon? Your father proposed that he should be asked todinner. ' 'I don't think he would be persuaded, ' she replied, wishing that she hadnot taken him so easily at his word. 'He has promised to take his motherfor a walk. He is really a very good son. Most young men care only abouttheir own pleasure. ' 'I think I like him, ' returned Michael, in his slow, considering tone. 'We had a smoke together yesterday up in my room, and I confess heinterested me. He seems to feel his responsibility so with respect tothat poor boy. He was very grateful to me for my proposed help, and saidso in a frank, manly fashion that somehow pleased me. ' 'I am so glad you like him, Michael!' and Audrey's tone expresseddecided pleasure. 'Oh, we shall hit it off very well, I expect; but I daresay we shall notsee very much of each other. He goes in for cricket, and makestremendous scores, I hear, and the Hill houses will soon monopolise him. He is too good-looking a fellow not to be a favourite with theladies--eh, Audrey?' 'I am sure I don't know, ' returned Audrey, who could be a trifle densewhen she chose. 'I do not think Mr. Blake is a lady's man, if that iswhat you mean. Don't you detest the genus, Michael?' 'Do I not!' was the expressive answer; and then he went on: 'I am quiteof your opinion that Blake is a nice, gentlemanly fellow; but I thinkthat brother of his is still more interesting. Poor little chap! he hasplenty of brains; he is as sharp as some fellows of nineteen or twenty. Blake is clever enough, but one of these days Kester will make his mark. He has a perfect thirst for knowledge. I drew him out this morning, forwe only made a pretence at work. You should have heard him talk. ' 'That is exactly his brother's opinion, ' returned Audrey; and sherepeated Cyril's words. Michael was evidently struck by them. 'He seems very fond of him, and, for the matter of that, the poor boy isdevoted to his brother. I suppose that accident has made a link betweenthem. I do not know that I ever took so much interest in your _protégés_before. By the bye, what has become of the O'Briens, Audrey?' 'I am going to see them to-morrow. I know what that inquiry means, Michael. You think that I am always so much taken up with new peoplethat I forget my old friends; but you are wrong. ' And then she added, alittle reproachfully: 'That you of all people should accuse me offickleness!' Captain Burnett smiled a little gravely. 'You are investing my words with too large a meaning. I do not think youin the least fickle; it is only your headlong sympathies that carry youaway. ' But as Audrey looked a little mystified over this speech, hecontinued: 'I would not have you neglect Mr. O'Brien for the world. Ionly wish Vineyard Cottage were a mile or two nearer, and I would oftensmoke a pipe in that earwiggy bower of his. I have a profound respectfor Thomas O'Brien. I love a man who lives up to his profession, and isnot above his business. A retired tradesman who tries to forget he wasever behind the counter, and who goes through life aping the manners ofgentlefolk, is a poor sort of body in my eyes; he is neither fish, fowl, nor good red herring. Now Mr. O'Brien is as proud of being acorn-chandler as'--he paused for a simile--'as our drummer-boy was ofbelonging to the British army. ' 'Poor old man! he has seen a peck of trouble, as he calls it. ' 'There, you see, ' interrupting her delightedly, 'his very languageborrows its most powerful imagery from his past belongings! Do you or I, Audrey, in our wildest and most despairing moments, ever talk of a peckof trouble? Depend upon it, my dear, when Thomas made that speech, hewas among his bins again; in his mind's eye he was measuring out hisoats and beans. I think I hear him repeating again what he once said tome: "It is such a clean, wholesome business, Captain. I often dream I amback in the shop again, with my wife laying the tea in the back-parlour. I can feel the grain slithering between my fingers, and even thedropping of the peas on the counter out of the overfilled bags is asplain as possible. Mat always did his work so awkwardly. "' 'I don't think he has ever got over the loss of his wife, Michael. ' 'Of course not. Is he likely to do so, with Mrs. Baxter's lugubriouscountenance opposite him morning, noon, and night? I don't wonder herhusband ran away from her; it would take a deal of principle to put upwith such a trying woman. ' 'Michael, I will not have you so severe on my friends! Mrs. Baxter is avery good woman, and she takes great care of her father. We cannot allbe gifted with good spirits. Poor Priscilla Baxter is a disappointedwoman. ' Michael shrugged his shoulders, but he was spared making any reply, asjust then they encountered Geraldine and her husband. They wereevidently looking for Audrey. 'Are you going, Gage?' observed Audrey serenely. 'I was just coming upto the house to wish you good-bye, only Michael detained me. ' 'I thought you were with Mr. Blake, ' returned her sister, in a puzzledtone. 'I wish you would come up to luncheon to-morrow--I have scarcelyspoken two words to you this afternoon. Edith is coming. ' 'It will be a pity to interrupt your _tête-à-tête_, ' returned Audreypleasantly; 'Mrs. Bryce has always so much to say, and she comes soseldom. ' And, as her sister's face clouded, she continued: 'I will runup for an hour on Wednesday, but I really cannot neglect Mr. O'Brien anylonger--he will have been looking for me day after day. ' 'Oh, if you are going to Vineyard Cottage, ' in a mollified tone thatAudrey perfectly understood, 'you will have tea there, of course. ' 'Do you think Mrs. Baxter would let me come away without my tea?'returned Audrey quickly. She was inwardly somewhat annoyed at this questioning. She had meant togo to the Gray Cottage on her way; but now she must give that up: Molliemust watch for her a little longer. Perhaps she could go to Hillside inthe morning and keep her afternoon free. And as she came to thisconclusion, she bade her sister an affectionate good-bye. But asGeraldine took her husband's arm in the steep shrubbery walk, she said, in a dissatisfied tone: 'I am glad we found her with Michael; but, all the same, she and Mr. Blake were partners all the afternoon. ' 'My dear Geraldine, ' returned Mr. Harcourt with assumed solemnity, 'Ithink Audrey may be trusted to manage her own little affairs--she istwo-and-twenty, is she not? When you have daughters of your own, mylove, I am quite sure you will manage them excellently, and no young manwill have a chance of speaking to them; but with Audrey it is anothermatter. ' And then, in a tragic undertone: 'Have you forgotten, wifemine, a certain afternoon when you did me the honour of playing with methree whole sets, and then we cooled ourselves down by the lake, untilyour father hunted us out?' Geraldine pressed her husband's arm gently; she remembered thatafternoon well, and all Percival had said to her--they had just come toan understanding when her father interrupted them. For one moment herface softened at the sweet remembrance, and then she roused herself toremonstrate. 'But, Percy dear, this is utterly different. Audrey would never dream offalling in love with Mr. Blake. Fancy a girl in her position encouragingthe attentions of a junior master. No, indeed; I was only afraid of alittle flirtation. Of course Audrey declares she never flirts, but shehas such a way with her--she is too kind in her manner sometimes. ' 'It is to be hoped that she will not break as many hearts as a certainyoung person I know--eh, Jerry?' and Geraldine blushed and held herpeace. She never liked to be reminded of the unlucky wooers who had shaken offthe dust of Woodcote so sorrowfully. As for Mr. Harcourt, he delightedin these proofs of conquests. Geraldine had not been easy to win--shehad given her lover plenty of trouble; but she was his now, and, as heoften told himself, no man had ever been more fortunate in his choice. For Mr. Harcourt, in spite of his delight in teasing, was very deeply inlove with his beautiful wife. CHAPTER IX MAT 'Sympathy or no sympathy, a man's love should no more fail towards his fellows than that love which spent itself on disciples who altogether misunderstood it, like the rain which falls on just and unjust alike. '--MARK RUTHERFORD. Vineyard Cottage, where the retired corn-chandler had elected to spendthe remnant of his days, was no pretentious stucco villa; it was a realold-fashioned cottage, with a big roomy porch well covered withhoneysuckle and sweet yellow jasmine, and a sitting-room on either sideof the door, with one small-paned window, which was certainly not filledwith plate-glass. It was a snug, bowery little place, and the freshdimity curtains at the upper windows, and the stand of blossoming plantsin the little passage, gave it a cheerful and inviting aspect. The tinylawn was smooth as velvet, and a row of tall white lilies, flanked withfragrant lavender, filled up the one narrow bed that ran by the side ofthe privet hedge. As Audrey unlatched the little gate she had a glimpse of Mr. O'Brien inhis shirt-sleeves. He was smoking in the porch, and so busily engaged inreading his paper that Audrey's light tread failed to arouse him, untila plaintive and fretful voice from within made him turn his head. 'Father, aren't you ashamed to be sitting there in your shirt-sleeveswhen Miss Ross has come to call? And it is 'most four o'clock, too--pretty near about tea-time. ' 'Miss Ross--you don't say so, Prissy!' returned Mr. O'Brien, thrustingan arm hastily into the coat that his daughter was holding out in anaggressively reproachful manner. 'How do you do, Miss Ross? Wait amoment--wait a moment, until I can shake hands with you. Now, then, theother arm, Prissy. You are as welcome as flowers in May--and as bloomingtoo, isn't she, Prissy?' and Mr. O'Brien enforced his compliment with agrasp of the hand that made Audrey wince. 'I expected a scolding--I did indeed, ' laughed Audrey, 'instead of thisvery kind welcome. It is so long since my last visit; is it not, Mr. O'Brien?' 'Well, ma'am, tell the truth and shame the devil; that's my motto. I'llnot deny that Prissy and I were wondering at your absence. "What'sbecome of Miss Ross?" she said to me only to-day at dinner, "for she hasnot been near us for an age. "' 'And I was right, father, and it is an age since Miss Ross honoured uswith a visit, ' replied his daughter in the plaintive tone that seemednatural to her. 'It was just five weeks ago, for Susan Larkins had comeup about the bit of washing her mother wished to have, so I remember theday well. ' 'Five weeks!' responded Audrey with a shake of her head; 'what a memoryyou have, Mrs. Baxter, and, dear me, how ill you are looking; is thereanything the matter?' looking from one to the other with kindlyscrutiny. Mr. O'Brien and his daughter were complete contrasts to each other. Hewas a stout, gray-haired man with a pleasant, genial countenance, thoughit was not without its lines of care. Mrs. Baxter, on the contrary, hada long melancholy face and anxious blue eyes. Her black gown clung toher thin figure in limp folds; her features were not bad, and a littleliveliness and expression would have made her a good-looking woman; buther dejected air and want of colouring detracted from her comeliness, and of late years her voice had grown peevish as well as plaintive, asthough her troubles had been too heavy for her. Audrey had a sincererespect for her; but she certainly wished that Mrs. Baxter took a lesslugubrious view of life. At times she would try to infuse a little ofher own cheerfulness; but she soon found that Mrs. Baxter was tooclosely wrapped in her melancholy. In her own language, she preferredthe house of mourning to the house of feasting. 'Oh, I hope there is nothing fresh the matter!' repeated Audrey, whoseclear-sighted sympathy was never at fault. She thought that Mr. O'Brien's genial face looked a shade graver thanusual. 'Come and sit down, Miss Ross, and I will be hurrying the girl with thetea, ' observed Mrs. Baxter mournfully, for she was never too lachrymoseto be hospitable, and though she shed tears on slight occasions, she wasalways disposed to press her hot buttered cakes on her guests, and anyrefusal to taste her good cheer would have grievously wounded herbruised sensibilities. 'Father, take Miss Ross into the best parlourwhile I help Hannah a bit. ' And as Mr. O'Brien laid aside his pipe and led the way into the house, Audrey followed him, nothing loath. 'Joe's been troubling Priscilla again, ' he observed, as Audrey seatedherself on the little horsehair sofa beside the open window, and Buff, agreat tortoise-shell cat, jumped uninvited on her lap and began purringloudly. 'Joe!' repeated Audrey in a shocked voice; she knew very well who wasmeant. Joe was the ne'er-do-well of a son-in-law whose iniquities hadtransformed the young and comely Priscilla into the meagre andcolourless Mrs. Baxter. 'He has no right to trouble her!' she went onindignantly. 'He has been worrying for money again, ' returned Mr. O'Brien, rufflingup his gray hair in a discontented fashion; 'he says he is hard up. Butthat is only one of Joe's lies; he tells lies by the peck. He had a goodcoat on, and looked as thriving as possible, and I know from Atkinson, who has been in Leeds, that he is a traveller to some house in the winetrade. And yet he comes here, the bullying rascal! fretting the poorlass to skin and bone with pretending he can take the law of her for notliving with him, and that after all his ill-usage. ' 'I am so sorry, ' returned Audrey, and her tone said more than her words. 'He is a bad man, a thoroughly heartless and bad man--everyone knowsthat; and she must never go back to him. I hope you told him so. ' 'Ay, I did, ' with a touch of gruffness; 'I found him bullying, and poorPrissy crying her eyes out, and looking ready to drop--for she is afraidof him--and I just took down my big stick. "Joe, " I said, as he beganblustering about her being his true and lawful wife, "you just drop thatand listen to me: if she is your wife, she is my daughter, our onlyone--for never chick nor child had we beside Priscilla--and she is goingto stop along with me, law or no law. " '"I'll claim my own. There's two to that bargain, father-in-law, " hesays, with a sneer; for, you see, he was turning a bit nasty. '"And you'll claim something else as well, son-in-law!" I replied, getting a good grip of the stick; for my blood was up, and I would havefelled him to the ground with all the pleasure in life, only the girlgot between us. '"No, father--no violence!" she screeches out. "Don't make things worsefor poor, unhappy me. Joe is not worth your getting into trouble on hisaccount. Go along with you, Joe, and Heaven forgive you; but horseswouldn't drag me under your roof again after the way you have treatedme. " 'Well, I suppose we made it too hot for him, ma'am, for he soon beat aretreat. Joe was always a coward. I would have hurried him out with akick, but I thought it better to be prudent; and Priscilla went and hada fit of hysterics in her own room, and she has been looking mortal bad, poor lass! ever since. ' 'I wish we could save her these trying scenes, Mr. O'Brien; they get onher nerves. ' 'Ah, that is what her mother said! "Prissy will never have a day'shealth if we can't hinder Joe from coming to plague her"--I remember mySusan saying that. Why, it was half for Prissy's sake we gave up theshop. "What is the good of filling our purse, Tom, when we have plentyfor ourselves and Priscilla!" she was always saying to me. But there, Iwas fond of the shop--it is no use denying it--and it takes a specialsort of education to fit one for idleness. Even now--would you believeit, ma'am?--I have a sort of longing to finger the oats and peas again. ' 'But you are very fond of your cottage and your garden, Mr. O'Brien. Captain Burnett says it is the prettiest little place about here. ' 'Ah, I have been forgetting my manners, and I have never asked after theCaptain, though he is a prime favourite of mine. Oh yes, he always hashis little joke. "What will you sell it for, O'Brien, just as it stands?Name your own price. " Well, it is a snug little place; and if only mylittle woman were here and I had news of Mat----' And here Mr. O'Brienpushed his hand through his gray hair again, and sighed as he looked outon his row of lilies. Audrey sat still in sympathising silence. She knew how her old friendloved to unburden himself. He talked to no one else as he did to thisgirl--not even to the Captain. He liked to enlarge in his simple way onhis old happy life, when Prissy was young and he and his wife thoughthandsome Joe Baxter a grand lover for their girl, with his fine figureand soft, wheedling tongue. 'But we were old enough to know better--we were a couple of fools, ofcourse; I know that now, ' he would say. 'But he just talked us over--Joeis a rare hand at talking even now. He can use fine words; he haslearnt it in his business. I think our worst time was when Prissy's babydied and she began to droop, and in her weakness she let it all out toher mother. I remember my little woman coming into the shop that day, with the tears running down her face. "Tom, " she says, "what have weever done to be so punished? Joe is treating Prissy like a brute, and mypoor girl's heart is broken. " Dear, dear! how I wanted Mat then!' Audrey knew all about this Mat--at least, the little there was to know. One day, soon after Mr. O'Brien had lost his wife, and she had found himsitting alone in the porch, he had begun talking to her of his ownaccord of a young brother whom he called Mat, but to no one else had heever mentioned his name. Audrey had been much touched and surprised bythis confidence, and from time to time Mr. O'Brien had continued tospeak of him, until she was in possession of the main facts. Thomas O'Brien had lost his parents early, and his brothers and sistershad died in infancy, with the exception of the youngest, Matthew, orMat, as he was generally called. There was so much difference betweentheir ages that Mat was quite a plaything and pet to his elder brother. From all accounts, he was a bright, engaging little fellow, anddeveloped unusual capacity. 'He was a cut above us, and people took notice of him, and that spoiledhim, ' observed Mr. O'Brien one day. Audrey, piecing the fragments of conversation together, could picturethe clever, handsome lad learning his lessons in the little backparlour, while honest Tom served in the shop. But Mat was not always sostudious: he would be sliding with the Rector's boys, or helping them tomake a snow man; sometimes he would be having tea at the Rectory, orwith his master, or even with the curates. One of the curates wasmusical, and Mat had an angelic voice. One could imagine the danger tothe precocious, clever boy, and how perhaps, on his return, he wouldgibe a little in his impertinent boyish fashion at thickheaded, clumsyTom among his cornbins and sacks of split peas. Mat did not wish to be a corn-chandler. When Tom married the daughter ofa neighbouring baker, Mat was heard to mutter to one of his intimatesthat Tom might have looked higher for a wife. He grew a littlediscontented after that, and gave the young couple plenty of troubleuntil he got his way--a bad way, too--and went off to seek his fortunesin London. Tom missed the lad sadly; even his Susan's rosy cheeks and good-humourfailed to console him for a while. Not until Prissy made herappearance--and in clamorous baby fashion wheedled her way into herfather's affections--did his sore heart cease to regret the youngbrother. Susan used to talk to her husband in her sensible way. 'It is no use your fretting, Tom, ' she would say; 'boys will be boys, and anything is better for Mat than hanging about here with his hands inhis pockets and doing nothing but gossip with the customers. He wasgrowing into idle ways. It was a shame for a big fellow like Mat to beliving upon his brother; it is far better for him to be thrown onhimself to work for his bread, ' finished Susan, rocking her baby, forshe was a shrewd little person in her way. 'I don't like to think of Mat alone in London, ' returned Tom slowly; butas he looked into his wife's innocent eyes he forbore to utter all histhoughts aloud. Tom was old enough to know something of the world; hecould guess at the pitfalls that stretched before the lad's unwary feet. Mat was young, barely eighteen, his very gifts of beauty and clevernessmight lead him into trouble. 'I wish I had him here, ' muttered Tom, as he went off to serve acustomer. 'Peterborough is a better place for him than London;' for theywere living at Peterborough then. Tom cheered up presently, when Mat wrote one of his flourishing letters;he was a fine letter-writer. He was in luck's way, he told Tom, and hadfallen on his feet; at his first application he had obtained a clerkshipin some business house, and his employer had taken a fancy to him. 'I feel like Dick Whittington, ' wrote Mat, in his happy, boastful way;'all night long the bells were saying to me, "Turn again, turn again, Mat O'Brien, for fortune is before you. " I could hear them in mydreams--and then the next morning came a letter from Mr. Turner. Dearold chap, you won't bother about me any more, for I mean to stick to mywork like a galley slave. Give my love to Susan, and kiss the littleone--couldn't you have found a better name than that Puritan Priscilla, you foolish Tom?'--and so on. Audrey once read that letter, and a dozenmore of the same type; she thought them very affectionate and clever. Every now and then there were graphic descriptions of a day's amusementor sight-seeing. What was it they lacked? Audrey could never answerthat question, but she laid them down with a dim feeling ofdissatisfaction. Mat used to run down for a day or two when business permitted, and takepossession of his shabby little room under the roof. How happy honestTom would be on these occasions! how he would chuckle to himself as hesaw his customers--female customers especially--cast sidelong glances atthe handsome dark-haired youth who lounged by the door! 'Old Mrs. Stevenson took him for a gentleman, ' Tom remarked to Susanonce, rubbing his hands over the joke. 'Mat is so well set up, and wearssuch a good coat; just look at his boots!--and his shirts are ever somuch finer than mine; he looks like a young lord in his Sunday best, 'went on Tom, who admired his young brother with every fibre of hisheart. Mat was quite aware of the sensation he made among his old friends andneighbours; he liked to feel his own importance. He came prettyfrequently at first; he was tolerant of Susan's homeliness and sisterlyadvice, he took kindly to Prissy, and brought her a fine coral necklaceto wear on her fat dimpled neck; but after a year or two he came lessoften. 'Leave him alone, ' Susan would say when Tom grumbled to her over hispipe of an evening; 'Mat has grown too fine for the shop; nothingpleased him last time. He wanted napkins with his food because of hismoustache, and he complained that his bed was so hard he could not sleepon it. It is easy to see that our homely ways do not suit him. I wishyour heart were not set on him so much, Tom; it is thankless work tocling to a person who wants to get rid of his belongings. ' 'Nay, Susan, you are too hard on the lad, ' her husband remonstrated;'Mat will never cut us--he has an affectionate heart. He is only havinghis fling, as lads, even the best of them, will at times. By and by hewill settle down, and then we shall see more of him. ' But in spite of Tom's faith, that time never came. By and by Mat wrotewith a greater flourish than ever. 'Wish me joy, my dear Susan and Tom, ' he wrote, 'for I am going to bemarried, and to the prettiest and the dearest girl in the world. Justfancy, Tom, her uncle is a Dean! what do you think of your brother Matnow? "Turn again, turn again, Mat O'Brien"--that is what the bells saidto me, and, by Jove! they were right. Haven't I had a rise thisChristmas?--and now my dear little Olive has promised to take me forbetter or worse. Oh, Tom, you should just see her--she is such adarling! and I am the luckiest fellow in the world to get her! I can seeSusan shaking her head and saying in her wise way that I am young totake the cares of life on my shoulders; but when a fellow is head overheels in love, he cannot stop to balance arguments. And after all, weare not so imprudent, for when the Dean dies, and he is an old man, Olive will have a pretty penny of her own. So wish me joy, dear Tom, andsend me your blessing. ' Tom fairly wept over this letter; he carried it about with him and readit at intervals during the day. 'If only she makes the lad happy!' he said to Susan. 'To think of ourMat marrying a gentlewoman, for of course a Dean's niece is that;' andSusan, whose knowledge of the world was small, supposed so too. Tom was hoping that Mat would bring his young wife down to receive hisbrotherly congratulations in person; but there was always some excusefor the delay. Olive was delicate; she could not travel; Mat could notleave her to come himself, and so on. Tom never doubted these excuses;he even made his little joke about the lad becoming a family man; butSusan, who was sharper than her husband, read between the lines. Mat wasashamed of bringing the Dean's niece down to see the shop; it waspossible, but here Susan almost shuddered at the awfulness of thethought, that he might not have told his wife that he had a brother. 'Mat is as weak as water, with all his cleverness, ' she said to herself;'if he has not told her yet, he will put it off from day to day. Thereis nothing easier than procrastination if you once give in to it. Fewpeople speak the truth like my Tom, bless him!' Susan would not grieve her husband by hinting at these suspicions, though they grew stronger as time went on. Mat never brought his wife tosee them; he seldom wrote, unless to tell them of the birth of a child, and then his letters were brief and unsatisfactory. Tom once wrote andasked him if he were happy, 'for somehow Susan and I have got into ourheads that things are not quite square, ' wrote the simple fellow. 'Docome and let us have a chat together over our pipes. Prissy is gettingquite a big girl; you would hardly know her now. ' Perhaps Mat was touched by this persistent kindness on his brother'spart, for he answered that letter by return of post. 'One must not expect too much happiness in this crooked old world, ' hewrote; 'but you and Susan are such old-fashioned people. Olive and Ihave as much enjoyment of life as ordinary folk. We quarrel sometimesand make it up again. I was never a very patient mortal--eh, oldchap?--and one's temper does not improve with age. ' And then after alittle talk about the children, who had been ill with scarlatina, theletter wound up by begging the loan of a five-pound note. Tom did not show this letter to Susan. For the first time in his life hekept a secret from the wife of his bosom. He put two five-pound notes inan envelope, and sent them with his love to Olive and the children. Apang of remorse must have crossed Mat's heart at this fresh act ofkindness; but though he acknowledged the gift with the utmost gratitude, he neither came nor wrote again for a long time. Some time after that Tom took an odd notion in his head: he would go upto London and see Mat and his wife and children; he was just hankeringfor a sight of the lad, as he told Susan. To be sure, Mat had neverinvited him--never hinted at such a thing in his letters; he could notbe sure of his welcome. Susan tried to dissuade him, but to no purpose;for once Tom was deaf to his little woman's advice. He left her incharge of the shop one fine spring morning and started for London andBayswater, where Mat lived. He came back earlier than Susan expected, and there was a sad look inhis eyes as he sat down and filled his pipe. Susan forbore to questionhim at first; she got him some supper and a jug of the best ale, andpresently he began to talk of his own accord: 'There were other people living in No. 23 Mortimer Terrace. The O'Brienshad left more than a year ago, and no one knew where they were. FancyMat leaving and never giving me his address!' finished Tom with an airof deep depression. He was evidently much wounded at this want of brotherly confidence. 'But surely you know his business address, dear?' Susan asked quietly. No; Tom did not know even that. He reminded her that Mat had long agoleft his old employers, and had set up for himself; but Tom did not knowwhere his office was. 'I always wrote to his private address, you know, Susan, ' he went on. 'Mat told me that no one ever opened his letters but himself; but howam I to find him out now if he chooses to hide himself from his onlybrother?' And though Tom said no more, he moped for many a day after thatfruitless expedition. By and by the truth leaked out--Mat was in trouble, and in such troublethat no fraternal help could avail him. One awful day, a day that turnedTom's hair gray with horror and anguish, he heard that Mat--handsome, brilliant Mat--was in a felon's cell, condemned to penal servitude for along term of years. In a moment of despair he had forged the name of oneof his so-called friends, and by this terrible act had obtainedpossession of a large sum of money. Tom's anguish at this news was not to be described; he cried like achild, and Susan vainly tried to comfort him. 'My father's name, ' he kept repeating--'he has disgraced our honestname! I will never forgive him; I will have nothing more to do withhim--he has covered us all with shame!' And then the next moment he relented at the thought of Mat, beaten downand miserable, and perhaps repentant, in his wretched cell. CHAPTER X PRISCILLA BAXTER 'How many people are busy in this world in gathering together a handful of thorns to sit upon!'--JEREMY TAYLOR. Audrey never forgot the day when she first heard this sad story. It wason a winter's afternoon, and she and Mr. O'Brien were alone in thecottage. She remembered how the setting sun threw ruddy streaks acrossthe snow, and how the light of the fire beside which they sat later onin the twilight illumined the low room and flashed out on the privethedge, now a mass of sparkling icicles. She and Geraldine had driveninto Brail, and by and by the carriage was coming back to fetch her. They had been talking of Mat, and Mr. O'Brien had shown her some of hisletters; and then, all at once, his face had grown very white andtroubled, and in a few husky sentences he had told her the rest of thestory; and as Audrey listened there was a gleam of a teardrop on herlong lashes. 'But you went to see him--surely you went to see him?' she askedtremulously, as he came to a sudden pause; but he shook his gray headvery sorrowfully. 'I would have gone, ay, willingly, when my anger had burnt out a bit. Ijust hungered to see the poor lad--he was still a lad to me--and toshake him by the hand; for all he had done, he was still Mat, you see;but he would not let me: he begged and prayed of me not to come. ' 'Ah, that was cruel!' 'Nay, he meant no unkindness; but he was pretty nearly crazed, poorchap! I have the letter now that he wrote to me; the chaplain sent it, but no eye but mine must ever see it. I have written it down in my willthat it is to be buried with me: "Don't come unless you wish me to dosomething desperate, Tom; I think if I saw your honest face in my cellI should just make away with myself. No, no, dear old chap; let me dreemy weird, as Susan used to say. I have shamed you all, and my heart isbroken; try to forget that you ever had a brother Mat. " Eh, they weredesperate words for a man to write; but I do not doubt that he meantthem. ' 'Did he mention his wife and children?' 'No, never a word of them. I wrote to him more than once, but he neveranswered me. He was such a long way off, you see; they send them toDartmoor now. As far as I know, Mat may be dead and buried. Well, it ishard lines, and I have known a peck of troubles in my time. There, youknow it all, Miss Ross; it beats me why I've told you, for no one in theworld knows it but Prissy--you have drawn it out of me somehow; you'vegot a hearty way with you that reminds me of my Susan, and I never hadbut that one secret from her--when I sent Mat the two five-pound notes. ' 'Your story is safe with me, my dear old friend, ' returned Audrey, laying her hand on his arm; 'you must never regret telling me. I haveheard so many sad histories--people always tell me their troubles; theyknow they can trust me. I am fond of talking, ' went on Audrey, in herearnest way, 'but I have never betrayed a person's confidence; I havenever once repeated anything that my friends have told me--theirtroubles are as sacred to me as my own would be. ' 'I am bound to believe you, ' returned Mr. O'Brien, looking thoughtfullyat the girlish face and steadfast eyes; 'Prissy says it always gives hera comfortable feeling to talk out her troubles to you. It is a gift, Iam thinking; but you are young to have it. Did I ever tell you, MissRoss, what Susan said to me when she was dying?' 'No, I am sure you never told me that. ' 'Well, Prissy had gone to lie down, and I was alone with Susan. It wasthe room above us where she died. I was sitting by the fire, thinkingshe was having a fine sleep, and would surely be better for it, when shesuddenly spoke my name: "Tom, " she said, "I know just what you arethinking about: you have got Mat in your mind. " Well, I could not denythat, and Susan was always so sharp in finding me out; and then shebegged me to sit by her a bit: "For you are very low about everything, dear Tom, " she went on; "you've got to lose me, and there's Prissy, poorgirl! with her bad husband; and when you have nothing better to do youthink about Mat. Sometimes I wish you were back in the shop, when I seeyou looking at the fire in that way. " "I was only wondering whether I should ever see the poor lad again, " Ireturned, with a sigh; "that was all my thought, Susan. " "I am sure you will see him again, " she replied very earnestly, with akind of solemnity in her voice; "I don't know why I think so, Tom, butthey say the dying are very clear-sighted, and it is strong upon me thatMat will one day seek you out. " Now, wasn't that strange, Miss Ross?' 'No, ' replied Audrey, 'she may have spoken the truth; while there islife there is hope. Do not be disheartened, my dear friend; you have hadgreat troubles, but God has helped you to bear them, and you are notwithout your blessings. ' 'That's true, ' he returned, looking round him; 'I would sooner live inthis cottage than in a palace. I don't believe, as the Captain says, there is a prettier place anywhere. I like to think Susan lies so nearme, in Brail Churchyard, and that by and by I'll lie beside her; and ifI could only see my girl more cheerful----' 'Oh, you must give her time to live down her worries. There! I hear thecarriage;' and Audrey went in search of her fur-lined cloak. This conversation had taken place about eighteen months ago, and thoughAudrey had never alluded to it of her own accord, it touched her greatlyto notice how, when he was alone with her, Mr. O'Brien would drop a fewwords which showed how clearly he remembered it. 'There is no one else to whom I can speak of Mat, ' he said one day;'Prissy never cared much about him--I think she dislikes the subject; assure as ever I mention Mat she cries and begins to talk of Joe. ' Audrey was not at all surprised when Mr. O'Brien made that allusion asshe was stroking the tortoise-shell cat in the sunshine. She could hearMrs. Baxter laying the tea-things in the other parlour, where theygenerally sat, and the smell of the hot cakes and fragrant new breadreached them. The cuckoo's note was distinctly audible in the distance;a brown bee had buried himself in the calyx of one of the lilies; andsome white butterflies were skimming over the flower-beds. The sweetstillness of the summer afternoon seemed to lull her into a reverie; howimpossible it was to realise sin and sorrow and broken hearts and thegreat hungry needs of humanity, when the sky was so blue and cloudless, and the insects were humming in the fulness of their tiny joy! 'Willsorrow ever come to me?' thought the girl dreamily; 'of course, I knowit must some day; but it seems so strange to think of a time when Ishall be no longer young and strong and full of joy. ' And then a wave ofpity swept over her soft heart as she noticed the wrinkles in her oldfriend's face. 'I wish Mrs. Baxter were more cheerful, ' she saidinwardly; 'she has depressed him, and he has been missing me all theseweeks. ' Audrey tried to be very good to him as they sat together for the nexthalf-hour. She told him the Rutherford news, and then asked him allmanner of questions. Audrey was a hypocrite in her innocent fashion; shecould not really have been so anxious to know how the strawberries andpeas were doing in the little kitchen garden behind the cottage, and ifthe speckled hen were sitting, or if Hannah, the new girl, were likelyto satisfy Mrs. Baxter. And yet all these questions were put, as thougheverything depended on the answers. 'For you know, Mr. O'Brien, ' shewent on very seriously, 'Ralph declares that we shall have very littlefruit this season--those tiresome winds have stripped theapple-trees--and for some reason or other we have never had such a poorshow of gooseberries. ' 'The potatoes are doing finely, though, ' returned Mr. O'Brien, who hadrisen to the bait; 'after tea I hope you will walk round the garden withme, ma'am, and you will be surprised to see the way some of the thingshave improved. ' 'Tea is ready, father, ' observed Mrs. Baxter at this point. 'Miss Ross, will you take that chair by the window? you will feel the air there. Iam going to ask a blessing, father: "For what we are going to receivethe Lord make us truly thankful. " Yes, Miss Ross, those are yourfavourite scones, and Hannah is baking some more; there's plum preserveand lemon marmalade and home-made seed-cake. ' And Mrs. Baxter pressedone viand after another upon her guest, before she could turn herattention to the teapot, which was at present enveloped in a hugebraided cosy. 'Dear me! I shall never be able to eat my dinner, Mrs. Baxter, and thenmother will be miserable; you have no idea the fuss she makes if I eversay I am not hungry. ' 'She is perfectly right, Miss Ross, ' was the mournful answer; 'there isno blessing to equal good health, and health mainly depends on appetite. Where would father and I have been if we had not kept our health? It isa wonderful blessing, is it not, father, that I have been so strong? orI should have sunk long ago. But, as poor dear mother used to say, thereis no blessing like a good constitution. ' Everyone has his or her style of conversation, just as all authors havetheir own peculiar style of writing. Mrs. Baxter, for example, delightedin iteration; she had a habit of taking a particular word and working itto death. Michael was the first person to notice this littlepeculiarity. After his first visit to Vineyard Cottage, as he wasdriving Audrey home in the dog-cart, he said to her: 'Did you notice how often Mrs. Baxter used the same word? I am sure shesaid "trouble" fifty times, if she said it once. She is not abad-looking young woman, but she is a painfully monotonous talker. Ishould say she is totally devoid of originality. ' 'I know nothing about health, Mrs. Baxter, ' returned Audrey withaggressive cheerfulness. 'I am always so well, you see. I never had thedoctor in my life, except when I had the measles. ' 'And the whooping-cough, Miss Ross. Don't say you have not had thewhooping-cough!' 'Oh yes; when I was a baby. But I hope you do not expect me to rememberthat. ' 'I am glad to hear it, I am sure, for you gave me quite a turn. There isnothing worse than having the whooping-cough late in life--it is quiteruinous to the constitution. You know that, don't you, father?--forgreat-aunt Saunders never got rid of it winter and summer. She had agood constitution, too; never ailed much, and brought up a largefamily--though most of them died before her: they had not herconstitution, had they, father? Great-aunt Saunders was a stout-builtsort of woman; but with all her good constitution and regular living shenever got rid of the whooping-cough. ' 'Shall I give you a slice of this excellent cake?' asked Audreypolitely, and with a laudable desire to hear no more of great-auntSaunders' good constitution, and, to change the subject, she begged fora recipe of the seed-cake for her mother. Mrs. Baxter looked almost happy as she gave it. She was an excellentcook, and her light hand for cakes and pastry, her delicious scones andcrisp short-cake, must have been remembered with regret by the recusantJoe, and may have had something to do with his anxious claims. Mrs. Baxter forgot her beloved iteration; her monotonous voice roused intopositive animation as she verbally weighed out quantities. 'A great deal depends on the oven, Miss Ross, as I tell Hannah. Many andmany a well-mixed cake has been spoiled by the baking; you may use thebest of materials, but if the oven is over-hot----' and so on, to all ofwhich Audrey listened with that pleased air of intelligent interestwhich once made Michael call her 'the most consummate little hypocriteon the face of the earth. ' 'For you were not a bit interested in listening to old Dr. Sullivan'saccount of those beetles, ' he said on that occasion. 'You know nothingabout beetles, Audrey. I saw you once yawning behind your hand--whichwas positively rude--and yet there you were making big eyes at the dearold man, and hanging on his words as though they were diamonds andpearls. ' 'You are too hard on me, Michael, ' returned Audrey, who was a littlehurt at this accusation. She rarely quarrelled with Michael, but now andthen his keen man's wit was too much for her. 'I was very muchinterested in what Dr. Sullivan was saying, although I certainly do notunderstand the habits of beetles, any more than I understand the Greekliterature about which you are pleased to talk to me, ' in a pointedtone. 'And if I yawned'--speaking still in an injured voice--'it wasbecause I had been up half the night with poor little PatienceAtkinson--and I don't like you to call me a hypocrite, when I only meantto be kind, ' finished Audrey, defending herself bravely in spite of aninward qualm that told her that perhaps Michael was right. Michael looked at her with one of his rare smiles; he saw the girl was alittle sore. 'My dear, ' he said, taking her hand, 'don't be vexed with me. You knowwe always speak the truth to each other. You must not mind my littlejoke. After all, your friends love you the better for your innocenthypocrisy. We all pretend a little; conventionality demands it. Which ofus would have the courage to say to any man, "My good friend, do holdyour tongue--you are simply boring me with these everlasting stories"?' 'But, Michael, ' persisted Audrey, for she wanted to make this thing veryclear to herself as well as to him, 'I think you are wrong in one thing:I am really very seldom bored, as you call it. Even if I do notunderstand things--if they are not particularly interesting--it pleasesme to listen to people. Old Dr. Sullivan did look so happy with that rowof nasty little beetles before him, that I was quite pleased to watchhim. You know people always talk so well on a subject that intereststhem. ' 'I know one thing--that there are very few people in the world soamiable as a certain young lady of my acquaintance. The world would be abetter place to live in if there were more like her----' But here hechecked himself, for he had long ago learnt the useful lesson thatspeech is silvern and silence is golden, and that over-much praiseseldom benefited anyone. When tea was over, Audrey accompanied Mr. O'Brien round his smalldomain, while he proudly commented on the flourishing state of his fruitand vegetables. Before she left the cottage she contrived to exchange afew words with Mrs. Baxter, who had remained in the house, and whom shefound in the tiny kitchen washing up the best cups and saucers. 'Girls are mostly careless, Miss Ross, ' she explained in an apologeticmanner; 'and Hannah is no better than the rest, so I always wash upmother's china myself. It would worry me more than I am already if a cupwere to be broken. ' 'I am so sorry to hear your husband has been troubling you again, Mrs. Baxter. ' 'Yes, indeed, Miss Ross, and it is a crying shame for Joe to persecuteme as he does. Sometimes I feel I must just run away and hide myself, his visits put me into such a nervous state. It is so bad for father, too. He is not as young as he used to be, and since mother's death therehas been a great change in him. Last time Joe came he put himself outterribly, and was for taking the stick to him. I was all in a tremble--Iwas indeed, Miss Ross--for Joe had been drinking, and father's apowerful man, and there might have been mischief. ' 'I think your husband must be made to understand that he is to leave youalone. ' 'Oh, you don't know what men are, Miss Ross. They are over-fond of theirown way. Joe does not find things comfortable without me, and then he isalways so greedy for money. The ways of Providence are very dark andmysterious. When I married Joe I expected as much happiness as otherwomen. He was so pleasant-spoken, had such a way with him, that evenfather and mother were deceived in him; he never took anything but histankard of home-brewed ale at our place, and he was so trim and so wellset up that all the girls were envying me. But the day I wore my graysilk dress to go with him to church was the most unfortunate day of mylife. Mother would far better have laid me in my shroud, ' finished Mrs. Baxter, with a homely tragedy that was impressive enough in its way. 'Oh, you must not say that, ' returned Audrey hastily. 'Life will notalways be so hard, I hope;' and then she shook hands with the poorwoman. Audrey enjoyed her walk back. It was a delicious evening, and the birdswere singing from every brake and hedgerow. Once or twice she heard theharsh call of the corncrake mingled with the flute-like notes of thethrush; a lark was carolling high up in the blue sky--by and by sheheard him descend. Audrey walked swiftly down the long grass lanes, and, as she neared Rutherford she could see a dim man's figure in thedistance. Of course it was Michael coming to meet her, attended by hisfaithful Booty. Audrey smiled and quickened her pace. She was quite usedto these small attentions, this brotherly surveillance on Michael'spart--she was never surprised to find him at some unexpected pointwaiting patiently for her. 'Am I late?' she asked hastily, as he rose from the stile and slippedhis book in his pocket. 'I have had such a nice afternoon. They were sopleased to see me, and made so much of me;' then, with a quick change oftone, 'You have walked too far to meet me, Michael--you are lookingpaler than usual this evening!' 'Nonsense, ' he returned good-humouredly; 'I am all right. Was Mrs. Baxter as mournful as usual?' To which question Audrey returned a fullexplanatory answer. Michael listened with his usual interest, but he made few comments. Perhaps his mind was on other things, for when she had finished he saidsomewhat irrelevantly: 'You are right, Audrey--Mrs. Blake is certainly a very pretty woman. ' In a moment Vineyard Cottage, Mr. O'Brien, and the mournful Priscillavanished from Audrey's mind. 'Oh, Michael! have you really seen her?' she asked breathlessly. 'Well, I am not sure, ' was the somewhat provoking answer. 'You were notthere to introduce us, you know, and of course I could not swear that itwas Mrs. Blake. ' 'Dear me, how slow you are, Michael!' for he was speaking in a drawlingmanner. 'Why can't you tell me all about it in a sensible way?' 'Because there is not much to tell, ' he returned calmly. 'I was justpassing the Gray Cottage, when a lady in black came out of the gate. Iwas so close that I had to draw back to let her pass, and of course Ijust lifted my hat; and she bowed and gave me the sweetest smile--ithaunts me now, ' murmured Captain Burnett in a sort of audible aside. 'A lady in black coming out of the Gray Cottage?--of course it was Mrs. Blake, you foolish fellow!' 'You think so?' rather sleepily. 'Well, perhaps you are right. Icertainly heard a window open, and a girl's voice called out, "Mamma, will you come back a moment? You have forgotten your sunshade. " And thelady in black said, "Oh, how stupid of me, Mollie!" and then she whiskedthrough the gate again. ' 'Did you stand still in the middle of the road to hear all this, Michael?' 'No, my dear. There was something wrong with the lock of theschool-house gate. It is sometimes a little difficult--I must tellSayers it wants oiling. ' Michael's face was inimitable as he made thisremark. 'And so you saw her come out again. Oh, you deep, good-for-nothingMichael!' 'I saw her come out again, and she had the sunshade. She walks well, Audrey, and she has a pretty, graceful figure--and as for her face----' 'Well!' impatiently. 'I think I will keep that to myself, ' he replied with a wicked smile. 'Do you fancy we could coax Cousin Emmeline to call soon? I begin tofeel anxious to enlarge my stock of acquaintance, and you must allowthat a bewitching widow is rather alluring----' He paused. 'Michael, ' giving his arm a little jerk, 'a joke is a joke; but, mind, Iwill not have you falling in love with Mrs. Blake. Dear me! what wouldGage say?' And at this Michael laughed, and Audrey laughed too--though just for themoment she did feel a wee bit uncomfortable, for even the notion ofMichael falling in love with any woman was not quite pleasant. 'Really, Michael, we must walk faster, ' she said, recovering herself, 'or I shall not have time to dress for dinner. ' And then they bothquickened their footsteps, and no more nonsense was talked about thefascinating Mrs. Blake. CHAPTER XI 'A GIRL AFTER MY OWN HEART' 'Be to their virtues very kind, Be to their faults a little blind, And put a padlock on the mind. ' ANON. 'I will go to the Gray Cottage this afternoon, ' was Audrey's firstthought the next morning when she woke; but she kept this intention toherself when Geraldine came in, after breakfast, to beg for somefavourite recipes of her mother's that she had lost or mislaid. 'And ifyou have nothing better to do, ' she said, turning to Audrey, who wasfilling the flower-vases, 'I shall be very glad of your company thisafternoon, as Percival is going up to London. ' 'Shall you be alone, Gage? I mean, are you expecting any specialvisitor?' 'Well, old Mrs. Drayton is driving over to luncheon with that deaf nieceof hers; but they will go away early--they always do. Come up later, Audrey, and bring your work; and perhaps Michael will fetch you--it isso long since we have seen him. I will not ask you both to stay todinner, as Percival is always a little tired after a journey to London, and a _tête-à-tête_ dinner will suit him better; but we could have along afternoon--you know you refused me yesterday because of theO'Briens. ' 'I will come up to tea, Gage, ' interrupted Audrey somewhat hastily; 'Iwould rather avoid Miss Drayton, and Miss Montague is simply terrible. You may expect me about half-past four, and I will give Michael yourmessage. ' And Audrey carried off her vase to avoid any more necessary questioning. Gage seemed always wanting her now; was it all sisterly affection, Audrey wondered, or a clever device to counteract the Blake influence? 'By the bye, mother, ' observed Mrs. Harcourt carelessly, as she gatheredup sundry papers, 'I suppose you will soon be leaving your card on Mrs. Blake? Percival thought I had better call with you, and if you aredisengaged next Tuesday or Wednesday----' 'Why, that is a week hence, my love!' 'Yes, mother dear, I know; but I have so many engagements just now thatI am obliged to make my plans beforehand. Besides, we could not verywell call before--you know what a muddle they were in. ' 'Yes, I remember; and Audrey helped them so nicely to get straight. Verywell, we will say Tuesday; and I really am very much obliged to Percivalfor his suggestion, for after all this talk, and the things Edith Brycetold you yesterday, I shall be quite nervous in calling alone. ' But herea significant look from her daughter checked her, and she changed thesubject rather awkwardly. 'So dear Edith has been talking again, ' thought Audrey, as she steppedout on the terrace with her empty basket; 'I almost wish I had been atHillside yesterday, and heard things with my own ears. ' And then shestopped to cut off a dark crimson rose that grew under the schoolroomwindow, and as she did so she became aware that Mr. Blake had put downhis book and was watching her. She gave him a smile and a nod, andwalked to the other end of the garden. 'I always forget the schoolroom window, ' she said to herself, with aslight blush, as she recalled that fixed look; 'Mr. Ollier generally satwith his back to the window and took no notice--he was as blind as abat, too--but Mr. Blake is very observant. ' Mrs. Ross had arranged to drive into Dulverton after luncheon with herhusband. When Audrey had seen them off, and had exchanged a parting jokewith her father, she started off for the Gray Cottage. Things hadarranged themselves admirably: she had two hours before Geraldine wouldexpect her. Michael had consented to fetch her--Kester was coming to himearly in the afternoon, and he had also promised to take a class for Dr. Ross; he would put in an appearance about half-past five. And Audreyprofessed herself satisfied with this arrangement. Audrey met Kester on her way to the Cottage. The poor boy was dragginghimself along rather painfully on his crutches; the heat tried him, hesaid, but he seemed bright and cheerful. Audrey looked pitifully at hisshabby jacket and old boots; she noticed, too, the frayed edges of hiswristbands. 'Is it poverty or bad management?' she thought; and then sheasked Kester how he liked his new tutor. The boy flushed up in a moment. 'Awfully--I like him awfully, Miss Ross, and so does Cyril. You have noidea of the trouble he takes with me; I know nothing of mathematics, butI mean to learn. Why, ' went on Kester, with an important air, 'I am sobusy now, working up for Cyril and Captain Burnett, that I can hardlyfind time for Mollie's sums and Latin. ' Evidently Kester did not wish to be pitied for his additional labours. 'Poor fellow, how happy he looks!' Audrey said to herself, as she wenton. 'Michael is doing good work there. ' But somehow she could not forgetthose frayed wristbands all the remainder of the day; there was a buttonoff his jacket, too--she had noticed the unsightly gap. 'I wish Mrs. Blake had a little more method, ' she thought; 'Mollie and Kester arecertainly rather neglected. How could poor Mollie go to chapel in thatfrock?' Audrey let herself in at the green gate; but this time there was noMollie on the threshold. She rang, and Biddy came hobbling out of thekitchen. 'The mistress is in there, ' she said, with a jerk of her head towardsthe dining-room, and then she threw open the door. 'Here's Miss Ross, mistress, ' she said unceremoniously. Biddy was evidently unaccustomed to parlour work. Mollie, who was sewingin the window beside her mother, threw down her work with a delightedexclamation, and Zack gave a bark of recognition. Mrs. Blake welcomedher very cordially. 'My dear Miss Ross, ' she said in her soft, pretty voice, 'we thought youhad quite forsaken us; poor Mollie has been as restless as possible. Icannot tell you how pleased I am to see you again; I was half afraid youhad disappeared altogether, after the fashion of a benevolent brownie. ' 'I have so many friends, ' began Audrey; but Mrs. Blake interrupted her: 'There, I told you so, Mollie. I said to this foolish child, when shewas bemoaning your absence, "You may take my word for it, Mollie, MissRoss has a large circle of friends and acquaintances--it is only to beexpected in her position--and of course we must not monopolise her;especially as we are new-comers and comparative strangers. "' 'Mollie thinks differently--don't you, Mollie? We are quite old friends, are we not?' and Audrey gave her a kind glance. How flushed and tired the poor child was looking! but she brightened upin a moment. 'Of course we are not strangers, ' she returned, quite indignantly;'mamma is only saying that because she wishes you to contradict her. Oh, Miss Ross, ' nestling up to her, 'I have so wanted to see you--I havelooked out for you every day!' 'I could not possibly come before, dear. ' 'No--but now you will stay for a long time? Mamma, won't you ask MissRoss to stay to tea? and Biddy will bake some scones. Biddy will doanything for Miss Ross; she said so the other day. ' 'My dear child, I could not possibly stay; I am going to have tea withmy sister--she lives in one of the Hill houses. Another time, Mollie, 'as a cloud of disappointment passed over Mollie's face; and to diverther thoughts she took up the work: 'Why, what pretty stuff! is this foryour new frock?' Mollie's brow cleared like magic. 'Yes; is it not lovely? Cyril chose it; he bought it for my lastbirthday, only mamma was too busy to make it up. But both my frocks willbe done to-night--mamma says she will not go to bed until they arefinished. ' 'Well, and I mean to keep my word, ' returned Mrs. Blake good-humouredly;'and your new hat will be trimmed, too, and then Cyril will not grumbleany more about his sister's shabbiness. I have been working like a slaveever since I got up this morning, and yet this naughty child pretendedshe was tired because I wanted her to stitch the sleeves. ' 'But, mamma, I had to iron all those handkerchiefs for Biddy. ' 'Yes, I know--and it was terribly hot in the kitchen; she does looktired, does she not, Miss Ross? I have a good idea, Mollie: put downthat sleeve, and I will finish it myself in a twinkling, and fetch yourhat and go down to the cricket-field and bring Cyril back with you totea--it will be a nice walk for you. ' 'Oh, mamma!' protested Mollie; 'I would so much rather stay here withyou and Miss Ross, and I don't care about the walk. ' 'But if I wish you to go;' and there was a certain inflection in Mrs. Blake's soft voice which evidently obliged poor Mollie to obey. She rosereluctantly, but there were tears of vexation in her eyes. Audrey feltgrieved for her favourite, but she was unwilling to interfere; she onlytook the girl's hand and detained her a moment. 'Mrs. Blake, could you spare Mollie to me to-morrow afternoon? I want toshow her our garden--it is looking so lovely just now. ' 'You are very kind, ' hesitating slightly; 'but are you sure that it willbe convenient to Mrs. Ross?' 'My mother has nothing to do with it--Mollie will be my visitor, 'returned Audrey quietly; and then she continued diplomatically: 'I knowmy mother intends to call on you next week, Mrs. Blake; she and mysister were planning it this morning--they are only waiting until youare settled. ' Evidently Mrs. Blake was much pleased with this piece of intelligence;she coloured slightly, and her manner became more animated. 'That is very kind; I do so long to see Mrs. Ross: Cyril is charmed withher, and he thinks Mrs. Harcourt wonderfully handsome. Oh yes, I caneasily spare Mollie; and her frock and hat will be all ready. Now offwith you, child, ' with laughing peremptoriness; and Mollie only pausedto kiss her friend and whisper that she was quite happy now, as shewould have her all to herself the next day. 'Mollie has got to a difficult age, ' observed Mrs. Blake, stitchingrapidly as she spoke; and Audrey again admired the lovely profile andfinely shaped head; 'she is getting a little self-willed and wants herown way. And then she is such a chatterbox; she will hardly let me getin a word. Sometimes I like to have my friends to myself; you canunderstand that, Miss Ross?' 'Oh yes, that is easily understood, ' returned Audrey, who neverthelessmissed Mollie. 'I thought I could talk to you more easily without her this afternoon; Iwanted to speak to you about your cousin--Captain Burnett is yourcousin, is he not?' 'He is my father's cousin. ' 'Ah, well, that is much the same. Is he a pale, slight-looking man witha reddish-brown moustache?' 'Certainly that description suits Michael. I think he has such a niceface, Mrs. Blake. ' 'I daresay; he is not handsome, but he looks like a soldier. What keen, bright eyes he has! The children have talked about him so much that Iwas quite curious to see him. ' 'It is certain that you have seen him; no one else in Rutherford answersto that description. It is odd how everyone makes that remark aboutMichael's eyes. ' 'Yes, they are a little too searching. I have plenty of courage, but Iam disposed to feel afraid of Captain Burnett. What I wanted to say, Miss Ross, is this--that I am truly grateful to your cousin for his kindinterest in my poor boy. ' 'Do you mean this as a message?' 'That is just as you think proper; but in my opinion he ought to knowhow much Kester's mother appreciates his kindness. When I first heard ofthe plan, I will confess to you honestly, Miss Ross, I was a little bitalarmed. Kester did not explain things properly--he would have it thatCaptain Burnett meant to give him lessons here, and I told Cyril thatwould never do. Cyril was a trifle bothered about it himself, until hehad a talk with Captain Burnett and found out that Kester was to go toWoodcote. ' 'Oh yes, of course; Michael intended that all along. ' 'True, and I ought not to have flurried myself. But if you only knewwhat I went through at Headingly, and the unkind things that people saidof me! A burnt child dreads the fire, and I was determined that no oneshould have an opportunity of speaking against me at Rutherford. What ahard world it is, Miss Ross! Just because I am--well'--with a littlelaugh--'what you call good-looking--why should I deny the truth? I amsure I care little about my looks except for Cyril's sake; but justbecause I am not plain, people take advantage of my unprotectedposition. Oh, the things that were said!' with a quick frown ofannoyance at the recollection. 'I daresay some of them have reached yourears. Haven't you heard, for example, that I tried to set my cap at Dr. Forester, only his daughter grew alarmed and insulted me so grossly thatI vowed never to speak to him again? Have you not heard that, MissRoss?' Audrey was obliged to confess that something of this story had reachedher. 'But I did not believe it, Mrs. Blake, and I do not believe it now, ' shecontinued hastily. Mrs. Blake's eyes filled with indignant tears. 'It was not true--not a word of it!' she returned in a low vehementvoice. 'You may ask Cyril. Oh, how angry he was when the report reachedhim! He came home and took me in his arms and said we should not staythere--no one should talk against his mother. They did say such horridthings against me, Miss Ross; and yet how could I help Dr. Forestercalling on me sometimes? He was never invited--no one asked him torepeat his visits. Mollie will tell you I was barely civil to him. Isuppose he admired me, that is the truth; and his daughter knew it, andit made her bitter. Well, after that, I declared that nothing wouldinduce me to receive gentlemen again, unless they were Cyril's friendsand he brought them himself. ' Audrey was silent. She had been very angry when Geraldine had told herthe story. She had declared it was a pure fabrication--a piece ofvillage gossip. 'Besides, if it were true, ' she had continued, 'where is the harm of awealthy widower, with one daughter, falling in love with a good-lookingwidow? And yet Edith Bryce seems to hint darkly at some misconduct onMrs. Blake's part. ' 'You are putting it too strongly, dear, ' replied her sister. 'Edith onlysaid she considered Mrs. Blake rather flippant in manner, and a littletoo gracious to gentlemen----' but Audrey had refused to hear more. 'I was utterly wretched at Headingly, ' went on Mrs. Blake, in her sweet, plaintive voice; 'and Cyril grew to hate it at last--for my sake. Hesays he is sure it will be different here, and that people are so muchnicer. I believe he thinks you angelic, Miss Ross, and your mother onlya degree less so. Only last night he said to me, as we were walking upand down in the moonlight, "I am certain you will be happy atRutherford, mother. You have one nice friend already, and----" But, there, I had better not repeat my boy's words. ' Audrey felt anxious to change the subject. 'Where did you live before you went to Headingly?' she asked abruptly, and Mrs. Blake was clever enough to take her cue. 'We were in lodgings in Richmond, ' she answered readily. 'You know wewere poor, and I was straining every nerve to keep Cyril at Oxford. Ihad been saving up every year for it, but I cannot deny we were sadlypinched. I had to send Biddy home for a year or two, and Mollie andKester and I lived in three little rooms, in such a dull street. Cyrilgenerally got a holiday engagement for the summer, but when he joinedus--I procured him a bedroom near us--it used to make him very unhappyto see the way we lived. But I always comforted him by reminding himthat one day he would make a home for us, and that cheered him up. ' 'You were certainly very good to him. Some mothers would not have donehalf so much, ' observed Audrey. She was repaid for this little speech, as a smile, almost infantile inits sweetness, came to Mrs. Blake's lip. 'I wish Cyril could hear you say that. But he knows--he feels--I havedone my best for him. Yes, my darling, I have indeed!' She clasped herhands and sighed. 'What did a little extra work, a few sacrifices, matter, when one looked to the future? We were very straitened--the poorchildren did not always have what they needed--but I don't think wewere, any of us, unhappy. ' 'I can so well understand that. I think people are too much afraid ofbeing poor. I could never see, myself, why poverty should hinderhappiness. ' 'Do you not?' looking at her a little curiously; 'but you have notserved my apprenticeship. You do not know how hard it is for apleasure-loving nature to be deprived of so many sources ofenjoyment--to have to stint one's taste for pretty things--to beperpetually saying "no" to one's self. ' 'And yet you own that you were happy. ' 'Well, yes, after a fashion. I think the poor children were, untilKester got so ill. Mollie and I used to walk about Richmond Park andbuild castles in the air. We planned what we would do if we were rich, and sometimes we would amuse ourselves by looking into the shop-windowsand thinking what we should like to buy--like a couple of gutterchildren--and sometimes, on a winter's evening, we would blow out thecandles and sit round the fire and tell stories. ' 'And then you say Kester fell ill?' 'Well, it was not exactly an illness. But he seemed to dwindle and pine, somehow, and Cyril and I got dreadfully anxious about him. I don't thinkRichmond suited him, and I could not give him the comforts he needed;and he fretted so about his want of education. He seemed to get betterdirectly we went to Headingly and Cyril began to give him lessons. ' 'Yes, I see;' and then Audrey took advantage of the pause to look at herwatch. It was later than she thought, and she rose reluctantly to go. Mrs. Blake rose too. 'Don't you think me an odd, unconventional sort of person to tell youall this?' she asked a little abruptly. 'Do you know, Cyril often saysthat I make him very anxious, because I am so dreadfully impulsive andspeak out everything I think; but I made up my mind that afternoon whenCyril told me that Mrs. Bryce was a connection of your sister's that Iwould talk to you about the Headingly worries on the first opportunity. ' 'I am very glad you have spoken to me; I think it was very brave ofyou. ' 'No, my dear Miss Ross, not brave, but cowardly. I was so afraid youwould be prejudiced against me; and you must know that I have taken agreat fancy to you. I am a very strange creature: I always like ordislike a person at first sight, and I never--perhaps I should say Iscarcely ever--change my opinion. ' 'I think that is a great mistake. It is impossible to read some peopleat first sight. ' 'Perhaps so; but you were distinctly legible. When I looked out of mywindow and saw you setting out the little tea-table on the lawn withMollie, I said to myself, "That is a girl after my own heart. "' Audrey laughed; but the little compliment pleased her. Somehow Mrs. Blake's manner made everything she said seem charming. Audrey felt moreand more drawn to this fascinating woman. 'And I want you to come very often, and to be my friend as well asMollie's, ' with soft insistence. 'Yes; yours and Mollie's and Kester's, ' replied Audrey in an amusedvoice. 'And not Cyril's? My dear Miss Ross, I hope you do not mean to excludeCyril. ' 'Oh, of course not, ' rather hurriedly. 'But, Mrs. Blake, you must reallylet me go, or Geraldine will be waiting tea; as it is, I shall have towalk very fast, to make up for lost time. ' Audrey's thoughts were very busy as she walked swiftly up the Hill. 'I like her--I like her exceedingly, ' she said to herself; 'I have nevermet a more interesting person: she is so naïve and winning in hermanner. I feel I shall soon love her; and yet all the time I see herfaults so plainly. She is terribly unpractical, and manages as badly aspossible. Edith Bryce was right when she said that. And she is foolishwith regard to her eldest son--no mother ought to be so partial. I amafraid Kester must feel it; all his interests are secondary to hisbrother's. It is hardly fair. And Mollie, too--the child seems aperfect drudge. No, my dear woman, I admire you more than I can say, and I know I shall very soon get fond of you; but you are notblameless. ' And then a curious doubt crept into Audrey's mind: with all herimpulsiveness, was not Mrs. Blake rather a clever woman, to tell thatForester story in her own way? Audrey had already heard a very differentversion. She knew Agatha Forester had lived in deadly terror of thecharming widow. It was true that she had declined to believe the story, and that her sympathies were enlisted on Mrs. Blake's side; but, still, was it not rather a clever stratagem on Mrs. Blake's part to secure heras an ally? But Audrey dismissed this thought as quickly as it passedthrough her mind. 'Why, what nonsense!' she argued. 'I am accusing Mrs. Blake of being alittle deep, when she herself owned frankly that she was anxious toprejudice me in her favour. Of course she knew Edith Bryce would talk toGage, and it was only wise of her to tell me the truth. People must havetreated her very badly at Headingly, or her son would not have taken herpart. He seems to have plenty of common-sense, although he dotes on her. They are a wonderfully interesting family, and I seem to know them allso well already. ' And this last reflection brought her to Hillside. CHAPTER XII MOLLIE GOES TO DEEP-WATER CHINE 'Well I know what they feel. They gaze, and the evening wind Plays on their faces; they gaze-- Airs from the Eden of youth Awake and stir in their soul. ' MATTHEW ARNOLD. Mollie arrived very punctually the next afternoon. Audrey, who waswatching for her, hardly recognised the girl as she came slowly alongthe terrace. She wore a pretty gray stuff frock and a straw hat, trimmedvery tastefully with the simplest materials; and her usually unkemptlocks were neatly arranged in a broad glossy plait that reached to herwaist. Audrey felt quite proud of her appearance, and took her into thedrawing-room to see her mother and sister; for Geraldine had justdropped in on her way down the town. Mrs. Ross received her very nicely;but Geraldine took very little notice of her. Mollie was rather shy andawkward, and answered all Mrs. Ross's questions in monosyllables. Sheseemed so hot and confused that Mrs. Ross's motherly heart tookcompassion on her. 'Do not let us keep you, my dear, ' she said, addressing Audrey. 'I amsure Geraldine will excuse you; and it is far too fine to stay indoors. ' 'In that case, we will go, Mollie, ' returned Audrey in a relieved tone. 'Good-bye, Gage; I daresay I shall see you to-morrow. And, mother, letme know when tea is ready;' and then she beckoned Mollie to follow her. Mollie was no longer silent when she found herself alone with herfriend. 'Oh dear, Miss Ross, what a grand house you live in, and what a lovelygarden! Ours must seem such a poor, poky little place after this, andyet we were all so pleased with it. I do like Mrs. Ross so; she is sucha dear old lady'--Audrey had never heard her mother called a 'dear oldlady' before--'and what a grand-looking person your sister is! I neversaw anyone so handsome. ' But Mollie's tone was a trifle dubious. 'I hope you mean to like her too, Mollie. ' 'I don't seem to know her yet, ' replied Mollie evasively; 'but I likedlooking at her. Somehow I could not talk before her. Where are we going, Miss Ross? There is no pond that I can see. ' 'No lake, ' corrected Audrey, with much dignity. 'No, Mollie; I am goingto introduce you to the greenhouses and poultry-yard first; then thereare the pigs, and the boys' play-ground--oh, a host of sights!--beforewe make our way down to the lake. ' 'Ah, now you mean to be funny, because Cyril always calls it thepond--and Kester too. You must be very rich, Miss Ross, to live here andhave all these fine things. Mamma was saying so to Cyril when he wastelling us about it. ' 'This is my favourite little bantam, Mollie, ' interposed Audrey; andthen Mollie gave herself up to enjoyment, there were so many things tosee. Mollie wondered and exclaimed and admired, with flushed cheeks andsparkling eyes, until Audrey told herself the child was positivelypretty. At last they found themselves by the tiny lake, with their hands full ofbread for Snowflake and Eiderdown, while a little troop of rare foreignducks hung somewhat timidly in the rear. Presently, to Mollie's intensedelight, they got into the canoe, and Audrey, with much gravity, commenced their voyage. 'For you may laugh, Mollie, ' she said severely, 'but you have no idea ofthe extent of the place. This island is called "The Swans' Nest. " Weneed not land, because we can see it perfectly from the canoe; but youmay perhaps notice a small wooden building somewhere in the recesses ofthe island. ' 'Oh yes, I see it perfectly, ' returned Mollie, with the utmost candour. 'I could almost cover the island with my pocket-handkerchief; but, ofcourse, it is very pretty. ' Audrey gave her a withering glance. 'We will go on a little farther. You have a capital view of Woodcotenow; the house is in fine perspective. There is Michael's Bench, socalled after my cousin, Captain Burnett; and this, Mollie'--pointing toa pretty little thicket of trees and shrubs reaching down to thewater--'is Deep-water Chine. With your permission, we will rest here amoment. ' 'Have we got to the end of our voyage?' laughed Mollie. 'Oh dear, MissRoss, how droll you are this afternoon! But it is pretty--sweetlypretty; and how lovely those swans are! How happy you must be to live insuch a dear place!' 'I am very fond of it, ' returned Audrey dreamily. 'Listen to thosebirds; father is so fond of them. You cannot admire the place more thanI do, Mollie. To me Woodcote is the finest place in the world; it wouldbe dreadful to leave it. ' 'Why should you ever leave it, Miss Ross?' 'Why, indeed?' with an amused curl of her lip. 'I don't suppose I evershall leave it, Mollie. ' 'Not unless you married, ' replied Mollie, in a serious voice. 'Peopleare obliged to go away when they are married, are they not? But perhapsyou will have as grand a place of your own. ' 'I have half made up my mind that I will be an old maid, ' returnedAudrey lazily. 'Old maids lead such nice, useful, unselfish lives. ' Andthen, as Mollie opened her eyes rather widely at this, she went on:'What a pretty frock that is!--and that smocking is exquisitely done. Ireally must ask your mother to give me lessons--for it will be useful ifI ever should have any nephews and nieces, ' thought Audrey, who waspractical in her own way. 'Mamma will be delighted to teach you; she is so fond of you, Miss Ross. She was talking about you half the evening. Do you know, she did not goto bed until past one o'clock; she was finishing my blue cambric. Cyrilbegged her to put it down half a dozen times, but she said no, she hadmade up her mind to finish it--and the hat, too. He had to go off to bedand leave her at last, and it was not really done until past one. ' Audrey made no comment. She was asking herself how far she ought toencourage Mollie's childish loquacity--she was very original andamusing. 'But if I do not check her, ' thought Audrey, 'there is no knowing whatshe may say next. All the Blakes are so very outspoken. ' But Mollie was disposed to enlarge on a topic that interested her soclosely. She had arrived at an age when a girl begins to feel someanxiety to make the best of herself. Her nice new frock was an importantingredient in the day's pleasure; she felt a different Mollie from theMollie of yesterday. It was as though Cinderella, dusty and begrimedwith her ashes, had suddenly donned her princess's robe. 'I am so glad you think my frock pretty, ' she went on. 'I shall be ableto go to chapel with Cyril next Sunday. This is my Sunday frock; my bluecambric is for every afternoon. It was very fortunate mamma was in herworking mood yesterday, for she would never have allowed me to come inmy old brown frock. She is so busy to-day; she made me bring her down apile of Kester's shirts that want mending--"For the poor boy is inrags, " she said. Stop! I think it was Cyril who said that. I thought itwas funny for mamma to notice about Kester. Yes, it was Cyril. ' 'Mollie, do you know your mother calls you a sad chatterbox?' observedAudrey at this point. Mollie coloured up and looked perturbed. 'Oh, Miss Ross, did mamma tell you that really? Perhaps that was why shewanted to get rid of me yesterday, because I talk so much. Do youknow'--dropping her voice and looking rather melancholy--'I never doseem to please mamma, however much I try; and I do try--oh! so hard. Inever mind Cyril laughing at me, because he does it so good-naturedly;but when mamma speaks in that reproachful voice, and says that at my ageI might help her more, I do feel so unhappy. I often cry about it when Igo to bed, and then the next day I am sure to be more stupid, and forgetthings and make mistakes, and then mamma gets more displeased with methan ever. ' 'My dear little Mollie, I am sure you work hard enough. ' 'Yes, but there is so much to do, ' returned Mollie, with a heavy sigh. 'Biddy is so old, she cannot make the beds and sweep and clean and cookthe dinner without any help. Kester is always saying that if we had ayounger and stronger servant we should do so much better. But mamma isso angry when she hears him say that; she declares nothing will induceher to part with Biddy--Biddy used to be mamma's nurse, you know. Sometimes I get so tired of doing the same things day after day, and Ilong to go out and play tennis, like other girls. But that is not theworst'--and here poor Mollie looked ready to cry; 'do you mind if I tellyou, Miss Ross? I seem talking so much about myself, and I am so afraidof wearying you. ' 'No, dear; you may tell me anything you like--about yourself, I mean, 'corrected Audrey hastily. 'Yes, I know what you mean, and it will make me so comfortable to talkit all out--and I have only Kester, you know. I am so afraid, and Kesteris afraid, too, that with all this rough work I shall never be asladylike as mamma. She has such beautiful manners, and, then, have younoticed her hands, Miss Ross? they are so white and pretty; and look atmine!' and Mollie thrust out a brown, roughened little hand forinspection. 'You have a pretty hand, too, Mollie, though it is not quite soft atpresent; but if I were you, I should be proud to think that it was hardwith good honest work for others. ' 'Yes, if only Cyril would not notice it; he told me one day that noyoung lady ought to have hands like a kitchenmaid. Mamma heard him sayit, and she begged me to use glycerine and sleep in gloves, but I couldnot do such things. I am afraid you think me very complaining, MissRoss, but I have not got to the worst trouble of all, and that is--thatI have so little time for my lessons. ' 'Oh, I was going to ask you about that. ' 'I fret about it dreadfully sometimes, and then Kester is so sorry forme. He does all he can for me, poor boy! but sometimes on a hotafternoon I am too sleepy and stupid to do my sums and Latin. I don'tlike sums, Miss Ross, or Latin either: I would so much rather readFrench and history with mamma--she reads so beautifully and teaches sowell--but somehow she is so often too busy or too tired to attend tome. ' 'And who teaches you music?' 'No one, ' and here Mollie's face wore a look of the deepest dejection;'we have no piano, and mamma does not play. When we lived at Richmondthe lady in the drawing-room taught me my notes, and I used to practisescales and exercises in her room. She was such a funny old dear, withqueer little pinned-up curls. Her name was Miss Foster--she had been agoverness--and she used to be so kind to Kester and me. She would ask usinto her room, and give us cake and nice things; but I don't think sheliked mamma--she was always pitying us and calling us "poor children;"but I am sure we were very happy. ' 'And she gave you music-lessons?' 'Yes, and I got on quite nicely. I am so fond of music, Miss Ross, andso is Cyril; he sings beautifully, and can play his own accompaniments. He talks of hiring a piano, and then perhaps I can practise my scalesand exercises. ' Audrey made no answer for a moment--she was deep in thought--and thenshe said suddenly: 'Are you busy all the morning, Mollie? I mean, if you had a piano, whenwould you practise?' This question seemed to puzzle Mollie. 'I hardly know, Miss Ross--in the morning, I think, when I had donehelping Biddy. Kester generally wants me for an hour in the afternoon, and there is the chance, too, that mamma might call me to read historywith her. I daresay I could get half an hour or so beforedinner--luncheon, I mean. ' 'Would you like to come to me twice a week for a lesson? Oh, Molliedear, take care!' for the girl was starting up in her excitement; 'thewater is very deep here, and if you upset us----' 'No, no, I will sit quite still; but I did so want to kiss you--it issuch a lovely idea!' 'I am so glad you approve of it. I tell you what, Mollie, I will callone afternoon and settle it with your mother. The morning will suit mebest; I generally go out after luncheon, unless we have a tennis-partyat home; but with a little management I think I could contrive to spareyou an hour twice a week--perhaps an hour and a half, ' finished Audrey, whose busy brain had already suggested that a French exercise or half anhour's French reading might be thrown in after the music-lesson. Audrey was a good linguist, and played very nicely; it made her quitehappy to think that she could turn her accomplishments to account. Andreally the child was so disgracefully neglected--Audrey did not scruplea bit to use the word 'disgracefully. ' It was strange how all hersympathy was enlisted on Mollie's behalf, and yet she could not likeMrs. Blake one whit the less for her mismanagement of the girl. On thecontrary, Audrey only felt her interest quicken with every freshside-light and detail; she longed to take the Blake household under herespecial protection, to manipulate the existing arrangements, and putthings on a different footing. Biddy should go--that should be the firstinnovation; a strong, sturdy Rutherford girl like Rhoda Atkinson shouldcome in her place. Poor little Mollie should be set free from all butthe lightest household duties--a little dusting or pastry-making; sheshould have regular hours for practising, for reading French, even fordrawing. Geraldine was very good-natured, she drew beautifully--Audreywas quite sure that after a time she might be pressed into the service. Between herself, Gage, and Kester, Mollie might turn out an accomplishedwoman. Dreams, mere dreams, if Mrs. Blake could not be induced to partwith Biddy; and here the thought of the little work-roughened hands gaveAudrey a positive pang. Mollie, on the contrary, sat and beamed at her young benefactress. Shewas that; she was everything perfect in Mollie's eyes. Mollie's cup ofhappiness was full to overflowing! to see her dear Miss Ross twice aweek, to be taught by her, to study her beloved music; Mollie's heartsang for joy: the sunshine seemed to intoxicate her. She was in a newworld--a world with swans and birds and bees in it--full of leafyshadows and rippling, tiny waves. The kind face opposite her broke intoa smile. 'Well, Mollie, are you tired of sitting here? Shall we go back to thelanding-place?' 'Miss Ross, there is Cyril looking for us!' exclaimed Mollie, almostbeside herself with excitement. 'Yes, do please let us go back; he iswaving to us. ' And Audrey paddled across the pond. Cyril lifted his straw hat rather gravely; but there was restrainedeagerness in his manner as he helped them to alight. 'Mrs. Ross sent me to fetch you, ' he said quietly. 'Tea is ready, andMiss Cardell and her brother are in the drawing-room. Mrs. Ross beggedme to come back with you. Why, Mollie'--with a pleased look--'I shouldhardly have known you. She looks almost grown up, does she not, MissRoss?' His manner had changed in a moment. He looked bright and animated; hisslight gravity vanished. It was Audrey who became suddenly embarrassed;the eager look with which the young man had greeted her had not beenunnoticed by her. Cyril's dark eyes were very expressive. More than onceduring the last day or two Audrey had innocently intercepted thosestrange, searching glances, and they vaguely disturbed her. 'It is very good of you to take all this trouble with Mollie, ' continuedCyril, as he walked beside her towards the house. 'I need not ask if shehas been happy--eh, Mollie?' 'I have had a lovely time!' exclaimed Mollie, almost treading on Cyril'sheels in her excitement. 'Oh, Cyril, do ask Miss Ross to take you in thecanoe to Deep-water Chine! It is such a delicious place! The trees dipinto the water, and the birds come down to drink and bathe; and we sawa water-rat and a water-wagtail, and there was the cuckoo; and we couldhear the cooing of the wood-pigeons whenever we were silent; and, oh! itwas paradise!' 'I can believe it, ' returned Cyril, in a low voice. 'Mr. Blake, ' asked Audrey hastily, 'why is it that you are not on thecricket-field with the boys?' 'Conybeare has taken my place. A lot of the boys were kept in, whichmeans I was a prisoner too. I have only just opened the gaol-door to thepoor wretches. If you want to see a heart-breaking sight, Miss Ross--onesad enough to touch the stoniest heart--go into the schoolroom on ahalf-holiday on a summer's afternoon when half a dozen boys are kept infor lessons returned. The utter misery depicted on those boys' faces isnot to be described. ' 'I should just shut up their books and tell them to be off. ' 'I daresay you would, ' with an amused look at her. 'I can well imaginethat that would be Miss Ross's _rôle_. We masters have to harden ourhearts; "discipline must be maintained, " as that delightful old fellowin _Bleak House_ used to say; bad work brings its own punishment. ' 'You are as stern as Captain Burnett. By the bye, where is Michael?' 'He has gone out with Dr. Ross. That is why Mrs. Ross wants me to makemyself useful'--and Cyril did make himself useful. Some more visitors dropped in, Geraldine amongst them. She had finishedher business in the town, had paid a couple of calls, and now looked inon her way home. Somehow, Woodcote was always on the way home; but, then, as everyone said, there were few daughters so devoted to theirmother as young Mrs. Harcourt. Audrey, who was presiding at the tea-table, saw her sister looking atMr. Blake with reluctant admiration; she had never before noticed thequiet ease of his manners. He had lost his first shyness, and was nowmaking himself exceedingly pleasant to Mrs. Ross's guests. Mr. Cardell, who was a stiff, solemn-faced young man, was placed at a decideddisadvantage; clever and gentlemanly as he was, he looked positivelyawkward beside Mr. Blake. Mr. Blake seemed to see everything--to noticein a moment if a lady wanted her cup put down, if her tea were not toher taste; he carried sugar and cream to one, cake or bread and butterto another. He seemed to know by instinct when the teapot wantedreplenishing, and was ready to lift the heavy kettle; but he neverremained by Audrey's side a moment. As Audrey busied herself among her teacups she was amused by overhearinga fragment of conversation behind her. Emily Cardell, a plain, good-natured sort of girl, had seated herself beside Geraldine. 'Mr. Blake seems a decided acquisition, ' she observed, in a loud whisperthat was distinctly audible. 'We ought all to be very much obliged toDr. Ross. He is very young, but so distinguished-looking. Poor Oliver isquite cast in the shade. ' 'I don't know about that, Emily. ' 'I suppose you think comparisons are odious? But, all the same, I amsure you must admire Mr. Blake. ' 'I think he is very gentlemanly and pleasant. ' 'Dear me, Geraldine! that is very moderate praise. I never saw anyonewith more finished manners. ' Here Audrey moved away, but her lip curled a little. Would Geraldine'stone have been so utterly devoid of enthusiasm if she had not known hersister was within earshot? Just then Mollie touched Audrey on the arm. 'Miss Ross, Cyril says that I have been here long enough, and that he isgoing to take me away. ' 'Are you sure that I worded it quite so ungraciously?' observed Cyril, who had followed her. 'All the same, I think you will endorse myopinion, Miss Ross. Mollie has been here all the afternoon. ' 'It has been a very pleasant afternoon, ' returned Audrey, with one ofher kind looks at Mollie; 'and I hope we shall have many more. Mollieand I mean to see a good deal of each other. ' And then she bade themgood-bye and turned to the other guests, who were also making theiradieux. Geraldine remained behind to exchange a few confidential words with hermother, and Audrey stepped out on the terrace. As she did so, she wassurprised to see Michael sitting just outside the drawing-room window. He had evidently been there some time. As she sat down beside him she was struck by his air of dejection. 'Oh, Michael, how tired you look! have you had your tea?' He shook his head. 'Then I will go and fetch you some. Do let me, Michael;' for he hadstopped her. Michael's hand was very thin and white, but when he cared to put out hisstrength it had a grasp like iron; and that firm, soft grip on Audrey'swrist kept her a prisoner. 'No, don't go; it is so late that I would rather wait for dinner. Iheard the teacups, but I was too lazy to move, and to judge from thevoices, the room must have been pretty full. ' 'Yes; the Cardells and the Fortescues and Gage were there. ' 'Mr. Blake, too, was he not?' 'Yes, mother asked him--she wanted him to help entertain the Cardells. ' 'Yes, I see; and he seems disposed to be friendly--your father has askedhim to dinner to-morrow night to meet the Pagets. ' 'Indeed!' and Audrey tried to suppress the pleasure she felt at thisintelligence. 'Have you any objection?' She asked the question in ajoking manner; to her surprise her cousin answered her quite gravely: 'Well, I think it will be a pity to take too much notice of him--he isyoung enough to be spoilt. People are glad to have a good-looking fellowlike Blake at their parties; and, then, I hear he has a magnificentvoice. I expect half the young ladies of Rutherford will be in love withhim--Miss Emily Cardell among them; eh, Audrey?' 'I am sure I don't know, ' returned Audrey coldly; 'Mr. Blake's goodlooks are nothing to me. ' She spoke with unusual petulance, as thoughsomething in her cousin's remarks had not pleased her. 'Well, if youwill not have some tea, Michael, I must just go back to mother andGage;' and as Michael said no word to detain her, she moved away soquickly that she did not hear the half-stifled sigh with which Michaeltook up his paper again. CHAPTER XIII GERALDINE GIVES HER OPINION 'We must be as courteous to a man as we are to a picture, which we are willing to give the advantage of a good light. '--EMERSON. 'She has a most winning manner and a soft voice. '--_The Abbot_. Audrey was able to fulfil her promise to Mollie the very next day, whenshe encountered Mrs. Blake unexpectedly some little way from the town. She was just turning down a lane where one of her _protégées_, a littlelame seamstress, lived, when Zack suddenly bounded round the corner andjumped on her, with one of his delighted barks, and the next moment shesaw a lady in black walking very quickly towards her. She wore a largeshady hat that completely hid her face, but there was no mistaking thatgraceful figure. Mrs. Blake had a peculiar walk: it was rapid, decided, and had a light skimming movement, that reminded Audrey of some birdflying very near the ground; and she had a singular habit as she walkedof turning her head from side to side, as though scanning distantobjects, which deepened this resemblance. 'What a charming surprise!' she exclaimed, quickening her pace until itbecame a little run; 'who would have thought of meeting you, my dearMiss Ross, in this out-of-the-way corner? Some errand of mercy hasbrought you, of course, ' with a glance at Audrey's basket. 'That daintylittle white cloth reminds me of Red Riding Hood; I would wager anythingthat under it there are new-laid eggs and butter. Down, Zack! you aresniffing at it just as though you were that wicked wolf himself. ' 'I am going to see Rhoda Williams, ' returned Audrey; 'she is lame, poorgirl! and has miserable health besides, but she works beautifully. Geraldine and I employ her as much as possible. I suppose you and Zackhave been having a walk. 'My dear Miss Ross, ' with extreme gravity, 'I am not taking an ordinaryconstitutional--I have come out in the hope of preserving my reason. Ihave been enacting a new version of Hood's "Song of the Shirt"; for thelast two days it has been "Stitch, stitch, stitch, "--how do the wordsrun on?--until I was on the brink of delirium. An hour ago I said toMollie: "If you have any love for your mother, carry away that basketand hide it; do not let me see it again for twenty-four hours--nature isexhausted;" and then I put on my hat, and, at the risk of spoiling mycomplexion, came out into this blessed sunshine. ' Audrey laughed; there was something so droll, so mirth-provoking in Mrs. Blake's tone. Any other woman would have said, in a matter-of-fact way:'I was tired of work, and so I put on my bonnet;' but Mrs. Blake likedto drape her sentences effectively. 'It is very fortunate that we have met, ' returned Audrey, when she hadfinished her laugh, 'for I want to ask you a great favour;' and shedetailed her little scheme for Mollie. Mrs. Blake was evidently surprised, but she testified her gratitude inher usual impulsive way. 'How good, how kind of you, my dear Miss Ross! Indeed, I do not know howto thank you; no one has ever taken so much notice of my poor Molliebefore, except that droll old creature Miss Foster; but she could notbear me--a compliment I reciprocated; so we always quarrelled when wemet. ' 'And you will spare Mollie to me for an hour or so twice a week?' 'Will I not! Do you suppose I am such an unnatural mother that I couldrefuse such a generous offer? I really am ashamed to tell you, MissRoss, that I do not know a note of music. When I was a girl I was veryperverse, and refused to learn, because I said I had no ear; but inreality I hated the trouble of all those scales and exercises. Of courseI am sorry for it now: Cyril is so musical, and has such a delightfulvoice, and even poor little Mollie has picked up her notes as cleverlyas possible. ' 'I am so glad you have not refused me. I am sure I shall enjoy teachingMollie. I think we had better begin as soon as possible. Let me see:this is Friday; will you ask her to come to me on Monday morning? I willbe ready for her by half-past eleven. ' 'Thank you a thousand times! I will certainly give her your message. What a blessing that new cambric is finished! Cyril will be so pleasedwhen I tell him about your kindness. He worries dreadfully about Molliesometimes: he says her education is so desultory; but I tell him hecannot alter his mother's nature. I never was methodical; it drives mecrazy to do things by rule. Mollie sometimes says to me: "Mamma, I do sowish I had a fixed hour for lessons, that I knew exactly when you couldread with me;" and my invariable answer is, "Good gracious, Mollie!don't you know me by this time? am I that sort of person?" I wish for mychildren's sake that I were different; but they must just put up with meas I am. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. ' 'My dear Mrs. Blake, what an odd comparison!' 'Oh, it just came into my head, you know; it is rather strong, but it isvery expressive. By the bye, I was going to ask you something. Have youany idea on which day your mother and sister intend to call on me?' 'I believe Geraldine said Tuesday or Wednesday; I really forgetwhich--Wednesday, I think. ' 'But it might be Tuesday. Thanks. I would not willingly be out, so Iwill keep in those two days. Now, I positively must not keep youstanding under this hedge any longer; but I feel all the better for thisnice little talk. ' And after a few more parting words Mrs. Blake went onher way, and Audrey unlocked the gate of Mrs. Williams' cottage. The short interview with Mrs. Blake had been satisfactory; her requesthad been granted without demur or difficulty. Mrs. Blake had shownherself in a sensible light. Audrey's benevolence had now a new object;she would spare no pains or trouble with this poor neglected child. Tomeditate fresh acts of kindness always stirred Audrey's pulses as thoughshe had imbibed new wine. Her sympathetic temperament felt warmed, vivified, exhilarated, as she stooped to enter the low room where RhodaWilliams was expecting her. Audrey looked forward rather anxiously to her mother and Geraldine'svisit. She watched them set out with secret perturbation. They were tocall at one or two places besides, but Mrs. Ross assured her veryseriously that they would be back to tea; and as Geraldine seemed toconsider this as a matter of course, Audrey got over her own business assoon as possible, so as to be back at Woodcote at the same time. Michael had gone up to town for two or three days, and was not expectedhome until Monday. Dr. Ross rarely made his appearance in his wife'sdrawing-room until late in the evening, and, as no casual visitorsdropped in, Audrey would be able to cross-examine them to her heart'scontent. But she knew her mother well enough to be sure that noquestions would be needed. Even if Geraldine were inclined to bereserved, to keep her opinions for her husband's ear, Mrs. Ross would besure to discourse very readily on her own and Geraldine's doings. 'Well, my dear, ' she said in her cheery way, as she entered the room, 'here we are, as punctual as possible, and quite ready for a nice cup oftea. Of course Mrs. Fortescue was out--she always is--and Mrs. Cardellwas just going out, so we would not detain her; and Mrs. Charrington hadher room full of visitors, so we would not stay long there. ' 'Of course, as Lady Mountjoy was there, no one else had a chance ofgetting a word with Mrs. Charrington, ' observed Geraldine, with rather adiscontented air. 'My love, I am sure Mrs. Charrington was as nice as possible to you; youknow what a favourite you are with her. But a person like Lady Mountjoyis always so embarrassing to a hostess. She is so very big, Audrey, andseems to take up so much more room than other people; and, then, she issuch a talker!' 'So she is, mother. I don't wonder poor Mrs. Charrington found herselfunable to talk to Gage. ' 'No; so we did not stay long. What was the use? Well, my dear, I daresayyou wonder how we got on at the Gray Cottage? We had a very pleasantvisit, on the whole--an exceedingly pleasant visit. ' Audrey's face brightened; this was better than she expected. 'Mrs. Blake was in. I think, from her manner, that she was expectingus. ' 'Yes; certainly we were expected, ' put in Geraldine, in rather a decidedvoice. 'She was in the drawing-room, and everything was as nice as possible;and the old servant is very respectable-looking. Mrs. Blake was doingsome lovely embroidery in a frame. How exquisitely she works, Audrey!and she selects her own shades, too. That dear little Mollie was readingto her--French history, I think. They did look so comfortable! You arecertainly right, my dear: Mrs. Blake is a most charming woman; she hasvery taking manners, and is altogether so bright and expressive. ' 'She is certainly very handsome, ' observed Geraldine--'a moststriking-looking person, as Edith says. Mother and I agreed that her sonis very like her; but, for my own part, I prefer Mr. Blake's quietmanners. ' 'But you like her, Gage?' and Audrey looked a little anxiously at hersister. 'I am not quite sure, ' was the cautious answer. 'Mother liked her; but, then, mother likes everyone. She was friendly and pleasant--pointedlyso; but, in my opinion, she is too impulsive, too outspoken altogether. It is not quite good form. A grown-up person should have more reticence. To me, Mrs. Blake is wanting in dignity. ' 'I think you are rather severe on her, Gage. You and Mrs. Blake are verydifferent people. ' 'You need not tell me that. Mrs. Blake and I are at the antipodes as faras temperament and sympathy are concerned. You are very impulsiveyourself, Audrey, and often speak without thought; but I do not thinkyou are quite so outspoken as Mrs. Blake. ' 'Well, perhaps not. ' 'It was so unnecessary for her to tell mother, for example, that she wastoo poor to indulge her social tastes, and that she hoped her Rutherfordneighbours would be very sparing of their invitations. It was not asthough we had led up to it. Nothing of the sort had been said to promptsuch an extraordinary statement. I am sure Percival would have calledthat bad form. ' 'How I do hate that expression!' exclaimed Audrey, rather pettishly. Shethought Geraldine more than usually trying this afternoon. 'Still, I am sure you would have agreed with me that it was mostuncalled for. Mother was quite taken aback for a moment. She told me soafterwards--did you not, mother?' 'Yes, dear; and, of course, it put me in a difficult position. I am sureI do not know what we were talking about, Audrey. I think I was sayingsomething about Rutherford being a sociable little place. ' 'Yes; and then she interrupted you, mother, and said, in an abrupt sortof way, that its sociability would matter very little to her, for, dearly as she loved gaiety, she could not afford to indulge in it. "So Ihope no kind neighbours will ask me to dinner, or to any kind of eveningentertainment, for I should be obliged to refuse. " Now, do you call thatquite in good taste, Audrey?' 'I think that it was, at any rate, very honest. I can see none of thatpretentiousness that Edith Bryce led us to expect. ' 'I don't know, ' rather doubtfully. 'Mrs. Blake is certainly not a humbleperson; she thinks a great deal of herself. At times her manner wasalmost patronising. She talks a great deal too much about her son. Ofcourse she has a right to be proud of him; but it was a pity to be quiteso gushing. ' 'It is useless to talk to you, Gage, ' returned Audrey impatiently. 'Edith Bryce has prejudiced you too much. You are judging Mrs. Blakevery unfairly. ' 'I hope not. I do not wish to be unfair to anyone; but I must own that Iam sorry that you have such an infatuation for her. ' 'I don't know about that; but I am certainly very much interested in thewhole family. ' 'Yes; and I could not help observing to mother that I thought it a greatpity. They evidently look upon you as a close friend. It was "dear MissRoss" every minute from one or other of them. ' 'Audrey has been so good to them, you see, ' returned Mrs. Ross, whosesoft heart had been much touched by her daughter's praises. 'I am quitesure, Geraldine, that Mrs. Blake meant every word she said; there weretears in her eyes once when she mentioned how unused they were to suchkindness. Audrey, my dear, I have asked Mrs. Blake to waive ceremony andcome to us on Monday, and I assure you she was quite pleased. She saidit was such a treat to her to watch tennis, and that she loved to seeher son play. And now, of course, we must ask Mr. Blake. ' 'Oh yes, I suppose so. ' Audrey spoke with studied indifference. 'It is apity you are engaged'--turning to her sister--'for we shall have quite alarge party. ' 'Yes, I am thoroughly vexed about it, ' returned Geraldine, 'for Mrs. Charrington is coming too. I wish Mrs. Sheppard would not always fixMonday;' and then, after a little more talk about the arrangements forthe tennis-party, she took her leave--Audrey, as usual, accompanying herto the gate. 'I suppose Michael will be back for it?' was her parting question. Audrey supposed so too, but she was not quite certain of Michael'smovements. He had said something about his intention of coming back onMonday, but he might alter his mind before that. Michael had not seemedquite like himself the day before he went to town; she was suresomething had harassed him. Geraldine hoped fervently that this was notthe case; she never liked dear old Michael to be troubled aboutanything. And then the two sisters kissed each other veryaffectionately. Audrey always forgave Geraldine her little vexingproprieties and tiresome habit of managing everyone when she felt herloving kiss on her cheek. 'After all, there are only we two, ' she thought, as she walked back tothe house. 'I must not magnify Gage's little faults, for she is a dearwoman. ' And Geraldine's thoughts were quite as affectionate. 'I hope I have not vexed her too much about this new _protégée_ ofhers, ' she said to herself, 'but one cannot pretend to like a person. Audrey is a darling, and I would not hurt her for the world. After all, she is a much better Christian than I am;' and then she had a long, comfortable talk with her husband, in which she indemnified herself forany previous restraint. 'It is so nice to be able to tell you everything, Percy dear!' sheexclaimed, as the dressing gong warned her to close the conversation. 'That is the good of having a husband, ' he replied, as he put his bookstogether and prepared to follow her. Michael did not return in time for the tennis-party, but Audrey couldonly give him a regretful thought--so many people were coming that herhands were quite full. She was busy until luncheon time, and Geraldinegood-naturedly came down from Hillside to offer her help, and had tosubmit to an anxious lecture from her mother on her imprudence in comingout in the heat. Audrey had scarcely time to change her dress before thefirst guest arrived. Mrs. Blake came early; her son was still engagedwith his scholastic duties, and would make his appearance later; but hehad not allowed her to wait for him. Audrey saw her coming through thegate, and went at once to meet her. 'Well, Miss Ross, I am making my début, ' she said gaily; 'have I cometoo early? Do tell me which is the schoolroom window; I want to knowwhere my boy sits; he said he should look out for me. ' Audrey suggested rather gravely that they should walk along the terrace:her mother was on the lawn with Mrs. Charrington. She thought Mrs. Blakelooked exceedingly nice in her thin black dress and little close bonnet;nothing could be simpler, and perhaps nothing would have suited herhalf so well. Audrey felt sure that everyone would admire her; and shewas right. Mrs. Charrington fell in love with her at first sight, and toAudrey's great amusement her father paid her the most marked attention. 'My dear, do tell me who that lady in black is, ' inquired GertrudeFortescue, catching hold of Audrey's arm; 'she is perfectly lovely. Whatmagnificent hair she has, and what a sweet smile! Papa is talking to hernow, and Mrs. Charrington is on her other side. ' 'Oh, that is Mrs. Blake--you know her son, Gertrude. ' 'Mr. Blake's mother! why, she looks quite young enough to be his sister. I wish you would introduce me, Audrey; I have quite lost my heart toher. ' 'I have brought you another admirer, Mrs. Blake, ' observed Audreymischievously, while Gertrude Fortescue turned red and looked foolish. Mrs. Blake received the young lady with one of her charming smiles. 'Everyone is so kind, ' she murmured; 'I am having such a happyafternoon, Miss Ross. I won't tell you what I think of Dr. Ross--Ipositively dare not; and Mrs. Charrington, too, has been as nice aspossible. ' 'And now Gertrude means to be nice, too, ' returned Audrey brightly. 'Good-bye for the present; I have to play with Mr. Blake, and he iswaiting for me;' and she hurried away. What a successful afternoon it was! Mrs. Blake was certainly making hermark among the Rutherford people; no one in their senses could havefound fault with her manners. She was perfectly good-humoured and at herease; she had a pleasant word and smile for everybody. 'One would have imagined that all these strangers would have made hernervous, ' thought Audrey; but it needed a close observer to detect anymark of uneasiness in Mrs. Blake's voice or manner. Now and then theremight be a slight flush, an involuntary movement of the well-glovedhands, a quick start or turn of the head, if anyone suddenly addressedher; but no one would have noticed these little symptoms. 'Your mother seems to be enjoying herself, ' observed Audrey, as shejoined Cyril and they walked across the lawn together. 'Yes, ' he returned, with a pleased look; 'she is quite happy. ' 'Let us sit where we can see my son and Miss Ross play!' exclaimed Mrs. Blake, rising as she spoke. 'Look! there are chairs on that side of thelawn. What a well-matched couple they are!--both play so well. Miss Rossis not as handsome as her sister--Mrs. Harcourt is an exceedingly fineyoung woman, and one seldom sees such a complexion in the presentday--but, in my humble opinion, Miss Ross is far more charming. ' 'Do you think so? We are all very fond of Geraldine, and--oh yes, Audreyis very nice too, ' returned Miss Fortescue a little absently. She wasconsidered handsome herself, and it struck her with some degree ofwonderment that the afternoon was half over and Mr. Blake had not askedher to play tennis. CHAPTER XIV 'I AM SORRY YOU ASKED THE QUESTION' 'Thou must not be hurt at a well-meaning friend, though he shake thee somewhat roughly by the shoulder to awake thee. ' _Quentin Durward. _ Half an hour later Audrey had finished her game, and had resisted allher partner's pleadings to give their opponents their revenge. She mightfeel tempted--Mr. Blake played so splendidly--but she knew her duty toher guests better than that. 'You must get another partner, ' she said, with something of her sister'sdecision. 'Here is Miss Fortescue; she has been sitting out a long time, and she is a very good player. Gertrude'--raising her voice--'Mr. Blakewants a partner. I am sure you will take pity on him. ' And in thismanner Gertrude obtained her wish. Perhaps she would rather have had her desire gratified in a differentmanner--if Mr. Blake had asked her himself, for example. She was notquite pleased at the tone in which he professed himself delighted toplay with Miss Fortescue; he fetched her racket a little reluctantly, when Audrey pointed it out, and there was certainly no enthusiasmvisible in his manner as he suggested that Miss Cardell and her partnerwere waiting for them. 'Do you know where my mother and Miss Ross have gone?' he asked, as theytook their place. 'Mrs. Blake asked Miss Ross to show her the pond. They are waiting foryou to serve, Mr. Blake;' and then Cyril did consent to throw himselfinto the game. Miss Fortescue was a good-looking girl, and played well, but she was not Miss Ross; nevertheless, Cyril had no intention ofaccepting a beating, and he was soon playing as brilliantly as ever. Meanwhile, Mrs. Blake was talking after her usual rapid fashion. 'What beautiful grounds! and so tastefully laid out, too. I have neverseen such a garden. I do love this succession of terraces, and thosetrees with white leaves just striped with pink--what do you call them, Miss Ross?' Audrey told her they were white maple. 'Dear me! Did Dr. Ross plant them? They do look so well against thatdark background of trees. Everything is in such perfect taste and order, and Cyril says it is the same in the house. The Bryces' establishmentwas not half so well regulated. He declares Dr. Ross has a master-mind, and, now I have talked to him, I am quite sure Cyril is right. ' 'You must not expect me to contradict you. I think there is no one likemy father. ' 'I daresay not. He is charming--positively charming! So this is the pondKester and Mollie rave about? What a sweet little place--so still and soretired! But of course you can see the house from it. Is not that yourcousin, Captain Burnett?'--as they came in sight of the bench. 'It isvery much like him. ' 'Yes, of course it is Michael!' and Audrey quickened her steps insurprise. 'My dear Michael, when did you get back? No one knows of yourarrival. ' 'I daresay not, ' he returned somewhat gravely, as he shook hands withher and bowed to Mrs. Blake. 'I only got in half an hour ago, and, having no mind to mingle with the crowd, I sat here to get cool. ' 'Have you had some tea, Michael?' 'Oh yes; Parker brought me some. Never mind me. How have you beengetting on?' looking at her attentively. 'Oh, very well. ' But Audrey blushed a little uneasily under that kindlook. 'Mrs. Blake, I believe you have not met my cousin before?' 'I think we have met, Audrey. ' 'To be sure we have!' responded Mrs. Blake, with her brightest smile. 'Iam so glad of this opportunity of speaking to you, Captain Burnett. Ihope Miss Ross gave you my message?' 'I don't believe I have had any message--have I, Audrey?' And Audreylaughed a little guiltily; she did not always remember people'smessages. Mrs. Blake shook her head at her. 'Oh, you traitress!' she exclaimed playfully. 'And I thought you, of allpeople, were to be trusted. Captain Burnett, I must give my own message. I want to thank you for your kindness to my poor boy. ' 'He is not poor at all, ' he replied lightly; but his keen blue eyesseemed to take the measure, mental and physical, of the graceful-lookingwoman before him. 'He is a very clever fellow, and will make his mark. Ican assure you I quite envy him his brains. ' 'It makes me so proud to hear you say that. I often wonder why mychildren are so clever; their father'--she checked herself, and thenwent on in a more subdued key--'my poor husband had only averagetalents, and as for me----' She left her sentence unfinished in a mostexpressive way. 'Mollie says you are clever too, Mrs. Blake. ' 'My dear Miss Ross, then Mollie--bless her little heart!--is wrong. Isit my fault if those foolish children choose to swear by their mother?Cleverness does not consist in chattering a little French andItalian--does it, Captain Burnett? You and I know better than that, andit will always be a lasting wonder to me why I have a son like myCyril. ' 'You have two sons, Mrs. Blake. ' Something indefinable in Michael's tone made Mrs. Blake redden for amoment; then she recovered herself. 'Yes, thank God! I have; but a widow's eldest son is always her prop. Kester is a mere boy; he cannot help his mother much yet. ' 'Kester is nearly sixteen, and will soon be a man; he is already verythoughtful for his age. I am sure you will permit me to say that Ialready take great interest in him; he has a wonderful thirst forknowledge. I showed one of his translations to Dr. Ross, and he wasquite struck by it. You know, Dr. Ross is a fine Greek scholar. ' Mrs. Blake seemed much impressed; she was evidently taken aback. She wasgenerally so absorbed in her eldest son that she failed to give Kesterhis due. The boy was shy and retiring with her; very likely he felthimself unappreciated. Anyhow, it was certain that he sought sympathyfrom everyone but his mother; and yet, in her own way, she was kind tohim. Audrey was a little disappointed to find Michael so grave in his mannerto her charming friend--for such she already considered Mrs. Blake. Michael was generally so nice and genial with people; he did not seem inthe least aware that he was talking to a pretty woman. In Audrey'sopinion, he seemed disposed to pick holes in Mrs. Blake's words and tofind matter for argument. Not that this would be apparent to anyone butherself; but then she knew Michael so well. She could always tell in amoment if he approved or disapproved of anyone. One thing was clearenough to her, that Mrs. Blake was not at her ease. She lost her gayfluency, and hesitated for a word now and then; and when they left thelake and walked towards the tennis-ground, and Cyril intercepted them, she gave him an appealing look to draw him to her side. But for onceCyril was blind to his mother's wishes. He shook hands with CaptainBurnett, and then fell behind to speak to Audrey. 'Do you mean to say that you have finished your game already?' sheasked, in some surprise. 'No, indeed; only Mrs. Fortescue discovered that it was late, and tookher daughter away, and, of course, I could not beat themsingle-handed--Wheeler is a crack player--so we made up our mind toconsider it a drawn game. You ought not to have thrown me over, MissRoss, ' dropping his voice; 'it was hardly kind, was it?' 'Would you have me play with you and neglect all my other guests?' shereturned, smiling. 'I think you owe me some gratitude for providing youwith a partner like Gertrude Fortescue. She is one of our best players. ' 'I would rather have kept the partner I had, ' he replied, with unwontedobstinacy; 'even in tennis one prefers one's own selection. I played thefirst set far better. ' 'I believe you are a little cross with me, Mr. Blake. ' 'I!' startled by this accusation, although it was playfully made, andreddening to his temples; 'I have no right to take such a liberty. Noman in his senses could be cross with you for a moment. ' 'You are wrong. Michael is often cross with me. ' 'Is he?' slackening his pace, and so compelling her to do the same, until there were several yards between them and the couple in front. 'Captain Burnett seems to me far too good-natured; I should have saidthere was not a spark of temper about him. I am rather hasty myself. ' 'I am so glad you have warned me in time, Mr. Blake. ' 'Why, do you meditate any special provocation?' Then, catching sight ofher dimple, his own face relaxed. 'I see you are laughing at me. I amafraid I was not properly gracious to Miss Fortescue. I will make up forit on Thursday at the Charringtons', and ask her to play. You will bethere?' with a note of anxiety in his voice. 'Oh yes; I shall be there, of course. ' 'We must have one set together; you will promise me that?' and Cyril'sdark eyes looked full into hers. 'Yes, certainly. ' But Audrey blushed a little. She felt a sudden desireto hurry after the others; but her companion evidently held a differentopinion. 'Do you know Mrs. Charrington has asked my mother to come too?' 'No, indeed; but I am so glad to hear it. ' 'She was most kind about it: she has promised to call on her to-morrow. My mother is so pleased. Does she not look happy, Miss Ross? She is sofond of this sort of thing--a dull life never suits her. She nearlymoped herself to death at Headingly; we were all uncomfortable there. ' 'I think she will get on with the Rutherford people. ' 'Indeed I hope so. Miss Ross, do you know, I am so vexed about somethingmy mother said the other afternoon, when Mrs. Ross and Mrs. Harcourtwere calling on her. ' And as Audrey looked mystified, he went on slowly:'She actually told them that she would accept no evening engagements, and that she hoped no one would invite her to dinner. ' 'Oh yes, I remember. ' 'I am afraid they must have thought it very strange. I tell my motherthat she is far too frank and outspoken for our civilised age, and thatthere is not the slightest need to flaunt our poverty in our neighbours'faces. ' Cyril spoke with an air of unmistakable annoyance, and Audreygood-naturedly hastened to soothe him. Her fine instinct told her thathis stronger and more reticent nature must often be wounded by hismother's indiscreet tongue. 'I am afraid you are a little worldly-minded, Mr. Blake. I consider yourmother was far more honest. ' 'Thank you, ' in a low tone; 'but all the same, ' returning to his usualmanner, 'it was premature and absurd to make such a statement. My motherhas to do as I like, ' throwing back his handsome head with a sort ofwilfulness that Audrey thought very becoming, 'and I intend her to goout. Miss Ross, I am going to ask you a very odd question, but there isno other lady to whom I can put such an inquiry. Does it cost so verymuch--I mean, how much does it cost--for a lady to be properly dressedfor the evening?' Audrey did not dare to laugh, Cyril was so evidently in earnest; hernice tact guarded her from making such a grievous mistake. 'Your question is a little vague, Mr. Blake; I hardly know what I am tounderstand by it. Do you mean evening dress for one dinner-party or asuccession of dinner-parties? You know they are perpetual in Rutherford;every house invites every other house to dinner. In Rutherford we areterribly given to dining out. ' 'Oh, I see; and relays of gowns would be required, ' returned Cyril in adejected voice. 'I am afraid I must give it up, then. My mother wouldcertainly not be able to afford that for the present. ' 'But when one wears black, a change of dress is not so necessary, 'interrupted Audrey eagerly. 'If I were poor, I should not allow povertyto debar me from the society of my fellow-creatures, just because Icould not make as great a display as other people. No, indeed; I wouldnot be the slave of my clothes. ' 'I can believe that, ' with an admiring glance. 'I would have one good black dress--and it should be as nice as my meanswould allow--and I would wear it everywhere, and I would not care a bitif people looked as though they recognised it. "You are noticing mygown!" I would say to them. "Yes, it is an old friend. Old friends arebetter than new, and I mean to cling to mine. By and by, when I am alittle richer, I will buy another. "' 'Miss Ross, if my mother could but hear you!' 'Tell her what I say, and bid her do the same. Black suits her soperfectly, too. ' 'Oh, she never means to wear anything else but black, ' he returnedgravely. 'Let her get a soft silk--a Surah, for example--and if it be madeprettily and in the newest fashion, it will look well for a long time. Yes'--reflectively--'Mrs. Blake would look well in Surah. ' 'Would she? Do you mind telling me how to spell it?' and Cyril producedhis pocket-book. 'S-u-r-a-h. ' 'Thank you a thousand times, Miss Ross! And about the cost--would fivepounds do?' looking at her anxiously. 'Oh yes, I should say that would do, ' replied Audrey, who in realityknew very little about it. Mr. Blake would have done better to have consulted Geraldine, shethought. Geraldine would have told him the price to a fraction of ashilling; she would have directed him to the best shop for making anexcellent bargain. Geraldine had a genius for these practical things, whereas she--Audrey--was liable to make mistakes. 'I am sure five pounds will do, ' she repeated, by way of encouragement;and again Cyril thanked her fervently. There was no more opportunity for carrying on this interestingdiscussion, for the others were now standing quite still in theshrubbery walk, waiting for them to join them. 'My dearest boy, everyone has gone!' exclaimed Mrs. Blake, in a tone ofdismay. 'The tennis-lawn is empty!' 'What does that matter?' replied Audrey, hastening up to her with aheightened colour, as she noticed a quick, observant look on Michael'spart. 'We have no rule for our Mondays; people come when they like, andstay as long as they like. ' 'But, still, to be the last to go, and this my first visit to Woodcote!'rejoined Mrs. Blake uneasily. 'Cyril, you ought to have taken me awaylong ago. ' 'We will make our adieux now, ' he returned carelessly, and not at allaffected by his mother's discomposure. 'Come, mother, I see Mrs. Rossstanding in the drawing-room window; she is evidently waiting for us. 'And Cyril drew his mother's hand through his arm. Audrey and Michael followed them to the gate. Mrs. Blake kissed Audreywith some effusion. Audrey, who, in spite of her large heart and widesympathies, was not a demonstrative person, would willingly havedispensed with this little attention before the gentlemen. Mrs. Blakehad never offered to embrace her before. She had an idea, too, thatCyril was not quite pleased. 'Come, come, mother, ' he said impatiently, 'we are detaining Miss Ross;'and he hurried her away. Audrey would have returned to the house at once, but Michael asked herto take another turn in the shrubbery. 'For I have not seen you for a whole week, ' he grumbled; 'and it ishardly possible to get a word with you now. ' 'Well, you have me now, ' she returned with assumed gaiety; but all thetime she wanted to be alone and think what Mr. Blake's parting lookmeant. 'It was so--so----' Audrey could not quite find the word. 'Andnow, Michael, I am ready. ' Audrey was going to say, 'I am ready to hearyour opinion of Mrs. Blake;' but just at that moment she saw her fathercoming to meet them. Two is company, but three is none, as both Michael and Audrey felt atthat moment. Dr. Ross, on the contrary, joined them with the air of aman who knows himself to be an acquisition. He tucked his daughter'shand under his arm, and began questioning Michael about his week intown. As it happened, Michael had seen and done a good deal, and Audrey wassoon interested in what he had to tell them. She knew all Michael'sfriends by name, and in this way could claim acquaintance with a largecircle. She was soon busily questioning him in her turn. Had he seenthat pretty little Mrs. Maddox? and was the baby christened? and who wasthe second godfather? and so on, until the gong warned them to disperse. The conversation at dinner ran on the same topics, but just before theyrose from the table Mrs. Ross asked Michael if he did not admire Mrs. Blake. 'Very much, indeed, ' he returned, without a moment's hesitation. 'Shehas three very excellent points for a woman: she is pretty, lively, andamusing. I had quite a long talk with her. ' And then he changed thesubject--whether intentionally or unintentionally Audrey could nottell--and began telling them about a picture one of his friends waspainting for the next Exhibition. Michael was very much engaged the next few days. He had told Kester tocome to him every morning that week, to make up for the lessons he hadlost, and as a succession of garden-parties occupied Audrey'safternoons, she did not find time for one of those confidential chatswith Michael which they both so much enjoyed. When Thursday came Michaelescorted her to the Charringtons' garden-party. Mrs. Ross and herhusband were to come later. Audrey was amongst the tennis-players, but, as she passed to and frowith her various partners, she saw Michael more than once talking toMrs. Blake. The first time he gave her a nod and a smile, but when shepassed them again he seemed too much engrossed with Mrs. Blake's livelyconversation to notice her. Audrey had just finished her second game with Mr. Blake, and he wastaking her to the house in search of refreshments. As Audrey ate herstrawberries, she wondered a little over Michael's abstraction. 'He certainly seems to admire her, ' she said to herself. Michael and she were to dine at Hillside that evening, and as theywalked home together in the summer moonlight Audrey bethought herself atlast of asking that question. 'Michael, I want you to tell me what you think of Mrs. Blake? I am quitesure you like her very much indeed. ' 'You are wrong, then. I wonder what put such a notion in yourhead--because I was talking to her so much this afternoon? That was moreher fault than mine. No, Audrey; I am sorry to say it, but I do not likeMrs. Blake at all. ' 'Michael!' and Audrey stood still in the road. This was a shock indeed!She was prepared for criticism: Michael always criticised her friends;he felt it a part of his duty; but this utter disapprobation was sounexpected; it was crushing--absolutely crushing! Michael, too, whoseopinion she trusted so entirely! 'Oh, I hope you don't mean it--that youare only joking, ' she said, so earnestly that he felt a little sorry forhis abruptness; but it was too late to retract; besides, Michael neverretracted. 'I am sorry you asked me the question; but I am bound to tell you thetruth, you know. ' 'And is it really the truth?' she asked a little piteously. 'It is verysoon for you to have made up your mind that you do not like her; why, you have only spoken to her twice. ' 'Yes; but I have had plenty of time to form my opinion of her. Lookhere, Audrey, you must not be vexed with me. I would not have foundfault with your fair friend if you had not asked my opinion. Of course Iadmire her; one has seldom seen a prettier woman, and her style is souncommon, too. ' 'Don't, Michael; you will be praising her hair and complexion next, asGertrude Fortescue did the other afternoon. It is the woman, Mrs. Blakeherself, I want you to like. ' 'Ah, just so!' 'And now I am so disappointed. Somehow I never enjoy my friends quite somuch if you do not care for them. I thought we always liked the samepeople, but now----' Here Audrey stopped. She felt vexed and mortified;she did want Michael to share her interest in the Blakes. 'And now you will look on me as a broken reed; but, after all, I am notso bad. I like Kester--he is a fine fellow; and I like your littlefriend Mollie--she is true as steel; and, ' after a moment's pause, 'Ilike Mr. Blake. ' 'Are you quite sure of that, Michael?' 'Yes, I am quite sure of it. If I know anything of human nature, Mr. Blake is worthy of my esteem: as far as any man is good, he is good. Andthen he has such splendid capabilities. ' Audrey felt vaguely that this was generous on Michael's part; and yetshe could not have told herself why it was generous. If she had had anidea of the truth! But as yet she was only dimly conscious of thenobility of Michael's nature. 'Mr. Blake is clever, ' he continued, 'but he does not think much ofhimself; it is rare to find such modesty in a young man of the presentday. Still, he is very young; one can hardly tell what he may become. ' 'Father says he is three-and-twenty, Michael. ' 'Still, Audrey, a man's character is not always fully developed atthree-and-twenty; at that age I was a conceited cub. I amseven-and-thirty now, and I feel my opinions are as settled as Dr. Ross's are. ' 'I wish you would not always talk as though you were father'scontemporary; it is so absurd, Michael, when everyone else thinks you ayoung man!' 'I am a very old young man, ' he returned with a whimsical smile; 'I haveaged prematurely, and my wisdom has developed at the same rapid rate. Amongst my other gifts I have that of second-sight. ' 'Indeed!' with incredulous scorn. 'You are not very humble in your ownestimation. ' 'My dear, old young men are never humble. Well, my gift of second-sighthas put me up to a thing or two. Do you know, ' turning away andswitching the hedgerows carelessly as he spoke, 'I should be very sorryif any girl in whom I took a deep interest were to be thrown too muchinto Mr. Blake's company. ' Audrey faced round on her cousin in extreme surprise. 'You are very incomprehensible to-night, Michael: at one moment youpraise Mr. Blake, and say nice things about him, and the next minute youare warning people against becoming intimate with him--that is surelyvery inconsistent. ' 'Oh, there is method in my madness, ' he returned quietly. 'I havenothing to say against the young man himself. As far as I can tell, there is no harm in him; but he is so young, and is such a devoted son, that he is likely to be influenced by his mother. ' 'And it is on her account that you would dislike any such intimacy? Oh, Michael, ' very sorrowfully, 'I had no idea you would dislike her so!' 'It seems rather unreasonable--such a pretty woman, too. On the whole, Ithink I do like talking to her, she is so amusing. But, Audrey, I mustsay one thing: you are always talking about her frankness. Now, I do notagree with you. ' 'I don't understand you, Michael. I have never known anyone sooutspoken. ' 'Outspoken--yes. Well, I will explain myself. You are frank, Audrey; youhide nothing, because there is nothing to hide; and if there were, youwould not hide it. Now, Mrs. Blake has her reserves; with all herimpulsiveness, she has thorough self-command, and would never say a wordmore than suited her own purposes. It is her pleasure to indulge in awild, picturesque sort of talk; it is effective, and pleases people; andMrs. Blake, in common with other pretty women, likes to please. There isno positive harm in it--perhaps not, but it detracts from reality. ' 'But, Michael, I like to please people too. ' 'Certainly you do. Have I not often called you a little hypocrite forpretending to like what other people like! How often have we fallen outon that point! But you and Mrs. Blake are very different people, mydear; with all your faults, your friends would not wish to see youchanged. ' But the dark shade of the shrubbery walk they were just entering hid thestrangely tender look that was in Michael's eyes as he said the lastwords. CHAPTER XV MRS. BLAKE HAS HER NEW GOWN 'Thou art a girl of noble nature's crowning: A smile of thine is like an act of grace; Thou hast no noisome looks, no pretty frowning, Like daily beauties of a vulgar race. When thou dost smile, a light is on thy face, A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam Of peaceful radiance, silvering o'er the stream Of human thought with beauteous glory, Not quite a waking truth, nor quite a dream: A visitation--bright though transitory. ' HARTLEY COLERIDGE. Audrey was much disappointed by the result of her conversation with hercousin. It was true that Michael had tried to efface the severity of hisown words by remarking that a third interview might somewhat alter hisopinion of the fascinating widow--that he might even grow to like her intime. Audrey knew better. Michael had a certain genius of intuition; hemade up his mind about people at once, and she had never known him toreverse his decision. As far as regarded the younger members of theBlake family, they would still be able to work happily together. Michaelwas certainly much interested in Kester; he had adopted him in the samemanner as she had adopted Mollie. It was a comfort also that he approvedof Mr. Blake. Michael had spoken of him with decided approval, andwithout any stint or limit of praise; nevertheless she was well awarethat Michael would willingly have restricted their intimacy, and that hesaw with some reluctance her father's growing partiality for the youngmaster. Audrey had only spoken the simple truth when she owned that Michael'sapproval was necessary to her perfect enjoyment of her friend. She mightstill maintain her own opinions of Mrs. Blake. Nevertheless, the firstfine flavour of her pleasure had been destroyed by Michael's severecriticism; the delicate bloom had been impaired. She would hold fast toher new friend; she would even be kinder to her, as though to make upfor other people's hard speeches; but much of her enthusiasm must belocked in her own breast. 'What is the use of talking on a subject on which we should onlydisagree?' she said to him a week or two afterwards, when he had rebukedher playfully for not telling him something. 'It was only a triflingmatter connected with Mrs. Blake. ' And when he heard that, Michael held his peace. He had been thrownconstantly into Mrs. Blake's company since their first meeting, but asyet he had not seen fit to change his opinions. But in spite of this little rift in her perfect harmony, Audreythoroughly enjoyed the next month; she was almost sorry that thevacation was so near. It had been a very gay month. Relays ofvisitors--distant relations or mere friends--had been invited toWoodcote and Hillside. Mrs. Ross's garden-party had rivalled Mrs. Charrington's, and there had been a succession of picnics, drivingparties, and small select dinners at all the Hill houses. But in spiteof her many engagements--her afternoons on the cricket-field, the tennistournament, in which she and Cyril Blake won, and various othergaieties--Audrey had not neglected Mollie. Twice a week she devoted anhour and a half to her pupil. When the music-lesson was over, Audreywould read French with her or correct her exercises. She was a veryconscientious mistress, and would not allow Mollie to waste any of hertime in idle gossip. When she was putting away her books, Mollie'svoluble tongue would make amends for the enforced silence. 'Oh, Miss Ross, ' she exclaimed one day, 'do you know, Cyril has givenmamma such a beautiful present! You will never guess what it is!' Audrey prudently refrained from any guesses; besides, she was stillcorrecting Mollie's translation. 'It is a black silk dress--a real beauty, as mamma says. She hasborrowed Miss Marshall's last copy of the Queen, and she means to makeit up herself. Mamma is so clever! It is to have a long train; at least, a moderately long train, and an open bodice--open in front, youknow--with tulle folds. Oh, I forget exactly; but mamma explained it tome so nicely!' 'It was very kind of your brother, ' observed Audrey gravely. For once Mollie was not checked. 'Yes; isn't he a darling for thinking of it? He went to Attenboroughhimself and chose it, and mamma thought he was on the cricket-field allthe time. He got her a pair of long gloves, too. Cyril always thinks ofeverything. Mamma cried when she opened the parcel, she was so pleased;and then Cyril laughed at her. The worst of it is'--and here Mollie'sface lengthened a little--'Kester will have to wait for his new suit, and the poor boy is so shabby! Cyril went up to his room to tell him so;because his leg was so painful, he had gone to bed early. Of course, Kester said he did not mind a bit, and he would much rather that mammahad her new gown and could go out and enjoy herself; but, all the same, it is a little hard for Kester, is it not?' 'I don't think boys care about their clothes quite so much as girls do. ' 'Oh, but Kester does; he is almost as particular as Cyril. He does loveto have everything nice, and I know he is ashamed of that old jacket. Hehas outgrown it, too, and the sleeves are so short; and now he is somuch with Captain Burnett, he feels it all the more. Oh, do you know, Miss Ross'--interrupting herself--'Captain Burnett is going to driveKester to Brail in his dogcart!' 'That will be very nice. But, Mollie, you really must leave offchattering; you have translated this sentence quite wrongly. This is notone bit the sense. ' And Mollie did at last consent to hold her tongue. Audrey took her mother into her confidence that afternoon as they weredining together, and told her the whole story about the black silkdress. Mrs. Ross was much interested. 'How very nice of him!' she said, in just the sympathetic tone thatAudrey expected to hear. 'I said from the first that I liked Mr. Blake;I told your father so. He is a good son. I am not a bit surprised thathis mother dotes on him. I am sure I should if he were my son;' and Mrs. Ross heaved a gentle little sigh under her lace mantle. She knew her husband had ardently desired a son, and, until Michael'stroubles had made him almost an inmate of the house, there had been acertain void and unfulfilled longing in Dr. Ross's breast. Not that heever spoke of such things; but his wife knew him so well. 'Perhaps one day he will have a grandson, ' she thought; for her motherlyimagination loved to stretch itself into the future. 'Don't you think we might ask Mrs. Blake to dinner next week, when yourcousin Rose is here?' she observed presently. 'Rosie will be charmedwith her; and we could get the Cardells to meet her, and perhaps theVicar and Mrs. Boyle. You know they have not been to dine with us for along time. ' 'Very well, mother. I have not the slightest objection, ' returnedAudrey, who had in fact been leading up to this. 'I suppose you will askGage too?' 'Oh, of course!' for Mrs. Ross never considered any party completewithout the presence of her eldest daughter. 'We must find out which daywill suit her best. ' 'I do not believe Percival will let her come, ' returned Audrey calmly. 'He says she is going out too much, and tiring herself dreadfully. Iheard him tell her that he meant to be more strict with her for thefuture. ' 'Dear Percival, how good he is to her! I always told your father that hewould make her an excellent husband. Your father was not a bitenthusiastic at first--he liked Percival, and thought him an exceedinglyable man; but he never did think anyone good enough for his girls. Youwill find him hard to please when your turn comes, Audrey. ' 'My turn will be long in coming, ' she replied lightly. 'Well, ifPercival prove himself a tyrant, whom do you mean to have in Gage'splace?' And then they resumed the subject of the dinner-party. Things turned out as Audrey predicted: Mr. Harcourt would not allow hiswife to accept her mother's invitation. 'She has been over-exerting herself, and must keep quiet, ' he said tohis mother-in-law when he next saw her at Hillside. 'I tell her thatunless she is prudent, and takes things more quietly, she will not befit for her journey to Scotland--and then all our plans will be upset. ' For a charming arrangement had been made for the summer vacation. Dr. Ross had taken a cottage in the Highlands for his family, and Mr. Harcourt had secured a smaller one, about half a mile off, for himselfand his wife. Michael was to form part of the Ross household, and duringthe last week or two he and Audrey had been putting their heads togetherover a benevolent scheme for taking Kester. There was a spare room intheir cottage, and Mrs. Ross had asked Audrey if she would like one ofher cousins to accompany them. Audrey had hesitated for the moment. Mollie had been in her thoughts, but when she had hinted at this toMichael, he had said somewhat decidedly that, in his opinion, Kesterought to be the one to have the treat. 'He would be company for me, too, ' he added, 'when you and your fathergo on your fishing expeditions. And he will not be a bad third, either, when you honour us with your company. ' Audrey had a great wish to take Mollie. She thought how the girl wouldenjoy those long rambles across the purple moors, but she was open toreason: as Michael had pointed out to her, Kester certainly needed thechange more than Mollie. It would be good for Michael to have acompanion when she and her father and Percival went on one of their longexpeditions. The boy had been drooping sadly of late--the heat triedhim--and, as Audrey knew, Biddy's homely dishes seldom tempted hissickly appetite. Mr. Harcourt was not aware of this little plan. When he uttered hismarital protest Geraldine looked at her mother with a sort of resigneddespair. 'You hear what Percy says, mother. I suppose you must ask someone elsein my place. ' 'But I am not going without you, ' returned her husband good-naturedly. 'Your mother would not want me, my dear, under those circumstances. Wewill stay at home, like Darby and Joan, by our own ingle-side. ' 'Oh, then you can ask the Drummonds, ' went on Geraldine, in a relievedvoice. 'Audrey ought to have reminded you of them, but she seems tothink only of the Blakes. I suppose you will be obliged to ask Mr. Blake, too, mother?' 'Yes, certainly, my dear. Mrs. Blake would not like to come without herson. It will be a large party, but----' 'Well, it cannot be helped, I suppose; but Percy and I think it israther a pity----' Here Geraldine gave a slight cough, warned by a lookfrom her husband. 'What is a pity, my dear?' 'Oh, it does not matter--at least, Percy does not wish me to speak. ' 'Geraldine is rather like the dog in the manger, ' interrupted Mr. Harcourt. 'Because I will not let her come to your dinner-party, shewould rather you did not have one at all. That is it, isn't it, Jerry?' Mrs. Ross smiled benevolently at this little sally. She liked to hearher son-in-law's jokes. She never joked Geraldine herself, and so sheseldom saw that girlish blush that was so becoming. When she had taken her leave, Geraldine said to her husband: 'Why did you stop me just now when I was dropping that hint about Mr. Blake?' 'Because I thought the hint premature, my dear, ' he returned drily, 'andbecause it is not our place to warn Mr. Blake off the premises; he isnot the first young man, and I do not expect he will be the last, toadmire Audrey. ' 'But, Percy, I am quite sure that Mr. Blake is too handsome and tooattractive altogether to be a harmless admirer. ' 'Pooh! nonsense, my love. Don't let your imagination run away with you. Audrey is too sensible a girl to let herself fall in love with a youngfellow like Blake. Now shall I go on with our book?' For that dayGeraldine was considered an invalid, and as her husband thought fit toindulge and make much of her, she was not so sure she disliked herpassing indisposition, any more than Mr. Harcourt disliked playing Darbyto his handsome Joan. The dinner-party passed off well, and Mrs. Blake looked so lovely in hernew gown that she made quite a sensation, and the Vicar observed to hiswife afterwards 'that she was the nicest and most agreeable woman he hadmet for a long time. ' Mrs. Boyle received this eulogium a little coldly. She was a fat, dumpylittle person, with a round, good-natured face that had once beenpretty. 'Bernard might admire Mrs. Blake, ' she said to herself, --'shewas the sort of woman men always raved about; but for her part she wasnot sure she admired her style, ' but she had the rare magnanimity tokeep her opinions to herself. Mrs. Boyle never contradicted her husbandafter the peevish manner of some wives. The term was drawing to a close now, and Mollie's face lengthened alittle every day. Audrey had mooted the scheme to her father during awalk they had together, and Dr. Ross, who was one of the most benevolentand kindly of men, had at once given his consent, and had promised tospeak to Michael, who carried it through with a high hand. Great was the rejoicing in the Blake household. Poor Kester had turnedred and white by turns, and could hardly speak a word, so intense washis surprise; but Audrey, who saw the lad's agony of embarrassment, assured him that there was no need for him to speak, and that everythingwas settled. Cyril was almost as embarrassed when he came in to thank them thatevening. 'I have never heard of such kindness in my life, ' he said eagerly, whenhe found Audrey alone; for the others were all in the garden, as shetold him. 'I will go to them directly. Of course I must speak to CaptainBurnett. I hear it is his thought. Am I interrupting you?' looking ather open desk. 'May I stay a moment?' 'Certainly, if you like. ' But Audrey did not resume her seat. She stood by the lamp, its crimsonshade casting ruddy gleams over her white dress. She had coiled her hairloosely--Audrey was given to dressing herself hurriedly--and one longplait had become unfastened. It looked so smooth and brown against herwhite neck. At such moments Audrey certainly looked pretty. PerhapsCyril thought so, for he looked at her long and earnestly. 'I hardly know how to thank you all, ' he went on almost abruptly. 'Mymother feels the same. It is such a weight off my mind. You know, I amgoing to Cornwall myself; one of our Keble men has invited me. Hisfather has a nice place near Truro. ' 'That will be a pleasant change for you, ' she observed sympathetically. 'Oh, I always turn up trumps, ' he replied brightly. 'Last Christmas, andagain at Easter, I had heaps of invitations. I was only bothering myselfabout Kester: he looked so seedy, you know, and it seemed such hardlines for him, poor boy! to see me go off and enjoy myself. ' 'Well, you see, Kester means to enjoy himself too. ' 'Don't I know that? He is a lucky fellow!' and Cyril sighed--a goodhonest sigh it was, too, for Audrey heard it. 'Just fancy seven weeks inparadise!' 'Well, it is very lovely there, ' she answered demurely; and then shediscovered the stray lock, and pinned it up hastily. 'Oh, I was not meaning the place--though, of course, everyone knowsBraemar has its advantages. I think one's happiness depends more on thesociety one has. Don't you think so too, Miss Ross?' 'I daresay you are right. Well, we shall have my sister and her husband, and Kester and Captain Burnett; so we shall be a nice party. ' 'Oh yes, of course Captain Burnett is going?' returned Cyril, in adubious tone. 'Yes; and I suppose you think he is lucky too?' and there was a gleam offun in Audrey's eyes. 'Not more so than usual; the gate of paradise is never shut on CaptainBurnett. ' But though Cyril laughed as he made this little speech, there was noexpression of mirth in his eyes. But Audrey chose to consider it a joke. 'If you talk in this manner, I shall think you envy Kester his treat. ' 'I am afraid I do envy him, Miss Ross. If Kester and I could only changeplaces----' He checked himself as though he had said too much, and turned to thewindow. 'You will find them all on the circular bench, ' she said, sitting downto her desk again. 'When I have finished my letter I will join you. ' AndCyril took the hint. 'I wish he would not say such things; but, of course, he is onlyjoking, ' thought Audrey. But in her heart she knew he was not joking. Could she be ignorant that on all possible occasions Mr. Blake followedher like a shadow--a very quiet, unobtrusive shadow; but, nevertheless, he seemed always near. Could she be blind to the wistful looks thatseemed to watch her on all occasions, and that interpreted her everywish? Perhaps no one else noticed them--Audrey fervently hopednot--unless it were his mother. And here Audrey reddened at theremembrance of certain vague hints and innuendoes that had latterly madeher uncomfortable, and hindered her from going to the Gray Cottage. 'Perhaps I am too friendly with him. I do not check him sufficiently, 'she thought. 'But he has never said such things before. He ought not; Imust not allow it. What would Gage or Michael say? Dear old Michael! howexcited he is about our Scotch trip! He says he shall be so pleased tohave my undivided attention again. I wonder, have I been less nice toMichael lately? He has certainly seemed more dull than usual. I willmake up for it--I will indeed! Michael shall never be dull if I can helpit, I mean to devote myself to him. ' And then Audrey took up her penwith a sigh. Was she really glad the term was so nearly over? It hadbeen such a nice summer. Of course she would enjoy Scotland, with allher own people round her, and there would be Kester. Kester would writeto his brother sometimes, and, of course, there would be letters inreply. That would be pleasant. Oh yes, everything was delightful! Andwith this final thought Audrey set herself resolutely to work, andfinished her letter just in time to see Cyril take his leave. He hadwaited for her with the utmost impatience, but when Mrs. Ross complainedof chilliness, and proposed to return to the house, he had no excuse forlingering any longer, and Michael, with some alacrity, had accompaniedhim to the gate. CHAPTER XVI MOLLIE LETS THE CAT OUT OF THE BAG 'Nothing is true but love, nor aught of worth; Love is the incense which doth sweeten earth. ' TRENCH. 'Oh dear, Miss Ross, what shall I do without you for seven whole weeks?'was Mollie's piteous lament one morning. Audrey was on her knees packinga huge travelling box, and Mollie, seated on the edge of a chair, wasregarding her with round, melancholy eyes. It was the first day of thevacation, and Rutherford looked as empty and deserted as some forsakencity. Utter silence reigned in the lower school, from which the fiftyboys had departed; and Mrs. Draper, the matron, had uttered more thanonce her usual formula of parting benediction as the last urchin droveoff: 'There, bless them! they are all packed off, bag and baggage, thankHeaven! and not a missing collar or sock among them'--an ejaculationthat Michael once declared was a homely Te Deum, sacred and peculiar tothe race of Rutherford matrons. Audrey straightened herself when she heard Mollie's plaintive lament. 'Now, Mollie, I thought you promised me that you would make yourself ashappy as possible. ' 'I said I would try, ' returned Mollie, her eyes filling with tears; 'buthow can I help missing you? I do mean to do my very best--I do indeed, Miss Ross. ' 'Come, that is bravely said. I know it is hard upon you, my dear, takingKester away. ' But Mollie would not let her finish her sentence. 'Oh no; you must not say that. I am so glad for Kester to go. Do youknow, he is so pleased and excited that he can hardly sleep when he goesto bed; and he wakes in the night to think about it. I do believe heloves Captain Burnett as much as I love you; he is always talking abouthim. After all'--here Mollie dried her eyes--'it is not so bad for me asit is for mamma: she is always wretched without Cyril; you can't thinkhow restless and unlike herself she is when he is away from her; shespends half her time writing to him or reading his letters. Cyril alwayswrites such nice long letters. ' 'And Kester and I will write to you; you will be glad of letters, too, Mollie. ' Evidently this charming idea had not occurred to Mollie, for she dartedfrom her place and gave Audrey a grateful hug. 'Do you mean it? will you really write to me? Oh, you dear thing! how Ido love you!' with another hug. 'But you must not tire yourself, youknow, or Kester either; they need not be long letters, but just nicelittle notes, that won't trouble you. ' 'Oh, we will see about that, ' returned Audrey, smiling. She was touchedby this thoughtfulness; it was so like Mollie's sweet unselfishness: shenever did seem to think of herself. 'You have no idea how quickly thetime will pass. Think of all the things you have promised to do for me!'for Audrey had already made all sorts of nice little plans for herfavourite. Mollie was to have the run of the house and grounds; she wasto bring her mother to sit in the garden every afternoon if sheliked--Mrs. Blake would enjoy it; she was so fond of flowers--and Molliecould amuse herself with the canoe. Then there was Audrey's piano:Mollie must promise to practise her scales and exercises on it everyday; and there was a pile of delightfully interesting books set apartfor her use. She must see, too, that her pet bullfinch was notneglected, and that her flowers were watered; for Audrey had a prettysitting-room of her own. Molly soon cheered up as Audrey recapitulatedthese privileges; she was young enough to be soon consoled. She readilyagreed with Audrey that her mother would enjoy wandering about theWoodcote gardens; they would bring their books and work, and sit underthe trees on fine afternoons. 'Cyril has been making mamma promise to begin Roman history with me, 'continued Mollie; 'he was so shocked when he found out I knew nothingabout Romulus and Remus. Was it quite true about the wolf, Miss Ross? Ithought it sounded like a fable. Oh, do you know, ' interrupting herselfeagerly, 'I want to tell you something--Kester said I might if I liked:he has got two new suits of clothes. ' Audrey left off packing, and looked at Mollie in some surprise. 'Did you say two suits, my dear?' 'Yes. Is it not nice, Miss Ross? But Cyril said he positively could notdo with less than two--a rough suit for every day, and a better one forSundays. I don't think Kester ever had two whole suits before. Mamma waspleased, but she thought it a little extravagant of Cyril. And he boughthim boots and ties, oh, and other things beside!' 'How very good of him!' and Audrey felt a warm glow of pleasure. Shelonged to question Mollie, but she prudently forebore: it was nobusiness of hers if Mr. Blake chose to get into debt; for where could hehave got the money? But her curiosity was soon to be satisfied; Molliewas dying to tell the whole story. 'You would say so if you knew all, ' she returned, with a mysterious air;'mamma does not know yet. I am afraid when she finds out she will beterribly vexed: she does so hate Cyril to go without things. I think shewould almost rather let Kester be shabby than see Cyril without----Oh, Iwas just going to bring it out!' Audrey took no notice. She was folding a dress, and the sleeves weregiving her some trouble. 'Kester never said I was not to tell, ' went on Mollie, as though arguingwith herself. 'I don't know why I stopped just now. Miss Ross, have youever noticed what a beautiful watch and chain Cyril wears?' This was too much for Audrey. 'You don't mean to say that your brother has sold his watch?' she asked, so abruptly that Mollie stared at her. 'No, not his watch; he could not do without one; but he said the chaindid not matter--a steel guard would answer the purpose quite as well. But it was such a lovely chain, and he was so proud of it! An oldgentleman, General Fawcett, gave them to him. He was very grateful toCyril for saving his grandson's life--Cyril jumped into the river, youknow--and then the General, who was very rich, sent him the watch andchain, with such a beautiful letter. When Cyril saw them he was almostashamed to accept them, he said they must have cost so much. ' 'What a pity to part with such a gift!' murmured Audrey, busying herselfover another dress. 'Yes; but, you see, Cyril had so little money, not half enough to payfor all Kester wanted--and he had bought that silk dress, too. Mammawould have had him get the clothes on credit, but Cyril has such ahorror of debt. At first he would not let us know anything about it--hetook Kester to the shop and had him fitted--but at last he was obligedto tell, because Kester missed Cyril's gold Albert chain. Kester lookedready to cry when he heard it was sold. He did think it such a pity, andhe knew mamma would be so vexed. But Cyril only laughed at us both, andsaid he did not care about jewellery--he would be very much ashamed ifKester went to Scotland in his shabby old clothes; and then he begged usboth to say nothing to mamma unless she missed the chain--she will notyet, because Cyril has sent his watch to be cleaned. ' 'Mollie, I am really afraid that you ought not to have told me this, 'returned Audrey gravely; but there was a wonderful brightness in hereyes, as though the story pleased her. 'I think you ought to have keptyour brother's secret. ' 'But he never said it was a secret, except from mamma, ' pleaded Molliein self-defence; 'and I wanted you to know, because it was so dear ofCyril. But he is just like that; he will do anything for Kester. ' 'But, all the same, I hope you will not tell anyone else;' and as Mollielooked disturbed at this, she went on: 'it will be quite safe with me, you know. People so often tell me their little secrets, and your brotherneed not know that you have told me. 'Why, do you think he will mind? Oh no, Miss Ross! I am sure you arewrong about that. I was talking to him one evening about you, and Iremember I said that I could not help telling you things, because youwere so nice and kind; and Cyril answered, quite seriously, "You couldnever have a better friend than Miss Ross. You will learn nothing butgood from her--tell her all you like. There is no one of whom I thinkmore highly. " And then he kissed me quite affectionately. ' 'But all the same, Mollie, I think you had better not let him know thatyou have told me--I mean it would only embarrass him;' and here Audreygot up in a hurry and went to her wardrobe for something she hadforgotten, and when she came back, it was to remind Mollie of thelateness of the hour. 'But this is not good-bye, you know. We shall stop at the Gray Cottageto-morrow morning, to pick up Kester and his portmanteau. ' And then, with some little difficulty, she dismissed Mollie. Audrey intended to pay a parting visit to her friend, Mr. O'Brien, thatevening. Dr. Ross and Michael had gone up to London for the day, and hadarranged to sleep in town, and Mr. Harcourt would escort the ladies andlook after their luggage until they joined them. Audrey had arranged with her mother that an informal meal should beserved in the place of the ordinary late dinner, and that even thisshould be postponed until nine. It was impossible to walk to Brail inthe heat of the afternoon--the weather was sultry, even at Rutherford, and Audrey proposed not to start until after an early tea. When she was ready she went in search of Booty, who had been left underher guardianship. She knew exactly where she should find him--lying onMichael's bed. Booty was always a spectacle of woe during his master'sbrief absences. At the sound of a footstep or an opening door below, hisshort legs would be heard pattering downstairs; there would be an eagersearch in every room, then, with a whine of disappointment and aheart-broken expression in his brown eyes, Booty would slink back againto Michael's room to lie on his pillow, or mount guard over somerelic--a tie, a glove, or even an old shoe--something that he couldidentify as his master's property. Audrey was the only one who could comfort Booty for the loss of thatloved presence; but even with her, Booty was still a most unhappy dog. He plucked up a little spirit, however, at the sight of her hat, andjumped off the bed. His master was clearly not in the house; perhaps theroad his temporary mistress meant to take would lead to him--even a dogwearies of moping, and Booty's short legs needed their usual exercise. He followed her, therefore, without reluctance, and even lapped a littlewater out of his special dish; but there was no joyous bark, nounrestrained gambols, as he trotted after her with his soft eyes lookingout for that worshipped form that was to Booty the one aim and object oflife, for whose special delectation and delight he had been created. Mrs. Ross always said it made her quite miserable to see Booty whenMichael was away, and, indeed, Michael never dared to leave him for manydays together. If anything had happened to his master the little animalwould have pined and fretted himself to death. 'I suppose no one will ever love me as that creature does, ' Michael onceobserved to Audrey; 'he has simply no will or life of his own. What afaithful friend a dog is! I believe Booty understands me better thanmost people. We have long conversations together sometimes--I talk, andBooty answers by signs. ' Audrey enjoyed her walk, but she was afraid Booty was tired and wouldneed a long rest. When they reached Vineyard Cottage she found Mrs. Baxter mending stockings in the porch. 'Father has gone out for a little stroll, Miss Ross, ' she said, rising, with her usual subdued smile. 'He will be back directly. Will you comeinto the parlour and rest?' 'I would rather stay here, ' returned Audrey. 'I am so fond of thispretty old porch, and this bench is so comfortable. Booty is tired, Mrs. Baxter; he has been fretting because his master chose to go up to Londonto-day, and his low spirits have made him languid. Look at him when Isay Michael--there!' as the dog started and sat up eagerly; 'he knowshis name, you see. ' 'Poor thing! He is as intelligent as a Christian--more intelligent thansome Christians I know. The ways of Providence are strange, Miss Ross, putting a loving heart into an animal like that, and leaving some humanbeings without one--unless it be a heart of stone;' and here Mrs. Baxtersighed heavily and snapped her thread. 'I hope things have been quiet lately, ' observed Audrey, taking off herhat. 'You mean, if Joe has been behaving himself?--which is a question I canthankfully answer at present. Joe has not been troubling me again, MissRoss. I think father frightened him that time. Joe was always a coward;it is an evil conscience that makes him a coward. There is nothing elseso frights a man. Joe couldn't treat a woman as he has treated mewithout feeling his conscience prick him sometimes. ' 'No, indeed, Mrs. Baxter. Let us hope that he will repent some day. ' 'I tell father his repentance will come too late. We can't sow tares andreap wheat in this world, Miss Ross. "The wicked flee when no manpursueth. " I always think of Joe when I read that verse. Oh, there isalways comfort to be found in the Scriptures. "A woman forsaken andgrieved in spirit"--do you remember those words, Miss Ross? I came uponthem quite suddenly one evening as I was sitting in this very porch, andI said out loud to myself, as one does sometimes, "Those words just fityou, Priscilla Baxter; they might be written for you. "' 'That makes the Bible such a wonderful book, ' returned Audreythoughtfully. 'Every form of grief finds expression and comfort there;there is food for every mind, every age, every nationality. ' 'I never saw anyone to beat father in reading the Bible, Miss Ross. Youwould be surprised to see how kindly he takes to it. I have known himread the Prodigal Son to Hannah and me on Sunday evening with the tearsrunning down his face, and he not knowing it more than a baby, for allHannah's sniffs. It is his favourite reading--it is, indeed, Miss Ross, though his voice does get choky sometimes. ' 'He is thinking of his poor brother Mat. ' 'Begging your pardon, Miss Ross, I would rather not mention Uncle Mat, 'returned Mrs. Baxter stiffly. 'Joe has been a thorn in my side, heavenknows! and his wickedness has reduced me, his wedded wife, to skin andbone; but even Joe, with all his villainies, has not made himself afelon, and I can still bear his name without blushing--and so I havetold father a score of times when he wants to make out that Joe is theblacker of the two. ' 'Oh, I would not hurt him by speaking against his brother! Do you know, Mrs. Baxter, he loves him so dearly still. ' 'Yes; but that is father's craze, Miss Ross, ' she replied coldly. 'Evena good man has his little weakness, and, being a Churchwoman, and Itrust humbly a believer, I would not deny that Providence has given meas good a father as ever breathed this mortal air; but we are all human, Miss Ross, and human nature has its frailties, and father would be awiser and a happier man if he did not set such store by an ungratefuland good-for-nothing brother, who is a shame to his own flesh and blood, and whom it is a bitterness to me to own as my Uncle Mat. ' 'Priscilla!' ejaculated a grieved voice near them; and, looking round, the two women saw Mr. O'Brien standing within a few paces of them. Noone had heard his footsteps except Booty, whose instincts were alwaysgentlemanly, and who, in spite of his deep dejection, had given him afriendly greeting. Mr. O'Brien's good-natured face looked unusually grave. 'Good-evening, Miss Ross. I thought we should see you before yourflitting. I am sorry I stepped out for a bit, and so lost your company. Prissy, my girl, I don't want to find fault with you, but I'll not denythat it hurts me to hear you speak against Mat, poor old chap! when heis not here to answer for himself. It is woman-like, but it is notfair'--looking at them with mild reproach--'and it cuts me to hear it. It is not what your mother, my blessed Susan, would have done. She wasnever hard upon Mat--never!' Mrs. Baxter gave a penitent little sniff, and a faint flush came to hersallow face; with all her faults, she was devoted to her father. But shewas a true daughter of Eve, and this well-deserved reproach only movedher to feeble recrimination. 'Well, father, I was always taught that listeners never heard any goodof themselves. Not that the proverb holds strictly true in this case;but if Uncle Mat were standing in your place, and heard what I said toMiss Ross, he would not deny I was speaking the truth--being alwayspraised for my truthfulness and shaming the devil as much as possible;and if you are for saying that Uncle Mat was a kind brother to one whoacted as his own father, I am bound to say that I do not agree withyou. ' 'No, my lass; I am free to confess that Mat might have been kinder, andthat as far as that goes you are speaking Gospel truth; but my Susan andI have been used to say the Lord's Prayer together every night; andSusan--that's your mother, Prissy--would sometimes whisper as we kneltdown, "Tom, are we sure we have quite forgiven everybody? I was put outthis afternoon with Mat;" and sometimes her voice would tremble a bitwhen she came to the words, "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgivethem that trespass against us. "' And Mr. O'Brien took off his straw hatwith old-fashioned reverence. Mrs. Baxter gave a little choke. 'I wish I had left it unsaid, father, if you are going to take on likethis, ' she observed remorsefully. 'Sooner than grieve you, I would holdmy tongue about Uncle Mat for the remainder of my natural life. There isnothing I would do sooner than have my mother quoted to me like aScripture saint, as though I were not worthy to tie her shoe-string. ' 'Nay, nay, my lass, you are misunderstanding my meaning. ' 'No, father, begging your pardon, I am not; and, as I have often toldMiss Ross, I never feel worthy to be the offspring of such parents. MissRoss'--turning to her--'my father is a little low this evening, and Ihave put him out of his usual way. I will leave you to talk to him abit while I open a bottle of our white currant wine to hearten you foryour walk home. ' 'Poor Prissy!' observed Mr. O'Brien, shaking his gray head; 'she is aworrier, as Susan used to say; but her bark is worse than her bite. Sheis a good soul, and I would not change her for one of the lively sort. ' 'She is really very sorry for having pained you. ' 'Sorry! Bless my heart, you don't know Prissy. She will be that contritefor showing the sharp edge of her tongue that there will be nothing shewill not do to make amends. It will be, "Father, what will you have?"and, "Father, do you think you could enjoy that?" from morning to night, as though I were a new-born babe to be tended. No, no, you are not up toPrissy. She has not got her mother's sweet, charitable nature--my Susan, bless her dear heart! always thought the best of everybody--but Prissyis a good girl, for all that. ' Audrey smiled as she drew down a tendril of jasmine to inhale itshoneyed fragrance. There was not much girlhood left in the faded, sorrowful woman who had left them just now; but in the father's fondeyes Priscilla would always be a girl. Then, in her serious, sweet way, she began to talk to her old friend--drawing him out, and listening tothose vague, far old memories that seemed dearer to him day by day, until he had grown soothed and comforted. Mrs. Baxter joined them by and by, but she did not interrupt them, except to press another slice of the home-made cake on Audrey. When she rose to go, father and daughter accompanied her to the gate, and wished her a hearty God-speed. 'Good-bye, my dear old friends, ' she returned cheerfully; 'in sevenweeks I shall hope to see you again. Take care of Mr. O'Brien, Mrs. Baxter. ' 'Oh yes, Miss Ross, I will take care of him. It is not as if one couldhave a second parent. Father, put on your hat; the dews are falling, andyou are not as young as you used to be. ' CHAPTER XVII AMONG THE BRAIL LANES 'Discreet reserve in a woman, like the distances kept by royal personages, contributes to maintain the proper reverence. Most of our pleasures are prized in proportion to the difficulty with which they are obtained. '--FORDYCE. 'A very slight spark will kindle a flame when everything lies open to catch it. '--SIR WALTER SCOTT. While Audrey was talking to her old friend in the jasmine-covered porchof Vineyard Cottage, Cyril Blake was sitting on a stile in one of theBrail lanes, trying to solve a difficult problem. A domestic matter had come under his notice that very afternoon--a veryordinary occurrence, if he had only known it--and had caused him muchvexation. Not being more clear-sighted than other young men of his age, it is extremely doubtful whether he would have noticed it at all but fora few words spoken by Miss Ross. A week or two ago he had observed casually to her, as they were standingtogether on the cricket-field, that he thought Mollie was growing veryfast. 'I suppose she is strong, ' he added doubtfully; 'but she has certainlyseemed very tired lately'--this reflection being forced upon him by aremark of Kester's, 'that Mollie had such a lot of headaches now. ' 'I am afraid Mollie is very often tired, ' returned Audrey rathergravely. Now, there was nothing in this simple remark to arrest Cyril'sattention; but somehow Audrey's tone implied a good deal, and, though nofurther word passed between them on the subject, Cyril was left with anuncomfortable impression, though it was too vague and intangible to beunderstood by him. But on this afternoon in question he was rummaging among his possessionsfor some studs he had mislaid, and, thinking Mollie would help him inthe search, he went in quest of her. He found her in the close littlekitchen, ironing a pile of handkerchiefs and starched things. The placefelt like an oven that hot summer's afternoon, and poor Mollie's facewas sadly flushed; she looked worried and overheated, and it was thenthat Audrey's words flashed on him with a sort of electricalillumination--'I am afraid Mollie is very often tired. ' 'Did you want me, Cyril?' asked Mollie, a little wearily, as she testedanother iron and then put it down again. 'Yes--no, it does not matter, ' rather absently. 'Mollie, is there no oneelse who can do that work? This place is like a brick-kiln. ' 'Well, there is only Biddy, you know, and she does get up the things sobadly. You remember how you grumbled about your handkerchiefs--and nowonder, for they looked as though they were rough-dried--and so mammasaid I had better do them for the future, because I could iron sonicely;' and Mollie gave a look of pride at the snowy pile beside her. But Cyril was not so easily mollified. 'I would rather have my things badly done than see you slave in thisfashion, ' he returned, with unwonted irritation. 'Mollie, does Miss Rossknow you do this sort of thing?' 'Oh yes, of course; I always tell Miss Ross everything. ' 'She must have a pretty good opinion of us by this time, ' in a vexedvoice. 'She knows it cannot be helped, ' returned Mollie simply. 'She did sayone day that she was very sorry for me, when she saw how tired Iwas--oh, she was so dear and sweet that day!--and once when I told herhow my back ached, and I could not help crying a little, she said shewould like to speak to mamma about me, but that she knew it was nobusiness of hers. ' 'Anyhow, I shall make it my business, ' returned her brother decidedly;and he marched off to the drawing-room. Mrs. Blake was sitting in the window, marking some of Kester's newsocks. She looked very cool and comfortable; the room was sweet with thescent of flowers. The contrast between her and Mollie struck Cyril veryforcibly, and when his mother looked up at him with one of her caressingsmiles, he did not respond with his customary brightness. 'Mother, I want to talk to you about Mollie, ' he said with unusualabruptness, as he threw himself down in a cushioned chair opposite hismother's little work-table. 'Yes, dear, ' she returned tranquilly, pausing to admire anexquisitely-worked initial. 'I found her in the kitchen just now, with her face the colour of apeony, ironing out a lot of things. The place was like a furnace; Icould not have stood it for a quarter of an hour. Surely, mother, thereis no need for Mollie to slave in this way. ' 'Do you call ironing a few fine things slavery?' replied Mrs. Blake inan amused voice. 'In our great-grandmothers' time girls did more thanthat. Mollie is not overworked, I assure you. ' 'Then what makes her look so done up?' 'Oh, that is nothing! She is growing so fast, you know; and growinggirls have that look. Mollie is as strong as a horse, really--at her ageI was far weaker. Mollie is a good child, but she is a little given togrumbling and making a fuss about trifles. ' 'Oh, I don't agree with you there. ' 'That is because you do not understand girls, ' returned his mothercomposedly. 'But you may safely leave Mollie to me. Am I likely tooverwork one of my own children? Should I be worthy of the name ofmother?' 'Yes, but you might not see your way to help it--that is, as long as youpersist in your ridiculous resolution of keeping Biddy. Why, she oughtto have been shelved long ago. ' 'That is my affair, Cyril, ' replied Mrs. Blake with unusual dignity. She hardly ever spoke to him in that voice, and he looked up a littlesurprised. 'I hope we are not going to quarrel, motherling, ' his pet name for her. 'Do we ever quarrel, darling? No, you only vex me when you talk ofsending poor old Biddy away. I could not do it, Cyril. I am notnaturally a hard-hearted woman, and it would be sheer cruelty to turnoff my old nurse. Where would she go, poor old thing? And you knowyourself we cannot afford another servant. ' 'Not at present, certainly. ' 'Perhaps we may in the future--who knows?' returned Mrs. Blake withrestored gaiety; 'and until then a little work will not hurt Mollie. Doyou know, when I was a girl, my mother always insisted on my sisterDora and myself making our own beds--she said it would straighten ourbacks--and she liked us to run up and down stairs and make ourselvesuseful, because the exercise would improve our carriage and complexion. Dora had such a pretty figure, poor girl! and I think mine is passable, 'drawing herself up to give effect to her words. 'You, mother? You are as slim and as graceful as a girl now!' returnedCyril admiringly. Then, recurring to his subject with a man'spersistence, 'I don't believe you did half so much as poor Mollie does. ' 'And what does she do?' asked Mrs. Blake, still mildly obstinate. 'Sheonly supplements poor old Biddy. A little dusting, a little bed-making;now and then, perhaps, a trifle of ironing. What is that for a strong, healthy girl like Mollie?' 'Yes; but Mollie has to be educated, ' replied Cyril, only half convincedby this plausible statement. 'These things may be only trifles, as yousay, but they take up a good deal of time. You know, mother dear, howoften I complain of the desultory way Mollie's lessons are carried on. ' 'That is because Mollie and I are such wretched managers, ' she returnedeagerly. 'I am a feckless body, I know; and Mollie takes after me--weboth hate running in grooves. ' 'Mollie is young enough to learn better ways, ' was Cyril's grave answer. 'As for you, mother, you are hopeless, ' with a shake of his head. 'Yes, you will never mend or alter me, ' she rejoined with a light laugh. 'I am Irish to the backbone. Now, my boy, you really must not keep meany longer with all this nonsense about Mollie. I have to go up toRosendale, you know; Mrs. Cardell begged me to sit with her a little, and I am late now. Mollie will give you your tea. Come--have youforgiven your mother?' passing her white taper fingers over his darkhair as she spoke. Cyril's only answer was to draw her face down to his. Mrs. Blake smiled happily at him as she left the room--what did she careif only everything were right between her and her idolised boy? ButCyril was not so satisfied. With all his love for his mother, he was byno means blind to her many faults. He knew she was far too partial inher treatment of her children--that she was often thoughtless ofKester's comfort, and a little hard in her judgment of him; and she wasnot always judicious with respect to Mollie. At times she was lax, andleft the girl to her own devices; but in certain moods, when Cyril hadbeen speaking to her, perhaps, there would be nothing right. It was thenthat Mollie was accused of untidiness and feckless ways, when hints ofidleness were dropped, and strict rules, never to be carried out, weremade. Mollie must do a copy every day; she wrote worse than a child often. Her ignorance of geography was disgraceful; she had no idea wherethe Tigris was, and she could not name half the counties in Scotland, and so on. For four-and-twenty hours Mollie would be drilled, putthrough her facings, lectured, and made generally miserable; but by thenext morning or so the educational cleaning would be over. 'Motherwasn't in a mood for teaching, ' Mollie would say in her artless fashionas she carried away her books. 'No; he could not alter his mother's nature, ' Cyril thought sadly. Hecould only do the best he could for them all. He was clever enough tosee that his mother was wilfully shutting her eyes to her ownmismanagement of Mollie, and that she preferred drifting on in thishappy-go-lucky fashion. With all her energy and fits of industry, shewas extremely indolent, and never liked taking trouble about anything. No; it was no use talking to her any more about Mollie, unless he hadsome definite suggestion to make--and then it was that he wondered ifMiss Ross would help him; she always helped everyone, and he knew thatshe was in full possession of the facts. 'I am not a bit ashamed of our poverty, ' thought Cyril, as he plungeddown the sweet, dewy lanes. 'One day I shall get on, and be any man'sequal; but the only thing that troubles me is the idea that she thinksus too hard on Mollie. She has never said so, of course; but somehow itis so easy to read her thoughts--she is more transparent than otherpeople. ' And Cyril heaved a deep sigh. 'I wonder what she will thinkwhen she sees me. I do not want her to know that I am looking out forher. Everyone has a right to take an evening walk if he likes; and, ofcourse, the roads are open to all. Even without this excuse I meant todo it; for after this evening----' And then Cyril groaned to himself ashe thought of the seven long blank weeks that stretched before him, whena certain sweet face would be missing; and at that moment he espied thegleam of a white dress between the hedgerows. Now, Audrey was right in saying Booty was a spoilt dog. He was as fullof whimsies this evening as spoilt children generally are. He hadtestified extreme delight when Audrey had closed the gate of VineyardCottage behind her. By some curious canine train of reasoning he hadarrived at the conviction that his master was at Woodcote--had probablyarrived there during their absence; and with this pleasing notion hepattered cheerfully after Audrey down the long grass lanes. But Audreywalked fast, and being rather late, she walked all the faster; andBooty, who was used to Michael's leisurely pace, began to lag behind andto hold out signals of distress. 'Oh, Booty, Booty!' exclaimed Audrey, regarding the little animal indulgently; 'and so I am to carry you, justbecause your legs are so absurdly short that they tire easily. 'Evidently this was what Booty wished, for he sat up and waved his pawsin an irresistible way. 'Very well, I will carry you, old fellow; butyou are dreadfully spoilt, you know. ' 'Indeed, you shall do nothing of the kind, Miss Ross;' and Cyril jumpedoff the stile. 'I will carry him for you;' and Cyril hoisted him up onhis arm, being rewarded by an affectionate dab on his nose from Booty'sbusy tongue. Audrey had coloured slightly when she first caught sight of Cyril's tallfigure; but she suppressed her surprise. 'Is this a favourite walk of yours?' she asked carelessly, as though itwere a usual thing to meet Mr. Blake wandering about the Brail lanes. Cyril was quite equal to the occasion. He hardly knew which was hisfavourite walk; he was trying them all by turns. He had taken his motherto Brail once, and she had been much pleased with the village. There wasone cottage she thought very pretty--indeed, they had both fallen inlove with it; it had a quaint old porch, smothered in jasmine. 'That is Vineyard Cottage, where my friends the O'Briens live, ' repliedAudrey, only half deceived by this smooth account. It was clear that Mr. Blake wished her to think that only purestaccident had guided his feet in the direction of Brail; but Audrey wassharp-witted, and she knew Mollie had a tongue; it would be so naturalfor her to say, 'Miss Ross is going to see some old friends atBrail--she told me so; but it is so hot that she will not go until aftertea. ' Once before she had been sure that Mollie's chattering had set Mr. Blake on her track. She must be more careful how she talked to Molliefor the future. But here Cyril, who was somewhat alarmed at her gravity, and who halfguessed at her thoughts, began to speak about Mollie in an anxious, brotherly manner that restored Audrey at once to ease. 'So you see all the difficulty, ' he continued after he had brieflystated the facts; 'and I should be so grateful if you could help me toany solution. I ought to apologise for troubling you, but I know youtake such an interest in Mollie. ' 'I do indeed, ' she returned cordially, and in a moment every trace ofconstraint vanished from her manner; 'and, to tell you the truth, Mr. Blake, I have felt rather anxious about her lately. Even my mother hasnoticed how far from strong she looks. ' 'But that is because she is growing so fast, ' he replied, unconsciouslyrepeating Mrs. Blake's words. 'You see, Miss Ross, my mother absolutelyrefuses to part with Biddy. I have argued with her again and again, butnothing will induce her to send the old woman away. She also declaresthat she cannot afford another servant, so what is to be done?' andCyril sighed as though he had all the labours of Hercules before him. Audrey looked at him very kindly; she was much touched by thisconfidence. How few young men, she thought, would have been so simpleand straightforward! There was no false pride in the way he mentionedtheir small means and homely contrivances; he spoke to her quitefrankly, as though he knew she was their friend, and as though hetrusted her. It was the purest flattery, the most delicious homage hecould have offered her. Audrey felt her sympathy quicken as shelistened. 'I would not trouble about it just now, ' she observed cheerfully--'notuntil the vacation is over. Mollie will have very little to do while youand Kester are away. ' 'That is true, ' he returned, in a relieved tone; for he had not thoughtof that. 'When we all come back we might hit upon some plan. Do you think yourmother would object to having in a woman two or three times a week tohelp Biddy? I think I know a person who would just do--RebeccaArmstrong. She does not want to leave home; but she is a strong, capablegirl, and could easily do all the rough work--and she is very moderatein her charges. I could inquire about her, if you like. ' 'It is an excellent idea, ' he replied, inwardly wondering why it had notoccurred to his mother. 'I am so grateful to you for suggesting it. I amquite sure my mother will not object; so by all means let us have thisRebecca. ' 'Shall I tell your mother about her?' 'Perhaps I had better speak to her first; there is no hurry, as you say. Really, Miss Ross, you have lifted a burden off my mind. ' 'I am so glad!' with a smile. 'You see, Mr. Blake, it will be so nicefor Mollie to have her mornings to herself. She has told me two or threetimes that she finds it impossible to work in the afternoon, there areso many interruptions; and by that time she is generally so tired--orstupid, as she calls it--that she cannot even add up her sums. ' 'Oh, we will alter all that!' replied Cyril lightly. He had discharged his duty, and now he did not want to talk about Mollieany more. From the first he had always felt conscious of a feeling ofwell-being, of utter contentment, when he was in the presence of thisgirl; it made him happy only to be with her. But this evening they wereso utterly alone; the whole world was shut out by those barriers ofgrassy lanes and still green meadows, with their groups ofslowly-feeding cattle. The evening air was full of dewy freshness, and only the twittering ofbirds broke the stillness. A subtle sweetness seemed to distil throughthe young man's veins as he glanced at his companion; involuntarily, hisvoice softened. 'I wonder where you will be this time to-morrow?' he said, ratherabruptly. 'We are to sleep at York, you know. Geraldine wants to see the Minster. ' 'Oh yes, I remember; Captain Burnett told me;' and then he beganquestioning her about Braemar. Could she describe it to him? He hadnever been in Scotland, and he would like to picture the place tohimself. He should ask Kester to send him a photograph or two. Audrey was quite willing to satisfy him. She had been there already, andhad seen their cottage. She could tell him all about their two parlours, and the little garden running down to the beck. But Cyril's curiositywas insatiable; he wanted to know presently how she would employ herselfand what books she would read. 'For you will have wet days, ' he added--'saft days, I think they callthem--and then time will hang heavily on your hands unless you haveplenty of books. ' 'Oh, Michael has seen to that, ' she replied brightly. Somehow, Michael's name was perpetually cropping up. 'My cousin and Imean to do that, ' or 'Michael means to help me with that, ' until Cyril'sface grew slightly lugubrious. True, he tried to console himself with the remembrance of Audrey's wordsthat she and Geraldine looked upon Michael as a sort of brother; still, he never did quite approve of this sort of adopted relationship. It wasalways a mistake, he thought; and in time people found it out forthemselves. Of course he was Miss Ross's cousin--or, rather, her father'scousin--but even that did not explain matters comfortably to his mind;and when a man has a Victoria Cross, and is looked upon in the light ofa hero, it is a little difficult for other men not to envy him. Cyril began to feel less happy. The walk was nearly at an end, too. Someof the light and cheerfulness seemed to fade out of the landscape; achill breath permeated the summer air. But Audrey went on talking in her lively, girlish way. She was quiteunconscious of the sombre tinge that had stolen over Cyril's thoughts. 'Yes, to-morrow we shall be more than a hundred miles away; and the nextday you will be _en route_ for Cornwall. ' 'I suppose so. ' 'You will have a very pleasant time, I hope. ' 'Oh, I daresay it will be pleasant enough; the house will be full ofcompany--at least, Hackett says so. His people are very hospitable. ' 'Are there any daughters?' 'Oh yes; there are three girls--the three Graces, as they were calledwhen they came up to Commemoration. ' 'Indeed; were they so handsome?' 'Some of our men thought so, ' with a fine air of indifference. 'I knowBaker was smitten with one of them; it is going to be a match, Ibelieve. That is Henrietta, the eldest. ' 'I suppose she was the handsomest?' 'Oh dear no! Miss Laura is far better looking; and so is the youngest, Miss Frances. In my opinion Miss Frances is far more taking than eitherof her sisters. ' 'Oh, indeed! I think you will have a pleasant time, Mr. Blake. ' 'Well, I cannot say I am looking forward to it. I am afraid it will berather a bore than otherwise. I would much rather go on working. ' 'I don't think you would find Rutherford very lively. ' 'Oh, I did not mean that!' with a reproachful glance at her that Audreyfound rather embarrassing. 'You surely could not have thought I wishedto remain here now'--a dangerous emphasis on 'now. ' 'Why, it would bethe abomination of desolation, a howling wilderness. ' 'I thought you were fond of Rutherford. ' Audrey was not particularly brilliant in her remarks just now; she wasnot good at this sort of fencing. She had a dim idea that she ought todiscourage this sort of thing; but she did so hate snubbing anyone, and, in spite of his youth, Mr. Blake was rather formidable. 'So I do--I love Rutherford!' he returned, with such vehemence thatAudrey was startled, and Booty tried anxiously to lick him again. 'Itwas a blessed day that brought us all here--I wonder how often I saythat to myself--but all the same----' he paused, seemed to recollecthimself, and went on--'it must be very dull in vacation time. ' 'Oh yes, of course, ' she said quickly. It was rather a tame conclusionto his sentence; but Audrey breathed more freely. She was almost gladthey had reached Rutherford, and that in a few minutes Woodcote would bein view. They were both a little silent after this, and by and by Cyril put Bootydown. 'Good-bye, ' observed Audrey very gently, as she extended her hand. 'Thank you so much for being so good to Booty; and please give my loveto your mother and Mollie. ' 'Good-bye, ' murmured Cyril; and for a moment he held her hand verytightly. If his eyes said a little too eloquently that he knew he shouldnot see her again for a long time, Audrey did not see it, for her ownwere downcast. That strong, warm pressure of Cyril's hand had been arevelation, and a quick, sensitive blush rose to her face as she turnedsilently away. 'That is over, ' thought Cyril to himself, as he strode through thesilent street in the summer twilight; 'and now for seven long blankweeks. Am I mad to-night? would it ever be possible? It is like the newheaven and the new earth only to think of it!' finished the young man, delirious with this sweet intoxication of possible and impossibledreams. CHAPTER XVIII ON A SCOTCH MOOR 'Time, so complained of, Who to no one man Shows partiality, Brings round to all men Some undimm'd hours. ' MATTHEW ARNOLD. In future days Audrey always looked back upon those seven weeks atBraemar with the same feelings with which one recalls the memory of somelake embosomed in hills, that one has seen sleeping in the sunlight, andin which only tranquil images were reflected--the branch of somedrooping sapling, or some bird's wing as it skimmed across the glassysurface. Just so one day after another glided away in smooth enjoyment anduntroubled serenity, and not a discordant breath ruffled the twohouseholds. The house that Dr. Ross had taken had originally been two good-sizedcottages, and though the rooms were small, there were plenty of them;and a little careful adjustment of the scanty furniture, and a fewadditional nicknacks, transformed the parlour into a pleasantsitting-room. Geraldine wondered and admired when she came across, thefirst morning after their arrival. Audrey had arranged her own andMichael's books on the empty shelves; the little mirror, and indeed thewhole mantelpiece, was festooned and half hidden with branches ladenwith deep crimson rowan-berries, mixed with heather and silvery-leafedhonesty; a basket of the same rowan-berries occupied the centre of theround table; an Oriental scarf draped the ugly horsehair sofa, and acomfortable-looking rug was thrown over the shabby easy-chair. Thefishing-tackle, butterfly-nets, pipes, and all other heterogeneousmatters, were consigned to a small bare apartment, known as 'Michael'sden, ' and which soon became a lumber-room. Geraldine looked at her sister's handiwork with great approval. Sheconsidered her father's household was magnificently lodged; she and herhusband had taken up their quarters in a much less commodiouscottage--their tiny parlour would hardly hold four people comfortably, and the ceiling was so low that Mr. Harcourt always felt as though hemust knock his head against the rafters. When any of the Ross partycalled on them, they generally adjourned to the small sloping garden, and conversed among the raspberry-bushes. It was delightful to see Geraldine's enjoyment of these primitivesurroundings. The young mistress of Hillside seemed transformed intoanother person. Percival's clever contrivances, their little makeshifts, their odd picnic life, were all fruitful topics of conversation. 'And then I have him all to myself, without any tiresome boys, ' shewould say to her mother. 'It is just like another honeymoon. ' Geraldine's one grievance was that she was not strong enough to shareher husband's excursions. She had to stay with her mother and Michaelwhen he and Audrey and Dr. Ross took one of their long scrambling orfishing expeditions. Geraldine used to manifest a wifely impatience onthese occasions that was very pretty and becoming; and she and Michael, who seemed to share her feelings, would stroll to the little bridge ofan evening to meet the returning party. Somehow Michael was always thefirst to see them and to raise the friendly halloo, that generally sentthe small black cattle scampering down the croft. 'See the conquering hero comes!' Mr. Harcourt would respond, opening hisrush basket to display the silvery trout. Dr. Ross's pockets would befull of mosses and specimens and fragments of rock, and Audrey broughtup the rear with both hands laden with wild-flowers and grasses. 'Have you been dull, my darling?' Mr. Harcourt would say as Geraldinewalked beside him. She seemed to have eyes and ears for no one else--andwas that any wonder, when he had been absent from her since earlymorning? 'We have had a grand day, Jerry; we have tramped I do not knowhow many miles--Dr. Ross says fifteen; we have been arguing about it allthe way home. I am as hungry as a hunter. I feel like Esau--a bowl ofred lentils would not have a chance with me. I always had a sneakingsort of liking for Esau. What have you got for supper, little woman?' 'Salmon-steaks and broiled fowl, ' was Geraldine's answer--'yourfavourite dishes, Percy. I am so glad you are hungry. ' 'Faith, that I am; the Trojan heroes were nothing to me! I will have awash first, and get off these boots--should you know them forboots?--and then you shall see, my dear. ' And it may be doubted whether those two ever enjoyed a meal more thanthose salmon-steaks and broiled fowl that Jean Scott first cooked andthen carried in bare-armed, setting down the dishes with a triumphantbang on the small rickety table. 'Now we will have a drop of the cratur and a pipe, ' Mr. Harcourt wouldsay. 'Wrap yourself in my rug, and we will sit in the porch, for reallythis cabin stifles me after the moors. What have you and your motherbeen talking about? Let me have the whole budget, Jerry. ' Was there a happier woman in the world than Geraldine, nestled under herhusband's plaid, in the big roomy porch, and looking out at thestarlight? Even practical, prosaic people have their moments of poetry, when the inner meaning of things seems suddenly revealed to them, whentheir outer self drops off and their vision is purged and purified; andGeraldine, listening to the tinkling beck below, and inhaling the coolfragrance of the Scotch twilight, creeps nearer to her husband and leansagainst his sheltering arm. What does it matter what they talked about?Mr. Harcourt had not yet forgotten the lover in the husband; perhaps he, too, felt how sweet was this dual solitude after his busy labours, andowned in manly fashion his sense of his many blessings. 'How happy those two are!' Audrey once said, a little thoughtfully. She was sitting on the open moor, and Michael was stretched on theheather beside her, with Kester at a little distance, buried as usual inhis book; Booty was amusing himself by following rather inquisitivelythe slow movements of a bee that was humming over the heather. The threehad been spending a tranquil afternoon together, while Dr. Ross and hisson-in-law had started for a certain long walk, which they declared nowoman ought to attempt. Audrey was not sorry to be left with Michael. It had been her intentionfrom the first to devote herself to him; and dearly as she loved theserambles with her father, she was quite as happy talking to Michael. Audrey's dangerous gift of sympathy--dangerous because of its lack ofmoderation--always enabled her to throw herself into other people'sinterests; it gave her positive happiness to see Michael so tranquil andcontent, and carrying himself with the air of a man who knows himself tobe anchored in some fair haven after stress of weather; and, indeed, these were halcyon days to Michael. He had Audrey's constant companionship, and never had the girl beensweeter to him. The delicious moorland air, the free life, the absenceof any care or worry, braced his worn nerves and filled his pulses witha sense of returning health. He felt comparatively well and strong, andwoke each morning with a sense of enjoyment and well-being. EvenAudrey's long absences did not trouble him over-much, for there wasalways the pleasure of her return. He and Kester could always amusethemselves until the time came for him and Geraldine to stroll to theirtrysting-place. 'Here we are, Michael!' Audrey would say, with her sudden bright smile, that seemed to light up the landscape. Somehow, he had never admired herso much as he did now in her neat tweed dress, and the deerstalker capthat sat so jauntily on her brown hair. How lightly she walked! how fullof life and energy she was! No mountain-bred lass had a freer step, amore erect carriage. When Audrey made her little speech about her sister's happiness, Michaellooked up with a sort of lazy surprise in his eyes. 'Well, are not married people generally happy?' he asked. 'At least, theworld gives them credit for happiness. Fancy turning bankrupt at nine orten months!' 'Oh, there will be no bankruptcy in their case. Gage is a thoroughlycontented woman. Do you know, Michael, I begin to think Percival a goodfellow myself. I never saw quite so much of him before, and he is reallyvery companionable. ' 'Come, now, I have hopes of you. Then why this dubious tone in alludingto their matrimonial felicity?' 'Oh, I don't know!' with a slight blush. 'I believe it makes me a littleimpatient if people talk too much about it. Mother and Gage areperpetually haranguing on such subjects as this; they are alwayshinting, or saying out openly, that such a girl had better be married. Now, it is all very well, but there are two sides to every question, andI do think old maids have a great many privileges. No one seems to thinkof the delights of freedom. ' 'I believe we have heard these sentiments before. Kester, my son, go onwith your book; this sort of conversation is not intended for goodlittle boys. ' 'Michael, don't be absurd! I really mean what I say; it is perfectlyglorious to say and do just what one likes. I mean to write a paperabout it one day, and send it up to one of our leading periodicals. ' '"On the Old Maids of England, " by "A Young Maid. " I should like to readit; the result of three-and-twenty years' experience must be singularlybeneficial to the world at large. Write it, my child, by all means; andI will correct the proof-sheets. ' 'But why should not one be happy in one's own way?' persisted Audrey. 'You are older than I, Michael--I suppose a man of your age must havesome experience--is it not something to be your own master, to go whereyou like and do what you like without being cross-questioned on youractions?' 'Oh, I will agree with you there!' 'People talk such nonsense about loneliness and all that sort of thing, as though one need be lonely in a whole world full of humancreatures--as though an old maid cannot find plenty to love, and whowill love her. ' 'I don't know; I never tried. If I had a maiden aunt, perhaps----'murmured Michael. 'If you had, and she were a nice, kind-hearted woman, you would loveher. I know it is the fashion to laugh at old maids, and make remarks ontheir funny little ways; but I never will find fault with them. Why, Ishall be an old maid myself one day; but, all the same, I mean people tolove me all my life long. What are you doing now?' rather sharply; forMichael had taken out his pocket-book and was writing the date. 'I thought I might like to remind you of this conversation one day. Isit the sixteenth or the seventeenth? Thank you, Kester--the seventeenth?There! it is written down. ' 'You are very disagreeable, and I will not talk any more to you. I shallgo and look for some stag's-horn moss instead;' and Audrey sprang upfrom her couch of heather and marched away, while Michael lay facedownward, with his peaked cap drawn over his eyes, and watched herroaming over the moor. Now, why was Audrey declaiming after this fashion? and why did she takeit into her head to air all sorts of independent notions that quiteshocked her mother? and why was she for ever drawing plans to herself ofa life that should be solitary, and yet crowded with interests--whosekeynote should be sympathy for her fellow-creatures and large-heartedwork among them? and, above all, why did she want to persuade herselfand Michael that this was the sort of life best fitted for her? But noone could answer these questions; so complex is the machinery offeminine nature, that perhaps Audrey herself would have been the last tobe able to answer them. But she was very happy, in spite of all these crude theories--very happyindeed; some fulness of life seemed to enrich her fine, bountifulnature, and to add to her sense of enjoyment. Sometimes, when she wassitting beside some mountain beck, in the hush of the noontide heat, when all was silent and solitary about her except the gauzy wings ofinsects moving above the grasses, a certain face would start up againstthe background of her thoughts--a pair of dark, wistful eyes wouldappeal to her out of the silence. That mute farewell, so suggestive, sofull of pain--even the strong warm grasp with which her hand had beenheld--recurred to her memory. Was he still missing her, she wondered, orhad Miss Frances contrived to comfort him? Miss Frances was very seldom mentioned in Cyril's frequent letters toKester. The boy used to bring them to Audrey to read with a glow ofsatisfaction on his face. 'Cyril is awfully good, ' he said once; 'he never used to write to me atall; mother always had his letters. But look what a long one I have hadto-day--two sheets and a half--and he has asked such a lot of questions. Please, do read it, Miss Ross; there are heaps of messages toeverybody. ' Audrey was quite willing to read it. As she took the letter, she againadmired the clear, bold handwriting. It was just like the writer, shethought--frank, open, and straightforward. But as she perused it, a glowof amusement passed over her face. Mr. Blake's letters were very kind and brotherly, but were they onlyintended for Kester's eyes? Were all those picturesque descriptions, those clever sketches of character, those telling bits of humour, meantsolely for the delectation of a boy of sixteen? And, then, the series ofquestions--what did they do all day when the weather was rainy, forexample? did Miss Ross always join the Doctor and Mr. Harcourt on theirfishing expeditions? and so on. Mr. Blake seldom mentioned her name, although there were many indirect allusions to her; but Miss Frances wasscarcely ever mentioned. She was only classed in an offhand way with'the Hackett girls' or 'the young ladies. ' 'The Hackett girls went withus; the two younger ones are famous walkers, ' etcetera. Sometimes there would be an attempt to moralise. 'I am getting sick of girls, ' he wrote on this occasion. 'I will giveyou a piece of brotherly advice, my boy: never have much to do withthem. Do not misunderstand me. By girls, I mean the specimens of youngladies one meets at tennis-parties, garden-parties, and that sort ofthing. They are very pretty and amusing, but they are dangerous; theyseem to expect that a fellow has nothing else to do but to dangle afterthem and pay them compliments. Even Miss F----. But, there, I will notmention names. She is a good sort--a lively little soul; but she isalways up to mischief. ' Audrey bit her lips to keep from smiling as she read this passage, forshe knew Kester was watching her. It was one of the 'saft days' commonin the Highlands, and, not being ducks, the two households had remainedwithin doors. Dr. Ross and Michael were classifying butterflies andmoths in the den; Mrs. Ross was in her room; and Mr. And Mrs. Harcourt--'cabined, cribbed, confined, ' as Mr. Harcourt expressedit--were getting through alarming arrears of correspondence by way ofpassing the time. Audrey had lighted a fire in the parlour, and satbeside it snugly, and Kester was on the couch opposite her. 'I wonder if it be Miss Frances!' thought Audrey, as she replaced theletter in the envelope. '"A lively little soul, and a good sort. " Idon't think Mr. Blake's dislike to girls counts for much. Young menseldom write in that way unless they are bitten; and, of course, itcould be no one else but Miss Frances. But it is no use arguing out thequestion. ' 'It is a very good letter, ' she said aloud. 'You are lucky to have sucha correspondent. I suppose'--taking up her embroidery--'that yourbrother will not mind our seeing his letters?' 'Oh dear no!' returned Kester, falling innocently into the snare. 'Ihave told him that you always read them; and, you see, he writes just asoften. Do you think Cyril is enjoying himself as much as we are, MissRoss? Now and then it seems to me that he is a little dull. When Cyrilsays he is bored, I think he means it. ' Audrey evaded this question. She also had detected a vein of melancholyrunning through the letters. If he were so very happy in Miss Frances'society, would he wish quite so earnestly that the vacation were over, and that he was amongst his boys in the big schoolroom? Would he dropthose hints that no air suited him like Rutherford air? 'I think he ought to be enjoying himself, ' she said, a little severely. 'He is amongst very kind people, who evidently try to make him happy, and who treat him like one of themselves; and, then, the girls seem sogood-natured. Young men do not know when they are well off. You hadbetter tell him so, Kester. ' 'Shall I say it as a message from you?' 'By no means;' and Audrey spoke very decidedly. 'I never send messagesto gentlemen. ' And as the boy looked rather abashed at this rebuke, shecontinued more gently: 'Of course you will give him our kind regards, and I daresay mother will send a message--Mr. Blake is a great favouriteof hers. But it is not my business if your brother chooses to bediscontented and to quarrel with his loaves and fishes. ' 'I think Cyril would like to be in my place, ' observed Kester, quiteunaware that he was saying the wrong thing; but Audrey took no notice ofthis speech. 'Well, he need not envy me now, ' he went on, in a dolorousvoice. 'It has been a grand time--I have never been so happy in my life;but it will soon be over now. Only a fortnight more. ' 'I am so glad you have been happy, Kester; and you do seem so muchbetter, ' looking at him critically. And indeed a great change had passed over the boy. His face was lessthin and sharp, and there was a tinge of healthy colour in his cheeks;his eyes, too, were less sunken and hollow, and had lost theirmelancholy expression. When Audrey had first seen him on that Juneafternoon, there had been a subdued air about him that contrastedpainfully with his extreme youth; but now there was renewed life andenergy in his aspect, as though some heavy pressure had been suddenlyremoved. 'I am ever so much better, ' he returned gratefully; and it was then thatAudrey noticed for the first time his likeness to his brother. He wasreally a nice-looking boy, and but for his want of health would havebeen handsome. 'When I go home'--and here a cloud passed over hisface--'these weeks will seem like a dream. Fancy having to do nothingall day but enjoy one's self from morning to night!' 'Why, I am sure you and Michael work hard enough. ' 'Oh, but that is the best pleasure of all!' he replied eagerly. 'Ishould not care for idleness. I like to feel I am making progress; andCaptain Burnett says I am getting on first-rate. And then think of ourstudy, Miss Ross!' and here Kester's face kindled with enthusiasm. 'HowI shall dream of those moors, and of those great patches of purpleheather, and the bees humming over the thyme, and the golden gorse, andthe bracken! No wonder Cyril wants to be in my place!' 'You and Michael are great friends, are you not, Kester?' 'Oh yes!' But though Kester turned on her a beaming look of assent, hesaid no more. He had a boy's dislike to speak of his feelings; andAudrey respected this shy reticence, for she asked no further questions. But she knew Kester almost worshipped Michael, that a word from himinfluenced him more than a dozen words from any other person; evenCyril's opinion must defer to this new friend. For was not CaptainBurnett a hero? did he not wear the Victoria Cross? and were not thosescars the remains of glorious wounds, when he shed his blood freely forthose poor sick soldiers? And this hero, this king of men, this grave, clear-eyed soldier, had thrown the ægis of his protection roundhim--Kester--had stooped to teach and befriend him! No wonder Kesterprayed 'God bless him!' every night in his brief boyish prayers; that hegrew to track his footsteps much as Booty did, and to read him--asAudrey failed to do--by the light of his honest, youthful love. For Kester's hero was Kester's friend; and in time friends grow tounderstand each other. CHAPTER XIX YELLOW STOCKINGS ON THE TAPIS 'We school our manners, act our parts, But He who sees us through and through Knows that the bent of both our hearts Was to be gentle, tranquil, true. ' MATTHEW ARNOLD. Audrey had not forgotten Mollie all this time. She kept her promise, andwrote to her frequently; and she had long letters from her in return. Mollie's girlish effusions were very innocent and loving. One dayMichael asked to read one of them. He smiled as he handed it back. 'She is a dear little girl!' he said heartily; 'I do not wonder that youare so fond of her. She is only an undeveloped child now, but there isplenty of good raw material. Mollie will make a fine large-hearted womanone day--like someone else I know, ' he finished to himself. 'If I do notmistake, Mollie is cut after Audrey's pattern. ' Now and then Mrs. Blake wrote also. Her letters were airy andpicturesque, like her talk. Audrey would read them aloud to her motherand Michael. 'I really feel as though our Richmond dreams had come true, ' she wroteonce--'as though our favourite castle in the air were built. "Notreally, mother? you don't think this beautiful house and garden belongto us really?" asks Mollie, in her stupid way. You know what a literallittle soul she is. "Oh, go away, Mollie!" I exclaim quite crossly. "Howcan I help it if you have no imagination?" For all I know, the place isours: no one interferes with us; we come and go as we like; the birdssing to us; the flowers bloom for our pleasure. Sometimes we sit by thelake, or Mollie paddles me to Deep-water Chine, or we read our historyon that delicious circular seat overlooking the terraces. Then thesilence is invaded: a neat-handed Phyllis--isn't that poeticallyexpressed?--comes up with a message from that good Mrs. Draper: "Wherewould Mrs. Blake and Miss Mollie have their tea?" Oh, you dear, thoughtful creature, as though I do not know who has prompted Mrs. Draper! Of course Mollie cries: "The garden, mamma!" and "The garden sobe it, " say I. And presently it comes--such a tea! such fruit, suchcream, such cakes! No wonder Mollie is growing fat. And how am I tothank you and dear Mrs. Ross? I must give it up; words will not expressmy sense of your goodness. But before I finish this rigmarole I musttell you that Mollie practises every day for an hour, and keeps up herFrench, and the Roman history progresses well. I am carrying Mollie sofast over the ground that we shall soon be dragged at Pompey'schariot-wheels; and as she complains that she forgets what we have read, I make her take notes and copy them neatly in a book. I know you will beglad to hear this. ' 'Humph!' was Michael's sole observation, when Audrey had finished. 'It is a very interesting letter--very droll and amusing, ' remarked Mrs. Ross, in her kindly way. 'Mrs. Blake is a clever woman; don't you thinkso, Michael?' But Michael could not be induced to hazard an opinion; indeed, hisbehaviour was so unsatisfactory that Audrey threatened to keep the nextletter to herself. But the last week was nearly at an end, and, though everyone loudlylamented over this fact, it was observed that Mrs. Ross's countenancegrew brighter every day. She never willingly left her beautiful home, and she always hailed her return to it with joy. Not even her Highlandhome, with its heather and long festoons of stag-horn moss, could diverther affections from her beloved Woodcote; and the young mistress ofHillside fully echoed these sentiments. 'It has been a lovely time, and has done Percy a world of good, ' shesaid to her mother, as they were packing up some curiosities together;'but I can see he is growing a little tired of idleness; and, after all, there is no place like home. ' 'I am sure your father and I feel the same; and really, Geraldine, on awet day these rooms are terribly small. I used to take my work upstairs;one seemed to breathe freer than in that stuffy parlour that Audrey andMichael think so charming. ' 'So our last evening has come, ' observed Audrey, in a curious tone, asshe and Michael wandered down to the little bridge they called theirtrysting-place. A tiny rivulet of water trickled over the stones, andtwo or three ducks were dibbling with yellow bills among the miniatureboulders. Audrey sat down on the low wall, and Michael stooped to pickup a pebble, an action that excited frantic joy in Booty's breast. 'Ah, to be sure!' he replied, as he sent it skimming along the water, while Booty pattered after it, barking with glee. 'Don't you remember DeQuincey's observation?' And as Audrey shook her head, for she neverremembered quotations, he went on: 'He declares that it is a true andfeeling remark of Dr. Johnson's, that we never do anything consciouslyfor the last time (of things, that is to say, which we have long been inthe habit of doing) without sadness of heart. ' 'I think he is right;' and Audrey bent over the low parapet to watch asudden scrimmage below. Booty was frisking among the boulders, and the ducks, evidently ruffledin their feelings, were swimming under the bridge, quacking a loud, indignant protest. Even ducks lose their tempers sometimes, and theangry flourish of their tails and the pouting of their soft necks andtheir open bills showed keen remonstrance and utter vexation of spirit. 'Booty, come here, and leave those ducks in peace;' and then, whileMichael threw another pebble or two, she sat asking herself if she feltthis sadness. Was she glad or sorry to know that to-morrow they would beon their way to Rutherford?--would it not be a matter of regret if theirreturn were to be suddenly postponed? She had been very happy here; shehad seen so much of her father and Michael; but----Here Audrey broughther inward questioning to an abrupt end. 'It has been a nice time, Michael, ' she said gently--'a very nice timeindeed. ' 'Look here! I wish you would substitute another adjective, ' heremonstrated, quite seriously. '"Nice" is such an insipid, sugary sortof word: it has no sort of character about it. Now, if you had said "agood old time----"' 'And have drawn down a reproof on myself for talking slang. ' 'Well, "a glorious time, "' he corrected--'shall we say that instead? Youhave enjoyed it, have you not?' with one of his searching looks. 'Oh yes; I have never enjoyed myself more. And, Michael'--her love ofmischief predominating--'I do believe we have not quarrelled once. ' 'You have been such a brick, you know, and have given in to me ineverything. Somehow, ' continued Michael, throwing up a pebble andcatching it again, 'if people give in to me, I am remarkablysweet-tempered. We were very near a quarrel once, I remember, but itnever came to anything. It was a hot afternoon, I think, and we wereboth sleepy. ' 'I cannot say I remember it. ' 'Well, let it pass. I am in that sort of magnanimous mood that I amready to pronounce absolution on all offences--past, present, and tocome. By the bye, Audrey, I forgot to tell you something. Kester has hadthe letter he wanted, and Widow Blake graciously signifies her assent. ' 'Michael, let me give you a timely warning. We shall quarrel if you callmy friend by that ridiculous name. ' 'A quarrel cannot be carried on by one party alone, ' he returned lazily;'and I absolutely refuse to consider a mere statement of facts in thelight of a grievance. Still, if your feelings are wounded, and youobject to my allusion to your fair friend's bereaved condition----' 'Michael!' with a little stamp, 'will you leave off talking about Mrs. Blake and tell me what you mean?' 'It is perfectly simple, I assure you. Kester wrote to his mother to askif he might go up to town with me, and she said "Yes. "' 'Must you really go?' rather regretfully. 'It would be so much nicer ifyou came to Rutherford with us. You know, ' she continued affectionately, 'I always miss you so much when you are away. ' Michael gave her one of his quick looks, and then he picked up a smoothwhite stone that had attracted his attention. 'I shall follow you in ten days--at least, that is my present intention, unless Stedman's business keeps me. ' 'But will not Kester be in your way?' 'Not a bit; he will be a famous companion. He will have the run of myrooms, and when I am at the club or with the other fellows he will finda hundred ways of amusing himself. ' 'It will be such a treat to him. ' 'I want it to be a treat; he has not had much pleasure in his life, poorfellow! Do you know, Audrey, he has never really seen London. Won't heenjoy bowling along the Embankment in a hansom, and what do you supposehe will say to Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament? I mean totake him to the theatre. Actually he has never seen a play! We willhave dinner at the Criterion, and I will get Fred Somers to join us. Well, what now?' regarding her with astonishment; for Audrey was lookingat him, and her beautiful gray eyes were full of tears. 'Because you are so kind, ' she said a little huskily; 'because no oneelse ever did such kind, thoughtful things, and because you never thinkof yourself at all. ' 'Oh, come, you must not begin praising me after this fashion!' he saidlightly; for he would not show her how much he was touched that therewere actually tears in her eyes for him. 'And I think it no wonder at all that Kester is so devoted to you. ' 'Booty!' exclaimed Michael sadly; and as the little creature jumped onhis knee, he continued in a melancholy tone: 'Do you know, Booty, youhave a rival? Someone else beside yourself dares to be devoted to yourmaster. Ah, no wonder you wag your tail so feebly! "The moon loves manybrooks, but the brooks love one moon"--it is an affecting image. ' 'Michael, I do wish you would be a little serious this last evening. Ireally mean it. Kester thinks more of you than he does of his ownbrother. ' 'Oh, he will be wiser some day, ' returned Michael, with the utmostcheerfulness. 'You must make allowance for his youth and inexperience. He is an odd boy, rather precocious for his age, and his weak health hasfostered his little peculiarities. ' 'You speak as though some apology were needed. You are very dense thisevening, Michael. I believe I said I was not at all surprised atKester's devotion, you have been so good to him. ' 'I think the air of this place is enervating, ' replied Michael, jumpingup from the parapet. 'I know people do not generally consider moorlandair enervating; but mine is a peculiar constitution, and needs morebracing than other men's. Shall we walk back, my dear?' But as he gaveher his hand to rise, the gentle melancholy of his smile smote her witha sudden sense of sadness, for it spoke of some hidden pain that evenher sympathy could not reach; and she knew that his whimsical words onlycloaked some vague uneasiness. 'Come, dear, come, ' he continued; 'theseScotch twilights are somewhat damp and chilly. We will burn that pinelog this evening, and we will sit round it and tell stories--eh, Audrey?' But, in spite of these cheerful words, Michael was the quietest of thegroup that evening, as he watched from his dusky corner, unperceivedhimself, the play of the firelight on one bright, earnest face. Audreysat on the rug at her father's feet, with her head against his knee. Itwas a favourite position of hers. 'Now, Daddy Glass-Eyes, it is your turn, ' she said, using the oldbaby-name. 'Michael has turned disagreeable and has gone to sleep, so wewill miss him. Kester, are you thinking of your story? It must be a nicecreepy one, please. ' 'I think we ought all to go to bed early, John, ' interrupted Mrs. Ross. 'Audrey is in one of her sociable moods; but she forgets we have a longjourney before us. Kester is looking as sleepy as possible. ' And as Dr. Ross always acted on his wife's quiet hints, the fireside circle soonbroke up. It had been arranged that the whole party should sleep two nights intown. Geraldine and Audrey had shopping to do, and both Dr. Ross and hisson-in-law had business appointments to detain them. Audrey and hermother had tea with Michael one evening, and then they bade him andKester good-bye. 'You will tell Mollie all about me, will you not, Miss Ross?' Kesterexclaimed excitedly. 'Tell her I am going to St. Paul's, and theNational Gallery, and the British Museum. Fred Somers is going to pilotme about, as Captain Burnett has so much to do. Do you know Fred Somers, Miss Ross? He seems a nice sort of fellow. ' Oh yes, Audrey knew all about Fred Somers. He was another _protégé_ ofMichael's; indeed, the whole Somers family considered themselvesindebted to Captain Burnett. Fred's father was only a City clerk, and at one time his head had beenvery much below water. He was a good, weak sort of man; but he had notsufficient backbone, and when the tide sat dead against him he lostcourage. 'The man will die, ' said the doctor. 'He has no stamina; he simplyoffers no resistance to the disease that is carrying him off. You shouldcheer him up a bit, Mrs. Somers--crying never mended a sick man yet. 'For he was the parish doctor, and a little rough in his ways. 'A man has no right to lose courage and to show the white feather whenhe has a wife and six children depending on him, ' said Michael. Some chance--or rather say some providential arrangement--had broughthim across their threshold. Michael came across all sorts of people inhis London life, and, though his acquaintance among City clerks wasrather limited, he had known Mr. Somers slightly. When Michael stepped up to that sick-bed with that wholesome rebuke onhis tongue, but his heart very full of sympathy for the stricken man, Robert Somers' difficulties were practically over. The debts that werechafing the life out of him--debts incurred by sickness, by a hundredlittle disasters--were paid out of Michael's small means; and, despitehis doctor's prophecy, Robert Somers rose from his bed a braver, stronger man. Michael never lost interest in the family. They would always be pinchedand struggling, he knew--a City clerkship is not an El Dorado of riches, and growing boys and girls have to be clothed and educated. Michael tookthe eldest boy, Fred, under his wing--by some means or other he got himinto Christ's Hospital. How Fred's little sisters admired those yellowstockings!--though it may be doubted whether they were not too warm acolour for Fred's private taste. Fred was a Grecian by this time--a bigstrapping fellow he looked beside Kester--with a freckled, intelligentface and a mop of dark hair. He was a great favourite of Audrey's, andshe had once induced her mother to let him spend a fortnight atWoodcote. Dr. Ross also took a kindly interest in him. 'Fred will make his mark one day. You are right, Michael, ' he observed. 'He has plenty of brains under that rough thatch of his. He willshoulder his way through the world. Christ's Hospital has turned outmany a fine scholar, and Fred does not mean to be behind them. ' Audrey bade good-bye to Michael somewhat reluctantly. 'You will follow us in ten days, will you not?' she asked ratheranxiously. 'Remember that London never suits you; you are always betterat Rutherford, and it will be such a pity to lose your goodlooks--Scotland has done wonders for you. Percival was only saying sothis morning. ' 'I shall be sure to come as soon as I have settled this troublesomepiece of business, ' he returned cheerfully. 'Take care of yourself, myLady Bountiful, and do not get into mischief during your Mentor'sabsence. ' But when the hansom had driven off, Michael did an unusual thing. Hewalked to a small oak-framed mirror that hung between the windows, andregarded himself with earnest scrutiny. He was alone; the two boys hadstarted off in an omnibus to the National Gallery, and Michael hadpromised to lunch with a friend in Lincoln's Inn. 'My good looks, ' he soliloquised. 'I wonder if my health has reallyimproved? She was right. I felt a different man in Scotland. I have notfelt so well and strong since that Zulu slashed me--poor devil! I senthim to limbo. It is true the doctors were not hopeless; in time and withcare, if I could only keep my nerves in order--that was what they said. Oh, if I could only believe them--if I could only feel the power forwork--any sort of work--coming back to me, I would--I would----' Hestopped and broke off the thread of his thoughts abruptly. 'What a foolI am! I will not let this temptation master me. If I were once toentertain such a hope, to believe it possible, I should work myself intoa restless fever. Avaunt, Satanas! Sweet, subtle, most impossible ofimpossibilities--a sane man cannot be deluded. Good God! why must somemen lead such empty lives?' For a moment the firm, resolute mouthtwitched under the reddish-brown moustache, then Michael rang the belland ordered a hansom. It was late on a September evening when Audrey drove through Rutherford. She leaned forward in the carriage a little eagerly as they passed theGray Cottage--surely Mollie would be at the window! But no! the windowswere blank; no girlish face was there to greet her, and with a slightfeeling of disappointment she drew back again. But nothing could longspoil the joy of returning home. 'Oh, mother, does it not all look lovely?' she exclaimed, later on thatevening. She had been everywhere--to the stables, the poultry-yard, thedairy, and lastly to Mrs. Draper's room. The twilight was creeping overthe gardens of Woodcote before Audrey had finished her rambles. She hadbeen down to the lake, she had sat on 'Michael's bench, ' she had lookedat her favourite shrubs and flowers, and Dr. Ross smiled as he heard hergaily singing along the terraces. 'Come in, you madcap!' he said good-humouredly. 'Do you know how heavythe dews are? There, I told you so; your dress is quite damp. ' 'What does it matter?' returned Audrey, with superb disdain. '"The rainsof Marly do not wet!"--do you recollect that exquisite courtier-likespeech?--so, no doubt, Woodcote dews are quite wholesome. Is it notdelicious to be home again? And there is no more "Will you come ben?"from honest Jean, and "Will you have a sup of porridge, Miss Ross, or afew broth to keep out the cold?" "Home, home, there is no place likehome!"' And then they heard her singing at the top of her fresh youngvoice, as she roamed through the empty rooms, some old ballad Michaelhad taught her: 'Oh, there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain, Oh, there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain; Though the heart of this world's as hard as a stane, Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain. ' 'Dear child!' observed her mother fondly. 'I do not think anyone everwas happier than our Audrey. She is like a sunbeam in the house, John;'and then they both paused to listen: 'Ye wealthy and wise in this fair world of ours, When your fields wave wi' gowd, your gardens wi' flowers, When ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains To the heart-broken widow who never complains. ' CHAPTER XX 'THE LITTLE RIFT' 'And sigh that one thing only has been lent To youth and age in common--discontent. ' MATTHEW ARNOLD. Audrey was very busy the next morning unpacking and settling a hundredthings with her mother and Mrs. Draper. She had fully expected thatMollie would have made her appearance at her usual time; but when theluncheon-hour arrived, and still no Mollie, she felt a little perplexed. Kester had entrusted her with numerous messages, and she had now noresource but to go herself to the Gray Cottage and deliver them. Audreywas never touchy, never stood on her dignity as most people do; but thethought did cross her that for once Mollie had been a little remiss. 'I would so much rather have seen her at Woodcote, ' she said to herself, as she walked quickly down the High Street. Mrs. Ross was going up toHillside to look after Geraldine, and Audrey had promised to join herthere in an hour's time. 'I never can talk comfortably to Mollie at theGray Cottage; Mrs. Blake always monopolises me so. ' But Audrey carefully refrained from hinting, even to herself, the realreason for her reluctance. She had a curious dread of seeing Mr. Blake, an unaccountable wish to keep out of his way as much as possible; butnot for worlds would she have acknowledged this. She opened the green gate, and Zack bounded out to meet her with hisusual bark of welcome; but no Mollie followed him, only Biddy, lookingmore like a witch than ever, with a red silk handkerchief tied over hergray hair, hobbled across the passage. 'The mistress and Miss Mollie are in the drawing-room, ' she said, fixing her bright hawk-like eyes on Audrey. 'And how is it withyourself, Miss Ross?--you look as blooming as a rose before it isgathered. It is a purty compliment, ' as Audrey laughed; 'but it is true, and others will be telling you so, Miss Ross, avick. ' Audrey blushed a little, for there was a meaning look in the old woman'seyes. Then she ran lightly upstairs; the drawing-room door was halfopen, and she could hear Mollie's voice reading aloud; 'Pompey andPharsalia' caught her ear; then she gave the door a little push, andMollie's book dropped on the floor. 'Miss Ross! oh, Miss Ross!' she exclaimed half hysterically, but she didnot move from her place. It was Mrs. Blake who took Audrey's hands and kissed her airily oneither cheek. 'My dear Miss Ross!' she exclaimed, in her soft, impressive voice, 'thisis almost too good of you. I told Mollie that I knew you would come. "Doyou think she will have the heart to stay away when she knows that weare perfectly famished for a sight of her?" that was what I said whenMollie was plaguing me to let her go to Woodcote this morning. ' 'But I was expecting her, Mrs. Blake, ' returned Audrey, drawing the girlto her side as she stood apart rather awkwardly. 'I thought it wasunkind of Mollie to desert me the first morning. Every time the dooropened I said to myself, "That is Mollie. " I half made up my mind to beoffended at last. ' 'There, mamma, I told you so!' observed Mollie rather piteously; 'I knewMiss Ross would be hurt; that is why I begged so hard to go. ' 'Poor mamma! she is always in the wrong, ' returned Mrs. Blake, with atouch of petulance. 'I put it to you, Miss Ross: would it not have beenutter want of consideration on my part to allow Mollie to hinder youwith her chattering just when you were unpacking and so dreadfully busy?"Take my advice, and stop away until you are wanted, " that is what Isaid to Mollie, and actually the foolish child got into a regular petabout it; yes, you may look ashamed of yourself, Mollie, but you know Isaid I should tell Miss Ross. You can see by her eyes how she has beencrying, and all because I insisted you were not to be worried. ' 'Mollie never worries me, ' returned Audrey, with a kind look at herfavourite's flushed face. But she did not dare pursue the subject; she knew poor Mollie was oftenthwarted in her little plans. If her mother had a sudden caprice or whimto be gratified, Mollie was the one who must always set her own wishesaside--for whom any little disappointment was judged salutary. Perhapsthe discipline did not really harm Mollie; her humility andunselfishness guarded her against any rankling bitterness. 'Mamma never likes me to do things without her, ' she said later on thatafternoon. 'I think she is a little jealous of my going to you so much, Miss Ross; she was so angry when I asked to run across this morning, because she said I wanted you all to myself. I know I was silly to cryabout it, but I was so sure you would be expecting me; and last nightmamma made me come out with her, and I wanted to stay at home and watchfor you: we went all the way to Brail; that is quite mamma's favouritewalk now--and, oh, I was so tired. ' 'But you must not fret, Mollie; and of course you must do as your motherwishes: you know I shall always understand. ' 'Mamma says that you are her friend, and not mine, ' returned Mollie, with big melancholy eyes; 'and that I ought not to put myself soforward: but you are my friend, too, are you not, Miss Ross?' 'Of course I am, my dear little girl, just as Michael is Kester'sfriend; and now I must tell you some more about him. ' But this was when she and Mollie were walking towards Hillside. Audrey had deftly changed the subject after Mrs. Blake's remonstrance;but as she talked she still held Mollie's hand. She felt very happy tobe sitting in that pretty shady drawing-room again, watching the pigeonsfluttering among the old arches. There was a bowl of dark crimsoncarnations on the little work-table, and a cluster of the same fragrantflowers relieved the sombreness of Mrs. Blake's black gown. She waslooking handsomer than ever this afternoon; she wore a little lacekerchief over her dark glossy hair, and the delicate covering seemed toenhance her picturesque, Mary Queen of Scots beauty, and to heighten thebrilliancy of her large dark eyes. Audrey had never seen her look socharming, and her soft playful manners completed the list of herfascinations. As usual, Audrey forgave her petulance and want ofconsideration for Mollie. It was difficult to find fault with Mrs. Blake; she was so gay and good-humoured, she so soon forgot anythingthat had ruffled her, she was so childlike and irresponsible, that oneseemed to judge her by a separate code. 'I must go!' exclaimed Audrey, starting up, when it had chimed the hour. She was in the midst of a description of one of their walkingexpeditions--an attempt to reach a lovely tarn in the heart of thehills. 'I must not wait any longer, as my mother will be expecting me. Mollie, put on your hat; you can walk with me to Hillside;' and then shehesitated. It was very strange that all this time Mr. Blake's name had not beenmentioned. They had talked about Kester and Michael, but for onceCyril's name had not been on his mother's lips. 'I hope your son enjoyed his holiday?' she asked, as she picked a littlesprig of scented geranium. 'I am afraid Cyril is not quite in the mood for enjoying himself, 'returned Mrs. Blake in rather a peculiar tone. 'Mollie, run and put onyour hat, as Miss Ross told you; and for goodness' sake do brush yourhair. My boy is not looking like himself, ' she continued when they werealone. 'I am rather uneasy about him; he has grown thin, and does notseem in his usual spirits. ' 'He wrote very cheerfully to Kester, ' returned Audrey, taken aback atthis. 'Oh, letters never tell one anything, ' replied Mrs. Blake impatiently. 'I daresay you thought I was as happy as possible from mine, justbecause I must have my little jokes. We Blakes are all like that. Idaresay, if Cyril were here, you would see nothing amiss with him; butyou cannot blind a mother's eyes, Miss Ross. ' 'I am very sorry, ' returned Audrey gravely; 'perhaps Cornwall did notagree with him; but he seemed very gay. ' 'Oh, as to that, he was gay enough; people always make so much ofhim--he has been a favourite all his life. I never knew any young manwith so many friends. He has gone up to London now to bid good-bye toone of them who is going to India. We do not expect him back until quitelate to-morrow. ' 'Indeed, ' was Audrey's brief reply; but as she walked up the hill withMollie she was sensible of a feeling of relief. She liked Mr. Blake, shehad always liked him; but she had begun to find his quiet, persistentwatchfulness a little embarrassing--she felt that it invaded the perfectfreedom in which she delighted. Nevertheless, she was sensible of avague curiosity to know why Mr. Blake was not in his usualspirits--could it be Miss Frances, after all? 'Mamma sent me away because she wanted to talk about Cyril, ' observedMollie, with girlish shrewdness; 'she is worrying about him, because helooks grave, and does not talk quite so much as usual; but I am sure heis not ill. He was terribly vexed when Mr. Plumpton telegraphed for him. I don't think I ever saw Cyril so put out before. He was quite crosswith mamma when she wanted to pack his big portmanteau. He declared hedid not mean to stay away longer than one night; but mamma said she knewhe could not be back until to-morrow evening. Just before he went awayhe asked what time you were expected, and----' 'Never mind about that, ' interrupted Audrey; 'we shall be at Hillsidedirectly, and I have heard nothing about yourself. Were you very dullwithout Kester, Mollie? and were our letters long enough to satisfyyou?' 'Oh, they were just lovely!' returned Mollie enthusiastically; 'onlymamma complained that everyone had forgotten her, for even Cyril did notwrite half so often. I used to read them over in the evening, and tryand imagine what you were doing; and I was not always dull, because Ihad so much to do: but that Roman history--oh, Miss Ross!' 'You have worked hard at that, have you not, Mollie?' 'You would say so if you had heard us, ' returned Mollie with a shrug;'we used to grind away at it until I was quite stupid. Sometimes Iwanted to practise or to go on with my French. But no: mamma hadpromised Cyril, and there was no help for it. I have filled onenote-book, but I am not sure I remember half. Mamma reads so fast, andshe is always vexed if I do not understand; but, ' with a look of relief, 'I don't think we shall do so much now. Mamma has got her walking moodagain. ' Audrey tried not to smile. 'Next week we shall resume our lessons, Mollie. ' 'Oh, that will be delightful, '--standing still, for they were nowentering the shrubberies of Hillside; 'somehow, no one teaches like you, Miss Ross: you never seem to grow impatient or to mind telling thingsover again; but mother is always in such a hurry, and she is so cleverherself that she has no patience with a dunce like me. ' 'My dear Mollie, please do not call yourself names--you are certainly nodunce. ' 'I don't mean to be one any longer, ' replied Mollie, brightening up. 'Oh, Miss Ross, what do you think Cyril says! that I am not to helpBiddy any more, and that we are to have a woman in to do the rough work. I don't think mamma was quite pleased when he talked about it. She saidit was uncalled-for extravagance, and that we really could not affordit; that a little work did not hurt me, and that I ought to be glad tomake myself useful. Mamma was almost annoyed with Cyril, but he alwaysknows how to soothe her down. Of course it will be as he wishes, andmamma has promised to speak to you about a woman; and so I shall haveplenty of time to do my lessons; and it will be my own fault if I am adunce now, ' finished Mollie, with a close hug, as the thick shrubsscreened them from any prying eyes. 'Poor little soul! I must help her all I can, ' thought Audrey, as shewalked on to the house. 'I am glad her brother takes her part;' and thenher brother-in-law met her in the porch and took her into themorning-room, where the two ladies were sitting, and where Geraldinewelcomed her as though months, and not hours, had separated them. Audrey's first visit had always been paid to the O'Briens; so thefollowing afternoon she started off for Brail as a matter of course. 'Perhaps you will come and have tea with mother, Gage, ' she had said onbidding her sister good-bye; 'my Brail afternoons always keep me outuntil dinner-time;' and Geraldine had generously assented to this. Sheadmired Audrey's benevolence in walking all those miles to see her oldfriend; the whole family took a lively interest in honest Tom O'Brien, though it must be allowed that Mrs. Baxter was by no means a favourite. Audrey would have enjoyed her walk more if she could have kept herthoughts free from Mr. Blake; but, unfortunately, the long grassy lanesshe was just entering only recalled the time when he had carried Bootyand had walked with her to the gate of Woodcote; and she found herselfwondering, in a vexed manner, as to the cause of the gravity that hadexcited his mother's uneasiness. But she grew impatient with herself presently. 'After all, what does it matter to me?' she thought, as she stopped togather some red leaves. 'I daresay it was only Miss Frances, afterall. ' And then she recoiled with a sort of shock, for actually within a fewfeet of her was a tall figure in a brown tweed coat. She had been sobusy with her thoughts and the red and yellow leaves that she had notseen Mr. Blake leaning against the gate that led into the ploughedfield. She might even have passed him, if he had not started up andconfronted her. 'Miss Ross, ' grasping her hand, 'please let me gather those for you;they are too difficult for you to reach--the ditch is so wide. How manydo you want? Do you care for that bit of barberry?' 'Thank you; I think I have enough now, ' returned Audrey very gravely. She was quite unprepared for this meeting. She had seen the flash of joyin his eyes as he sprang forward to meet her, and she was annoyed tofeel that her own cheeks were burning. And she was clear-sighted enoughto notice something else--that Mr. Blake was talking eagerly andgathering the coloured leaves at random, as though he hardly knew whathe was doing, and that, after that first look, he was avoiding her eye, as though he were afraid that he had betrayed himself. Audrey's maidenlyconsciousness was up in arms in a moment. The gleam in Cyril's eyes hadopened hers. Some instinct of self-defence made her suddenly entrenchherself in stiffness; the soft graciousness that was Audrey's chiefcharm seemed to desert her, and for once in her life she was a littleabrupt. 'There is no need to gather any more, thank you. I have all I want, andI am in a great hurry;' and she held out her hand for the leaves. But Cyril withheld them. 'Let me carry them for you, ' he returned, evidently trying to speak asusual; but his voice was not quite in order. 'I know where you aregoing--to that pretty, old-fashioned cottage with the jasmine-coveredporch; it is not far, and I have not seen you for so long. ' Then hestopped suddenly, as though something in Audrey's manner arrested him. 'That is, if you do not object, ' he finished, with a pleading look. But for once Audrey was obdurate. 'Thank you, I would rather carry them myself. There is no need to takeyou out of your way. ' Audrey felt that her tone was cold--that she was utterly unlike herself;but her one thought was to get rid of him. But she need not have fearedCyril's importunity. He drew back at once, and put the leaves in herhand without speaking; but he turned very pale, and there was a hurtlook in his eyes. Audrey put out her hand to him, but he did not seem tosee it; he only muttered something that sounded like 'Good-morning, ' ashe lifted his cap and went back to the gate. Audrey walked on very fast, but her cheeks would not cool, and a miserable feeling of discomfortharassed her. She was vexed with him, but still more with herself. Whyneed she have taken alarm so quickly? It was not like her to be somissish and disagreeable. Why had she been so cold, so unfriendly, justbecause he seemed a little too pleased to see her? And now she had hurt him terribly--she was quite sure of that--she whonever willingly offended anyone. He had been too proud, too gentlemanly, to obtrude himself where he was evidently not wanted; but his pained, reproachful look as he drew back would haunt her for the rest of theday. And, then, how splendidly handsome he had looked! She had oncelikened him to a Greek god, but it may be doubted whether even theyouthful Apollo had seemed more absolutely perfect when he revealedhimself in human form to some Athenian votary, than Cyril Blake in theglory of his young manhood. Audrey had not recognised this so keenlybefore. 'I must make it up to him somehow. I cannot bear to quarrel with anyone. I would rather do anything than hurt his feelings, ' she thought; and itneeded all her excellent common-sense to prevent her from running backto say a kind word to him. 'I was in a hurry--I was too abrupt; I did not mean to be unkind'--thiswas what she longed to say to him. 'Please come with me as far as thecottage, and tell me all you have been doing. ' Well, and what withheldher from such a natural course--from making her amends in this gracefuland generous fashion? Simply that same maidenly instinct ofself-preservation. She did not go back; she dare not trust herself withCyril Blake, because she was afraid of him, and perhaps--though this wasnot quite so clear to her--she was afraid of herself. But, all the same, she was very miserable--for doing one's duty does not always make onehappy--and she felt the joy of her home-coming was already marred; for, with a person of Audrey's temperament, there is no complete enjoyment ifshe were not in thorough harmony with everyone. One false note, one'little rift within the lute, ' and the whole melody is spoiled. SoAudrey's gaiety seemed all quenched that afternoon, and though her oldfriend testified the liveliest satisfaction at the sight of her, andPriscilla could not make enough of her, she was conscious that, as faras her own pleasure was concerned, the visit was a failure. But she was aware that no one but herself was conscious of this fact. Certainly not honest Tom O'Brien, as he sat smoking his pipe in theporch, and listening to her descriptions of Highland scenery with abeaming face; neither was Mrs. Baxter a keen observer, as she testifiedby her parting speech. 'You have done father a world of good, Miss Ross, ' she said, as shewalked down to the little gate with Audrey. 'I think there is no one heso loves to see, or who cheers him up in the same way as you do. You areyoung, you see, and young people take more cheerful views of life; andit is easy to see you have not a care on you. Not that I begrudge youyour happiness, for no one deserves it more; and long may it continue, Miss Ross, ' finished Mrs. Baxter, with her usual mournfulness. CHAPTER XXI 'HE IS VERY BRAVE' 'Ah! life grows lovely where you are; Only to think of you gives light To my dark heart; within whose night Your image, though you hide afar, Glows like a lake-reflected star. ' MATHILDE BLIND. For the first time Audrey closed the little gate of Vineyard Cottagewith a sense of relief that her visit was over. The two hours she hadjust passed had been quite an ordeal to her. True, she had exertedherself to some purpose: she had talked and amused her old friend; shehad partaken of Mrs. Baxter's cakes; she had even summoned up asemblance of gaiety that had wholly deceived them. But all the time herheart had been heavy within her, and her remembrance of Cyril's grievedlook came between her and enjoyment. It had been a lovely afternoon when she had started for her walk, butnow some heavy clouds were obscuring the blue sky. The air felt heavyand oppressive, and Audrey quickened her steps, fearing lest a stormshould overtake her in the long unsheltered lanes that still lay betweenher and home. She drew her breath a little as she approached the placewhere she had parted with Cyril more than two hours ago. Then she gave agreat start, and again the blood rushed to her face, for through a gapin the hedge she could see a brown tweed coat quite plainly. He wasstill there--still in the same position. She could see the line of hisshoulders as he stooped a little over the gate, with the peak of his capdrawn over his eyes. Audrey slackened her pace. She felt a little breathless and giddy. Shewould have to pass him quite close, and, of course, if he meant to speakto her----But no: though he heard her footsteps, and half turned hishead and seemed to listen, he did not move his arms from the gate. Heevidently meant to take no advantage, to let her pass him if she wishedto do so. Audrey could read this determination in his averted face. Mostlikely he wished her to think that his abstraction was too great toallow him to notice her light footfall; he would make it easy for her topass him--a man's eyes can only see what they are looking at. But thistime Audrey's prudence counselled her in vain; her soft heart would notallow her to go past him as a stranger. She stopped and looked at him;but Cyril did not turn his head. 'Mr. Blake, ' she said gently; and then he did move slightly. 'I am not in your way, I hope, ' he said rather coldly. 'I did not knowit was so late, or I would have gone back. Please do not let me keepyou, Miss Ross; I am afraid there will be a storm directly. ' 'In that case you had better come with me, ' she returned, trying tospeak with her usual friendly ease. But his proud, sad look ratherdaunted her. How could she leave him and go on her way, when he seemedso utterly cast down and miserable; and it was all her fault? 'Please donot shake your head, Mr. Blake. I know you are hurt with me because Iwas rather abrupt just now; but I meant nothing at all, only that I wasin a hurry, and----' 'That you did not wish for my company, ' he added bitterly. 'Oh, Mr. Blake!' 'You are right--quite right, ' he went on, in a tone that piercedAudrey's heart, it was so hopeless, so full of pain; and now he didplace himself at her side. 'I do not blame you in the least; it was thetruest kindness. I can see that now. It is not your fault that I havebeen a fool. Miss Ross, I wished you to pass; I never meant to speak orto obtrude myself on you, but you stopped of your own accord. ' 'I wished to apologise to you for my abruptness. I did not like you tothink me unkind. ' 'You are never unkind, you could not be if you tried, ' he returned inthe same passionate tone; 'you are only so absolutely true. You saw whatI ought never to have shown you, and you thought it only right to checkme. Yes, I was hurt for a moment, I will allow it. Perhaps in some sortof sense I am hurt now. I suppose a man may own to being hurt when hisheart is half broken. ' 'Please, please do not talk so. ' 'I will promise never to talk so again, ' he returned with sad humility;'but I have gone too far to stop now. ' 'No, oh no!' trying to check him; but she might as well have tried tocheck a river that had broken bonds. For once Cyril determined that hewould be heard. 'It is your own fault, ' he returned, looking at her; 'you should havepassed on and left me to my misery. Yes, I am miserable; and you havemade me so: and yet for all that you are not to be blamed. How could Isee you, how could I be with you, and not love you? I have loved youfrom the very first hour I saw you. ' 'Oh, hush, hush!' Audrey was half sobbing. There were great tearsrolling down her face; she could hardly bear to hear him or to look athim, his face was so white and strained. 'I must always love you, ' he went on in the same low concentrated voice. 'I have never seen anyone like you; there is not another girl in theworld who would do as you are doing. How can I help losing my heart toyou? No man could, in my position. ' 'I am very sorry, ' she murmured. 'Do not be sorry'--and then he saw her tears, and his voice softenedfrom its vehemence and became very gentle. 'You are so kind that I knowyou would spare me this pain if you could--but it is not in your power;neither is it in mine. Do not be afraid of me, ' he went on quickly, asshe would have spoken. 'Remember I am asking you for nothing. I expectnothing. What right have I to aspire to such as you? Even if I havedared to dream, my dreams are at an end now, when you have shown me soplainly----' He stopped and turned aside his face, but no words couldhave been so eloquent as that silence. 'Mr. Blake, will you let me say something? I am grieved, grieved to theheart, that this should have happened. If I could have prevented it, nota word of all this should have been spoken; but it is too late to say sonow. ' 'Far, far too late!' 'So we must make the best of it. I must try to forget all that haspassed, and, Mr. Blake, you must promise me to do the same. ' 'I have promised, ' he returned proudly. 'I promised you of my own accordthat I would never talk to you in this way again; but you must not askanything more of me. ' 'May I not?' in rather a faltering voice. 'It would be useless, ' he replied quickly. 'I can never leave off lovingyou. I would part with my life first. I think I am not one of those menwho could ever love twice. I am young, still something tells me this;but all the same you have nothing to fear from me. I know your positionand mine. ' 'You must not speak as though we were not equal, ' she said, in herdesire to comfort him and raise him up from his despondency; 'it is notthat. What does one's poverty or wealth matter?' 'No, it is not that, ' he answered, with a significance that made herlower her eyes; 'in one sense we are equals, for one cannot be more orless than a gentleman, and when one has youth and strength, and amoderate amount of talents, one can always raise one's self to the levelof the woman one loves. And if I had thought that you could ever havecared for me----' His voice trembled; he could not proceed. 'Mr. Blake, I must beg, I do entreat you to say no more. ' Audrey's lipswere quivering; she looked quite pale. At that moment she could bear nomore. 'Forgive me, ' he said remorsefully. 'I was thinking more of myself thanyou. I am trying you too much. ' She could not deny this, but with her usual unselfishness she stroveagain for some comforting word. 'It will be as though you had not spoken, ' she said, in so low a voicethat he had to stoop to hear her. 'It will be sacred, quite sacred; donot let it spoil everything--we--I have been so happy; let us try toremain good friends. ' 'I will try my best, but it will be very hard. ' Perhaps, if she had seenhis face that moment, she would have known that what she asked wasimpossible. How could he be friends with this girl? Even while heassented to that innocent request he knew it could never be. 'Miss Ross, ' he said suddenly, for his position was becoming toodifficult for him, and it was his duty to shield her as much aspossible, 'we are just in the town, and perhaps it would be better forme to drop behind a little. It will not do for people to notice; and nowthe rain is beginning, and if you do not hurry on you will be wet. ' 'Very well, ' she returned; and then rather timidly she put out her handto him. Cyril did not ignore it this time; he held it fast for a moment. 'You have been good, very patient with me, ' he said rather huskily. 'Thank you for that, as well as for everything else: and then he steppedaside and waited for her to leave him. Audrey's limbs were trembling; she had never felt so agitated in herlife. She hurried on, panting a little with her haste; but the dropsfell faster and faster, and just at the entrance to the town she wasobliged to take refuge in a shed by the roadside. The street was dark, and she knew no one could see her. She would have time to recoverherself a little before she had to answer all her mother's anxiousquestions. There was a carpenter's bench and a pile of planks; she satdown on them, and looked out at the heavy torrents of rain. By and byCyril passed, but he did not notice her; he was walking very fast andhis head was erect, as though he were not conscious of the rain beatingdown on him. Audrey shrank back a little as she saw him. 'He is young, but he is strong, ' she said to herself; 'he is almost as strong asMichael;' and then her tears flowed again, but she wiped them away alittle impatiently. 'I must be strong, too, for his sake as well as myown; it will never do for people to find out his secret. He must bespared as much as possible. I must help him all I can. ' But as sheargued herself into calmness she told herself again and again howthankful she was that Michael was away. Michael was so observant, soclear-sighted, that it was impossible to hoodwink him. He had a terriblehabit of going straight to the point, of putting questions that onecould hardly evade. He would have seen in a moment that she had beencrying, and any refusal on her part to satisfy his inquiries would onlyhave deepened his suspicions. 'I could not have faced Michael, ' shethought, as the rain suddenly stopped and she stepped out into the wetgleaming roads. Audrey played her part in the conversation so badly that night that Mrs. Ross observed, uneasily, that she was sure Audrey had taken a chill: 'For she is quite flushed, John, ' she continued anxiously, 'and Inoticed her shiver more than once. She has overheated herself in thatlong walk, and then being caught in that heavy rain has done themischief. ' Dr. Ross looked at his daughter. Perhaps, in spite of his short-sight, he was more observant than his wife, for he took the girl's face betweenhis hands: 'Go to bed, my child, ' he said kindly, 'and I will finish that game ofchess with your mother;' and Audrey, with a grateful kiss, obeyed him. But as Dr. Ross placed himself opposite his wife he seemed a littleabsent, as though he were listening in vain for something. For it wasAudrey's habit to sing snatches of some gay tune as she mounted thestairs. But to-night there was no 'Widow Miller'; it was the Doctor whohummed the refrain to himself, as he captured an unwary pawn: 'When ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains To the heart-broken widow who never complains. ' Audrey felt that night as though she should never sing again--as thoughshe had committed some crime that must for ever separate her from herold happy self. To most people this remorse for an unconscious fault would have seemedmorbid and exaggerated. Thousands of girls have to inflict this sort ofpain at least once in their lives; the wrong man loves them, and thedisastrous 'No' must be spoken. Audrey had not even said 'No, ' fornothing had been asked her--she had only had to listen to a declarationof love, an honest, manly confession, that had been wrung from thespeaker's lips. Wherein, then, did the blame consist? and why was Audreyshedding such bitter tears as she sat by her window that night lookingover the dark garden? For a hundred complex reasons, too involved andintricate to disentangle in one brief hour. Audrey was accusing herself of blindness--of wilful and foolishblindness. She ought to have seen, she must have seen, to what all thiswas tending. Again and again Mr. Blake had shown her quite plainly theextent of her influence over him. Could she not have warned him in timeto prevent this most unhappy declaration? Would it not have been kinderto have drawn back in the first months of their intimacy, and haveinterposed some barrier of dignified reserve that would have kept himsilent for ever? But no! she had drawn him on: not by coquetry--Audreywas far too high-minded to coquet with any man--but simply by the warmfriendliness of her manner. She had liked his company; she had acceptedhis attentions, not once had she repulsed him; and the consequence washis attachment had grown and increased in intensity day by day, until ithad overmastered him. He had said that his heart was almost broken, andit was her fault. What right had she to be so kind to him, until hervery softness and graciousness had fed his wild hopes? Was it not truewhen he had implied that his misery lay at her door? Audrey felt as though her own heart was broken that night--such apassion of pity and remorse swept over her. What would she not give toundo it all! 'If I could only bear some of his suffering, ' she thought, 'if I couldonly comfort him, I should not care what became of myself. I wouldsooner bear anything than incur this awful responsibility of spoiling alife;' and Audrey wept again. But even at this miserable crisis she shrank from questioning herselftoo closely. A sort of terror and strange beating at the heart assailedher if she tried to look into her own thoughts. Was there no subtlesweetness in the knowledge that she was so beloved? No wish, lying deepdown in her heart, that it might have been possible to comfort him? 'It would not do--it would not do. I am sure of him, but not of myself, 'she thought, 'and it would make them all so unhappy. If I could onlythink it right----' and then she stopped, and there was a sad, sad lookin her eyes. 'I will not think of it any more to-night. ' And then sheknelt and, in her simple girlish way, prayed that God would forgive her, for she had been wrong, miserably wrong; and would comfort him, and makeit possible for them to remain friends: 'for I do not wish to lose him, 'thought Audrey, as she laid her head on her pillow that, for once in herbright young life, seemed sown with thorns. It seemed to Audrey as though she had never passed a more uncomfortablethree weeks than those that followed that unfortunate talk in the Braillanes; and, in spite of all her efforts to appear as though nothing hadhappened, her looks and gravity were noticed by both Mrs. Ross andGeraldine. 'I told your father that it was a chill, ' observed Mrs. Ross, on morethan one occasion. 'She is growing thin, and her eyes are so heavy inthe morning. There is nothing worse than a suppressed cold, ' she went onanxiously, for even a small ailment in one of her children always calledforth her motherly solicitude. But Geraldine held another opinion. Audrey never took cold; she hadoften got wet through in Scotland, and it had never hurt her. Shethought it more probable that Audrey was troubled aboutsomething--perhaps she missed Michael, or--then she paused, and lookedat her mother with significance--perhaps, who knows? she might even be alittle hurt at Mr. Blake's desertion. For a certain little bird--thatfabulous winged purveyor of gossip, dear to the feminine mind--hadwhispered into young Mrs. Harcourt's ear a most curious story. It wassaid that Mr. Blake had fallen deeply in love with a Cornish beauty, acertain Miss Frances Hackett, and that his moody looks were all owing tothis. 'Edith has seen her, ' went on Geraldine, as she repeated this story withimmense relish; 'she is a pretty little thing, a dark-eyed brunette. TheHacketts are very wealthy people, and they say Miss Frances will have afew thousand pounds of her own; so he will be lucky if he gets her. Perhaps the père Hackett is obdurate, and this may account for Mr. Blake's gloom--for he is certainly very bad company just now. ' 'Your father thinks he looks very ill; he was speaking to me about himlast night. It is wonderful what a fancy he has taken to him. ' 'I think we all like him, ' returned Geraldine, who could afford topraise him now her fears about Audrey were removed. 'Miss Frances mightdo worse for herself. He is very clever--a rising young man, as Percysays--and then he is so handsome: a girl might well lose her heart tohim. ' Mrs. Ross was quite willing to regard Mr. Blake as Miss Frances'suitor--an unhappy lover was sure to excite her warmest sympathy--butshe was a little shocked and scandalised at Geraldine's hint. 'My dear, ' she said, in a more dignified tone than she usually employedto her eldest daughter, 'I do not think you have any right to say such athing of your sister. Audrey is the last girl in the world to fancy anyman was in love with her, or to trouble herself because he chose to fallin love with some one else. I have often seen her and Mr. Blaketogether--he has dined here a dozen times--and her manner has alwaysbeen perfectly friendly with him, as frank as possible--just as it is toMichael. ' 'I thought she seemed a little constrained and uncomfortable last nightwhen Mr. Blake came into the room, ' returned Geraldine, who certainlyseemed to notice everything; but she knew her mother too well to saymore just then. With all her softness, Mrs. Ross had a great deal of womanly dignity, and nothing would have ruffled her more than to be made to believe thatone of her girls cared for a man who had just given his heart to anotherwoman, and that Audrey--her bright, unselfish Audrey--should be thatgirl. No, she would never have been brought to believe it. Audrey was quite aware that her sister's eyes were upon her, and sheexerted herself to the utmost on every occasion when Geraldine waspresent. But gaiety was very far from her, and she felt each day, with acertain sickness of heart, that her burden was growing too heavy forher. Her position with regard to Mr. Blake was becoming more difficult. In spite of his efforts to see as little as possible of her, circumstances were perpetually throwing them together. Every day theymet at luncheon; she must still keep her seat between him and herfather, but how differently that hour passed now! Instead of that eager, low-toned talk, that merry interchange of daily news and plans, Cyrilwould be absorbed in his carving, in his supervision of the boys; heseemed to have no leisure to talk to Audrey. A grave remark upon theweather, a brief question or two, and then he turned to hisfellow-master, Mr. Greville. Audrey never tried to divert his attention;she listened to the two young men a little wearily. Politics could stillinterest him, she thought; yes, politics were always safe. Once, when hehad no excuse to offer--for he was very ready with his excuses--hejoined them at the family dinner. Audrey never passed such a miserableevening. She sat opposite him; there was no other guest to break theawkwardness--only Mr. Blake and her mother and father and herself. It was the first time she had been compelled to look at him, and she waspainfully struck with the alteration in him. Her father was right; hecertainly looked ill. He was thinner, older, and there were dark linesunder his eyes. Just at that moment Cyril seemed to become aware of herscrutiny; their eyes met, but it was Audrey who blushed and lookedembarrassed. Cyril did not flinch, only his right hand contracted underthe table-cloth. She played chess with him afterwards. There was no helpfor it; Dr. Ross had proposed it. Audrey was so nervous that she playedshamefully, and lost her queen at the third move. 'How stupid of me!' she said, trying to laugh it off. Cyril looked at her very gravely. 'I am afraid you find this a bore, ' he said, with such evidentunderstanding of her nervousness that the tears came to her eyes. When they had played a little longer, he suddenly jumbled the piecestogether. 'It is unfair to take advantage of you any longer, ' he said, jumping up;'no one can play without a queen, and you have lost your castles and oneof your knights, and I was just going to take the other. It is onlytrying your patience for nothing; the game is mine. ' 'Yes, it is yours, ' returned Audrey, in rather a melancholy voice. Why had he ended it so abruptly? Could he have noticed how her handshook? How very nervous she had been! She did not dare look at him as hebade her good-night. 'I must go, ' she heard him say to Dr. Ross. 'I have work to finish;' andthen he went out, and she heard the door close behind him. 'Is it always to be like this?' thought Audrey, as she stood by herwindow. 'Will he never speak to me or look at me again in the old way?To-night he went away to spare me, because he saw how uncomfortable Iwas. He is very brave; I suppose a man's pride helps him. Somehow, Ithink it is easier for him than me. Perhaps I am different from otherwomen, but I always feel as though I would rather bear pain myself thaninflict it on another person. ' CHAPTER XXII 'NO, YOU HAVE NOT SPARED ME' 'Thy word unspoken thou canst any day Speak; but thy spoken ne'er again unsay. ' _Eastern Proverb_--TRENCH. Michael was still away. The business that detained him was not to besettled as easily as he had expected; there were complications--a hostof minor difficulties. He was unwilling to return until things weredefinitely arranged. 'I am too proud of my present position, ' he wrote to Audrey; 'the merefact that I am of some use in the world, and that one human being feelsmy advice helpful to him, quite reconciles me to my prolonged absence. Of course I mean to keep Kester with me. He is perfectly happy, andfairly revels in London sights. He and Fred are thick as thieves. Abercrombie saw him the other day--you know who I mean: DonaldAbercrombie. He is a consulting physician now, and is making quite aname for himself. He has good-naturedly promised to look into the case. He says, from the little he has seen, he is sure the boy has beenneglected, and that care and medical skill could have done much for himin the beginning. Abercrombie is just the fellow to interest himselfthoroughly in a case like Kester's, and I have great hopes of theresult. I have written to his brother, but perhaps you would be wise tosay as little as possible to Mrs. Blake. She is far too sanguine bynature; and it would never do to excite hopes that might never begratified. Mr. Blake is of a different calibre; he will look at thething more sensibly. ' Audrey sighed as she laid aside Michael's letter. She seemed to miss himmore every day, and yet she was quite willing that his absence should beprolonged. Michael would have noticed her want of spirits in a moment;she would never have been free from his affectionate surveillance. At adistance everything was so much easier; she could write cheerfully; shecould fill the sheets with small incidents and matters of localinterest, with pleasant inquiries about himself and Kester. Nevertheless, Michael's face grew graver over each letter. He could nothave told himself what was lacking to his entire satisfaction, only somestrange subtle chord of sympathy, as delicate as it was unerring, warnedhim that all was not right with the girl. 'She is not as bright as usual, ' he thought. 'Audrey's letters aregenerally overflowing with fun. There is a grave, almost a forced, toneabout this last one. And she so seldom mentions the Blakes. ' Audrey had certainly avoided the Gray Cottage during the last threeweeks; even Mollie's lessons were irksome to her. Mollie's tongue wasnot easily silenced. In spite of all her efforts, her cheeks often burntat the girl's innocent loquacity. Mollie was for ever making awkwardspeeches or asking questions that Audrey found difficult to answer; shewould chatter incessantly about her mother and Cyril. 'Mamma is so dreadfully worried about Cyril!' she said once. 'She wantshim to speak to Dr. Powell; she is quite sure that he is ill. He hardlyeats anything--at least, he has no appetite--and mamma says that is sostrange in a young man. And he walks about his room half the night;Biddy hears him. You recollect that evening he dined at Woodcote? Well, he never came home that night until past twelve, and Biddy declares thathis bed was not slept in at all; he must just have thrown himself downon it for an hour or two. And he had such a bad headache the nextmorning. ' Audrey walked to the piano and threw it open. 'I am very sorry your brother is not well, ' she said in rather a forcedvoice, as she flecked a little dust off the legs. 'Mollie, I thinkCaroline has forgotten to dust the piano this morning. Will you hand methat feather-brush, please? I want you to try this duet with me; it issuch a pretty one!' And after that Mollie's fingers were kept so hard atwork that she found no more opportunity for talking about Cyril. Another time, as Audrey looked over her French exercise, she heard adeep sigh, and glancing up from the book, found Mollie gazing at herwith round sorrowful eyes. 'Well, what now?' she asked a little sharply. 'Oh, I am so sorry, Miss Ross!' returned Mollie, faltering and turningred; 'I am so dreadfully sorry, Miss Ross, that Cyril has offended you. I thought you were such good friends, but now----' She stopped, somewhatabashed at Audrey's displeased expression. 'My dear Mollie, I have never been really vexed with you before; but youwill annoy me excessively if you talk such nonsense. I am not in theleast offended with your brother--whatever made you say such athing?--and we are perfectly good friends. ' Audrey spoke with much dignity as she took up her pen again. Poor Mollie looked very much frightened. 'Oh dear, Miss Ross, ' she said penitently, 'you are not really crosswith me, are you? It was not my own idea; only mamma said last nightthat she was sure you were offended about something, for you never cometo see us now, and your manner was so different when she spoke to youafter chapel on Sunday; and then she said perhaps Cyril had offendedyou. ' 'I tell you it is all nonsense, Mollie!' 'Yes, but I am sure there is something, ' returned Mollie, half crying, for Audrey had never been impatient with her before. 'Cyril will neverlet me talk to him about you; he gets up and leaves the room when mammabegins wondering why you never come. Cyril was quite cross when sheasked him to give you a message the other day. "It is more in Mollie'sline, " he said; "I never can remember messages, " and he walked away, andmamma cried, and said she could not think what had happened to him--thathe had never been cross with her in his life before; but that now shehardly dared open her lips to him, he took her up so. ' Audrey sighed wearily, then she gave Mollie a comforting little pat. 'Mollie, dear, ' she said kindly, 'I did not mean to be cross with you;but you do say such things, you know, and really you are old enough toknow better'--and as Mollie only looked at her wonderingly--'oh, goaway!--you are a dear little soul; but you talk as though you were ababy; no one is offended. If your brother is not well, why cannot youleave him in peace? I don't think you understand that men never like tobe questioned about their ailments; they are not like women. Cornwallcertainly did not agree with him. ' 'Do you think it is only that? Oh, I won't say another word if you willonly not be cross with me;' and Mollie relieved her feelings by one ofher strangling hugs. Mollie was quite used to people finding fault with her and telling hershe was a goose. When Audrey kissed her, she sat down and copied herexercise in a humble and contrite spirit; it was Audrey who felt sad andspiritless the rest of the day. 'It has gone deeper than I thought; ithas gone very deep, ' she said with a sort of shiver, as she walked up toHillside that afternoon. But a far worse ordeal was before Audrey--one that threw all Mollie'sgirlish chatter into the shade. A few days afterwards she received alittle note from Mrs. Blake. 'MY DEAR MISS ROSS, ' it began, 'I am nearly desperate. What have Mollie or I done that we should be sent to Coventry after this fashion? At least, not Mollie--I am wrong there: Mollie still basks in the light of your smiles, is still allowed to converse with you; it is only I who seem to be debarred from such privileges. Now, my dear creature, what can you mean by keeping away from us like this? I was at Woodcote yesterday, but you had flown. I had to sit and chat with Mrs. Ross instead; she is delightful, but she is not her daughter; no one but yourself can ever fill your place; no one can be Miss Ross. Now will you make us amends for all this unfriendliness? If you will only come to tea with me to-morrow I will promise you full forgiveness and the warmest of welcomes. 'Yours affectionately but resentfully, M. BLAKE. ' Audrey wrote a pretty playful little answer to this. She was sorry to beaccused of unfriendliness, but nothing was farther from her thoughts;she was very busy, very much engaged. Relays of parents had beeninterviewing them at Woodcote; her sister had not been well, and all herafternoons had been spent at Hillside. Mrs. Blake must be lenient; shewould come soon, very soon, and so on. Mrs. Blake was more formidablethan Mollie, and Audrey was determined to delay her visit as long aspossible. Just now she had a good excuse. Geraldine was a littledelicate and ailing, and either she or her mother went daily toHillside. Audrey breathed more freely when she had sent off her note; she hadgiven it into Cyril's hand at luncheon--a sudden impulse made her choosethat mode of delivery. 'I wish you would give this to your mother, ' she said, addressing himsuddenly as he sat beside her. 'She wants me to have tea with herto-morrow; but it is impossible, I have so much to do just now. ' 'I could have told her; there was no need for you to write or totrouble yourself in any way. I am afraid my mother is rather exacting;it is a Blake foible. ' He smiled as he spoke, and there was no specialmeaning in his tone; he seemed to take it as a matter of course thatAudrey's visits to the Cottage had ceased. 'It will be all right, ' hesaid, as he put the letter in his breast-pocket; and then he stopped andcalled some boy to order. 'You will stay in after luncheon, Roberts, ' hesaid severely, and after that he did not speak again to Audrey. But that letter, strange to say, brought things to a climax. The verynext morning Mollie gave Audrey a note. 'It is from mamma, ' she said, rather timidly. 'Would you like me tobegin my piece, Miss Ross, while you read it?' 'Yes, certainly; but it does not seem a long letter. ' And, indeed, itonly contained a few words: 'DEAR MISS ROSS, 'I must see you. If you will not come to me, will you tell Mollie when I may call? But I must and will speak to you alone. ' Audrey twisted up the paper in her hand; then she stood behind Mollieand beat time for a moment. 'Mollie, ' she said hurriedly, as she turned over the page, 'will youtell your mother that I will come to her this afternoon a little beforethree? I shall not be able to stay, but just for half an hour;' and thenshe sat down and quietly and patiently pointed out how an erring passageought to be played. But there was a tired look on her face long beforethe lesson ended. All her life long Audrey never forgot the strange chill sensation thatcame over her as she read that note; it was as though some dim, overmastering force were impelling her against her own will. As shecrushed the letter in her hand, she told herself that circumstances werebecoming too strong for her. Her face was very grave that afternoon as she pushed open the green gateand walked up to the open door. It seemed to her as though she weresomeone else, as she crossed the threshold and stood for a moment in thelittle hall. Biddy came out of the kitchen. The mistress was in thedrawing-room, she said, and Miss Mollie was out; and Audrey, still withthat strange weight at her heart, went upstairs slowly. Mrs. Blake wassitting in her usual seat by the window. She rose without speaking andtook Audrey's hands, but there was no smile upon her face. She lookedvery pale, and Audrey could see at once that she had been weeping. 'You have come, ' she said quietly; 'I thought my letter would bring you. Perhaps it was wrong of me to write; I ought to have come to youinstead. But how was I to speak to you alone? Last night I was almostdesperate, and then I was obliged to send for you. ' 'If you wanted me so much, of course you were right to send for me. ' Audrey was conscious that her manner was cold, and that her voice washardly as sympathetic as usual. She was sure Mrs. Blake noticed it, forher eyes filled with tears. 'Oh, how coldly you speak! My poor boy has indeed offended you deeply. Oh, I know everything; he was too unhappy last night to hide it anylonger from his mother. Do you know what he said to me?--that with allhis strength he could not bear it, and that he must go away. ' 'Go away--leave Rutherford?' 'Yes;' and now the tears were streaming down her face, and her voice wasalmost choked with sobs. 'He said he must give it up, and that we mustall go away--that the effort is killing him, and that no man could bearsuch an ordeal. Oh, Miss Ross'--as Audrey averted her face--'I know youare sorry for him; but think what it was for his mother to stand by andhear him say such things. My boy--my brave, noble-hearted boy, who hasnever given me an hour's pain in his life!' 'And you have sent for me to tell me this?' There was something proud, almost resentful, in Audrey's tone. 'Yes; but you must not be angry with me. I think that, if Cyril knewthat I was betraying him, he would never give me his confidence again. Last night I heard him walking about his room, and I went up to him. Hewanted to send me away, but I would not go. I knelt down beside him andput my arms round his neck, and told him that I had found out hissecret. It had come to me with a sudden flash as I sat beside him inchapel last Sunday. You passed up the aisle, and I saw his face, andthen I knew what ailed him. And in the darkness I whispered in his ear, "My poor boy, you love Audrey Ross!"' Audrey put up one hand to shield her face, but she made no remark. Shemust hear it all; she had brought this misery upon them, and she mustnot refuse to share it. 'He owned it then. I will not tell you what he said; it must be sacredbetween my boy and me. Oh, you do not know him! His nature is intense, like mine; he takes nothing easily. When he says that it is killing himby inches, and that we must go away, I know he is speaking the truth. How is he to live here, seeing you every day, and knowing that there isno love for him in your heart? How could any man drag out such ahopeless existence?' 'Such things are done every day. ' Audrey hardly knew what she wassaying. A dull pain seemed to contract her heart; he was going away. Somehow, this thought had never occurred to her. 'Yes, but not by men of Cyril's nature. He is strong, but his verystrength seems to make him suffer more keenly. If he stayed here, peoplewould begin to talk; he would not always be able to hide what he felt. He thinks he ought to go away for your sake. "I am giving her pain now, and by and by it will be worse"--those were his very words. ' 'I think it would be braver to stay on here. Will you tell him so, Mrs. Blake?' 'No, Miss Ross, I will not tell him so; I will not consent to see himslowly tortured. If he tells us we must go, I will not say a dissentingword. What is my own comfort compared to his? I have had a hard life, God knows! and now it will be harder still. ' 'But you have other children to consider, ' remonstrated Audrey faintly. 'If you leave here, Mollie and Kester will be sacrificed. Surely, youhave put this before him. ' 'No, indeed, I have not; he has always been my first consideration. Ofcourse, I know how bad it will be for the poor children; but if it comesto that--to choose between them and Cyril----' And a strange, passionatelook came into her eyes. 'Hush, hush! I do not like to hear you talk so, ' replied Audrey. 'It iswrong; no mother ought to make such a difference. You are not yourself, or you would not say such things. It is all this trouble. ' 'Perhaps you are right, ' she returned drearily. 'I think it has halfcrazed me to know we must go away. Oh, if you knew what my life hasbeen, and what a haven of rest this has seemed!' She looked round theroom, and a sort of spasm crossed her face. 'It is all so sweet andhomelike, and he has loved it so; and now to begin all afresh, and to goamongst strangers--and then the loss----' She stopped as thoughsomething seemed to choke her. Audrey felt as though she could hear no more. 'It is all my fault, ' sheburst out; 'how you must hate me!' But Mrs. Blake shook her head with asad smile. 'I don't seem to have the power of hating you, ' she said, so gently thatAudrey's lip quivered. 'How can I hate what my boy loves?' and then shepaused and looked at Audrey, as though the sight of her suppressedemotion stirred some dim hope within her: 'If I thought it would helphim, I would kneel at your feet like a beggar and pray you to havecompassion upon him; but I know what such pity would be worth--do youthink Cyril would accept any woman's pity?' 'No, no, ' and then Audrey rose and put out her hands in a beseechingway. 'Will you let me go? Indeed, indeed, I can bear no more----' 'Yes, you shall go, ' returned Mrs. Blake in a stifled tone. 'I have notbeen generous, I have spared you nothing, and yet it is not your fault. You have not played with my boy's heart; you never tried to win hisheart. Cyril said so himself. ' 'No, you have not spared me, ' was Audrey's answer, and then the twowomen parted without kissing each other--Audrey was too sore, toobewildered, for any such caress. They stood holding each other's handsfor a moment, and then Mrs. Blake walked to the other end of the roomand threw herself down upon a couch. Audrey looked at her for aninstant, then she turned and went slowly down the stairs. But as sheclosed the green gate after her, she told herself that she must be alonefor a little, and with a sudden impulse she turned into the courtyardthat led to the school-house and chapel. There was one spot where shewould be in perfect seclusion, and that was the school library; even ifsome stray boy were to make his appearance in search of a book--a veryunlikely thing at this time in the afternoon--her presence there wouldattract no notice: she had several times chosen it as a cool, quietretreat on a hot summer's afternoon. The sight of the big shabby room, with its pillars and book recesses and sloping desks, gave her amomentary sense of relief. The stillness soothed her, and the tumultuoussinging in her head and ears seemed to lull. She sat down in one of theinner recesses and looked out on the row of ivy-covered studies and thelittle gate that led down to the town. A tame jackdaw was hopping amongthe stones, and a couple of fan-tail pigeons were strutting near him. The mellow brightness of the October sunshine seemed to flood the wholecourt. Oh, how peaceful it looked, how calm and still! and then Audreysuddenly put down her face on her hands and cried like a baby. 'Oh, ifit were only not my fault!' she sobbed; 'but I cannot, cannot bear it, 'and for a time she could do nothing but weep. CHAPTER XXIII 'DADDY, I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU' 'To his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And _that_ was shining on him. ' CHAPMAN. Audrey never knew how long she sat there, shedding those healing tears, every one of which seemed to relieve her overcharged heart; it was aluxury to sit there in that cool shadowed stillness. Presently she wouldrouse herself and go back to her world again; presently, but not justnow! By and by she would think it all out, she would question her ownheart more closely. Hitherto she had feared any such scrutiny--now itwould be selfish, cowardly, to avoid it any longer; but at the presentminute she was only conscious that she and everyone else were miserable. At this moment she heard footsteps crossing the courtyard. Then, to herdismay, they entered the lobby. She had only just time to drag down abook from the shelves and open it haphazard; it was a volume on naturalhistory. Anyone would have thought her absorbed, she pored soattentively over that plate of gaudy butterflies, never raising her headto look at the new-comer, who stood a few yards off regarding her withunqualified astonishment. Cyril Blake--for it was he, and no other, whohad entered the library--would willingly have withdrawn withoutattracting her notice; but one of the boys in the sanatorium wanted acertain fascinating book of adventures, and he had promised to fetch it. He knew the volume was in this very recess, and he saw with someannoyance that it would be necessary to disturb her. 'Miss Ross, ' he said, in that quiet, guarded tone in which he alwaysaddressed her now, 'may I trouble you to move just for one moment? I amso sorry to disturb you, but Willie Taylor--' and then he stopped asthough he were suddenly petrified. Audrey had risen quickly, but as she moved aside he had a full view ofher face--the flushed cheeks and swollen eyelids told their own tale. 'Good heavens!' he exclaimed, forgetting his errand and speaking inexcessive agitation, 'you are unhappy--something is the matter!' andCyril turned quite pale. Poor Audrey! her feelings were not very enviable at that moment. Thatshe should be discovered by the very person whom she was most anxious toavoid! If he would only go away and leave her, and not stand thereasking her questions! But nothing was farther from Cyril's intentions. For the minute he had forgotten everything, except that she was unhappy. 'You are not well, or else something has been troubling you, ' hecontinued, and his voice softened with involuntary tenderness. 'MissRoss, you promised that we should be friends--will you not treat me asone now? There is nothing I would not do to help you, if you would onlytell me what is troubling you. ' 'It is impossible, ' she returned with a little sob. Oh, if he would onlygo away, and not speak to her so kindly! 'One must be troubledsometimes, and no one can help me--if you will only leave me to myself. ' 'Leave you like this?' 'Yes, indeed--indeed. I cannot talk;' and Audrey wiped away the tearsthat seemed to blind her. She so seldom gave way--she so seldompermitted herself this feminine luxury of tears--but when once she setthem flowing they were simply uncontrollable. She could not help whatCyril thought of her. 'If you would only go away, ' she repeated, turningfrom him as he stood there as though rooted to the spot. 'I cannot go;' and here Cyril's lips became quite white under hismoustache. Some sudden intuition of the truth had come to him. Why had he notthought of that before? It had never even occurred to him. An hour agohe had met Mollie wandering about the town disconsolately. Miss Ross wasat the Cottage, she had said; it was only a call, and she had taken themessage herself; and then her mother had given her some errands to do, and had charged her strictly not to return for at least an hour. 'Mamma never likes me to be at home when Miss Ross comes, ' Mollie hadobserved in an aggrieved tone. But Cyril had taken no notice of thespeech--he knew his mother's little ways, and no suspicion of the truthhad come to him. It was only the sight of Audrey's emotion thatquickened it into life now. 'You have seen my mother, ' he exclaimed; and here his face grew dark andstern. 'She has been talking to you--making you unhappy. Miss Ross, ' asshe remained silent, 'you must answer me. This concerns me very closely. I have a right to know if my mother has betrayed me!' His tone frightened Audrey. 'You must not be vexed with her, ' she said, rousing herself to defendthe absent. 'She is very unhappy, and of course it troubled me. ' Audreyspoke with her usual simplicity--what was the use of trying to hide itany longer? Cyril's impetuous pertinacity gave her no chance of escape. 'And she told you that I was going away?' Audrey bowed her head. 'It was very wrong, ' he returned, still sternly. 'Whom is a man totrust, if he cannot trust his own mother? She has betrayed myconfidence. It was cruel to me, but it was far more cruel to you--it isthat I cannot forgive. ' 'No, no! You must not say that--she did not mean to be cruel, Mr. Blake. Of course I ought not to have known this, and of course it has made mevery unhappy. But now I must ask you something. Will you not wait alittle? Things may be better--easier----' And here she looked at himtimidly, and her expression was very sweet. But Cyril was not looking at her; he was having a hard fight withhimself. He was angry--justly angry, as he thought; nay, more, he washumiliated that his mother should have appealed to this girl--that, knowing her kind heart, she should have inflicted this pain on her. Thesight of her grief, her gentleness, almost maddened him, and he avertedhis eyes as he answered her. 'They cannot be easier. But do not mistake my meaning--perhaps my motherhas misled you--let me put it right. No pain or difficulty is driving meaway; do not think that for a moment. However hard it might be to go onliving here, I think I could have endured it, if it were only right todo so. But I have made up my mind that it is not right, and to-morrowmorning I shall speak to Dr. Ross. ' 'Oh no, no!' and here Audrey clasped her hands involuntarily. ButCyril's eyes were fixed on some carrier-pigeons fluttering across thecourtyard. 'It is my duty to do it, and it must be done. If Dr. Ross questions me, I shall tell him the truth: "I must go away because I have dared to loveyour daughter; and if I stayed here I should never cease from my effortsto win her. " That is what I should tell him, Miss Ross. I think he willnot press me to remain under these circumstances. ' And Cyril gave abitter little laugh. 'Perhaps not;' and here Audrey sank down upon her chair, for she feltweak and giddy. 'I am glad, at least, that you think I am doing right. ' 'I did not say so. ' 'Pardon me;' and here Cyril did try to get a glimpse of her face, forsomething in her tone baffled him. 'You, who know all, must of courseapprove my conduct. If I stayed here I could not answer for myself; itis better--safer--that I should go; though wherever I am, ' here hisvoice trembled with exquisite tenderness, 'I must always love you. ' 'Then in that case you had better remain. ' Audrey tried to shield her face as she spoke, but he had seen a littletremulous smile flit over her features, and she could not hide herdimple. What could she mean? Was he fooling himself--dreaming? The nextmoment he had dropped on one knee beside her, and was begging her, withtears in his eyes, to look at him. 'This is a matter of life and death to me, ' he implored, compelling herby the very strength of his will to turn her blushing face to him. 'MissRoss--Audrey'--his tone almost amounting to awe--'you cannot mean thatyou really care for me?' 'I am afraid I do care too much to let you go, ' she half whispered. Butas he grasped her hands, and looked at her almost incredulously: 'Why isit so impossible? I think in a way I have long cared. ' But even then he did not seem satisfied. 'It is not pity--you are sure of that? It is nothing that my mother hassaid? Audrey, if I thought that, I would rather die than take advantageof you. Tell me, dear'--and the pleading of his eyes was almost morethan she could bear--'you would not so humiliate me?' 'No, Cyril, I would not. ' His name came so naturally to her, she hardly knew she said it; but agleam of joy passed over the young man's face as he heard it, and thenext moment he drew her towards him. Audrey took it all quite simply; she listened to her young lover'spassionate protestation of gratitude, half shyly, half happily. Thereverence with which he treated her touched her profoundly; he did notoverpower her with the force of his affection. After the first fewmoments of agitated feeling he had quieted himself and her. 'I must not try you too much, ' he said. 'If I were to talk for an hour Icould never make you understand how happy I am. It is a new existence;it is wonderful. Yesterday I was so tired of my life, andto-day--to-day, Audrey----' 'I am happy, too, ' she said, in a soft, contented voice. 'All theseweeks have been so miserable; I seemed to miss you so--but you wouldhave nothing to say to me. Do you remember that evening when you took myqueen? Oh, how unhappy I was that night! And you saw it, and went away. ' 'I did not go far, ' he returned, taking possession of one hand--the softwhite hand that lay so quietly in his. 'It was the only thing I could dofor you--to keep out of your sight as much as possible. I walked up anddown the road like a sentinel for hours; it did not seem possible to gohome and sleep. I felt as though I never wanted to sleep again. I couldonly think of you in your white gown as you sat opposite to me, and howyour hand trembled, and how cold it felt when I said good-night. Ithought it was all your goodness, and because you were sorry for me. Were you beginning to care for me a little even then, my darling?' 'I do not know, ' she answered gently. 'You must not question me tooclosely. I hardly understand myself how it has all come about. ' 'No, ' he returned, looking at her with a sort of worship in hiseyes--the worship with which a good, true woman will sometimes inspire aman, and which makes their love a higher education; 'it is all amiracle. I am not worthy of you; but you shall see--you shall see howdearly I shall prize this precious gift. ' And then for a moment they were both silent. 'You will not now forbid me to speak to your father?' he said presently;and a shade of anxiety crept into his voice in spite of his intensehappiness. The thought of that interview somewhat daunted him. It was surely adaring thing for a junior classical master to tell his chief that hehad won his daughter's affections; it was an ordeal that most men wouldhave dreaded. Audrey seemed to read his thoughts. 'I hope I shall never hinder you from doing your duty, ' she saidquietly, 'and, of course, you will have to speak to him; but'--lookingat him with one of her radiant smiles--'you will find him quiteprepared. ' 'Do you mean that you will speak to him first? Oh no; it is surely myprerogative to spare you this. ' 'But I do not wish to be spared, ' she returned happily. 'Cyril, I do notthink you have any idea of what my father is to me, and I to him. Do yousuppose I should sleep until I have told him? There has never been anysecret between us. Even when I was a little child, I would take him allmy broken toys to mend, and if I fell down or cut my finger--and I wasalways in mischief--it was always father who must bind it up, and kissand comfort me; and, with all his hard work, he was never too busy toattend to me. ' 'I think in your place I would have gone to your mother. You must not bejealous, darling, if I tell you that I fell in love with her first. ' 'I am so glad. Dear mother! everyone loves her. But when Gage and I werechildren, I was always the one most with father. I think there is no onein the world like him, and Michael says the same. I must write and tellMichael about this. ' 'Oh yes; he is like your brother. I remember you told me so. But, dearest, I must confess I am a little anxious about Dr. Ross. I am onlya poor man, you know; he may refuse his consent. ' Audrey shook her head. 'Father is not like that, ' she said tranquilly. 'We think the same onthese matters; we are both of us very impulsive. I have some money of myown, you know--not much'--as Cyril's brow contracted a little--'butenough to be a real help. But do not let us talk about that; I havenever cared for such things. If you had not a penny in the world youwould be still yourself--Cyril Blake. ' Audrey looked so charming as she said this, that the cloud on Cyril'sbrow cleared like magic. 'And you do not think your father will be angry?' 'Angry! Why should he be angry?' opening her eyes widely. 'He may bedisappointed--very probably he will be so; he may think I might havedone better for myself. He may even argue the point a little. The greatblessing is that one is not obliged to consult one's sister in suchcases; for'--looking at him with her old fun--'I am afraid Gage wouldrefuse her consent. ' 'Yes; I am afraid both Mr. And Mrs. Harcourt will send me to Coventry. ' 'To be sure they will; but I suppose even Coventry will be bearableunder some circumstances. Oh dear!' interrupting herself, 'do you seehow dark it is growing? We have actually forgotten the time. I mustreally be going. ' 'I ought not to have kept you so long, ' he returned remorsefully. 'There, you shall go! I will not detain you another moment. I think itwill be better for you to go alone. I will stay here another half-hour;I could not speak to anyone just now. I must be alone and think overthis wonderful thing that has happened. ' 'Very well, ' she replied. But some minutes elapsed before the lastgood-bye was said. There were things he had forgotten to say. More thanonce, as she turned away, he detained her with some parting request. When she had really gone, and the last sound of her footsteps died away, he went back into the dusky room, and threw himself down on the chairwhere she had sat, and abandoned himself to a delicious retrospect. 'And it is true--it is not a dream!' he said to himself when, an hourlater, he roused himself to go back to the Gray Cottage. 'Oh, thank Godthat He has given me this priceless gift! If I could only be worthy ofher!' finished the young man with tender reverence, as he crossed thecourtyard and let himself in at the green door. Mrs. Ross looked at her daughter rather anxiously that evening; shethought Audrey was rather quiet and a trifle subdued. Geraldine and herhusband were dining at Woodcote. Audrey, who had forgotten they wereexpected, was rather taken aback when she saw her sister, and made herexcuses a little hurriedly. She had been detained--all sorts of thingshad detained her. She had been to the Gray Cottage and the library. Shehad not walked far enough to tire herself--this being the literal fact, as not a quarter of a mile lay between Woodcote and the Cottage. Oh no, she was not the least tired, and she hoped Geraldine felt better. 'Much better, thank you, ' returned Geraldine, with one of her keenglances; and then she somewhat elaborately changed the subject. Audreywas not subjected to any cross-examination; indeed, there was somethingsignificant in Mrs. Harcourt's entire dearth of curiosity; but all thetime she was saying to herself: 'Audrey has been crying; her eyes arequite swollen, and yet she looks cheerful. What can it mean? What hasshe been doing? She has hardly had time to smooth her hair, it looks sorough. I wonder if Percival notices anything! I am sure father does, forhe keeps looking at her, ' and so on. It was Mr. Harcourt who was Audrey's _bête noir_ that evening. He was inone of his argumentative moods, and could not be made to understand thathis sister-in-law would have preferred silence. He was perpetuallyurging her to single combat, touching her up on some supposed tenderpoint in the hope of getting a rally. 'I suppose Audrey, who goes in forwomen's rights so warmly, will differ from me if I say so and so?' or'We must ask Audrey what she thinks of that, my dear; she is a greatstickler for feminine prerogative;' and then he would point his chin, and a sort of sarcastic light would come into his eyes. It was positiveenjoyment to him when Audrey rose to the bait and floundered hopelesslyinto an argument. But, on the whole, she acquitted herself ill. 'You aretoo clever for me to-night, Percival, ' she said a little wearily, as hestood talking to her with his coffee cup in his hand; 'I cannot thinkwhat makes men so fond of debating and argument. If they can onlypersuade a person that black is white, they go home and sleep quitehappily. ' 'It is such a triumph to make people see with one's own eyes, ' hereturned, as though accepting a compliment. 'Have you ever read the_Republic_ of Plato? No! I should recommend it for your perusal: it isan acknowledged masterpiece; the reasoning is superb, and it is rich inillustrations. The want of women is that, with all their intelligence, they are so illogical. Now, if women only had the education of men----' 'Harcourt, I think Geraldine is tired, and would like you to take herhome, ' observed Dr. Ross, interrupting the stream of eloquence; and Mr. Harcourt, without finishing his sentence, went at once in search of hiswife. Women might be illogical, but they were to be considered, for allthat. With all his satire and love of argument, Mr. Harcourt valued hiswife's comfort before his own. 'I am quite ready, dear, ' he said, asshe looked up at him with a deprecating smile; 'and I know your motherwill excuse us. ' Dr. Ross had walked with his daughter to the gate. Young Mrs. Harcourtwas a woman who always exacted these little attentions from the menkindaround her; without demanding them, she took them naturally as her rightand prerogative. It would have seemed strange to her if her father hadnot offered her his arm. 'Good-bye, father dear, ' she said, giving himher firm cool cheek to kiss; 'Percy and I have had such a nice evening. ' Dr. Ross walked back to the house; then he went to his study and lightedhis reading-lamp. There was a certain interesting debate in the _Times_which he wished much to read--a Ministerial crisis was at hand, and Dr. Ross, who was Conservative to the backbone, was aware that his party wasmenaced. He had just taken the paper in his hand when Audrey came intothe room. 'Good-night, my dear, ' he said, without looking up; but Audreydid not take the hint. 'Daddy, I want to speak to you, ' she said very quietly; 'will you pleaseput that paper down for a moment?' And then she added, 'I want to speakto you very particularly. ' Dr. Ross heaved a sigh and lowered his paper somewhat reluctantly. 'Would not another time have done as well?' he grumbled good-humouredly;'Harcourt has taken up all the evening. That is the worst of having anelderly son-in-law; one is bound to be civil to him; one could not tellhim to hold his tongue, for example. ' 'I think Percival would resent such a hint, ' returned Audrey ratherabsently. She had drawn a low chair close to her father's knee, so thatshe could touch him, and now she looked up in his face a littlepleadingly. 'Well, what is it, child?' he went on, still fingering his paper; 'Isuppose you want help for some _protégée_ or other--moderation in allthings. I warn you that I have not got Fortunatus's purse. ' 'It is not money I want, ' she returned, so gravely that he began to feeluncomfortable. 'Daddy, it is something very, very different. Thisafternoon Cyril Blake spoke to me, and I--that is, we--are engaged. ' Dr. Ross gave a great start and dropped the _Times_ as though it burnthim. For a moment he did not speak. With all his mildness andbenevolence, he was a man of strong passions, though no one would haveguessed it from his habitual self-control. 'We are engaged, ' she repeated softly, and then she stroked her father'shand; but he drew it rather quickly away. 'Audrey, ' he said, in a voice that she did not recognise, it was sostern, so full of displeasure; 'I would rather have heard anything thanthis, that a child of mine should so far forget herself as to engageherself to any man without her parents' consent. ' 'Oh, daddy----' she began caressingly, but he stopped her. 'It was wrong; it was what I would not have believed of you, Audrey; butwith regard to Mr. Blake, it was altogether dishonourable. How daredhe, ' here the Doctor's eyes flashed through his spectacles, 'how daredhe win my daughter's affections in this clandestine way?' 'Father, you must not speak so of Cyril!' returned Audrey calmly, thoughshe was a little pale--a little disturbed at this unexpected severity;'it is not what you think: there was nothing clandestine ordishonourable. He did not mean to speak to me; it was more my fault thanhis. You shall hear all, every word from the beginning. Do you think Iwould hide anything from my father?' And here two large tears welledslowly from Audrey's eyes, but she wiped them away. Perhaps hergentleness and the sight of those tears mollified Dr. Ross, for whenAudrey laid her clasped hands upon his knee he did not again repulseher. Nay, more, when she faltered once in telling her story, he put hishand on her head reassuringly. 'Is that all you have to tell me, my dear?' and now Dr. Ross spoke inhis old kind voice. 'Yes, father dear; you have heard everything now, and--and--'beseechingly, 'you will not be hard on us!' 'Hard on him, I suppose you mean, ' returned Dr. Ross, with rather a sadsmile; 'a man is not likely to be hard to his own flesh and blood. Istill think he has acted rather badly, but I can make allowance for himbetter now--he was sorely tempted. But now I want you to tell mesomething: are you sure that your happiness is involved in this--that itwould really cost you too much to give him up?' Audrey looked at her father with some astonishment--that wide, clear-eyed glance conveyed reproach. 'Do you think it necessary to ask me such a question?' she said, with alittle dignity; 'should I have engaged myself to any man without lovinghim?' 'But he may have talked you into it; you may have mistaken yourfeelings, ' suggested Dr. Ross; but Audrey shook her head. 'I am not a child, ' she said, rather proudly. 'Father, you have alwaysliked Mr. Blake. You can surely have no objection to him personally?' 'Yes, but my liking did not go to the extent of wishing him to be myson-in-law, ' he replied, with a touch of grim humour; 'in my opinion, Audrey, Mr. Blake is far too young. ' 'He is three-and-twenty, ' she pleaded; 'he is two months older than Iam. What does age matter, father? He will grow older every day. I knowsome men are boyish at that age; but I think Cyril's life has maturedhim. ' 'Still, I would rather have entrusted you to an older man, and one whohad in some measure made his position. Mr. Blake is only at thebeginning of his career; it will be years before he achieves any sort ofposition. Audrey, you know me well enough by this time: I am notspeaking of his poverty, though that alone should have deterred him fromaspiring to my daughter. We think alike on these points, and I carenothing about a rich son-in-law; but Mr. Blake has only his talents andgood character to recommend him. He is far too young; he is poor, andhis family has no social standing. ' 'But, father, surely a good character is everything. How often I haveheard you say what a high opinion his Dean had of him, and what anexcellent character he had borne at school and college; and then thinkwhat a son and a brother he is--how unselfish, how hard-working! Howcould any girl be afraid of entrusting her future to him?' Dr. Ross sighed. Audrey's mind was evidently made up. Why had he broughtthis misfortune on them all by engaging this fascinating youngmaster--for he certainly looked upon it as a misfortune. After all, wasit any wonder that Cyril Blake, with his perfect face and lovabledisposition, had found his way to his daughter's heart? 'Why could henot have fallen in love with someone else?' he groaned to himself; forAudrey was the very apple of his eye, and there was no one he thoughtgood enough for her, unless it were Michael. Not that such an idea everreally occurred to him. Michael's ill-health put such a thing out of thequestion; but Michael was his adopted son, and far above the average ofmen, in his opinion. 'Father, you will remember that my happiness is involved in this, 'Audrey said, after a little more talk had passed between them. 'You willbe good to Cyril when he speaks to you to-morrow. ' 'Oh yes; I will be good to him. ' And then Audrey laid her hot cheek against him, and thanked him as shebid him good-night; but when she had gone there were no debates readthat night--Dr. Ross had too many thoughts to occupy him as he sat alonein his empty study. CHAPTER XXIV 'I FELT SUCH A CULPRIT, YOU SEE' 'Still, it seems to me that love--true and profound love--should be a source of light and calm, a religion and a revelation, in which there is no place left for the lower victories of vanity. '--AMIEL. It cannot be denied that Cyril Blake had rather a hard time of it in theDoctor's study. Dr. Ross received him kindly; but his kindness was atrifle iced as he shook hands with the young man, and then seatedhimself in his big easy-chair. He groaned inwardly: 'I am an old fool, 'he thought, 'ever to have brought him here. How confoundedly handsomethe fellow is! if one could only honestly dislike him!' and then heassumed a judicial aspect as he listened to the culprit. On the whole, Cyril acquitted himself fairly; he was very pale, andhesitated a little over his words; but he stated his case withsufficient eloquence. His love for Audrey bore him triumphantly eventhrough this ordeal. 'You have reason to be angry with me, ' he said with ingenuous frankness. 'I had no right to speak to Miss Ross until I had gained your permissionto do so. ' 'It was certainly a grievous mistake, Mr. Blake. ' 'You are very kind not to call it by another name; I will own frankly itwas a mistake. I must beg you to make allowances for a very strongtemptation. Under some circumstances a man is not always master ofhimself. ' Dr. Ross half smiled. After all, this braw wooer was bearing himselfwith manly dignity. 'I hope you will believe me, ' continued Cyril earnestly, 'when I saythat I acted with no preconceived intention. My first declaration wasperfectly hopeless. I expected nothing, asked for nothing; on the secondoccasion'--here he paused, and, in spite of his nervousness, a lightcame in his eyes--'circumstances forced me to speak. ' 'Circumstances can be controlled, Mr. Blake. If you had come to me, forexample----' 'It had been my intention to come to you, Dr. Ross, and to tender myresignation. I had made up my mind that it was my duty to leave thisplace. I had even spoken to my mother on the subject. "I love yourdaughter, and therefore it will not be right for me to stay. " These werethe very words I should have spoken to you, only--she--she--asked me notto go;' and here the young man's voice trembled. Dr. Ross's magisterial aspect relaxed a little; his good heart, yearningonly for his child's happiness, began to relent. 'I am quite sure of your affection for Audrey, Mr. Blake. ' 'You may be sure of it. There is no proof you could ask that would berefused by me. If I thought--that is, if you and she thought that thiswould not be for her happiness, I should be ready, even now, to goaway. ' 'Thank you! I can quite believe that you mean what you say; but I shallnot put you to so severe a proof. My child told me last night that hermind was made up--indeed, I understand that you and she are alreadyengaged. ' 'Only with your permission, sir. ' 'I do not see how I am to withhold it when the girl tells me that herhappiness is involved. I will speak to you plainly, Mr. Blake. You arecertainly not in the position in which I should wish to see my futureson-in-law. A man of your age, at the very beginning of his career, hasno right to think of marrying. ' Cyril flushed. 'I do not think of it. I must work my way before such a thing would bepossible. ' 'You mean because you are poor. Poverty is, of course, a seriousobstacle; but just then I was thinking more of position. I should hardlybe willing for my daughter to marry a junior classical master. Hersister is in a far better position. ' 'I shall hope not always to be a junior master, Dr. Ross. ' 'True; and, of course, interest can do a great deal. I must speak toCharrington, and see what is to be done in the future. Perhaps you knowthat Audrey has a little money of her own?' 'I am sorry to hear it. ' 'Their grandfather left them each five thousand pounds--as Audrey is ofage, she is, of course, her own mistress. It was my intention to giveher a couple of thousands on her marriage--Geraldine had it--anythingelse will only come to them on my death. ' 'I wish you had not told me all this. ' Dr. Ross smiled. 'You are young, Blake, ' he said, in his old friendly manner, 'or youwould not be so romantic as to wish Audrey were penniless. You will finda few thousands very serviceable by and by, when, in the course of time, a house falls vacant. I am speaking of the future, mind--for I do notmean you to have Audrey for at least a couple of years; we are in nohurry to lose her, and you must make your way a little first. Now Ithink we have talked enough for the present. I will just have a wordwith Audrey, and send her to you. ' Then he held out his hand, and Cyrilgrasped it with a word or two of gratitude. Meanwhile Audrey, seated close to her mother on the drawing-room couch, was pouring out the whole story. She told it very comfortably, with herface resting against her mother's shoulder, and only interrupted by atearful inquiry at intervals. 'Oh, Audrey! Oh, my darling child!' exclaimed Mrs. Ross, in a sighingsort of voice, when the girl had finished her recital. 'Are you sorry, mother? Why do you speak in that tone? You know you havealways liked Cyril. ' 'Yes, my dear, ' but here Mrs. Ross sighed again; 'how can one helpliking him, when he is so lovable? But, Audrey, what will your sistersay--and Percival?' 'Poor dear mother! So that was the reason of that dolorous voice? Well, do you know, ' with an engaging air of frankness, 'I am afraid we shallhave a bad time with Gage; she will want me put in a strait-waistcoatand fed on a cooling diet of bread and water. Father will have to assureher that there is no insanity in the family; and as to Percival--oh, Percival's face, when he hears the news, will be a joke!' 'I must say I don't see the joke, Audrey. I am really afraid they willboth be dreadfully shocked. You must tell them yourself. I would nottake the news to Hillside for the world--and just now, too, when dearGeraldine ought to be spared all agitation. ' Audrey did not dare laugh; her mother was far too much in earnest. 'You must go yourself, Audrey, ' she repeated; 'and I hope you will bevery, very careful. ' 'Don't you think it would be better to write, mother? I am so sure thatGage will disapprove and say cutting things--and of course it will notbe pleasant. If I were to write her a sisterly little note, just tellingher the news, and saying I would go to her to-morrow?' And, after a good deal of consideration, Mrs. Ross was brought to ownthat this plan would be the best. Mrs. Ross was so oppressed by the fear of Geraldine's disapproval thatshe could hardly give her attention to Audrey; and yet her motherlyheart was stirred to its foundations. Audrey pretended to be hurt atlast. 'Oh, do not let us talk any more about Gage!' she said impatiently; 'wemust give her time to come round. I want you to think about me andCyril. "Cyril"--is it not a nice name? And you must be very fond of him, and treat him like your own son. He is to be a second Michael. ' 'Dear me, Audrey! I wonder what Michael will say; he can never haveguessed anything before he went away. ' 'I don't know, mother. Michael is very sharp, you know. It struck meonce or twice that he was watching Cyril; but he liked him--he alwaysliked him;' and here Audrey's voice was full of gladness. Michael'sapproval was necessary to her happiness: whoever else might choose tocavil at her choice, it must not be Michael--dear old Michael! 'I wish he would come back, ' she said softly; for she felt a strangesort of longing to see his kind face again. She must write to him; shemust tell him everything, just as though he were her brother. 'Mother, 'interrupting herself, 'I want to tell you something very pretty thatCyril said yesterday. I was talking of you and father, and he said Imust not be hurt, but he had fallen in love with you first. He thinksyou the sweetest woman he has ever seen. ' 'Dear fellow!' murmured Mrs. Ross; for the little compliment pleasedher. With all her loyalty to Geraldine's husband, there were times when hewas a little formidable to her. Perhaps, in her secret heart, she feltherself too young to be the mother-in-law of a man of forty; and, inspite of Mr. Harcourt's real liking and respect for his wife's mother, he had never been guided by her. It had not been with him, as withyounger men, to say, 'Your mother thinks so-and-so should be done. 'Indeed, if the truth be told, Geraldine very rarely quoted her mother'sopinions--she was so certain that Percival would contradict them. 'We are surely able to make up our own minds without consulting yourparents, my dear, ' he would say, in rather a crushing tone; forprosperity had fed his self-confidence, and it needed the discipline oftrouble to teach him humility. At that moment Dr. Ross entered the room, and at the first sight of hisface Audrey sprang up, and he opened his arms to receive her. 'Oh, daddy, is it all right?' 'Well, it is as far right as it can be, ' he replied, in rather aninexplicable voice. 'Emmie, my dear, this girl of ours has taken the bitbetween her teeth. Geraldine never gave us this trouble. She fell inlove with the right man at the right time, and everything was arrangedproperly. ' 'And now the right man has fallen in love with me, ' whispered Audrey inher father's ear. 'But you have given your consent, John?' returned his wife, in apleading tone. In spite of her fears about Geraldine, her sympathieswere by this time enlisted on the side of the lovers. 'Of course, Mr. Blake is a poor man; but I daresay Dr. Charrington will push him when heknows how things are; and he is so nice and pleasant and clever, anddear Audrey really loves him. ' 'Are you sure of that?' trying to catch a glimpse of his daughter'sface. 'Girls make mistakes sometimes. ' And then, as a faint protestreached him: 'Well, you will find the fellow in my study, if you want totalk to him. Perhaps you had better bring him in to see your mother. ' And Audrey withdrew, blushing like a rose. 'She is very fond of him, John, ' observed Mrs. Ross, with a trace ofanxiety in her tone, as though her husband's manner did not quitesatisfy her. 'She has been talking to me for the last hour. Audrey nevercared for anyone before. You remember young Silverdale and FredLangton--they were both in love with her, and would have spoken if shehad given them the chance; but she was as distant as possible. ' 'Yes; and Fred Langton has fifteen hundred a year, and his father is aMember of Parliament. He is a nice fellow, too--only a little too stoutfor so young a man; but he is not the sort Audrey would fancy. Blake isa good fellow, and I liked him from the first, ' continued the Doctor, ina musing tone; 'but I never should have picked him out for Audrey. ' 'Perhaps you think him too young?' hazarded his wife. 'Yes; I should have liked her to have married an older man. They are toomuch of an age, and Audrey, with all her good-nature, has a will of herown. Blake is by no means a weak man; on the contrary, I should say heis strong; but he will have to give in to her. ' 'Oh, I hope not!' for Mrs. Ross held the old-fashioned doctrines ofwifely submission and obedience. 'They will not find it out for a little; but, if I am not mistaken, Blake will discover in time that he is somewhat handicapped. The girlhas too much on her side: there is her position, her little bit ofmoney, and her equality as regards age. Blake will have to steer his wayprudently, or he will find himself among shoals. ' Mrs. Ross looked distressed; her husband's opinion was infallible toher. It never occurred to her that he might be occasionally wrong in hispremises. 'Percival and Geraldine will be dreadfully shocked, ' she replied. 'Iquite dread the effect on Geraldine. ' Then Dr. Ross's mood changed. 'It is no business of hers, or of Harcourt's either, ' he said, rathersharply. 'If Audrey has her parents' consent, she need not troubleherself about other people's opinions. ' Then Mrs. Ross knew that, whatever stormy discussion might be in storefor her, she must not expect her husband to come to her assistance. Hehad more than once hinted that his son-in-law took rather too much uponhimself, and on one occasion he had gone so far as to say that it was apity Geraldine had married a man so much older than herself. 'Harcourt is a clever fellow, but he plays the autocrat rather too much. A man has a right to be master in his own house, but Woodcote is notHillside. ' And this speech had alarmed Mrs. Ross dreadfully. 'I wish your father cared for Percival as much as he does for Michael, 'she said once a little plaintively to Audrey. 'Nothing Michael says ordoes is ever wrong in his eyes. ' 'But there could not be two Michaels, mother, ' returned Audrey; 'andreally, Percival does lay down the law far too much. I don't wonderfather was a little put out, for of course he is the older man. ' Meanwhile, the lovers were enjoying themselves after their own fashion. When Audrey entered the study, Cyril was standing in the bay-window withhis back towards the door; but at the sound of her footstep he turnedround quickly and crossed the room. As he took her hands he looked ather for a moment without speaking, and she saw at once that he wasdeeply moved. Then he put his arm round her very gently and kissed her. Somehow that silent caress touched Audrey, it was so much more eloquentthan words; and when he did speak, his speech was very grateful to herears. 'Your father has been so good to me. ' 'Yes, I know. I told you yesterday how good he would be. ' 'Ah, but I had a rather bad time of it at first, ' he replied, shakinghis head. 'Do you see that chair?' pointing to the high-backed oakenchair that always occupied the corner by the writing-table. 'Dr. Rosssat there, and I stood leaning against the mantelpiece, just opposite tohim. ' 'Do you mean that father did not ask you to sit down?' 'Oh no; he more than once pressed me to take a seat; but I felt it wouldbe unbecoming for a culprit not to stand before his judge. I felt such aculprit, you see. When a man steals another man's dearest possessionwithout asking his leave, he must regard himself as a sort of traitor. ' Audrey smiled; but as Cyril drew her gently down beside him on the widecushioned window-seat, she made a faint protest. 'I think mother will be looking for us, ' she said a little shyly. 'But not just now, ' he pleaded. 'You will stay with me for a fewminutes, will you not, darling? I could not talk to you before yourmother, and I want to tell you what Dr. Ross said. In spite of mypresumption, he has treated me most generously; but, Audrey, ' halfwhispering her name, as though it thrilled him to say it, 'he says thathe will not spare you to me for at least two years. ' 'Oh no, of course not; I could not leave father and mother for a long, long time, ' returned Audrey, somewhat troubled by this allusion to hermarriage. It was one thing to be engaged and to make Cyril happy, but tobe married was a far more serious consideration. 'If I had been asked, Ishould have said at least three years, ' she added quickly. For one instant the young lover felt himself wounded, but his good senseenabled him to hide this from her. 'You are right, dearest, ' he said quietly. 'It would be mere selfishnessfor me to wish to take you away from this beautiful home until I havemade one that shall in some degree be fitting for you. You will notexpect a grand one; you know you have linked your lot to a poor man. ' 'Of course I know it, ' she replied calmly; 'you need not trouble aboutthat, Cyril. I think I am different from other girls: I have never caredfor wealth or luxury in the least. Woodcote is my home, and I love everystone of it; but I could be just as happy in a cottage. ' 'If it were like the Gray Cottage, for example?' 'Oh, I have always been fond of the Gray Cottage!' she returned, smilingat him; and the look of those sweet gray eyes made the young man'spulses beat faster. 'I should be perfectly satisfied with a home likethat. Why, ' as he interrupted her with a rapturous expression ofgratitude, 'did you think I should be hard to please? I am not a finelady, like Geraldine!' 'You are the finest lady in the world to me!' was Cyril's answer. Ittook all his self-control to sit there, just holding her hand andlistening to her. He felt as though in his joy he could have been guiltyof any extravagance--as though he ought to be kneeling before her, hislady of delight, pouring out his very soul in a tumultuous, incoherentstream of words. But it spoke well for his knowledge of Audrey'scharacter that he restrained himself so utterly: any such passionatelove-making would have disturbed her serenity and destroyed her ease inhis society; her inborn love of freedom, and a certain coyness that wasnatural to her, would have revolted against such wooing. Cyril had hisreward for his unselfish forbearance when he saw how quietly she restedagainst his arm, how willingly she left her hand in his, as she talkedto him in her frank, guileless way. 'I suppose your mother is pleased about this?' she said presently. 'You would have said so if you had heard us talking last night, untilone o'clock in the morning! You have made more than one person happy, dear; my mother will be your debtor for life. ' 'I wonder she is not a little jealous of me, ' returned Audrey. 'She hashad you so long to herself, I should think she would find me a little inher way. ' 'Oh no! she is too grateful to you for making me happy. My darling, itwould cause me utter misery if you and my mother did not get on. I havebeen her one thought all these years; it is not right, of course, ' asAudrey's eyes expressed disapproval at this. 'I have had more than myfair share; but I am only stating facts from her point of view. If youhad refused me--if we had gone away--she would have broken her heart; asit is, she is ready to worship you for your goodness to me. ' 'You must take me to her by and by, ' returned Audrey gently; 'but now, Cyril, indeed we must go to my mother;' and this time he made noobjection. Mrs. Ross welcomed him very nicely. 'Audrey tells me that I am to have another son, ' she said softly, as sheheld out her hand to him. 'If you will only let me be one, ' he returned gratefully, as he carriedthe soft motherly hand to his lips. Audrey might be forgiven if she regarded Cyril's behaviour as perfect. As for Mrs. Ross, the tears started to her eyes at that act ofreverential homage. She told Audrey afterwards that she felt as thoughshe could have kissed him. 'What a pity you did not! I think Cyril would have liked it, ' wasAudrey's quiet answer. She heard her mother inviting him to dinner as she turned to thetea-table, for the afternoon was nearly over. 'We shall be just byourselves, Mr. Blake. ' 'Will you call me Cyril now?' he asked in almost a whisper, and a blushcame to Mrs. Ross's comely face. 'I will try and remember, ' she said, in the kindest possible voice; andthen he joined Audrey at the tea-table, and made himself very busy inwaiting on them both, and they were soon as easy and comfortable aspossible. 'Would you like my mother to come and see you to-morrow?' he askedpresently, when lamps had been brought in and the October twilight hadbeen excluded; 'that will be the correct thing, will it not, Mrs. Ross?' 'I suppose so, ' she assented; but Audrey, with her usual impulsiveness, interrupted her: 'Why should you not take me across now?' she said; 'I think it is sostupid thinking about etiquette. Your mother is older than I, and it isfor me to go to her. ' Audrey spoke with decision, and Cyril lookedenchanted. 'I did not like to propose it, ' he said delightedly; 'will you reallycome? May I take her, Mrs. Ross?' But Audrey did not wait for her mother's permission. She left the room, and returned presently in her hat and jacket. 'I am quite ready, ' she said, speaking from the threshold; but shesmiled as she said the words. Was she interrupting an interestingconversation? Cyril was on the couch beside her mother, and he wastalking eagerly. Perhaps, though Audrey did not know it, he was makingup for his previous self-restraint by pouring out some of his pent-upfeelings. 'You understand?' he said as he stood up, and Mrs. Ross beamed at him inanswer. 'Are you two having confidences already?' observed Audrey happily, asshe looked on at this little scene; and Cyril laughed as he followed herinto the hall. 'She is the sweetest woman in the world but one, ' he said, as they wentout together into the soft damp air; and Audrey, perhaps in gratitudefor these words, took his arm unasked as she walked with him through thedark village street. CHAPTER XXV MR. HARCOURT SPEAKS HIS MIND 'It is idle to _talk_ a young woman in love out of her passion. Love does not lie in the ear. '--HORACE WALPOLE. Mrs. Blake was expecting them--had been expecting them for hours; Audreycould see that in a moment. The October evenings were chilly, and mostpeople in Rutherford lighted a fire at sundown; so a clear little fireburnt in the drawing-room grate, and Mrs. Blake's favourite lamp withthe pink shade cast a rosy glow over the little tea-table. The cups wereranged in due order, and some hot cakes were on the brass trivet, butthe little tea-maker was not at her usual post. Only Mrs. Blake wasstanding alone in the middle of the room, and as Cyril led Audrey to hershe threw her arms round the girl with almost hysterical violence. 'Oh, my dear, dear, dearest girl!' she exclaimed, pressing her withconvulsive force; and Audrey felt a little embarrassed. 'I thought you would be looking for us, ' she said, releasing herselfgently; 'I asked Cyril to bring me--it seemed the right thing. ' 'No, dear, it was not the right thing, ' returned Mrs. Blake, almostsolemnly; 'it was for me to come to you. But all the same, I knew Cyrilwould bring you; my boy would remember his mother even in hishappiness. ' 'It was not my thought, ' began Cyril; but a very sweet look from Audreychecked him. 'What does it matter whose thought it was?' she said, in her direct way;'if I asked him to bring me, it was because I knew it was what hewished, though he did not like to ask me. Dear Mrs. Blake, was it likelythat I should stay away when we have always been such friends?' For a moment Mrs. Blake seemed unable to answer. Some curious emotionimpeded her utterance. She turned very pale and trembled visibly. 'And we shall be better friends than ever now, ' continued Audrey, takingher hand, for she felt very tender towards the beautiful woman who wasCyril's mother. 'I trust so, ' returned Mrs. Blake in a low voice; but there was amelancholy gleam in her large dark eyes. Then, with an effort to recoverher usual manner: 'Audrey, I hope you have forgiven me for troubling youso yesterday. You must not expect me to say I am sorry, or that I repenta word that I said then; but all the same, I was rather hard on you. ' 'You certainly made me very wretched. ' 'Yes, I felt I was very cruel; but one cannot measure one's words atsuch a moment. I felt as though my children and I were being driven outof our paradise. ' 'And you thought it was my fault?' but Audrey blushed a little as sheasked the question. 'Oh, hush!' and Mrs. Blake glanced at her son with pretended alarm; 'doyou know that in spite of all I had done for him, that ungrateful boyactually presumed to lecture me. He would have it that I had been cruelto you, and that no one but a woman would have taken such a meanadvantage; but all the time he looked so happy that I forgave him. "All's well that ends well. " That is what I told him. ' Cyril shook his head. Even in his happiness he had been unable torefrain from uttering his disapproval of his mother's tactics. Hisnature was almost as simple and transparent as Audrey's. It hurt him toremember how his mother had appealed to this girl's sense of compassion. 'Do not let us talk any more of it, ' he said quickly. 'I think Audreyhas a great deal to forgive; but you and I, mother, know hergenerosity. ' And the look that accompanied these words left Audrey silent for amoment. 'Where is Mollie?' she exclaimed presently, when, after a little moreconversation, Mrs. Blake insisted that she must have just one cup oftea. In vain Audrey protested that they had had tea already at Woodcote, that in another hour or so they would have to dine. Mrs. Blake could notbe induced to let them off. 'Where is Mollie?' she continued; 'may I go and look for her, Mrs. Blake?' But before Mrs. Blake could answer, Audrey had exchanged a glance withCyril and disappeared. She found Mollie in the dining-room; she was pacing up and down the roomwith a small black kitten in her arms, but the moment Audrey appearedthe kitten was discarded, and flung upon four trembling, sprawling legs, and Mollie sprang towards her, almost overwhelming her with her girlishvehemence. 'Oh, Miss Ross, my dear Miss Ross! is it really true? Cyril said so thismorning, but I could not believe him; I must hear it from your ownlips. ' 'Do you mean, is it true that I hope one day to become your sister? Ofcourse it is true, dear Mollie. ' 'Oh, I am so glad! I am more than glad; I have been crying with joy halfthe day. But is he good enough for you, Miss Ross?' gazing at her idolwith intense anxiety. 'I am very fond of Cyril--Kester and I think thereis no one like him--but it does not seem as though anyone were quitegood enough for you. ' 'Oh, Mollie, what nonsense! but I am not going to believe you; and whatdo you mean by calling me Miss Ross, you silly child? Don't I tell youwe are going to be sisters?' Mollie, who had been rubbing her cheeks against her friend in afondling, kittenish sort of way, started back in a moment. 'But I could not call you anything else, ' she returned, becoming crimsonwith shyness. 'You will always be Miss Ross to me--my Miss Ross, youknow; I could not think of you as anyone else. It would be such aliberty to call you by your Christian name. ' 'Well, never mind; it will come naturally by and by, ' returned Audreytranquilly. 'I shall know you are fond of me, whatever you choose tocall me; so you and Kester can do as you like. ' 'May I write and tell him?' pleaded Mollie. 'Oh, dear Miss Ross, do letme!' But Audrey was not inclined to give permission; she explained to Molliethat she meant to write herself to Captain Burnett, and that she thoughtCyril would send Kester a note. 'Better leave it to him, ' she suggested; 'you can write to himafterwards;' and as usual Mollie was docile. They went upstairs after this, Mollie picking up the kitten on the way. Cyril sprang to the door as he heard their footsteps. 'Have we been long?' Audrey asked, turning to him with a smile. Cyril hardly knew what he answered. For a moment a sense of giddinesscame over him, as though he were suddenly dazzled. 'Could it be reallytrue?' he asked himself more than once. Audrey did not seem to guess hisfeelings: she was perfectly tranquil and at her ease; she had laid asideher hat and jacket to please Mrs. Blake, and as she sat there sippingher tea and talking softly to them all, she looked so fair and girlishin her lover's sight, that the infatuated young man could not remove hiseyes from her. And yet Audrey was only in the old dark-red cashmere that wasGeraldine's pet aversion; but her brown hair had golden gleams in it, and the gray eyes were very bright and soft, and perhaps with thatchanging colour Audrey did look pretty; for youth and love are greatbeautifiers even of homely features. Audrey was sorry when Cyrilreminded her that it was time to go. She was loath to leave that littledrawing-room, so bright with lamplight and firelight. She went home anddressed for dinner in her white gown, feeling as though she were in someplacid dream. The rest of the evening passed very tranquilly. Dr. Ross asked for somemusic; he was not in the mood for conversation, so Audrey sang to themall her favourite songs, while Cyril stood beside her and turned overthe leaves. Now and then they could exchange a word or two. And just at the last she must needs sing 'Widow Miller, ' and as usualDr. Ross softly beat time and crooned an accompaniment: 'The sang o' the lark finds the widow asteer, The birr o' her wheel starts the night's dreamy ear, The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain, Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain. ' 'What a sad song, my darling! I should like to hear something morecheerful, ' whispered Cyril, as she finished. But she did not seem to hear him; she rose from her seat and crossed theroom to the corner where Dr. Ross was sitting. 'That is your favourite song, daddy, ' she said, leaning over him. And as he smiled and nodded, she sat down on the low chair beside himand looked thoughtfully into the fire. She roused herself presently to bid Cyril good-bye, and to linger amoment with him at the door in the starlight. 'I shall not see you until luncheon to-morrow, unless you pass thewindow, ' he said, with the egotism common to lovers. 'You will think ofme until then, will you not, dear?' 'Of course I shall think of you, ' returned Audrey, with her usualgentleness. But she seemed to wonder a little at the sudden passion with which Cyrilclasped her to him. 'Good-night, Cyril dear. I shall be very busy all the morning writingletters; but we can have the walk you propose after four. ' And then she went back to her seat and leant her cheek against herfather's arm, as she looked into the fire again. 'A penny for your thoughts, my child, ' observed Dr. Ross, when they hadboth been silent for a long time; 'though I suppose I need not ask. ' 'I was thinking of Michael, ' she returned guiltily. 'Dear old Michael!how I wish he could be happy, too!' And then she bade them bothgood-night and went up to her room, and, strange to say, her lastthought before she fell asleep was to wonder what Michael would say. The boys marvelled more than once the following morning at theirmaster's evident abstraction. In spite of his efforts to fix hisattention on Greek verbs and exercises, Cyril's eyes would turnperpetually to the window; but no slight girlish figure in dark-redcashmere appeared on the terrace to gather the yellow and white andviolet chrysanthemums that bloomed in the borders. Audrey was in her own private sanctum, and had given orders that no oneshould disturb her. Even Mollie was to be sent away. She had veryimportant business on her hands. There was her letter to Geraldine, anda very difficult one it was to write--so difficult, that more than onceAudrey thought that she would put on her hat and go up to Hillsideinstead; but she remembered that Gage was expecting visitors toluncheon. They would probably come early, and drive away before dusk;her letter must not be delivered before then. So she addressed herselfagain to her task. After all, it was a very sweet, womanly letter, and might have touchedany sister's heart. 'If you cannot conscientiously approve, you can at least wish me joy inthe life I have chosen for myself, ' she wrote. 'I have accepted Mr. Blake of my own free will, because I think he is worthy of my affection. You do not know him yet; but he is so good--so good: sometimes I thinkeven Michael is not more to be trusted. ' And so on. But, after all, it was far easier to write to Michael. Audrey had noneed to pick her words or arrange her ideas with him. She could tell himeverything as frankly as though he were her brother. There need be nolimit to her confidence; Michael would never misunderstand her. 'The one drawback is that you are still away, ' she finishedaffectionately. 'I shall not feel things are perfect until we have hadone of our long talks on "Michael's bench. " When are you coming home? Itwill soon be November, and the trees will be stripped of their leaves. Why do you trouble yourself about another man's business? No one wantsyou more than your devoted cousin and friend--AUDREY ROSS. ' And when this letter was in the post, and the note for Geraldine lyingon the marble slab in the hall, she felt a sense of relief, and hadleisure to think of Cyril. They had their walk together after afternoon school, but it soon grewdusk, and Audrey suggested that, as her mother was alone, they should goback to Woodcote to tea. There was no invitation to dinner that night, but Cyril did not expect it--he had his dormitory work; and as Audreypromised to see him before he went away for the night, he was quitecontent. 'You must not think that I mean to bore Mrs. Ross with intruding myselfon all occasions, ' he said. 'I know you will tell me when I may come. Imean to be guided entirely by you. Under these circumstances a man istempted to be selfish. ' 'You will never be selfish, ' she said, with one of her charming smiles. 'I could never have promised to marry a selfish man. But, Cyril, youwill be guided by me in that other thing?' changing her tone, andlooking at him very seriously; for they had had rather a hot argument. Cyril was going to Peterborough the next day to buy the betrothal ring, and Audrey had petitioned for a gold one. 'But it will only look like a wedding-guard, ' he had remonstrated; forhe would rather have denied himself everything for six months, if onlyhe could buy something fit for her acceptance--a pearl or sapphire ring, for example. Diamonds were beyond his means. But Audrey could not be induced to say that she liked pearls; on thecontrary, she manifested an extraordinary preference for the idea of abroad chased gold band, with her own and Cyril's initials inside. 'I am going to marry a poor man, ' she said decidedly, 'and he must notwaste his money on me. What does it matter if it look like a guard? Itcan serve that purpose afterwards. Please do not look so disappointed, Cyril. When you can afford it, you shall give me any ring youlike--pearl or diamond; but I like diamonds best. ' And she was soevidently in earnest that he had to yield to her; and Audrey wore hergold ring with immense satisfaction. Audrey spent her evening quietly with her parents. She and Dr. Rossplayed chess together, and when he went off to his study she stayed andtalked to her mother. Mrs. Ross was not a lively companion that evening. The fear ofGeraldine's disapproval was quickening her latent feelings of uneasinessinto activity, and she could not keep these feelings to herself. 'I wonder if Geraldine will answer your letter this evening, Audrey?' 'I don't think so, mother dear. I am to go there to-morrow, you see, sothere will be no need for her to write. ' 'I am afraid that she will be hurt because you have not gone to herto-day; she will think it rather odd for you to write. ' 'Why, mother, ' opening her eyes rather widely at this, 'don't youremember Mr. And Mrs. Bland were to lunch there? How could Gage havegiven me her attention? And then, with guests to entertain, it wouldnever have done to run the risk of upsetting her. Percival would haveglared at us all through luncheon if he had noticed her eyes were red. You know how easily Gage cries. ' 'Did you tell her this in your letter?' 'I think I implied it, but I am not sure. ' 'Ah, well, we must wait until to-morrow, ' with a sigh; 'but I cannotdeny I am very anxious. You will go up to Hillside directly afterbreakfast, will you not, my dear? And do beg Geraldine to come back withyou. I feel I shall not have a moment's peace until I have seen her. ' 'Poor dear mother!' observed Audrey caressingly; for there was a look ofcare on Mrs. Ross's brow. But though Audrey cheered up her mother, and made her little jokes, shewas quite aware of the ordeal that was before her, and it was with someundefined idea of propitiating her sister that she laid aside the redcashmere the next morning and put on a certain gray gown which Gageespecially admired. It had a hat to match, with a gray wing, andGeraldine always looked at her approvingly when she came to Hillside inthe gray gown. She was on the terrace, picking two or three yellowchrysanthemums, when she saw her brother-in-law coming towards her. Avisit from him at this hour was a most unusual proceeding, and Audrey atonce guessed that his business was with her. The idea of anyinterference from her brother-in-law was decidedly unpalatable;nevertheless, she awaited him smilingly. Mr. Harcourt was a man whowalked well. He had a fine carriage of the head, though some people saidhe held himself a little too erect, and too much with the air of a manwho recognises his own superiority; but, as Audrey watched him as hewalked up the terrace, she thought he had never held his head so proudlybefore. 'You are a very early visitor this morning, Percival, ' she observed, asshe arranged the chrysanthemums in her gray dress; and she looked up athim pleasantly as she shook hands with him. But there was no answering smile on Mr. Harcourt's face. 'It is a very unusual business that brings me, ' he replied rathersolemnly. 'Is there anyone in the drawing-room, Audrey? I should like tospeak to you quietly. ' 'Susan is in there, dusting the ornaments, but I can easily send heraway, ' rejoined Audrey cheerfully. 'Mother is in the study. ' And thenshe led the way to the drawing-room, and gave Susan a hint to withdraw. Mr. Harcourt waited until the door was shut, then he put down his hatand faced round on his sister-in-law. 'This is a very sad business, ' he said, still with the same portentousair of solemnity. 'I am sorry to say your sister is dreadfully upset. ' 'Oh, I hope not, ' returned Audrey quickly. 'I have never seen her more upset about anything. She hardly slept atall last night, and I was half afraid I should have to send for Dr. Musgrave this morning: she was not quite strong enough to bear such ashock. ' 'Gage is so sensitive, you see. ' 'She is not more sensitive than other people, ' feeling himself bound todefend his wife's nerves. 'I am not in the least surprised to find howmuch she has taken it to heart. I think she feels very properly aboutit. We are both as disappointed as possible--we hoped better things ofyou, Audrey. ' 'Is not that a little severe?' 'I think not. I am bound to tell you the truth plainly, that Geraldineand I strongly disapprove of this engagement. ' 'I am so sorry, ' returned Audrey, with provoking good-humour; 'but yousee, Percival, one must be guided by one's own feelings in such apersonal matter; and I hope when you and Gage know Mr. Blake a littlebetter that you will alter your opinion. ' 'I am afraid I must differ from you there, even at the risk ofdispleasing you. I must say that I think Mr. Blake is the last man tomake you happy. ' 'Now, what reason can you have for making such a sweeping assertion?'asked Audrey, waxing a little warm at this. Percival had no right tostand there lecturing her after this fashion; it was not in abrother-in-law's province to interfere with her choice of a lover. Ifher parents had given their sanction to her engagement, and allowed herto throw herself away on a poor man, it was surely no one else'sbusiness to say a dissenting word. Percival might go home and lecturehis own wife if he liked. 'It is a pity you and Gage are so worldly, 'she said, in what was meant to be a withering tone. Audrey had neverbeen so near quarrelling with her brother-in-law. 'Worldly?' he repeated, in rather a perplexed tone. 'My dear girl, Iconfess I do not understand you. ' 'It is very easy to understand, ' she returned coldly. 'You and Gageobject to Mr. Blake because he is poor and has not made his position;you think I am throwing myself away, because I have engaged myself to ajunior classical master who has to work his way up. ' 'Just so, ' observed Mr. Harcourt; 'that is exactly what we do think. ' 'And yet you are surprised because I call you worldly. If you only knewhow differently father and I think! Perhaps he is disappointedtoo--indeed, I know that he is; he wanted me to marry an older man--but, all the same, he agrees with me, that a man so honourable and clever, one who has borne so high a character, who is so good a son and brother, would be likely to make a woman happy. ' Mr. Harcourt shrugged his shoulders. They were arguing from differentpoints. Audrey was not likely to convince him: he had started with apreconceived dislike to the whole business. He now proceeded to pullAudrey's impulsive speech to pieces. 'I do not deny that Blake is a good fellow, and he is clever, too; butin marrying him you will be descending in the social scale. Who are theBlakes? No one knows anything about them--Edith always declared thefather was a City man--but we do know that his mother is distinctlyobjectionable!' 'Excuse me, Percival, but you are speaking of a close friend. Even ifshe were not Cyril's mother, my friendship for her should prevent youfrom speaking against her in my presence. ' Mr. Harcourt groaned as he heard the word 'Cyril, ' but he felt at thesame time that he had gone too far: his quick temper had carried himaway. He hastened to apologise. 'You must forgive me, Audrey, if I speak a little too plainly. But thisis such a bitter disappointment to me, my very affection for you makesme object all the more strongly to this engagement. As Geraldine said tome last night, she has only one sister--and this makes it all the harderfor her. ' 'Yes, I understand; and I am very sorry to disappoint you both. But, Percival, the thing is done now, and I want you and Gage to make thebest of it. ' 'Will you not reconsider your decision?' he asked, and there wassoftness and real affection in his look. 'Perhaps, after all, you mayhave mistaken your feelings; a girl is sometimes talked into a thing. ' But she shook her head. 'I have not mistaken them, ' she said quietly. 'Don't say any more, Percival; I have no wish to quarrel; and, of course, I am a little soreabout this. ' Then Mr. Harcourt felt that his mission had been unsuccessful; the girlwas contumacious, and would listen to no one. 'It's all Dr. Ross's fault, ' he said to himself, as he took up his hatand prepared to walk with her to Hillside. 'If he had refused hisconsent she would have given the thing up; but in worldly matters myrespected father-in-law is a mere child. ' CHAPTER XXVI HOW GERALDINE TOOK IT TO HEART 'This world is a comedy to those who think, a tragedy to those who feel. '--HORACE WALPOLE. It may be doubted if either Audrey or her brother-in-law enjoyed theirwalk to Hillside. Mr. Harcourt felt that he had failed signally in hisbrotherly mission, and any sort of failure was intolerable to him. To dohim justice, he was thinking only of Audrey's future welfare. As he tookup the wide clerical-looking hat that he affected, and walked with herdown the terrace, he told himself sorrowfully that he might as well haveheld his tongue; but, all the same, he could not refrain from speakinganother word or two. 'I do so wish I could make you see this thing as your friends will seeit!' he said, no longer laying down the law, but speaking in a tone ofmild insistence, as became a man who knew himself to be right. 'They maynot be so closely interested in the matter, but perhaps their view maybe less prejudiced. Think, my dear girl, what a serious, what a terriblething it would be if you were to discover too late that you had made amistake!' 'I should never own it to be one, ' she said, trying to smile; but itcould not be denied that she found her brother-in-law a littledepressing; 'and you may be quite sure that I should abide by it. Thereis a fund of obstinacy in my nature that no one seems to have discoveredbut myself. ' Then Mr. Harcourt gave vent to an impatient sigh. He must leave her toGeraldine, he thought; but even then he could not forbear from oneParthian thrust. 'You will live to repent it, ' he said very seriously, 'and then you willremember my warning. You must not look to me to help you out of yourdifficulties then, Audrey; I would have done anything for you now. ' 'I will promise you that I will not ask for your help, ' she returned, sopromptly that he looked quite hurt. And she hastened to soften herwords. 'If one makes a mistake of that kind, one must only look to one'sself. ' 'I have always regarded your interests as identical with Edith's, ' hereturned a little stiffly. 'I mean, I have always treated you as thoughyou were my own sister; but, of course, if you cannot rely on me as yourbrother----' But Audrey would not let him finish his sentence. 'Why, Percival, ' she said gently, 'I do believe you are quarrelling withme, just because I am taking you at your word. Are you not just a littleillogical for once? In one breath you tell me not to look to you forhelp, and then you reproach me with unsisterly feelings. How are we tounderstand each other at this rate?' Then a faint smile played round Mr. Harcourt's mouth. It was true that, in the heat of argument, he did not always measure his words; evenGeraldine had ventured to tell him so once. 'Well, well, we will say no more about it, ' he returned somewhatmagnanimously; and though he could not pluck up spirit to turn theconversation into another channel, he refrained from any more depressingremarks. He gave her a friendly nod and smile as they parted in thehall. 'You will find Geraldine in the morning-room, ' he said; and Audrey wasmuch relieved that he did not offer to accompany her. Mrs. Harcourt evidently regarded herself as an invalid that morning. Shewas sitting in the corner of the big couch, in her pale-pink tea-gown. She rose at her sister's entrance, however, and crossed the room withlanguid steps. 'Did Percival bring you?' she asked, as she kissed her. Audrey felt as though she were to blame when she saw Geraldine's heavyeyes. 'I am afraid you are far from well, Gage, ' she said a little anxiously, for, after all, Geraldine was her only sister, and if things should gowrong with her----. She felt a momentary compunction--one of those keen, pin-like pricks of conscience--as she remembered how often she had beenvexed with her little ways. Mrs. Harcourt looked at her mournfully. 'How can I be well?' she said, with reproachful sweetness in her voice. 'I do not think I had three hours' sleep last night. Percival got quiteconcerned about me at last. Oh, Audrey, you have made me so veryunhappy!' and her eyes filled with tears. 'My dear Gage, I would not willingly make you unhappy for worlds!' 'But, all the same, it has been such a shock--such a crueldisappointment to us both! Percival was nearly as upset about it as Iwas. If you could have seen him walking up and down the room last night!"She must be mad to throw herself away in this fashion!"--he would saynothing else for a long time. ' 'I am quite aware of Percival's sentiments, ' returned Audrey coldly. Her manner alarmed Geraldine. 'But you have not quarrelled with him fortelling you the truth?' she asked with unmistakable anxiety. 'Oh, Audrey, you do not know how fond Percival is of you! He is as proud ofyou as though you were his own sister. He has always looked forward toyour marriage. He used to say none of the men he knew were half goodenough for you; that you ought to have someone who would be in every wayyour superior, and to whom you could look up. ' 'Yes, and it is such a blessing that I can look up to Cyril. ' 'But he is so young; and though he is nice--yes, of course, he is verynice and good-looking and clever--still one wants more in a husband. Somehow I never realised these things until I was actually standing atthe altar with Percival and said those solemn words for myself: "Forbetter for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death us do part. " I felt then that if I had not been so sure ofPercival I would rather have died than have said those words. ' A faint shiver passed over Audrey as Geraldine spoke. She had neverheard her talk in this way before. 'Dear, dear Audrey, ' she continued, taking her sister's hand; 'can you wonder that I am anxious that youshould be as happy as I am, that it nearly breaks my heart to know thatyou are taking this false step?' A painful flush crossed Audrey's face. This was a worse ordeal than shehad expected. She had been prepared for reproaches, even for bitterwords; but this softness, this tearful and caressing gentleness, seemedto deprive her of all strength, to cut away the ground from under herfeet. She was at once touched and grateful for her sister's forbearance. 'You are very good to me, Gage, ' she said in a low voice; 'I know howutterly I have disappointed you and Percival--and from a worldly pointof view I daresay you are both right. Cyril is poor, he has to work hisway up, he is not what people would call a good match; but then, youknow, I have always been terribly unpractical. ' 'It is not only that, ' sighed Geraldine; 'as far as Mr. Blake isconcerned, one cannot say much against him; he is very gentlemanly. Isuppose one would get used to him, though I shall never, never think himgood enough for you. But there are other objections: the idea that Mrs. Blake will be your mother-in-law makes me utterly wretched. ' 'Poor woman! she is so nice, and I am so fond of her. I often wonder whyyou are so prejudiced against her, Gage; but of course it is all thattiresome Mrs. Bryce. ' 'No, indeed, it is not, ' returned Mrs. Harcourt quickly. 'I do not wantto vex you, Audrey; things are miserable enough without our quarrelling, and however unhappy you make me, I will never quarrel with my onlysister. But you must let me say this for once, that I cannot like Mrs. Blake. From the first moment I have distrusted her, and I know Percivalfeels the same. ' 'But, Gage, do be reasonable. I am going to marry Cyril, not Mrs. Blake!' 'When a woman marries she enters her husband's family, ' returnedGeraldine in her old decided manner; 'you will belong to them, not tous--at least, ' correcting herself, as the thought of her daily visits toWoodcote occurred to her, 'you will have to share your husband'sinterests and responsibilities with regard to his family. You cannotdivide yourself from him without failing in your wifely duty. ' 'I am quite of your opinion, ' returned Audrey happily; 'Cyril's motherand Kester and Mollie will be very dear to me. I never dreamt for onemoment of separating my interests from his. ' 'If I thought you really loved him----' observed Geraldine, but here shestopped, warned by an indignant flash in Audrey's gray eyes. 'You might have spared me that, Gage, ' she said, rather sadly; 'I thinkI have had enough to bear already from you and Percival. You have doneyour best to depress and dishearten me; you have not even wished mehappiness. ' Then Geraldine burst into tears. 'I don't want to be unkind, ' she sobbed, in such distress that Audreyrepented her quick words; 'but you must give me time to get over this. It is the first real trouble I have ever had. ' And then, as Audreykissed her and coaxed her, she allowed herself to be somewhat consoled. 'You know you must think of yourself, Gage; you must not make yourselfill about me. I am not worth it. ' Then Geraldine did summon up a smile. 'And you will be good to Cyril? The poor fellow could not help fallingin love with me, you know. ' 'Of course we shall behave properly to him, ' returned Geraldine, drawingherself up a little stiffly; 'you must not expect us to receive him withopen arms. Mr. Blake must know how entirely we disapprove of theengagement; but, of course, as my father has given his consent, we haveno right to make ourselves disagreeable. You must give me a little time, Audrey, just to recover myself, and then he shall be asked to dinner. ' 'I hope you will not ask me at the same time!' exclaimed Audrey ingenuine alarm; and Geraldine looked rather shocked. 'Of course you must come with him! that is understood. You will be askedeverywhere if--if----' looking at her suggestively, 'you mean yourengagement to be known. ' 'Most certainly! I object very strongly to secrecy under anycircumstances. ' 'Then in that case you must be prepared for congratulations and a roundof dinners. ' 'I prefer congratulations to condolences, ' returned Audrey a littlewickedly; and then, as though to atone for her joke, she suddenly kneltdown before her sister and put her arms round her. 'Dear Gage, I do feelsuch a wretch for having upset you like this. No wonder Percival owes mea grudge. Now, do say something nice to me before I go--there's adarling!' and, of course, Geraldine melted in a moment. 'I do pray, with all my heart, that you may be happy, ' she sighed, andthen they kissed each other very affectionately. 'Give my love tomother, and tell her I am not well enough to come to her to-day, ' wereGeraldine's parting words as Audrey left her. Mr. Harcourt came out of his study the moment he heard the door close. 'Well, ' he asked, with a shade of anxiety in his tone, 'have you madeany impression, my dear?' 'No, Percy, ' returned his wife sadly. 'She is bent on taking her ownway--the Blake influence is far too strong. ' 'Ah, well, ' in a tone of strong disgust, 'she is making her own bed, andmust lie on it. It was an evil day for all of us when your fatherengaged Blake for his junior classical master. I wanted him to haveSowerby--Sowerby is the better man, and all his people aregentlefolks--but there is no turning the Doctor when he has got an ideain his head: no one but Blake would do. And now mischief has come of it. But, all the same, I won't have you making yourself ill aboutit--remember that, my love. You have got me to think about, and I don'tchoose to have my wife spoiling her eyes after this fashion. It is toodamp for you to go out, for there has been a sharp shower or two; but Ihave half an hour to spare, and can read to you if you like. ' And tothis Geraldine gratefully assented. It may be doubted whether she heard much of the brilliant essay that Mr. Harcourt had selected for her delectation, but it was very soothing tolie there and listen to her husband's voice. The sentences grew involvedpresently, and there was a humming, as though of bees, in the quietroom. Mr. Harcourt smiled to himself as he went on reading--the sleepwould do her more good than the essay, he thought; and in this he wasright. When Mrs. Ross received her daughter's message she at once prepared togo up to Hillside, and spent the remainder of the afternoon there. Geraldine had awakened from her nap much refreshed, and was disposed totake a less lugubrious view of things. She was certainly somewhatdepressing at first, and her mother found her implied reproachessomewhat hard to bear; but she was still too languid and subdued tospeak with her usual decision. 'I suppose that we shall have to make the best of it, ' she observedpresently, in a resigned tone of voice. 'It will always be a greattrouble to me--but one must expect trouble in this world, as I said toPercy just now. I am afraid we have been too happy. ' 'Oh, my dear! you must not say such things. ' 'It is better to say them than to think them. Percy never minds how muchI complain to him, if I will only not brood over worries by myself. Hesays that it is so bad for me. ' 'Percival is quite right, my love;' and Mrs. Ross looked anxiously ather daughter's pale face. 'But you know your one duty is to keepyourself cheerful. Try and put all this away from your mind, and leaveAudrey to be happy in her own way. Mr. Blake is really a very nicelovable fellow, and I am quite fond of him already, and so is yourfather--and I am sure your father is a good judge of character. ' 'Yes, mother dear; and you must not think Percy and I mean to betiresome and disagreeable. It is not the young man so much that wemind--though we shall always think Audrey is lowering herself inmarrying him--but it is that odious Mrs. Blake. ' Then, for the moment, Mrs. Ross felt herself uncomfortable. Mrs. Blakehad called on her that very morning, while Audrey was at Hillside, andin spite of her mildness and toleration she had been obliged to confessto herself that Mrs. Blake's manners had not quite pleased her. Geraldine managed to extract the whole account of the interview, thoughMrs. Ross gave it rather reluctantly. 'And I suppose she was absurdly impulsive, as usual, mother?' she asked, when Mrs. Ross had finished a somewhat brief narrative. 'Well, yes. She is always rather effusive; people have their own style, you see. ' 'Only Mrs. Blake's is, unfortunately, a very bad style. ' 'I daresay you are right, my dear, and I certainly prefer a quietermanner; and it was not quite good taste lauding your father and me tothe skies for our goodness in allowing the match. Poor woman! I daresayshe was a little excited; only it was a pity to let her feelings carryher away--still, she was very nice about Audrey. ' 'She will be her daughter-in-law, you know. ' Then Mrs. Ross winced slightly. She was glad that Mrs. Charrington wasthat moment announced--she was a pleasant chatty woman, and always paidlong visits: Geraldine was her special favourite. As the news of theengagement had not yet reached her, the talk was confined to certainlocal interests: a new grant of books to the library, the difficulty offinding a butler, and the lameness of one of Dr. Ross's carriage-horses;and Mrs. Ross was in this manner relieved from any more awkwardquestions. Her husband was her only confidant, and to him she did disburdenherself. 'I do wish that Mrs. Blake were a different sort of woman, John, ' sheobserved that night. 'She is very handsome and amusing; but she iscertainly too unrestrained in her talk. ' 'We must take folk as we find them, Emmie, ' returned Dr. Ross quietly. 'Mrs. Blake is not your sort. In spite of having a grown-up son, she isnot quite grown-up herself: middle-aged people ought not to talk out alltheir feelings as though they were children. But she is a very pleasingperson for all that. ' 'So I always thought; but she tires one. Not that I would let Audreyknow that. ' 'Oh, Audrey would keep a dozen Mrs. Blakes in order, ' was her husband'sresponse; and then Mrs. Ross said no more. Geraldine kept her word, and about a week later Cyril Blake received acivil little note, asking him to dine at Hillside on the followingevening. 'We shall be quite by ourselves. It will be only a family party--just myhusband's brother, Mr. Walter Harcourt, and his wife;' for the WalterHarcourts had come on a visit. Cyril looked a little grave as he showed the note to Audrey. 'I suppose I must go; but it will be very terrible. I don't mind tellingyou, Audrey, that I am awfully afraid of your sister. ' 'Poor fellow!' returned Audrey, with one of her charming smiles; 'I wishI could spare you this ordeal. But I can give you one bit of comfort:Gage will behave very nicely to you. ' And though Cyril still felt alittle dubious on this point, he was obliged to own afterwards that shewas right. The evening was a far pleasanter one than he expected. Mr. Harcourt wasthawed by his brother's presence, and though there was a slightstiffness and reserve in his manner to Cyril, there was noaggressiveness; and Geraldine was too much of a gentlewoman to behaveungraciously to any guest. Both of them were quite civil to Cyril, though they could not be said to be demonstrative, and there was noattempt to treat him as one of themselves. Mr. Walter Harcourt was a barrister, and was rapidly rising in hisprofession. He was considerably younger than his brother, and hadrecently married a wealthy young widow. He was a clever talker, and hisstock of legal anecdotes kept them all well amused. He and Audrey wereold friends, and at one time Geraldine and her husband had privatelyhoped that their acquaintance might ripen into a tenderer feeling. As soon as the ladies reached the drawing-room, Mrs. Walter Harcourt, who was a pretty, vivacious little woman, observed confidentially toGeraldine: 'My dear, I must congratulate you. That future brother-in-law of yoursis one of the handsomest men I have ever seen. I always thought Walter agood-looking fellow, and I daresay you thought much the same ofPercival; but both our husbands looked very ordinary people beside him. In fact, Walter was quite clumsy. ' 'Nonsense, Maggie!' returned Geraldine, glancing behind her to see ifAudrey were within earshot. 'How can you make such absurd comparisons?Of course Mr. Blake is good-looking; but, for my own part, I alwaysdistrust handsome men. ' 'They are generally such fools, you see. I hate talking to a man who istoo self-engrossed to pay me attention. But Mr. Blake is thoroughlynice. I must go to Audrey and tell her how much I admire her _fiancé_. ' 'Thank goodness, that is over!' exclaimed Cyril fervently, as Audreyjoined him in the porch. 'I have not had a word with you yet. ' Audrey smiled as she gathered up her long dress and stepped out into thedark shrubberies. 'It was very pleasant, ' she observed tranquilly. 'The Walter Harcourtsare clever, amusing people. You got on capitally with both of them; and, Cyril, I am sure Gage was as nice as possible. ' 'Oh yes!' he returned quickly; 'and I admire her excessively; but, allthe same, I shall never feel at my ease with her. ' And, as Audreyuttered a protest at this, he continued seriously: 'Of course, I knowwhat Mrs. Harcourt thinks of my presumption; her manner told me that atonce. "You are not one of us"--that is what her tone said to me; and yetshe was quite kind and civil. Oh, Audrey'--interrupting himself, andspeaking almost passionately--'if I were only more worthy of you! Buthave patience with me, and your people shall respect me yet. ' 'Dear Cyril, please do not talk so!' and Audrey stole closer to him inthe October darkness. 'You have behaved so beautifully to-night, and Ifelt, oh! so proud of my sweetheart. And if I am content, what does itmatter what other people think?' 'Forgive me, darling, ' he returned remorsefully; 'I am only sometimes alittle sore because I can give you so little. ' And then his mood changed, for the subtle comfort of her sweet wordswas thrilling through him; for he was young, and the girl he worshippedfrom the depths of his honest heart was alone with him under the dim, cloudy skies. Was it any wonder that the world was forgotten, and onlythe golden haze of the future seemed before them, as they walkedtogether through the quiet streets to Woodcote? CHAPTER XXVII WHAT MICHAEL THOUGHT OF IT 'Not to be solitary one must possess, entirely to one's self, a human creature, and belong exclusively to her (or him). '--GUIZOT. 'How, then, is one to recover courage enough for action? * * * * * By extracting a richer experience out of our losses and lessons. '--AMIEL. Captain Burnett had finished his troublesome piece of business, and wasthinking of his return home. His friend was, metaphorically speaking, onhis feet again, and Michael was now free to leave London. He had waited, however, for another day or two on Kester's account; the friendly doctorwho had undertaken to look into his case had already done wonders. Kester was making rapid progress under his care, and his bright looksand evident enjoyment of his town life reconciled Michael to their long, protracted stay. 'We must certainly go back to Rutherford next week, ' he observed onemorning, as they sat at breakfast together. Kester had some appointment with Fred Somers that called him out early, and Captain Burnett good-naturedly left his letters unread, that hemight pour out the coffee and attend to his wants. 'They will keep, and I have nothing to do this morning, ' he remarkedcarelessly, as he took them up and laid them down again. After all, he would not be sorry to read them alone. There was an Indianletter, and one from Audrey, and several notes that were evidentlyinvitations. When Kester had left him, he sat down in an easy-chair by the window. There was a little table beside him, with a red jar full of brown leavesand chrysanthemums. He picked out one and played with it for a moment, and then Booty jumped up uninvited and curled himself up on his knee. He read the invitations first, and then threw them aside. 'I shall be at Rutherford, ' he thought; and then he opened his Indianletter. It was from a fellow-officer, and contained an amusing account of avisit he had lately paid to Calcutta. Just at the end it said: 'By thebye, somebody told me the other day that your uncle, Mr. Carlisle, wasill. He has got a nasty attack, and the doctors are shaking their headsover him. The fellow who told me--it was Donarton--mentioned that youwere likely to take a lively interest in the news. Is that true, oldman, or has Mr. Carlisle any nearer relative than yourself? From what Ihear, he is a sort of nabob in these parts. ' Captain Burnett put down this letter, and looked dreamily out of thewindow. Was it really so, he wondered? Major Glenyow was not the sort offellow to mention a mere report. His uncle was by no means an old man, and once or twice a rumour of his intended marriage had reached hisears, but it had never been verified. If it were true that his unclewere in a bad way, that he should not recover, then, indeed, there was apossibility. And here, in spite of himself, Michael fell into aday-dream. If he were rich, if he had sufficient to offer a comfortable home andsome of the luxuries of life to the woman he wished to make his wife, would it be right for him to speak? For years his poverty and ill-healthhad kept him silent; he had made no sign: he had been her faithfulfriend and cousin--that was all! But now, if the pressure of narrow means were removed, if, after all, hewere his uncle's heir--as he verily believed himself to be--might he notventure to plead his cause at last? His health was better, and hisdoctor had often told him, half seriously and half in joke, that all heneeded was a good wife to take care of him. 'I shall never be as strong as other men, ' he said to himself; 'somewomen might object to me on that score. But she is not that sort: sheloves to take care of people, to feel herself necessary to them. ' Andhere a smile came to his lips. 'I have never spoken to her, neverdropped a hint of my feelings; but, somehow, I do not think she would besurprised if I ever told them--we have been so much to each other. Ithink I could teach her to love me in time--at least, I would try, mysweet. ' And here there was a sudden gleam and fire in his eyes, and thenhe took up Audrey's letter, and began to read it. But when he had finished the first sentence, a curious dull feeling cameover him, and he found that he could not understand what he was reading;he must go over the passage again. But as he re-read it the samenumbness and impossibility of comprehension came over him; and yet thewords were very clearly written: 'Shall you be very much surprised, my dear Michael, to hear some news Ihave to tell you? I am engaged to Mr. Blake. I will tell you all aboutit presently, just as though you were my father-confessor; I will nothide one little thing from you. But I was never one to beat about thebush, and I hope my abruptness has not made you jump; but oh, Michaeldear, I am so happy!' etc. He read this sentence half a dozen times, until something of its meaninghad taken hold of his dense brain; and then he read the letter straightthrough to the very end, slowly, and often pausing over a sentence thatseemed to him a little involved. And as he read there was a pinched graylook upon his face, as though some sudden illness had seized him; but hewas not conscious of any active pain, though the whole plan and purposeof his life lay crushed in the dust before him, like the chrysanthemumthat Booty was tearing, petal by petal, until his master's coat-sleevewas covered with golden-brown shreds. On the contrary, as he sat there, holding the letter between his limp hands, his mind wandered off to astory he had once read. Was it the wreck of the _Royal George_, he wondered? The name of thevessel had escaped him, but he knew the story was a true one; it hadreally happened. He had read how the vessel was doomed. She was atroop-ship, and there were hundreds of brave English soldiers on board;and when they knew there was no hope, the officers drew up their men onthe deck, just as though they were on parade; and the gallant fellowsstood there, in rank and file, as they went down to their watery grave. 'And not a man of them flinched, you may depend on that, ' he said, halfaloud; 'for they were Englishmen, and Englishmen know how to die. ' And it seemed to him that he was still ruminating over this old storythat had happened so many, many years ago, when Kester returned, and hemust needs tell him the story again, and he told it very well, too. 'And not a man of them flinched, ' he repeated, rising a little feeblyfrom his chair, 'for they were Englishmen, and Englishmen know how todie. Why are you staring at me, boy? It is a good story, is it not?' 'Very good indeed, but I was only afraid you were not quite well, Captain Burnett; you look so queer, somehow, and your hand is shaking. ' 'I have sat too long. I think I must walk off my stiffness. Don't waitlunch for me, Kester. I may go to my club. ' And then he took down his hat, and went out in the streets, with Bootyambling along at his heels. But he did not go far; he strolled into the Park and sat down on abench. The air refreshed him, and the miserable numb feelings left him, and he had power to think. But there were deep lines in his face as he sat there, and a greatsadness in his eyes, and just before he rose to go home a few wordsescaped him. 'Oh, my darling, what a mistake, when you belong to me!Will you ever find it out for yourself? Will you ever recognise that itis a mistake?' And then he set his teeth hard, like a man who knows hisstrength and refuses to be beaten. And the next morning, as they sat at breakfast, Michael looked up fromhis newspaper and asked Kester if he had heard the Rutherford news. 'Perhaps your mother or Mollie has written to you?' he observed, as hecarelessly scanned the columns. Kester looked up a little anxiously. 'No one has told me anything, ' he said, rather nervously. 'I hope it isnot bad news. ' 'Most people would call it good news. Your brother and Miss Ross areengaged. Well'--as Kester jumped from his seat flushing scarlet--'aren'tyou delighted? I think you ought to write a pretty note to Miss Ross togo with my letter. ' 'Have you written to her? Will you give her a message from me? I wouldrather write to Cyril. I don't take it in, somehow; you are quite sureit is true, Captain Burnett? Of course, I am glad that Cyril should behappy, but I always thought----' And here Kester stammered and got confused; but Michael did not helphim. He took up his paper again, and left him to finish his breakfast insilence, and after that he remarked that he was going down to his club. Kester curled himself up on the window-seat as soon as he was leftalone, and fell into a brown study. Somehow he could not make it out atall. He was sharp-witted by nature, and years of suffering and forcedinaction had made him more thoughtful than most boys of his age. He hadlong ago grasped the idea that his idolised hero was not happy, andduring their stay in Scotland some dim surmise of the truth had occurredto him. 'Dear old Cyril!' he observed, half aloud; 'I am awfully glad for hissake; but it always seemed to me as though Miss Ross were a cut aboveus. If only I were sure that he was glad, too. ' And here a troubled look crossed the boy's face; he was thinking of thestory Captain Burnett had told him yesterday, and of the strange dazedlook in Michael's eyes: 'And not a man of them flinched; for they wereEnglishmen, and Englishmen know how to die. ' 'Ah, and to live, too!'thought Kester, as he roused himself at last and sat down to his Greek. When Audrey heard that Michael was really coming home, she felt asthough she had nothing more to wish. She had read his letter at least adozen times; its brotherly tenderness and anxiety for her welfare hadtouched her to the heart. 'I am very grateful for your confidence, ' he wrote, after a few earnestwishes for her happiness. 'I would like, if it were possible, to keep myold place as Mentor--we have always been such friends, dear, such trueand trusty comrades; and I do not think that Mr. Blake will object to mycousinly surveillance. I could not afford to lose you out of my life, Audrey; so let me subscribe myself, now and for ever, your faithfulfriend and brother--MICHAEL. ' Audrey sighed gently as she put down the letter; it touched, but it didnot completely satisfy her. Michael had not said he was glad to hear ofher engagement. He was truthful almost to a fault. The conventionalfalsehoods that other men uttered were never on his lips. If he couldnot approve, he would take refuge in silence. 'Silence never damages aman's character, ' he was fond of saying; but many people found thisoppressive. Audrey had secretly longed for some such word of approval. If Michael had only told her that he applauded her courage in marrying apoor man, if he had praised her unworldliness, she would have beenutterly content; but the letter that Michael had written with a breakingheart held no such comfort for her. He had accepted her decision withouta word, and though his message of congratulation to Cyril was all thatcould be wished, there was no further allusion to him. 'Michael thinks I have been rash, ' she said to herself a littlesorrowfully. 'I suppose he, too, considers that Cyril is rather tooyoung. If Michael were only on our side, I should not care what the restof the world thinks;' and then she folded up the letter. But on the day Michael was expected her face was so radiant that Cyrilpretended to be jealous. 'You are very fond of your cousin, ' he observedas he followed her to the window, where she was watching the clouds alittle anxiously. Audrey heard him rather absently. She was thinking that the dampnessmight bring on Michael's neuralgia, and that, if he had only named histrain, the carriage might have been sent for him--indeed, she would havedriven out herself to meet him and Kester. 'Oh yes, ' she rejoined; 'Ihave missed him terribly all this time. Nothing is right withoutMichael----' and as Cyril looked a little surprised at this, she addedquickly: 'He is like my own brother, Cyril, so it is perfectly natural, you see; ever since his illness he has been one of us. ' And as Cyrilprofessed himself satisfied with this explanation, there was nothingmore said, and Audrey went up to put the finishing touches to Michael'srooms, and to arrange the chrysanthemums and coloured leaves in the bigIndian jars. If she had only known how Michael would shudder at thesight of these chrysanthemums! He had taken a dislike to the flowersever since Booty had covered his coat-sleeve with golden-brown petals. After all, Michael came before he was expected. Audrey was sittingchatting to her mother in the twilight, when they heard the hall dooropen and close, and the next moment they saw Michael standing on thethreshold looking at them. 'My dear Michael!' exclaimed Mrs. Ross; but Audrey had already crossedthe room: both her hands were in Michael's, and he was looking at herwith his old kind smile, though he did not say a word; but Audrey didnot seem to notice his silence. 'Have you walked from the Gray Cottage? We did not hear any wheels. Whydid you not let us know your train, and I would have driven in to meetyou? Mother, I am going to ring for the lamp and tea; Michael will betired!' And Audrey did as she said, and then picked up Booty andlavished all sorts of caresses on the little animal, while she listenedto the quiet explanations that Michael was giving to Mrs. Ross. 'You are looking very well, Audrey, ' he said at last; 'you have not lostyour moorland colour yet. ' And though he said this in his usual tone, he thought that never in his life had he seen her look so sweet. 'I wish I could return the compliment, ' was her answer; 'you are lookingthin and pale, Michael. You have been giving us such a good account ofyourself, but London never suits you. ' 'I think it suits me better than it did, ' he returned quietly; but hecould not quite meet her affectionate look. 'I shall have to run upthere pretty frequently now; one must look up one's friends more: out ofsight is out of mind in many cases. ' Audrey gave an incredulous smile. She thought Michael would not act upto this resolution; but he fully meant what he said. Woodcote, dearly ashe loved it, would never be his home now. Of course, he would do thingsby degrees: his brief absences should grow longer and more frequent, until they had become used to them; and perhaps in time he might breakwith his old life altogether. But he put away these thoughts, and talkedto them in his usual easy fashion, asking questions about Geraldine andher husband; and presently Dr. Ross came in and monopolised himentirely. Audrey felt as though she had not had a word with him when she wentupstairs to dress for dinner. True, he had asked after Cyril, andinquired if he were coming in that evening; but on Audrey's replying inthe negative he had made no observation. 'When father is in the room he never will let Michael talk to anyoneelse, ' she said to herself rather discontentedly; 'if I could only gethim alone!' She had her wish presently, for on her return to the drawing-room shefound him lying back in an easy-chair, looking at the fire. He wasevidently thinking intently, for he did not hear her entrance until shewas close beside him; but at the touch of her hand on his shoulder hestarted violently. 'A penny for your thoughts, Michael, ' she said gaily, as he jumped upand stood beside her on the rug. 'They are too valuable to be saleable, ' he returned lightly; 'supposeyou let me hear yours instead. ' 'You shall have them and welcome. Oh, Michael, how delicious it is to betalking to you again; letters are so stupid and unsatisfactory!' 'Do you mean my letters in particular?' 'Oh no! They were as nice as possible; but, all the same, they did notquite satisfy me. Do you know, ' and here her tone was a little wistful, 'you have not told me that you are glad about my engagement? You said somany nice things; but somehow I was longing for just one word ofapproval from my old Mentor. ' An uneasy flush crossed Michael's face; but the firelight was flickeringjust then, and Audrey could not see him distinctly. For one moment hewas silent; then he put her gently in a seat and placed himself besideher. It would be easier to talk to her so, and perhaps he was consciousof some sudden weakness. 'How cold your hands are!' she observed anxiously; 'if you will breakthe big coal the fire will burn more brightly. ' And as he obeyed her shecontinued: 'Ah, now we can see each other! I do dislike a flickering, uncertain light. Now, will you tell me frankly if you were glad or sorrywhen you got my letter?' He was more prepared now, and his voice was quite steady as he answeredher. 'Mentor has no objection to be catechised, but he wishes to put onequestion first. Are you quite content and happy, Audrey?' 'Indeed I am!' turning to him one of the brightest faces he had everseen. 'Then, my dear, I am satisfied, too. ' 'Oh, but that will not do! You must tell me your own private opinion. Iknow you like Cyril--you have always spoken well of him; but are yousure that in your heart you thoroughly approve my choice?' She was pressing him close, but he did not flinch; he only turned to herrather gravely. 'My dear Audrey, there are limits even to Mentor's privileges. When twopeople make up their minds to take each other for better, for worse, nothird person has a right to give an opinion. I know little of Mr. Blake, but I have already a respect for him. I am perfectly sure that in timewe shall be good friends. ' 'I hope so--I hope so from my heart!' she returned earnestly. 'You arevery guarded, Michael; and, though you are too kind to say so, I knowyou think I have acted rather hastily. Perhaps you would rather I hadwaited a little longer; but Cyril was so unhappy, and I--well, I was notquite comfortable myself. It is so much nicer to have it all settled. ' 'Yes, I see. ' 'And now everything is just perfect. Oh, Michael, you must not go awayfor a long time! I cannot do without you. ' 'I hope you don't expect me to believe that?' 'But it is perfectly true, I assure you. Actually, Cyril pretended to bejealous to-day, because I could think of nothing but your coming home. He was only teasing me; for of course he understands what we feel foreach other. If you were my own brother, Michael, I could not want youmore. But that is the best of Cyril; he is really so unselfish--almostas unselfish as you. ' 'My dear child, ' returned Michael lazily, 'did you ever hear of acertain philosopher named Diogenes, and how he set off one day, lamp inhand, to search through the city for an honest man? Really, your remarkmakes me inclined to light my own private farthing dip, and look forthis curious anomaly, an unselfish man. ' 'You would not have to go far, ' she returned innocently. 'There are twoof them in Rutherford at the present moment. ' But he only shook his head and laughed at this guileless flattery, andat that moment, to his relief, Dr. Ross came into the room. But as he took his place at the dinner-table he had a curious sensation, as though he had been racked; and, though he laughed and talked, he hadan odd feeling all the time as though he were not quite sure of his ownidentity; and all that evening a few words that Audrey had said hauntedhim like a refrain: 'If you were my own brother, Michael, I could not want you more--if youwere my own brother I could not want you more!' CHAPTER XXVIII MICHAEL TURNS OVER A NEW LEAF 'My privilege is to be the spectator of my own life-drama, to be fully conscious of the tragi-comedy of my own destiny; and, more than that, to be in the secret of the tragi-comic itself. * * * * * 'Without grief, which is the string of this venturesome kite, man would soar too quickly and too high, and the chosen souls would be lost for the race, like balloons, which, but for gravitation, would never return from the empyrean. '--AMIEL. Michael's return had greatly added to Audrey's happiness. In spite ofher lover's society and her natural joyousness of disposition, she hadbeen conscious that something had been lacking to her completecontentment. 'No one but Michael could take Michael's place, ' as she told him alittle pathetically that first evening. But when a few days had elapsed she became aware that things were notquite the same between them--that the Michael who had come back to herwas not exactly the old Michael. The old Michael had been somewhat of an autocrat--a good-naturedautocrat, certainly, who tyrannised over her for her own good, and whoassumed the brotherly right of inquiring into all her movements andsmall daily plans. They had always been much together, especially sinceGeraldine's marriage had deprived her of sisterly companionship; and ithad been an understood thing in the Ross family that where Audrey was, Michael was generally not far off. Under these circumstances, it was therefore quite natural that Audreyshould expect her cousin to resume his usual habits. She had counted onhis companionship during the hours Cyril was engaged in his schoolroomduties. In old times Michael had often accompanied her on her visits toher various _protégées_; he had always been her escort to thegarden-parties that were greatly in vogue at Rutherford, or he woulddrive her to Brail or some of the outlying towns or villages where shehad business. It was somewhat of a disappointment, then, to find that Michael hadsuddenly turned over a new leaf, and was far too occupied to be at herbeck and call. Kester came to him almost daily, and it became his customto spend the remainder of the morning in Dr. Ross's study. He had ahabit, too, of writing his letters after luncheon; in fact, he wasseldom disengaged until the evening, when he was always ready to takehis place in the family circle. Audrey accused herself of selfishness. Of course she ought to be gladthat Michael's health had so much improved. Her father was alwaysremarking on the change in a tone of satisfaction. 'He is like the old Mike, ' he said once; 'he has taken a new departure, and has shaken off his listlessness. Why, he works quite steadily nowfor hours without knocking up. He is a different man. He takes a classfor me every morning; it does me good to see him with half a dozen boysround him. Blake will have to look out for himself; he is hardly aspopular as the Captain. ' Audrey took herself to task severely when her father said this. It wasevident that Michael had spoilt her. She was determined not tomonopolise him so selfishly; but, somehow, when it came to the point, she was always forgetting these good resolutions. And another thing puzzled Audrey: Michael was certainly quieter than heused to be; when they were alone--which was a rare occurrence now--heseemed to have so little to say to her. Sometimes he would take up hisbook and read out a few passages, but if she begged him to put it downand talk to her instead, he would dispute the point in the most tiresomefashion. 'I think people talk too much, nowadays, ' he would say in his lazy way;'it is all lip-service now. If women would only cultivate their minds alittle more, and learn to hold their tongues until they have somethingworth saying, the world would not be flooded with all this muddysmall-talk. Now, for example, if you would allow me to read you thisfine passage from Emerson. ' But if Audrey would allow nothing of the kind, and if, on the contrary, she manifested an obstinate determination to talk, he would argue withher in the same playful fashion; but she could never draw him into oneof their old confidential talks. But when they were all together of an evening, Michael would be morelike his old self. He would sit beside the piano when she sang, and turnover the leaves for her, or he would coax her to be his partner in agame of whist, and lecture her in his old fashion; but all the time hewould be looking at her so kindly that his lectures never troubled herin the least. But when Cyril spent the evening at Woodcote, which was generally onceor twice a week, Michael never seemed to think that they wanted him: hewould bury himself in his book or paper, or challenge Dr. Ross to a gameof chess. He never took any notice of Audrey's appealing looks, and herkindly attempts to draw him into conversation with her and Cyril wereall disregarded. Audrey bore this for some time, and then she made up her mind that shemust speak to him. She was a little shy of approaching thesubject--Michael never seemed to give her any opening now--but she feltshe must have it out with him. One evening, when she and Cyril had exchanged their parting words in thehall, she went back to the drawing-room and found Michael standing alonebefore the fire. She went up to him at once, but as he turned to her shewas struck with his air of weariness and depression. 'Oh, Michael, how tired you look!' she observed, laying her hand on hisarm. 'Have you neuralgia again?' And as he shook his head, she continuedanxiously: 'Are you sure you are quite well--that nothing is troublingyou? You have been so very quiet this evening. Michael'--and here sheblushed a little--'I want to say something to you, and yet I hardly knowhow to put it--it is just like your thoughtfulness--but, indeed, thereis no need: you are never in the way. ' 'Is this an enigma? If so, I may as well tell you I give it up at once. I never could guess conundrums;' and Michael twirled his moustache in amost provoking way; but, all the same, he perfectly understood her. 'Igive it up, ' he repeated. Audrey pretended to frown. 'Michael, I never knew you so tiresome before. It is impossible to speakseriously to you--and I really am serious. ' And then her tone changed, and she looked at him very gently. 'You mean it so kindly, but indeed itis not necessary. Neither Cyril nor I could ever find you in the way. ' He looked down at the rug as she spoke, and there was a moment'ssilence before he answered her. She had come straight to him from herlover to say this thing to him. It was so like Audrey to tell him this. An odd thought occurred to him as he listened to her--one of thosesudden flashes of memory that sometimes dart across the mind: heremembered that once in his life he had kissed her. It had been half a lifetime ago. She was only a child. They were stayingin London, and he had come to see them on his way from some review. Heremembered how Audrey had stood and looked at him. She had the sameclear gray eyes then. 'How grand you look, Mike!' she exclaimed in an awestruck tone, for as achild she had always called him 'Mike. ' 'I wish you would always wearthat beautiful scarlet coat; and I think, if you did not mind, I shouldlike you to kiss me just for once. ' Michael remembered how he had felt as she made that innocent request, and how Dr. Ross had laughed; and then, when he kissed her cheek, shethanked him quite gravely, and slipped back to her father. 'Why don't you ask for a kiss, too, Gage?' Dr. Ross observed in a jokingway. But Geraldine had looked quite shocked at the idea. 'No, thank you, father; I never kiss soldiers, ' she replieddiscreetly--at which reply there had been a fresh laugh. 'He may be a soldier, but Mike's Mike, and I wanted to kiss him, 'returned Audrey stoutly. 'Why do you laugh, daddy?--little girls maykiss anybody. ' Had he cared for her ever since then, he wondered; and then he pulledhimself up with a sort of start. 'Michael, why do you not answer me?' 'Because I was thinking, ' he returned quietly. 'Audrey, do you know youare just as much a child as you were a dozen years ago? Does it everoccur to you, my dear, that Blake might not always endorse your opinion?Stop, ' as she was about to speak; 'we all know what a kind-heartedperson our Lady Bountiful is, and how she never thinks of herself atall. But I have a sort of fellow-feeling with Blake, and I quiteunderstand his view of the case--that two is company and three arenone. ' 'But, Michael, ' and here Audrey blushed again, most becomingly, 'indeedCyril is not so ridiculous. I know what people generally think: thatengaged couples like to be left to themselves--and I daresay it ispleasant sometimes--but I don't see why they are to be selfish. Cyrilhas plenty of opportunities for talking to me; but when he comes of anevening there is no need for you to turn hermit. ' 'It is a character I prefer. All old bachelors develop this sort oftendency to isolate themselves at times from their fellow-creatures. Tobe sure, I am naturally gregarious; but, then, I hate to spoil sport. "Do as you would be done by"--that is the Burnett motto. So, by yourfavour, I intend Blake to have his own way. ' 'Oh, how silly you must think us!' she returned impatiently. 'I wish youwould not be so self-opinionative, Michael; for you are wrong--quitewrong. I should be far happier if you would make one of us, as you do onother evenings. ' 'And this is the _rôle_ you have selected for me, ' replied Michaelmournfully: 'to play gooseberry in my old age, and get myself hated formy pains. No, my dear child; listen to the words of wisdom: leave Mentorto enjoy a surreptitious nap in his arm-chair, and be content with yourBlake audience. ' And, in spite of all her coaxing and argument, shecould not induce him to promise that he would mend his ways. 'You are incorrigible!' she said, as she bade him good-night. 'Afterall, Cyril gives me my own way far more than you do. ' But Michael seemed quite impervious to this reproach: the smile wasstill on his face as she left him; but as the door closed his elbowdropped heavily on the mantelpiece, and a sombre look came into the keenblue eyes. 'Shall I have to give it up and go away?' he said to himself. 'Life isnot worth living at this price. Oh, my darling! my innocent darling! whydo you not leave me in peace? why do you tempt me with your sweet looksand words to be false to my own sense of honour? But I will not yield--Idare not, for all our sakes. If she will not let me take my own way, Imust just throw it all up and go abroad. God bless her! I know she meanswhat she says, and Mike is Mike still. ' And then he groaned, and hishead dropped on his arms, and the tide of desolation swept over him. Hewas still young--in the prime of life--and yet what good was his life tohim? Audrey was a healthy-minded young person; she was not given tointrospection. She never took herself to pieces, in a morbid way, toexamine the inner workings of her own mind, after the manner of somefolk, who regulate themselves in a bungling fashion, and windthemselves up afresh daily; and who would even time their ownheart-beats if it were possible. Audrey was not one of these scrupulous self-critics. She would haveconsidered it waste of time to be always weighing herself and herfeelings in a nicely-adjusted balance. 'Know thyself, ' said an oldthinker; but Audrey Ross would have altered the saying: 'Look out ofyourself; self-forgetfulness is better than any amount ofself-knowledge. ' Nevertheless, Audrey was a little thoughtful after this conversationwith Michael, and during the next few weeks she was conscious of feelingvaguely dissatisfied with herself. Now and then she wondered if she weredifferent from other girls, and if her absence of moods, and herconstant serenity and gaiety, were not signs of a phlegmatictemperament. She was perfectly content with her own position. She had never imaginedbefore how pleasant it would be to be engaged, and to have one humanbeing entirely devoted to her. She was very much attached to her_fiancé_. He never disappointed her; on the contrary, she discoveredevery day some new and admirable trait that excited her admiration, andas a lover he was simply perfect. He never made her uneasy by demandingmore than she felt inclined to give; at the same time, it deepened hersense of security and restfulness to feel how completely he understoodher. But now and then she would ask herself if her love for Cyril were allthat it ought to be. She began to compare herself with others--withGeraldine, for example. She remembered the months of Geraldine'sengagement, and how entirely she and Percival had been absorbed in eachother. Geraldine had never seemed to have eyes or ears for anyone buther lover, and in his absence she had hardly seemed like herself at all. She had been obliged to pay a few weeks' visit to some friends inScotland, and Audrey had accompanied her, and she remembered how, whentheir visit was half over, she had jestingly observed that she wouldnever be engaged to anyone if she were compelled to lose her ownidentity. 'For you know you are not the same person, Gage, ' she hadsaid; 'instead of taking pleasure in our friends' society, you shutyourself up and write endless letters to Percival; and when we drive outor go in the boat, you never seem to see the beautiful scenery, and themountains and the loch might be in the clouds; and when anyone asks youa question, you seem to answer it from a distance, and everyone knowsthat your thoughts are at Rutherford. ' And though Geraldine had chosento be offended at this plain speaking, she had not been able to defendherself. And then, had not Audrey once found her crying in her room, andfor a long time she had refused to be comforted? Audrey had been muchalarmed, for she thought something must be wrong at Woodcote; but it wasonly that Percival had a headache and seemed so dull without her. 'Hesays he really cannot bear the place without me, that he thinks he mustgo to Edith--and, and, I want to go home dreadfully, ' finished Geraldinetearfully; 'I don't think engaged people ought to leave each other, andI know Percival thinks so too. ' Audrey remembered this little episode when during the Christmas holidaysCyril was obliged to go up to town for ten days. She missed himexcessively, and wrote him charming little letters every day; but, nevertheless, the time did not hang heavily on her hands. But she wasglad when the day of his return arrived, and she went down to the GrayCottage to welcome him. Mrs. Blake had suggested it as a littlesurprise, and Audrey had agreed at once. Cyril's delight at seeing heralmost deprived him of good manners. He knew his _fiancée_ objected toany sort of demonstration before people; and he only just rememberedthis in time, as Audrey drew back with a heightened colour. But he made up for it afterwards when Mrs. Blake left them alone, andAudrey was almost overwhelmed by his vehement expressions of joy atfinding himself with her again. 'It has been the longest ten days I have ever spent in my life, ' heobserved; 'I was horribly bored, and as homesick as possible. I amafraid Norton found me very poor company. If it had not been for yourletters, I could not have borne it. You shall never send me away again, dearest. ' 'But that is nonsense, ' she returned, in her sensible way; 'you cannotstop at Rutherford all the year round, and it will not do for you tolose your friends. I shall have to pay visits myself; and I am afraid Ishall not always ask your leave if any very tempting invitations come. ' 'You will not need to do so, ' he answered quietly; 'do you think Ishould begrudge you any pleasure? I have no wish, even if I had theright, to curtail your freedom. I am not so selfish. ' 'You are never selfish, ' she returned softly. 'Cyril dear, I suppose Iought to be pleased that you feel like this; but, do you know, I am justa little sorry. ' 'Sorry!' and indeed he could hardly believe his ears, for was he notpaying her a pretty compliment? 'Yes; it makes me rather uncomfortable. It seems to me as though I oughtto feel the same, as though there were something wanting in me. Isometimes fancy I am different from other girls. ' 'Do not compare yourself with other people, ' he returned quickly, for hecould not bear her to look troubled for a moment. This mood was new tohim, and he had never seen a shade on her bright face before. 'You havea calm temperament--that is your great charm--you are not subject to thecold and hot fits of ordinary mortals. It is my own fault that I cannotbe happy without you; but I do not expect you to share my restlessness. ' 'Ah, that is right, ' she replied, very much relieved by this. 'You arealways so nice at understanding things, Cyril. Do you know, I wasblaming myself for feeling so comfortable in your absence. But I was sobusy--I had so many things to interest me; and, then, I had Michael. ' The young man flushed slightly, but he had learnt to repress himself: heknew, far better than she did, that his love was infinitely greater thanhers. But what of that? She was a woman made to be worshipped. It nevertroubled him when she talked of Michael--Cyril's nature was too noblefor jealousy--but just for the moment her frankness jarred on him. 'I think I was nearly as happy as usual, ' she went on, determined totell the truth; 'and yet, by your own account, you were perfectlymiserable. ' 'But that was my own fault, ' he returned lightly. 'Men are unreasonablecreatures; they are not patient like women. It is true that I have nolife apart from you now, and that I always want to be near you; but I donot expect you to feel the same. ' Audrey looked at him thoughtfully; he gave her so much, and yet heseemed to demand so little. 'You are very good to me, Cyril, ' she said, in a low voice. 'I neverthought you would understand me so thoroughly. You leave me so free, andyou make me so happy. I wonder where you have learnt to be so wise. ' 'My love for you has taught me many things, ' he answered. 'Do I reallymake you happy, sweetheart?' But the look in her eyes was sufficient answer. This was his reward--tosee her perfect content and trust in him, and to bask in her sweet looksand smiles. CHAPTER XXIX TWO FAMILY EVENTS 'A solemn thing it is to me To look upon a babe that sleeps, Wearing in its spirit deeps The undeveloped mystery Of our Adam's taint and woe; Which, when they developed be, Will not let it slumber so. ' MRS. BROWNING. One morning, as the Ross family were sitting at breakfast, Audreynoticed that Michael seemed very much absorbed by a letter he wasreading. He laid it down presently, but made no remark, only he seemed alittle grave and absent during the remainder of the meal. Just as they were rising from table, she heard him ask her father inrather a low tone if he would come into the study for a moment, as hewanted a few words with him; and as they went out together he mentionedthe word dogcart--could he have it in time to catch the 11. 15 train? Audrey felt a sudden quickening of curiosity. Michael's manner was sopeculiar that she was sure something must have happened. She wonderedwhat this sudden summons to town meant. It was a bitterly cold day, anda light fall of snow had whitened the ground. A three miles' drive in adogcart was not a very agreeable proceeding, only Michael seemed sostrangely callous to weather now. Surely her father would insist on hishaving a fly from the town? He was always so careful of Michael'scomfort. Audrey could settle to nothing; it was impossible to practise or answernotes until she had had a word with Michael. So she took up the paperand pretended to read it, until the study door opened and she heard hercousin go up to his room. The next moment Dr. Ross walked in, lookingas though he were very much pleased. 'Mike's a droll fellow, ' he said, addressing his wife, who was lookingover the tradesmen's books. 'He has just told me, with a very long face, that his uncle, Mr. Carlisle, is dead, and that he has left him all hismoney; and he is as lugubrious over it as though he had been madebankrupt. ' Audrey uttered an exclamation, but Mrs. Ross said, in her quiet way: 'Perhaps he is grieved at the loss of his uncle, John. It would hardlybe becoming to rejoice openly at the death of a relative, however richhe might be. ' 'I am afraid many men would if they were in Mike's shoes. Why, they sayMr. Carlisle was worth six or seven thousand a year--most of it solidcapital, and locked up in safe securities and investments. He was alwaysa canny Scotsman, and liked to take care of his money. And here is Mikepretending not to care a jot about it, and looking as though he had thecares of all the world on his shoulders. ' 'I think he shows very good feeling. Michael was never mercenary, andthe loss of his only near relative would make him dull for a time. ' 'My dear Emmie, that is very pretty sentiment; but, unfortunately, itdoes not hold good in this case. Mike has never seen his uncle since hewas a lad of eighteen--that is about seventeen years ago--and he hasoften owned to me that Mr. Carlisle was very close in his moneydealings. "It is a pity there is no sympathy between us, " he said once. "Uncle Andrew does not seem to have a thought beyond his money-grubbing. He is a decent sort of old fellow, I believe, and I daresay he will endby marrying some pretty girl or other, and then he will be properlymiserable all the rest of his life. " That does not sound much like anaffectionate nephew. ' 'Oh, he never cared for him!' interposed Audrey; 'Michael and I haveoften talked about him. It seems so strange that he should leave him hismoney, when he took so little notice of him all these years. ' 'Well, he was not a demonstrative man, ' returned her father; 'but in hisway he seemed both fond and proud of Mike. I remember when he got theVictoria Cross, and was lying between life and death, poor lad! that Mr. Carlisle wrote very kindly and enclosed a cheque for two hundred pounds. I had to answer the letter for him, and I remember when he got better, and first came down here, that I recommended him to keep up a friendlyintercourse with his uncle, though I do not believe he took my advice. Mike was always such a lazy beggar!' 'And he has to go up to town to see his lawyer, I suppose?' 'Yes, and he thinks he may be away a week or two; but, there, I must notstand here talking. I have told Reynolds to order a fly from the town;but he need not start for three-quarters of an hour. ' Audrey waited impatiently for another twenty minutes before Michael madehis appearance. He looked very cold, and at once proceeded to wheel aneasy-chair in front of the fire. 'I may as well get warm, ' he observed. 'I expect we shall have a regularsnowstorm before night. Look at that leaden sky! Well, what now?' For Audrey was kneeling on the rug, and she was looking at him with herbrightest and most bewitching smile. 'Michael, I am so glad, so very, very glad. I think I am as pleased asthough the fortune were mine. ' 'Do you think that is a decent remark to make to a fellow who has justlost his uncle? Really, Audrey, you may well look ashamed of yourself; Iquite blush for you. "Avarice, thy name is woman!"' 'Now, Michael, don't be absurd. I am not a bit ashamed of myself. Ofcourse, I am sorry the poor man is dead; but as I never saw him, Icannot be excessively grieved; but I am delighted that he has done theright thing and left you all his money, and I am sure in your heart thatyou are glad, too. ' 'It does not strike you that I may regard it in the light of anunmitigated bore. What does an old bachelor like myself want with thisheap of money? I should like to know how I am to spend six or seventhousand a year--why, the very idea is oppressive!' 'You are very good at pretence, Michael; as though I am not cleverenough to see through that flimsy attempt at philosophy! You think itwould be _infra dig. _ to look too delighted. ' 'Oh, you think I am going in for a stoic?' he returned blandly. 'Yes, but you are not really one; you were never cut out for a poor man, Michael; the _rôle_ did not suit you at all. It is a pain and a grief toyou to travel second class, and it is only the best of everything thatis good enough for you; and you like to put up at first-class hotels, and to have all the waiters and railway officials crowding round you. Even when we were in Scotland the gillie took you for some titledaristocrat, you were so lavish with your money. It is a way you have, Michael, to open your purse for everyone. No wonder the poor widowliving down by the fir-plantation called you the noble Englishgentleman. ' 'Why, what nonsense you talk!' he replied. But all the same it pleased him to think that she had remembered thesethings. Oh, those happy days that would never come back! 'And now you will be able to gratify all your tastes. You have alwaysbeen so fond of old oak, and you can have a beautiful house, and furnishit just as you like; and you can buy pictures, and old china, and books. Why, you can have quite a famous library, and if you want ourassistance, Gage and I will be proud to help you; and if you will onlyconsult us, it will be the loveliest house you ever saw. ' 'What do I want with a house?' he returned a little morosely. 'I shouldthink rooms would be far better for a bachelor. ' 'Ah, but you need not be a bachelor any longer, ' she replied gaily. 'Youhave always told us that you could not afford to marry; but now you canhave the house and wife too. ' But here she stopped for a moment, forsomehow the words sounded oddly as she said them. Michael's wife! What acurious idea! And would she be quite willing for Michael to marry? Hiswife must be very nice--nicer than most girls, she said to herself; andhere she looked at him a little wistfully; but Michael did not make anyresponse. He had the poker in his hand, and when she left off speakinghe broke up a huge coal into a dozen glowing splinters. 'And, then, do you remember, ' she went on, 'how you used to long for amail phaeton, and a pair of bay horses? "When my ship comes I will drivea pair!" How often you have said that to me! Will you drive me in thePark sometimes, Michael, until you have someone else whom you want totake?--for, of course, when you have a wife----' But here he interrupted her with marked impatience: 'I shall never have a wife. I wish you would not talk such nonsense, Audrey;' and there was such bitterness in his tone that she looked quitefrightened. But the next moment he spoke more gently. 'Do you not see, dear, that I am a little upset about all this money coming to me? It isa great responsibility, as well as a pleasure. ' Then as she looked a little downcast at his rebuke, he put his handlightly upon her brown hair and turned her face towards him. 'Why, there are tears in your eyes, you foolish child!' he said quickly. 'Did you really mind what I said, my dear Audrey?' in a more agitatedtone--for, to his surprise, a large bright tear fell on his other hand. 'Oh, it was not that!' she returned, in rather a choked voice. 'Pleasedon't look so concerned, Michael. You know I never mind your scoldingme. ' 'Then what is it?' he asked anxiously. 'What can have troubled you? Wasit my want of sympathy with your little plans? The old oak, and thecarvings and the books, and even the mail phaeton, may come by and by, when I have had time to realise my position as Croesus. Did my apathyvex you, Audrey?' 'No; for of course I understood you, and I liked you all the better fornot caring about things just now. It was only--you will think me veryfoolish, Michael'--and here she did look ashamed of herself--'but Ifelt, somehow, as though all this money would separate us. You will notgo on living at Woodcote, and you will have a home of your own and otherinterests; and perhaps--don't be vexed--but if ever you do marry, Ihope--I hope--your wife will be good to me. ' 'I think I can promise you that, ' he returned quietly. 'Thank you, dear, for telling me the truth. ' 'Yes; but, Michael, are you not shocked at my selfishness?' 'Not in the least. I understand you far better than you understandyourself;' and here he looked at her rather strangely as he rose. 'Must you go now?' 'Yes, it is quite time; I can hear wheels coming up the terrace. ' Andthen he took her hands, and his old smile was on his face. 'Don't haveany more mistaken fancies, Audrey; all the gold of the Indies would notseparate us. If I furnish my house, I will promise you that Gage and youshall ransack Wardour Street with me; and when you are married, my dear, you shall choose what I shall give you;' and as he said this he stoopedover her, for she was still kneeling before the fire, and kissed hervery gently just above her eyes. It was done so quietly, almostsolemnly, that she was not even startled. 'I don't suppose Blake wouldobject to that from Cousin Michael, ' he said gravely. 'Good-bye for afew days;' and then he was gone. 'I am glad he did that, ' thought Audrey; 'he has never done it before. As though Cyril would mind! I was so afraid I had really vexed him withall my foolish talking. But he looked so sad, so unlike himself, that Iwanted to rouse him. I will not tease him any more about a possiblewife; it seems to hurt him somehow--and yet why should he be differentfrom other men? If he does not go on living here with father and mother, he will want some one to take care of him. ' And here she fell into abrown study, and the work she had taken up lay in her lap. After all, itwas she who was leaving him--when she was Cyril's wife, how could shelook after Michael? Audrey could think of nothing else for the remainder of the day. Shetold Cyril about her cousin's good fortune when he took her out for awalk that afternoon. Neither of them minded the hard roads and graywintry sky; when a few snowflakes pelted them they only walked onfaster. Cyril showed a proper interest in the news. 'I am delighted to hear it, ' he said heartily. 'Captain Burnett is oneof the best fellows I know, and he deserves all he has got. ' And then, as it was growing dark, and they could hardly see each other'sface, he coaxed her to go back with him to the Gray Cottage to tellKester the wonderful news. Now, it so happened that Mrs. Blake andMollie had gone to a neighbour's, and were not expected back for anhour; but Cyril begged her to stay and make tea for them: and a verycosy hour they spent, sitting round the fire and making all kinds ofpossible and impossible plans for their hero. But the next day Audrey's thoughts were diverted into a differentchannel, for Geraldine's boy was born, and great was the familyrejoicing. Dr. Ross himself telegraphed to Michael. Audrey never likedher brother-in-law so well as on the morning when he came down toWoodcote to receive their congratulations. Mrs. Ross was at Hillside, and only Audrey and her father were sittingat breakfast. Mr. Harcourt looked pale and fagged, but there wasmarvellous content in his whole mien. The slight pomposity that hadalways jarred on Audrey had wholly vanished, and he wrung her hand witha warmth of feeling that did him credit. Once, indeed, she could hardly forbear a smile, when he said, with atouch of his old solemnity, 'Nurse says that he is the finest child thatshe has seen for a long time--and Mrs. Ross perfectly agrees with her;'but she commanded herself with difficulty. 'I wonder if he is like you or Gage, Percival?' 'It is impossible to say at present--one cannot get to see his eyes, andhe is a little red. Mrs. Lockhart says they are all red at first. But heis astonishingly heavy--in fact, he is as fine a boy as you could seeanywhere. ' Audrey went on with her breakfast. It was so inexpressibly droll to seePercival in the character of the proud father, but Dr. Ross seemedperfectly to understand his son-in-law. Audrey's pleasure was a littledamped when she found that she must not see Geraldine. She went aboutwith her head in the air, calling herself an aggrieved aunt; and shepretended to be jealous of her mother, who had taken up her residence atHillside during the first week. But when the day came for Audrey to be admitted to that quiet room, andshe saw Geraldine looking lovelier than ever in her weakness, with adark, downy head nestled against her arm, a great rush of tendernessfilled her heart, and she felt as though she had never loved her sisterso dearly. 'Will you take him, Aunt Audrey?' and Geraldine smiled at her. 'No, no! do not move him--let me see mother and son together for amoment. Oh, you two darlings, how comfortable you look!' but Audrey'stone was a trifle husky, and then she gave a little laugh: 'Actually, boy is a week old to-day, and this is the first time I have been allowedto see my nephew. ' 'It did seem hard, ' returned Geraldine, taking her hand; 'but mother andnurse were such tyrants--and Percival was just as bad; we were notallowed to have a will of our own, were we, baby? It was such nonsensekeeping my own sister from me, as I told them. ' 'Percival is very pleased with his boy, Gage;' and then a soft, satisfied look came into the young mother's eyes. 'I think it is more to him than to most men, ' she whispered. 'He is notyoung, and he did so long for a son. Do you know, mother tells me thathe nearly cried when she put baby into his arms--at least, there weretears in his eyes, and he could scarcely speak when he saw me first. Father loves his little boy already, ' she continued, addressing theunconscious infant, and after that Audrey did consent to take hernephew. 'What do you mean to call him, Gage?' 'Mother and I would have liked him to be called John, after father; butPercival wishes him so much to have his own father's name, Leonard; andof course he ought to have his way. You must be my boy's godmother, Audrey--I will have no one else; and Michael must be onegodfather--Percival told me this morning that Mr. Bryce must be theother. ' 'I am glad you thought of Michael, ' responded Audrey rather dreamily:baby had got one of her fingers grasped in his tiny fists, and washolding it tightly; and then nurse came forward and suggested that Mrs. Harcourt had talked enough: and, though Audrey grumbled a little, shewas obliged to obey. Audrey took advantage of the first fine afternoon to walk over to Brail. It was more than three miles by the road, but she was a famous walker. The lanes were still impassable on account of the thaw; February had setin with unusual mildness: the snow had melted, the little lake atWoodcote was no longer a sheet of blue ice, and Eiderdown and Snowflakewere dabbling joyously with their yellow bills in the water and theirsoft plumes tremulous with excitement. Audrey had set out early, and Cyril had promised to meet her half-way onher return; the days were lengthening, but he was sure the dusk wouldovertake her long before she got home. Audrey was inclined to dispute this point: she liked to be independent, and to regulate her own movements. But Cyril was not to be coerced. 'I shall meet you, probably by the windmill, ' he observed quietly. 'Ifyou are not inclined for my companionship, I will promise to keep on theother side of the road. ' And of course, after this remark, Audrey was obliged to give in; and inher heart she knew she should be glad of his company. She had not seen Mr. O'Brien for some weeks. During the winter hervisits to Vineyard Cottage were always few and far between. Michael haddriven her over a few days before Christmas, but she had not been theresince. She had heard that Mrs. Baxter had been ailing for some weeks, and her conscience pricked her that she had not made an effort to seeher. She would have plenty of news to tell them, she thought: there wasMichael's fortune, and Gage's baby. Last time she had told them of herengagement, and had promised to bring Cyril with her one afternoon. Shehad tried to arrange this more than once, but Cyril had proposed thatthey should wait for the spring. Audrey enjoyed her walk, and it was still early in the afternoon whenshe unlatched the little gate and walked up the narrow path to thecottage. As she passed the window she could see the ruddy gleams offirelight, and the broad back of Mr. O'Brien as he sat in his greatelbow-chair in front of the fire. Mrs. Baxter opened the door. She had a crimson handkerchief tied overher hair, and her face looked longer and paler than ever. 'Why, it is never you, Miss Ross?' she cried in a subdued crescendo. 'Whatever will father say when he knows it is you? There's a dealhappened, Miss Ross, and I am in a shake still when I think of the turnhe gave me only the other night. I heard the knock, and opened the door, as it might be to you, and when I saw who it was--at least----Why, father! father! what are you shoving me away for?' For Mr. O'Brien hadcome out of the parlour, and had taken his daughter ratherunceremoniously by both shoulders, and had moved her out of his way. 'You leave that to me, Priscilla, ' he said in rather a peculiar voice;and here his great hand grasped Audrey's. 'You have done a good deed, Miss Ross, in coming here this afternoon, for I am glad and proud to seeyou;' and then, in a voice he tried in vain to steady: 'Susan wasright--she always was, bless her!--and Mat has come home!' CHAPTER XXX 'I COULD NOT STAND IT ANY LONGER, TOM' 'The beautiful souls of the world have an art of saintly alchemy, by which bitterness is converted into kindness, the gall of human experience into gentleness, ingratitude into benefits, insults into pardon. '--AMIEL. 'Mat has come home!' Audrey uttered an exclamation of surprise and pleasure as she heard thisunexpected intelligence. 'Is it really true? Oh, Mr. O'Brien, I am so glad--so very glad! Whendid he come? Why did you not send for me? My dear old friend, how happyyou must be to get him back after all these years of watching andwaiting!' A curiously sad expression crossed Mr. O'Brien's rugged face as Audreyspoke in her softest and most sympathetic voice. 'Ay, I am not denying that it is happiness to get the lad back, ' hereturned, in a slow, ruminative fashion, as though he found it difficultto shape his thoughts into words; 'but it is a mixed sort of happiness, too. Come in and sit down, Miss Ross--Mat has gone out for a prowl, ashe calls it--and I will tell you how it all happened while Prissy seesto the tea;' and as Mrs. Baxter withdrew at this very broad hint, Mr. O'Brien drew up one of the old-fashioned elbow-chairs to the fire, andthen, seating himself, took up his pipe from the hob, and lookedthoughtfully into the empty bowl. 'Things get terribly mixed in thisworld, ' he continued, 'and pleasures mostly lose their flavour beforeone has a chance of enjoying them. I am thinking that the father of theProdigal Son did not find it all such plain sailing after the feast wasover, and he had time to look into things more closely. That elderbrother would not be the pleasantest of companions for many a long day;he would still have a sort of grudge, like my Prissy here. ' 'Oh, I hope not!' 'Oh, it is true, though. Human nature is human nature all the worldover. But, there, I am teasing you with all this rigmarole; only I seemsomehow confused, and as though I could not rightly arrange my thoughts. When did Mat come home? Well, it was three nights ago, and--would youbelieve it, Miss Ross?--it feels more like three weeks. ' 'I wish you had written to me. I would have come to you before. ' 'Ay, that was what Prissy said; she was always bidding me take ink andpaper. "There's Miss Ross ought to be told, father"--she was alwaysdinning it into my ears; but somehow I could not bring myself to write. "Where's the hurry, " I said to Prissy, "when Mat is a fixture here? Iwould rather tell Miss Ross myself. " And I have had my way, too'--with atouch of his old humour--'and here we are, talking comfortably as wehave been used to do; and that is better than a stack of letters. ' Audrey smiled. Whatever her private opinion might be, she certainlyoffered no contradiction. If she had been in his place, all her worldshould have heard of her prodigal's return, and should have been biddento eat of the fatted calf; she would have called her friends andneighbours to rejoice with her over the lost one who had found his wayhome. Her friend's reticence secretly alarmed her. Would VineyardCottage be a happier place for its new inmate? 'Yes, it is better for you and me to be talking over it quietly, ' hewent on; 'and I am glad Mat took that restless turn an hour ago. Yousee, the place is small, and he has been used to bush-life; and after hehas sat a bit and smoked one or two pipes, he must just go out and digin the garden, or take his mile or two just to stretch his muscles; buthe will be back by the time Prissy has got the tea. ' 'And he came back three nights ago?' observed Audrey. 'Ay. We were going upstairs, Prissy and I; the girl had been in bed foran hour. I was just smoking my last pipe over the kitchen fire, as Ilike to do, when we heard a knock at the door, and Prissy says to me: '"I expect that is Joshua Ruddock, father, and Jane has been taken bad, and they cannot get the nurse in time. " For Prissy is a good soul athelping any of her neighbours, and sometimes one or other of them willsend for her to sit up with a sick wife or child. And then she goes tothe door, while I knock the ashes out of my pipe. But the next momentshe gave a sort of screech, and I made up my mind that it was thatrascal Joe asking for a night's lodging--not that he would ever haveslept under my roof again. I confess I swore to myself a bit softly whenI heard Prissy fly out like that. '"Father, " she says again, "here is a vagrant sort of man, and he sayshe is Uncle Mat. " '"And she won't believe me, Tom; so you had better come and look at meyourself;" and, sure enough, I knew the lad's voice before I got a sightof his face. 'I give you my word, Miss Ross, ' he continued, somewhat huskily, 'Ihardly know how I got to the door, for my limbs seemed to have no power. '"Do you think I don't know your voice, lad?" I said; and, though it wasdark, I got hold of him and pulled him into the light. 'We were both of us white and shaking as we stood there, but he lookedme in the face with a pitiful sort of smile. '"I could not stand it any longer, Tom, " he said; "I suppose it washome-sickness; but it would have killed me in time. I have not got acreature in the world belonging to me. Will you and Susan take me in?"And then, with a laugh, though there were tears in his eyes: "I amprecious tired of the husks, old chap. " 'Well, I did not seem to have my answer ready; for I was fairly chokedat the sight of his changed face, and those poor, pitiable words. But hedid not misunderstand me, and when I took his arm and pushed him into achair by the fire, he looked round the place in a dazed kind of way. '"Where's Susan?" he asked. "I hope she is not sick, Tom. " And with thathe did break me down; for the thought of how Susan would have welcomedhim--not standing aloof as Prissy was doing--and how she would haveheartened us up, in her cheery way, was too much for me, and I fairlycried like a child. 'Well, I knew it was my lad--in spite of his gray hairs--when he cried, too--just for company. Mat had always a kind heart and way with him. '"I never thought of this, Tom, " he said, when we were a bit better. "All to-day Susan's face has been before me bonnie and smiling, as Ilast saw it. Prissy there is not much like her mother. And so she is inher coffin, poor lass! Well, you are better off than me, Tom, for youhave got Prissy there to look after you, and I have neither wife norchildren. " '"Do you mean they are gone?" I asked, staring at him; and he nodded ina grim, sorrowful kind of way. '"I have lost them all. There, we won't talk about that just yet. Whatis it Susan used to say when the children died? 'The Lord gave, and theLord hath taken away. ' Those are pious words, Tom. " And then he lookedat me a bit strangely. 'Well, it was Prissy who interrupted us, by asking if Mat wanted food. And then it turned out that he was 'most starving. '"I think I was born to ill-luck, Tom, " he went on; "for some scamp orother robbed me of my little savings as soon as I reached London, and Ihad to make shift to pay my fare down here. It is a long story to tellhow I found you out. I went to the old place first, and they sent me onhere. I had a drop of beer and a crust at the Three Loaves, and oldGiles, the ostler, knew me and told me a long yarn about you andPrissy. " 'And then we would not let him talk any more. And when he was fed andwarmed Prissy made up a bed for him, for we saw he was nearly worn out, and there was plenty of time for hearing all he had to tell us. 'But I could not help going into his room before I turned in, for therecame over me such a longing to see Mat's face again--though it was notthe old face. And I knew my bright, handsome lad would never come back. Well, he was not asleep, for he turned on his pillow when he saw me. '"If one could only have one's life again!" he said--and there was acatch in his voice. "I could not sleep for thinking of it. I have shamedyou, Tom, and I have shamed all that belonged to me; and many and many atime I have longed to die and end it all, but something would not letme. I was always a precious coward. Why, I tried to shoot myself once;but I could not do it, I bungled so. That was when things were at theworst; but I never tried again, so don't look so scared, old chap!" 'Well, it was terrible to hear him talk like that, of throwing his lifeaway, and I said a word or two to show what I thought of it; but hewould not listen. '"Don't preach, Tom: you were always such a hand at preaching; but Iwill tell you something you may care to hear. It was when I was out inthe bush. I had been down with a sort of fever, and had got preciouslow. Well, it came over me one day as I was alone in the hut, that, ifthat sort of life went on, I should just lose my reason; for theloneliness, and the thought of the prison life, and all the evil I haddone, and the way I had thrown aside my chances, seemed crowding in uponmy mind, and I felt I must just blow my brains out, and I knew I shoulddo it this time; and then all at once the thought came to me: 'Why notgo to Tom? Tom and Susan are good sort; they won't refuse a helping handto a poor wretch;' and the very next day I packed up my traps andstarted for Melbourne. " '"My lad, " I said, "it was just Providence that put that thought in yourhead;" and then I left him, for my heart was too full to talk, except tomy Maker. But I dreamt that night that Susan came to me, and that westood together by Mat's bedside looking down at him while he slept. '"He looks old and gray, " I heard her say quite distinctly; "but he willgrow young again beside my Tom. " And then she looked at me so gently andsighed: "Be patient with him; he is very unhappy, " and then I woke. ' 'Oh, I hope you told him that dream!' 'Ay, I did. I told him a power of things about Susan and myself andPrissy, and he never seemed tired of listening; but after that firstevening he did not open out much of his own accord. He told us a fewthings, mostly about his bush-life, and where he went when he got histicket-of-leave; but somehow he seemed to dislike talking about himself, and after I had questioned him pretty closely, he suddenly said: '"Look here, old chap: I don't mean to be rough on you, but I have grownused to holding my tongue during the last few years. What is the use ofraking up bygones? Do you suppose I am so proud of my past life that Icare to talk about it? Why can we not start afresh? You know me for whatI am, the good-for-nothing Mat O'Brien. I know I am no fit companion foryou and Prissy; and if you tell me to go, I will shift my quarterswithout a reproachful word. Shall I go, Tom?" '"No, " I said, almost shouting at him, and snapping my pipe in two; "youwill just stay where you are, lad. Do you think I will ever suffer youto wander off again?" And then, as he looked at me very sadly, I openedthe big Bible we had been reading in that morning, and showed him theverse that was in my thoughts that moment: "The Lord do so to me, andmore also, if aught but death part me and thee. " '"Do you mean that, Tom?" and his voice was rather choky. '"Ay, I do, " was my answer. And then he gripped my hand withoutspeaking, and went out of the room, and we did not see him for an houror two. And that is about all I have to tell you, Miss Ross. ' 'Thank you, old friend, ' returned Audrey gently. And she looked reverently into the thoughtful face beside her. Therugged, homely features were beautified to her. He was only a smalltradesman, yet what nobleman could show more tender chivalry to thefallen man who had brought disgrace on his honest name? In her heartAudrey knew there was no truer gentleman than this simple, kindly TomO'Brien. 'There's Mat, ' he observed presently; and Audrey roused herself andlooked anxiously at the door. She was longing, yet dreading, to see this much-loved prodigal. Priscilla's description of 'a vagrant sort of man' had somewhat alarmedher, and she feared to see the furtive look and slouching gait that sooften stamp the man who has taken long strides on the downward path. She was greatly surprised, therefore, when a tall, fine-looking man, with closely-cropped gray hair and a black moustache, came quickly intothe room. On seeing a young lady he was about to withdraw; but hisbrother stopped him. 'Don't go away, lad. This is Miss Ross, the young lady who I told youwas with Susan when she died. ' 'And I am very glad to welcome you back, Mr. O'Brien, ' observed Audreycordially, as she held out her hand. Mat O'Brien reddened slightly as he took the offered hand with somereluctance, and then stood aside rather awkwardly. He only mutteredsomething in reply to his brother's question of how far he had walked. 'I think I will go to Priscilla, ' he said, with a touch of sullennessthat was mere shyness and discomfort. 'Don't let me interrupt you andthis young lady, Tom. ' And before Mr. O'Brien could utter aremonstrance, he was gone. 'I am afraid I am in the way, ' suggested Audrey. 'Perhaps your brotherdoes not like to see people. It is growing dark, so I may as well startat once. Mr. Blake has promised to meet me, so I shall not have asolitary walk. ' 'Nay, you must not go without your cup of tea, ' returned the old man, rubbing up his hair in a vexed manner; 'I hear Prissy clattering withthe cups. Don't fash your head about the lad; he is a bit shamed oflooking honest folk in the face; but we'll get him over that. Sit youdown, and I will fetch him out of the kitchen. ' And without heeding herentreaties to be allowed to go, Mr. O'Brien hurried her into the nextroom, where the usual bountiful meal was already spread, and where Mrs. Baxter awaited them with an injured expression of face. 'I think father has gone clean daft over Uncle Mat, ' she observed, asMr. O'Brien departed on his quest. 'Draw up to the table, Miss Ross. Father will be back directly; but he won't touch a mouthful until hesees Uncle Mat in his usual place; he fashes after him from morning tonight, and can hardly bear him out of his sight. It is "Mat, come here, alongside of me, " or "Try this dish of Prissy's, my lad, " until youwould think there was not another person in the house. It is a bittrying, Miss Ross, I must confess; though I won't fly in the face ofProvidence, and say I am not glad that the sinner has come home. Butthere, one must have one's trials; and Heaven knows I have had aplentiful share of thorns and briars in my time!' 'I am sorry to hear you speak like this, Mrs. Baxter. I was hoping thatyou would rejoice in Mr. O'Brien's happiness. Think how he has longedfor years to see his brother's face again!' Mrs. Baxter shook her head mournfully. 'Ay, Miss Ross; but the best of us are poor ignorant creatures, and, maybe, the blessings we long for will turn to a curse in the end. Idoubt whether our little cottage will be the restful place it was beforeUncle Mat came home. He has gone to a bad school to learn manners; andwild oats and tares and the husks that the swine did eat are poor crops, after all, Miss Ross, ' finished Priscilla a little vaguely. Audrey bent over her plate to conceal a smile; but she was spared thenecessity of answering, as just then the two men entered. It was the first meal that Audrey had failed to enjoy at VineyardCottage; and notwithstanding all her efforts to second Mr. O'Brien'sattempt at cheerfulness, she felt that she failed most signally. Neitherof them could induce Mat O'Brien to enter into conversation; his gloomysilence or brief monosyllabic replies compelled even his brother at lastto desist from any such attempt. Now and then Audrey stole a furtive glance at him as he sat moodilylooking out into the twilight. The handsome lad was still agood-looking man; but the deep-seated melancholy in the dark eyesoppressed Audrey almost painfully: there was a hopelessness in theirexpression that filled her with pity. Why had he let that one failure, that sad lapse from honesty, stamp hisold life with shame? Had he not expiated his sin? Why was he so beatendown and crushed with remorse and suffering that he had only longed toend an existence that seemed God-forsaken and utterly useless? And then, half unconsciously, she noted the one serious defect in his face--theweak, receding chin; and she guessed that the mouth hidden under theheavy moustache was weak too. 'I will not ask you what you think of Mat to-night, ' observed Mr. O'Brien, as he accompanied Audrey to the gate; 'he has not been used toa lady's company, and he has grown into silent ways, living so muchalone. ' 'He looks terribly unhappy. ' 'Ay, poor chap, he is unhappy enough; he has got a load on his heartthat he is carrying alone. Sometimes it makes my heart ache, Miss Ross, to see him sitting there, staring into the fire, and fetching up a sighnow and then. But there, as Susan says, "The heart knoweth its ownbitterness"; but if ever a man is in trouble, Mat is that man. ' And Audrey felt that her old friend was right. CHAPTER XXXI 'WILL YOU CALL THE GUARD?' 'Plead guilty at man's bar, and go to judgment straight; At God's no other way remains to shun that fate. ' ARCHBISHOP TRENCH. Captain Burnett had settled his business, and was returning again toRutherford after more than a month's absence. He would willingly havelingered in town longer. Lonely as his bachelor quarters were, he felthe was safer in them than in his cosy rooms under his cousin's roof, where every hour of the day exposed him to some new trial, and where thepart he played was daily becoming more difficult. In town he could atleast be free; he had no need to mask his wretchedness, or to pretendthat he was happy and at ease. No demands, trying to meet, were made onhis sympathy; no innocently loving looks claimed a response. At least, the bare walls could tell no tales, if he sat for long hours broodingover a future that looked grim and desolate. And he was a rich man. Heavens! what mockery! And yet how his friendswould have crowded round him if they had known it! Comfort--nay, evenluxury--was within his power; he could travel, build, add acre to acre;he could indulge in philanthropic schemes, ride any hobby. And yet, though he knew this, the thought of his gold seemed bitter as the applesof Sodom. It had come too late. Ah, that was the sting--his poverty had been thegulf between him and happiness, and he had not dared to stretch his handacross it to the woman he loved; and now, when his opportunity had goneand he had lost her irrevocably, Fate had showered these golden giftsupon him, as though to bribe him as one bribes children with some gildedtoy. Was it a wonder that, as he sat trying to shape that dreary future ofhis, his heart was sore within him, and that now and again the thoughtcrossed him that it might have been well for him if his battered bodycould have been laid to rest with those other brave fellows in Zululand?And then he remembered how Kester had once told him that he must be thehappiest man in the world. He had never quite forgotten that boyishoutburst. 'Don't you see the difference?' he could hear him say. 'I have got thispain to bear, and no good comes of it; it is just bearing, and nothingelse. But you have suffered in saving other men's lives; it is a kind ofransom. It must be happiness to have a memory like that!' Was he suffering for nothing now? Would any good to himself or otherscome from a pain so exquisite, so rife with torture--a pain so stronglyimpregnated with fear and doubt that he scarcely dared own it tohimself? Only now and again those few bitter words would escape hislips: 'Oh, my darling, what a mistake! Will you ever find it out before it istoo late?' And then, with a groan, he would answer, as though tohimself: 'Never! never!' Old habits are strong, and it was certainly absence of mind that madeCaptain Burnett take his usual third-class ticket; and he had seatedhimself and dismissed his porter before he bethought himself that thefirst-class compartment was now within his means. Audrey had told him laughingly that such creature comforts were dear tohim--that he was a man who loved the best of things, to whom the loavesand fishes of bare maintenance were not enough without adding to themthe fine linen and dainty appendages of luxury; and he had notcontradicted her. But, all the same, he knew that he would have beenwilling to live in poverty until his life's end if he could only havekept her beside him. Happily, the third-class compartment was empty, and he threw himselfback in the farthest corner, and, taking out his Baedeker, began to planwhat he called his summer's campaign--a tour he was projecting throughHolland and Belgium, and which was to land him finally in the AustrianTyrol. He would work his way later to Rome and Florence and Venice, andhe would keep Norway for the following year; and he would travel aboutin the desultory, dilettante sort of fashion that suited him best now. He would probably go to America, and see Niagara and all the wonders ofthe New World, that was so young and fresh in its immensity. Indeed, hewould go anywhere and everywhere, until his trouble became a thing ofthe past, and he had strength to live and work for the good of hisfellow-creatures; but he felt that such work was not possible to himjust yet. Michael studied his Baedeker in a steady business-like way. He had madeup his mind that to brood over an irreparable misfortune was unworthy ofany man who acknowledged himself a Christian--that any such indulgencewould weaken his moral character and make him unfit for his duties inlife. The sorrow was there, but there was no need to be ever staring itin the face; as far as was possible, he would put it from him, and dothe best for himself and others. Michael's stubborn tenacity of purpose brought its own reward, for hewas soon so absorbed in mapping out his route that he was quite startledat hearing the porters shouting 'Warnborough!' and the next moment thedoor was flung open, and a shabbily-dressed man, with the gait andbearing of a soldier, entered the compartment, and, taking the oppositecorner to Michael, unfolded his paper and began to read. Michael glanced at him carelessly. He was rather a good-looking man, hethought, with his closely-cropped gray hair and black moustache; but hisscrutiny proceeded no further, for just then he caught sight of afamiliar face and figure on the platform that made him shrink back intohis corner, and wish that he, too, had a newspaper, behind which hecould hide himself. There was no mistaking that slim, graceful figure and the little, closeblack bonnet. There was something about Mrs. Blake which he would haverecognised a quarter of a mile off. By Jove! she was coming towards hiscompartment. Her hands were full of parcels, and she was asking agray-headed old gentleman to open the door for her--how handsome andbright and alert she looked, as she smiled her acknowledgment! The oldgentleman looked back once or twice--even old fogeys have eyes for apretty woman--but Mrs. Blake was too busy arranging her parcels in therack to notice the impression she had made. If only he had had that newspaper he might have pretended that he wasasleep; but when the parcels were in their place she would see him. There was nothing for him but to take the initiative. 'Let me put that up for you, Mrs. Blake;' and at the sound of his voiceshe turned round. In a moment he knew that she was not pleased to see him--that if she haddiscovered that he was there, nothing would have induced her to enterthe compartment. It was his extraordinary quickness of intuition thatmade him know this, and the sudden shade that crossed her face when headdressed her. Underneath Mrs. Blake's smooth speeches and charm ofmanner he had always been conscious of some indefinable antagonism tohimself; as he had once told Geraldine, there was no love lost betweenthem. 'In a ladylike way, she certainly hates me, ' he had said. 'Dear me, Captain Burnett, how you startled me! I thought there wereonly strangers in the carriage. Thank you; that parcel is rather heavy. I have been shopping in Warnborough and am terribly laden; I hope Cyrilwill meet me--if the omnibus be not at the station, I must certainlytake a fly. I had no idea you were coming back until to-morrow. Kestercertainly said to-morrow. How delighted he will be, dear boy, when Itell him I have seen you!' 'The christening will be to-morrow, you know, and I have to standsponsor to my small cousin. ' 'Ah, to be sure! How stupid of me to forget! and yet Mollie told me allabout it. It is very soon--baby is only a month old, is he not? But Ihear Mrs. Harcourt is not to be allowed to go to the church. ' 'No; so Audrey tells me. ' 'I think that a pity. When my children were christened I was always withthem. To be sure, both Kester and Mollie were two months old at least. What is your opinion, Captain Burnett--you are a strict Churchman, Iknow--ought not the mother to be there as a matter of course?' Mrs. Blake spoke in a soft voice, with her usual engaging air offrankness, but Michael's answer was decidedly stiff. Of all things hehated to be entrapped into a theological argument, but he would notcompromise truth. 'I think there is one thing even more desirable than the mother'spresence, ' he returned quickly, 'and that is that these little heathensbe made Christians as soon as possible; and I think Harcourt isperfectly right to have his son baptized without exposing his wife toany risk. ' 'And she is still so delicate, as dear Audrey tells me. She was up atHillside last evening, and Cyril fetched her. My boy is a most devotedlover, Captain Burnett. ' 'Cela va sans dire, ' returned Michael lightly--he may be forgiven forregarding this speech in the worst possible taste--and then he stopped, attracted by a singular action on the part of their fellow-passenger. He had put down his paper, and was leaning forward a little in his seat, and staring intently into Mrs. Blake's face. 'Good God, it is Olive!' he muttered. 'As I live, it is Olive herself!'and then he threw out both his hands in a strange, appealing sort ofway, and his face was very pale. 'Olive, ' he went on, and there wassomething strained and pitiful in his voice, as though pleading withher; 'how am I to sit and hear you talk about the little chaps and takeno notice? How am I to mind my promise and not speak to my own wife?' Michael gave a violent start, but he had no time to speak, for Mrs. Blake suddenly clutched his arm with a stifled scream; she looked soghastly, so beside herself with terror, that he could not help pityingher. 'Captain Burnett, ' she gasped, 'will you stop the train? I will nottravel any longer with this madman. I shall die if I am in this carriagea moment longer. Don't you see he is mad? Will you call the guard?I--I----' She sank down, unable to articulate another syllable. Captain Burnett hardly knew how to act. They would reach the station forRutherford in another quarter of an hour. He knew the man opposite himwas no more mad than he was--there was no insanity in those deep-set, melancholy eyes, only intense pain and sadness. The very sound of hisvoice brought instant conviction to Michael's mind that he was speakingthe truth. Whatever mystery lay beneath his words, he and Mrs. Blakewere not strangers to each other--her very terror told him that. 'Mrs. Blake, ' he said, endeavouring to soothe her, 'there is nothing tofear. Do try to be reasonable. No one could molest you while you areunder my protection. Perhaps this gentleman, ' with a quick glance at theman's agitated face and shabby coat, 'may have made some mistake. Youmay resemble some friend of his. ' 'No fear of that, ' interposed the man sullenly, and now there was anangry gleam in his eyes that alarmed Michael; 'a man can't mistake hisown wife, even if he has not seen her for fifteen or sixteen years. Iwill take my oath before any court of justice that that is my lawfulwedded wife, Olive O'Brien. ' Mrs. Blake uttered another faint scream, and covered her face with herhands. She was shaking as though in an ague fit. 'I assure you, you must have made some mistake, ' replied Michaelcivilly; 'this lady's name is Blake: she and her family are well knownto me. If you like, I will give you my card, if you should wish tosatisfy yourself by making further inquiries; but, as you must see, itis only a case of mistaken identity. ' If Michael spoke with the intent of eliciting further facts, he was notwholly unsuccessful. 'It is nothing of the kind, ' returned the man roughly; 'don't I tell youit is no mistake. I can't help what she calls herself. If she has takenanother husband, I'll have the law of her and bring her to shame; shehas only one husband and his name is Matthew O'Brien. ' 'Good heavens! do you mean that Thomas O'Brien, of Vineyard Cottage, isyour brother?' And as Michael put this question he felt the plot wasthickening. 'Yes. Tom, poor old chap! is my brother; but he knows nought about Oliveand the young ones. He thinks they are dead. I told him I had lost themall. Has she not been talking about them--Cyril and Kester and my littleMollie!' And here there were tears in Matthew O'Brien's eyes. 'Hush!' interposed Michael; 'don't say any more. Don't you see she hasfainted? Will you move away a moment, that she may not see you? Open thewindow; make a thorough draught. ' Michael was doing all that he could for Mrs. Blake's comfort. Heloosened her bonnet-strings and made his rug into a pillow, and, takingout his brandy flask, moistened her white lips. However she had sinned, he felt vaguely, as he knelt beside her, that hers would be a terribleexpiation. Mat O'Brien stood a little behind, talking half to himselfand half to Michael. 'Ah, he is a handy chap, ' he soliloquised; 'he must have a wife of hisown, I'm thinking. Poor lass! she does look mortal bad. I have frightedher pretty nearly to death, but it is her own fault. I never would havehurt a hair of her head. She is as handsome as ever, and ashard-hearted, too. I used to tell her she was made of stone--not a bitof love, except for the children. She is coming to, sir, ' he continuedexcitedly; 'I was half afraid she was dead, lying so still. ' 'Yes, she is recovering consciousness, ' replied Michael quietly; 'butit is rather a serious fainting fit, and I must ask you to leave her tome, Mr. O'Brien. There is my card. I shall be at Rutherford, and willtry to see you to-morrow--no, not to-morrow, there is thechristening--but the next day. I will come over to Vineyard Cottage;there, we are stopping. Please send a porter to me. ' And then Michaelturned again to his patient. She had opened her eyes and was looking at him as though she were dazed. 'Where am I? what has happened? why are you giving me brandy, CaptainBurnett?' 'You have been ill, ' he returned coolly; 'are you subject to thesefainting fits? I want you to try and stand, and then I will help you tomy fly. Porter, will you take those parcels, please. Now, Mrs. Blake, doyou think you can walk?' 'I will try, ' she replied in an exhausted voice, but just at that momentMat O'Brien passed. 'Oh, I remember, ' she gasped; 'the madman! It was hewho frightened me so, Captain Burnett, ' looking at him with a return ofthe old terror in her face and a sort of wildness in her eyes. 'You didnot believe that improbable story? How can I, a widow, have a livinghusband?' And she laughed hysterically. 'Will you permit me to assist you?' was Michael's sole answer, as helifted her from the seat; 'can you fasten your bonnet? I was obliged togive you air. ' But as her trembling hands could not perform the office, he was compelled to do it himself. 'Now you can come, ' he went on in aquiet, authoritative voice, that was not without its effect on her, andhalf leading, half supporting her, he placed her at last safely in thefly. But as he seated himself beside her, and they drove off, in thegathering dusk of the March evening, he felt a cold hand grip his wrist. 'Oh, Captain Burnett, do say that you did not believe him!' Michael was silent. 'It was too utterly horrible, too improbable altogether!' she continuedwith a shudder; 'no man calling himself a gentleman ought to believesuch an accusation against a woman. ' Still silence. 'If it should reach my boy's ear, he will be ready to kill him. ' 'Mrs. Blake, will you listen to me a moment, for your children's sake. Idesire to stand your friend. ' 'And not for my sake--not for the sake of a lonely, misjudged woman?' 'No, ' he returned coldly; 'I will confess the truth: it is the best. Inour hearts we are not friends, you and I. From the first I havemistrusted you. I have always felt there was something I could notunderstand. Friends do not have these feelings; but, all the same, Iwish to help you. ' 'Oh, that is kind; and now I do not mind your hard words. ' 'But I must help you in my own way. To-morrow I shall come to you, andyou must tell me the whole truth, and whether this man Matthew O'Brienbe your husband or not. ' 'I tell you--' she began excitedly, but he checked her very gently. 'Hush! Do not speak now; you will make yourself ill again. ' 'Oh yes, ' she said, falling back on her seat. 'I have palpitationsstill. I must not excite myself. ' 'Just so; and to-morrow you will be calmer and more collected, and youwill have made up your mind that the truth will be best because----' hepaused, as though not certain how to proceed. 'Because of what?' she asked sharply; and he could detect strainedanxiety in her tone. 'Because it will be better for you to tell your story in your own way, far better than for me to hear it from Mr. O'Brien. ' 'You would go to him?' and there was unmistakable alarm in her voice. 'Most certainly I would go to him. This is a very important matter toothers as well as yourself, Mrs. Blake. ' 'I will kill myself, ' she said wildly, 'before I tell any such story!You have no heart, Captain Burnett; you are treating me with refinedcruelty; you want to bring me to shame because you hate me, andbecause----' But again he checked her: 'Do not exhaust yourself with making all these speeches; you will needall your strength. I will come to you to-morrow evening, and if you willtell me the truth I will promise to help you as far as possible. Surelyat such a crisis you will not refuse such help as I may be able to offeryou, if only----' he paused, and there was deep feeling in his voice, 'for your children's sake. ' But though he could hear her sob as though in extremity of anguish, shemade him no answer, nor could he induce her to speak again until theyreached the Gray Cottage, where the fly stopped, and he got out andassisted her to alight. She kept her face averted from him. 'I will be with you to-morrow, ' he repeated, as he touched her hand. But to this there was no audible reply; she only bowed her head as shepassed through the gate he held open for her, and disappeared from hissight. CHAPTER XXXII 'I DID NOT LOVE HIM' 'When a man begins to do wrong, he cannot answer for himself how far he may be carried on. He does not see beforehand; he cannot know where he will find himself after the sin is committed. One false step forces him to another. '--NEWMAN. 'An Italian proverb, too well known, declares that if you would succeed you must not be too good. '--EMERSON. Audrey found Michael strangely uncommunicative that evening; he hardlyresponded to her expressions of pleasure at seeing him again, and allher questions were answered as briefly as possible. His manner was askind as ever; indeed, he spoke to her with more than his usualgentleness; but during dinner he seemed to find conversation difficult, and all her little jokes fell flat. She wanted to know how many prettythings he had bought, and if he had put down his name for the proofengraving of a certain picture he had longed to possess. 'Twenty guineas is nothing to you now, Michael, ' she observed playfully. 'No, I forgot all about the picture, ' he returned, starting up from hischair; 'but I have brought you a present. ' And the next moment he put in her hand a little case. When Audrey openedit, there was a small cross studded with diamonds of great beauty andlustre, and the whole effect was so sparkling and dainty that Audreyquite flushed with surprise and pleasure. 'Oh, mother, look how beautiful! But, Michael, how dare you waste yourmoney on me; this must have cost a fortune!' And then she added a littlethoughtfully, 'I am afraid Cyril will be sorry when he sees this; he isalways lamenting that he cannot give me things. ' 'I chose a bracelet for Geraldine, ' he returned carelessly, as thoughbuying diamonds were an everyday business with him. 'Would you like tosee it?' and he showed her the contents of the other case. 'I have asmall offering for my godson in the shape of the inevitable mug, and Imean to give this to Leonard's mamma. ' 'It is very handsome; mother thinks so: don't you, mother? and Gage isdevoted to bracelets; but I like mine ever so much better; it is thevery perfection of a cross, and I shall value it, ah, so dearly, Michael!' and Audrey held out her hand as she spoke. Michael pressed it silently. It was little wonder, he thought, thatAudrey liked her gift better than Geraldine's; it had cost at leastthree times as much; in fact, its value had been so great that he hadwritten the cheque with some slight feeling of shame and compunction. 'There is no harm, after all, and she is so fond of diamonds, ' heassured himself, as he put the little case in his pocket; 'she will notknow what it cost me, and he will never be able to buy ornaments forher--I may as well give myself this pleasure;' and just for the momentit did please him to see her delight over the ornament. 'It is not so much the diamonds that please me, as Michael's kindnessand generosity, ' she said to Cyril the next day. 'He has bought nothingfor himself, and yet he has been in town a whole month; he only thoughtof us. ' And Cyril observed quietly, as he closed the case, that it was certainlyvery kind of Captain Burnett; but a close observer would have said thatMichael's generosity had not quite pleased him. 'I suppose you will wear this to-night at the Charringtons'?' he askedpresently. 'Yes; and those lovely flowers you have brought me, ' she added, with oneof her charming smiles; and somehow the cloud passed in a moment fromthe young man's brow. What did it matter, after all, that he could not give her diamonds? Hadhe not given himself to her, and did they not belong to each other fortime and for eternity? And as he thought this he took her in his armswith a loving speech. 'You are sweet as the very sweetest of my flowers, ' he said, holding herclose to him. 'You are the very dearest thing in the world to me, Audrey; and sometimes, when I think of the future, I am almost besidemyself with happiness. ' When the little excitement of the diamonds was over, Michael relapsedagain into gravity, and he was still grave when he went up to Hillsidethe next day. A wakeful night's reflection had brought him no comfort;he felt as though a gulf were opening before him and those whom heloved, and that he dared not, for very dread and giddiness, look intoit. When they returned from church, and were about to sit down to thesumptuous luncheon, he took Geraldine aside and presented his offerings. To his surprise, she was quite overcome, and would have called herhusband to share her pleasure; but he begged her to say nothing justthen. 'Audrey has a present, too, but she took it far more calmly, ' he said, in a rallying tone. But as he spoke he wondered at his cousin's beauty. Her complexion had always been very transparent, but now excitement hadadded a soft bloom. Was it motherhood, he asked himself, that deepenedthe expression of her eyes and lent her that new gentleness? 'I neversaw you look better, Gage, ' he said, in quite an admiring voice; butGeraldine was as unconscious as ever. 'I am very well, ' she returned, smiling, 'only not quite as strong asusual. It is such a pity that Percival would not allow me to invite youto dinner, because he says that I ought to be quiet this evening. He andmother make such a fuss over me. Percival means to take baby and me fora change during the Easter holidays. That will be nice, will it not? Ithink we shall go to Bournemouth. ' 'Very nice, ' he returned absently. 'I wish Audrey would go too, but I am afraid she will not leave Cyril;he is not going away this vacation. That is the worst of a sister beingengaged, she is not half so useful. ' 'I think Audrey would go with you if you asked her; she is veryunselfish. ' 'Yes; but she has to think about someone else now, and I do not wish tobe hard on Cyril. He is very nice, and we all like him. ' 'I am very glad to hear that, Gage. ' 'Yes; we must just make the best of it. Of course, Percival and I willalways consider she is throwing herself away; but that cannot be helpednow. By the bye, Michael, this is the first time I have seen you sinceyou came into your fortune. I have never been able to tell you howdelighted we both were to hear of it. ' 'Well, it was a pretty good haul. ' 'Yes; but no one will do more with it. But you must not buy any morediamonds;' and then she smiled on him. And just then Master Leonard madehis appearance in his long lace robe, and, as Geraldine moved to takeher boy in her arms, there was no further conversation between them. They left soon after luncheon. Mr. Bryce had to take an early afternoontrain, and Dr. Ross accompanied him to the station. Audrey drove homewith her mother; they expected Michael to follow them, but he had otherbusiness on hand. There was his interview with Mrs. Blake, and onleaving Hillside he went straight to the Gray Cottage. Mollie met him at the door. She looked disturbed and anxious. 'Yes; you are to go up to the drawing-room, Captain Burnett, ' she said, when he asked if Mrs. Blake were at home. 'Mamma is there. I heard hertell Biddy so. Do you know'--puckering up her face as though she wereready to cry--'mamma will not speak to any of us--not even to Cyril! Shesays she is ill, and that only Biddy understands her. It is so odd thatshe is able to see a visitor. ' 'What makes you think she is ill, Mollie?' 'Oh, because she looked so dreadful when she came home last night; shecould hardly walk upstairs, and Cyril was not there to help her. He wasquite frightened when I told him, and went to her room at once; but herdoor was locked, and she said her head ached so that she could not talk. Biddy was with her then; we could hear her voice distinctly, and mammaseemed moaning so. ' 'Has she seen your brother this morning?' 'Yes, just for a minute; but the room was darkened, and he could not seeher properly. She told him that the pain had got on the nerves, and thatshe really could not bear us near her. But she would not let him sendfor a doctor, and Biddy seemed to agree with her. ' 'Perhaps she will be better to-morrow, ' he suggested; and then he leftMollie and went upstairs. 'Poor little girl!' he said to himself; 'Iwonder what she would say if she knew her father were living!' And then he tapped at the drawing-room door. He was not quite surewhether anyone bade him enter. Mrs. Blake was sitting in a chair drawnclose to the fire; her back was towards him. She did not move or turnher head as he walked towards her, and when he put out his hand to hershe took no notice of it. 'You have come, ' she said, in a quick, hard voice. And then she turnedaway from him and looked into the fire. 'Yes, I have come, ' he replied quietly, as he sat down on the oak settlethat was drawn up near her chair. 'I am sorry to see you look so ill, Mrs. Blake. ' He might well say so. She had aged ten years since the previous night. Her face was quite drawn and haggard--he had never before noticed thatthere were threads of gray in her dark hair--she had always looked somarvellously young; but now he could see the lines and the crows'-feet;and as his sharp eyes detected all this he felt very sorry for her. 'Ill; of course I'm ill, ' she answered irritably. 'All night long I havebeen wishing I were dead. I said yesterday that I would rather killmyself than tell you my story; but to-day I have thought better of it. ' 'I am glad of that. ' 'Of course I am not a fool, and I know I am in your power--yours andthat man's. ' And here she shivered. 'Will you tell me this one thing first? Is he--is Matthew O'Brien yourhusband?' 'Yes; I suppose so. I was certainly married to him once. ' 'Then, why, in the name of heaven, Mrs. Blake, do you allow people toconsider you a widow?' 'Because I am a widow, ' she returned harshly. 'Because I have unmarriedmyself and given up my husband. Because I refused to have anything moreto do with him--he brought me disgrace, and I hated him for it. ' 'But, pardon me, it is not possible--no woman can unmarry herself inthis fashion--unless you mean----' And here he stopped, feeling it impossible to put any such question toher. But what on earth could she mean? 'No, I have not divorced him. I suppose, in one sense, he may still beregarded as my husband; but for fourteen years he has been dead to me, and I have called myself a widow. ' 'But you must have known it was wrong, ' he returned, a little bewilderedby these extraordinary statements. If she had not looked so wan andhaggard, he would have accused her of talking wildly. 'No, Captain Burnett; I do not own it was wrong. Under somecircumstances a woman is bound to defend herself and her children--atigress will brave a loaded gun if her young are starving. If it wereto come over again, I would do the same. But I will acknowledge to youthat I did not love my husband. ' 'No; that is evident. ' 'I never loved him, though I was foolish enough to marry him. I supposeI cared for him in a sort of way. He was handsome, and had soft, pleasant ways with him; and I was young and giddy, and ready for anyexcitement. But I had not been his wife three months before I would havegiven worlds to have undone my marriage. ' 'Was he a bad husband to you?' 'No. Mat was always too soft for unkindness; but he was not the man forme. Besides, I had married him out of pique--there was someone I likedmuch better. You see, I am telling you all quite frankly. I am in yourpower, as I said before. If I refused to speak, you would just go toMat, and he would tell you everything. ' 'I am very much relieved to find you so reasonable, Mrs. Blake. It iscertainly wiser and better to tell me yourself. You have my promisethat, as far as possible, I will give you my help; but at present I donot know how this may be. ' 'Yes; I will tell you my story, ' she answered. But there was abitterness of antagonism in her tone as she said this. 'I have alwaysbeen afraid of you, Captain Burnett; I felt you disliked and mistrustedme, and I have never been easy with you. If it were not for Kester, andyour kindness to him, I should be horribly afraid of you. But forKester's sake you would not be hard on his mother. ' 'I would not be hard on any woman, ' he answered quietly. 'It is true Ihave mistrusted you. I told you so yesterday. But if you will confide inme, you shall not repent your confidence. ' 'You mean you will not be my enemy. ' 'I am no woman's enemy, ' he said a little proudly. 'I wish someone elsehad been in my place yesterday; you can understand it is not a pleasantbusiness to ask these questions of a lady; but there are many interestsinvolved, and I am like a son to Dr. Ross. I am bound to look into thismatter more closely for his sake, and----' he paused, and, if possible, Mrs. Blake turned a little pale. 'Let me tell you quickly, ' she said. 'Perhaps, after all, you will notblame me, and you will help me to keep it from Cyril. ' And here shelooked at him imploringly, and he could see the muscles of her facequivering. 'No, I never loved Mat. I felt it was a condescension on mypart to marry him. My people were well connected. One of my uncles was adean, and another was a barrister. My father was a clergyman. ' 'What was his name?' 'Stephen Carrick. He was Vicar of Bardley. ' 'I have heard of Dean Carrick; he wrote some book or other, and cameinto some notoriety before his death. Is it possible that you are hisniece?' 'Yes. I was very proud of him, and of my other uncle; but they wouldhave nothing to do with me after my marriage. We were living in Irelandthen, and when Mat brought me to London I seemed to have cut myselfadrift from all my people. My father died not long afterwards, and mymother followed him, and my two brothers were at sea. I saw the name ofCarrick in the papers one day--James Carrick--he was in the navy; so itmust have been Jem. Well, he is dead, and, as far as I know, Charlie maybe dead too. ' She spoke with a degree of hardness that astonished him, but he wouldnot interrupt her by a question. He saw that, for some reason of herown, she was willing to tell her story. 'I soon found out my mistake when Mat brought me to London. From thefirst we were unfortunate; we had neither of us any experience. Ourfirst landlady cheated us, and our lodgings were far too expensive forour means--my money had not then come to me. At my mother's death I wasmore independent. 'I might have grown fonder of Mat but for one thing. Very shortly afterour marriage--indeed, before the honeymoon was over--I discovered thathe had already stooped to deceit. He had always led me to imagine thathis people were well-to-do, and that his parentage was as respectable asmine; indeed, I understood that his only brother was a merchant, withconsiderable means at his disposal. I do not say Mat told me all this inwords, but he had a way with him of implying things. 'I was very proud--ridiculously proud, if you will--and I had a horrorof trade. You may judge, then, the shock it was to me when I found outby the merest accident--from reading a fragment of a letter--that thisbrother was a corn-chandler in a small retail way. 'We had our first quarrel then. Mat was very cowed and miserable when hesaw how I took it; he wanted to coax me into forgiving his deceit. '"I knew what a proud little creature you were, Olive, " he said, tryingto extenuate his shabby conduct, "and that there was no chance of yourlistening to me if you found out Tom was a tradesman. What does itmatter about the shop? Tom is as good a chap as ever breathed, and Susanis the best-hearted woman in the world. " But I would not be conciliated. 'I would not go near his people, and when he mentioned their names Ialways turned a deaf ear. It is a bad thing when a woman learns todespise her husband; but from that day I took Mat's true measure, and myheart seemed to harden against him. Perhaps I did not go the right wayto improve him or keep him straight, but I soon found out that I darednot rely on him. 'I think I should have left him before the year was out, only my babywas born and took all my thoughts; and Mat was so good to me, that forvery shame I dare not hint at such a thing. But we were not happy. Hisvery fondness made things worse, for he was always reproaching me for mycoldness. '"You are the worst wife that a man could have, " he would say to me. "You would not care if I were brought home dead any day, and yet if theboy's finger aches you want to send for the doctor. If I go to the bad, it will be your own fault, because you never have a kind look or wordfor me. " 'But he might as well have spoken to the wind. There was no love for Matin my heart, and I worshipped my boy. ' 'You are speaking now of your eldest son?' 'Yes; of Cyril. He was my first-born, and I doted on him. I had twoother children before Kester came; but, happily, they died--I sayhappily, for I had hard work to make ends meet with three children. Iwas so wrapped up in my boy that I neglected Mat more and more; and whenhe took to going out of an evening I made no complaints. We were gettingon better then, and I seldom quarrelled with him, unless he refused togive me money for the children. Perhaps he was afraid to cross me, forthe money was generally forthcoming when I asked for it; but I nevertook the trouble to find out how he procured it. And he was only toopleased to find me good-tempered and ready to talk to him, or to bringCyril to play with him; for he was fond of the boy, too. Well, thingswent on tolerably smoothly until Mollie was born; but she was only a fewmonths old when the crash came. ' She stopped, and an angry darkness came over her face. 'You need not tell me, ' returned Michael, anxious to spare her as muchas possible. 'I am aware of the forgery for which your husband incurredpenal servitude for so many years. ' 'You know that!' she exclaimed, with a terrified stare. 'Who could havetold you? Oh, I forgot Mat's brother at Brail! Why did I never guessthat Audrey's old friend she so often mentioned was this Tom O'Brien?But there are other O'Briens--there was one at Richmond when we livedthere--and I thought he was still in his shop. ' 'We heard all the leading facts from him; he told Audrey everything. ' 'Then you shall hear my part now, ' she returned, with flashing eyes. 'What do you suppose were my feelings when I heard the news that Mat wasin prison, and that my boy's father was a convicted felon? What do youimagine were my thoughts when I sat in my lodgings, with my childrenround me, knowing that this heritage of shame was on them?' 'It was very bad for you, ' he whispered softly, for her tragical aspectimpressed him with a sense of grandeur. She was not good: by her ownaccount she had been an unloving wife; but in her way she had beenstrong--only her strength had been for evil. 'Yes, it was bad. I think for days I was almost crazed by mymisfortunes; and then Mat sent for me. He was penitent, and wanted myforgiveness, so they told me. ' 'And you went?' 'Of course I went. I had a word to say to him that needed an answer, andI was thankful for the opportunity to speak it. I dressed myself atonce, and went to the prison. Cyril cried to come with me, and slappedme with his little hands when I refused to take him; but I onlysmothered him with kisses. I remember how he struggled to get free, andhow indignant he was. "I don't love you one bit to-day, mamma! you arenot my pretty mamma at all. " But I only laughed at his childish pet--mybright, beautiful boy!--I can see him now. 'Mat looked utterly miserable; but his wretchedness did not seem totouch me. The sin was his, and he must expiate it; it was I and mychildren who were the innocent sufferers. He began cursing himself forhis mad folly, as he called it, and begged me over and over again toforgive him. I listened to him for a few minutes, and then I looked athim very steadily. '"I will forgive you, Mat, and not say a hard word to you, if you willpromise me one thing. " '"And what is that?" he asked, seeming as though he dreaded my answer. '"That you will never try to see me or my children again. "' CHAPTER XXXIII 'SHALL YOU TELL HIM TO-NIGHT?' 'Wouldst thou do harm, and still unharmed thyself abide? None struck another yet, except through his own side. * * * * * From our ill-ordered hearts we oft are fain to roam, As men go forth who find unquietness at home. ' TRENCH. Michael raised his eyes and looked attentively at the woman before him;but she did not seem to notice him--she was too much absorbed in hermiserable recital. 'I had made up my mind to say this to him from the moment I heard he wasin prison--he should have nothing more to do with me and the children. It was for their sake I said it. 'He shrank back as though I had stabbed him, and then he beganreproaching me in the old way: "I had never loved him; from the first Ihad helped to ruin him by my coldness; he was the most wretched man onearth, for his own wife had deserted him;" but after a time I stoppedhim. '"It is too late to say all this now, Mat; you are quite right--I neverloved you. I was mad to marry you; we have never been suited to eachother. " '"But I was fond of you. I was always fond of you, Olive. " 'But I answered him sternly: '"Then prove your affection, Mat, by setting me free. Let me go my wayand you go yours, for as truly as I stand here I will never live withyou again. " '"But what will you do?" he asked; "oh, Olive, do not be so cruellyhard! There is Tom; he will take you and the children, and care for youall. " 'But at the mention of his brother I lost all control over myself. Oh, Iknow I said some hard things then--I am not defending myself--and hebegged me at last very piteously not to excite myself, and he wouldnever mention Tom again; only he must know what I meant to do withmyself and the children while he was working out his sentence. '"Then I will tell you, " I replied; "for at least you have a right toknow that, although from this day I will never acknowledge you as myhusband. I will not go near your beggarly relations; but I have a littlemoney of my own, as you know, though you have never been able to touchit. I will manage to keep the children on that. " 'Well, we talked--at least I talked--and at last I got him to promisethat he would never molest me or the children again. Mat was alwaysweak, and I managed to frighten him. I threatened to make away withmyself and the children sooner than have this shame brought home tothem, not that I meant it; but I was in one of my passionate moods, whenanything seemed possible. 'I told him what I meant to do, for I had planned it all in my headalready. I would sell out all my money and change my investments, sothat all clue should be lost; and I would take another name, and after atime the children should be told their father was dead. I would givemyself out to be a widow, and in this way no disgrace would ever touchthem. Would you believe it? Mat was so broken and penitent that he beganto think that, after all, this would be best--that it would be kinder tome and the children to cut himself adrift from us. 'I saw him again, and he gave me his promise. "You are a clever woman, Olive, " he said; "you will do better for the youngsters than ever Icould have done. I have brought disgrace on everyone belonging to me. Ifyou would only have trusted to Tom!--but you will go your own gait. Idare not cross you; I never have dared, lest evil should come of it; butI think no woman ever had a colder heart. " '"You have killed it, Mat, " was my answer; and then I said good-bye tohim, and we parted. 'Well, I took Biddy into my confidence; she was a faithful creature, andhad been devoted to me since my childhood. She had accompanied me toEngland on my marriage, and had been my one comfort before the childrenwere born. Strange to say, she had always disliked Mat, and if I hadonly listened to her, his wooing would have been unsuccessful. 'I found a lawyer who would do my business, and then I took a lodging atRichmond and called myself Mrs. Blake, and for a few years we livedquietly and comfortably. ' 'The investments had prospered, one especially was yielding a handsomedividend, so I was better off than I expected. I had got rid of somehouse property, and I put aside this money for my boy's education. Ineed not tell you that he was my one thought. Sometimes, when I saw himgrowing so fast, and looking so noble and handsome, my heart would quiteswell with pride and happiness to think he was my son; and I forgot Matand the past wretchedness, and only lived in and for him. My otherchildren were nothing to me compared to him. ' 'And you heard nothing of your husband?' 'I tell you I had no husband; he was dead to me. Do you think I wouldallow a man like Mat to blight my boy's career--a poor creature, weak aswater, and never able to keep straight; a man who could be cowed intogiving up his own wife and children? I would have died a hundred timesover before I would have let Cyril know that his father was a convict. ' Michael held his peace, but he shuddered slightly as he thought ofAudrey. 'They will make her give him up, ' he said to himself. 'Yes, I was happy then, ' she went on. 'I always had an elastictemperament. I did not mind the poverty and shifts as long as Cyril waswell and contented. I used to glory in giving up one little comfortafter another, and stinting myself that he might have the books heneeded when he was at Oxford. I used to live on his letters, and the daywhen he came home was a red-letter day. ' 'And you never trembled at the idea that one day you might come face toface with your husband?' 'Oh no; such a thought never crossed my mind. I knew Mat too well tofear that he would hunt me out and make a scene. Another man would, inhis place, but not Mat: he had always been afraid of me, and he darednot try it on. It was accident--mere accident--that made him cross mypath yesterday. But I know I can manage him still, and you--you will notbetray me, Captain Burnett?' 'I do not understand you, ' he returned, almost unable to believe hisears. Could she really think that he would make himself a party to herduplicity? 'I think my meaning is sufficiently clear, ' she replied, as thoughimpatient at his denseness. 'Now you have heard my story, you cannotblame me; under the circumstances, you must own that my conduct wasperfectly justifiable. ' 'I am not your judge, Mrs. Blake, ' he answered quietly; 'but in myopinion nothing could justify such an act of deception. None of us haveany right to say, "Evil, be thou my good. " When you deceived the worldand your own children, by wearing widow's weeds, when all the time youknew you had a living husband, you were distinctly living a lie. ' 'And I glory in that lie!' she answered passionately. 'Do not--do not!' he returned with some emotion; 'for it will bring youbitter sorrow. Do you think the son for whom you have sacrificed yourintegrity will thank you for it----' But before he could finish hissentence a low cry, almost of agony, stopped him. Ah, he had touched herthere. 'You will kill me, ' she gasped, 'if you only hint at such a thing!Captain Burnett, I will say I am sorry--I will say anything--if you willonly help me to keep this thing from my boy. Will you go to Mat? Willyou ask him, for all our sakes, to go away? He is not a bad man. When hehears about Cyril's prospects he will not spoil them by coming here andmaking a scene. I will see him if he likes--but I think it would bebetter not. Tell him if he wants money he shall have it: there is a sumI can lay my hands on, and Cyril will never know. ' 'You want me to bribe your husband to go away?' 'Yes. You have promised to help me; and this is the only way. ' 'Pardon me! There are limits to anything--an honest man cannot soil hishands with any such acts of deception. When I said I would help you, itwas real help I meant--for good, and not for evil. I will not attempt tobribe your husband; neither will I stand by and see you blindfold yourson. ' Then she threw herself on her knees before him, with a faint cry formercy. But he put her back in her seat, and then took her hands in hisand held them firmly. 'Hush! you must not do that. I will be as kind to you as I can. Do youthink that my heart is not full of pity for you, in spite of yourwrong-doing? Try to be reasonable and listen to me. I have only onepiece of advice to give you. Tell your son everything, as you have toldme. ' 'Never, never! I would die first. ' 'You do not know what you are saying, ' he returned soothingly. 'Do youthink a son is likely to judge his own mother harshly? If I can find itin my heart to pity you, will your own flesh and blood be more hard thana stranger?' 'Oh, you do not know Cyril!' she replied with a shudder. 'He is soperfectly truthful. I have heard him say once that nothing can justify adeception. In spite of his goodness, he can be hard--very hard. WhenKester was a little boy, he once, told a lie to shield Mollie, and Cyrilwould not speak to him for days. ' 'I do not say that he will not be shocked at first, and that you may nothave to bear his displeasure. But it will be better--a hundred timesbetter--for him to hear it from your own lips. ' 'He will never hear it, ' she returned; and now she was weeping wildly. 'The story will never be told by me. How could I bear to hear him tellme that I had ruined him--that his prospects were blasted? Oh, havemercy upon a miserable woman, Captain Burnett! For the sake of myboy--for Kester's and Mollie's sake--help me to send Mat away!' He made no answer, only looked at her with the same steady gentleness. That look, so calm, yet so inexorable, left her no vestige of hope. Arock would have yielded sooner than Michael Burnett, and she knew it. 'I was wrong to trust you, ' she sobbed. 'You are a hard man--I alwaysknew that; you will stand by and see us all ruined, and my boy breakinghis heart with shame and misery, and you will not stretch out your handto save us. ' But he let this pass. Her very despair was making her reckless of herwords. 'Mrs. Blake, ' he said quietly, 'will you tell your son that he has afather living?' 'No; I will not tell him!' Then Michael got up from his chair as though the interview were at anend. His movement seemed to alarm Mrs. Blake excessively. 'You are not going? Do you mean that you are actually leaving me in thismisery? Captain Burnett, I would not have believed you could be socruel!' 'There is no use in my staying. I cannot convince you that your besthope for the future is to throw yourself on your son's generosity. Iregret that you will not listen to me--you are giving me a very painfultask. ' Then she started up and caught him by the arm. 'Do you mean that you will tell him?' 'I suppose so--somebody must do it; but I would rather cut off my righthand than do it. ' 'Shall you tell him to-night?' 'No, certainly not to-night. ' 'To-morrow?' 'Yes, to-morrow or the next day; but I must speak to Mr. O'Brien and Dr. Ross first. ' Then she left him without saying another word; but it went to his heartto see her cowering over the fire in her old miserable attitude. 'Mrs. Blake, ' he said, following her, 'if you think better of this, willyou write to me? Two or three words will be enough: "I will tell himmyself" just that----' but she made no reply. 'I shall wait in the hopethat I may receive such a note; a few hours' delay will not matter, andperhaps a little consideration may induce you to be brave. Remember, there is no wrong-doing except that of heinous and deadly sin that wemay not strive to set right. It needs courage to confess to afellow-creature, but love should give you this courage. ' But still she did not move or speak, and he was forced to leave her. Hefound Biddy hovering about the dark passage, and he guessed at once thatshe had been a listener. A moment's consideration induced him to takethe old woman by the shoulder and draw her into an empty room close by. She looked somewhat scared at his action. She had a candle in her hand, and he could see how furtively her wild, hawk-like eyes glanced at him. 'Biddy, I know you are your mistress's trusted friend--that she confidesin you. ' 'Ay. ' 'Use every argument in your power, then, to induce her to tell her sonabout his father. ' 'I dare not, sir; she would fly into one of her mad passions and strikeme. ' 'Good heavens!' 'I have work enough with her sometimes; she has always had her tantrumsfrom a child; but I'm used to them, and I know how to humour her. Shewill never tell Mr. Cyril; I know them both too well for that. ' 'You heard all I said, Biddy. You need not deny it. You have beenlistening at the door. ' 'It is not me who would deny it, ' she returned boldly; but there was aflush on her withered cheek. 'There is nothing that my mistress couldsay that she would wish to keep from me. I have been with her all herlife. As a baby she slept in my bosom, and I loved her as my own child. Ah, it was an ill day for Miss Olive when she took up with thatgood-for-nothing Matthew O'Brien; bad luck to him and his!' 'Nevertheless, he is her husband, Biddy. ' 'I don't know about that, sir. I was never married myself, and fourteenyears is a long absence. Aren't they more her children than his, whenshe has slaved and sacrificed herself for them? You meant it well, sir, what you said to the mistress; but I take the liberty of differing fromyou, and I would sooner bite my tongue out than speak the word that willbring them all to shame. ' 'Then I must not look to you for help?' 'I am afraid not, sir. I am on my mistress's side. ' 'You are an obstinate old woman, Biddy, and I looked for better sense atyour age. ' Nevertheless, he shook her by the hand very kindly, and then she lightedhim downstairs. Mollie came out of the dining-room and looked at him wistfully. 'Is mamma better now, Captain Burnett?' 'Well, no, I am afraid not: but I think you need not trouble. Biddy willlook after her. ' 'Biddy is dreadfully mysterious, and will hardly let any of us speak tomamma; but I think it is my place, not Biddy's, to wait on her. She hasno right to tell me to go downstairs, and to treat me like a child. I amfifteen. ' 'Yes; indeed, you are growing quite a woman, Mollie. ' And Michael looked very kindly at Audrey's _protégée_. He and Molliewere great friends. 'Cyril came in some time ago. He had to dress for the party, you know, and Biddy would not let him go into the drawing-room and interrupt you;she was mounting guard all the time. Cyril was quite cross at last, andasked me what on earth was the matter, and why you and mamma were havinga private interview; but of course I could not tell him. ' 'I suppose not, my dear. ' 'He says he shall ask mamma to-morrow, and that he shall bring Miss Rossto see her, because he is sure she is ill. Will you come in and seeKester, Captain Burnett?--he is busy with his Greek. ' But Michael declined; it was late, and he must hurry home and dress fordinner. He had forgotten all about the Charringtons' dinner-party and dance, andhe was a little startled, as he entered the hall, to see Audrey standingbefore the fire talking to Cyril. Both of them were in evening dress. Audrey looked very pretty; she wore a white silk dress. He had seen herin it once before, and he had thought then how wonderfully well itbecame her; and the sparkling cross rested against her soft throat. Cyril's roses, with their pale pinky tint, gave her just the colour thatwas needed, and her eyes were very bright; and perhaps her lover'spraise had brought that lovely glow to her face. 'You will be late, Michael; the dressing-bell sounded an age ago, andfather is in the drawing-room. What have you been doing with yourselfall these hours?' 'I had forgotten you were going out, ' he returned, parrying herquestion. 'How nice you look, Audrey! I thought white silk was bridalfinery. Cinderella turned into a princess was nothing to you. ' 'I feel like a princess with my roses and diamonds;' but she looked atCyril, not at Michael, as she spoke. Cyril was standing beside her withone arm against the carved mantelpiece; he was looking handsomer thanever. Just then there was the sound of carriage-wheels, and he took upthe furred cloak that lay on the settee beside him, and put it gentlyround her shoulders. 'You must not take cold, ' Michael heard him say. There was nothing inthe words, but the glance that accompanied this simple remark spokevolumes. Michael drew a deep heavy sigh as he went upstairs. 'Poorfellow! how he worships her!' he thought;' what will be the end of thistangle?' And then he dressed himself hastily and took his place at thetable to eat his dinner with what appetite he might, while Mrs. Rossdiscoursed to him placidly on the baby's beauty and on dear Geraldine'smerits as a mother and hostess. CHAPTER XXXIV 'I MUST THINK OF MY CHILD, MIKE' 'Ah! the problem of grief and evil is, and will be always, the greatest enigma of being, only second to the existence of being itself. '--AMIEL. Michael listened in a sort of dream. He was telling himself all the timethat his opportunity was come, and that it was incumbent on him not tosleep another night under his cousin's roof until he had made known tohim this grievous thing. As soon as they rose from the table, and Dr. Ross was preparing as usualto follow his wife into the drawing-room until the prayer-bell summonedhim into the schoolroom, Michael said, a little more seriously thanusual: 'Dr. Ross, would you mind giving me half an hour in the study afterprayers? I want your advice about something;' for he wished to securethis quiet time before Audrey returned from her party. The Doctor was an observant man, in spite of his occasional absence ofmind, and he saw at once that something was amiss. 'Shall you be able to do without us this evening, Emmie?' he said, withhis usual old-fashioned politeness, that his wife and daughters thoughtthe very model of perfection: 'it is too bad to leave you alone whenAudrey is not here to keep you company. ' But Mrs. Ross assured him that she would not in the least mind suchsolitude; she was reading the third volume of an exciting novel, andwould not be sorry to finish it. And as soon as this was settled and thecoffee served, the gong sounded, and they all adjourned to theschoolroom. Michael never missed this function, as he called it. He liked to sit inhis corner and watch the rows of boyish faces before him, and try toimagine what their future would be; and, above all things, he loved tohear the fresh young voices uniting in their evening hymn; but on thisevening he regarded them with some degree of sadness. 'They have the best of it, ' he thought rather moodily; 'they little knowwhat is before them, poor fellows! and the hard rubs fate has in storefor them. ' And then, as they filed past him and one little fellow smiledat him, he drew him aside and put him between his knees. 'You look very happy, Willie. I suppose you have not been canedto-day?'--a favourite joke of the Captain's. 'No, sir, ' returned Willie proudly; 'but Jefferson minor fought me, andI licked him. You may ask the other fellows, and they would tell you itwas all fair. He is a head taller than me, and I licked him, ' finishedWillie, with an air of immense satisfaction on his chubby baby face. 'Ah, you licked him, did you?' returned Michael absently; 'and Jeffersonminor is beaten. I hope you shook hands afterwards; fair fight and nomalice, Willie. There's a shilling for you because you did not show thewhite feather in the face of the enemy. You will be at the head of abrigade yet, my boy. ' For all Dr. Ross's lads were bitten with themilitary fever, and from Willie Sayers to broad-shouldered Jeff Davidsoneach boy nourished a secret passion and desire to follow the Captain'sfootsteps, and were ready to be hewed and slashed into small pieces ifonly the Victoria Cross might be their reward. As soon as the curly-haired champion had left him, Michael followed hiscousin into the study. Dr. Ross had already lighted his lamp, and rousedhis fire into a cheerful blaze. 'What is it, Mike? you look bothered, ' he asked, as Michael drew up hischair. 'Nothing wrong with the money, I hope?' 'What should be wrong about it?' returned Michael rather disdainfully;'it is about as safe as the Bank of England. No; it is something verydifferent--a matter that I may say concerns us all. I heard somethingthe other day rather uncomfortable about the Blakes. ' 'Nothing discreditable, I hope?' returned the Doctor quickly. 'I am afraid I must answer "Yes" to that question; but, at least, I canassure you that there is nothing against Blake. ' Then Dr. Ross looked relieved. 'Whatever blame there is attaches solely to the mother. ' 'Humph! With all her good looks, I never quite liked the woman, 'ejaculated Dr. Ross _sotto voce_. Nevertheless, he had always beenextremely pleasant with her; but perhaps a man finds it difficult to beotherwise with a pretty woman. 'I have unfortunately found out--but perhaps I ought to say fortunatelyfor us--that Mrs. Blake is not a widow: her husband is living. ' 'Good heavens!' 'Neither is her name Blake; she changed it at the time she discarded herhusband. I am afraid you must prepare yourself for a shock, Dr. Ross, for the whole thing is distinctly reprehensible. ' 'And you mean to tell me, ' returned the Doctor, with an anxiousblackness gathering on his brow, 'that Cyril--that my future son-in-lawis cognisant of this fact?' 'No, no!' replied Michael eagerly; 'you are doing him injustice. Blakeis as ignorant of the thing as you are yourself; he has no more to dowith it than you or I. Did I not tell you that the sole blame rests withhis mother?' Then the Doctor, in spite of his Christianity, pronounced a maledictionagainst the Blake womankind. 'She is just the sort to get into mischief, ' he continued; 'there is adangerous look in her eyes. Go on, Michael; don't keep me in suspense. There is something disgraceful behind all this. What reason has anywoman to allege for giving up her husband?' 'Her excuse is that he brought shame and dishonour on her and on hischildren, and that she would have nothing more to do with him. He hadcommitted a forgery, and had been condemned to penal servitude for sevenyears. ' Then the Doctor said 'Good heavens!' again. At certain moments ofexistence it is not possible to be original--when the roof is falling onone's head, for example, or a deadly avalanche is threatening. ButMichael needed no answer; he only wished to finish his story as quicklyas possible. 'You know Audrey's friend, Thomas O'Brien?' 'To be sure I do. He is a retired corn-chandler. I went to his shoponce, in Peterborough. ' 'And you have probably heard of his brother Mat?' Then Dr. Ross gazed at him with a face of despair. His misfortunes wereaccumulating; he had a sense of nightmare and oppression. Surely thishideous thing could not be true! no such disgrace could threaten him andhis! If an earthquake had opened in the Woodcote grounds, he could nothave looked more horrified. 'Do you mean to tell me, Mike, that this Mat O'Brien is Cyril's father?' Then Michael gave him a detailed and carefully-worded account of hisinterview with Mrs. Blake. 'Then it is true--quite true?' in a hopeless tone. 'There cannot be a doubt of it; I had it from her own lips. To-morrow Imust see O'Brien himself, and hear his side. I cannot help saying that Iam sorry for the woman, in spite of her falseness; she is utterlycrushed with her misery. ' But it may be doubted if Dr. Ross heard this:he was occupied with his own reflections. 'This will break Audrey's heart; she is devoted to the fellow. ' 'Oh, I hope not; she has more strength than other girls. ' 'Of course I cannot allow this affair to go on: I must see Blake, andtell him so at once. ' 'There is no hurry, is there? I think you should let me speak to O'Brienfirst. ' 'Well, if you wish it; but I confess I do not see the necessity. ' 'And I hope you will be gentle with Blake: remember that not a vestigeof blame attaches to him; it is simply his misfortune that he is the sonof such parents. I expect he will be utterly broken-hearted. ' Then Dr. Ross gave vent to an impatient groan. No man had a softer heartthan he, and he had liked Cyril from the first. 'I must think of my child, Mike, ' he said at last. 'Yes, you must think of her; but you must be merciful to him, too. Thinkwhat he will suffer when he knows this; and he is as innocent as ababe! I suppose'--and then he hesitated, and looked at his cousin--'thatthere will be no way of hushing up things, and letting the engagement goon?' Then the Doctor nearly sprang out of his chair. 'Are you out of your senses, Michael, to put such a question to me? Isit likely that any man in my position would allow his family to beallied to a convicted criminal? Would any amount of hushing up rendersuch an alliance tolerable?' 'Well, I suppose not. ' 'I have never cared much for conventionality, or for the mere show ofthings; but I suppose that, in some sense, the good opinion of myfellow-men is necessary for my comfort. When Blake came to me, and toldme that he had not a shilling in the world beside his earnings as myclassical master, I did not let his poverty stand in the way. I told himthat, as my girl's happiness was involved, I could not find it in myheart to withhold my consent. '"You are certainly not in the position in which I should wish to see myson-in-law, " I said to him; "but I will speak to Charrington, and seewhat is to be done. " 'Well, I have spoken, and Charrington only promised the other day thathe would push him on. I have no doubt at all that, with my interest andstanding in the place, Cyril would have had a house in time, andAudrey's position would have been equal to her sister's. ' 'And you mean to say that all this is at an end?' 'Of course it is at an end!' almost shouted the Doctor; 'and Cyril'scareer is practically at an end, too. Do you suppose any public schoolin England would employ a master whose relatives are so disreputablethat he is obliged to make use of an assumed name? When I refuse toallow him to marry my daughter, I must give him his _congé_ at the sametime. ' 'Then in that case he is a ruined man;' and to this Dr. Ross gave asorrowful assent. 'How am I to help myself or him, Mike? I will do all in my power tosoften the weight of this blow to him; but when all is at an end betweenhim and Audrey, how am I to keep him in Rutherford? The thing would heimpossible. He would not wish it himself. He is very proud andhigh-spirited by nature, and such a position would be intolerable tohim. No, he must go; but if money will help him, he may command me toany reasonable amount. ' 'He will not take your money;' and then he added 'Poor beggar!' underhis breath. 'You will stand by me, Mike?' 'Most certainly I will; but I mean to befriend Blake, too, as far as hewill let me. ' 'I should not think he would refuse your sympathy; a man needs someoneat such a time. But when I spoke I was thinking of my girl. You havegreat influence with her, Michael; sometimes I think no brother'sinfluence could be stronger. How would it be if she were to hear thenews first from you?' Then Michael recoiled as though someone had struck him in the face. 'Impossible! I could not tell her. I would rather be shot!' he returnedvehemently. 'Well, it is not a pleasant business, and I suppose I must do it myself;only the idea crossed my mind that perhaps it might come better fromyou. I shall not be able to refrain from indignation; I am apt to get alittle warm sometimes. ' But Michael firmly negatived this notion. 'It will go hard with her, whoever tells it, ' he said decidedly. 'Nothing can soften such a blow, and it is far better for her to hear itfrom her father. You see, ' he continued rather sadly, 'it will be a fairdivision, for I have to break it to poor Blake; and I shall have toughwork with him, for he worships the ground she walks on. ' 'Ay, poor fellow! I know he does. What a cruel affair it is, Mike! Thatwoman's deceit will go far to spoil two lives. ' But to this Michael would not agree. He said, with a great deal offeeling, that Audrey was not the girl to let any love-affair spoil herlife; she thought too little of herself, was too considerate andunselfish, to allow any private unhappiness to get too strong a holdover her, and so spoil other people's lives. 'You will see what sort of stuff she has in her, ' he said, with theenthusiasm of a lover who can find no flaw at all. 'She will bear hersorrow bravely, and not allow it to interfere with others. She is fartoo good and noble. You need not fear for her; she has strength enoughfor a dozen women. ' And Dr. Ross felt himself a little comforted by such words. 'Do you mind waiting up for her to-night?' he asked presently. 'Unfortunately, Emmie has sent all the servants to bed, because I said Ihad some writing to do. I feel very upset about all this, and she willfind out from my manner that something is amiss. Would it bother you, Mike? She will just come in here and warm herself; but if you tell heryou are tired, she will not detain you. ' 'I can have no objection to do that, ' replied Michael, trying to hidehis reluctance; and, indeed, Dr. Ross looked so pale and jaded, thatAudrey's suspicions would have been excited. 'Go to bed and get a goodnight's rest; it is nearly twelve now, and they meant to be home byone. ' Then Dr. Ross allowed himself to be persuaded. 'I don't know about the good night's rest, ' he replied; 'but I should beglad to think over the whole thing quietly before I see either of them. There is no hurry, as you say, and perhaps you had better get yourinterview over with O'Brien. ' 'Shall you tell Cousin Emmeline?' 'Tell Emmie!' and here the Doctor's voice was somewhat irritable, as onedisagreeable detail opened after another. 'Not to-night, certainly. Why, she will be asleep. No, it would never do to tell her before Audrey; itwould get round to Geraldine, and there would be the deuce of a row. Tell the child I was tired, and bid her good-night. ' And then Dr. Ross shook Michael's hand with fervour and took himselfoff. Michael spent a dreary hour by himself in the study. It was a relief tohim when he heard the carriage-wheels, but as he opened the door he wasquite dazzled at the scene before him. It was a brilliant moonlightnight, and the terrace and wide lawn were bathed in the pure whitelight. A crisp frost had touched the grass and silvered each blade, andthe effect against the dark background of trees and shrubs was intenselybeautiful. And the moonlight shone full on Audrey's upturned face, as she stoodtalking to her lover, and the silken folds of her dress and her softfurred cloak and hood looked almost of unearthly whiteness. In Michael'sbewildered eyes she seemed invested at the present moment with some newand regal beauty; but her light musical laugh dispelled the illusion. 'Why, Michael, what has become of father?' 'He was tired, and went off to bed more than an hour ago. I hope you donot object to his deputy. I suppose you are not coming in, Blake, as itis so late?' 'Of course he is not, ' returned Audrey in a tone that allowed of noappeal. 'He has early work to-morrow, and must get as much rest as hecan. Good-night, Cyril; we have had a delightful evening, have we not?'And to this Cyril responded gaily--for it was not possible there couldbe any lingering adieus before Michael; and as Cyril ran down theterrace Audrey waited until Michael had fastened the door, and thenaccompanied him to the study. 'How nice and warm it is!' she observed in a pleased tone. 'You alwayskeep up such a splendid fire. ' 'I am a chilly mortal, you know, and these March nights have a touch ofDecember in them. ' 'Yes; it is quite frosty. ' And Audrey threw back her hood and cloak and sat down in Dr. Ross'sfavourite chair. 'Had she any idea how like a picture she looked, 'Michael wondered, 'with all those soft white draperies about her, andthe sparkling cross upon her neck?' Then he turned away his head with amute sensation of pain. How happy, how very happy, she looked! 'We have had such a nice evening, she began in her most animated manner;'everything was so well arranged. There was a dinner-party first, whichwas followed by what they called a Cinderella dance; but actually theydo not mean to break up for another hour and a half. Mrs. Charringtonwas quite annoyed because we came home so early. ' 'And you enjoyed yourself?' 'Oh, immensely! I waltzed twice with Cyril. Do you know, he dancessplendidly--he was certainly my best partner. ' 'Yes; he looks as though he would dance well. Would you believe it, Audrey, that when I was a youngster I was considered a good dancer, too?It is rather droll to remember that now. ' 'I can very easily believe it--you do everything well, Michael. ' 'Pshaw!' And then Michael added, with a pretended yawn: 'I think I couldsleep well, though. ' But Audrey refused to take this very broad hint. 'What a hurry you are in! And I have not warmed myself yet. Do stay alittle longer, Michael. I so seldom get you to myself. ' 'But it is very late, ' he returned, unwilling to yield. 'I will only keep you a few minutes, ' she replied eagerly; 'but I wantto tell you something. ' Then he was obliged to sit down again. 'What is it?' he asked a little languidly, for the spell of her presencewas so strong that it threatened to subjugate him. He was neverwillingly alone with her now. The fear was always upon him that, in someweak moment, he might betray himself. The fear was an idle one--no manwas less likely than Michael to lose his self-control; but, nevertheless, it was there. 'It is about Cyril, ' she returned softly. 'Dr. Charrington has been sonice to him to-night. He stood out once during the Lancers, and Dr. Charrington came up to him, and they had quite a long talk together. Hesaid father had been speaking to him, and that he had quite made up hismind that Cyril should be in the upper school next year, when Mr. Hanbury left. It would be a better position, and he would be able tohave private pupils. And he as good as told him that he would do hisbest to push him, for father's sake. ' 'Blake must have been very pleased at this, ' replied Michael; but hespoke in a dull, monotonous way. 'Yes; he is quite excited. Don't you see, ' she continued a little shyly, 'it will make all the difference to us if Dr. Charrington pushes Cyril;for of course it will make it possible for him to marry. ' Then Michael felt as though he had accidentally touched a full-chargedbattery. He waited until the numb, tingling sensation had left himbefore he answered her. 'I did not know that you wished to shorten your engagement, ' he saidvery quietly; 'I understood that there would be no talk of settling forthe next two or three years; but, of course, if your father has noobjection----' 'How you talk, Michael!' returned Audrey, blushing with some annoyanceat this obvious misunderstanding of her meaning; 'it is Cyril who is ina hurry: for myself, I should be perfectly content to go on as we arefor the next five years. Do you not remember my tirade on the pleasuresof freedom?' 'I think I do recall something of the kind. ' Alas! had he ever forgottenanything she had said to him? 'Well, I am afraid I am of the same opinion still; only I dare not letCyril know that: he would be so hurt. I suppose, ' reflectively, 'men aredifferent from women; they do always seem in such a dreadful hurry abouteverything. When Cyril complains that he feels unsettled, and that I getbetween him and his work, I do not pretend to understand him. I am verymatter-of-fact, am I not, Michael?' 'I should not have said so. ' 'Oh, but I am; and I am afraid Cyril thinks so. Well, as I have told youmy good news I will not detain you any longer. ' And then Michael rosewith a feeling of relief. But as he followed her a few minutes later upstairs, he wondered whatshe must have thought of him. With all his efforts, he had been unableto bring himself to utter one word of congratulation. 'It would havebeen a lie, ' he said to himself vehemently; 'how could I find it in myheart to deceive her for a moment? This may be their last happy day, Heaven help them both!' and Michael went to bed in profoundwretchedness. 'My roses are withered, ' thought Audrey, as she regarded the droopingbuds and leaves; 'my poor beautiful roses, and they were Cyril's gift, too. What a pity that flowers must die, and we must grow old--that inthis world there must always be decay and change! Shall I ever behappier than I am to-night, with Cyril to love me, and Michael--dearMichael--to be my friend? What makes him so grave? He is always gravenow. ' And then she sighed and laid down her flowers, and took theglittering cross from her neck. 'My poor Michael! I should like to seehim happy, too, ' she finished, as she put it away in its case. CHAPTER XXXV 'OLIVE WILL ACKNOWLEDGE ANYTHING' 'Evil, like a rolling stone upon a mountain-top, A child may first impel, a giant cannot stop. '--TRENCH. 'By despising himself too much, a man comes to be worthy of his own contempt. '--AMIEL. Audrey was sure it was the east wind that made everyone so unlikethemselves the next morning. Bailey had told her that the wind wasdecidedly easterly, or, perhaps, more strictly speaking, north-east. Shehad run down the garden to speak to him about some plants, and perhapswith some intention of intercepting Cyril when he went across tobreakfast, and they had had quite a confabulation on the subject. But when she got back to the house she found rather a subdued state ofthings. Mrs. Ross looked tired; her husband had kept her awake by hisrestlessness, and she had got it firmly in her mind that a fit of goutwas impending. Dr. Ross had once had a touch of gout--a very slighttouch, to be sure--but it had given him a wholesome fear of thecomplaint, and had implanted in him a deep distrust of other men's portwine; and his devoted wife had never forgotten the circumstance. 'And I am sure, ' she observed in an undertone to her daughter, 'that ifI were not quite certain that there is nothing troubling yourfather--for, of course, he would have told me of it at once--I shouldhave said there was something on his mind, for he tossed and groaned so;but mark my words, Audrey, it is his old enemy, the gout; and if only Icould induce him to speak to Dr. Pilkington we might ward it off still. ' 'What is that you are telling the child, Emmie?' asked the Doctor, whohad very sharp ears. 'Gout! stuff and nonsense! I never was better in mylife. ' 'I think your complexion looks a little sallow this morning, John, 'returned Mrs. Ross rather timidly, for she knew her husband's objectionto any form of ailment; 'and I am sure you never closed your eyes allnight. ' But at this Dr. Ross pished impatiently, and it was then thatAudrey hazarded her brilliant suggestion about the east wind. 'Michael looks rather limp, too, ' she went on; 'and he never couldendure an east wind. ' 'Have your own way, Audrey, ' returned her cousin good-humouredly; butneither to her nor to Mrs. Ross did he confess that his night had beensleepless too. When he had finished his breakfast he went round to thestables, where Dr. Ross joined him. He had ordered the dog-cart to begot ready for him, and he told the groom that there was no need to bringit round to the front door. Dr. Ross watched him silently as he drew on his driving gloves andturned up the collar of his coat. 'You will have a cold drive, I am afraid, ' he said at last, as Michaeltook the reins and the brown mare began to fidget; 'come to my study themoment you get back. ' And Michael nodded. Much as he disliked the business before him, he was anxious to get itover; so he drove as fast as possible; and as the mare was fresh andskittish, she gave him plenty to think about, and he was quite warm withthe exertion of holding her in and restraining her playful antics by thetime he pulled up at the village inn, which went by the name of the Catand Fiddle. Here he had the mare put up, while he walked down the onemain street of Brail, and down a lane or two, until he came to Mr. O'Brien's sequestered cottage. Mr. O'Brien opened the door himself. When he saw Michael, he shook hishead with an air of profound sadness, and led the way without speakinginto the parlour, where he usually sat, and where Sam was basking beforethe fire after the luxurious habit of cats. He got up, however, and rubbed his sleek head against Michael's knee ashe sat down in the black elbow-chair; but Mr. O'Brien still stood on therug, shaking his head sadly. 'You have come, Captain. I made up my mind you would come to-day, to getat the rights of it; I told Mat so. "Depend upon it, the Captain willlook us up, " I said to him; "he is a man of action, and it is not likelyhe will let the grass grow under his feet. He will be round, sureenough, and you will have to be ready with your answers. "' 'Where is your brother, Mr. O'Brien?' 'He has gone out for a bit, but he will be back presently. I told himnot to go far. "You'll be wanted, you may take my word for it--you'll bewanted, Mat, " I told him; and then he promised he would be rounddirectly. ' 'I am afraid this affair has been a great shock to you, Mr. O'Brien. Miss Ross once told me that you had no idea whom your brother married. ' 'Well, sir, I can't say as much as that. Mat told me that the name ofthe girl he was going to wed was Olive Carrick, and that she came ofrespectable people; but he did not tell me much more than that. And nowI put it to you, Captain--how was I to know that any woman would falsifyher husband's name, and that she should be living close to my doors, asone might say?--for what is a matter of three miles? It gave me a sortof shiver--and I have not properly got rid of it yet--when I think ofthat dear young creature, whom Susan and me have always loved--that sheshould be entrapped through that woman's falseness into an engagementwith Mat's son. It goes to my heart--it does indeed, Captain--to seethat dear, sweet lady dragged into a connection that will only disgraceher. ' 'My cousin would think it no disgrace to be connected with you, Mr. O'Brien;' for he knew too well Audrey's large-mindedness and absence ofconventionality. 'She has always looked upon you as her friend. ' 'Thank you, Captain; that is very handsomely said, and I wish my Prissycould have heard it, for she has done nothing but cry since the newsreached her. "Rachel refusing to be comforted" is nothing compared toPrissy when the mood is on her; she literally waters all her meals withher tears. Yes, you mean it handsomely; but I am an old man, CaptainBurnett, and know the world a bit, and I have the sense to see thatThomas O'Brien--honest and painstaking as he may be--is no fitconnection for Dr. Ross's daughter. Why, to think she might be my nieceand call me "uncle"!' and here the old man's face flushed as he spoke. 'It is not right; it is not as it should be. She must give him up--shemust indeed, Captain!' 'I am afraid Dr. Ross holds that opinion, Mr. O'Brien. You willunderstand that he means no disrespect to you; but it is simplyintolerable to him that any daughter of his should marry MatthewO'Brien's son. You see, I am speaking very plainly. ' 'Yes, sir; and I am speaking just as plainly to you. In this sort ofcase it is no use beating about the bush. Mat has made his bed, and hemust just lie on it; and his children--Heaven help them, poor youngthings!--must just lie on theirs too. Dear, dear! to think that when shewas talking to me so pleasantly about Mollie and Kester, and--what isher lad's name?--that neither she nor I had an idea that she wasspeaking to their uncle! There, it beats me, Captain--it does indeed!'And there were tears in the old man's eyes. 'I am afraid there is heavy trouble in store for them all, and for mycousin, too; she will be very unwilling to give up Blake. ' 'Humph! that is what he calls himself! Well, she was always faithful, Captain; she is made of good stout stuff, and that sort wears best inthe long-run. If she is a bit difficult, send her to me, and I'll talkto her. I will put things before her in a light she won't be able toresist. ' In spite of the sadness of the conversation, Michael could hardlyforbear a smile. 'I hardly know what you would say to her, Mr. O'Brien. ' 'You leave that to me, Captain; it is best not to be too knowing aboutthings. But I don't mind telling you one thing that I would say: "Mydear young lady, you have been a good and true friend to Thomas O'Brien, and I am grateful and proud to call you my friend; but I will not haveyou for my niece. Mat's son may be good as gold--I have nothing to sayagainst the poor lad, who, after all, is my own flesh and blood; but itwould be a sin and shame to wed him, when his father picked oakum in afelon's cell. " Don't you think that will fetch her, sir? Women aremostly proud, and like their menkind to have clean hands; and I'll sayit, too!' And here Mr. O'Brien thumped the arm of his chair soemphatically, that Sam woke and uttered a reproachful mew. 'I hope you will not be put to the pain of saying this to her, 'returned. Michael, in a low voice. What a fine old fellow this was! He wondered what Dr. Ross would saywhen he repeated this speech to him. Nature must have intended TomO'Brien for a gentleman. Could anything be more touching than the way hesought to shield his girl-friend, even putting aside the natural claimsof his own flesh and blood to prevent her from being sullied by anycontact with him and his? Michael felt as though he longed to shake hands with him, and tell himhow he honoured and respected him; but he instinctively felt that anysuch testimony would hardly be understood. One word he did venture tosay: 'I think it is very good of you to take our side. ' 'Nay, sir, I can see nought of goodness in it. As my Susan used to say, you should not praise people for walking along a straight road, and fornot taking the first crooked path that offers itself. Susan and Ithought alike there--we were neither of us fond of crooked turnings. "There can only be one right and one wrong, Tom, " as she would say; andI hope, Captain, that I shall always tell the truth and shame the devilas long as I am a living man. ' 'I should think there would be no doubt of that, ' returned Michaelheartily. And then a faint smile crossed the old man's face; but itfaded in a moment, as footsteps sounded in the passage outside. 'That is Mat; he has kept his word in coming back so soon. I had betterfetch him in, and then you'll get it over. ' 'You need not leave the room, Mr. O'Brien; this is your business as wellas ours. ' 'I know it, sir. But, thank you kindly, I feel as if I had said my say, and that I may as well bide quiet with Prissy. Mat has had it all outwith me; we were up half the night talking. I always hoped I was aChristian, Captain; but I doubt it when I think of the words I spokeabout that woman. She married that poor lad to serve her own purposesand to spite her lover; and while he doted on her, she just looked downon him, and scouted his people because they were in trade. She prettynearly ruined him with her fine lady-like ways, and with pestering himfor money that he had not got; and then, when he made that slip of his, and was almost crazy with the sin and the shame, she just gives himup--will have nothing more to do with him. And that is the woman thatthe Almighty made so fair outside that our poor foolish lad went halfwild for the love of her! No, sir; if you will excuse me, I will justsend Mat along, and keep in the background a bit. It makes me grind myteeth with pain and anger to hear how she treated the poor fellow, almost driving him mad with her bitter tongue!' 'Then in that case I will certainly not keep you. ' And as he spoke henoticed how the vigorous old man seemed to totter as he rose from hischair; but he only shook his head with the same gentle smile as Michaeloffered him his arm. 'Nay, Captain; that is not needed. I am only a bit shaken with allthat's passed, and you must give me time to right myself. Now I willsend Mat in; and when you have finished I'll see you again. ' Michael did not have to wait long. He had only crossed the room to lookat a photograph of Susan O'Brien which always stood on a little roundtable in the corner, when he found the light suddenly intercepted, asMatthew O'Brien's tall figure blocked up the little window. To his surprise, Mat commenced the conversation quite easily: 'You are looking at Susan, Captain Burnett? That was taken twelve orthirteen years ago. Isn't it a kind, true face?--that is better than ahandsome one in the long-run. She does not look as though she woulddesert a man when his head is under water--eh, Captain?' 'No, indeed!' returned Michael, falling at once into the other man'shumour. 'Mrs. O'Brien must have been a thoroughly good woman, for herhusband never seems to have got over her loss; he is always talkingabout her. ' 'That is so like Tom! He was never given to keep a silent tongue in hishead: he must always speak out his thoughts, good or bad. That is ratherdifferent from me. Why, I have often spent days without opening mymouth, except to call to my dog. I think Tom finds it a relief to talk;the sound of his own tongue soothes him. ' 'Very likely. Shall we sit down, Mr. O'Brien? the fireside is rather apleasant place this bitter March day. ' 'As you like, ' returned Mat indifferently; 'for myself, I prefer tostand;' and as he spoke he propped his tall figure against the woodenmantelpiece, and, half shielding his face with one arm, looked down intothe blaze. In this attitude Michael could only see his side-face, and he wasstartled at the strong likeness to Cyril--the profile was nearly asfinely cut; and it was only when he turned his full face that theresemblance ceased to be so striking. Cyril had the same dark eyes andlow, broad forehead; but his beautifully-formed mouth and chin were verydifferent from his father's, which expressed far too clearly a weak, irresolute character. But he was a handsome man, and, in spite of hisshabby coat, there was something almost distinguished in his appearance. Anyone seeing the man for the first time would have guessed he had astory; very probably, looking at his broad chest and closely-croppedgray hair and black moustache, they would have taken him for a soldier, as Michael did. Somehow, he found it a little difficult to begin the conversation; hehoped Matthew O'Brien would speak again; but he seemed disinclined tobreak the silence that had grown up between them. 'You are not much like your brother, Mr. O'Brien. ' 'No, sir; Tom and I are not much alike, and more's the pity. Tom hasbeen an honest man all his life. ' Michael was about to reply that that was not saying much in his favour;but he felt that under the circumstances this would be awkward, so heheld his peace. 'There aren't many men to beat Tom, ' continued Mat. 'Few folk would beso stanch to their own flesh and blood when only disgrace would come ofit; but Tom is too fine-hearted to trample on a fellow when he is downand other folk are crying "Fie! for shame!" on him. Would you believeit, sir, ' stretching out a sinewy thin hand as he spoke, 'that thatbrother of mine never said an unkind word to me in my life; and when Icame back to him that night, feeling none too sure of my welcome, it wasjust a grip of the hand and "Come in, my lad, " as though I were theyoung chap I used to be coming home to spend my holiday with him andSusan. ' 'I think your brother one of the best men living, Mr. O'Brien. ' 'And so he is, sir; and so he is; but you have not come all this way totalk about Tom;' and here he paused, and again the shielding hand wentover his eyes, and Michael could see a twitching of the mouth under themoustache. 'It is about Olive that you want to see me. ' 'You are right. Will you kindly give me the date and place of yourmarriage?' Matthew O'Brien nodded and drew a folded paper from his breast-pocket. 'There it is. Tom told me I had better write it down in black and whiteto save us all trouble. I have put down the date and the name of thechurch where we were married. Strange to say, I can even recollect thename of the parson who did the job; he was a little black-haired man, and his name was Craven. It was a runaway match, you know. Olive wasstopping with some friends in Dublin, and I met her early one morningand took her to St. Patrick's. You will find it all right in theregister--Matthew Robert O'Brien and Olive Carrick. There were only twowitnesses: an old pew-opener, and a friend of mine, Edgar Boyle. Boyleis dead now, poor chap! but you will find his name all right. ' 'Can you tell me also, Mr. O'Brien, where I can find the entries of yourchildren's baptism? It may be necessary for them to know this some day. ' 'Well, sir, I believe I can satisfy you on that point, too. We wereliving at Stoke Newington when the children were born. You will findtheir names in the register at St. Philip's--Cyril Langton Carrick: thatwas a bit of her pride; she wanted the boy to have her family names. Kester and Mary Olivia--my little Mollie as we meant to call her--I havenot seen her since she was a baby;' and here Michael was sure Mat dashedaway a tear. 'It was a barbarous thing to rob me of my children, and Iwas so fond of the little chaps, too. I think I took most to Kester; hewas such a cunning, clever little rogue, and his mother did not makehalf the fuss about him that she did about Cyril. ' 'She has acknowledged that to me. ' 'I don't doubt it, sir. Olive will acknowledge anything; she will haveher flare-up one minute and frighten you to death with her tantrums, andthe next she will be as placid and sweet-tongued as ever. She was neverthe same for two days running; it would be always some scheme or other, something for which she needed money. I used to tell her she neveropened her lips to me except to ask me for money; and woe betide me if Itold her I was hard up. ' 'But she had money of her own?' 'Yes; but she muddled it away. She was always a bad manager. I never sawsuch a woman; and Biddy was just as bad. We might have had a comfortablehome, and I might have kept out of trouble, if she had listened to me;but I might as well have spoken to that wall. ' 'But surely it was your duty as her husband to restrain her? Her sonmanages her quite easily now. ' 'Perhaps so, ' a little sullenly; 'maybe she cares for her son, thoughshe turned against her husband; her heart was always like flint stoneto me. I was afraid of her, Captain Burnett, and she knew it; and thatgave her a handle over me. A man ought not to fear his own wife--it isagainst nature; but, there, when she looked at me in her cold, contemptuous way, and dared me to dictate to her, I felt all my courageooze out of me. I could have struck her when she looked at me like that;and I think she wanted me to, just to make out a case against me: but, fool that I was, I was too fond of her and the children to do it. I boreit all, and perilled my good name for her sake; and this is how she hastreated me--spurned me away from her as though I were a dog!' 'She has not been a good wife to you; but, all the same, I do notunderstand why you took her at her word. Did you never in all theseyears make an effort to be reconciled with her for the sake of yourchildren?' 'You do not know Olive when you put such a question. There will be noreconciliation possible in this world. I may compel her to own herselfmy wife, but I could not force her to say a kind word to me. She talkedme over into setting her free, and made me promise not to hunt her out. She got over me. Olive is a rare talker; she told me it would be betterfor the little chaps not to bear their father's name--she would takethem away and bring them up to be good, honest men, and she would takecare no shame should ever touch them; and would you believe it, sir, Iwas so cowed and broken with the thought of all those years I was tospend in prison, that for the time I agreed with her. It was just asthough I had made her a promise to commit suicide. I was to let her andthe children go, and not to put in my claims when they set me free; andas she talked and I answered her, it seemed to me as though Mat O'Brienwere already dead. ' CHAPTER XXXVI 'HOW CAN I BEAR IT?' 'Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing, Perceive but a voice as I come to his side; But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing, Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died. ' MATTHEW ARNOLD. Michael was trying to frame a suitable reply to this speech, that was atonce so tragic and hopeless, when Mat suddenly turned to him and said, in a strangely altered voice: 'I want you to tell me one thing, sir. Why does she call herself Blake?' 'I am afraid I cannot enlighten you on that point, ' returned Michael, after a moment's consideration; 'probably it was the first name thatoccurred to her. You will allow that it is short and handy, and that itis by no means conspicuous. ' But this answer did not seem to satisfyMatthew O'Brien. An uneasy, almost suspicious look came into his eyes. 'I suppose it does not mean, ' he continued, hesitating over his words, 'that she--Olive--has put herself under another man's protection?' 'Good heavens, O'Brien!' exclaimed Michael, in a shocked voice. 'How canyou wrong your wife so? With all her sins, I do not believe she is thatsort of woman. ' 'You mistake me, sir, ' returned Mat doggedly. 'And, in a way, youmistake Olive too. She has not got the notions of other women. She wouldnot think things wrong that would horrify other folk. When she gave meup, she said that she should consider herself free, and she might evenmake it straight with her conscience to marry another man, who would bea better protector to her and the children. I do not say Olive has donethis. But if it be so, by the powers above, Captain Burnett, I willhave the law of her there! So let her and the other fellow look out forthemselves!' 'There is no need to excite yourself so, O'Brien. Your wife is too mucha woman of the world to get herself into that sort of trouble. Her lovefor her eldest son is her master passion. And I do not suppose she haseven given a thought to another man. ' 'I am glad to hear it, Captain. But Olive has fooled me once, and Idoubted but she might have done it again. Perhaps you may not have heardit, but she would never have married me if Darrell--Major Darrell, hewas--had not jilted her. She told me once, to spite me, that sheworshipped the ground the fellow trod on. And he was a cad--confoundhim!--one of those light-hearted gentry who dance with girls and makelove to them, and then boast of their conquests. But he had a way withhim, and she never cared for anyone again. She has told me so again andagain in her tantrums. ' 'My poor fellow, ' returned Michael pityingly, 'you may at least be easyon one point. Mrs. Blake--or Mrs. O'Brien, as I suppose we must callher--has certainly led an exemplary life since she left you, devotingherself to her children, and especially to her eldest son. ' Mat made no answer. His brief excitement had faded, and he now resumedhis old dejection of manner. He leant his head on his hand again andlooked into the fire; but by and by he roused himself from hisabstraction. 'Cyril has grown up a fine, handsome fellow, I hear. I suppose he hasOlive's good looks?' 'He is very like her, certainly. He is a good-looking man, andexceedingly clever. Any father might feel proud of such a son. ' 'And he is to marry the young lady I saw here the other day. I forgether name, but she is the daughter of the chief boss down here. ' Michael gave a faint shudder. 'Her name is Miss Ross. ' 'Oh yes, I remember now. Tom says the marriage will be broken off; butwe will talk of that presently. I want to hear something about the otherlittle chap--Kester. ' 'He has not got his brother's good health, I am sorry to say. ' And hereMichael gave a short sketch of Kester's boyish accident, and the resultsthat followed. 'He can walk very fairly now, ' he continued, 'and willsoon lay aside his crutch; but I fear he will never make a strong man. ' 'Dear, dear!' returned Mat in a sorrowful tone. 'And to think of theactive little monkey he used to be! Why, I can see him now, mountedaloft on my shoulder and holding me round the neck till I was fairlychoked, and the other lad clasping me round the knee, and hallooing outthat he wanted to ride dada, too, though Olive never seemed to care tosee me play with them--we made so much noise, she said. Dear, dear! andto think of the poor chap on crutches! And there is Mollie, too; she wasonly a baby when I saw her last--such a fat, rosy little thing!' 'Mollie is a fine-grown girl, and as nice a child as you would wish tosee. We are all very fond of her. ' 'Well, she has kept her word, and done her duty to them. And now lookhere, sir. You just bring me somewhere where I can see the youngsters, and hear them talk, and I will promise you to keep dark, and not let outto them that I am their father. I will just have a look at them, andthen I will never trouble them again. ' 'What on earth do you mean, O'Brien?' 'I mean that Olive is right, and that they are better without me, 'returned Mat dejectedly. 'Do you suppose they would have any love intheir hearts for a father who could only bring disgrace on them? No, sir; I am not going to stand in their light and spoil their lives forthem. I have given them up to Olive, and she seems to have done her bestfor them. Let the youngster have his sweetheart, and I will just bidehere quietly with Tom; or, if you think that Brail is too near, I willput the seas between us again; and you can tell Olive so, if you like. ' 'I shall tell her nothing of the kind, O'Brien, ' returned Michael, muchtouched at this generosity on the part of the poor prodigal. 'I will notdeny that this is the very thing she suggested; she even begged me topropose this to you, but I refused. Do you suppose that either I or mycousin, Dr. Ross, would connive at such deceit and falsehood? It isquite true that Mrs. Blake and her children may refuse to have anythingto do with you, but that is solely their affair. In a few hours, Mr. O'Brien, your eldest son will be made aware of his father's existence. ' 'I am sorry to hear it, sir, ' returned Mat, in a weak, hopeless voice. 'You will make a great mistake, and nothing good will come of it. Shewill teach the youngsters to loathe my very name, and as for thelad'--here he spoke with strong emotion--'he will be ready to curse mefor spoiling his life. No, no, sir; let sleeping dogs lie. Better let mekeep dark, and bring trouble to no one. ' But Michael shook his head. Such double-dealing and deceit could onlydeepen the mischief. 'Dr. Ross will never give his sanction to his daughter's marriage; hehas assured me so most solemnly. Whatever trouble comes will be of yourwife's causing. ' But Mat would not agree to this. 'She meant no harm, sir. Olive always had curious ideas of right andwrong, and she did her best for the youngsters. According to youraccount, she has brought them up well, and sent the lad to Oxford. Fancya son of mine being such a swell, and engaged to that young lady, too!Lord! when I think of it, I am ready to wish I had never left the bush. ' 'It is no use wishing that now, Mr. O'Brien. ' 'No, sir; and it is no use talking over what can't be mended. If youhave made up your mind to tell the lad, it is pretty plain that I can'thinder you; but I will not lift a finger to help you. I will just stopwhere I am. ' 'I think perhaps that will be best under the circumstances. ' 'But, all the same, it makes me uncommon restless to feel that Olive andthe youngsters are only three miles off, and I can't get at them. Putyourself in my place, sir, and you would not find it very pleasant. Andthere's Tom, too--with all his fine-hearted Christianity--vowingvengeance on Olive, and threatening to turn her away from the door ifshe ever dares to show her face here. ' 'I do not think that she will ever molest you or your brother. ' 'I am quite of your opinion, Captain. Olive will give me a pretty wideberth, unless it is her interest to see me; and then all Tom's roughspeeches wouldn't turn her from her purpose. For tenacity and gettingher own way, I'd back her against any woman. ' 'Well, as you say, there is nothing to be gained by talking. ' returnedMichael, rising from his chair; but at this moment Mr. O'Brien entered. 'I hope I am not interrupting you, Captain; but it is getting late, andI was thinking you would take a snack with us. The women are dishing upthe dinner--just a baked shoulder of mutton and potatoes under it. Weare plain folk, but Prissy and I will be glad and proud if you will joinus, sir;' and, after a moment's hesitation, Michael consented. He had had no idea how late it was; they would already be sitting downto luncheon at Woodcote. It would be better for him to take some foodbefore he set out on his cold drive home. 'If you will allow me to leave you directly afterwards, ' he observed;and, as Mat left the room that moment, he took the opportunity to giveMr. O'Brien a brief _résumé_ of the conversation. 'He begged me to keep it all dark, ' he finished; 'he is thinking more ofhis children than himself. But I told him that such a course would beimpossible. ' 'And you spoke the truth, sir; and no good would come of suchcrookedness. But Mat meant well; the lad has a good heart, and I do notdoubt he has a sore conscience when he thinks of all the evil he haswrought. Leave him with me, sir; I can manage him best. There, I hearPrissy calling to us, and we will just take our places. ' Michael felt faint and weary, and the homely viands seemed verypalatable to him; but he noticed how Matthew O'Brien's want of appetiteseemed to distress his brother. 'You are eating nought, lad, ' he kept saying at intervals, and once hebade Prissy fetch the remains of a meat pie that Mat had enjoyed theprevious days; 'maybe he will find it more toothsome, ' he said in hishearty way; but Mat would have nothing to say to it. 'You let me be, Tom, ' he said at last; 'a man has not always got stomachfor his food. The Captain has taken away my appetite with his talk, andthe sight of the meat makes me sick;' and then he got up from the table, and they saw him pacing up and down the garden with his pipe. Michael got away as soon as possible, and Mr. O'Brien walked with him tothe inn. When the dogcart was brought out, he shook his hand veryheartily. 'Let me know how things go on, Captain, and God bless you!' and then, asthough by an afterthought: 'If the girl gives you trouble, send her tome, and I will just talk the sense into her. ' And then he stood in theroad and watched until the dogcart and driver were out of sight. Afternoon work had begun as Michael entered Woodcote, but he found Dr. Ross alone in the study. 'I have only a few minutes to give you, Michael, ' he said, looking upfrom the letter he was writing; 'I expected you back at least two hoursago. ' Then Michael gave him a concise account of his interview with thebrothers. 'Thomas O'Brien is a grand old fellow, ' he said enthusiastically; 'youshould have heard him talk, Dr. Ross; and as for poor Mat, he has themakings of a good fellow about him, too, only the devil somehow spoiltthe batch. Would you believe it?--the poor beggar wanted to effacehimself--to clear out altogether for the sake of the youngsters, as hecalled them. He was not very polished in his language, but what can youexpect? Still, he meant well. ' 'I daresay he did, ' returned the Doctor with a sigh; 'you had betterkeep that paper to show Cyril. I must send you away now, as Carter andthe other boys are coming to me. I will see you later on. ' And then Michael took himself off. He could hear Audrey's voice as hepassed the door of her sitting-room; Mollie was with her. A few minuteslater, as he stood at his window wondering what he should do withhimself, he saw her walk down the terrace towards the gate with Molliehanging on her arm; they seemed laughing and talking. 'How long will shewear that bright face?' he said to himself as he threw himself into hiseasy-chair and took up the paper. He had just fallen into a doze, with Booty stretched on the softest ofrugs at his feet, when there was a light tap at his door, and to hissurprise and discomposure Cyril Blake entered the room. The visit was so wholly unexpected that Michael stared at him for amoment without speaking. Cyril had never come to his privatesitting-room before without a special invitation. 'I must apologise for this intrusion, Captain Burnett, ' began Cyrilquickly; 'but I wanted to speak to you particularly. Were you asleep? Iam so sorry if I have disturbed you. ' 'No, nonsense. I only felt drowsy because I have been out in this coldwind and the room is so warm. Take a chair, Blake. I shall be wide awakein a moment. Have you seen the paper to-day? There is nothing in it, only a remarkably stupid article on Bismarck. ' 'I will look at it by and by; but to tell you the truth, I have come tospeak to you about my mother. I am seriously uneasy about her: eithershe is ill, or there is something grievously wrong. I understood fromMollie that you were with her for more than an hour yesterday; in fact, that she sent for you. ' The fire had burnt hollow during Michael's brief nap, and he seized thisopportunity to stir it vigorously into a blaze; it afforded him amomentary respite. A few seconds' reflection convinced him, however, that it was no use beating about the bush with a man of Cyril's calibre. The truth had to be told, and no amount of preparation would render itpalatable. 'You are right, ' he returned quietly; 'Mrs. Blake sent for me. Shethought that I should be able to help her in a difficulty. ' Cyril looked intensely surprised. 'I thought Mollie must have made amistake. It seems very strange that my mother----' He stopped as though civility did not permit him to finish his sentence. But Michael perfectly understood him. 'It seems strange to you; of course it does. My acquaintance with Mrs. Blake is so slight that it certainly gives me no right to herconfidence; but she was in trouble--in great trouble, I may say--andchance threw me in her way, and so----' But here Cyril interrupted him. 'My mother in trouble!' he returned incredulously, but Michael thoughthe looked a little pale; 'excuse me, Captain Burnett, if I seem rude, but from a boy I have been my mother's friend. She has never keptanything from me. I find it almost impossible to believe that she wouldgive that confidence to a comparative stranger which she would refuse toher son. May I beg you to speak plainly? I abhor mysteries. ' Cyril spoke impatiently and curtly; his tone was almost displeased. ButMichael took no offence; he regarded the young man very kindly. 'I abhor them too, ' he replied gravely; 'but I want you to understandone thing: it was a mere chance that brought me in Mrs. Blake's way at amoment when she needed assistance; I was only like any other strangerwho sees a lady in difficulty. Now I have told you this I can speak moreplainly. ' 'I wish to heavens you would!' returned Cyril with growing excitement. 'Do you know the impression you are giving me?--that there is somemysterious confidence between you and my mother. Is it too much to askif I may know what this difficulty and trouble mean?' 'No, Blake; you shall know all in good time, ' replied Michael, withdisarming gentleness. 'If I do not speak out at once, it is because Ifear to give you too great a shock. ' 'Too great a shock?' 'Yes. Your mother, out of mistaken kindness, has kept her children inignorance all these years that they have a father living. He was not afather of whom they could be proud, and she tried to keep the fact ofhis existence from them. ' 'Wait a moment!' exclaimed Cyril. The poor fellow had turned very white. 'I must take this in. What are you telling me, Burnett? That mymother--my widowed mother--has a husband living?' 'I am telling you the truth. Are you ready to hear me say more? I willwait any time you like; but it is a long story, and a sad one. Yourmother has left me to tell it. ' 'Go on! Let me hear every word! Hide nothing--nothing!' Cyril spoke in a dull, stifled voice, as though he felt choking. WhenMichael began to speak, very slowly and quietly, he almost turned hisback to him; and as the story proceeded, Michael noticed how he clutchedthe carved arms of his chair; but he did not once see his face. Michaelafterwards owned that telling that miserable story to Olive O'Brien'sson was one of the toughest jobs he had ever done in his life. But hehad no idea how well he did it: there was not an unnecessary word. Withthe utmost care he strove to shield the woman, and to show her conductin the best light. 'It was for her children's sake she did it, ' he saidagain and again; but there was no answering word from Cyril; if he hadbeen turned to stone, his position could not have been more rigid. 'Have you understood me, Blake? My poor, dear fellow, if you knew howsorry Dr. Ross and I are for you----' Then, as Michael mentioned Dr. Ross's name, Cyril seemed galvanised intosudden life. 'He knows! he knows! For God's sake give me air!' But before Michaelcould cross the room, Cyril had stumbled to the window and flung it up, and stood there, with the bitter east wind blowing on his face, asthough it were a refreshing summer breeze. The chill air made Michael shiver; but he knew by experience howintolerable was that sense of suffocation, and he stood by patientlyuntil that deadly feeling had passed. 'Are you better now, Blake? My poor fellow, can you sit down and speakto me?' Then Cyril turned his face towards him, and Michael was shocked to seehow strained and haggard it looked. 'Does she know, too?' 'Not yet; her father will tell her. ' Then the poor boy shuddered from head to foot. 'They will make her give me up! O my God! how can I bear it? Burnett, Ithink I shall go mad! Tell me it is not true--that my mother has notlied to me all these years!' 'At least, she has lied for her son's sake. ' But he knew how futile werehis words, as he saw the bitter contempt in Cyril's honest eyes. 'I will never forgive her! She has ruined my life! she has made me wishthat I were dead! I will never, never----' But Michael interrupted him somewhat sternly: 'Hush! hush! You do not know what you are saying. She is your mother, Blake--nothing can alter that fact. ' 'She has deceived us all! No, I will not speak; nothing can make itbetter or worse. If I lose Audrey, I do not care what becomes of me!' Michael looked at him pityingly. 'Do you think you ought to marry her, Blake!' Then Cyril flung away from him with a groan; even in his misery heunderstood that appeal to his generosity. But he put it from him: he wastoo much stunned, too dazed altogether, to follow out any train ofreasoning. In a vague sort of way he understood two facts: that he andKester and Mollie were disgraced, and that his mother--the mother whomhe adored--had deceived him. Beyond this he could not go. The human mindhas limits. Afterwards, in the chill hour of darkness and solitude, Michael's wordswould come back to him: 'Do you think you ought to marry her, Blake? Doyou think you ought to marry her?' CHAPTER XXXVII 'I SHALL NEVER BE FREE' 'But there are true hearts which the sight Of sorrow summons forth; Though known in days of past delight, We know not half their worth. ' BAYLY. The words escaped from Michael almost unconsciously; he hardly knew thathe spoke them aloud; but in his inner consciousness he had no doubt atall of the course that ought to be pursued. If he had been in Cyril'splace he would not have hesitated for a moment. Dearly as he lovedAudrey--and what that love was only he himself knew--he would haverefused to marry her. He would have separated himself from her utterly, and at once. Michael's strong, long-suffering nature would have carried him noblythrough such an ordeal. He was a man who would have acted up to thespirit of the Gospel command 'to pluck out the offending eye, or to cutoff the right hand;' there would have been no parleying, no weakdalliance with temptation. 'I love you, but it is my duty to leave you, so farewell forever!'--that is what he would have said to her, knowing all the timethat life would be utterly joyless to him. Would Cyril, in his hot, untried youth, be capable of a like generosity, or would he cleave tohis betrothed with passionate, one-sided fealty, vowing that nothing onearth should separate them as long as they two loved each other? 'They will make her give me up!'--that was all he had said. That seemedto be the one deadly terror that assailed him. Cyril had turned away with a groan when Michael spoke, but he made noaudible answer, and the next moment his hand was on the door. 'Where are you going, Blake?' inquired Michael anxiously. It was impossible to keep him, and yet, how could he let him leave himin such a condition? 'I must get away from here!' returned Cyril hoarsely. 'I must be alonesomewhere. ' And Michael understood him. 'Let me at least walk with you, ' he returned quickly. 'You might meetsomeone, and perhaps I may be of use. Do not refuse; I will not speak toyou. ' And, as Cyril made no objection--indeed, it was doubtful whetherhe even heard what Michael said--he followed him downstairs. Just as they reached the hall the drawing-room door opened, and, beforehe could warn Cyril, Audrey came out. She had some music in her hand. She uttered an exclamation of surprise and pleasure when she saw them. 'Michael, I thought you were lost. What have you been doing withyourself all day? Were you going out with Cyril? Please don't go justyet; it is just beginning to rain, and I want him to practise this duetwith me. Will you?' looking up in Cyril's face with one of her brightsmiles. 'I cannot; another time. Please do not keep me!' Cyril hardly knew what he said. He pushed by her as she stood theresmiling, with the music in her hand, and went out bareheaded into therain and darkness. Audrey looked bewildered. 'What does he mean? Is he ill? has anything happened? He is so white, and he has forgotten his hat! He has never left me like this before. Oh, Michael, do call him back; I must speak to him!' 'I cannot. I think something is troubling him. Let me go, Audrey; hewill tell you everything by and by. ' And Michael snatched up his hat andCyril's, and hurried after him as fast as his halting gait permitted. Cyril had not gone far; he was standing by the gate quite motionless, and his hair and face were wet with the heavy rain. Michael took him bythe arm and walked on with him; he must see him safely to his room, andcharge Mrs. Blake not to go near him. 'He must have time; he is simply stunned and incapable of thought now, 'he said to himself, as he piloted him through the dark, wet streets. Biddy admitted them. She gave them a searching glance as they entered. Cyril's disordered condition must have told her everything, for she puther wrinkled, claw-like hand on his arm with a warning gesture. 'Don't let the mistress see you like that, Mr. Cyril avick, or you'llfright her to death. Go up softly, or she will hear you. ' But Biddy's warning was in vain. The staircase was badly lighted, andMichael made a false, stumbling step. The next moment Mrs. Blake cameout on the landing. The sight of the two men together seemed to transfixher with horror. 'You have told him!--oh, heavens! you have told him!' she cried, in adespairing voice. Cyril raised his heavy eyes and looked at her, but he did not speak; hepassed her as he had passed Audrey, and went up to his room, and theyheard the door close heavily behind him. 'I will go to him! How dare you detain me, Captain Burnett? I will go tomy son!' But Michael took no notice of this angry remonstrance; his hand was onher arm, and very gently, but firmly, he made her enter thedrawing-room. 'Mrs. Blake, will you listen to me for a moment?' 'No, I will not listen!' she answered passionately, and her bosom beganto heave. 'I will go to him and make him speak to me. Did you see how helooked at me--his mother--as he has never looked at me in his life?' Andthe unhappy woman broke into tears and sobs. 'Oh, my boy! my boy! Let mego to him, Captain Burnett, and I will bless you as long as I live; letme go and kneel to him, if I must. Do you think my boy will see hismother at his feet and not forgive her?' 'He will forgive you, Mrs. Blake, ' returned Michael, in a pitying voice;'but you must give him time. He cannot speak to you now--he can speak tono one; he is simply stunned. Give me your promise that you will not seehim to-night. ' 'Impossible! I will make no such promise. He is my son, not yours. If hecannot speak to me, I can at least take his hand and tell him that I amsorry. ' 'He will not be able to hear you. As far as I can tell, he has takennothing in; the news has simply crushed him. If you will give him time, he will pull himself together; but I would not answer for theconsequences if you persist in seeing him to-night. He is not himself. There would be words said that ought never to be uttered. Mrs. Blake, dobe persuaded. I am speaking for your sake as well as his. ' 'You are always so hard, ' she moaned. But from her manner he thought she would not disobey him; he had managedto frighten her. 'You will be wise if you take my advice, ' he returned, moving away fromthe door. 'I am going to him now, but I shall not stay; it is, above allthings, necessary that he should be alone. ' 'Will you speak to him for me? Will you tell him that my heart is nearlybroken with that cold, reproachful look of his? Will you at least saythis, Captain Burnett?' 'I think it would be better not to mention your name to him to-night. ' Then she threw herself back on the couch in a hysterical outburst. Michael thought it useless to stay with her. He found Biddy outside asusual, and sent her in to do her best for her mistress; and then he wentup to Cyril's room. He found him sitting on the edge of his bed; thewindow was wide open, and the rain was driving in, and had alreadywetted the carpet; a candle someone had lighted was guttering in thedraught. Michael closed the window, and then he looked at the fireplace. There was plenty of fuel at hand. Cyril often worked in his own room, and now and then his mother's care had provided him with a fire. Theroom felt cold and damp. There were matches at hand, and Michael had noscruple in lighting a fire now; the crackle of wood seemed to rouseCyril. 'Why do you do that? there is no need, ' he said irritably. 'Pardon me, there is every need. Do you know your coat is wet, Blake?You must change it at once. ' But Cyril only gave an impatient shrug. 'Will you let me see you change it before I go?' he persisted, and heactually had his way, perhaps because Cyril was anxious to get rid ofhim. 'Now I am going; I only want to say one word, Blake: you will besafe to-night, your mother will not come near you. ' Then a look ofrelief crossed Cyril's wan face. 'You shall, at least, have peace for afew hours. If I can help you in any way, you have only to speak. Willyou remember that?' 'Thank you. ' 'I mean it. There, that is all I have got to say. God bless you!' andas he grasped Cyril's hand there was a faint response. Michael crept down as softly as he could. As he passed the drawing-roomdoor he could hear Mrs. Blake's hysterical sobs, and Biddy soothing her. 'The Nemesis has come, ' he said to himself; and then he went into thelower room, where he found Mollie and Kester reading over the fire. 'Don't let me disturb you, ' he said hurriedly, as they both sprang up togreet him; 'Mollie, your brother wishes to be quiet to-night. He hasjust heard something that troubles him a good deal, and he has desiredthat no one should go near him. If I were you, I should take no noticeat all. ' 'But what are we to do about supper?' returned Mollie with housewifelyanxiety; 'we have such a nice supper, and Cyril will be so cold andhungry shut up in his room. We have made such a big fire, because he wasgoing to spend the evening with us. ' 'He has a fire, too; he was very wet, and the room felt damp, so Ilighted it. You might take up a tray to him presently and put it outsidehis door, and perhaps a cup of nice hot coffee. ' 'Ah! I will go and make it at once, and mamma shall have some, too. ' AndMollie ran off in her usual impetuous manner, but Kester sat still inhis place. 'What is the matter, Captain Burnett?' he asked anxiously; 'we heardmother crying just now, and saying that Cyril would not speak to her. Mollie heard it quite plainly, and so did I. ' 'You shall know all in good time, my dear boy, ' returned Michael, layinghis hand on Kester's shoulder; 'do not ask me any more just now. ' Kester looked at him wistfully, but he was trained to self-discipline, and he asked no more; and Michael went back to Woodcote. It was just dinner-time, and the gong sounded before he was ready; buthe made some easy excuse and slipped into his place, and began to talkto Dr. Ross about the new swimming-baths that were being built. It wasthe first topic that came handy to him, and Dr. Ross at once followedhis lead; the subject lasted them until the end of dinner. Audrey wasunusually silent, but neither of them made any remark on her gravity. Now and then Michael addressed some observation to her, but she answeredhim briefly and without interest. They went into the schoolroom for prayers as usual, and Audrey playedthe harmonium; but as he was following Mrs. Ross back into thedrawing-room, Audrey tapped him on the arm. 'Don't go in there just yet, Michael; I want to speak to you. ' Then he suffered himself very reluctantly to be detained by the hallfire. 'Michael, ' she began, in rather a peremptory tone, 'I cannot understandeither you or Cyril to-night. You are both very strange, I think. Cyrilleaves me without a word, and goes out looking like a ghost, and youtell me that something is troubling him, and yet neither of youvouchsafes me one word of explanation. ' 'I cannot help it, Audrey; it is not my affair. Blake was in a hurry;you must have seen that for yourself. ' 'He was very extraordinary in his behaviour, and so were you. Of course, if you don't choose to answer me, Michael, I will just send a noteacross to Cyril, and tell him I must see him at once. ' 'I should hardly do that, if I were you. ' 'Not write to him!' in an offended voice. 'Really, Michael, you are toomysterious; why, this borders on absurdity! Cyril is in trouble--in onebreath you tell me that--and then you would prevent my writing to askhim to come to me! I shall certainly write to him. ' 'Will you go to your father instead? He has just gone into the study. ' Then Audrey looked at him with intense astonishment. 'What has my father got to do with it?' 'Never mind all that, ' returned Michael slowly. 'Go to Dr. Ross, and askhim why Blake is in trouble. He will tell you; you may take my word forit. ' Audrey still gazed at him; but Michael's grave manner left her in nodoubt as to the seriousness of the matter, and her eyes looked a littletroubled. 'Go, dear, ' he repeated gently; 'it will be best for you to hear it fromhim. ' Then she left him without another word, and went straight to the study. It seemed as though her father expected her, for he looked at her as shecame slowly towards him, and put out his hand. 'You have come to talk to me, my darling. Sit down beside me. No, notthat chair; it is too far off. Come closer to me, my child. ' Then, as Audrey obeyed him, she felt a sense of growing uneasiness. Whatdid that sorrowful tenderness in her father's voice mean? For the momenther courage failed her, and her lips could not frame the question shehad come to ask. 'You want me to tell you about Cyril's trouble?' Then she sat and gazed at him in speechless dread. Dr. Ross cleared his throat and shifted his spectacles. He began to findhis task difficult. 'If I only knew how to prepare you, Audrey! But I can think of no wordsthat will break the force of such a shock. I will tell you one thing: afew hours ago Cyril was as ignorant of the great trouble that hasbefallen him as you are at this present moment. ' She touched him with a hand that had grown suddenly very cold. 'Wait for one minute, father; I must ask you something: Did Michael tellthis thing to Cyril this afternoon?' 'Yes, dear. By some strange chance Michael was put in possession of aterrible secret. There was no one else to break it to the poor fellow, and, as you and I know, Mike is not the man to shirk any unpleasantduty. ' 'I understand. You may go on now, father dear; I am prepared--I am quiteprepared. I know it was no light trouble that brought that look onCyril's face; and Michael, too, was very strange and unlike himself. 'And then she composed herself to listen. Dr. Ross told the story as carefully as he could, but he made no attemptto soften facts. A skilful surgeon cuts deep: the patient may quiverunder the relentless knife, but the present pain will prevent lastinginjury. Dr. Ross wished his daughter to see things from his point ofview. It was impossible to spare her suffering; but she was young, andhe hoped time and her own strong sense of duty would bring their ownhealing. He could not judge of the effect on her. Almost at his firstwords she had dropped her head upon his knees, and her face was hiddenfrom him; and though his hand rested on her soft hair, she made no signor movement. 'That is all I have to tell you, my darling. No one knows but you and Iand Michael. I have not told your mother; I thought it best to wait. 'Then she stirred a little uneasily under his caressing hand. 'My ownchild, you do not need to be told how I grieve for you and Cyril; it isa bitter disappointment to you both; but--but'--his voice dropped alittle--'you must give him up. ' There was no perceptible start; only, as he said this, Audrey raised herface from his knee, and looked at him. She was very pale, but her eyeswere quite dry; only the firm, beautiful lips trembled a little. 'I do not understand, father. Why must I give him up?' 'Why?' Dr. Ross could hardly believe his ears as he heard this. 'Mychild, ' he said, with a touch of sternness, 'it is very easy tounderstand. Cyril is not to blame--he is as innocent as you are; but theson of Matthew O'Brien can never be my son-in-law. ' 'No, ' she returned slowly, 'I suppose not. I ought not to be surprisedto hear you say that. ' 'It is what any father would say, Audrey. ' 'Anyhow, it is for you to say it, if you think it right, and it is forme to obey you. ' Then he put his arm round her with an endearing word or two. She was hisgood, obedient child--his dearly-loved daughter, who had never grievedhim in her life. 'I trust I may never grieve you, ' she replied gently; but there was agreat solemnity in her eyes. 'Father, if you tell me that I must notmarry Cyril, I shall be compelled to obey you; but it will break myheart to think that your mind is fully made up on this point. ' 'My darling, you are both very young, and in time----' He stopped, arrested by the strangeness of her look. 'You think that we shall get over it: that is your meaning, is it not?But I am afraid you are wrong. Cyril loves me too well; he would neverget over it. ' 'But, my dear----' 'Father, will you listen to me for a moment? You need not fear that Ishould ever disobey you--you are my father, and that is enough. But Ishall live in the hope that you will change your mind. ' 'My child, I must forbid that hope. I cannot let you cheat yourself withany such false supposition. My mind will know no change in this matter. ' 'Then, in that case, I shall never marry Cyril. If you cannot give meyour blessing on my marriage, I will remain as I am--Audrey Ross. But, father, I shall never give him up! Never--never!' 'If Cyril be the man I think him, he will give you up, Audrey; he willbe far too proud and honourable to hold you to your engagement. ' 'That may be, ' she answered a little wearily. 'I know the strongpressure that will be put on him. You will have no difficulty with him;he will do as you wish. My poor Cyril! how can he do otherwise? But allthe same, I shall be true to him as long as he and I live. I shall feelthat I belong to him. ' 'But, my darling, do be sensible. When the engagement is broken off youwill be free, utterly free. ' But she shook her head. 'I shall never be free while Cyril lives. Father, you do not understand. He may set me free to-morrow, but I shall still consider myself bound. When he comes here, I shall tell him so, and I do not think he willmisunderstand me. ' Dr. Ross sighed. Here was an unexpected difficulty. She would obey him, but she would regard herself as the victim of filial obedience. Shewould not marry her lover without his consent, but she would havenothing to say to any other man. She would consider herself fettered bythis hopeless betrothal. He had declined to accept the son of MatthewO'Brien as his son-in-law; but would not his own death set her free tofulfil her engagement? Dr. Ross groaned within himself as he thought ofthis. If only he could bring her to reason; but at his first word ofpleading her eyes filled with tears. 'Father, I can bear no more; you have made me very unhappy. I havepromised not to marry without your consent; but no one on earth couldmake me give him up. ' Then he looked at her very sorrowfully, and said no more. If she hadthrown herself into his arms he could almost have wept with her. Wouldshe ever know how his heart bled for her? But she only kissed him veryquietly. 'You are not angry with me, father?' 'Angry with you? Oh, Audrey, my child, how can you ask such a question?' 'That is well, ' she returned calmly. 'There must never be anythingbetween us. I could not bear that. ' Then her breast heaved a little, anda large tear stole down her face. 'Will you tell mother and Michael whatI have said--that I will never give him up?' And then she walked very slowly out of the room. Half an hour later Michael came into the study. He did not speak; butthe Doctor shook his head as he came silently towards him. 'It is a bad business, Mike. That girl of mine will give us trouble. Sheis as good as gold, but she will give us trouble. ' 'She refuses to give him up?' Michael sat down as he asked the question; his strength seemed to havedeserted him. 'That is what she says--that she will regard herself as altogether boundto him. She is very firm. With all her goodness and sweetness, Audreyhas a strong will. ' 'Do you mean that she will still marry him?' 'Not unless I will give my consent. No, Mike; she is a dutiful child. She will never give herself to any man without her parents' blessing andapproval; but she will not marry anyone else. ' Then there was a curious fixed look on Michael's face. 'I am not surprised, Dr. Ross. Audrey is too generous to forsake any manwhen he is in trouble. She will not think of herself--she never does;her whole heart will be set on the thought of giving him comfort. Youmust not try to change her resolution. It would be useless. ' 'The deuce take it all!' returned the Doctor irritably. 'For there willbe no peace of mind for any of us, Mike. ' But Dr. Ross's voice washardly as clear as usual. 'I suppose I must just go and have it all outwith Emmie--there is nothing like getting an unpleasant job over; sheand Geraldine can put their heads together, but they had better keepHarcourt away from me. ' And the Doctor stalked out of the room with an unwonted gloom on hisgenial face. Michael did not follow him. He sat still for a few minutes looking atthe Doctor's empty chair. 'I knew it; I could have said it. Audrey is just that sort of woman. Shewill never give him up--whether she loves him or not--as long as shefeels he needs her. Poor Blake! poor fellow! Of the two, I hardly thinkhe is the one to be pitied; but she will never find that out forherself. Never, never!' And then Booty scratched and whined at the door, and he got up and lethim in. CHAPTER XXXVIII 'WHO WILL COMFORT HIM?' 'Earth has nothing more tender than a woman's heart, when it is the abode of piety. '--LUTHER. Dr. Ross had deferred telling his wife for more than one reason: hedreaded the effect on her emotional nature, and, above all things, hehated a scene. But for once he was agreeably disappointed. Mrs. Rossreceived the news more quietly than he expected; the very suddenness andforce of the shock made her summon up all her womanly fortitude to bearsuch an overwhelming misfortune. Her first thought was for Audrey, andshe would have gone to her at once; but her husband gently detained her. 'Give her time, Emmie; she has only just left me, and she will not beready even for her mother. Sit down again, my dear; I cannot spare youyet. ' And Mrs. Ross very reluctantly took her seat again on the couch. They talked a little more, and Mrs. Ross wept as she thought of thatpoor dear boy, as she called him; for Cyril had grown very dear to her, and she had begun to look on him as her own son. But it seemed as thoughthe whole vial of her wrath was to be emptied on the head of Mrs. Blake. At any other time, and in different circumstances, Dr. Ross would havebeen amused at the scathing invectives that were uttered by hissweet-tempered wife. 'But, my dear Emmie, you must consider her provocations. Think of awoman being tied to a feckless ne'er-do-well like Matthew O'Brien!' 'Don't talk to me, John; I will not listen to you. Was she not hiswedded wife, and the mother of his children? Had she not vowed to befaithful to him for better and for worse?' 'Yes, my dear; but you must allow it was for worse. ' 'That may be; but she was bound to him all the same by her wifely duty. She might have saved him, but instead of that she has been his ruin. Howdare any woman rob her husband of his own children, and forbid him tolay claim to them? She is a false, perjured wife!' exclaimed Mrs. Ross, with rising excitement. 'My dear, I am not defending her; but at least she is to be pitied now. ' 'I do not think so. It is Cyril and Kester and Mollie who are to bepitied, for having such parents. My heart bleeds for them, but not forher. What will become of them all? How will that poor boy bear hislife?' 'I do not know. But, Emmie, tell me one thing--you agree with me thatAudrey must not marry him?' 'Of course she must not marry him! What would Geraldine and Percivalsay?' Then the Doctor muttered 'Pshaw!' 'Why, his name is not Blake at all. How could a daughter of ours form aconnection with the O'Briens? My poor Audrey! And now, John, you mustlet me go to her. ' And this time Dr. Ross made no objection. It was nearly midnight by this time, but Audrey had not thought ofretiring to bed; she was sitting by her toilet-table, with her handsfolded in her lap. Her mother's appearance seemed to surprise her. 'Dear mother, why have you come? There was no need--no need at all. ' Then, as her mother put her arms round her, she laid her head on hershoulder as though she were conscious of sudden weariness. Mrs. Ross'seyes were red with weeping, but Audrey's were still quite bright anddry. 'Mother dear, you will be so tired!' 'What does that matter? It is your father who is tired; he feels allthis so terribly. My own darling, what am I to say to you in this awfultrouble that has come upon you, but to beg you to be brave for all oursakes?' 'Yes; and for his, too. ' 'If I could only bear it for you--that is what a mother feels when herchild suffers--if I could only take it from you, and carry it as my ownburden!' Then the girl gently pressed her with her arms. 'That is what I feel about him, ' she returned, and there was a painedlook in her eyes as she spoke. 'He is so young, and all this is soterrible; his pride will suffer, and his heart, and his mother will beno comfort to him. If he only had you!' And then she did break down alittle, but she soon recovered herself. 'I have been sitting here tryingto find out why this has been allowed to happen to him. I think there isno one so good, except Michael. It is very dreadful!' And here sheshuddered slightly. 'How will he live out his daily life and not growbitter over it? My poor, poor Cyril!' 'My darling, are you not thinking of yourself at all?' 'Of myself? No, mother. Why should I think of myself? I have you andfather and Michael--you will all comfort me; but who will comfort him?' 'His Heavenly Father, Audrey. ' 'Oh yes, you are right; but do young men think as we do? Cyril is good, but he never speaks of these things. He is not like Michael. ' 'It was trouble that taught Michael. ' 'Yes, I know; but I would fain have spared my poor Cyril such a bitterlesson. Mother, I want you to tell them all not to talk to me--I meanMichael and Gage and Percival; I could not bear it. As I told father, Ishall never give him up. If he goes away, I must bid him good-bye; butif he will write to me I shall answer his letters. ' 'I do not think your father would approve of that, Audrey. My child, consider--would it not be better, and more for Cyril's good, that youshould give him up entirely?' 'No, mother; I do not think so. I believe in my heart that the knowledgethat I am still true to him will be his only earthly comfort. No oneknows him as I do; his nature is very intense. He is almost as intenseas Michael, and that is saying a great deal. ' 'My love, will you let your mother say one thing to you?--that I thinkyou are making a grievous mistake, and that your father thinks so too. ' 'I know it, mother, and it pains me to differ from you both in this; butyou will never convince me. I plighted my troth to Cyril because I lovedhim dearly, and nothing will change that love. It is quite true, ' shecontinued dreamily, as though she were following out some train ofhabitual thought, 'that I have often asked myself if I loved him in thesame way in which other girls cared for their lovers--as Gage did forPercival, for example--if mine were not too quiet and matter-of-fact anattachment; and I have never been able to answer myselfsatisfactorily. ' 'Have you not, Audrey?' 'No, mother dear; but of course this is in confidence: it must be sacredto you and me. I think I am different from most girls. I have neverwished to be married; and dear as Cyril is to me, the thought of mywedding-day has always oppressed me. I have made him unhappy sometimes, because he saw that I shrank from it. ' Mrs. Ross felt a quick sense of relief that almost amounted to joy. WasAudrey in love with him, after all? She had never heard a girl talk sostrangely. What an unutterable blessing it would be to them all if shewere not utterly crushed by her misfortune, and if any future healingwould be possible; but she was careful not to express this to herdaughter. 'My experience has been very different, ' she answered quietly. 'Myhappiest moments were those in which your dear father spoke of ourfuture home. I think I was quite as averse to a long engagement as hewas. ' 'I can believe it, mother dear, but our natures are not alike; but thereis one thing on which we are agreed, that an engagement is almost asbinding as marriage; that is, ' correcting herself, 'as long as twopersons love each other. ' 'It ought not to be binding under such circumstances, Audrey. ' 'Ought it not? Ah, there we differ! With all my want of enthusiasm, myabsence of sentimentality, I shall hold fast to Cyril. I have never yetregarded myself as his wife; I did not wish to so regard myself. But nowI shall give myself up in thought wholly to him, and I pray God thatthis knowledge will give him comfort. ' Mrs. Ross was silent. She felt that she hardly understood her daughter;it was as though she had entered on higher ground, where the wrappingsof some sacred mist enveloped her. This was not the language of earthlypassion--this sublime womanly abnegation. It was not even the tenderlanguage of a Ruth, widowed in her affections, and cleaving withbounteous love and faith to the mother of her young Jewish husband, 'Whither thou goest I will go;' and yet the inward cry of her heartseemed to be like that of honest Tom O'Brien: 'The Lord do so unto me, and more also, if ought but death part me and thee. ' The one thought wholly possessed her that she might give him comfort. 'My poor, dear child, if I could only make you feel differently!' Then Audrey laid her hand gently on her mother's lips. It was an oldhabit of hers when she was a child, and too much argument had provedwearisome. 'Hush! do not let us talk any more. I am so tired, so tired, mother, andI know you are, too. ' 'Will you let me stay with you, darling?' Then Audrey looked at her trim little bed, and then at her mother, andsmiled. 'There is no room. What can you mean, mother dear? and I am not ill; Iam never ill, am I?' 'Thank God at least for that; but you are worse than ill--you areunhappy, my dear. Will you let me help you to undress, and then sit byyou until you feel you can sleep?' But Audrey only shook her head with another smile. 'There is no need. Kiss me, mother, and bid me good-night. I shall liketo be with my own self in the darkness. There, another kiss; now go, orwe shall both be frozen;' and Audrey gently pushed her to the door. 'She would not let me stop with her, John!' exclaimed Mrs. Ross, as sheentered her husband's dressing-room. 'She is very calm: unnaturally so, I thought; she hardly cried at all; she is thinking nothing of herself, only of him. ' 'Do you know it is one o'clock, Emmie?' returned her husband rathershortly. He was tired and sore, poor man, and in no mood to hear of hisdaughter's sufferings. 'The deuce take the woman!' he said to himselffretfully, as Mrs. Ross meekly turned away without another word; but hewas certainly not alluding to his wife when he spoke. 'From the days ofEve they have always been in some mischief or other'--from which it maybe deduced that Mrs. Ross was not so far wrong when she thought herhusband was threatened with gout, only his _malaise_ was more of themind. He was thinking of the interview that awaited him on the morrow. 'I would as lief cut off my right hand as tell him that he must not haveAudrey, ' he said to himself, as he laid his head on the pillow. Now, as Michael lay awake through the dark hours revolving many thingsin his uneasy brain, it occurred to him that he would send a note acrossto Cyril as soon as he heard the household stirring, and he carried outthis resolution in spite of drowsiness and an aching head. 'MY DEAR BLAKE, ' he wrote, 'Don't bother yourself about early school. I am on the spot, and can easily take your place. You will want to pull yourself together, and under the circumstances the boys would be an awful nuisance. I hope you have got some sleep. 'Yours, 'M. O. BURNETT. ' To this came the following reply, scrawled on a half-sheet of paper: 'Thanks awfully; will accept your offer. Please tell Dr. Ross that Iwill come across to him soon after ten. ' 'Poor beggar! he is awake now, and pulling himself together with avengeance. This looks well; now for the grind. ' And Michael went down to the schoolroom and gave Cyril's class theirdivinity lesson with as much coolness and gravity as though his wholelife had been spent in teaching boys. Dr. Ross winced slightly as he gave him Cyril's message after breakfast, but he said, a moment afterwards: 'I intended sending for him; but I amglad he has saved me the trouble--only I wish it were over, Mike. ' Michael shrugged his shoulders with a look of sympathy. He had no timeto say more; he must take Cyril's place in the schoolroom again, inspite of all Booty's shivering solicitations for a walk this finemorning. 'Booty, old fellow, ' he observed, as he noticed the littleanimal's manifest disappointment, 'you and I are not sent into the worldto please ourselves; there are "still lame dogs to help over stiles, "and a few burdens to shift on our own shoulders. If our head ache, whatof that, Booty? It will be the same a hundred years hence. Now for Greekverbs and general discord, so right about face!' And if Booty did notunderstand this harangue, he certainly acted up to the spirit of it, forhe pattered cheerfully after his master to the schoolroom, and curledhimself up into a compact brown ball at his feet, to doze away themorning in doggish dreams. Meanwhile, Dr. Ross made a feint of reading his letters; but he found ashe laid them down that their contents were hopelessly involved. Was itRawlinson, for example, whom an anxious mother was confiding to hiscare? 'He had the measles last holidays, and has been very delicate eversince, and now this severe cold----' Nonsense! It was not Rawlinson, itwas Jackson minor, and he was all right and had eaten an excellentbreakfast; but he thought Major Sowerby's letter ought to be answered atonce. He never allowed parents to break his rules; it was such nonsensesending for Charlie home, just because an uncle had come from India. Hemust write and remonstrate; the boy must wait until the term wasover--it would only be a fortnight. And then he read the letter againwith growing displeasure, and found that Captain MacDonald was the nameof the erring parent. 'I will settle all that, ' he remarked, as he plunged his pen rathersavagely into the inkstand; and then a tap at the door made him start, and a huge blot was the result. Of course it was Cyril, who was standingat the door looking at him. 'Are you disengaged, Dr. Ross?' 'Yes--yes. Come in, my dear fellow, and shut the door. ' And then Dr. Ross jumped up from his seat and grasped the young man'shand; but his first thought was, What would Audrey say when she saw him?Could one night have effected such a change? There was a wanness, aheaviness of aspect, that made him look ten years older. Somehow Dr. Ross found it necessary to take off his spectacles and wipe them beforehe commenced the conversation. 'My poor boy, what am I to say to you?' 'Say nothing, sir; it would be far better. I have come----' Here Cyrilpaused; the dryness of his lips seemed to impede his utterance. 'I havecome to know your wishes. ' 'My wishes!' repeated Dr. Ross in a pained voice; and then he put hishand on his shoulder: 'Cyril, do not misjudge me, do not think me hardif you can help it, but I cannot give you my daughter. ' He had expected that Cyril would have wrenched himself free from hisdetaining hand as he heard him, but to his surprise he remainedabsolutely motionless. 'I know it, Dr. Ross. There was no need to tell me that--nothing wouldinduce me to marry her. ' Then the Doctor felt as though he could have embraced him. 'Why should you think so meanly of me, ' went on Cyril in the same heavy, monotonous voice, as though he were repeating some lesson that he hadcarefully conned and got by heart, 'as to suppose that I should takeadvantage of her promise and yours? If you will let me see her, I willtell her so. Do you think I would drag her down to my level--mine?' 'You are acting nobly. ' 'I am acting as necessity compels me, ' returned Cyril withuncontrollable bitterness. 'Do you think I would give her up, even atyour command, Dr. Ross, if I dared to keep her? But I dare not--I darenot!' 'Cyril, for my peace of mind, tell me this one thing--have I ever beenunjust to you in all our relations together?' 'No, Dr. Ross. I have never met with anything but kindness from you andyours. ' 'When you came to me five months ago and told me you loved my daughter, did I repulse you?' Then Cyril shook his head. 'But I was very frank with you. I told you even then that I had a rightto look higher for my son-in-law, but that, as you seemed necessary tomy girl's happiness, your poverty and lack of influence should not standin your way. When I said this, Cyril, when I stretched out the righthand of fellowship to you, I meant every word that I said. I wasteaching myself to regard you as a son; as far as any man could do sucha thing, I intended to take your future under my care. In all this I didyou no wrong. ' 'You have never wronged me, sir, ' and with a low but distinct emphasis:'God forbid that I should wrong either you or her. ' 'No! My heart was always full of kindness to you. Young as youwere--young in years and in work--you had won my entire respect andesteem. I thank you, Cyril--I thank you in my own and in my wife'sname--that I can respect you as highly as ever. ' Dr. Ross's voice faltered with emotion, and the hand that still lay onCyril's shoulder trembled visibly; but there was no answering gleam ofemotion on the young man's face. 'You mean it kindly, Dr. Ross, but I have not deserved this praise. ' Hespoke coldly, proudly. 'Have I an unsullied name to offer any woman? Andeven if this difficulty could be got over, do I not know that my careeris over? Would you--would any other man, do you think--employ me as amaster? I have been facing this question all night, and I know that, asfar as my worldly prospects are concerned, I am practically ruined. ' 'No, no; you must not say that. There are plenty of openings for aclever man. You shall have my help. I will employ my influence; I havepowerful friends. We might find you a secretaryship. ' 'I think a clerkship will be more likely, ' returned Cyril, in the samehard voice, though the pent-up pain threatened to suffocate him. 'I mayhave some difficulty even there; people like their clerks to berespectably connected, and when one's father has been in prison----' But Dr. Ross would not let him proceed. 'My poor boy, your father's sin is not yours. No one can rob you of yourself-respect and stainless honour. If it were not for Audrey, I mighteven venture to brave public opinion and keep you myself. It might bringme into trouble with Charrington, but, as you know, I am my own master. I could have talked him over and got him to hush it up, and we couldhave moved your mother to a little distance. Yes, Cyril, I would havedone it; you should have fought out your battle at my side, if it werenot for my child. ' 'I do not know how to thank you for saying this;' and Cyril's rigidityrelaxed and he spoke more naturally. 'I shall never forget this, Dr. Ross--never, never! But'--here his voice shook--'you will let me go--youwill not make me stop when people begin to talk about it? I am nocoward, but there are some things too hard to put on any man; and to domy work when I see on the boys' faces that they know everything--itwould be the death of me. I could not stand it--no, by heavens! I couldnot. ' 'You shall not be asked to bear it. My poor boy, have you no faith inme? Do you think I should ask you to perform so cruel, so impossible aduty? From this hour you are free, Cyril; do not trouble about yourwork. I can find a substitute, or, if that fails, I will do your workmyself. You are ill--it will be no falsehood to say that--and in anotherfortnight the school will break up. Keep quiet--go away somewhere for atime, and take Burnett into your confidence; he will be a better friendfor you just now than I. ' 'I doubt it, sir. ' Then the Doctor's eyes glistened with tears. 'God help you, my dear fellow! You are doing the right, and He will. This is not good-bye; I will see you again. Now go to her, and teach mychild to do the right too. ' And then Dr. Ross turned his back upon himrather abruptly, and walked to the window. CHAPTER XXXIX 'YOU WILL LIVE IT DOWN' 'Sweet the thought, our lives, my love. Parted ne'er may be, Though between thy heart and mine Leagues of land and sea. * * * * * Of this twofold life and love, Twofold running fate, Sad and lone we may be oft, Never desolate. ' BRITTON. Cyril knew where he should find Audrey; she was generally in her ownlittle sitting-room until luncheon. Sometimes her mother or Mollie wouldbe with her, but this morning he felt instinctively that she would bealone. She was sitting by the window, and there was some work on her lap, butshe did not seem to be employing herself. She had bidden Cyril enter, and directly she saw him she rose from her seat and crossed the roomsomewhat quickly to meet him; but he did not at once speak to her, neither did he offer his usual greeting. She waited for a moment to see what he would do; then she put up herface to him. 'Why do you not kiss me, Cyril?' she said, a little reproachfully; andthen he did take her in his arms. 'It is for the last time!' he murmured, as he pressed her almostconvulsively to him. But she made no answer to this; when he had set her free, she took hishand very quietly, and led him to a seat that stood beside her chair. His hand was cold, and she kept it in both her own as though to warm it. 'I knew you would come to me, ' she said very softly. 'How ill you look, my poor Cyril! You have not slept. Oh yes, I know all about it. And youhave been to father, and you have both made yourselves very miserable. Do you think I do not know that? Poor father! and he is sotender-hearted. ' 'I tried to spare him, ' he returned wearily. 'I did not wish to put himto any trouble. I must dree my own weird, Audrey. ' 'But I shall have to dree it too. Cyril, my darling, you shall not bearyour trouble alone; it is far too heavy for you. As far as we can--asfar as our duty permits, we will bear it together. ' And then, as thoughthe haggardness of his young face was too much for her, she came closerto him, and laid her head on his shoulder. 'We will bear it together, Cyril. ' 'But, Audrey, my one blessing, that cannot be. Do you know what I havecome to say to you this morning? That our engagement must be at anend--that you are free, quite free. ' 'But I do not wish for freedom. ' 'My darling, you ought to wish for it. Under the circumstances, it isquite impossible that we should ever be married. I am a ruined man, Audrey; I have lost my good name, my work, my worldly credit; myconnections are disreputable. By this time you must know that I have afather living, and that his name----' But she gently checked him. 'Yes, dear, I know all. ' 'And yet you can tell me that you do not desire freedom? But that is allyour goodness, and because you do not wish to pain me. Audrey, when Itell you that I must give up the idea of ever calling you my wife, itseems to me as though the bitterness of death were on me. ' 'My poor Cyril!' 'Yes, I am poor indeed; I never dreamt of such poverty. They might havetaken from me everything, and I would not have murmured, if they hadonly left me my faith in my mother, and if they had not robbed me of mylove!' 'She is yours still, Cyril. No, do not turn from me; I mean it--I meanit! If you give me up, if you say to yourself that our engagement isbroken, it must be as you choose, and I must let you go. No woman cancompel a man to remain bound to her. But the freedom is on your sidealone; I neither ask nor desire to be free. ' 'Darling, darling, what can you mean?' 'If you say that you will never marry me, ' she continued, with an air ofdeep sadness, 'I suppose you will keep your word; perhaps you are rightin saying so. I would not marry you without my father's consent, and hetells me he will never give it; but, Cyril, you may rest assured ofthis, that in your lifetime I will never marry another man. ' Then he threw himself at her feet, and, taking her hands in his, beggedher for very pity's sake to stop. 'I love you, Audrey! I think I never loved you before as I do now! butdo you think I would permit such a sacrifice?' 'How are you to help it?' she returned, with a faint smile that was verynear tears; 'and it would be no sacrifice, as far as I know my ownheart. I think my one wish is to comfort you, and to make your life alittle less dreary, Cyril, ' looking at him earnestly; and it seemed tohim as though her face were like an angel's. 'You will be brave and bearthis for my sake. When you are tempted to lose faith, and hope seemsfarthest from you, you must say to yourself: "Audrey has not desertedme; she is mine still--mine always and for ever!"' Then he bowed his head on her hands and wept like a child. She passedher hand over his hair caressingly, and her own tears flowed; but aftera little while she spoke again: 'I have told father so, and I have told mother; I said to both of themthat I would never give you up. We may live apart. Oh yes, I know thatit is all very sad and miserable; but you will let me keep your ring, Cyril, because I still belong to you. ' He tried to steady his voice, and failed; all his manhood could not givehim fortitude at such a moment. He could only clasp her in his arms, andbeg her for her own sweet sake to listen to him. And presently, when he was a little stronger, he put it all before her. He explained to her as well as he could the future that lay before him;the yoke of his father's sin was on his neck, and it was useless to tryand break it off. He might call himself Blake, and look for new work ina new place, and the miserable fact would leak out. There is a fatality in such cases, he went on. 'One may try to hush itup, to live quietly, to attract no notice; but sooner or later thesecret will ooze out. I think I am prouder than most men--perhaps I ammorbid; but I feel I shall never live down this shame. ' 'You will live it down one day. ' 'Yes, the day they put me in my coffin; but not before, Audrey. ' Then, as she turned pale at the thought, he accused himself bitterly for hisselfishness. 'I am making you wretched, and you are an angel ofgoodness!' he cried remorsefully. 'But you must forgive me, darling;indeed, I am not myself. ' 'Do you think I do not know that?' 'A braver man than I might shrink from such a future. What have I donethat such a thing should happen to me? I loved my work, and now it istaken from me; as far as I know, I may have to dig for my bread. ' 'No, no!' she returned, holding him fast; for this was more than shecould bear to hear--that the bright promise of his youth was blasted anddestroyed. 'Cyril, if you love me, as you say you do, will you promiseme two things?' He looked at her a little doubtfully. 'If I love you!' he said reproachfully. 'Then I will alter my sentence, I will say, because of your love for me, will you grant me these two things? Cyril, you must forgive your mother. However greatly she has erred, you must remember that it was for yoursake. ' 'I do remember it. ' 'And you will be good to her?' Then, his face became very stern. 'I will do my duty to her. I think I may promise you that. ' 'Dearest, I do not doubt it. When have you ever failed in your duty? ButI want more than that: you must try so that your heart may be softer toher; you are her one thought; with all her faults, I think no motherever loved her son so well. It is not the highest love, perhaps, sinceshe has stooped to deceit and wrong for your sake; but, Cyril, it is notfor you to judge her. ' 'Perhaps not; but how am I to refrain from judging her? To me truth isthe one absolute virtue--the very crown and chief of virtues. That iswhy I first loved you, Audrey--because of your trustworthiness. But nowI have lost my mother--nay, worse, she has never existed!' 'I do not quite understand you. ' 'Do you think my mother--the mother I believed in--could have acted thislife-long lie? Would she have worn widows' weeds, and utterly forswornherself? No; with all her faults, such crooked ways would have beenimpossible. Audrey, you must give me time to become acquainted with thisnew mother. I will not be hard to her, if I can possibly help it;but'--here the bitterness of his tone betrayed his deep agony--'she cannever be to me again what she has been. ' 'Then I will not press you any more, Cyril. I have such faith in you, that I believe you will come through even this ordeal; but there issomething more I must ask you: Will you let Michael be your friend?' 'We are friends, are we not?' he said, a little bewildered at this. 'Ah! but I would have you close friends. Dear, you must think of me--howunhappy I shall be unless I know you have someone to stand by you inyour trouble. If you would let my father help you!' But a shake of thehead negatived this. 'Well, then, it must be Michael, our good, generousMichael, who will be like a brother to you. ' 'I do not feel as though any man could help me. ' 'No one but Michael. Dear Cyril, give me my way in this. We are going topart, remember, and it may be for a long term of years; but if you valuemy peace of mind, promise me that you will not turn from Michael. ' 'Very well; I will promise you that. Have you any more commands to layupon me, Audrey?' 'No, ' she returned wistfully; 'be yourself, your true, brave, honestself, and all may yet be well. Now go! We have said all that needs to besaid, and I must not keep you. You are free, my dear one; but it is Iwho am bound, who am still yours as much as ever. When we shall meetagain, God knows; but in heart and in thought I shall be with youwherever you may go. Now kiss me, but you need not tell me again it isfor the last time. ' Then she put her arms round his neck, and for a minute or two they heldeach other silently. 'My blessing, my one blessing!' murmured Cyril hoarsely. Then she gently pushed him from her. 'Yes, your blessing. You may call me that always, if you will. ' Andthen, still holding his hand, she walked with him to the door; and as hestood looking at her with that despair in his eyes, she motioned to himto leave her. 'Go, dearest; I cannot bear any more. ' And then he obeyedher. * * * * * A few hours afterwards her mother found her lying on her bed, lookingvery white and spent. 'Are you ill, Audrey? My dear, your father is so anxious about you, andso is Michael. When you did not appear at luncheon, they wanted me to goto you at once. Crauford says you have eaten nothing. ' 'Dear mother, what does that matter? I am quite well, only so verytired. My strength seemed to desert me all at once, so I thought I wouldlie down and keep quiet. But you must tell father that I am not ill. ' 'I shall tell him how good and brave you are, ' returned her mother, caressing her; 'Audrey, did Crauford tell you that Geraldine is here?' Then a shadow passed over Audrey's pale face. 'No, mother. ' 'She came up the moment luncheon was over to ask if you could go withher to Beverley, and of course she saw at once that something was amiss. Your father took her into the study and told her himself. She is verymuch upset. That is why I have left you so long. ' 'I did not know it was long, ' returned Audrey, speaking in the sametired voice; 'it seems to me only a few minutes since Crauford took awaythe tray. ' 'It is nearly four o'clock, ' replied Mrs. Ross, looking at heranxiously--could it be her bright, strong girl who was lying there soprostrate? 'Geraldine has been here nearly two hours. She sent her loveto you, darling, and wanted so much to know if she could see you; but Ishall tell her you are not fit to see anyone. ' 'I do not know that, ' returned Audrey in a hesitating manner; 'I wasjust wishing that I could speak to Michael. If you had not come up, Ithink I should have put myself straight and gone downstairs. I think Imay as well see Gage for a moment; it is better to get things over. ' 'But, Audrey, I am quite sure it would be wiser for you to keep quietto-day; you have had such a terrible strain. Everyone ought to do theirbest to spare you. ' 'But I do not want to be spared, ' returned Audrey, echoing her mother'ssigh; 'so please send Gage to me, and tell her not to stop too long. Crauford can tell her when tea is ready. ' And then Mrs. Ross left hervery reluctantly. Geraldine's face was suffused with tears as she sat down beside the bedand took her sister's hand. Audrey shook her head at her. 'Gage, I don't mean to allow this; you and mother are not to makeyourselves miserable on my account. ' 'How are we to help it, Audrey?' replied Geraldine with a sob; 'I havenever seen you look so ill in your life, and no wonder--this unhappyengagement! Oh, what will Percy say when I tell him?' 'He will be very shocked, of course. Everyone will be shocked. Perhapsboth he and you will say it serves me right, because I would not takeyour advice and have nothing to do with the Blakes. Gage, I want you todo me one favour: tell Percival not to talk to me. Give him my love--sayanything you think best--only do not let him speak to me. ' 'He shall not, dearest; I will not let him. But all the same, he willgrieve bitterly. He knows how bad it will be for you, and how peoplewill talk. I have been telling mother that you ought to go away untilthings have blown over a little. ' Audrey was silent. This was not the sympathy her sore heart needed. Geraldine's tact was at fault here; but the next moment Geraldine said, with manifest effort: 'Cyril has behaved very well. Father seems very much impressed with hisbehaviour; he says that he offered at once to release you from yourengagement. ' 'Yes. ' 'Percy will say he has acted like a gentleman; that is the highestpraise from him. Dear--dearest Audrey, you will not think that I am notsorry for you both when I say that this is a great relief to me?' 'A relief to you that Cyril is free?' 'Yes, and that you are free too. ' 'Ah, but I am not, ' moving restlessly on her pillow. 'There you aremaking a mistake, Gage. I thought father would have told you. I am stillengaged to Cyril; I shall always be engaged to him, although perhaps weshall never be married. ' 'But, Audrey----' 'Now, Gage, we are not going to argue about it, I hope; I am far, fartoo tired, and my mind is made up, as I told father. I shall never givemy poor boy up--never, never!--as long as he is in the world and needsme. ' Then, as she saw the distress on her sister's face, she put herhand again into hers. 'You won't love me less for being so wilful, Gage?If anyone had asked you to give up Percival when you were engaged tohim, do you think you would have listened?' 'Is that not very different, darling?' 'No; not so very different. Perhaps I do not love Cyril quite in thesame way you loved Percival, our natures are so dissimilar; but, atleast, he is very dear to me. ' 'Do you mean that you will break your heart because of this? Oh, Audrey!' and Geraldine's face was very sad. 'No, dear; hearts are not so easily broken, and I do not think that minewould be so weak and brittle. But the thought of his sorrow will alwaysbe present with me, and, in some sense, I fear my life will be clouded. ' Then her sister caressed her again with tears. 'But it will not be as bad for me as for him; for I shall have you allto comfort me, and I know how good you will all be. You will be ready toshare even your child with me, Gage, if you think that will console me. ' 'Yes; and Percival will be good to you, too. ' 'I am sure of that; only you must ask him not to speak to me. Now I amvery tired, and I must ask you to leave me. Go down to mother, dearGage. ' But it seemed as though Geraldine could hardly tear herself away. 'I will do anything, if only you will promise to be happy again, ' shesaid, kissing her with the utmost affection. 'Remember how necessary youare to us. What would any of us do without you? To-morrow I shall bringyour godson to see you. ' Then, at the thought of her baby-nephew, a faint smile crossed Audrey'sface. CHAPTER XL MICHAEL ACCEPTS HIS CHARGE 'Try how the life of the good man suits thee: the life of him who is satisfied with his portion out of the whole, and satisfied with his own just acts and benevolent disposition. '--M. AURELIUS ANTONINUS. Michael's morning in the schoolroom had been truly purgatorial;fortunately for him, it was a half-holiday, and the luncheon-hour sethim free from his self-imposed duties. On his way to his own room, hehad overheard Geraldine's voice speaking to her father, and he at onceguessed the reason why Dr. Ross had invited her into the study. He had never been less enamoured of solitude and of his own society;nevertheless, he told himself that any amount of isolation would bepreferable to the penalty of hearing Geraldine discuss the matter. Hecould hear in imagination her clear sensible premises and sound, logicalconclusion, annotated by womanly lamentations over such a familydisaster. The probable opinions of Mrs. Bryce and Mrs. Charrington wouldbe cited and commented on, and, in spite of her very real sympathy withher sister, Michael shrewdly surmised that the knowledge that the Blakeinfluence was waning would give her a large amount of comfort in thefuture. When Crauford announced that the ladies were having tea in thedrawing-room, he begged that a cup might be sent up to him. 'Will you tell Mrs. Harcourt that I have a headache?' he said; and, asCrauford delivered the message, Geraldine looked meaningly at hermother. 'I expect Michael has taken all this to heart, ' she said, as soon asCrauford had left the room; 'he is very feeling, and then he is so fondof Audrey. ' And as Mrs. Ross sighed in assent, she went on with thetopic that was engrossing them at that moment--how Audrey was to beinduced to leave home for a while. Michael's table was strewn with books, and one lay open on his knee, buthe had not once turned the page. How was he to read when the veryatmosphere seemed charged with heaviness and oppression? 'She thinks that she loves him, and therefore she will suffer, ' he saidto himself over and over again; 'and it will be for the first time inher life; for she has often told me that she has never known trouble. But her suffering will be like a grain of sand in comparison with his. Oh, I know what he is feeling now! To have had her, and then to havelost her! Poor fellow! it is a cruel fate. ' Michael pondered drearily over the future that lay before them all. Howwas he to bear himself, he wondered, under circumstances soexasperating? She was free, and he knew her to be free--for Cyril wouldnever claim her--and yet she would regard herself as altogether bound. He must go away, he thought; not at once--not while she needed him--butby and by, when things were a little better. Life at Rutherford was nolonger endurable to him; for months past, ever since her engagement, hehad chafed under a sense of insupportable restlessness. A sort of feveroppressed him--a longing to be free from the influence that dominatedhim. 'If I stay here I must tell her how it is with me, and that will onlymake her more miserable, ' he thought. 'She is not like other women--Inever saw one like her. There is something unreasonable in hergenerosity. Girls sometimes say things they do not mean, and then repentof their impulsiveness; but she will never repent, whether she loves himor not. She believes that it is her mission to comfort him. Perhaps, ifI had appealed to her, I might have made her believe that she had adifferent mission. Oh, my dear, if it only could have been so!' And he sighed in the bitterness of his spirit; for he knew that in hisunselfishness he had never wooed her. At that moment there was a light tap at his door, and he started to hisfeet with a quick exclamation of surprise as Audrey entered. He had beenthinking of her at that moment, and he almost felt as though theintensity of his thoughts had attracted her by some unconsciousmagnetism; but a glance at her dispelled this illusion. She was dressed for dinner, and he noticed that there was an air ofunusual sombreness about her attire, as though she felt that any gaietyof apparel would be incongruous. And as she came closer to him, he wasstruck with her paleness and the sadness in her large gray eyes. 'Michael, ' she said, in a low voice, 'I want to speak to you. I hope Iam not interrupting you. ' 'You never interrupt me, ' he returned quickly. 'Besides, I am doingnothing. Sit down, dear, and then we shall talk more comfortably. ' Forhe noticed that she spoke with an air of lassitude that was unusual toher, and her strong lithe figure swayed a little, as though withweakness. 'Do you think you should be here?' he asked, with grave concern. 'Youlook ill, Audrey, as though you ought to be resting in your own room. ' 'I have been resting, ' she replied gently. 'And then Gage came to me, and after that I thought I had been idle long enough. Michael, '--andhere her lips quivered as though she found it difficult to maintain herself-control--'you know all that has happened. Cyril has gone away--hehas said good-bye to me--and he looks as though his heart were broken. Ihave done what I could to comfort him. I have told him that I shallalways be true to him; but it is not in my power to help him more. ' 'Dear Audrey, ' he said--for he understood her meaning well, and therewas no need for her to speak more plainly--'it was not for me to go tohim after such a parting as that. The presence of one's dearest friendwould be intolerable. ' 'I did not mean to-day, ' she returned sadly; 'but there is to-morrow, and there is the future. And he has no friend who is worthy of the name. Michael, there is no one in the whole world who could help him as youcould. This is the favour I have come to ask you. ' 'It is granted, Audrey. ' Then her eyes were full of tears as he said this. 'Oh, I knew you would not refuse! When have you ever refused to do akindness for anyone? Michael, I told my poor boy to-day that if hevalued my peace of mind he would consent to be guided by your advice. Heis so young; he does not know the world as you do, and he is so terriblyunhappy; but if you would only help him----' 'My dear, ' he said very quietly, 'there is no need to distress yourself, or to say any more; we have always understood each other without words. You are giving me this charge because you are unable to fulfil ityourself. You wish me to be a good friend to poor Blake, to watch overhim and interest myself in his welfare--that is, as far as one man willpermit another to do so. Well, I can promise you that without a moment'shesitation. I will be as solicitous for him as though he were mybrother. Will that content you?' But he could not easily forget the look of gratitude that answered him. 'God bless you, Michael! I will not try to thank you. Perhaps someday----' She stopped as though unable to say more. 'Oh, ' he said lightly, and crushing down some dangerous emotion as hespoke, 'I have done nothing to deserve thanks. Even if you had not askedme this, do you think I would have gone on my own way, like the Levitein the parable, and left that poor fellow to shift for himself? No, mydear, no; I am not quite so flinty-hearted. Unless Blake will have noneof my help--unless he absolutely repulse me--I will try as far as liesin my power to put him on his feet again. ' 'He will not repulse you; I have his word for that. Ah! there is thedinner-bell, and I have not said all that I wanted. The day seems asthough it would never end, and yet there is time for nothing. ' 'You will not come downstairs, Audrey? Let me ask your mother to excuseyou. See! you can stay in this room; I can clear the table and putthings ship-shape for you. ' Then she looked at him with the same air of innocent surprise with whichshe had regarded her mother the previous night, when she had asked toremain with her. 'Why do you all treat me as though I were an invalid?' she saidprotestingly. 'I am not ill, Michael. What does it matter where one eatsone's dinner? It is true I am not hungry, but there is father--whyshould I make him uncomfortable? We must think of other people always, and under all circumstances. ' She seemed to be saying this to herself more than to him, as though shewould remind herself of her duty. Michael said no more, but as hefollowed her downstairs he told himself that no other girl could haveborne herself so bravely and so sweetly under the circumstances. He wondered at her still more as he sat opposite to her at table, andsaw the quiet gravity with which she took her part in the conversation. She spoke a word or two about her sister, and mentioned of her ownaccord that she had promised to bring Leonard to see her the next day. 'I do not mean to call him baby, ' she said; 'he is far too important apersonage. Did you hear nurse speak of him as Master Baby the other day?I think Gage must have given her a hint about it. ' And then she listened with an air of interest as her mother related alittle anecdote that recurred to her memory of Geraldine's babyhood. But he saw her flush painfully when Mrs. Ross commented on her want ofappetite. 'You have eaten nothing to-day, Crauford tells me, ' she continuedanxiously. Audrey shook her head. 'One cannot always be hungry, mother dear, ' she said gently; but it wasevident that her mother's kindly notice did not please her. And she seemed still more distressed when her father once rose from hisplace to give her some wine. 'Why do you do that?' she asked, with a touch of impatience. 'It is notfor you to wait on me, father. Michael would have filled my glass quiteeasily. ' 'You are paying me a very bad compliment, Audrey, ' returned Dr. Rosswith a smile. 'You are telling me that I am too much of an old fogey towait on ladies. Mike is the younger man, of course, and if you shouldprefer that he should help you to madeira----' 'No, father, it is not that; but it is for me to wait on you. You mustnever, never do that for me again. ' And somehow Dr. Ross seemed to have no answer ready as he went back tohis chair. But when she was alone with her mother she spoke still more plainly. Mrs. Ross had persuaded her to take the corner of the couch; but as shestood by her manipulating the cushions and adjusting them morecomfortably, Audrey turned round quickly and took hold of her hands. 'Mother, do please sit down. I think you have all entered into aconspiracy to-night to kill me with kindness. ' 'We are so sorry for you, darling. ' 'Perhaps I am sorry for myself; but is that any reason why I should betreated as though I had lost the use of my limbs? I want you to behaveto me as usual; it will be far better for me and you too. Why did notfather and Michael talk politics, instead of making littlecut-and-dried speeches that seemed to fit into nothing?' 'I daresay they found it very difficult to talk at all under thecircumstances. ' 'That sounds as though I had better have remained upstairs, as Michaelsuggested; indeed, I must do so if you will persist in regarding me asthe skeleton at the feast. ' 'My darling child, how you talk! Surely you will allow your parents toshare your sorrow?' 'No, mother; that is just what I cannot allow; no one shall be burdenedwith my troubles. Listen to me, mother dear: I think people make a greatmistake about this; they mean to be kind, but it is not true kindness;they are ready to give everything--sympathy, watchfulness, attention--but they withhold the greatest gift of all, the freedom, thesolitude, for which the sufferer craves. ' 'Do you mean that we are to leave you alone, Audrey? Oh, my dear, thisis a hard saying for a mother to hear!' 'But it is not too hard for my mother, ' returned Audrey caressingly. 'Yes, I would have you leave me alone until I recover myself. I would betreated as you have always treated me, and not as though I were a maimedand sickly member of the flock. Neither would I be reminded every momentof the day that any special hurt has come to me. ' 'And I am not to ask you even to rest yourself?' 'No, not even that. I would rather a thousand times that you gave mesome work or errand. Mother dear, ' and here her voice was very sad, 'Iwill not deny that this is a great trouble, and that my life will not beas easy and as happy as it used to be. The shadow of my poor boy'ssorrow will be a heavy burden for me to bear; but we must ask God tolighten it for both of us. I tell you this to-night because you are myown dear mother, and such confidence is your due; but after to-night Ishall not say it again. If you and father wish to help me, it will be byallowing me to feel that I am still your comfort;' and then she threwherself in her mother's arms. 'Tell father this, ' she whispered, 'andask him to give me time. One day, perhaps, I shall be more like my oldself; but we must wait: it is too soon to expect much of me yet. ' 'I will tell your father you are our good, dear child, Audrey, and youshall have your way. ' 'Thank you; I knew you would understand. After all, there is no one likeone's mother. ' And then she sighed, and Mrs. Ross knew where herthoughts had wandered. 'Now, for this one evening, I will take youradvice and rest. I will go up to my room now; but to-morrow'--shestopped, and then said firmly--'to-morrow everything shall be as usual. 'And then she gave her cheek to her mother's kiss, and went up to herroom. Michael did not make his appearance in the drawing-room that night. ToBooty's secret rapture, he put on his great-coat, and went out into thechill darkness. He had much to consider; and it was easier to make hisplans under the dim March starlight. A difficult charge had been givenhim, and he had not shrunk from it; on the contrary, he had felt much assome knight in the olden times must have felt when his liege lady hadgiven him some hazardous work or quest. To be sure, there was no specialguerdon attached to it; but a man like Michael Burnett does not need areward: if he could only give Audrey peace of mind, he would ask noother reward. He made up his mind that he would go to Cyril the next morning, and hethought he knew what he should say to him. He and Dr. Ross had talkedmatters over after dinner. Dr. Ross had already suggested asubstitute--a young Oxford man, who was staying at the Vicarage, and whowas on the look-out for a mastership. 'I told Cyril that he had better discontinue his work, ' he went on. 'Ifit were not for Audrey, he could have made some sort of shift, and kepton until the holidays; but it would never do to run the risk of anotherscene between them: it would be bad for her, and it would be terriblefor him. It is an awkward complication, Mike; it would be better to gethim away as soon as possible. ' And to this Michael assented. He went round to the Gray Cottage soon after breakfast. Audrey waswatering her flowers in the hall. She looked at him as he passed her, but did not speak; of course, she guessed his errand, for he saw herhead droop a little over the flowers. Mollie received him. The poor girl's eyes were swollen with crying, andshe looked up in his face very piteously, as he greeted her with hisusual kindness. 'Where is your brother, Mollie?' 'Do you mean Cyril? He is in his room; but no one has seen him. Oh, Captain Burnett, is it true? Mamma has been saying such dreadfulthings, and we do not know whether we are to believe her. Biddy tries tohush her, but she will go on talking; she is quiet now, and Kester and Icrept down here. Ah, there is Kester looking at us; he wants you to goin and speak to him. ' 'Is it true?' were Kester's first words when he saw his friend. The poorlad's lips were quivering. 'Oh, Captain Burnett, do tell us that it isnot true!' 'I cannot do that, my boy, ' returned Michael gravely; and then he satdown and listened to what they had to tell him. He soon found that themother's wild ravings had told them the truth. In her despair at beingrefused admittance to her son's room, she had given way to a franticoutburst of emotion. Biddy had tried to get rid of them, but Kester andMollie had remained, almost petrified with horror. What could theirmother mean by telling them that she hated the sight of them, andadjuring them to go to their father? 'Father is dead; does she wish us to be dead, too?' Mollie had faltered. 'Dear mamma, do let me go and fetch Cyril! You are ill; you do not knowwhat you are saying!' But as she turned to go, her mother had startedup, and gripped her arm so fiercely that the poor child could havescreamed with pain. 'Yes, you shall fetch him, but he will not come; he will not listen toyou any more than he would to me. When I implored him on my knees toopen the door, he said that he was ill, and that he could not speak tome. But was I not ill, too? If I were dying he would not come to me! andyet he is my son!' 'Dear mamma! oh, dear mamma! do you know how you are hurting me?' 'No; it is he who is hurting me: he is killing me--absolutely killingme!--because I kept from him that his father was alive! Did I not do itfor his sake--that he should not be shamed by such a father? Go to him, Mollie; tell him that you know all about it, and that Audrey Ross willhave nothing to say to him, because he is the son of a felon. Why areyou staring at me? Go! go!' And she pushed her from her so roughly thatMollie would have fallen if Biddy had not caught her. 'Go, Miss Mollie, or you will drive her crazy with your big eyes andfrightened face. Whist! don't heed the mistress's wild talk; it is neverthe truth she is telling you. ' But Mrs. Blake had interrupted the old woman; her eyes were blazing withangry excitement: 'Where do you expect to go, Biddy, if you tell Mollie such lies? You area wicked old woman! You have helped me to do all this mischief! Wouldyou dare to tell me to my face that I am not the wife of Mat O'Brien?' 'Sorra a bit, Miss Olive; you are the widow of that honest man Blake. Heaven rest his soul!' returned the old woman doggedly. 'We must behaving the doctors to you, Miss Olive avick, if you tell us these wildstories. ' 'Biddy, you are a false, foolish old creature! and it is you who aredriving me out of my sane senses. ' But at this point Mollie fairly fled. 'Did you see your brother?' asked Michael, as she stopped to dry hereyes. Kester had never uttered a word; he left Mollie to tell her ownstory, and sat leaning his head on his hands. For once Mollie'sloquacity was suffered unchecked. 'It was dark, and I could not see him; it was quite late, youknow--nearly twelve o'clock. He came out and listened to me; but thepassage and the room were quite dark. '"Go down, Mollie, " he said, "and tell my mother that I cannot speak toher to-night. It is quite impossible; she ought not to expect it. " '"But she is ill, Cyril--I am sure she is dreadfully ill; her eyes lookso strange, and she is saying such things!" '"Biddy will take care of her; if she needs a doctor, you must go forone. But nothing on earth would induce me to see her to-night. " And thenhe went back into his room and locked the door. ' 'Poor Mollie!' 'Oh, that was nothing to what came afterwards. Would you believe it, Captain Burnett?--mamma had heard every word. When I left Cyril, I foundher crouching on the stairs in a dark corner. Oh, I shall never forgetthe turn it gave me! She had got her arms over her head, and they seemedquite stiff, and her fingers were clenched. Biddy was crying over her;but she did not move or speak, and it was quite an hour before we couldget her into her own room. ' 'You ought to have sent for the doctor. ' 'Biddy would not let us; she said it was only sorrow of heart, and thatshe had seen her once before like that, when her husband died. Whatmakes Biddy say that, Captain Burnett, if our father be still living?' Michael shook his head. 'Biddy chooses to persist in her falsehood. I have seen your father, Mollie. I am very sorry for him; with all his faults, he loves hischildren. ' Then a low sound like a groan escaped Kester's lips. 'And Ithink his children should be sorry for him, too; he has had a hard, unhappy life. But there is no time to talk of this now; I want you tofinish about last night, and then I must go upstairs. ' 'There is nothing more to tell. We could not induce mamma to undress orto go to bed, so Biddy covered her up and told me to go away. She waswith her all night. With all her crossness and tiresome ways, Biddy isalways good to mamma; she was talking to her almost as though she were ababy, for I stood and listened a minute before I closed the door. Icould hear her say: '"Miss Olive avick, what was the good of telling the children? Youshould hush it up for Mr. Cyril's sake, and for the sake of the dearyoung lady he is going to marry. " But he is not going to marry her;mamma said so more than once. ' And then, in a few grave words, Michael told them all that it wasnecessary for them to know. 'Poor, poor Cyril! Oh, my dear Miss Ross!' was all Mollie could say. Kester seemed nearly choking. 'Let me go to him, dear Mollie. But I think I will see your motherfirst. Biddy seems to be a bad adviser. After all, she may require adoctor. ' And then he put his hand on Kester's shoulder and whispered somethinginto his ear. Mollie could not hear what it was, but she saw the boy'sface brighten a little as he took up Booty to prevent him from followinghis master. CHAPTER XLI 'THERE SHALL BE PEACE BETWEEN US' 'Men exist for the sake of one another. Teach them, then, or bear with them. ' * * * * * 'When a man has done thee any wrong, immediately consider with what opinion about good or evil he has done wrong; for when thou hast seen this thou wilt pity him, and wilt neither wonder nor be angry. '--M. AURELIUS ANTONINUS. Biddy was hovering about the passage, as usual. She regarded Michaelwith marked disfavour when he asked if he could see her mistress. In herignorant way, she had arrived at the conclusion that the Captain was atthe bottom of the mischief. 'Why couldn't he leave things to sort themselves?' she grumbled withinherself. 'But men are over-given to meddling; they mar more than theymake. ' 'My mistress is too ill to see anyone, ' she returned shortly. 'Do you mean that she is in her own room?' he asked. But even as he put the question, he could answer it for himself. Thedoor of the adjoining room was wide open, and he was certain that it wasempty. 'Sick folk do not always stop in their beds, ' retorted Biddy still moresourly; 'but for all that, she is not fit to see visitors. ' She squared her skinny elbows as she spoke, as though prepared to barhis entrance; but he looked at her in his quiet, authoritative way. 'She will see me, Biddy. Will you kindly allow me to pass?' And the oldwoman drew back, muttering as she did so. But he was obliged to confess that Biddy was right as he opened thedoor, and for a moment he hesitated on the threshold. Mrs. Blake was half sitting, half lying on the couch in a curiouslyuneasy position, as though she had flung herself back in some suddenfaintness; her eyes were closed, and the contrast between the pale faceand dark dishevelled hair was very striking; her lips, even, were of thesame marble tint. He had always been compelled to admire her, but he haddone so in grudging fashion; but now he was constrained to own that herbeauty was of no mean order. An artist would have raved over her; shewould have made a model for a Judith or a Magdalene. As he stood there with his hand on the door, she opened her eyes andlooked at him; but she did not change her attitude or address him. Michael made up his mind that he must speak to her. 'I am sorry to see you look so ill, Mrs. Blake. ' He took her hand as he spoke; it felt weak and nerveless. But she drewit hastily away, and her forehead contracted. 'Of course I am ill. ' 'I hope Biddy has sent for a doctor; I think you should see one withoutdelay. ' But she shook her head. 'No doctor would do me any good. I would not see him if he came. ' Michael was silent; he hardly knew how he was to treat her. Mollie'sgraphic account of the scene last night had greatly alarmed him. Mrs. Blake was of a strangely excitable nature; he had been told that fromher youth she had been prone to fits of hysterical emotion. She wasperfectly unused to self-control, and only her son had ever exercisedany influence over her. Was there not a danger, then, that, the barriersonce broken down, she might pass beyond her own control? He had heardand had read that ungovernable passion might lead to insanity; he almostbelieved it, as he listened to Mollie's story. This is why he hadinsisted on seeing her. He must judge of her condition for himself; hemust do his best to prevent the recurrence of such a scene. And now, ashe saw her terrible exhaustion and the dim languor in her eyes, he toldhimself that something must be done for her relief. 'If you send one, I will not see him, ' she went on. 'I think you are wrong. For your children's sake you ought to do yourbest to throw off this illness that oppresses you. ' But she interrupted him. 'Why are you here this morning? Are you going to him?' she askedabruptly. 'Yes, certainly; that is, if he will see me. ' 'He will see you. He would not refuse anyone who came from Woodcote. Captain Burnett, will you tell me this one thing: has that girl givenhim up?' Michael hesitated. 'Your son has broken off his engagement with Miss Ross. He felt he couldnot do otherwise. ' 'You are not answering me straight. I do not want to hear about Cyril;of course he would offer to release her. But has Miss Ross consented tothis?' 'No, ' he returned reluctantly, for it pained him to enter on thissubject with her; 'she has refused to be set free. As far as your son isconcerned, the engagement is broken; but my cousin declares herintention of remaining faithful to him. ' 'I knew it--I knew it as well as though you had told me, ' returned Mrs. Blake with strong emotion; 'Audrey Ross is not the girl to throw a manover. Oh! I love her for this. She is a darling, a darling, but'--relapsing into her old melancholy--'they will never let her marryhim--never, never!' 'I am afraid you are right. ' 'No, he is doomed; my poor boy is doomed. If you see him, what is therethat you can say to comfort him?' 'I shall not try to comfort him. I shall bid him do his duty. Comfortwill come to him in no other way. ' 'Shall you speak to him of me?' 'Yes, certainly. If I have any influence, I shall bring him to youbefore an hour is over. ' Then she caught his hand and the blood rushed to her face. 'God bless you for this!' she whispered. 'Go; do not keep me waiting. Go, for Heaven's sake!' 'You must promise me one thing first: that you will control yourself. Think of him, of the day and the night he has passed. He will not be fitfor any scene. If you reproach him, you will only send him from youagain. ' 'I will promise anything--everything--if you will only bring him. ' Andnow her eyes were wet; it seemed as though he had given her new life. She sat erect; she was no longer like a marble image of despair. 'If Ican only see him, if he will let me speak to him! but it is thisemptiness--this blank, this dreadful displeasure--that is shutting meout from him, that is killing me by inches. ' And here she put her hand to her throat, as though the words suffocatedher. 'Be calm and quiet, and all may yet be well, ' he returned in a soothingvoice; 'I will do what I can for you and him too. ' And with a reassuringlook he left her. What had become of his dislike? He felt he no longer disliked her. Shewas false--falser than he had thought any woman could be; she hadqualities that he detested, faults that he, of all men, was most readyto condemn; but the one spark of goodness that redeemed her in his eyeswas her love for her son. He knocked somewhat lightly at Cyril's door, but there was no answer;but as he repeated it more loudly, Cyril's voice impatiently demandedhis business. 'It is I--Burnett. Will you let me speak to you a moment, Blake?' And then the door was unlocked, and Cyril stood aside to let him enter;but he uttered no greeting, neither did Michael at once offer his hand. He threw a hasty glance round the room as Cyril relocked the door; thebed had not been slept in that night--that was plainly evident--but thecrushed pillow and the rug flung across the foot proved clearly that hehad thrown himself down fully dressed when weariness compelled him. He had evidently only just completed his toilet: the shirt he had thrownaside was still on the floor, in company with his bath towels; andsomething in his appearance made Michael say: 'You were just going out. I hope I am not keeping you?' 'There is no hurry, ' returned Cyril indifferently; 'I was only going outbecause I could not stop indoors any longer; but there is plenty of timebetween this and night. ' And then he offered Michael the only chair, andsat down on the bed. 'This place is not fit for you, ' he continuedapologetically; 'but there is nowhere else where one can be quiet. ' 'You are looking ill, Blake. I am afraid you have not slept. ' For there was a sunken look in Cyril's eyes that told its own tale. 'I had some sleep towards morning, ' he replied, as though the matter didnot concern him; 'and I dreamt that I was in purgatory. It was not apleasant place, but I believe I was rather sorry when I woke. It is verygood of you to look me up, Burnett. ' And here he paused, and then saidin a changed voice: 'Will you tell me how she is?' 'You mean my cousin? She is as well as one can expect her to be; but, ofcourse, all this has been a terrible upset. She is very good and brave. She knows I have come to you. ' 'Did she send you?' 'I suppose I must say yes to that; but I had fully intended to come. Blake, I want you to look on me as a friend. You need someone to standby you, and see you through this; and I think there is no one sosuitable as myself at the present. ' 'You are very good; but I can have no possible claim on you, CaptainBurnett. ' Cyril spoke a little stiffly. 'If you put it in that way, perhaps not; in this sense, a shipwreckedsailor has no claim on the man who holds out a helping hand to him; butI doubt whether that reason would induce him to refuse it. ' Then a faint smile came to Cyril's dry lips. 'You are right to choose that illustration. I think no man in the worldhas ever suffered more complete shipwreck. I have been trying to face myposition all night, and I cannot see a gleam of hope anywhere. ' 'You must not lose heart, Blake. ' 'Must I not? I think anyone would lose heart and faith, and hope, too, in my position. Two days ago no future could have been so bright; I hadeverything--everything that a man needs for his happiness; and at thismoment no beggar could be poorer. I feel as though I had no bread toeat, and as though I should never have appetite for bread again. ' 'I understand what you mean. I had the same sort of feeling as I lay inthe hospital. I was covered with wounds; health was impossible; my workwas gone. I could not face my life. Would you believe it, Blake?--I wasthe veriest coward, and could have trembled at my own shadow. It made awoman of me. I did not want to live such a crippled, meagre existence;but somehow I managed to struggle to the light. ' 'Did anyone help you?' 'No, not consciously; I helped myself. At least'--in a lowervoice--'the help that came to me was from a higher source. One day Iwill tell you about it, Blake; it was an awful crisis in a man's life, and I should not speak about it unless I thought my experience couldbenefit anyone. Now about yourself--have you formed any plans?' 'None; but I must get away from here. ' 'I can understand that perfectly; and I must say that I think you areright. Dr. Ross and I were speaking about you yesterday; he is deeplygrieved at the idea of parting with you so abruptly. He says, under anyother circumstances (he was thinking of his daughter when he spoke) thatit would have been well for you to go on with your work as usual--thechange could have been made after the holidays--but he fears now thatthis is hardly possible. I am sure you will not misunderstand him. ' 'No; he has decided quite rightly. ' 'He will give you a testimonial of which any man may be proud. He toldme with tears in his eyes that he never knew anyone so young with sogreat a moral influence; that your work was at all times excellent, andthat he had never had so high a respect for any of his masters. And hebegs me to say that you may command his purse or influence to anyreasonable extent. He will be truly grateful to you if you will notrefuse his help. ' 'I fear I must refuse it. ' And Cyril threw back his head with his oldproud gesture. 'But do not tell him so, Captain Burnett. Give him mykindest, my most respectful regards. Say anything you like, but do notcompromise me. I will take nothing but my salary from Dr. Ross. ' 'Then we will say no more about it, ' returned Michael with ready tact. 'Every man has a right to his own independence. Have you any place to goto when you leave here, Blake?' Then Cyril shook his head. 'One can always take lodgings, ' he replied. 'I must go up to town andlook out for some situation. I suppose, after all, my testimonials willhelp me. ' 'Without doubt they will. What do you say to a secretaryship? I have onein my mind that I think would suit you. It is a friend of my own who iswanting someone as a sort of general amanuensis and secretary. He is aliterary man and extremely wealthy, an old bachelor and somewhat of anoddity; but in his own way I don't know a better fellow. ' Cyril listened to this description with languid interest. 'It sounds as though it would do, ' he replied, after a moment'sreflection. 'At least, I might try it for a time. Last night I thoughtof going to New Zealand. I could get a mastership there. ' 'That is not a bad idea; but you might try the secretaryship first, ifUnwin be willing to come to terms. The work would be novel andinteresting, and your mother might not like the New Zealand scheme. ' Then, at the mention of his mother, Cyril's face seemed to harden. Michael took no apparent notice of this. 'I tell you what we will do, Blake. We will go up to town together. Whenwould you like to start--to-morrow?' Here Cyril nodded. 'I have diggingsof my own, you know, in South Audley Street. They are very comfortablerooms, and I can always get a bed for a friend. The people of the houseare most accommodating. Besides, I am a good tenant. I will put you up, Blake, for any length of time you like to name. I will not promise tobear you company after the first week or so; but by that time you willfind yourself quite at home. And we will interview the old fellow assoon as possible. ' 'You are too good! I have no right to burden you so;' but a ray of hopeshone in Cyril's sunken eyes: he was not the outcast he had seemed tobe, if this man stood by him. 'Nonsense! How can you burden me?' returned Michael briskly. 'I shall bedelighted to have your company. And the rooms are always there, youknow. They may as well be used. ' 'And we can go to-morrow. You see, I am accepting your generous offer;but how can I help myself? I must find work, or I shall go mad. ' 'Just so, and I will help you to find it. There is some good, after all, in being an idle man: one can do a good turn for a friend. Well, we willsay to-morrow. I shall be quite at your service, then; but there are twothings that must be done first. Blake, do you know how ill your motheris? I was quite shocked to see her just now. ' 'Yes, Mollie told me so last night; she wanted me to come down to her, but I knew that it was far better for both of us that I should remainwhere I was; I was in no mood for a scene;' and Cyril knitted his browsas he spoke. 'You were the best judge of that, of course; but I should advise you tosee her now. ' His grave tone somewhat startled Cyril. 'Do you mean that she is so very ill?' 'No, I do not mean that. As far as I can tell, I believe her illness ismore mental than bodily; but she is evidently suffering acutely. If youleave her to herself much longer I would not answer for theconsequences. Her nature is a peculiar one, as you must know foryourself. If you could say a word to her to soothe her, I think it wouldbe as well to say it. ' 'Very well, I will go to her; but she must not expect me to say much. ' 'She will expect nothing; but all the same I hope you will not be toohard on her. If you cannot extenuate her fault, you can at leastremember her provocations. ' A sigh of great bitterness rose to Cyril's lips. 'I think it is hardest of all to hear you defend my mother to me. ' 'I know it--it is bitterly hard. Do you think I don't feel for you? But, Blake, before we leave Rutherford, there is another duty, and a stillmore painful one. Surely you intend to see your father?' 'I do not see the necessity, Captain Burnett; my father is nothing to menor I to him. ' 'You are wrong, ' returned Michael warmly; 'you are altogether wrong. Will you let me tell you something?' And then he repeated the substance of his conversation with Mat O'Brien. He thought Cyril seemed a little touched, but he merely said: 'I think I need hardly see him at present;' and he added in a low voice, 'Am I in a fit state to see anyone?' 'Perhaps not; but you may not soon have another opportunity, my dearfellow. Will you put aside your feelings and do this thing for mysatisfaction? I have given my word to Mr. O'Brien that I will do my bestto bring you together, and if you refuse I shall accuse myself offailure. ' 'Oh, if you put it in that light, I do not see my way to refuse. ' 'Thanks--shall we go together, or would you prefer going alone?' 'I could not bring myself to go alone. ' 'Very well, then, I will drive you over in the dogcart. I am no walker, as you know, and perhaps Kester had better go with us;' and to thisCyril made no demur. 'Now I have detained you long enough, and Mrs. Blake will be wearying for you. I will bring the trap round at half-pasttwo. ' Cyril nodded, and they went downstairs together. Michael paused for aninstant at the drawing-room door: 'Be gentle with her, Blake, ' he said, as he grasped his hand. 'What isdone cannot be undone;' and then he went down to Kester. Mrs. Blake was still in the same position. The tension of that longwaiting had been too much for her, and the old faintness had returned;but when she saw her son she struggled into a sitting posture andstretched out her hands to him as he came slowly, and almostreluctantly, towards her. 'Cyril! my darling Cyril!' Then he took her hand and held it for amoment. 'My boy, ' she said a little piteously, 'have you nothing elsefor your mother?' But he seemed as though he failed to understand her, and when shepointed mutely to the seat beside her, he did not at once seat himself. 'Mother, ' he said, still speaking as though the words were difficult tohim, 'I have come to tell you that there shall be peace between us. ' 'Does that mean you have forgiven me, Cyril?' 'It means that I will do my best to forgive you your share in the ruinof my life--of all our lives. ' Then as he stood before her she threw her arms round him with a faintcry; but he gently, very gently, repulsed her. 'Do not let there be any scene; I could not bear it;' and the wearinessin his voice made her heart ache still more. 'Mother, I think that wehad better never speak of these things again. As far as I am concerned, I will willingly blot out the past from my memory. To-day we must beginafresh--you and I. ' His tone made her shiver, and as she looked up in his dark impassiveface, and saw the deep-seated melancholy in his eyes, a sort of despairseized her. 'Oh!' she cried passionately, 'can it be my son who speaks? Blot out thepast?--that happy past, when we were all in all to each other--when evenpoverty was delicious, because I had my boy to work for me!' 'I shall work for you still. ' 'Yes, but will it be the same? What do I care for the gifts you maybring me when your heart has gone from me? How am I to bear my life whenyou treat me with such coldness? Cyril, you do not know what a mother'slove is. If you had sinned, if you had come to me and said, "Will youtake my hand, red as it is with the blood of a fellow-creature?" withall my horror I would still have taken it, for it is the hand of myson. ' She spoke with a wild fervour that would have touched any other man; buthe only returned coldly: 'And yet you had no mercy for my father?' Then a look of repugnance crossed her face. 'That was because I did not love him. Where there is no love there is noself-sacrifice; but, Cyril, with all my faults, I have been a goodmother to you. ' 'I know it, ' he replied, 'and I hope I shall always do my duty by you;but, mother, you must be patient and give me time. Do you not see, ' andhere his voice became more agitated, 'that you have yourself destroyedmy faith in my mother: the mother in whom I believed, who was truthitself to me, is only my own illusion. I know now that she neverexisted; that is why I say that you must give me time, that I may becomeused to my new mother. ' He spoke with the utmost gentleness; but his words were dreadful to her. And yet she hardly understood them. How could the pure rectitude, thescrupulous honour, of such a nature be comprehended by a woman likeOlive O'Brien, a creature of wild impulses, whose notions of moralitywere as shifty as the quicksands, whose sense of right and wrong was sostrangely warped? For the first time in her life the strong accusinglight of conscience seemed to penetrate the murky recesses of her naturewith an unearthly radiance that seemed to scorch her into nothingness. Her son had become her judge, and the penalty he imposed was worse thandeath to her. Of what use would her life be to her if the idol of herheart had turned against her? And yet, with all her remorse and misery, there was no repentance: if the time had come over again, she wouldstill have freed herself from the husband she loathed, she would stillhave dressed herself in her widows' weeds, and carried out her life'sdeception. Cyril was perfectly aware of this; he knew all her anguish was caused byhis displeasure, and by the bitter consequences that he was reaping. Herplot had failed; it had only brought disaster on him and his. If hecould have seen one spark of real repentance--if she had owned to himwith tears that her sorrow was for her sin, and that she would fain undoit--his heart would have been softer to her as she sat and wept beforehim. 'I never thought you could have been so hard to me!' she sobbed. 'I do not mean to be hard, ' was his answer; 'that is why I said thereshould be peace between us, and because I am going away. ' 'You are going!--where?' And then he told her briefly that Captain Burnett had offered him atemporary home. 'It is better for me to be alone a little, ' he went on. 'When I havesettled work, and you can get rid of the house, I will ask you to joinme; but that will not be for some time. ' 'And I must stop on here alone? Oh, Cyril, my own boy, let me come withyou! I will slave, I will be content with a crust, if you will only takeme!' 'It is impossible, mother; I shall have no home for you. You must stayhere quietly with Mollie and Kester, until my plans are more settled. ' And then he rose, as though to put an end to the discussion. 'And you go to-morrow?' 'Yes, to-morrow. Will you ask Mollie to look after my things?' Then, as she gazed at him with troubled eyes, he bent over her andkissed her forehead. 'We must begin afresh, ' he said, half to himself, as he left the room. CHAPTER XLII 'WILL YOU SHAKE HANDS WITH YOUR FATHER?' 'It is peculiar to man to love even those who do wrong. And this happens if, when they do wrong, it occurs to thee that they are kinsmen, and that they do wrong through ignorance and unintentionally, and that soon both of you will die; and above all, that the wrongdoer hath done thee no harm, for he hath not made thy ruling faculty worse than it was before. '--M. AURELIUS ANTONINUS. 'To err is human; to forgive, divine. ' The drive to Brail that afternoon was a silent one; grim care sat on thetwo young faces, and Michael, with his usual tact, devoted himself tohis mare. Now and then her skittishness gave him an opportunity ofsaying a word or two, to which Cyril replied in monosyllables. When they had left the inn, and were almost in sight of the cottage, Michael suddenly asked Cyril if he had ever seen Mr. O'Brien. 'ThomasO'Brien, ' he added quickly. 'You mean my uncle?' returned Cyril curtly. 'No; I have never seen him. ' 'Then I should like to tell you something about him. Of all the men Ihave ever known, Thomas O'Brien is the one I have most honoured. I havealways had the greatest respect for him--for his honesty, integrity, andchild-like simplicity. In spite of his want of culture, he is thegentleman his Creator intended him to be. Let me tell you, Blake, thatyou may be proud to call such a man your uncle. ' And with these wordsMichael unlatched the little gate, and waited for them to follow him. They were not unperceived. Long before they reached the porch thecottage door was open, and Thomas O'Brien's genial face and strong, thick-set figure blocked up the doorway. Michael was about to speak, when, to his surprise, Cyril lifted his hat, and then extended his hand to the old man. 'I believe you are my uncle, sir, ' he said quietly. 'There can be noneed of an introduction: I am Cyril, and this is my brother Kester. ' A soft, misty look came into Thomas O'Brien's honest eyes. 'Ay, my lad, I am thinking I know you both, though I have never set eyeson you before. You are kindly welcome, young gentlemen, for your own andfor your father's sake. ' And here he gave them a hearty grasp of thehand. 'The Captain is always welcome, as he knows. He and me have beenfriends for half a score of years--eh, Captain?' 'Good God! are those my boys, Tom?' The interruption was so sudden and unexpected that they all started, andCyril turned pale. Something familiar in the voice seemed to thrill him, like an echo from a far-off time. He turned round quickly. A tall man, with closely-cropped hair and a gray moustache, was standing behind him, and regarding him with dark, melancholy eyes. 'Those two can never be my boys, Tom!' he repeated, in the sameincredulous, awestruck voice. 'Ay, lad, they are your own, surely; and you had better be thanking Godfor His mercy in giving you such sons than be taking the holy name onyour lips. ' But Mat did not seem to hear this mild rebuke. 'Will you shake hands with your father, Cyril?' he said, with an air ofdeep dejection. 'I wish it were a cleaner hand, for your sake; but I cangive you no other. ' 'Do you think I would refuse it, sir?' returned the young man, touched, in spite of himself. And then it was Kester's turn. But as Mat's eyes fell on the boy's worn, sickly face his manner changed. 'Is that my little chap--the young monkey who used to ride on myshoulder and hold on by my hair? Dear! dear! who would have believedit?' Kester's pale face flushed a little. 'You are looking at my crutch, sir, ' he said nervously; 'but I shallsoon throw it away. I am ever so much better now, am I not, Cyril?' 'And where's my little Mollie?' continued Mat--'"the baby, " as we usedto call her?' 'Let us come away, ' whispered Michael in Mr. O'Brien's ear. 'They willget on better without us. ' The tears were running down the old man's face as they turned into thelittle parlour. 'It beats me, sir, it beats me utterly, to see my poor lad trying tomake friends with his own children, and looking so shamed before them. That is a fine-looking chap, that eldest one, ' he went on--'Miss Ross'ssweetheart, as I used to call him. He is the sort any girl could fancy. And he has a look of Mat about him, too, only he is handsomer and betterset up than Mat ever was. "I believe you are my uncle, sir. " Few youngchaps would have said that. A fine fellow, and she has lost him. Well, the Almighty sends trouble to the young as well as the old. May I lightmy pipe, Captain? For I am a bit shaky, and all this has overset me. ' Meanwhile Cyril was saying: 'We have not brought Mollie. If you wish to see her, she shall comeanother time. ' 'Thank you, my lad; that is kindly spoken. And I have a sort of longingto set eyes on her again. But you need not think that I am going totrouble her, or you either. A man like me has no right to troubleanyone. ' How could they answer him? But Mat did not seem to notice their silence. His eyes were bent on the ground, and he twirled his gray moustachefiercely. 'My children belong to their mother, and not to me. I made you over toher years ago. She said I was not fit to have the charge of my ownchildren; and maybe she was right. It was not a wifely speech, but Ican't blame her. When you go home, tell her I'll keep my word--that I'lllay no sort of claim to any of you. ' He spoke in the slow, brooding tone that was natural to him, and thetears came into Kester's eyes as he listened. Boy as he was, he understood the deep degradation of such words. Thistall, hungry-eyed man, who stood aloof and talked so strangely, was hisown father, who was voluntarily denuding himself of a father'srights--an outcast thrown over by his wife and children--an erring, andyet a deeply repentant man. Could anything be more unnatural andhorrible? Kester's boyish sense of justice revolted against this painfulcondition of things; he longed to start up and take his father's hand. 'Do not be so miserable; whatever you have done, you are our father, andwe will be good to you. ' This is what he would have said; but he onlylooked at Cyril and held his peace. Cyril had felt himself strangely attracted from the first. This was notthe father whom he had dreaded to see, and on whose countenance he hadfeared to behold the stamp of the felon. Mat's worn, gentle face anddeep-set, sorrowful eyes only inspired him with pity; the haggardweariness, the utter despondency of the man before him told their ownstory. True, there was weakness, moral weakness; but, at least, therewas no glorying in his wrong-doing. The prodigal had come home weary ofhis husks, and craving for more wholesome food. 'If I have done wrong, I have suffered for it, ' his looks seemed to say;and Cyril's generosity responded to the appeal. 'We are all in a difficult position, ' he said; 'but there is no need tomake things worse than they are. It is not for us to judge our parents, neither is it our fault that all these years we have believed that wehad but one. Now I know all, I feel you have not been treated fairly. ' 'I thought you would have taken your mother's part, my boy, ' replied Mathumbly. Cyril's words brought him some amount of consolation, only he could notquite bring himself to believe them. 'I hope that I shall always be on the side where the right lies, ' wasCyril's answer. 'I do not wish to blame my mother. I think it is bestand wisest to be silent. You are a stranger to us, and we have not evenyour memory to aid us. My own childish reminiscences are very vague: Ican just remember a big man who used to play with us, and whom we calleddaddy; but I have no special recollection of him. ' 'I hardly expected you to say as much as that, ' and Mat's eyesbrightened; 'but, after all, I doubt if I am better off in that respectthan you. How am I to find my little chaps again when I look at youboth--a fine grown man, and that poor sickly lad beside you? Why, ' hecontinued in a tender, musing tone, 'the little chaps I remember hadrosy cheeks and curly heads. I can feel their bare legs swarming up menow. "Give us a ride, dad!" It was always Kester who said that. He wasnever still a moment unless he was asleep, and then he used to look sopretty; but where shall I find him?--there is not a trace of the littlerogue left in him; and when I see my girl Mollie, it will be the same. ' Kester could stand no more; he started up so hastily that his crutchslipped from under his arm, and he would have lost his balance if hisfather had not caught him and held him fast. 'Why did you do that, boy? You have given me quite a fright? There!there! I will pick up your stick for you, while you stop quietly in yourchair. ' But, to his surprise, Kester held him tightly by the wrist. 'Never mind the crutch, father; I am not afraid of a tumble. Somehow, myleg gets stiff, but I don't mind it. I only wanted to say that, if youlike, I will come and see you sometimes, when I can get a lift; and Iwill bring Mollie with me. I can't help what mother says, ' continued theboy, his face working, 'and I don't mean to let her hinder us fromcoming. Cyril is going away, so he will not count; but I'll bringMollie: and though she is not your baby now, she will take to you andcheer you up. ' Kester was quite out of breath with this long speech that he blurtedout, but he was hardly prepared for the result; for before he hadfinished a low sob broke from Mat's lips, and he sat down shaking withemotion, and covered his face with his hands. Kester looked at himwistfully. 'Have I said anything to hurt him?' he whispered; but Mat's ears caughtthe words. 'No, no, ' he returned vehemently; 'you have put fresh life into me byspeaking so kindly. It was only the word "father" that I never thoughtto hear. God bless you, my boy, for saying that! I thought that shewould have taught you to hate me--as she did herself. ' 'I shall never hate you, father; I would not be so wicked. If you willlet me come and see you sometimes I will try to be good to you, and Iknow Mollie will, too. I suppose, ' continued Kester doubtfully, 'that Imust not ask you to come and see us in return. It is mother's house, and----' But Mat finished the speech: 'No, my lad, you are right. Your mother and I have parted for thislife. ' And now he spoke with a sort of mournful dignity. 'The time waswhen I worshipped the ground she walked upon; but there are limits to aman's love. When she forsook me in my shame and trouble, when she stoodthere taunting me in my prison cell, my heart seemed to die to her. Olive is nought to me now but a bitter memory, and if she prayed to meon her bended knees I would not enter her house. ' It was Cyril's turn to speak now. 'Yes, you are better apart, ' he said in a low voice; 'and my mother hasalways been my charge. I shall tell her that she must not hinder Mollieor Kester from coming to see you. Shall you still remain here, father?' He said the word with some little effort, but the same brightness cameinto Mat's eyes. 'I think so, my lad; I would as lief stay with Tom. All these years hehas stuck to me, and I'll not forsake him now. ' 'And you will be comfortable?' Cyril asked the question with some degree of interest, and again Mat'seyes glistened with pleasure. 'I doubt if I was ever so comfortable in my life, ' he returned, withoutany hesitation. 'You are young, my boy, and trouble is new to you, andHeaven forbid that you should ever be able to put yourself in my place. But if you only knew what it is to me to bid good-night to someoneagain! 'It is not much of a life, perhaps, ' went on Mat, with his gentle, melancholy drawl; 'but to me it is heavenly in its peace and quiet. Prissy is sometimes a bit harassing: but, then, most women are; but shekeeps things comfortable and ship-shape, and when she has gone off tobed there is Tom and his pipe in the chimney-corner, and it is "Come andhave a chat, my lad, until it is time to turn in. " Yes, yes, I'll bidewith Tom and be thankful. ' 'Then we will come and see you here sometimes, ' returned Cyril, rising;'for myself I cannot answer at present----' He paused, and thencontinued hurriedly: 'I shall not see you again for some time. I amleaving Rutherford. ' 'Yes, lad, I know, ' and Mat sighed heavily; 'and it is all through methat you are going. I wanted the Captain to hush it all up; but he wouldnot hear of it. When I think of all I have brought on you, I wonder youcan bring yourself to speak a kind word to me. ' 'It is not all your fault; but I cannot talk of myself. Good-bye, father. If we do not meet again for some time, it will be because thingsare going badly with me; but I shall always be ready to help you, if youneed my assistance. ' 'Thank you, my boy, ' returned Mat huskily. And then it was Kester's turn. 'I shall come soon, very soon, and Mollie shall come with me. ' 'Mollie!' Mat repeated the name in fond, lingering fashion as he movedto the window. 'My little girl! I wonder if she is like Olive? Cyril is;he has all her good looks, but he has something in his face that Olivenever had. I almost felt shamed when he called me father; but the otherone--he is not my little chap, and yet he is--but somehow when he spokemy whole heart seemed to go out to him. ' And then Mat tried to light hispipe, only his hand trembled too much to do it. 'If I could only have mylife back again!' he said to himself with a groan. Cyril hardly broke the silence once during the drive back. It was notuntil several days had passed that Michael heard how that interview withhis father had affected him. Cyril said very little even then, butMichael was relieved to find that, on the whole, he had been moreattracted than repelled. 'Kester likes him, and in a way I like him too, ' he remarked; 'we boththink he has been hardly used. My mother could have kept himstraight--there is no doubt of that--but she never tried to do so. Oneis sorry for that sort of weakness, even if one cannot understand it, 'finished Cyril, with the feeling that there was nothing more to say. Michael left them at the Cottage and drove on to Woodcote. His day'swork had been somewhat arduous, and he felt fagged and weary. It waslong past tea-time, he knew, but he wondered if he could ask Crauford tobring him some. Michael's long years of ill-health made him depend onthis feminine panacea for all ills more than most men. That Michaelhated to miss his tea was a well-known fact in the Ross household. Another time Audrey would have cared for his comforts, he thought, as hedragged himself up the stairs in a spiritless manner. Tired Nature wasavenging herself in her usual fashion, and Michael's head and limbs wereaching. Perhaps something else ached too. But his mood changed when he entered his room. After all, he had notbeen forgotten. A cheery little fire burnt and spluttered as thoughnewly lighted, and a tiny kettle sang merrily on its trivet; thetea-tray was on the table, and, as Michael regarded these preparationswith an expression of satisfaction, he heard Audrey's well-known knockat the door. 'Shall I make your tea, Michael, ' she asked, 'or would you rather bealone? Gage and Percival are downstairs, and, as I was sure you wouldbe tired, I told Crauford to bring up the kettle. Shall I stay or not?'she continued, a little surprised by his silence. 'Stay, by all means!' was his only reply, as he threw himself into hiseasy-chair. He would have thanked her--and she evidently expected to be thanked--buthe was afraid he should say too much. She had thought of him and hiscomfort in her own unhappiness, though her face was still pale with herinward trouble. 'You have had a trying day, ' she continued, as she knelt down on the ruga moment to coax the fire to burn more brightly; 'and of course it hastaken it out of you. I was quite sure that you would not be in the moodfor Gage and Percival. Percival is very kind, but somehow he is notrestful; he is so very bracing. ' And she sighed as though she had foundhim so. 'People are not always in a condition for a tonic, are they, Audrey?' 'No, ' she replied quietly; 'and then it is no use forcing it on them. But I must not be hard on Percival; he was very kind, only somehow hisconversation was a little too bracing. He and Gage were full of plans;they meant it all for my good: but it was a little tiring. ' 'Poor child!' and Michael's sympathising tone was very healing. 'But we will not talk about my silly self, ' rousing herself; 'there issomething else I want to know. I guess where you have been thisafternoon. You have taken Cyril to see his father. ' 'Yes; and Kester too. ' 'I am very glad, ' forcing a smile. 'It was right--quite right. He willbe the happier for not shirking his duty. ' Then she looked at Michael a little pleadingly, as though to beg forsome account of the interview. 'I am afraid I cannot tell you much, ' he returned, feeling sorry that hehad so little to communicate. 'As far as I could see, Blake behaveduncommonly well; he shook hands with O'Brien at once. But, of course, after that I only thought it right to efface myself. ' 'But surely Cyril has spoken of his father?' 'No, he has not said a word; but I daresay he will open out more by andby, I am going up to town with him to-morrow, and we shall have plentyof opportunity if he feels disposed to talk. ' 'Are you going to stay?' 'Well, yes--he is hardly fit to be left just now. I shall put him up atSouth Audley Street, and then he can look about him for a bit. I daresayI shall be back in a week or two. ' 'Oh, Michael, I never thought of this. Are you sure it will not troubleyou?' 'Not a bit, ' he returned cheerfully. 'I want to see my lawyer, and doone or two things; so it comes quite handy. ' But this plausible pretext did not in the least deceive her. 'It is no use saying what I think, ' she said hurriedly, and he saw thegleam of a tear on her eyelash. 'No one but yourself would ever do suchthings. I shall miss you--I think I shall miss you more than ever--butit will be such a comfort to feel you are with him. ' 'Oh, as to that, he will not need me long. When I see him fairly settledI shall come home. I want to speak to Unwin about him. You have oftenheard me speak of Unwin: he is nearly old enough to be my father; but weare great chums, and I mean to tell him the whole story about Blake. IfI could only get Unwin to stand his friend, there will be some hope forhim. ' 'Yes, I understand; but it is you who will be his benefactor. Don'tfrown, Michael, I am not going to thank you; I cannot. Now please tellme one other thing before I go: will you write to me?' 'If you wish it, ' he replied without hesitation. 'Oh yes, I willcertainly write and let you know how we are getting on; but I think itmight be as well for you not to answer my letters. ' A flush came to Audrey's face, but she perfectly understood the delicacythat induced Michael to make this stipulation; he would deprive himselfof one of his greatest pleasures rather than Cyril should be pained bythe sight of her handwriting. 'I will not write, ' she said in a low voice. 'Now I must go down toGage. ' But he detained her. 'Wait a moment; there is no hurry, is there? And it is my turn to askquestions. I want to know what you are going to do with yourself duringmy absence?' And there was no mistaking his anxiety, though he strove to hide it. 'I shall do as usual, ' she returned tranquilly. 'Mollie will come to meevery morning, and we shall work hard at our lessons, and----' But he interrupted her. 'Are you sure that your father will approve of Mollie's visits?' heasked. 'There is no reason why he should disapprove, ' she replied quickly; 'butof course I shall speak to him. There can be no possible reason why mypoor Mollie should be punished. Father would not wish me to go to theGray Cottage, and, indeed, I should not wish it myself; but there can beno objection to Mollie coming here. ' 'Perhaps not; and, after all, it will not be for long. ' 'No, it will not be for long; so I must do my best for her. Do nottrouble about me, Michael; I shall be as busy as possible. I am notgoing away with Gage, as she wishes. I tell her I would rather stayquietly with father and mother--perhaps next holidays--but we need nottalk of that. ' 'But you will be very dull. ' 'No, indeed, I shall have too much to do--at least, I do not mean tothink whether I am dull or not; but, Michael, I shall depend for a greatdeal of my comfort on your letters. ' Then he knew that the burden of her lover's unhappiness was very heavyupon her, but that she would not willingly speak of it even to him. 'I will tell you all that there is to tell. If you do not hear from me, it will be because there is nothing to say;' and with these words he lether go. He did not speak to her again that evening; for though Mr. Harcourt hadtaken his departure, Geraldine had remained, with the amiable intentionof cheering her sister. If she did not quite succeed in her mission, itwas for no want of effort on Audrey's part, who, as usual, did her bestfor everyone. But more than once Michael detected a weary look in hereyes, that told him that she would fain have been left alone. 'But thatis the last thing that Gage and Harcourt would ever do, ' he said tohimself, with a shade of bitterness, as he saw the gentleness andpatience with which Audrey received her sister's attentions. CHAPTER XLIII MICHAEL'S LETTER 'Be not ashamed to be helped; for it is thy business to do thy duty, like a soldier in the assault on a town. How then, if being lame, thou canst not mount up on the battlements alone, but with the help of another it is possible. '--M. AURELIUS ANTONINUS. About a week afterwards, Michael was writing in his sitting-room inSouth Audley Street when Cyril Blake entered the room. He put down hishat and began taking off his gloves as he stood by the table. 'Well, ' asked Michael, looking up from his cheque-book; 'have you hit itoff, old man?' 'Yes; we have settled it, ' returned Cyril, dropping into a chair asthough he were tired. 'And I am to enter on my duties next week. ' 'Next week! That is uncommonly short notice. Unwin must be in a precioushurry to close with the bargain. ' 'He is in a hurry. He says his work is all in arrears, and that hispublishers want his book on Cyprus as soon as he can let them have it;and the papers are all in confusion. Of course I let him know that I wasin no need of a holiday, and that I would far rather commence work atonce. Mr. Unwin was most kind and considerate. My hours are to be fromten to six; so I shall be able to give a lesson or two in the evening. ' 'You know my opinion on that subject; but I fancy I have exhausted allmy arguments for no purpose. ' 'I am afraid so too, ' returned Cyril quietly. 'Mr. Unwin thinks he canfind me a pupil--a young fellow who is behind-hand with his classics, and has got plucked in his examination. Really, Burnett, I am extremelyindebted to you for this introduction to Mr. Unwin. In spite of hispeculiarities, he seems to have an excellent heart. ' 'Oh yes; he is an out-and-out good fellow. I can tell you some anecdotesthat are very much to his credit, only I know he would never forgive me. Unwin likes his kind actions to blush unseen. Shall you think meimpertinent, Blake, if I ask what amount of salary he means to giveyou?' 'Not in the least; you have every right to know. I am to have a hundredand twenty pounds a year--that is only thirty pounds less than I had atRutherford. I never expected such good pay. ' 'Ah! Unwin can afford it. ' 'He seemed to say so. One thing--he thought I was older than I am. Heseemed quite surprised when I told him I was only three-and-twenty. ' Michael looked up a little sharply. There was no denying that Cyrillooked older--even these few days had worked some indefinable change inhim. He was not ill, though he could not be said to be well; but therehad come to him a certain settled look that one sees on the faces ofmiddle-aged men who have a large amount of care. And there were darkcircles round his eyes, as though sleep had to be wooed with some degreeof difficulty. 'You are tolerably youthful still, Blake, ' he said, not liking to admitthat he saw this change in him. 'Am I? I should not have said so from my own feelings. I fancy youth israther a relative term; but I must acknowledge that Mr. Unwin treated mewith a great deal of consideration. I know what you have told him; buthe scarcely alluded to it, except in the most distant way: indeed, I amvery grateful to him for his delicacy. ' 'I told you from the first that he was a good fellow. Unwin is what Icall an all-round man. He is a bit fussy over his hobbies, but as longas you keep Charles the First out of your conversation I fancy it willbe plain sailing. I hope you are not bursting with the subject, as theimmortal Mr. Dick was, when he found himself compelled to fly his kites;but it is a fact that Unwin is a bit cranky about him. ' 'Thank you for warning me, ' returned Cyril, with a grave smile; 'now, mynext business will be to look out for some lodgings within an easydistance of Cromwell Road. I have trespassed on your kind hospitalitylong enough. ' 'Nonsense!' returned Michael bluntly. 'I expected you to stop on herefor at least another month. I shall go back to Rutherford in a fortnightor so; but that would not make any difference to you: my old womanwould be delighted to cook for you, and make you comfortable. You know, her husband was an old corporal in our regiment; but an amputated leg, and a little bit of money coming to his wife, made him fall out of theranks. I have lodged with them for about ten years, and I have been inno hurry to change my quarters. ' 'No--they are very comfortable; but the fact is, Burnett, my mothergives me no peace. She writes every day to beg me to take her away fromRutherford. She says she will never go outside the gate as long as sheremains there. I imagine she has a nervous dread of meeting my father;besides, she says everyone will be talking about her. ' 'I do not believe a single person in Rutherford has begun to talk. ' 'So I tell her; but she will not believe me. You know my mother; it isnot always easy to manage her. She will be quieter when she has once gotaway; so, with many thanks for all your kindness, Burnett, I will justlook out for these lodgings. ' 'Well, if your mind is made up, I will not try to change yourdetermination; but, if you will excuse my plainness of speech, I thinkit would be better for you to be without your mother for another week ortwo. ' 'I daresay you are right, ' replied Cyril wearily; 'and my quiet lifehere has been a great boon. But it does not do to think only of one'sself. And, after all, nothing matters much. Perhaps Mrs. Johnson mayknow of some good rooms; they must be furnished, for of course it wouldnever do to move our furniture under the present unsettled state ofthings. Besides, ours is too old to bear another journey. My mother canbring away the books, and her bits of china, and any little thing shefancies, and Biddy can mount guard over the rest until we can dispose ofit. I daresay I can soon get the house off my hands. ' 'There will be no difficulty about that, ' returned Michael, inwardlywondering at Cyril's cool, business-like tone; in his heart he admiredhim all the more for his pluck. 'Paget is looking out for a house--youknow he expects to be married shortly--shall I write to him and give hima hint that you want to find a tenant for the Gray Cottage? I daresaythe landlord will be glad for him to take it. ' 'If you will be so good. I forgot all about Paget. But he would turn uphis nose at our old carpets; his bride-elect is rather a grand lady. ' Cyril's tone was a trifle cynical; but Michael would have forgiven himif his speech had been flavoured with the gall of bitterness. 'Very well, then; I will write to him before country post, and we willhave up Mrs. Johnson and talk to her. ' And Cyril at once rang the bell. Two days afterwards Audrey received her first long letter from Michael. A brief note was all that had yet reached her. 'MY DEAR AUDREY, ' it began, 'I hope that you will not think that I have forgotten you; but when there is literally nothing to say, I am rather a bad hand at cooking up a letter; and I had not a single fact to go upon, except to tell you that, on the whole, we were pretty fit, and were jogging along somehow. Well, I have a whole budget of facts now, and my pen has become a valuable implement. 'First, then, Blake has come to terms with Unwin; and he is to begin work on Monday. I believe in his heart he would still prefer the New Zealand scheme; and if we could only get rid of his mother--not an easy task that--I should be inclined to give him a helping hand in that direction; but as Blake does not see his way clear to leave her, he may as well take the berth offered to him. Privately, I believe Unwin is hugging himself under the idea that he has got a treasure. He spoke of him to me as a highly intelligent fellow and a first-rate Greek scholar, which we know are facts. His hours are pretty light--from ten to six--so he will have his evenings to himself; but I am sorry to say he means to look out for pupils. I have talked myself hoarse on the subject; but he will not listen to reason. Of course his health will suffer: he has always been accustomed to so much fresh air and exercise. If I could only induce him to join a cricket or tennis club! But it would never do to propose it just now; he has no heart for play. 'One thing, he has given in to me about Kester, though I had some difficulty with him at first. We had a long talk last night, and I employed all my eloquence to bring him to see the thing in its right light; and at last he consented that I should have my way. 'Do you remember my telling you about George Moore--that nice fellow who got into trouble with his rector? Well, he has married lately, and his wife is a very good woman. Moore has taken a capital house at Brighton. He has a curacy at Kemp Town, and he is looking out for a few pupils to prepare for the university. 'I am going to send Kester to him for a year or two, until he is old enough to go to Oxford. Abercrombie tells me the sea air will do him a world of good. I have just written to him to come up at once, as he must have a proper outfit. And now I must tell you that Blake has found some very good rooms, Kensington way. I went down with him yesterday, and I think they will do very well. 'There is a good-sized drawing-room--a sunny, cheerful room, with a smaller one behind, where Blake can work with his pupils--and two good bedrooms. Biddy (how I wish she were not to be of the ménage!) will have to content herself with a dull slip of a room on the basement. Of course the furniture is shabby, and there is very little of it; but I mean to introduce a few improvements by degrees. I like the appearance of the woman of the house. She is a widow, and is evidently very respectable. Her daughter, a very tidy sort of person, waits on the lodgers. 'I think I have told you about all now. Blake has thawed lately, and we have long talks together, though perhaps they are not cheerful ones. On the whole, I think he shows a great deal of pluck. I doubt whether any other young man of his age would behave as well. If the Victoria Cross were ever given for moral heroism, I am sure Blake would get it. 'Good-bye until we meet. I suppose I shall be back in another week or ten days. Take care of yourself, my dear, for the sake of your affectionate friend and cousin, 'MICHAEL. ' 'There is no one like Michael!' was Audrey's inward comment as she putdown the letter. How simply he had told her his intentions with regard to Kester! asthough his generosity were a matter of course. How few men of Michael'sage would have cared to saddle themselves with such a responsibility!for one, too, who was not their own kith and kin. 'It will cost him at least two hundred a year, ' she thought; 'no wondermy poor Cyril found it difficult to accept such an offer. He would takenothing from Michael for himself, but he could hardly refuse for Kester. Michael has virtually adopted him, just as I should like to adoptMollie. I suppose he thinks he will have no son of his own, and thereis all that money----' And she sighed a little as she thought of Michael's loneliness. But if she had only known it, Michael's real generosity was shown inthose lines he had written at the end of his letter. His munificence toKester cost him far less than those few words which he wrote soungrudgingly of his rival; but he knew how they would gladden her heart. The old beautiful smile would come to her lips, he thought, as she readthem. 'They will please her more than all the rest of the letter, ' he said tohimself. Two or three evenings after this letter had reached her, Audrey wentinto her father's study, as usual, to bid him good-night; but when hehad kissed her with that special tenderness which he had shown to herever since her trouble, she looked at him very seriously. 'Father, ' she said, as he kept his arm still round her, 'I wish you toknow that I am going to the Gray Cottage to-morrow to bid Mrs. Blakegood-bye. ' Then Dr. Ross's arm dropped from her waist, and she saw at once that thenews was not palatable to him. 'Is that necessary, Audrey?' 'Yes, father; I think I may say that it is necessary. I have kept awayfrom the Gray Cottage all this time because I knew that it was your wishthat I should do so, and I have ever been guided by your wishes; but nowMrs. Blake is going away, and it would trouble me greatly if she were toleave without my bidding her good-bye. ' 'I think it would be far better, for her sake as well as yours, thatthere should be no special leave-taking. ' 'There I must differ from you, father dear, ' returned Audrey gently. 'Icould not bring myself to put such an affront on Cyril's mother. Youknow, I am still engaged to Cyril, and his mother can never be astranger to me. ' Then Dr. Ross regarded his daughter with a grieved expression. 'My own child, if you would only be guided by me in this!--if you wouldgive up this young man entirely----' Then she shook her head, and a grave, sweet smile came to her lips. 'Would you have me break my word, father, because Cyril has broken his?But I do not blame him--he was obliged to do it; but no power on earthcould compel me. Dear, why should we speak of this thing--you and I?When one's mind is made up, there is nothing more to be said. Ineverything else I will obey you as a child ought to obey her father. Ifyou tell me that I must not go to the Gray Cottage to-morrow, you shallbe obeyed, no matter what it may cost me; but'--pressing her lips to hisforehead as she leant against him--'I do not think my father will besuch a tyrant. ' 'I have no wish to tyrannise, Audrey, ' returned Dr. Ross sadly. 'In allI have said, I have only considered your happiness. If you feel thatthere is this need to bid Mrs. Blake good-bye, I shall certainly notprevent you. I know I can trust my daughter. I have wished that thebreak should be final and conclusive, but it seems that you thinkotherwise. ' 'After to-morrow the separation will be as complete as you desire it tobe. ' 'I am thankful to hear it. Of all women, I believe Mrs. Blake to be themost unsatisfactory. Audrey, my child, at the risk of paining you, Imust say one word. There must be no written communication between herand you. ' 'No, father; I should not wish it. Any such letters would beimpossible--at least, to me. Mollie will write to me sometimes, and Isuppose I shall answer her letters; but she will not write often. ' 'I think I should tell her to write as seldom as possible. Mollie is anice little girl, and we are all fond of her; but I should be inclinedto doubt her discretion. ' Then Audrey smiled faintly, and promised that Mollie's correspondenceshould be enclosed within strict limits. She knew well what her fathermeant. Mollie's letters would be overflowing with allusions to herbrother; her simplicity would know no reticence. 'I think you may trust me, ' she said, after a moment's silence. 'Ofcourse I understand what you mean. ' 'Then in that case we will not say any more about it, ' replied herfather. Trust her!--he knew that he could absolutely rely on her. Whenhad she ever disappointed him? Of all girls, he had never known one sofree from guile, so utterly transparent; there could be no shadow ofdoubt in his mind concerning her. And as he kissed her, and again wishedher good-night, he blessed her in his heart for being such a daughter tohim. Audrey had carried her point. Her visit to Mrs. Blake had appeared toher in the light of an imperative duty; but it may be doubted whethershe looked forward to it with any feeling of pleasure. Up to the present time she had spoken as little as possible of Mrs. Blake. She had only said a word or two to Cyril, begging him to makepeace with his mother; she had asked him to soften his heart to her. 'With all her faults, I think no mother ever loved her son so well, ' shehad told him. 'It is not the highest love, ' she had continued, 'sinceshe has stooped to deceit and wrong for your sake. But it is not for youto judge her. ' And she knew instinctively that her pleading had hadweight with him. But though she had found words to defend her, she knew that Mrs. Blakecould never be to her the friend she had been; and the shock of thisdiscovery had been dreadful to her. She might still love and pityCyril's mother; she might even be desirous of serving her; but the charmwas broken, and, as far as Audrey's happiness was concerned, it might bewell that the distance was widened between them. When she rose the next morning, she felt as though some difficult andpainful duty lay before her; and as she walked towards the Cottage inthe sunshine of an April afternoon, she told herself that her visit mustnot be a long one. A rush of bitter-sweet memories came over her as she pushed open thegreen gate for the last time, and Zack bounded to meet her. As shestooped to caress him, and he rested his glossy head against her with adog's unreasoning adoration, she said in a low voice: 'Zack, old fellow, you will be glad to be with your master again. ' And he whined, as thoughin joyful assent. There were no signs of either Mollie or Biddy, so she went up asusual--unannounced. The drawing-room door was open, and as her footstepssounded in the passage Mrs. Blake came quietly out. She stepped back asshe saw Audrey, and a slight colour came to her face. 'It is you--at last!' she said abruptly; but there was no othergreeting. 'Yes, it is I, ' returned Audrey, kissing her, and speaking in her usualtranquil manner. 'Do you think I should have let you leave Rutherfordwithout bidding you good-bye!' Then Mrs. Blake's eyes had a dangerous gleam in them. 'How could I know that they would let you come?' she said almostharshly. 'Am I not a pariah, an outcast from all respectable society?Does not Dr. Ross think so, as well as that excellent sister of yours?Do you know what my life has been during the last fortnight, since myboy left me? I have not dared to leave my own gate; if I were stifledfor air, I would not venture to stir out, for fear of seeing a face Iknow. ' 'You need not have been afraid; no one in Rutherford has heard yourstory. ' 'But they may have heard it by this time. You forget that Dr. Charrington and Mr. Harcourt have been told. A man would never keep sucha secret from his wife. Mrs. Charrington may have told it to half themasters' wives by this time; this is why I have begged Cyril to take meaway, because my life is unendurable. ' 'You are going to him now, ' observed Audrey soothingly, for she saw atonce that Mrs. Blake was in one of her unhappy moods. She was thin and pale, and there was a sharpened look about herfeatures, as though her inward excitement had worn her. 'Yes, I am going to him; but what good will my life be to me? He hasforgiven me--at least, he says so--but every hour of the day his sadnesswill be a reproach to me. When I see his unhappiness, how am I to bearit, when I know it is all my fault? Audrey, tell me one thing: you arestill engaged to him?' 'Yes, ' returned Audrey very softly, 'I am still engaged to him. ' 'Captain Burnett told me so; he said you had refused to give him up. Oh, my darling, how I loved you when he said that! It was brave of you tosay such words, but my boy deserves them. If ever a girl was worshipped, he worshipped you. ' 'Dear Mrs. Blake, I think we will not speak of that. ' 'Why should we not speak of it? It is the only thing that will comfortme, and him too. Ah, if you only loved him as he loves you, there wouldbe no difficulty. Many a girl has given up more for her lover than youwill ever be asked to give up, and has found her reward in a happylife. ' 'I will not pretend to misunderstand you, ' returned Audrey simply; butshe felt as she spoke that her father had been right to dread thisinterview. 'I know what you would insinuate--you would have me marryCyril without my parents' consent. ' 'I would, ' was Mrs. Blake's unabashed reply; 'and where would be theharm, Audrey? You are of age; you have your own money. No one has aright to prevent your marriage. Of course, your people would be angry atfirst, but after a time they would relent. My darling girl, think of it:would it not be a noble act of self-sacrifice? And it would save Cyril!' 'He would not wish to save himself at the risk of my happiness and peaceof mind, ' she replied calmly. 'Dear Mrs. Blake, how strange that youshould not know your own son better than that! Cyril would never marryme without my father's consent, neither would I marry him. Under suchcircumstances we should both be wretched. ' 'And you call that love?' returned Mrs. Blake with a sneer. 'I amdifferent from you, Audrey. I would have given up home, country, everything, for the sake of the man I loved; that is why I hated Mat, because I was bound to him, and the other man was free. It just maddenedme! What!' interrupting herself, 'are you going to leave me?' 'It is useless to stay, ' returned Audrey, in a pained voice. 'If youtalk like this, it is far better for me to go. ' Then Mrs. Blake burst into passionate tears, and clasped her in herarms. 'Going! when I have never thanked you for your goodness to my boy; whenI have never told you how dearly I have loved you for it! Audrey, forgive me, and stay with me a little, and I will try not to talk sowildly. It makes me feel better only to look at you--and you used tolove me a little. ' Then very reluctantly Audrey suffered herself to be persuaded, and toremain for another half-hour. CHAPTER XLIV MOLLIE GOES INTO EXILE 'There are some natures that cannot unfold under pressure, or in the presence of unregarding power. Hers was one. They require a clear space round them, the removal of everything which may overmaster them, and constant delicate attention. '--MARK RUTHERFORD. Audrey had no cause to regret her concession. Mrs. Blake quieted downthe moment she resumed her seat; and though the remainder of herconversation concerned herself and Cyril, she did not venture again onany dangerous allusion. It was only when Audrey said that she must really go, as she hadpromised her mother to be back by tea-time, that she made an attempt tocoax her into sending Cyril a message; but Audrey's strong sense ofhonour made her proof against this temptation. She would send him nomessage at all. Even if she thought it right to do so, how could sherely on Mrs. Blake's veracity? how could she be sure that it might notbe delivered with annotations from her own fertile brain? 'But you will at least send him your love?' pleaded Mrs. Blake. 'There is no need for me to send him that, ' returned Audrey with risingcolour. 'Indeed, there is no need of any message at all: Cyril and Iunderstand each other. ' And then Mrs. Blake cried a little and called her a hard-hearted girl, but relented the next minute, and kissed her affectionately. 'You will tell Mollie to come to me as usual to-morrow?' were Audrey'sparting words, and Mrs. Blake nodded assent. As Audrey opened the green gate some impulse made her look back. Mrs. Blake was still on the threshold, watching her, and her large dark eyeswere full of tears. There was something pathetic in her appearance. Witha sudden impulse, for which she was unable to account, Audrey went backand gave her another kiss. 'We do not know when we shall meet again, ' she said in a low voice. 'Tryto be as happy as you can, and to make him happy too. ' She was glad that it was over, she told herself, as she walked back toWoodcote; nevertheless, she could not shake off a certain sense ofdepression. That dear Gray Cottage--how she had grown to love it, andwhat happy hours she had passed there, sitting by that window andwatching the pigeons fluttering among the arches! Her heart was softtowards the woman she had left. Could she help it, she thought, if hermoral sense were blunted and distorted? There was something defectiveand warped in her nature--something that seemed to make her lessaccountable than other people. Truth was not dear to her, or hermarriage-vows sacred in her eyes. How came it that she and MatthewO'Brien should have a son like Cyril? Audrey's girlish brains grewconfused over questions that might well baffle a psychologist; she couldmake nothing of them. Mollie came to her the next morning with her eyes swollen with crying. 'Oh, dear Miss Ross!' she exclaimed, the moment she entered the room, 'do you know mamma says that we are going away to-morrow? I thought itwas to be next week, and Biddy thought so too; but mamma says that Cyrilis all alone in the lodgings, and that we ought to go to him at once. Biddy and she are packing up the books and things, and mamma seemed tothink that I ought to have remained to help her; but I told her that Imust--I must say-good-bye to my dear, dear Miss Ross;' and here Molliegave her a low-spirited hug. 'My dear Mollie, ' returned Audrey kindly, 'I have arranged that alreadywith your mother, and you are to spend the whole morning with me. Wewill not do any lessons; I can see you are not fit for them. And it issuch a lovely morning. We will go in the garden, and sit on that nicesunny seat overlooking Deep-water Chine. Do you remember our voyagethere, and how contemptuous you were about the scenery?' but thisallusion to one of the happiest days she had ever spent in her younglife only brought on a fresh burst of grief. Poor Mollie was broken-hearted at the idea of leaving her friend, and itwas a long time before Audrey could induce her to look at things in aless lugubrious light. Michael, prowling about with his cigarette, andfollowed closely by his short-legged favourite, came upon them sittinghand-in-hand on a bench near the pond; but he was careful not to betrayhis presence, and he called off Booty rather sternly when theaffectionate little animal showed some disposition to join his friends. Neither of them saw him. Audrey was talking earnestly, but he only hearda fragment of what she was saying. 'So you see, dear Mollie, ' she went on, in a soft, persuasive voice, 'that you will be as great a comfort to me when you are away as you havebeen here. When I think of you all, I shall say to myself: "Mollie istaking care of them. "' 'Yes, I see; and indeed, indeed I will try to do my best for Cyril andmamma, ' replied Mollie, with a sob. 'I know how unhappy poor Cyril is;and mamma will not be the comfort to him that she used to be. Is it notsad to think of it, Miss Ross? Mamma sometimes shows me his letters--shealways did, you know--but somehow they seem so different. I wondersometimes if she notices the change in them; but she never says so. Hedoes not want her to come up to London--one can see that so plainly--hekeeps begging her to be patient, and give him time to settle things. Butyou know mamma: she is always in such a hurry--she never can wait foranything, ' finished Mollie, in her artless way. Audrey suppressed a smile. Mrs. Blake's children certainly read hertruly; but with all her faults they loved her well. Perhaps Kester hadstood aloof from her most; but Mollie had always been devoted to hermother. 'You will miss the country, of course, ' went on Audrey cheerfully; 'butLondon has its charms. You must get your brother to take you in theparks and Kensington Gardens; you must tell him that you and Zack wantexercise, and then he will not refuse. ' 'Mamma will walk with me, ' returned Mollie disconsolately. 'She is veryfond of crowded streets and shops; she will want me to go with her, andthen we shall be obliged to leave Zack at home, for fear he should belost. Oh, I know all about it!' continued Mollie, with a sigh. 'I shallbe far too tired to walk with Cyril, even if he asked me; but he wouldnot, because he knows mamma would be hurt: she always likes him to askher. ' 'Never mind, ' replied Audrey, changing the subject abruptly. 'Remember, Mollie, we can only do our best for people, and leave all the rest. I amsure that in a thousand ways you will be a comfort to them. You havealways been their thoughtful little housekeeper, and you can be thatstill. You can keep the place bright and cheery, and make it look ashome-like as possible. And, Mollie, I want you to do something; but itis to be a secret between you and me, and no one--no one'--repeating theword emphatically--'is to know about it. ' And Mollie promised faithfully to hold her tongue. 'Your mother is passionately fond of flowers. ' (But Audrey, in herheart, knew someone else loved them too. ) 'I want you to lay out thisprudently and by degrees;' and she slipped a sovereign into Mollie'shand. 'Flowers are so plentiful in London, and you can always have anice fresh bunch for the breakfast-table. I remember your mother oncesaying she would go without food to buy flowers. When I think you havecome to an end of the money, I shall send you some more. ' 'But if anyone asks me who bought them, ' asked Mollie, with one of herwide-open glances, 'what can I say then, Miss Ross?' 'Say that you have bought them with your own money--for it is yourmoney, Mollie; and if you would rather buy gloves with it, you arewelcome to do so. ' But Mollie protested eagerly that she would far rather buy flowers. 'Cyril is so fond of them, ' she added innocently, 'and I shall alwaystake care to have a good-sized bunch on his writing-table. But whatshall I do about lessons, Miss Ross?' she continued, when this point wassettled. 'I am getting on so beautifully with French and music, and itwill be such a pity to lose it all. I asked mamma the other evening, andshe said she was sure she did not know; she might help me with myFrench, but she was afraid Cyril could not afford music-lessons. Besides, there would be the piano to hire; for of course I mustpractise. Oh dear! I don't see how I am to get on!' with another bigsigh. 'I think we must leave all that for the present, dear Mollie, ' repliedAudrey, rather sorrowfully. 'One needs a great deal of faith when thingsgo crooked. Keep up by yourself as well as you can, and leave the musicalone for a little. By and by, when you think he can bear it, you mightspeak to your brother; but if he cannot afford it----' Audrey stopped. Michael's generosity must not be taxed any further; butshe had money of her own, and nothing would please her more than tospend a little on Mollie's education. Would her father allow it? shewondered. 'I think we must leave this question for the present, Mollie, ' she said, in her decided way. 'Make up your mind not to trouble about it for amonth or two. ' And Mollie, with her usual sweet unselfishness, agreed to this. Audrey sent her away cheered, and a good deal comforted, at receivingher dear Miss Ross's permission to write long letters. 'I don't mind how long they are, ' Audrey had observed, with an indulgentsmile; 'but you must not write too often, neither must you expect tohear from me always in return. My letters will be very few, dear Mollie, and they are only for your own eyes--remember that. ' And when Mollie hadpromised this with some reluctance, the gong sounded for luncheon, andAudrey was obliged to dismiss her a little hurriedly. Audrey was surprised to find how much she missed her favourite. Mollie'slessons had occupied the greater part of her mornings, and lately thisoccupation had been a boon to her. Audrey had never loved idleness, but now she loathed it; her girlishemployments no longer satisfied her. She made wider margins for heractivity, and schemed with an anxiety that looked like restlessness howshe might fill up the day. Perhaps her happiest hours, after Mollie left her, were spent in theHillside nursery, playing with her baby-nephew. Geraldine noticed withsecret satisfaction that her boy was becoming an engrossing interest tohis young aunt. 'I am sure he knows you, Audrey, ' she would say. 'Look how he stretchesout his dear little arms and coos to you to take him! Go to Aunt Audrey, my precious!' and Geraldine would place him in her sister's arms asthough she loved to see them together. Geraldine had certain fine instincts of her own. Her womanly intuitiontold her that nothing could be more healing than the touch of those babyfingers. When Audrey sat down opposite to her, with her nephew sprawlingon her lap, and kicking up his pink toes in a baby's aimless fashion, her face always looked happier, and a more contented look came into hereyes. 'You are very like your mother, Leonard, ' she would say to him: 'but Ido not believe that you will ever be as handsome. ' Baby's gurgling answer was no doubt rich with infantile wisdom, if hecould only have couched it in mortal language. But, all the same, he wasfulfilling his mission. Audrey felt somehow as though things must comeright some day when baby gripped her finger and held it fast, or elsetangled her hair. 'You are a happy woman, Gage, ' she said one day; butshe was a little sorry that she made the remark when Geraldine got upquickly and kissed her, with tears in her eyes. 'You will be happy, too, some day, my darling, ' she said very tenderly. But to this Audrey made no reply. Mollie was faithful to her compact, and did not write for three wholeweeks. The school had reassembled by that time, and a tall, pale youngman with spectacles filled Cyril's place at table. Audrey took verylittle notice of him. When Michael was there, she talked to him; but shefound any conversation with the new-comer almost impossible. 'It hurts me to see him there, ' she said once to her mother, and her lipquivered as she spoke. And of course her mother understood her. 'Yes, dear, it is very hard; your father was only saying so last night. I think he notices how silent you are at luncheon. Mr. Gisbourne iscertainly not prepossessing--not like our dear Cyril; but your fathersays he is an excellent fellow. ' 'I think I shall change my place at table, mother. I shall sit betweenyou and father. That is, if you do not mind, ' she added, with readycourtesy. 'My love, as though I should mind! And I am sure your father will bedelighted to have you. He was only speaking of you an hour ago. Hethinks you are behaving so well, Audrey, and so does Percival. Percivaldeclared that he was quite proud of you at the Charringtons' "at home";that it must have been such an ordeal for you to meet all those people. A girl in your position is generally so sensitive; but he told me thateven Geraldine could not have been more dignified and at her ease. ' 'That is high praise from Percival, ' returned Audrey, smiling. 'Hethinks Gage's manners are perfection--and so they are; but, mother, heneed not have praised me so much. The people were nothing to me--Ihardly thought of them at all. I was only remembering the last time Iwas there, and how Cyril was with me; it was the saddest evening I havespent yet. ' And then she sighed and disengaged herself from her mother's embrace. 'Don't let us talk of it, mother dear; one can bear things better if onedoes not speak of them. I am going to drive with Gage now, and perhapsshe will keep me to dinner;' and then she went quickly away. After all, it was better to do something than to waste her time incomplaining: it was seldom that she allowed herself to speak of herfeelings even to her mother, and if she suffered a word or two to escapeher, she always reproached herself afterwards for her weakness. When Mollie's letter arrived the next day she left it unopened until shewas in her own room. Michael was up in town, as usual. He rarely spentmore than a few days together at Woodcote now. Audrey did not regret hisabsence as she would otherwise have done, because she knew he would bewith Cyril. When her father glanced at her letter she said quietly that it was fromMollie, and then he made no further observation. But when she was in her own room she opened it somewhat eagerly. 'Dearlittle Mollie! I never thought I should miss her quite so much, ' shethought. Evidently Mollie had taken a long time to write that letter; it had beencommenced two days after her arrival in London, and it had not beencompleted until now. The first two or three pages, written in Mollie's girlish angularhandwriting, were filled with plaintive lamentations over her enforcedexile and separation from her dear Miss Ross; and here and there ableared word showed touchingly where a great tear had rolled down andblotted the page; but the next entry, written a few days afterwards, showed some signs that the prospect had brightened a little. One passagegave great pleasure to Audrey: 'Mamma likes our lodgings excessively, and though I shall never love anyplace like our dear Gray Cottage, they are really very nice; indeed, they are better than any lodgings we have been in yet. Mamma says shenever saw rooms so well furnished; the carpets and papers are ratherugly, and I cannot say much for the curtains; but there is a deliciouscouch--one of those soft, springy ones that are so comfortable, ratherlike the one in the Woodcote drawing-room, and two delightfully easychairs. 'Then, in the little room we call Cyril's study, there is really a veryhandsome writing-table, with one of those green reading-lamps that Dr. Ross always uses, and a nice little secretaire for papers. Mamma was socharmed when she saw that; she told Cyril that he only wanted a fewstained shelves to hold his books, and that then he would be as snug aspossible. I thought Cyril looked a little queer when she said that, andwhen she exclaimed at the softness of the couch I saw such an odd smileon his face. I fancy he must have bought it himself, and that he doesnot wish mamma to know it. ' ('Oh, you little goose!' observed Audrey, when she came to this; but her eyes were very bright as she went on withthe letter. ) 'There were such quantities of flowers and plants about the room when wearrived, and the most beautiful tea set out on the big round table. Mamma laughed, and said Cyril was very extravagant to provide suchluxuries; but he told her he had had nothing to do with it, and he didnot seem to enjoy anything. 'I am afraid he works too hard. Mamma is beginning to say that she mightas well have remained in Rutherford, for all she sees of him; but I knowshe does not mean it, for she is as happy as possible. 'Cyril never gets home until half-past six, and then we have tea. Hispupil comes to him at eight for two hours. I think Zack has the best ofit. Cyril always takes him out for a long walk before breakfast. Ishould like to go with them, but I think Cyril prefers going alone. Heonly walks with mamma on Sunday afternoon, and then he comes in lookingso tired. He often falls asleep when he sits down. I never remember hisever doing such a thing before; but mamma says she is sure that hesleeps badly, though he will never own to it. Cyril never did like to bequestioned about himself. 'We see Captain Burnett sometimes, and Cyril says he often meets him onhis way home. One day Captain Burnett asked me if I should like to seesome pictures, and of course I said yes. We drove such a long way in ahansom, and I did so enjoy seeing all those beautiful pictures. CaptainBurnett was kind; he explained everything to me, and when he thought Iwas tired he took me to a grand place, where we had ices and coffee. 'He asked me a great many questions, and when I told him that I had noone to teach me now I had left my dear Miss Ross, he looked very grave. He wanted to know if mamma did not help me at all, and I was obliged toconfess that the French books were still unopened; and then he lookedgrave again and said, "Poor little thing!" as though he were sorry forme. 'Well, was it not strange?--the very next night Cyril began talking tomamma about it. He told her that now Kester was away they ought to beable to afford to give me a good education, that they were not poorerthan they had been at Rutherford, and that something must be done atonce. 'Cyril spoke as though he thought mamma was to blame, and then mammacried, as she always does if Cyril finds fault with her; but the verynext day she went out alone, and in the evening she told Cyril that shehad found a very good school close by our lodgings, where they hadexcellent masters, and that she had arranged that I was to go there fourtimes a week to take French, German, and music lessons. I could seeCyril was pleased, though he said very little, but by and by he asked mewhat I should do about a piano, and mamma suggested that we should hireone. Is this not nice, my dear Miss Ross, and is not Cyril a darling forthinking of everything so nicely?' 'Ah, Mollie, I am afraid you are a sad goose!' was Audrey's inwardejaculation at this point, and there was a smile on her lips as shefinished the letter. Michael was fulfilling his promise nobly. Audrey knew him well enough tobe sure that those meetings with Cyril were by no means accidental. 'Whatsoever thou doest, do it with thy might, ' was a precept literallyobeyed by Michael Burnett. When he held out that right hand offellowship to his rival, there was no sense of grudging in his mind. Ifa cheery word or two would brighten Cyril's day, and make his hard lifea little less unendurable, Michael would speak that word at the cost ofany inconvenience to himself. Audrey may be forgiven if she cherishedthe notion that Michael's frequent visits to London were undertaken morefor Cyril's benefit than his own; and if Michael could have given asomewhat different version of his motives, he kept all suchinterpretation to himself. CHAPTER XLV AUDREY RECEIVES A TELEGRAM 'One fourth of life is intelligible, the other three-fourths is unintelligible darkness; and our earliest duty is to cultivate the habit of not looking round the corner. '--MARK RUTHERFORD. 'Thou shalt lose thy life, and find it; thou shalt boldly cast it forth; And then back again receiving, know it in its endless worth. ' ARCHBISHOP TRENCH. Audrey thought it was the longest summer term that she had ever known;never in her life had weeks or months passed so slowly. To all outward appearance she was well and cheerful, and spent her timemuch as usual--helping her mother and visiting her poor people in themorning, and in the afternoon attending cricket matches or playingtennis at the various garden-parties of the season. The nine days'wonder about the Blakes' sudden disappearance was over, and theRutherford ladies no longer whispered strange tales into each other'sears--each more marvellous than the last. It was said and believed bymore than one person that Audrey's engagement had been broken offbecause Dr. Ross had discovered that there was hereditary insanity inthe Blake family; indeed, one lady--a notorious gossip, and who wassomewhat deaf--was understood to say that she had heard Mrs. Blake wasat that moment in a private lunatic asylum. That Audrey Ross did not take her broken engagement much to heart wasthe general opinion in Rutherford. Would a girl play tennis, dance, ororganise picnics, they said, if she were languishing inheart-sickness?--and there was certainly no appearance of effort in thereadiness with which Audrey responded to any plan that her young friendsproposed. As they remarked, 'Audrey Ross was always up to fun. ' ButMichael Burnett could have told them a different story if they had askedhim. Audrey's sweet, sound disposition made her peculiarly alive to asense of duty. 'One must think of other people, always and under all circumstances, 'she had said to him when her trouble was fresh upon her, and he knewthat she was only acting up to her words. She would play because other people wished to play, not because herheart was in it. During his brief visits to Woodcote they were alwaystogether, and more than once he told himself that he could see a greatchange in her. She had at times a tired, burdened look, as though wearythoughts were habitual to her. But she never spoke to him of Cyril, orquestioned him in any way. He would tell her unasked about Mollie, andnow and then he would drop a word casually about Cyril. 'I met Blake the other day, ' he would say. 'I think he looks better, though he says the hot weather tries him; he is getting on with hiswork, and appears to like it. ' Or another time: 'I dined with Unwin lastweek; he and Blake seem to hit it off famously. Unwin says he has farmore discrimination and intelligence than other young men of his age, and that for steadiness and application he might be fifty. But he thinkshe ought to take more exercise; his hard work and the heat together aremaking him thin. ' Audrey remembered this speech of Michael's, as, a month later on, shesat on the Whitby sands. She had yielded to Geraldine's persuasion toaccompany them to the seaside. Dr. Ross and his wife were paying visitsin Cumberland, Michael was in North Wales with an artist friend, andAudrey had accepted her sister's invitation very willingly. Both Percival and Geraldine were very kind to her, she thought. They lether wander about alone and do as she liked, and they were always readyto plan something for her enjoyment--a drive or a sail, or a day on themoors. Audrey liked being with them, and baby Leonard was morefascinating than ever; yet it may be doubted if she would not have beenhappier at Rutherford. The absence of all duties, of any settledemployment, tried her. A holiday, to be thoroughly enjoyed, must beattended with a disengaged mind, and with a certain freedom from worry;and this was not possible with Audrey. She would talk to her sistercheerfully, or play with Leonard, and she was an intelligent companionfor Mr. Harcourt when they took long walks together; but in her momentsof solitude, when she roamed alone over the yellow sands with the freshsalt wind blowing in her face, her thoughts would be sad enough as shethought of Cyril in his hot London lodgings. 'Oh, my darling, if you could only be with me and feel this wind!' shewould think, with a great rush of pity and tenderness; 'if I could onlytake your place a little and bear things for you!' and the sense thatshe could do nothing for him would lie like a load on her heart. 'I think Audrey is getting over her trouble, ' Geraldine said one day toher husband. 'Baby is doing her good; and really, when she is playingwith him she seems just like her dear old self. ' 'Of course she will get over it, ' returned Mr. Harcourt impatiently;'all girls do. I tell you what, Jerry: when we get back to Hillside wewill have Graham down to stop with us. ' 'Oh, did you mean Lionel Graham all the time?' returned Geraldine, opening her eyes very widely. 'Is he the man you always wanted forAudrey? He is nice, of course--all the Grahams are nice--but he isdreadfully ugly. ' 'Nonsense, my love! Graham ugly, with that fine head of his! I tell youthe girl is lucky who gets such a clever fellow. I recollect he wasrather struck with her last spring. We will have him down and see ifthey can take to each other. ' 'But, Percy dear, you forget Audrey declares she is still engaged toCyril Blake. ' 'Stuff and nonsense!' replied her husband, waxing exceedingly irate atthis remark. 'I wonder at you--I do indeed!--repeating anything soridiculous! Has not Blake given her up?--and very proper of him, too--and has not your father forbidden her to have anything more to dowith him? My love, with all my respect for your judgment, I must differfrom you. Audrey is not the girl to propose anything so indelicate--soaltogether wanting in propriety--as to thrust herself upon a man whovery properly declines to marry her. No, no; we will have Graham down. He is a first-rate fellow, and when he makes up his mind to a thing, hesticks at nothing. That's the way to win a girl--eh, Jerry?' AndGeraldine blushed beautifully as she recalled Percival's bold wooing. 'Well, do as you like, ' she said tranquilly; 'but I don't believe Audreywill look at him. ' And then she made signs to the nurse to bring her thebaby; and Mr. Harcourt forgot his match-making schemes as he played withhis son and heir. Audrey was the only one who was glad when the time came for them toreturn to Rutherford: her mother's face was a delicious sight to her;and as she presided again at her little tea-table she gave vent to afervent 'Oh, how glad I am to be at home again!' 'That sounds as though you have not enjoyed your holiday, Audrey; andyet Geraldine was so pleased to have you. ' 'But I have enjoyed myself, mother dear. Whitby is beautiful, and I didjust what I liked, and Gage and Percival could not have been kinder ormore thoughtful; and then Leonard is such a darling!' 'You look all the better for your change; but you are still a littlethin, love, ' returned her mother, scrutinising her daughter rathernarrowly. But Audrey disclaimed this charge: if she were thin, it wasbecause Percival had taken her such long walks, she declared. But shewas not thin--she was very well; only she was tired of her idleness, andmeant to work hard. 'I wish Michael were at home, ' she went on. 'He has returned from Wales, but he means to stay for a week or two in South Audley Street. Kester iswith him. Home is never quite the same without Michael, ' she finished, looking round her as though she missed something. Michael had really stayed up in London for Kester's sake; but he wasglad of any excuse that kept him away from Woodcote. When Kester's visitwas over, he went with him to Victoria, and saw him off. He had somebusiness in Aldersgate Street, and he thought he might as well take aCircle train, and go on. Michael always hated business in the City--thenoise of the crowded thoroughfares jarred on him--and he thought hemight as well get it over. He had finished his business, and was walkingdown Cheapside, when, to his surprise, he saw Cyril Blake coming out ofa shop. Cyril seemed equally surprised at this unexpected _rencontre_. 'I know you haunt Cromwell and Exhibition Roads, ' he said, in rather anamused tone; 'but I always understood you shunned the City. ' 'So I do; but one may have business there sometimes, ' returned Michael, linking his arm in Cyril's; for the two had grown fast friends, in spiteof the disparity in their ages. 'I suppose it would be inquisitive on mypart to ask what brings you here at this time in the afternoon?' 'Not at all. I have only been to my tailor's, ' replied Cyril, smiling. 'I am not a swell like you, and City prices suit my pocket better thanWest-End ones. I was feeling rather dilapidated, so, as Unwin dismissedme early this afternoon, I thought I would attend to my outer man. ' 'You would have been wiser to have run down to Teddington and had a pullup the river. You look as though you want fresh air, Blake. I don't knowabout your outer man, as you call it; but I must say you look uncommonlyseedy. ' 'Do I? Oh, I am all right, ' he added hastily. 'I have not been used tospend a summer in town. How did you get on in Worth Wales, Burnett? Iwas never there, but I hear the scenery is beautiful. ' 'So it is. You should see some of Jack Cooper's sketches; they wouldgive an idea of the place;' and Michael launched into an enthusiasticdescription of a thunderstorm he had witnessed under Snowdon. 'I tookBooty to pay his devoirs at the tomb of Bethgelert. On the whole, Ithink Booty enjoyed his trip as much as we did. ' Michael had so much to say about his trip, that they found themselves onthe platform before he had half finished. It was half-past five by thistime, and a good many business men were returning home. The station wassomewhat crowded, but as they piloted their way through the knots ofpassengers Michael still talked on. Cyril had listened at first withinterest; he was becoming much attached to his new friend, and thoughhis masculine undemonstrativeness forbade him to say much about hisfeelings, his gratitude to Michael was deep and intense, and amid hisown troubles he had an unselfish satisfaction in thinking that, whateverhis own future might be, Kester's was safe. By and by his attentionbegan to flag; he was watching an old man who stood at a little distancefrom them at the edge of the platform. He was a very dirty old man, andat any other time his appearance would certainly not have inspired Cyrilwith the wish to look at him a second time; but he was attracted by hisswaying, lurching movements, which would have conveyed to any practisedeye that the old reprobate was in an advanced stage of intoxication. What if he were to lose his balance and fall over the edge of theplatform? The down train was momentarily expected. Cyril could bear itno longer. 'Excuse me, Burnett, ' he said hastily; 'that old fellow looks as thoughhe might topple over any minute;' and before Michael could understandwhat he meant, he had dived across the platform. The whistle of the advancing train sounded at that moment, and almostsimultaneously there was a shriek of terror from some woman standing atthe farther end. 'Poor wretch! he has done for himself, ' Michael heard someone say. 'Hewent clean over. ' Michael was slightly short-sighted, and a crowd of people interceptedhis view, and he could not at once make his way through them. He couldnot see Cyril, but the surging, excited throng all veering towards theend of the platform told him that some serious accident had occurred. Blake must have been an eyewitness of the whole thing, he thought, as hetried to elbow his way through horrified men and hysterical women. If hecould only find him! And then a very stout man in a navvy's garb blockedup his passage. 'Is the poor old man killed?' Michael asked; but he feared what theanswer would be. Was the gray-headed sinner summoned in this terriblemanner to the bar of his offended Judge? 'Lord bless you, sir!' returned the man, 'he is as right as possible;the train did not touch him. It is the other poor fellow that is donefor, I expect. Me and my mate have just got him out. ' A sudden horrible, almost sickening sensation of fear came to Michael. 'Oh, my God! not that, not that!' burst from his lips as he literallyfought his way down the platform. 'Let me pass, sir! I believe I knowhim!' he cried hoarsely, and the man in pity to his white face drewback. There was a motionless figure lying on the bench at the other end, surrounded by porters and strangers. Michael darted towards it, but whenhe caught sight of the face he uttered a groan. Alas, alas! he knew ittoo well. 'Give me place, ' he said, almost fiercely; 'that dead man is my friend. ' 'He is not dead, Burnett, ' observed a gentleman, who was supportingCyril's head; 'but he is badly hurt, poor fellow! We must get him awayat once. ' 'Thank Heaven it is you, Abercrombie!' returned Michael excitedly; 'heis safer with you than with any man alive. ' But Dr. Abercrombie shook his head gravely. 'My carriage is outside, and is at your service, ' he said; 'and for thematter of that, so am I. Let me give these men directions how to movehim. ' Then Michael stood aside while the doctor issued his commands. Cyril had not regained full consciousness, but as Dr. Abercrombie placedhimself beside him and applied remedies from time to time, a low moannow and then escaped from his lips. Michael, who had to sit with the coachman, thought that long drive wouldnever end, and yet Dr. Abercrombie drove good horses. It seemed hoursbefore they reached Mortimer Street, and the strain on his nerves madehim look so ghastly as he went into the house to prepare Mrs. Blake, that she uttered a shriek as soon as she saw his face. 'You have come to tell me my boy is dead!' she exclaimed, catching holdof him. 'No, he is not dead; but he is badly hurt, Abercrombie says. Let me go, Mrs. Blake; they want my help to carry him in. Is there a room ready?Mollie, look after your mother;' and Michael sped on his sad errand. 'Do not let anyone in, Burnett, while I examine him. Lock the door;' andMichael obeyed the doctor's orders, though an agonised voice outsideentreated admittance. Michael thought the doctor's examination would never end; but by and byhe came up to Michael and drew him aside. 'Do you wish another opinion, Burnett?' he asked abruptly; 'but it iskinder to tell you that the thing is hopeless. ' 'Good heavens, Abercrombie! Do you mean he will not live?' 'Only a few hours--he is hurt internally. They were both down on therails, you know: I saw the whole thing; and he flung up the old man withone hand--I never saw anything so splendidly done--but the wheel of theengine caught him, and before they could stop the train the mischief wasdone. ' 'Will he suffer? Can nothing be done for him? Abercrombie, I would givehalf my fortune to save the life of that man. ' 'He will not suffer long, ' returned Dr. Abercrombie kindly. He was arough, hard-featured Scotchman, but no man had a better heart, asMichael knew. 'I will do all I can for him, Burnett, for his own sake aswell as yours. I think he wants to speak to you, but he cannot talkmuch; it is agony to him. ' And Michael stepped up to the bed. In the emergency he had regained hisold calmness of manner, and as Cyril's eyes were fixed on his face, hebent over him and said gently: 'Do not speak, my dear fellow; I know what you wish to say. I willtelegraph for her at once. ' Cyril's damp, cold hand closed over his. 'Thanks, thanks! that is what I wanted. She would like it, and it willdo no harm. ' The last few words seemed intended for a question, and Michael answeredwithout hesitation. 'Harm! she would never forgive us if we did not send for her. ' Then a faint light came into Cyril's eyes. 'I hope for her sake I shall not suffer; but it will soon be over: Iheard him say so. ' He seemed to speak with difficulty. 'Don't look sosorry about it, Burnett; it is much better so, and the poor old man wassaved. Oh!' That expression of pain wrung unwillingly from his lips drew the doctorto him, and he made a sign to Michael to leave them. An hour later Audrey received the following telegram: 'An accident. Cyril Blake badly hurt. Condition critical. Come at once. Will meet the last train at King's Cross. ' CHAPTER XLVI 'INASMUCH' 'He, being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long time. '--WISDOM OF SOLOMON. All her life long Audrey never forgot that long weary journey. Thelateness of the hour compelled her to take a circuitous route to London. Dr. Ross accompanied her part of the way, and did not leave her until heplaced her under the care of the guard, who promised to keep thecompartment for her. 'You will be all right now, Audrey, ' he said, with a poor attempt atcheerfulness. 'I have tipped the guard half-a-crown--a piece ofextravagance on my part, I believe, as you only stop once between thisand King's Cross, and Michael will meet you at the other end. God blessyou, my child!' he continued, with deeper feeling, as the train began tomove. 'Give my love to Cyril, and try and trust him to his HeavenlyFather. ' 'I will try, dear father, ' was Audrey's answer. And then she leant back on her seat and attempted to pray; but she onlyfound herself repeating over and over again the same petition--that shemight be in time; for Michael's message, so carefully worded, had readto her like Cyril's death-warrant. 'He will die, ' she had said withtearless eyes to her father, as she had carried him the telegram. It was eleven o'clock before she reached King's Cross; but before thetrain stopped she could see Michael standing alone under a gas-lamp, andbefore he discerned her she was beside him. 'Am I in time, Michael?' Then he started, and drew her hand through his arm. 'Quite in time, dear; he has still a few hours to live. ' For he saw at once that she was prepared for the worst. 'That is well, ' she replied calmly; 'let us go. ' And then Michael handed her into the hansom. How pale she was, he thought, and how sad those dear gray eyes looked, as she turned to him and asked that question that he so dreaded to hear! 'We are out of the station now, and I can hear better. What was theaccident, Michael? How did it all happen? Tell me everything, please. ' Then, as far as he was able, he told her all, and she heard him veryquietly, though once he felt the shudder that passed through her whenshe first understood the nature of the terrible thing that had happened. 'Abercrombie saw it all from the first, ' he went on; 'he said he neversaw anything so splendidly done. Not a man in a thousand would haveventured it. What did I tell you, Audrey?--that Blake was just thefellow to win the Victoria Cross. ' 'He was very brave, ' she murmured; but she trembled all over as shespoke. 'He was more than brave. What was my action in Zululand compared to his?He stepped into the jaws of death quietly, and with his eyes opened, forhe must have known that two could not have been saved. He has given hisnoble life for a wretched worthless one. It sounds inhuman to say it, but who would have mourned if that poor old man had been swept away?Would it not have been better if he had left him to his fate?' 'You must not say that!' returned Audrey. And now the tears were runningdown her face. 'It is this that makes it so noble, so Christ-like--alife laid down out of love and pity for the worthless. My brave Cyril!Who is more fit to go than he? Ah, I knew him so well; he is veryreserved; he is not one to speak of religion--very few young men do; henever liked to do so; but in a simple, manly way he has tried to liveit. I always knew he was good. Yes, Michael, it was better for him togive up his fresh young life than for that old man to die in his sins. ' He could not steady his voice to answer her. Would any other girl havetaken it in this way? He felt there were depths in her nature that hehad not fathomed yet. The nobleness of the action seemed to lift her upout of her grief. The heroic death was a fit ending to that brave life, short as it was. There were a few minutes' silence, during which she wept quietly, andthen she roused herself to ask after Mrs. Blake. A deeper shade passedover Michael's face as she put the question. 'Poor soul!' he returned in a grieved voice; 'I fear it will go veryhardly with her. Abercrombie tried to say a word to her about her son'shopeless condition, but she dropped at his feet like a dead thing. I hadto leave him with her, and go back to poor Blake, as he was asking forher. I am afraid Abercrombie had to be very stern with her, for by andby she crept in quietly enough, and sat down beside him. When I left hewas talking to her, but I do not believe that she understood a word thathe said; she looks as though she has been turned to stone. ' Audrey sighed, and a moment afterwards she said a little wearily: 'Oh, how slowly we are going! Shall we ever be there?' Then Michael took her hand gently in his; she was so patient, so good:if only he could comfort her! 'We have a very fast horse, and a capital driver. Yes, we shall be theresoon now. Your journey must have tired you, dear. I wish someone couldhave come with you. ' 'Father wanted to do so, but I told him I would rather be alone. Nevermind about me, Michael; what does it matter if I am tired or not? If Icould only be with him! but the time is passing so!' Then, as she sawthe pained look on Michael's face, she said in a low voice: 'Don't betoo sorry for me; it is hard--very hard--but we must only think of him;'and then she did not speak again until the hansom stopped. Mollie was on the watch, for the door opened before they had alighted;but as she flung her arms round Audrey with a tearful welcome, thelatter gently disengaged herself. 'Do not keep me, dear Mollie; let me go to him. ' 'Yes, you shall go to him, dear Miss Ross; he is a little better justnow; at least, he does not suffer so much. I wish mamma could speak tohim, but she only sits there sighing as though her heart would break, and it must be so sad for Cyril to hear it. That is the door; you can goin;' and Audrey needed no more. A tall, gray-haired man stood aside to let her pass, but it may bedoubted whether she even saw him, any more than she noticed that rigidfigure at the foot of the bed. Audrey saw nothing but that death-likeface on the pillow, and the glad light in Cyril's eyes, as she wentstraight to him, and kneeling down beside him, kissed his lips. 'My poor Cyril! My poor, dear Cyril!' she said in a voice that washeavenly in its sweetness to him. 'No, not poor now, ' he whispered, as he moved his head until it restedon her breast. 'My darling, it is worth even this to see you again. Ifyou could only know what these five months have been to me!' He spoke in a voice so low and feeble that only she could hear him. Mrs. Blake did not move as Audrey entered; her eyes were fixed on her boy'sface. They seemed the only living things about her. From time to time, even in his awful suffering, he had struggled to say a word to her, butshe had scarcely answered him, though now and then a low moan issuedfrom her lips. 'I could not have borne it much longer, ' he went on, as in her mutesympathy Audrey rested her face against his cold, damp forehead; 'thelife was killing me. How was a man to live without hope? And I had nohope. ' 'I should always have loved you, ' she said simply. 'Yes, my own faithful one; but even your love, precious as it was, couldnot have consoled me for the unnatural loneliness that was my lot. Thevery knowledge that you were mine and that I could never claim youseemed to add a deep bitterness to my grief. Do not let us speak of thatdreary time, my darling; it is gone now, and it is come to this: that Ithank God that I lie here with only a few hours to live. ' 'Oh, Cyril! for your mother's sake, do not say this!' 'She does not hear us, ' he replied; 'she seems to take no notice ofanything. Poor, dear mother! I am sorry for her!' 'And not for me!' Audrey's unselfishness could not refrain from that lowcry. 'No, not for you, ' he returned tenderly. 'It is better, far better, foryou, my darling, that things are ending thus. Why should you have wastedyour sweet life for me, Audrey? I could not have borne the sacrifice. Ina little while I should have written to you, and begged you to give meup. ' 'There would have been no use in writing such a letter. ' Then he smiled happily, as though even on his dying bed it gave himpleasure to hear that. 'Cyril, you must not talk; Michael says it hurts you. ' 'No, not quite so much now; somehow the pain seems easier, and it issuch a relief to say all this. Does it make you unhappy, darling?' 'Not if it gives you comfort; you may say anything--anything--to me. ' 'I only wanted to tell you that it is all right. I am glad I did it. Ihave not done much for Him all my life, ' dropping his voice reverently, and she knew what he meant. '"Inasmuch"--how does that go on, Audrey?' Then she softly repeated the words: '"Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these, My brethren, yehave done it unto _Me_. "' 'Well, He did more than that for us. What was a moment's pain comparedwith His? Audrey, do you think someone could say a prayer?' Then Audrey suggested that they should send for Michael, and he came atonce. Cyril listened with his eyes closed; but his lips moved, and Audrey'shand was in his all the time. He seemed a little exhausted after this, and Dr. Abercrombie gave him some restorative. Michael did not leave the room for long after this. He came in from timeto time to see if he were wanted. But there was very little for anyoneto do. The flame of life was flickering to its close, and the practisedeye of the physician knew that in another hour or two all would be over. 'You can go in, ' he said to Mollie; 'nothing makes any difference now. ' Then Mollie crept to her brother's side. Cyril lay very quiet; but by and by he roused himself to send a messageto Kester. And then he spoke of his father. 'Will you give him my love?' he said. 'I wanted to see more of him. Ithink if I had only known him better I could have loved him. ' 'I will tell him this, dear Cyril. ' 'Thank you. ' And then he closed his eyes again. And as Audrey bent over him, itseemed to her as though his face were almost perfect in that stillness. Presently he asked his mother to come closer, and she at once obeyedhim. 'Mother, ' he said pleadingly, 'you will try to give me up?' But she made a gesture of dissent. 'I cannot; I cannot, Cyril! I do not believe I can live without you. ' 'You have Mollie and Kester, ' he panted, for her suppressed agitationevidently disturbed him. 'Mother, I know what we have been to eachother. ' Then she fell on her knees with a bitter cry. 'Cyril, it is all my fault that you are lying there. Your mother haskilled you. It would not have happened but for me. My boy! my boy! Icannot, I will not live, without you!' 'Mother. ' But Michael saw he could bear no more, and at a sign from the doctor heraised the unhappy woman and led her from the room. 'It is too much for them both, ' he said to Biddy; 'neither of them canbear it. ' And then he saw the old woman take her mistress in her arms and cry overher like a child. 'Biddy, I shall die too. You will bury me in my boy's grave--my boy andme together. ' But Michael heard no more. He went back to the room just as Cyril wasasking for him. 'Burnett, will you say good-bye?' he gasped. 'I think it will not belong now, and I have said good-bye to Mollie. Oh! this pain, doctor--ithas come back again. Can you do anything for me?' But Dr. Abercrombie shook his head sorrowfully. 'Never mind, then; it must be borne. Burnett, God bless you for all youhave done! You will be good to her, I know'--with a glance at hisbetrothed. 'I will, ' returned Michael Burnett. And then the two men grasped hands. Cyril hardly spoke after this--his pain was too intense. But once Audreysaw his eyes rest on her ring. 'It is still there, ' she heard himmurmur. And another time he made signs that she should lay his head onher shoulder. 'I want to die so, ' he whispered. And a little later he asked her tokiss him again. He lay so quiet now that they thought he was going, and Michael kneltdown by the bed and offered up the commendatory prayer. But once morethe dark eyes opened: there was a strange, unearthly light in them. 'Inasmuch, ' he said; 'Inasmuch----' His head fell back a little heavily, and the soul of Cyril Blake waswith its God. * * * * * 'He does not suffer now, ' were Audrey's first words, as she laid himgently down and gave her last solemn kiss. When Michael put his armround her and led her gently away, she offered no resistance. 'I must leave you for a little while, dear, ' he said, as he stood besideher a moment; 'but I will send Mollie to you. ' Then she begged that she might be left alone. 'Her mother will want her; and I would rather, much rather, be alone. ' Then, when Michael had gone, she laid her head down on Cyril'swriting-table, and the tears had their way. Until now she had notthought of herself; but now it seemed to her as though the world hadgrown suddenly cold and dark. He had loved her--oh, how well he hadloved her!--and now the Divine will had taken him from her! But Audrey wept less for herself than for that bright young life cut offso mysteriously in its early bloom, before its youthful promise had cometo maturity. But as her tears flowed, certain words she had often readrecurred to her mind, and comforted her: 'For honourable age is not that which standeth in length of time, northat is measured by number of years. 'But wisdom is the gray hair unto men, and an unspotted life is old age. * * * * * 'For his soul pleased the Lord: therefore hasted He to take him awayfrom the wicked. ' Certainly there was no bitterness in Audrey's grief when, a few hourslater, she stood with Michael beside that still form. How beautiful herCyril looked! she thought; and even Michael marvelled as he gazed athim. He lay there like a young knight who had fallen in his maidenfight, and who in death was still a conqueror. The living man who stoodthere could almost have envied him, he was so worn and jaded with thebattle of life. 'How peacefully he sleeps!' he said, in a moved voice; 'he looks asthough he were dreaming happily, Audrey. Surely it will comfort hismother to see him like this!' 'She will not see him yet; Biddy says she is too ill. We must give hertime to recover herself--the blow has been so awfully sudden. Yes, helooks happy; my darling sleeps well. Did you hear what he said, Michael?--that he was glad that he lay there; that it was all as itshould be? If ever a man yielded his life willingly, Cyril did!' 'His life was so hard, you see. ' 'Yes; but he would have given it all the same if his happiness had beenperfect. He would not have stood by and seen even a beggar perish, hewas so generous. You would have done it yourself, Michael. ' 'I do not know, ' he returned with a shudder; 'I would not answer formyself: it was such an awful death!' 'But I can answer for you, ' she replied calmly: 'you would have done itif he had not been beforehand. ' And then she moved away from him, and began to arrange the few flowersthat the people of the house had sent up to her. Michael waited until she had finished. She was exhausted and weary, heknew, and he was anxious to take her to South Audley Street, where hermother would be awaiting them. Michael had telegraphed to her earlier inthe day, and the answer had come that she was already on her way. Audrey made an attempt to see Mrs. Blake before she left, but Biddywould not admit her. 'It will drive my mistress crazy to see anyone, ' she said. 'She hasquieted down a bit, and the doctor has given me some stuff to make hersleep; and his orders were that I was to keep her as still as possible. 'And after this Audrey dared not persist. But it grieved her to leave poor Mollie in that desolate house, the girlseemed so utterly alone; but Michael said he had spoken to the woman ofthe house, and that she had promised to look after her. 'We ought not to take her with us, dear Audrey, ' he said gently, butfirmly; 'it is her duty to stay with her mother. ' And Audrey acquiesceda little reluctantly. Mrs. Ross cried abundantly as she took Audrey in her arms; her motherlysoul was filled with pity for her girl. But Audrey had no more tears toshed. 'Mother, ' she said pleadingly, when, after the late evening meal, Michael had retired and left them alone together--'mother, I must wearmourning for Cyril. I hope father will not mind. ' 'You shall do as you like, my love, ' returned her mother sadly. 'Yourfather will not object to anything you wish to do. You know we all loveddear Cyril. ' 'Yes, mother; and you were always so good to him. Towards the last hementioned you and father: "Give my love to them both. " Michael heard himsay it. ' 'Geraldine is as unhappy as possible. She drove with me to the station. She begged me over and over again to say how grieved she was for you. ' 'Poor dear Gage is always so kind!' replied Audrey calmly. 'Mother dear, should you mind my going to bed now? My head aches so, and I am sotired!' Then Mrs. Ross attended her daughter to her room, and did not leave heruntil her weary head was on the pillow. 'I should like to stay, ' she said, looking at her child with yearningeyes; 'but I suppose you would rather be alone. ' 'Yes, mother dear;' and then she drew her mother's face down to hers andkissed it tenderly. 'Dearest, you are so good to me, and so is Michael. ' 'Who could help being good to you, Audrey?' 'Yes; but you must not be too kind to me. One must not let one'sunhappiness spoil other people's lives. I want to be as brave as he was. Will you draw up the blind, mother dear? It is such a beautifulmoonlight night. ' And, as Mrs. Ross did as she was asked, Audrey raisedherself upon her elbow. 'Oh, how calm and lovely it looks! Even thehousetops are transfigured and glorified. Oh, mother, it is all as itshould be! Cyril said so; and he is safe in his Father's house--in hisFather's and mine!' she half whispered to herself, as she sank back onthe pillow again. CHAPTER XLVII A STRANGE EXPIATION 'When some beloved voice that was to you Both sound and sweetness faileth suddenly, And silence against which you dare not cry Aches round you like a strong disease and new, What hope? what help?. . . . . . Nay, none of these. Speak, Thou availing Christ! and fill this pause. ' MRS. BROWNING. Mrs. Ross soon discovered that Audrey wished to remain in town until thefuneral was over, and she at once wrote off to her husband for therequired permission. Dr. Ross made no objection; he meant to be present himself at thefuneral, and as he had some important business that would detain himanother day or so in London, he suggested that they should accompany himback to Woodcote. Audrey seemed satisfied when she had read her father's letter. He hadsent her a message that touched her greatly. 'I hope our child will not grieve over-much, ' he wrote. 'Tell her thather father sympathises with her most fully. By and by she will read themeaning of this painful lesson. As for poor Cyril, one can only long tochange places with him. His was a short and fiery trial, but at least hewas spared the burden and heat of the day. When one thinks of hisblameless youth, and the manly endurance with which he met and faced histrouble, one can only be thankful that he has been taken out of a lifethat would have been only one long struggle and disappointment, and hasentered so early into his rest. ' 'Father is right, ' murmured Audrey, as she read this. 'Every morning Iwake I thank God that he has ceased to suffer. ' Audrey went every day to see Mollie, and to spend a few minutes byCyril's coffin. She went with Michael to Highgate to choose his lastresting-place, and no other hands but hers arranged the flowers thatdecked the chamber of death. Mrs. Blake remained in her own room, andrefused to see anyone. Biddy's account of her mistress was veryunsatisfactory. 'She does not sleep unless I give her the doctor's soothing stuff, ' sheconfessed one day, when Audrey questioned her very closely, 'andsometimes I cannot coax her to take it. "I don't want to sleep, Biddy, "that is all her cry. "If I sleep I must wake, and the waking is tooterrible. " Unless Blessed Mary and the saints help my mistress, 'continued Biddy, wiping the tears from her withered cheeks, 'I think shewill go out of her mind. She spends half the night in that room. Earlythis morning I missed her, and found her lying in a dead faint besidethe coffin. She does not eat, and I never see her shed a tear. She sitsrocking herself and moaning as though she were in pain, and then shestarts up and walks the room till it turns one giddy to see her. I darenot leave her a moment. If she would only see a doctor! but, poor soul, she will do nothing now to please her old Biddy. ' 'I must see her, ' exclaimed Audrey, horrified at this description ofwild, unchastened grief. 'Biddy, will you take this note to her?' andBiddy, nothing loath, carried off the slip of paper. Audrey had only pencilled a few words: 'My poor friend, let me come to you; ours is the same sorrow. ForCyril's sake, do not refuse me. ' But Biddy came back the next moment shaking her head very sorrowfully. 'I can do nought with her, ' she said hastily. 'She sends her love, MissRoss, but she will see no one--no one. I have done the best I can foryou, but I dare not anger her, ' finished the old woman, moving sadlyaway. 'Why, she has not seen Master Kester, though he came to her doorlast night! We must leave her alone until she comes round to her rightmind. ' 'Do you think she will be at the funeral?' Michael asked more than once;but no one was able to answer this question. But when the day came she was there, closely veiled, so that no onecould see her face, and as she walked to the grave, between Kester andMollie, her step seemed as firm as ever. Michael had written to MatthewO'Brien the particulars of his son's death, and had told him that aplace would be reserved for him among the mourners; but to this therewas no reply. Just as the service began in the chapel, however, a tall man with a graymoustache slipped into the seat behind Kester. When the sad processionfiled out into the cemetery, Audrey and Michael drew back to let himpass, but he made signs for them to precede him. But at the end, as theyall crowded round the open grave to take their last look at theflower-decked coffin, Mat O'Brien stood for a moment by his wife's side. Audrey said afterwards that she was sure Mrs. Blake saw him; she startedslightly, but took no further notice. The tears were streaming downMat's face, and Mollie, with girlish sympathy, had slipped her handthrough his arm; but the mother stood in stony impassiveness besidethem, until Kester whispered something to her and led her away. The restof the mourners had dispersed, but Audrey stood there still, lookingthoughtfully down into the grave. Dr. Ross and his wife had followed theothers, but Michael had kept his place beside Audrey. 'I think they are waiting for us, dear, ' he said at last, as though torouse her. Then she turned her face to him. 'I like being here, ' she replied simply; 'and yet it is not pain toleave him lying there. Michael, I feel like Christian. Do you rememberhow his burden rolled off into an open grave? Somehow, mine has rolledoff, too. ' 'You mean that you are happy about him. ' 'Yes. It is so sweet to think that he will never suffer any more. Oh, Michael, it has been such a burden! I never seemed to have a moment'speace or comfort. Every night I used to think, "How has he passedto-day? Has it been very bad with him?" And sometimes the thought of allhe was bearing seemed to weigh me to the earth. ' 'And you never spoke of this to anyone--you bore all this by yourself?' 'It was no use to speak. No one could help me. It was his pain, notmine. Now it will be different. He is safe and happy, and as for me, Imust try to live now for other people. ' And then, with a smile that touched him to the heart, she stepped backfrom the grave and told him that she was ready. Somehow, Michael felt comforted by those few words. His intuition andknowledge of Audrey's character gave him hope that after a time shewould recover her old elasticity. 'Until now, ' he said to himself, 'shehas so fully identified herself with him, that she has simply had nolife of her own. Her sympathetic nature has reflected only his thoughtsand feelings. I doubt whether she has ever questioned herself as to herlove for him; she has taken everything for granted. And now she has losthim, the thought of his happiness seems to swallow up all thought of herown grief. Such unselfishness will bring its own healing. ' And in thisway Michael comforted himself about her. That evening Audrey received a message that surprised her greatly. Kester brought it. His mother would see her the next day; someone hadtold her that Audrey was going back to Woodcote, and she had at onceexpressed a wish that she should not leave without bidding her good-bye. 'Tell her that I can speak now, and that I have much to say to her. ' Andthe strangeness of this message filled Audrey with perplexity. Michael took her to Kensington the next day. He had to fetch Kester; theboy was going back to Brighton: there was no good in his lingering inLondon. His mother took no pleasure in his society; his overtures to hisfather had made a breach between them, and she had treated him withsilent displeasure. But he told Michael, as they drove to the station, that she had beenkinder in her manner to him that morning than she had been for months. 'She kissed me more than once, and held my hand as though she did notlike bidding me good bye. She looks awfully ill, ' continued the boy, with a choke in his voice; 'and when I asked her to be good to Mollie, she said quite gently that she had been a bad mother to us both; thatshe had not considered us enough, and that God was punishing her for it. I begged her not to say it, but she repeated it again. "You and Molliewill be better without me, " she went on. Oh, Captain Burnett! do youthink she will die? I never saw anyone look quite so bad, ' persistedKester sadly. Biddy took Audrey up at once to her mistress's room. 'You will find her better, ' she said shortly; 'the dumb spirit is castout of her. That is the blessed saints' doing. I knew my mistress wouldcome to her senses--Heaven be praised for it!' The room was somewhat dark, and it was not until Audrey was quite closeto Mrs. Blake that she noticed the change in her that had so shockedKester. The blackness of the plain stuff gown, unrelieved by any whiteness, mayhave made the contrast of her pale face more striking; but Audreynoticed that her dark hair was now streaked with gray. She had drawn itback from her face and coiled it tightly behind, as though her ownappearance had ceased to interest her, and the sunken eyes and a certainsharp look about the cheekbones made her seem at least ten years older. With a pity amounting to tenderness, Audrey would have put her armsround her; but Mrs. Blake drew back, and only suffered her to kiss hercheek. 'Dear Mrs. Blake----' But she interrupted her. 'Do not call me that again, ' she said hastily. 'There has been enough ofdeception and lies; my name is Olive O'Brien. As long as I remain in theworld I wish to be called by that name. ' Then Audrey gazed at her in speechless consternation. What could thisstrange speech portend? 'Will you sit down?' she continued, at the same time seating herself ina high-backed chair that stood beside her bed. A crucifix lay on a little table beside her, with a framed photograph ofCyril that she always carried about with her. From time to time shelooked at them as she spoke. 'Biddy told me that you were going back to Rutherford, and I could notlet you go without bidding you good-bye. ' 'It would have made me very unhappy if you had not allowed me to seeyou. ' 'I cannot believe that; but of course you mean it for the truth: that iswhy my boy loved you, because you are so absolutely true. ' Her voicesank into a whisper, and a gloomy light came into her eyes. 'That is whyhis mother disappointed him, why he lost all trust in her, becausefalsehood was easier to her than truth. ' 'But not now, dear Mrs. Blake; nay, I must call you by the old name. Andwhat does it matter between us two if you have sinned? If yourwrong-doing seems a heavy burden, you can at least repent. ' 'I have repented, ' she said, in a voice so strange and thrilling thatAudrey felt inwardly troubled. 'In the hours of darkness by my boy'scoffin I have humbled myself before my Maker, I have craved to expiatemy sin. Audrey, listen to me, ' she continued; 'I have sent for youbecause you loved my Cyril, because for a few months you made him happy. He was my idol, and that is why he has been taken from me--because Iforgot God and truth, and sinned for his sake. ' 'Yes; but you are sorry now. ' 'What does such sorrow avail, except for my own purging? In a littlewhile the world--this cruel, hard, outer world--will know me no more. Iam going back to Ireland with Mollie and Biddy, and when I have made mypeace with the Church I shall enter a convent. ' 'Good heavens! what can you mean?' 'I have always been at heart a Catholic, ' she returned in a mechanicaltone; 'but while my boy lived I was content that his Church should bemine. All my life I have had a leaning to the older faith; now in mydesolation I mean to shelter in the bosom of our Holy Mother the Church. She receives all penitents; she will not refuse me. ' 'But your children--Mollie: would you forsake Mollie?' pleaded Audrey, with tears in her eyes. 'Would you neglect your sacred responsibilitiesfor duties no one would demand of a mother?' 'Am I fit to discharge my responsibilities?' she returned in a cold, hard voice. 'Has anyone but Cyril ever kept me straight? Do you thinkMollie and I could go on living the same old life without him? Audrey, you do not know what you say; such an existence would rob me of myreason. ' 'But what will become of Mollie?' asked Audrey, concealing her alarm atthis wild speech. 'You must not only think of yourself. ' 'Mollie will go with me, ' she returned. 'I shall not forsake her. Theconvent that I propose to enter has a home attached to it, where theyeducate girls belonging to the upper classes. Mollie will have plenty ofcompanions. The nuns are kind women, and they will not coerce her in anyway, and there will be sufficient for her maintenance. ' 'But when she grows up--when her education is finished: what will becomeof her then?' But Mrs. Blake did not seem clear on this point. The convent had itsboarders, she remarked; with the superior's permission, Mollie mightstill remain there, and lead a tolerably happy life. 'There will be other young ladies; she will not be dull, ' she went on. 'The rule is a strict one--that is why I chose it--but I should beallowed to see her sometimes; perhaps she too may turn Catholic, andthen all will be well. ' But Audrey's honest nature revolted against this merciless arrangement. She saw clearly that Mrs. Blake's weak, excitable nature had been undersome strong influence, though it was not until later that she heard thatduring the last few months she had secretly attended a Roman Catholicchapel near them. Doubtless Biddy, who was a stanch Romanist, hadconnived at this. And now she had planned this strange expiation for herself, and poorMollie must be sacrificed. What would Cyril have thought of such anunnatural arrangement? For Cyril's sake, for Mollie's, Audrey felt shemust combat this notion. 'Mrs. Blake, ' she said very earnestly, 'it is not for me to questionyour actions with regard to yourself. If you are at heart a RomanCatholic--if all these years you have been an unprofessed member of thatChurch--it may be as well for you to acknowledge it openly. I do notbelieve myself that a convent life is free from its trials andtemptations. Human nature is the same everywhere, and even sanctifiedhuman nature is liable to error. Wiser people than myself would tell youthat peace of mind would be more surely attained by remaining in thepath of duty. Dear Mrs. Blake, forgive me if I pain you, but would'--shehesitated a moment--'would not Cyril have disapproved of his mothertaking such a step?' 'I think not, ' was the response. 'My boy's eyes are purified now; hewould judge differently. I shall devote the remainder of my life topraying for the repose of his soul, and in repentance for my miserablepast; and it may be'--here she lifted her clasped hands, and a faintlight came into her eyes--'that Heaven may release me from my miserybefore many years are over, and my purified soul may be allowed to findrest. ' 'God grant you may find it, poor, misguided woman!' was Audrey's secretprayer; but she merely said aloud: 'We must live out our life as long as the Divine will ordains; but, Mrs. Blake, I must speak of Mollie. If you will sacrifice yourself, you haveno right to sacrifice her. For Cyril's sake, let me have her!' 'You, Audrey!' 'Yes, I. Have we not been like sisters all these months? I think Cyrilwould love to know she was with me; he was so fond of Mollie. He likedto see us together. It will make me happier to have her; when Michael isaway I have no companion. ' 'Do you really mean it?' asked Mrs. Blake, in an astonished voice. 'Youare very good, Audrey, but you are not your own mistress. Dr. Rosswould never consent to such an arrangement. ' 'I have my own money. No one would be put to any expense for Mollie, unless you wished to provide for her yourself. ' 'I should certainly wish that. ' 'Then in that case there will be no difficulty at all. I know my fathertoo well to fear a refusal from him. I will go back to South AudleyStreet and speak to him and my mother, and to-morrow you shall knowtheir answer; but you must promise me one thing before I go--that, ifthey consent, you will let me have Mollie. ' 'She will be happier with you than in the convent, ' replied Mrs. Blake, in a musing tone. 'After all, it would have been a dull existence forher, poor child!' There was a touch of motherliness in her voice as shespoke. 'Yes, you shall have her. I think my boy would have wished it. ' And Audrey's grateful kiss sealed the compact. 'But there is something else I must say, ' continued Mrs. Blake, whenthey had talked a little more about Mollie--at least, Audrey had talked. 'I want you to give Mat a message from me. ' 'Mr. O'Brien!' 'Yes, my husband. Have I not told you that I have humbled myself to thedust? Before I leave the world I would make my peace even with him. Willyou give him my message?' 'Assuredly I will. ' 'Tell him that I have repented at last, and that I would fain have hisforgiveness--that I know now that I had no right to rob him of hischildren. If the time came over again--but no; how can I tell whetherthings would have been different? Mat would always have been Mat, and Icould not alter my own nature. Oh, if I had only been good like you, Audrey!' she sighed bitterly. 'You must not talk any more, ' observed Audrey, alarmed by the look ofutter exhaustion on the wan face. 'Shall I leave you now to rest alittle?' 'Rest?' Audrey never forgot the tone in which the unhappy woman utteredthe word. 'How can one rest on such a pillow of thorns? No; the time istoo short. I must be up and about my work. Will you bid me good-bye, now? After to-day we shall not meet again. You shall write to me aboutMollie; but this interview has exhausted me, and I must husband mystrength. ' 'If I could only comfort you!' The sad yearning in Audrey's voice seemed to touch Mrs. Blake, and asthe girl clung to her she pressed her to her bosom. 'God bless you for all your goodness to him and to me! Every day I liveI shall pray for you. ' Her voice broke; with a sudden impulse she kissedher again and again, then pushed her gently from her. 'Go, go!' she saidfaintly, 'and send Biddy to me. ' And Audrey dared not linger. But she looked quite white and shaken when she rejoined Michael; shecould scarcely speak to Mollie, and she seemed relieved when her cousintold her that his hansom was at the door. The soft autumnal breezeseemed to refresh her, and after a little while she was able to tellMichael all that had passed between her and Mrs. Blake. Michael took itvery coolly; he seemed to have fully expected something of the kind. 'Poor soul! she will always be true to herself, ' he observed. 'It issingular how these unbalanced, pleasure-loving natures lean towardsasceticism--how rapidly they pass from one extreme to another. Even herrepentance is not free from selfishness. She would free herself from hermaternal responsibilities, as she freed herself from her marriage vows, under the mistaken notion of expiating a sinful past; and she willlabour under the delusion that such an ill-conceived sacrifice will bepleasing to the Almighty. ' 'Yes; it is a great mistake, ' she returned. 'A very great mistake. The longer I live, Audrey, the more I marvel atthe way people deceive themselves. The name of religion cloaks hiddenselfishness to an extent you could hardly credit; the majority are toomuch engrossed in trying to save their own souls to care what becomes ofother people. One would think it was "Save yourself, and the devil takethe hindmost!" when one sees so-called Christians scurrying along thenarrow way, as they call it, without a thought to the brother or sisterwho has fallen beside them. ' 'It is very grievous, ' returned Audrey sadly. 'What would my poor Cyrilhave said to such an expiation? Michael, this interview with his motherhas tried me more than anything. I think the hardest thing in life iswhen we see those we love turn down a wrong path, and when no entreatywill induce them to retrace their steps. ' 'It is a sight one sees every day, ' was Michael's reply; and then, as hesaw how jaded and weary she was, he began to tell her about Kester, andafter that they talked of Mollie. And when Audrey found that Michaelapproved of her plan, and was as anxious as she was herself that Mollieshould accompany them to Woodcote, she began to discuss the subject withher old animation, and by the time the drive was over the harassed lookhad passed away from her face. CHAPTER XLVIII ON MICHAEL'S BENCH 'What can I give thee back, O liberal And princely giver, who has brought the gold And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold, And laid them out the outside of the wall, For such as I to take or leave withal, In unexpected largesse?' MRS. BROWNING. Dr. Ross and his wife listened very kindly to their daughter's project. Indeed, if Audrey had expressed a wish to establish a small colony ofstreet Arabs at the end of the Woodcote garden, Mrs. Ross would haveoffered no objection to the scheme. Audrey could have ruled her motheras well as ever Geraldine had ruled her; but she was too generous toexert her influence. Her mother could have refused her nothing; frommorning to night her one thought was how she might console her child. 'Mollie will be such a companion for Audrey, John!' she suggested, whenfor one moment her husband had hesitated. 'I was thinking about Matthew O'Brien, ' he replied. 'Brail is rather toonear, and people will talk; it will leak out in time that O'Brien isMollie's father. ' 'Will that matter?' interposed Michael; 'talk will not hurt anyone. Ithink I can answer for O'Brien: he is the last man to lay claim to hisown child. His brother tells me that he is perfectly content if he seesher from time to time. Kester often writes to him, and he is never tiredof reading his letters. Both Mollie and Kester have grown quite fond ofhim. ' 'I think it should be kept quiet, for Mollie's sake, ' returned Dr. Ross. 'In my judgment, Matthew O'Brien is a very unfit person to take care ofa girl approaching womanhood. His brother is old, and he may outlivehim. I do not wish to be hard on him, but he seems to me a veryirresponsible sort of person. When Mollie is of age she will, of course, judge for herself; but until then her friends will be wise not to giveher up to her father's guardianship. ' 'He will never claim her, ' replied Michael dryly. 'I will quote your ownwords: an irresponsible person is only too glad to evade responsibility. Mollie may live at Woodcote quite safely, and her visits to Brail willbe taken as a matter of course. Of all people I know, the O'Briens arethe least likely to chatter about their private concerns. MatthewO'Brien will be too thankful that his daughter should enjoy suchprivileges to wish to rob her of them. ' 'Father, it will make me so happy to have her!' whispered Audrey in herfather's ear. Then the Doctor's eyes glistened with tenderness. 'It shall be as you wish, my dear, ' he said very gently: 'Mollie shallcome. Your mother is very fond of her, and so am I. You will haveanother daughter, Emmie, ' he continued, looking at his wife with a kindsmile. And so the matter was settled. Poor Mollie was horrified when she heard what she had escaped. The ideaof the convent was terrible to her. 'Oh, dear Miss Ross, ' she exclaimed, 'how can mamma do anything sodreadful? She will be miserable--quite miserable. Of course she wouldnot like living with only Biddy and me--she would have fretted herselfill. But to be a nun and say prayers all day long! Poor, poor mamma!'And Mollie's eyes grew round with misery. 'Dear Mollie, your mother thinks she knows best, and no one can controlher. Perhaps, if she does not like it--if the life be too hard--she willcome out at the end of her novitiate. ' And this view of the case seemed to comfort Mollie a little. 'And I am really to live at Woodcote--at that dear, beautiful place?'she continued. 'Oh, Miss Ross, it seems too good to be true!' 'Yes; you are to be my little sister, ' returned Audrey tranquilly. 'But, Mollie, I will not be called Miss Ross any longer. If you live with me, you must call me Audrey. ' And Mollie promised that she would. Mollie said very little about her parting interview with her mother; butshe cried bitterly for hours afterwards. 'Poor, poor mamma! Oh, whatwould Cyril say!' she exclaimed over and over again. And it was a longtime before anyone could comfort her. Michael went down with them to Woodcote, and remained with them for thenext month or two. Cyril's sudden death had occurred the first week inOctober, and the trees in the Woodcote gardens were glorious in theirautumnal livery of red and golden-brown, while every day careful handsswept up the fallen leaves from the shrubberies and paths. Michaelresumed his old habits. When Audrey wanted him he was always ready towalk or drive with her. No one knew the effort it cost him to appear asusual, when every day his passion gained a stronger mastery over him. Dearly as he had loved her in her youthful brightness, he had neverloved her as he did now, when he saw her in uncomplaining sadnessfulfilling her daily duties and devoting herself to Mollie. Geraldineused to look at her with tears in her eyes. 'She is sweeter than ever. Inever knew anyone so good, ' she said to her husband; and Mr. Harcourthad assented to this very cordially. As for Mrs. Ross, before many weekswere over she had drawn down on her maternal head more than one reprooffrom her daughter. 'Mother, ' Audrey said to her one day, 'have you forgotten what I oncetold you--that you are not to be so kind to me? You are spoiling medreadfully. You give me my way in everything; and when I say anythingthat I ought not to say, you do not contradict me. I am growingdemoralised, and it is all your and Michael's fault if I get moreselfish every day. ' 'You selfish, my darling?' 'Yes, selfish and stupid, and as idle as possible; and yet you neverscold me or ask me to do anything for you. ' 'You are always doing something, Audrey; you are busy from morning tillnight. Michael says you work far too hard. ' 'But I must work; it is my duty to work, ' she returned, a littlerestlessly; 'and, mother, you must help, and not spoil me. When I seeyou and Gage looking at me with tears in your eyes, it troubles me tosee them. I want you to be happy. I want everything to go on as usual, and I mean to be happy, too. ' And then she went away and gave Mollie her music-lesson, and when it wasover she went in search of Michael. Michael knew he was necessary to her--that in certain restless moods hewas able to soothe her; so he stayed manfully at his post until afterChristmas. But with the new year he resumed his Bohemian life, spending two orthree weeks at South Audley Street, and then running down to Woodcotefor a few days. He felt it was wiser to do so, and he could leave hermore comfortably now. She was better in every way: she drooped lessvisibly, her smile became more frequent, and the constant society ofMollie and intercourse with her fresh girlish mind were evidentlybeneficial. She would do now without him, he told himself as he went back to hislodgings, and he need no longer put such a force on himself. 'Until Ican speak, until the time has come for me to open my heart to her, it isbetter that we should be apart. ' That Audrey held a different opinion was evident, and she could notalways conceal her disappointment when Michael's brief visits becamebriefer and more infrequent. 'It is all that troublesome money, ' she said once, when one springmorning he stood waiting for the dog-cart to take him to the station. 'Of course, Woodcote does not content you now. You want a house of yourown, and to be your own master. Well, it is perfectly natural, ' sheadded quickly. 'I have always been my own master, ' he returned quietly; 'and as for thehouse you are so fond of talking about, it seems still in the clouds asfar as I am concerned. Neither have I once visited Wardour Street. ' 'No; you have been very slow about it, ' she replied, smiling; 'you werenever in a hurry to possess your good things, Michael. I have oftenenvied you your patience. ' And then the mare trotted round the corner. 'There is an old saying, that "all comes round to him who waits. " Do youthink that is true, Audrey?' He did not wait for her answer, as he climbed up into the driving-seatand took the reins; then he lifted his hat to her with rather a sadsmile. 'Yes, I have waited a long time, and it will not come yet. ' And then hetouched the mare a little smartly, and the next moment she was trottingbriskly towards the gate. 'Why had he looked so sad?' she wondered, as she went back to Mollie. Hehad not seemed like himself all the week, and now he had gone. 'If heonly knew how much I want him, I think he would not go away so often, 'she said to herself as she sat down to correct Mollie's French exercise. It was in the early days of June that Michael paid one of these flyingvisits to Rutherford, and as he drove through the green lanes, with thesweet summer breeze just stirring the leaves, he suddenly rememberedthat Cyril had lain in his quiet grave just eight months. He hardly knewwhy the thought had occurred to him, for he had been pondering a fardifferent subject. 'Eight months! I had no idea that it had been solong, ' he said to himself; 'time passes more quickly as one grows older. If I live to the end of the year I shall be nine-and-thirty. No wonder Ifeel a sober middle-aged man!' These reflections were hardly exhilarating, and he was glad whenWoodcote was in sight. 'You need not drive in, Fenton, ' he said to the groom; 'take the mareround to the stables, and I will walk up to the house. ' The gardens of Woodcote looked lovelier than ever this afternoon, hethought, as he walked slowly up the terrace: the tender green of thefoliage, the gay tints of lilacs and laburnums and pink and white horsechestnuts, made a gorgeous background. Here a guelder rose thrust itssoft puffy balls almost in his face, while the white shimmering leavesof the maple contrasted superbly with the dark-veined leaves of thecopper beech. Dr. Ross had always prided himself on his rare trees andshrubs, and, indeed, no other garden in Rutherford could compete withthe grounds of Woodcote; the long lawn that stretched below the terracewas kept free from daisies, and was as smooth as velvet. Some lads were playing tennis there now, and a young lady in a graydress was sitting under a clump of lilacs, watching them. For a momentMichael hesitated, thinking it was a stranger; but as she beckoned tohim, a sudden gleam came into his eyes, and he hastily crossed the lawn. 'I have been waiting for you; you are a little late, Michael, ' she said, as he shook hands with her. 'Mollie has gone out with mother; I askedher to take my place. ' But he stood looking at her, and there was a strangely pleasedexpression on his face. 'I did not know you, ' he said, in a low voice; 'I thought it was astrange young lady sitting on the bench. It was this, I suppose;' and hetouched her gown as he spoke. Audrey coloured. The remark evidently pained her. 'I left off my black gown yesterday, ' she replied hurriedly. 'I foundout that it troubled father, though he was too kind to tell me so. Itwas Gage who spoke to me; she said that it was a pity to wear it solong. ' 'I don't see that Gage had any right to speak to you. It was youraffair, not hers. ' There was a trace of sharpness in Michael's tone, and the light hadfaded out of his eyes. After all, there was no cause for him to rejoice;she had not left off her mourning of her own accord. What a fool he hadbeen! Of course, she had only done it to please her father. 'No; it was kind of her to speak; and, after all, what does it matter?Father seemed so relieved when I put on this, and I can remember Cyrilwithout the help of a black gown. It is better to please other peoplethan to please one's self, and after the first moment I did not mind. Those boys are so noisy, ' she continued in her ordinary manner, asthough she were not willing to discuss the subject more fully. 'Shall wego to "Michael's bench"? Booty is making for that direction, as usual, and the pond is so pretty this afternoon. ' 'As you like, ' he returned, a little moodily. Strange to say, this little episode of the dress had upset hisequanimity, and he could not at once regain his old calmness. Had everany gown become her so well? he wondered, with the exaggeration naturalto a lover. She had a spray of laburnum in her hand, and the sunshineseemed to thread her brown hair with gold. It seemed to him as thoughthere was a softer look in her gray eyes, as though his return were verywelcome to her. 'Michael, ' she said suddenly, as they stood watching Eiderdown andSnowflake as they came sailing proudly up the pond in all the majesty ofunruffled feathers, and Booty, as usual, pattered to the water's edge tobark at them until he was hoarse, 'what is this that I hear about yourgoing away? Father tells me that you have made all sorts of plans foryourself. ' 'My money is burning a hole in my purse, you see, ' he returned, pickingup a dry twig from the ground, a proceeding that seemed to drive Bootyfrantic with excitement. 'I am beginning to realise my responsibility asa man of property; and as, of course, my first duty is to look afternumber one----' But she would not allow him to finish. 'Michael, will you come and sit down? How can we talk properly while youare picking up sticks for Booty?' Then he followed her to the bench, but, instead of seating himself, heleaned lazily against a baby-willow. 'I am going abroad with Dick Abercrombie, ' he said, as though he werementioning an everyday occurrence. 'You know how often I have planned atour in Switzerland and Italy, but I have never been able to carry itout; and now I can combine duty and pleasure. ' 'Where does the duty lie, Michael?' But she did not smile as she put the question, and it struck him thatshe looked a little dull. 'Why, with Dick, of course, ' he returned quickly. 'Don't you know, thepoor fellow is terribly out of health; his father is very anxious abouthim. He has been over-working, and I fancy there is some sort oflove-affair as well; at least, the Doctor hinted as much. Anyhow, he isto strike work for six months; and as he wanted a travelling companion, I offered my humble services. ' 'But you will not be away all that time?' she asked, with visibleanxiety. 'Six months is not so very long, is it?' he returned coolly; 'and I donot see how we shall work out our plans even in that time. We are to doSwitzerland thoroughly and to spend at least a month in the Engadine;then there are the Swiss Tyrol and the Italian lakes, and afterwardsRome, Florence, Venice, and Naples. If Dick tires of it and throws itup, I can still keep on alone. I want to do the thing properly for oncein my life, and I have even thought of Greece and the Holy Land thefollowing spring. ' But again she interrupted him, and this time he saw the pained look inher eyes. 'You will leave us for all that time--you will let him come back alone, and go on by yourself? Oh, Michael! what shall I do without you? You aremore necessary to me than ever now. ' She so seldom thought of herself that this speech took him by surprise. There was a tone of reproach in her voice, as though she thought himunkind for leaving her. Michael was not his ordinary calm self thatafternoon. For months he had dreaded to find himself alone with her; butnow the very sweetness of that loving reproach seemed too much for him. 'A man is not always master of himself, ' Cyril had once said; and atthat moment Michael felt that it was no longer possible for him to besilent. He could bear it no more. 'I shall stay away, ' he said in a strangely-suppressed voice, 'becauseit is only right for me to do so--because it is my duty to leave you. ' 'Your duty to leave me, ' she faltered. 'Oh, Michael, why?' 'Do you wish me to tell you?' he said, looking at her fully as he stoodopposite to her; and there was a gleam in the keen blue eyes that madeher suddenly avert her face. 'Is it possible that all these years youhave not known what you have been to me--that you have not guessed mylove?' Then for the first time in her life she shrank from him. 'What do you mean?' she said helplessly. 'We have always loved eachother; you have been like my own brother, Michael. ' 'Then I can be your brother no longer, ' he returned passionately; 'froma child you have been far dearer to me. I never remember the time sinceI was a subaltern that I did not love you, and my love has grown everyyear. ' 'Do you mean that you cared for me as Cyril cared?' But even as she asked the question he saw that her face was suffusedwith a burning blush. 'I do mean it! From a child you have been the one woman in the world tome--the only one I wished to make my wife. ' Then she covered her face with her hands, and he could see that she wastrembling from head to foot. 'It is too soon, ' he heard her say; 'it is terribly soon;' and he knewthe shock of this discovery was very great. 'It is not too soon, ' he said, sitting down beside her and trying todraw away her hands. 'Audrey, my dearest, I cannot bear this. You mustnot shrink from me so. Do not misunderstand me; I am asking you fornothing. Surely you are not afraid of me--of Michael?' 'I think I am afraid of you, ' she whispered. 'Oh, Michael, if this betrue! But I cannot--cannot believe it! Why have you never told me thisbefore? Why have you let me----' And then she stopped, as though a sob impeded her utterance. 'I was never in a position to tell you so, ' he returned, with his oldgentleness. 'For years I doubted whether I should ever be well enough tomarry. Do you think I would have condemned my wife, even if I could havewon her, to a life of nursing? I was far too proud to demand such asacrifice of any woman. And then I was a poor man, Audrey. ' 'What did that matter?' she replied, with a touch of scorn in her voice;'Cyril was poor too. ' 'You must not think I blame him, if I say we were very different men. Iwas prouder than he, and I knew your generous nature too well to takeadvantage of it. When the money came it was too late: you were engagedto him. I had only to hide my pain, so that you should not be madeunhappy by it. I thought I was a bad actor; but you never guessed mysecret--you would not have guessed it now. ' 'How could I?' she returned simply; 'I was only thinking of Cyril. ' 'Yes, and you are thinking of him now; he is as much my rival now he isdead as when he was living. That is why I am going away, because I canbear it no longer. ' 'Must you go?' Audrey's voice sank so that he could hardly hear the faint words. Perhaps she herself did not know what they implied; she was too shakenand miserable. That Michael, her own dear Michael, should have sufferedall these years, and that she had never known it! Cyril was in hisgrave--he no longer needed her--what did it matter if the idea ofanother man wooing her so soon gave her pain, if she could only comfortMichael? But happily for them both, Michael guessed at that secretthought, and as he caught the words the flush mounted to his brow. ' 'Yes, I must go, ' he said firmly; 'it is my best, my only chance. In myabsence you will think of me more kindly. The old Michael--who was yourfriend, your faithful, devoted friend--will unconsciously blend with thenew Michael, who you know is your lover. There, ' he continued in apained voice, 'as I speak the word you shrink again from me; and yet Iam asking you nothing. Dear, if you were to promise me this moment thatyou would be my wife, if you were to tell me that you would try to loveme as I wish to be loved, I would not marry you! No--though you aredearer to me than anything in life--I would not marry you!' 'Do you not wish me to try, then?' she asked, rather bewildered by thisstrange wooing. Was it because Cyril was young that she had never feared him as shefeared Michael? There was a quiet power about him that, in spite of hisgentleness, seemed to subdue her, and though he was very pale, there wasa fire in his eyes that made her unwilling to look at him. Yes, it wasindeed a new Michael--one she could hardly understand. 'Certainly I do not wish it, ' he replied quickly. 'Can love come bytrying?' But she could not answer him this. 'Any such love would notcontent me, ' he went on; 'I must have all your heart or none. Forgive meif I say one thing, Audrey. I believe that poor Blake had not all thatyou have to give. I have thought this more than once; his love for youwas so great that yours could hardly equal it. Nay, dear, I did notmean to hurt you by saying this, ' for she was weeping now. 'You weregoodness itself to him. ' 'I loved him; I am sure I loved him, ' she said a little piteously, forMichael's words seemed to touch a sore spot. How often since Cyril's death had she blamed herself for not loving himmore! More than once his excessive tenderness had wearied her, and shewould have been content with less. She had been in no hurry to shortenher engagement, and the thought of resigning her maidenly freedom hadalways been distasteful to her. Could it be possible that Michael wasright, and that there was something defective in her love? 'Yes, you loved him. Blake has often told me that you were an angel ofgoodness to him. He missed nothing, you may be sure of that; but, Audrey, I cannot help my nature. I should ask more than ever he did. ' Then her head drooped, and he knew that no answer was possible. 'So you know why I am going away. ' And now he rose and again stoodbefore her. 'Because under these circumstances it would no longer bepossible for us to be together--at least, it would not be possible forme. I shall leave you to question your own heart. Let it speak truly. Perhaps--I do not say it will be so, but perhaps you may find that I ammore to you than you think. If that time ever comes, will you send forme?' 'Send for you?' 'Yes; be true to your own noble self, your own honest nature, and betrue to me. You need not say many words. Just "Michael, come, " will beenough to bring me from the very ends of the earth. ' 'But you will come before that; you will not wait for any such words?' But though he gave no special answer to this, she saw by his face thathe would wait. 'But you will write, Michael? you will not leave me'--and then shehastily substituted 'us'--'in complete silence? You may be away sixmonths--a whole year--it may even be longer. ' 'Yes, it may be longer, ' he returned; and now it was he who was thecalmer of the two. 'It is impossible for either of us to tell now howlong my exile may last; but I will write--not often, and perhaps I maynot even speak of this that has passed between us; but I shall write, and you will find no difficulty in answering my letters. ' And when he had said this he looked at her very kindly and then withoutanother word walked to the house. CHAPTER XLIX 'LET YOUR HEART PLEAD FOR ME' 'We were apart; yet day by day I bade my heart more constant be. I bade it keep the world away, And grow a home for only thee; Nor fear'd but thy love likewise grew, Like mine, each day, more tried, more true. ' MATTHEW ARNOLD. Audrey never knew how she got through the rest of the day. During theremainder of Michael's visit she seemed in an uneasy dream. Never beforein her life had she been oppressed by such painful self-consciousness;all freedom of speech was impossible to her; she spoke with reluctance, and felt as though every word were weighed in some inward balance. More than once her mother asked her if she were well; but, happily, Michael was not present to see how the blood rushed to her face as sheframed an evasive answer. She could not have told her mother whether shewere ill or well: she only knew some moral earthquake had shattered herold illusions, and that she was looking out at a changed world. But she was conscious through it all that Michael's watchfulness andcare shielded her from observation, that he was for ever throwinghimself into the breach when any unusual effort was required. Once whenher sister and Mr. Harcourt were present, he challenged them to a gameof whist, that Audrey might leave her place at the piano. Very likely hehad heard the slight quaver in her voice that told him the song triedher. Audrey longed to thank him as she stole out into the summer dusk, andwandered down the paths between the tall sentinel lilies, that gleamedso ghostly white in the darkness. But with all his thought for her, hewas never alone with her for a moment until the last day came, and hewent to the morning-room to wish her good-bye. She was tending herferns, but she took off her gardening-gloves at once as he came up toher. 'You are going, Michael; but we shall see you again before you reallystart?' she said, with an attempt at cheerfulness. But he shook hishead. 'I think not. Abercrombie has just written to say that Dick wants to getaway a week earlier. I shall not be down here again. ' Something choking seemed to rise in Audrey's throat, and if her life haddepended on it she could not have got out another word. But Michael sawthe troubled look in her eyes; they seemed to ask him again thatquestion, 'Must you go?' 'Yes, dear; I must go, ' he replied gently. 'It is better for usboth--better for you, and far, far better for me. ' And as she stilllooked at him without speaking, he drew her towards him and kissed hercheek. 'God be with you, my dearest!' he said very tenderly. 'Think ofme as kindly as you can, and let your heart plead for me. ' And the next moment he was gone. Audrey stood rooted to the spot; she felt as though some nightmareoppression were on her. She heard her father's voice calling to her. 'Where is Audrey?' he said. 'She must bid Michael good-bye. ' And thensomeone--Michael, perhaps--answered him. A great longing was on her to see him again; but as she hesitated thewheels of the dog-cart sounded on the gravel, and she knew that she wastoo late. With a sudden impulse she leant out of the window. Michael waslooking back at the house; he saw her, and raised his hat. She had justtime to wave her hand as Dr. Ross drove rapidly through the gate. When her mother came to find her she was still standing there; shelooked very pale, and the pained, wistful look was still in her eyes. 'Mother, ' she said, 'Cyril has left me, and now Michael has gone, too;and the world seems a different place to me. ' 'Michael will come back, my darling, ' replied Mrs. Ross, vaguelytroubled by the look on the girl's face. 'Your father says he has longwanted a thorough change, and this trip will do him so much good. ' 'Yes, he will come back; but when and how? And he will not come back fora long time;' and then she broke down, and hid her face in her mother'sshoulder. 'If I were only like you, mother! if my life lay behind me, and had not to be lived out day by day and year by year! for I seem sotired of everything. ' Mrs. Ross could make nothing of her girl; but she gave her just what sherequired that moment, a little soothing and extra petting. 'You have gone through so much, and you have borne it all so quietly, and now Nature is having her revenge; you will be better presently, mydarling. ' And she was right: Audrey's strong will and sense of duty soon overcamethe hysterical emotion. 'I think I am tired, ' she acknowledged; and to her mother's relief sheconsented to lie still and do nothing. 'I will make up for this idle dayto-morrow, ' she said with a faint smile, as she closed her eyes. 'Now godownstairs, mother dear, and don't trouble about me any more, unless youwant to make me ashamed of myself for having been such a baby. ' 'She is just worn out with keeping everything to herself, and trying tospare us pain, ' Mrs. Ross said to her husband, as she recounted thislittle scene to him. 'I never knew Audrey hysterical before; I wasobliged to give her some sal volatile. I think she is asleep now. ' 'I don't hold with sal volatile, ' returned the Doctor a little grimly. 'Sleep is a far safer remedy, Emmie. Leave her to herself; she will beall right in a day or two. ' But Dr. Ross sighed as he got up and went to his study. Audrey littleknew that her father was in the secret; that in his pain and perplexityMichael had at last taken his best friend into his confidence. 'We must leave things to work round, ' had been his parting words toMichael that morning. 'No one, not even her father, must coerce her. Allthese years you have been like a son to me, Mike; and if my child couldbring herself to love you as you deserve to be loved, no one would bebetter pleased than I should be. ' 'And you will tell no one--not even Cousin Emmeline?' 'Why, I should not dare tell her, ' returned the Doctor with rather adejected smile, for he hated to keep things from his wife. 'Geraldinewould get hold of it, and then it would come round to Harcourt. No, Iwill keep my own counsel, Mike. And now good-bye, and good luck to you!' 'It is the Burnett motto, ' replied Michael, with a touch of solemnity inhis voice--'"Good luck God send. " Take care of her, Cousin John. ' And then the two men grasped hands and parted. 'If I had to search the whole world over for a husband for her, I'dchoose Mike, ' was Dr. Ross's thought as he drove himself back again toWoodcote. Audrey kept her promise and made up for her one idle day. 'Work was goodfor everyone, ' she said, 'and it was especially good for her. ' So thefollowing morning she resumed lessons with Mollie. She had complained afew weeks before that her German was becoming rusty, and by her father'sadvice she and Mollie were taking lessons together of Herr Freiligrath. The master she had selected was a very strict one, and his lessonsentailed a great deal of preparation. No discipline could have been morewholesome. Audrey forgot her perplexities while she translatedWallenstein and followed the unhappy fortunes of Max and Theckla. But she did not at once regain her cheerfulness, and the daily round ofduty was not performed without a great deal of effort and inwardprompting; if no task were left unfulfilled, if she were always ready togive her mother or Geraldine the companionship they needed, and if herfather never missed one of her usual ministrations, it was because shewould listen to no plea of self-indulgence. 'You are unhappy, and I fear you must be unhappy and not at ease for along time, ' she would say to herself in the intervals of her work; 'butidleness will not help you. ' And to give her her due, she was neverbusier than during the summer that followed Michael's leave-taking. Shehad no idea that Michael knew all she was doing, and that her fatheroften wrote to him. Michael had kept his word, and his letters to Audreywere very few and far between, and there was not a word in them that hermother or Geraldine could not have read if she had chosen to show them;but Michael's letters had always been sacred to her. Still it wasimpossible to answer them with her old freedom. The happy, sisterlyintercourse was now a thing of the past. She could no longer pour out toher friend all her innocent girlish thoughts; a barrier--a strange, unnatural barrier--had been built up between them, and Audrey's letters, with all her painstaking effort, gave very little pleasure to Michael. 'Poor child! she is still afraid of me, ' he thought, as he folded up thethin paper. And he could not always suppress a sigh as he missed the oldplayfulness and open-hearted affection that used to breathe in everycarelessly-worded sentence. But he knew that she could not helpherself; that it was impossible for her now to tell him how she missedhim and how heavily the days passed without him; and how could he knowit, if she thought less of Cyril and more of him every day? Michael could not guess at all that inward self-questioning that seemedfor ever making dumb utterance in her breast. Now and then, when no oneneeded her, she would wander down to 'Michael's bench' in the dusk ormoonlight, and go over that strange conversation again. 'Let your own heart plead for me, ' had been his parting words; and, indeed, it seemed as though some subtle influence were for ever bringinghis words to her memory. Why had he left her? Could he not have trustedher to do even this for him? She had loved Cyril, but she had not wishedto marry him; she had wished to marry no man. It was the instinct of hernature to make others happy, and not to think of herself; and if Michaelhad wanted her----But the next moment a sort of despair seized her. He was not like Cyril. What she had to give would not content him in theleast. 'I must have all your heart or none, ' he had said to her; and his eyesseemed to dominate her as he spoke. 'I should ask more than he did. ' Andshe had not dared to answer him. No; she could not deceive him. She knew that no kindness on her partwould ever wear in his eyes the semblance of the love he wanted. Whatcould she do for him or for herself? 'Can love come by trying?' he had asked; and she could recall vividlythe bitterness of his tone as he said this. But the speech over which she pondered most, sometimes for an hourtogether, was a very different one. 'I shall leave you, ' he had told her, and there had been a strange lightin his eyes as he spoke--'I shall leave you to question your own heart. Let it speak truly. Perhaps--I do not say it will be so, but perhaps youmay find that I am more to you than you think. If that time ever comes, will you send for me?' 'What did he mean by saying this?' she would ask herself. 'Why did hislook seem to reproach me and pierce me to the heart? How could I know, unless he told me? It is not my fault that I have been so blind. Icannot send for him--I cannot! It is too soon, and----' But Audrey did not finish her sentence. Even under the dark trees thehot flush was scorching her face. 'Oh, I am so tired of it all!' she would say, springing to her feet witha sudden, quick impatience. The old tranquil life--the happy, careless life--was gone for ever. Cyril--her poor dear Cyril--was in his grave; and now there was this newlover, with his proud, gentle wooing: not her old Michael who had sosatisfied her, but a new, powerful Michael, who half drew and halfrepelled her, and for whom she had no fitting answer. Audrey was glad when August came and she could find some relief inchange of scene. Dr. Ross had taken a large roomy cottage at Keswick forthe summer holidays, and the Harcourts and Kester were to join them. Audrey was thankful that her father had not selected Scotland, as hisson-in-law had suggested; and she made up her mind, in her sensible way, that, as far as lay in her power, she would enjoy herself as much aspossible; and after a time her efforts were not unsuccessful. Derwent-water was in unusual beauty that year, and a spell of warm, sunny weather enabled them to enjoy their boating expeditions on thelake. Audrey liked to paddle herself and Mollie to one of the islands, and sit there reading and working, while Kester and Percival fished andGeraldine roamed by the lake-side with her bonnie boy, sitting like ayoung prince in his little wheeled carriage, beside her. There was along-tailed, shaggy pony belonging to the cottage--a sturdy, sure-footed, good-tempered animal, and Dr. Ross would often drive hiswife through some of the lovely dales. Mrs. Ross never thoroughlyenjoyed herself in a boat--she had a dislike to find herself surroundedby the deep, clear water; and she much preferred the chaise and Jemmy. 'You were always a goose, Emmie, and I suppose that is why I marriedyou, ' Dr. Ross remarked, as he tickled up Jemmy's broad back with thewhip. Nevertheless, the Doctor loved these expeditions quite as much as hiswife did. 'What a handsome Darby and Joan they look, Jerry!' Mr. Harcourt oncesaid, as he walked beside her, with Leonard proudly seated on hisshoulder. 'I doubt if we shall make such a good-looking couple, my love, in thirty years' time. ' But Mr. Harcourt was smiling in a sly fashion, as he took a sidelongglance at his graceful wife. Geraldine was looking lovelier than ever inthe broad-brimmed hat that her husband had chosen for her. A sad event happened soon after their return to Woodcote. MatthewO'Brien died on the anniversary of his son's death. His end had beenvery sudden; no one had suspected that for months an insidious diseasehad been making stealthy progress. He had seemed much as usual, and hadmade no complaint, only Mrs. Baxter had remarked to her father thatUncle Mat seemed quieter-like and more peaceable. 'He has given up thosewearisome prowls of his, and takes more kindly to the chimney-corner, 'as she said. But one evening Mat put his pipe down silently before it was halfsmoked, and went off to bed, and the next day he complained of pain anddrowsiness; and Prissy cooked some of her messes and soothing possets, and made much of him as he lay on his pillow looking idly out on theOctober sunshine. And the next day, as the pain and drowsiness did notdiminish, she very wisely suggested that a doctor should be sent for;and as Dr. Foster stood beside him, asking him questions rather gravely, a sudden thought came into Mat's mind, and he looked into the doctor'seyes a little solemnly. 'You need not be afraid to tell me, doctor, ' he said sadly; 'my life hasnot been much good to me, and I shall not be sorry to part with it. ' Butthe doctor's answer was kindly evasive. But two or three nights afterwards, as Thomas O'Brien was sitting besidethe bed for an hour to relieve Prissy, Mat stretched out his lean armand grasped his brother's coat-sleeve. 'It is coming, Tom, ' he said; 'I shall soon be with my boy--that is, ifGod's mercy will grant me admittance to that good place. Give my love toMollie and the little chap, and, Tom, old fellow, God bless you!' He murmured something drowsily, and then again more clearly: 'Tell Olive that she was not to blame so much, after all. I have beentoo hard on her, poor girl! but she could not help her nature. Isn'tthere something about "To whoever little is forgiven, the same lovethlittle"? I seem to remember Susie reading it. ' And Thomas O'Brien, bending over the gray face, repeated the wordsslowly: '"Wherefore I say unto you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven, forshe loveth much. "' But Mat interrupted him: 'He has forgiven me plenty, lad, and you too, and I love Him for it. ' And those were Matthew O'Brien's last words. Mat O'Brien did not go unwept to his grave, in spite of hisunsatisfactory life. His brother mourned for him long and sincerely, andin their way Kester and Mollie grieved, too. At Audrey's wish, Molliewrote the full particulars of her father's death to the convent. SisterMonica's answer was, in Audrey's opinion, singularly suggestive of theci-devant Mrs. Blake. It was a strange medley of mysticism and motherlyyearnings, but at the end was a touch of real honest feeling. 'Tell Audrey that when I pray for my boy I pray for her, too; and, Mollie, do not think that your mother forgets you, for perhaps she may do you better service now than ever she did when we were together. Think of me sometimes, my child. I am glad that your father spoke of me so kindly. I can pray for him now, as I never could when he was living. Poor man! It was an ill world to him, but he is out of it now. Your loving and repentant mother, 'SISTER MONICA MARY. ' Audrey went over to Brail constantly during the autumn and winter monthsthat followed Mat's death. Sometimes Mollie accompanied her, but oftenershe was alone. Nothing cheered Thomas O'Brien more than the society ofhis favourite. He loved to talk to her of the dear ones who had passedwithin the veil, and to Audrey herself the visits were very soothing. She liked those solitary walks under the gray November skies, or whenthe December sun hung redly behind the distant hedgerows. How often shehad walked there when Cyril had met her half-way, or she had come uponhim lingering in the lanes, with Zack bounding beside him. It was in theBrail lanes that he first told her of his love, when she had sent himsorrowfully away from her; but somehow, as she walked there now, betweenhedgerows white with hoar frost, she thought less of him than ofMichael; but as yet no message had been sent to recall the wandererhome. CHAPTER L BOOTY'S MASTER 'And she to him will reach her hand, And gazing in his eyes will stand, And know her friend and weep for glee, And cry, "Long, long, I've looked for thee. "' MATTHEW ARNOLD. Kester had spent his Christmas holidays at Woodcote; Audrey loved tohave him with her. Somehow he seemed to belong to Michael, and the boywarmly returned her affection. 'Do you know that Mr. Abercrombie is coming home in March?' he said toher the day before he went back to Brighton; 'he is quite well now, andCaptain Burnett says he is in a fever to get back to England. Do youthink Captain Burnett will come, too?' and Kester looked anxiously inher face. Audrey could not satisfy Kester on this point; nevertheless, she felt asecret hope stirring in her heart that Michael would not stay away muchlonger. After all, was it likely that he would wait for the message whenhe must know how impossible it would be for her to send it? He had beenaway seven months, and by this time he must be growing homesick. Almost the same thought occurred to Michael as, early in March, he satin the loggia of an old Florentine palace, where he and his friend had asuite of rooms. How long had he been away, he wondered, as he looked out on thesunset--seven, nay, eight months; and as yet there had been no recall. Had he really expected it? Would it not be as well to go back and pleadhis own cause, and see what these months of absence had done for him, orshould he wait a little longer? Michael's self-imposed exile had not been unhappy. His companion wascongenial to him; the varied scenes through which he had passed, thehistoric interest of the cities, had engrossed and interested him; and, perhaps for the first time, he tasted the delights of a well-filledpurse, as he accumulated art treasures and pictures; but, above all, alatent hope, to which he gave no voice or title, kept him patient andcheerful. 'It was too soon; but by and by she will find it out for herself, ' hewould say, as he strolled through the galleries, or stood by somemoss-grown fountain to buy flowers from a dark-eyed Florentine girl. Should he go back with Abercrombie next week, or should he push ontowards Greece and the Holy Land? It was a little difficult to decide, but somehow Michael never answered that question. Fate took the matterinto her own hands, as she often does when the knot becomes toointricate for the bungling fingers of poor mortals. Somehow Audrey became convinced in her own mind that Michael wouldcertainly accompany his friend back to England. They had startedtogether; was it likely that Michael would allow him to return alone?and when March came she began to look anxiously for a letter announcingthis intention. She was thinking of this one afternoon as she sat talking to her mother. It was a cold, dreary day, and Audrey had just remarked that no one inRutherford would think of leaving their fireside on such an afternoon, when Geraldine entered, glowing from the cold wind, and looking cosy andcomfortable in her warm furs. 'My dear, what a day to venture out, ' remonstrated her mother; 'evenAudrey says the wind is cruel. ' 'I am not such a foe to the east wind as Michael is, ' returned Geraldinecheerfully, as she seated herself out of the range of the fire; 'andPercival never likes me to cosset myself--that is why I never take cold. By the bye, I heard something about Michael a little while ago. Just asI was talking to Mrs. Charrington, who should come in but DoraAbercrombie! You know Dora, Audrey. She is the second one; but she isnot half so good-looking as Gwendoline. ' 'She is related to Mrs. Charrington, is she not, Gage?' 'Yes; a step-niece, or something of that sort; not a very nearrelationship, but they are very intimate. She says her brother isexpected in Portland Place to-morrow or the day after. ' Here Audrey gavea start. 'Take care, my dear: the urn is running over; you are fillingthe teapot too full. Shall I ring for Crauford? No? Well, as I wassaying'--rather absently, for her eyes were still following the thinstream on the tea-tray that Audrey was hurriedly wiping up--'Master Dickis expected back--and here Dora was a trifle mysterious; and then itcame out that he was engaged--had been engaged for the last eightmonths; only the mother of his lady-love had turned restive. But nowthings were smoother, and she hoped that they would soon be married. Poor Michael! I am afraid he has not had a very cheerful companion allthese months. ' 'Did Miss Abercrombie mention Michael?' asked Audrey, speaking withmanifest effort. How tiresome Gage was! as though anyone wanted to hearabout Dick Abercrombie's love affairs! 'Oh dear yes! and that is the worst part of all, ' returned Geraldine, with the zest that is always shown by the bearer of bad news, even by asuperior person like young Mrs. Harcourt. 'I had no idea Michael wouldplay truant for so long: actually she says her brother is coming homewithout him! and he is going to spend the summer and autumn in Greeceand the Holy Land, and perhaps winter in Algiers. In fact, DickAbercrombie says he does not know when he means to come back. ' 'What is that you say, my dear?' asked Dr. Ross, who entered the room intime to hear the last clause. 'Were you speaking of Michael?' 'Yes, father dear. ' And Geraldine willingly recapitulated the whole ofher speech for his benefit. 'And I do wish someone would write and givehim a good scolding for staying away so long, as though no one wantedhim! And we have all been missing him so badly!' 'By the bye, that reminds me that I was called away just now to speak toFergusson, and I have actually left my letter to Michael open on mystudy-table; and I meant it to go by this post. Do you mind justslipping it into its envelope, Audrey?--it is already directed. Thankyou, my dear, ' as Audrey silently left the room. Was Dr. Ross really anxious about his letter, or had he noticed thewhite look on his daughter's face, and feared that others might noticeit too? Audrey never knew how long she sat before her father's study-table, neither could she have recalled a single thought that passed through hermind. A dull throbbing pain was at her heart; the cold numbness that hadcrept over her as Michael had bidden her good-bye, and which kept herdumb before him, was over her now--some strange pulse seemed beating inher head. He was going still farther away from her. He was not comingback. He would never come back. Something would happen to him. She wouldnever see his kind face again--never, never! Perhaps this long silence had angered him--Michael, who had always beenso gentle to her, on whose face she had never seen a frown! Michael hadgrown weary of endurance, and had given up all hope of winning her. Oh, if he had only trusted her! if he would only have believed that shewould have done her very best to make him happy! How could he be socruel to himself and to her? How could he have the heart to punish herso bitterly, as though she were to blame? Could she help her nature anymore than she could help this separation from her dearest friend? And then there came over her the deadly feeling of possible loss, and adesolation too terrible to contemplate. She had mourned very tenderlyfor Cyril; but if Michael died--if any ill should befall him in thosedistant lands--'Oh, I could not bear it!' was her inward cry. 'Lifewithout Michael would be impossible, ' and as this thought flashedthrough her mind her eyes suddenly fell on an empty space at the end ofher father's letter. With a sudden impulse she took up the pen and wrotethree words across the page in her clear, legible writing--'Michael, come. Audrey. ' She was almost breathless with her haste as she thrust itinto the envelope, and carried it to the boy who was waiting for theletters. Then she went back to the drawing-room, for she dare not trustherself to be alone another moment. What had she done? What wouldMichael think of her? What must she think of herself? No wonderGeraldine looked at her in surprise as she crossed the room and took upher work. 'What a time you have been, Audrey!' she said, a little reproachfully. 'I have been waiting to bid you good-bye. Father is going to walk withme to Hillside, so Percival will not mind my being so late. How coldyour face and hands are, and I am as warm as possible! You have beenrunning about those draughty passages, and have taken a chill. She lookspale, doesn't she, mother?' 'Come, come, ' interrupted her father impatiently, 'you must not keep mewaiting any longer, Geraldine. Sit down by the fire and warm yourself, my dear. ' And for one moment Dr. Ross's hand lay lightly on Audrey's brown hair. Did he guess the real meaning of the girl's downcast and sorrowfullooks? And why was there a pleased smile on his face as he followed hiseldest daughter out of the room? 'I shall write to Michael and tell him to come home, ' he said tohimself, as he buttoned up his great-coat. 'I promised him that I wouldwatch over his interests, and I shall tell him that in my opinion thereis some hope for him now. ' The next few days were terrible to Audrey. More than once she feared shewould be ill. She could not sleep properly. The mornings, theafternoons, the evenings, were endless to her. Mollie's merry chatterseemed to jar on her. Her mother's kindly commonplace remarks seemeddevoid of interest, and yet above all things she dreaded to be alone. Was she growing nervous? for any sudden sound, an unaccustomed footstep, even the clanging of the door-bell, made her start, and drove the bloodfrom her heart. Would he write or would he telegraph? Should she hearone day that he was on his way home? Audrey was asking herself thesequestions morning, noon, and night. She felt as though the suspensewould wear her out in time. If anyone had told Audrey that for thefirst time in her life she had all the symptoms that belong to acertain well-known disease--that these cold and hot fits, thisself-distrustfulness and new timidity that were transforming her into adifferent Audrey, were only its salient features--she would have scoutedthe idea very fiercely. That she was in love with Michael, and that herlove for Cyril was a very dim, shadowy sort of affection compared withher love for Michael, --such a thought would have utterly shocked her;and yet it was the truth. Michael had always been more to her than evershe had guessed, and this long absence had taught her the unmistakablefact that she could not do without him. Audrey struggled on as well as she could through those restless, miserable days. She would not give in; she had never given in in herlife to any passing tide of emotion, and she would not be weak now. Every morning, after a wakeful, unrefreshing night, she braced herselfto meet the day's duties. She read French and German with Mollie; shesuperintended her practising, and only wandered off in a dream whenMollie's scales and exercises became too monotonous. She went up toHillside and played with Leonard in the nursery, and though Geraldine'ssharp eyes discovered that something was amiss, and that Audrey was notin her usual spirits, she had the tact and wisdom not to press for animmediate confidence; and Audrey was very grateful for this forbearance. Audrey's sturdy nature could brook no self-indulgence, and though theMarch winds were cold, and the Brail lanes deep in miry clay, shepersisted in paying her accustomed weekly visit to Thomas O'Brien. Mollie had a cold, and so had established a claim to remain by thefireside; but Audrey would listen to no weak persuasion to ensconceherself comfortably in the opposite easy-chair. On the contrary, she puton her thickest boots, and, tucking up her skirts, braved wind and mud, and even a cold mizzle of rain, on her way back, and had her reward, forthe walk freshened her, and in cheering her old friend she felt her ownspirits revive. She was in a happier mood as she let herself in, and shook out her wetcloak. She was in far too disreputable a state to present herself in thedrawing-room; besides, she was late, and she must get ready for dinner. She ran upstairs lightly, but at the top of the staircase she suddenlystopped as though she had been turned to stone. And yet there wasnothing very astonishing in the fact that a small brown dog, with veryshort legs, should be pattering in a cheerful manner down the corridor, or that he should utter a whine of friendly and delighted recognitionwhen he saw Audrey; and if she stared at him as though he were someghostly apparition, that was not Booty's fault. But the next moment shehad caught him up, and had darted with him into her own room. 'Oh, Booty, Booty!' she gasped, as the little animal licked her paleface in a most feeling manner; 'to think he has come, Booty!' And if theapplication of a warm tongue could have given comfort and assurance, Audrey could have had plenty of both. For a little while she could do nothing but sit there hugging the dog, and making little plaintive speeches to him, until she heard Mollie'sstep at the door, and then she put him down hastily. 'Oh, Audrey dear!' exclaimed Mollie, breathless with excitement. 'Haveyou really got back at last? They are all asking for you. Dinner isnearly ready, and you have not begun to dress yet. And who do you thinkis in the drawing-room?' For Booty, who always knew when he was not wanted, had pattered softlyout of the room, thinking it high time to rejoin his master. 'Is it Michael?' asked Audrey, with her face well hidden in herwardrobe. 'To think of your guessing like that!' returned Mollie in a vexed tone. 'Whatever put Captain Burnett in your head, Audrey? Everyone else is sosurprised. Mrs. Ross nearly jumped off her chair when she heard hisvoice. He has been here two hours, and we have all been so busy gettinghis room ready. ' 'I am very glad he has come, ' returned Audrey, trying to speak as usual;'but now will you go down, Mollie dear? for I shall dress more quicklyif you do not talk to me. You may give me my dress if you like. There, that will do. ' For Mollie's chatter was unendurable. 'How was she to go down and meet him before them all?' she thought, asher trembling fingers bungled with the fastening. Her cheeks wereburning, and yet her hands were cold as ice. Would he see how nervousshe was, and how she dreaded to meet him? And yet the thought that hewas there--in the house--and that in a few minutes she should hear hisbeloved voice, made her almost dizzy with happiness. And as she claspedthe brilliant cross on her neck she hardly dare look at herself, forfear she should read her own secret in her eyes. The gong sounded before she was ready, and she dared not linger, forfear Mollie should come again in search of her. Without giving herselftime for thought, she hurried down, and stood panting a little beforethe drawing-room door. Yes, they were all there: her father and motherand Mollie; and someone else--imperfectly seen through a sort ofhaze--was there too! Audrey never knew what word of greeting came to herlips as Michael took her hand. Her eyes were never lifted, as she feltthat strong, warm pressure. His low-toned 'I have come, Audrey, ' mightmean anything or nothing, and was met by absolute silence on her part. Perhaps Michael felt this meeting embarrassing, for he dropped her handin another moment and spoke to Mollie, and Audrey took refuge with herfather. But dinner was on the table, and she must take her seat opposite to him. It was Mollie who was beside him. Happily, no one spoke to her for thefirst few minutes. Dr. Ross was questioning Michael about his route, andMichael seemed to have a great deal to say about his journey. Audrey recovered herself, and breathed a little more freely. He wastalking to her father, and she could venture one glance at him. How wellhe looked! He was not so pale, and his moustache seemed darker--she hadnever thought him handsome before. But at this point, and as thoughaware of her scrutiny, Michael turned his face full on her, and a flashfrom the keen blue eyes made her head droop over her plate. During therest of dinner she scarcely spoke, and more than once Mrs. Ross lookedat her in some perplexity. Audrey was very strange, she thought. Had sheand Michael quarrelled, that they had met so coldly, with not even acousinly kiss after his long absence. And now they did not speak to eachother! Dinner was later than usual that night, and the prayer-bell soundedbefore they left the table. Audrey whispered to Mollie to play the hymn;but she was almost sorry she had done so when she found that Michael hadno hymn-book, and she must offer him hers. He took it from her, perhapsbecause he noticed that her hand was not steady; and she could hear hisclear, full bass, though she could not utter a note. He was still beside her as they left the schoolroom; but as she wasabout to follow her mother and Mollie, she felt his hand on hers. 'Come with me a moment, ' he said. 'I want to show you something. ' And there was no resisting the firm grasp that compelled her to obey. Hewas taking her to her father's study; and there he shut the door, asthough to exclude the outer world. She was trembling with the fear ofwhat he would say to her, and how she was to answer him, when he came upto her and said, in his old familiar voice: 'Are you never going to look at me again, Audrey?' Something amused, and yet caressing, in his tone made her raise hereyes, and the look that met hers said so plainly that he understoodeverything, that her embarrassment and shyness passed away for ever; andas he took her in his arms, with a word or two that told her of his deepinward gladness, a sense of well-being and utter content seemed toassure her that she had found her true rest at last. CHAPTER LI 'LOVE'S AFTERMATH' 'I seek no copy now of life's first half: Leave here the pages with long musing curled, And write me new my future's epigraph, New angel mine, unhoped for in the world. ' MRS. BROWNING. Neither of them spoke for some minutes; perhaps Michael's strong emotionfelt the need of silence. But presently he said in a voice that thrilledher with its tenderness: 'Audrey, you must never be afraid of me again. ' 'I shall never need to be afraid again, ' she returned softly. 'Oh, Michael, if you only knew how dreadful it has been all the week! I wouldnot go through it again for worlds. ' 'Has it been so bad as that?' in his old rallying tone, for he saw howgreatly she was moved. 'You have no idea how bad it was. I felt that I had done something verybold and unmaidenly in writing that postscript to father's letter. I hadlonged for your return; but after that I began to dread it: I was soafraid of what you must think of me. ' 'I think you have known my opinion on that subject for a great manyyears, ' he replied gently. 'If you had not been different from othergirls, if you had not been immeasurably above them all in my eyes, Iwould never have asked you to send me that message. I knew I could relyon your perfect truth, and you have not disappointed me. ' This delicate flattery soothed her and appeased her sensitiveness. Michael watched her for a moment; then he drew up a chair to the fire inhis old way. 'You must sit there and talk to me for a little while, ' he saidquietly. And as she looked at him rather doubtfully, and suggested that hermother would be wondering at their absence, he negatived the idea atonce. 'By this time your father will have told her everything; he has been inmy confidence all these months. No, they will not want us, and I havenot seen you yet--at least, you have not seen me; I am quite sure ofthat. ' And as Audrey's dimples came into play at this remark, he verynearly made her feel shy again by saying, 'You have no idea how lovelyyou have grown, Audrey! Has anyone told you so, I wonder?' 'No, of course not. Who do you think would talk such nonsense to me?' But her blush made him still more certain of the fact. 'At any rate, it is the dearest face in the world to me, ' he went on, still more earnestly. 'Audrey, I think even if you had not written thosethree little words, I must still have come home. I could not have stayedaway from you any longer. ' 'If I had only known that, I might have spared myself a great deal ofpain, ' she replied quickly; 'but they told me that you were going toGreece and the Holy Land, and Mr. Abercrombie had come back alone, and Ithought--I thought that I should never see you again. ' 'I began to have the same sort of feeling myself, and then I was sotired of waiting. How long have I wanted you, Audrey?--ten or twelveyears, at least. I begin to think that there never was such a fellow forconstancy. ' 'Ten or twelve years! What can you mean, Michael?' But she knew well enough what he meant, only she was woman enough tolove to hear him say it. 'Oh, it was quite twelve years ago! I can remember the occasion quitewell. You were in a short white frock, and you had your hair streamingover your shoulders. You were such a pretty little girl, Audrey. Iadmired you far more than I admired Gage, with all her regularfeatures. ' 'Oh, what nonsense, Michael!' 'Nonsense! You will tell me next that you do not remember asking me togive you a kiss. "I want to kiss you, Mike, because you are so nice andsmart. " Do you think I shall ever forget that? I lost my heart to youthen. ' 'You must not expect me to remember those things, ' she returned, blushing like a rose. 'No, darling, I suppose not; you were only a child then. But, all thesame, these memories are very sweet to me. You have been my one and onlylove, and you know that now. ' 'Oh, Michael!' And now the gray eyes filled with tears, for these wordssounded like a reproach to her. 'You must not misunderstand me, ' he returned, shocked at her evidentmisconception of his words. 'Do you think that I begrudge the love yougave that poor fellow? Some day, when you are my wife, I will tell youall I think on this subject; but not now--not to-night, of all nights, when I know and feel for the first time that my treasure is in my ownkeeping. ' And then he stopped, and, in rather an agitated voice, begged her thathe might not see tears in her dear eyes to-night. 'I did not mean to be foolish, ' she returned, in a low voice; 'only, when I think of all you have suffered, and how patient you have been, and how beautifully you bore it all for our sakes, I feel as though Ishould never make up to you for all you have gone through. Michael'--andhere her look was a little wistful--'are you sure that I shall neverdisappoint you--that what I have to give will content you?' But his answer fully satisfied her on this point. He was more thancontent, he said; he needed no assurances of her affection--he wouldnever need them. The first look at her face had told him all he wantedto know. 'I think I can read your very thoughts, Audrey--that I know you betterthan you know yourself;' and as Michael said this there was a smile uponhis face that seemed to baffle her--a smile so penetrating and sweetthat it lingered in her memory long afterwards. And a few minutes later Michael proved the truth of his words. He wasshowing her the ring that he had chosen--a half-hoop of diamonds of thefinest water, and their lustre and brilliancy almost dazzled Audrey. 'I remember your love for diamonds, ' he said, as he took her hand. But she did not answer him. She was looking rather sadly at a littlegold ring she had always worn. 'Do not take it off!' he said hastily, as he read the tender reluctancein her face. 'Dear Audrey, why should not my diamonds keep company withhis ring?' And, as her eyes expressed her gratitude, he slipped thebrilliant ring into its place. 'They will soon have to make way foranother. The diamonds will make a capital guard. ' But though he evidently expected an answer to this, Audrey made noresponse, except to remark on the lateness of the hour; and then Michaeldid consent to adjourn to the drawing-room. They were eagerly expected and heartily welcomed, and as her fatherfolded her in his arms with a murmured blessing, and she received hermother's tearful congratulations, Audrey felt how truly they appreciatedher choice. On this occasion there were no drawbacks, no whispered fearof what Geraldine and her husband might say. Mrs. Ross begged that shemight be allowed to carry the good news to Hillside. They were coming upto dinner, and she thought that it was due to them that they should beprepared beforehand; and, as everyone assented to this, Mrs. Rossstarted early the next morning on her delightful embassage. But she had miscalculated the amount of pleasure that her news wouldimpart. Geraldine cried with joy when she heard the news, and nothingwould satisfy her except to put on her bonnet and walk back with hermother to Woodcote. She interrupted a delightful _tête-à-tête_ between the lovers. Not thateither of them minded; for, as Michael sensibly remarked, he expectedthat they would have plenty of _tête-à-têtes_ in their life, and Audreywas sufficiently fond of her sister to welcome her under anycircumstances. 'How did you think I could wait until the evening?' she said, as shethrew her arms round Audrey. 'Oh, my darling, do you know how glad I amabout this? And to think that no one ever imagined it would be Michael!'And then, as he gave her a brotherly kiss, and begged that he, too, might be congratulated, she continued earnestly: 'Yes, indeed; and wehave all been as blind and stupid as possible! And yet, when one comesto think of it, you and Audrey are cut out for each other. ' 'I was afraid you might say something about the disparity in ourages--five-and-twenty and forty; and actually I have some gray hairsalready, Gage. ' 'Nonsense!' she returned indignantly. 'I never saw you look younger andbetter in your life; and as for disparity, as you call it, isn't it justthe same between Percival and myself? and can any couple be happier? Ifyou are only as good to Audrey as Percival is to me, she will be thehappiest woman in the world!' It was a pity Mr. Harcourt could not see his wife as she made thisspeech, for she looked so lovely in her matronly dignity that Michaeland Audrey exchanged an admiring glance. But the climax of their successwas felt to be reached when Mr. Harcourt arrived that evening. 'You have done the best day's work that ever you did in your life whenyou said "Yes" to Burnett!' was his first speech to Audrey; and then hehad turned very red, and wrung her hand with such violence that itthrobbed with pain. 'I think you ought to give her a kiss, Percy, ' suggested his wife alittle mischievously; for it was well known that Mr. Harcourt objectedto any such demonstration, except to his own wife. 'No, thank you, ' returned Audrey, stepping back. 'I am quite sure ofPercival's sympathy without putting it to such a painful proof. ' 'I shall kiss Audrey on her wedding-day, ' replied Mr. Harcourt solemnly;'that is, if her husband will permit me, ' with a bow to Michael. But this remark drove his sister-in-law to the other end of the room, sothat she lost a certain straightforward and complimentary speech thatgave a great deal of pleasure to Michael, and which he never could beinduced to repeat to her. No one could doubt Audrey's happiness after the first few days ofstrangeness had worn off, and she had grown used to her new position asMichael's _fiancée_. Michael had been very careful not to scare her atfirst--he had no wish to bring back the shyness that had made theirfirst evening such a misery to them both--and his forbearance wasrewarded when he saw the old frankness and joyousness return, and Audreybecame her own sweet self again. Michael was an ardent lover, but he was not an exacting one: Audreycould have had as much freedom as she needed during their briefengagement, but she had ceased to desire such freedom. She remembered sometimes with faint, unavoidable regret that Cyril'sdemonstrativeness had at times wearied her; but she had no such feelingwith Michael: when he left her for a few days to complete the purchaseof a pretty little property he had secured for their future home in oneof the loveliest spots in Surrey, she was as restless during his absenceas ever Geraldine had been. Michael was surprised to find how she had missed him, and how overjoyedshe was at his return; but he never told her so, or ever alluded to themistake that had doomed them both to such misery. 'My innocent darling! how could she know that I loved her, when I nevertold her so? It was I who would have been to blame if she had marriedCyril. God grant that in that case she might never have found out hermistake; but I do not know. She would always have cared too much forMichael, and he would have found it out in time;' but he kept suchthoughts to himself. Audrey had no objection to offer when Michael pleaded that they shouldbe married early in August. He had waited long enough, she knew, andthere was nothing to gain by waiting. But she had a long talk with her mother and Geraldine about Mollie, whomshe still regarded as her special _protégée_. 'Michael has Kester, ' she suggested; 'so I daresay he will not mindMollie sharing our home. ' 'You will make a great mistake if you ask him any such question, 'returned Geraldine, in her practical, matter-of-fact way. 'Kester willbe at Oxford, and during the long vacation he will join some readingparty or other--Michael told me so; but Mollie would want a home all theyear round. Why do you not leave her at Woodcote? Mother will bedreadfully dull without you at first, and, of course, I cannot always bewith her. You are very fond of Mollie, are you not, mother?' 'She is a dear, good child, and I should love to have her with me, ' wasMrs. Ross's reply. 'That is a clever thought of yours, my love, andMichael certainly will want his wife to himself--men always do. ' 'If you really think so, mother, and if Mollie does not mind, she shallstay at Woodcote, ' was Audrey's reply. And when Mollie was consulted she proved quite willing to do as they allwished. 'Of course, dear Mrs. Ross will be dull. And I know I should only be inCaptain Burnett's way, ' argued Mollie, a little tearfully. 'I knew thatfrom the first. I shall miss you dreadfully, Audrey. No one will evertake your place; but I shall feel as though I were helping you somehow. ' 'Yes, and then you will pay me long visits, Mollie; and, of course, Michael will often bring me to see mother. ' And this charming prospect, and the promise that she should be Audrey'sbridesmaid, speedily consoled Mollie. Michael had stipulated that their honeymoon should be spent in Scotland, and to Audrey's amusement Braemar was the place he finally selected, and he would have the very cottage, or rather cottages, that Dr. Rosshad taken for his family. 'We can shut up some of the rooms and only use as many as we want, ' hesaid, when Mrs. Ross had complained of the roominess. 'We are richpeople, and can afford it; and as Crauford is to be Audrey's maid, shecan come with us and see that things are comfortable. Do you rememberthat sitting-room, Audrey, and the horse-hair sofa, and therowan-berries and heather in the big china jars? By the bye, you musthave a gray tweed dress and a deerstalker cap, and look as you used tolook; and there is the little bridge where Gage and I used to meet youall when you had had a day's outing on the moors. Shall you not love togo there again, Audrey? And in answer Audrey said 'Yes' rather demurely. But she was not demure at all when two months afterwards she sat on thelittle bridge in the sunset, watching the very same ducks dibble withtheir yellow bills in the brook that trickled so musically over thestones, while Michael stood beside her, lazily throwing in pebbles forBooty's amusement; on the contrary, she was laughing and talking with agreat deal of animation, and, strange to say, she wore the gray tweed, and the deerstalker cap was on her bright brown hair. 'We have had such a delicious day!' she was saying. 'I think there isnothing, after all, like a Scotch moor. Do look at those ducks, Michael;how angry they are with Booty, and how ridiculous they look waddlingover those wet stones!' 'I was thinking of something else, ' he replied; and his tone made Audreylook up rather quickly. 'Do you remember your tirade on the subject ofsingle blessedness, my Lady Bountiful, and how freedom outbalanced allthe delights of wedded bliss? I recollect we were on the moors then, andKester was with us, and I took out my pocket-book and wrote down thedate. Well, I will be magnanimous and not ask an awkward question. Sixweeks of married life is not such a long time, after all. ' But she interrupted him with some impatience: 'Michael, how can you recall such nonsense? But of course you are onlydoing it to tease me. As though I were not much happier than I wasthen!' 'Are you really happier, Audrey--really and truly, my darling?' 'Oh, Michael, what a question! Am I not your wife? Is not that answerenough? Do you think I would change places with any other woman in theworld, or even with my old self?' And as he looked at her bright face he knew that she was speaking thetruth, and that Audrey Burnett so loved and reverenced her husband thatshe was likely to be a happier woman than Audrey Ross had been. THE END _Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_. * * * * * MACMILLAN'S THREE-AND-SIXPENNY LIBRARY OF BOOKS BY POPULAR AUTHORS Crown 8vo. _This series comprises over four hundred volumes in various departmentsof Literature. Prominent among them is an attractive edition of_ TheWorks of Thackeray, _issued under the editorship of Mr. Lewis Melville. 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MACMILLAN'SEDITION OF DICKENS SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS _ATHENÆUM. _--"Handy in form, well printed, illustrated with reducedreproductions of the original plates, introduced with bibliographicalnotes by the novelist's son, and above all issued at a most moderateprice, this edition will appeal successfully to a large number ofreaders. " _SPEAKER. _--"We do not think there exists a better edition. " _MORNING POST. _--"The edition will be highly appreciated. " _SCOTSMAN. _--"This reprint offers peculiar attractions. Of a handy size, in one volume, of clear, good-sized print, and with its capital comicillustrations, it is a volume to be desired. " _NEWCASTLE CHRONICLE. _--"The most satisfactory edition of the book thathas been issued. " _GLASGOW HERALD. _--"None of the recent editions of Dickens can becompared with that which Messrs. Macmillan inaugurate with the issue of_Pickwick_. . . . Printed in a large, clear type, very readable. " _GLOBE. _--"They have used an admirably clear type and good paper, andthe binding is unexceptionable. . . . May be selected as the most desirablecheap edition of the immortal 'Papers' that has ever been offered to thepublic. " _MANCHESTER EXAMINER. _--"These volumes have a unique interest, for witheach there is the story of its origin. " _QUEEN. _--"A specially pleasant and convenient form in which to re-readDickens. " _STAR. _--"This new 'Dickens Series, ' with its reproductions of theoriginal illustrations, is a joy to the possessor. " _Complete in Twenty-four Volumes. Crown 8vo, tastefully bound in greencloth, gilt. Price 3s. 6d. Each. _ _In special cloth binding, flat backs, gilt tops. Supplied in Sets onlyof 24 volumes. Price £4 4s. _ _Also an edition with all the 250 original etchings. In 24 volumes. Crown 8vo, gilt tops. Price 6s. Each. _ THE LARGE TYPEBORDER EDITION OF THEWAVERLEY NOVELS EDITED WITH_INTRODUCTORY ESSAYS AND NOTES_BYANDREW LANGSUPPLEMENTING THOSE OF THE AUTHOR. _With Two Hundred and Fifty New and Original Illustrations by EminentArtists. _ By the kind permission of the Hon. Mrs. MAXWELL-SCOTT, of Abbotsford, the great-granddaughter of Sir WALTER, the MSS. And other material atAbbotsford were examined by Mr. ANDREW LANG during the preparation ofhis Introductory Essays and Notes to the Series, so that the BORDEREDITION may be said to contain all the results of the latest researchesas to the composition of the Waverley Novels. The Border Waverley 1. WAVERLEY. With 12 Illustrations by Sir H. RAEBURN, R. A. , R. W. MACBETH, A. R. A. , JOHN PETTIE, R. A. , H. MACBETH-RAEBURN, D. HERDMAN, W. J. LEITCH, ROBERT HERDMAN, R. S. A. , and J. ECKFORD LAUDER. 2. GUY MANNERING. With 10 Illustrations by J. MACWHIRTER, A. R. A. , R. W. MACBETH, A. R. A. , C. O. MURRAY, CLARK STANTON, R. S. A. , GOURLAY STEELL, R. S. A. , F. S. WALKER, R. HERDMAN, R. S. A. , and J. B. MACDONALD, A. R. S. A. 3. THE ANTIQUARY. With 10 Illustrations by J. MACWHIRTER, A. R. A. , SAMBOUGH, R. S. A. , R. HERDMAN, R. S. A. , W. M'TAGGART, A. R. S. A. , J. B. MACDONALD, A. R. S. A. , and A. H. TOURRIER. 4. ROB ROY. With 10 Illustrations by R. W. MACBETH, A. R. A. , and SAMBOUGH, R. S. A. 5. OLD MORTALITY. With 10 Illustrations by J. MACWHIRTER, A. R. A. , R. HERDMAN, R. S. A. , SAM BOUGH, R. S. A. , M. L. GOW, D. Y. CAMERON, LOCKHARTBOGLE, and ALFRED HARTLEY. 6. THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN. With 10 Illustrations by Sir J. E. MILLAIS, Bart. , HUGH CAMERON, R. S. A. , SAM BOUGH, R. S. A. , R. HERDMAN, R. S. A. , andWAL. PAGET. 7. A LEGEND OF MONTROSE and THE BLACK DWARF. With 7 Illustrations by SirGEORGE REID, P. R. S. A. , GEORGE HAY, R. S. A. , HORATIO MACCULLOCH, R. S. A. , W. E. LOCKHART, R. S. A. , H. MACBETH-RAEBURN, and T. SCOTT. 8. THE BRIDE OF LAMMERMOOR. With 8 Illustrations by Sir J. E. MILLAIS, Bart. , JOHN SMART, R. S. A. , SAM BOUGH, R. S. A. , GEORGE HAY, R. S. A. , and H. MACBETH-RAEBURN. 9. IVANHOE. With 12 Illustrations by AD. LALAUZE. 10. THE MONASTERY. With 10 Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 11. THE ABBOT. With 10 Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12. KENILWORTH. With 12 Illustrations by AD. LALAUZE. 13. THE PIRATE. With 10 Illustrations by W. E. LOCKHART, R. S. A. , SAMBOUGH, R. S. A. , HERBERT DICKSEE, W. STRANG, LOCKHART BOGLE, C. J. HOLMES, and F. S. WALKER. 14. THE FORTUNES OF NIGEL. With 10 Illustrations by JOHN PETTIE, R. A. , and R. W. MACBETH, A. R. A. 15. PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. With 15 Illustrations by W. Q. ORCHARDSON, R. A. , JOHN PETTIE, R. A. , F. DADD, R. I. , ARTHUR HOPKINS, A. R. W. S. , andS. L. WOOD. 16. QUENTIN DURWARD. With 12 Illustrations by AD. LALAUZE. 17. ST. RONAN'S WELL. With 10 Illustrations by Sir G. REID, P. R. S. A. , R. W. MACBETH, A. R. A. , W. HOLE, R. S. A. , and A. FORESTIER. 18. REDGAUNTLET. With 12 Illustrations by Sir JAMES D. LINTON, P. R. I. , JAMES ORROCK, R. I. , SAM BOUGH, R. S. A. , W. HOLE, R. S. A. , G. HAY, R. S. A. , T. SCOTT, A. R. S. A. , W. BOUCHER, and FRANK SHORT. 19. THE BETROTHED and THE TALISMAN. With 10 Illustrations by HERBERTDICKSEE, WAL. PAGET, and J. LE BLANT. 20. WOODSTOCK. With 10 Illustrations by W. HOLE, R. S. A. 21. THE FAIR MAID OF PERTH. With 10 Illustrations by Sir G. REID, P. R. S. A. , JOHN PETTIE, R. A. , R. W. MACBETH, A. R. A. , and ROBERT HERDMAN, R. S. A. 22. ANNE OF GEIERSTEIN. With 10 Illustrations by R. DE LOS RIOS. 23. COUNT ROBERT OF PARIS and THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTER. With 10Illustrations by W. HATHERELL, R. I. , and W. B. WOLLEN, R. I. 24. CASTLE DANGEROUS, CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE, ETC. With 10Illustrations by H. MACBETH-RAEBURN and G. D. ARMOUR. The Border Waverley SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS _TIMES. _--"It would be difficult to find in these days a more competentand sympathetic editor of Scott than his countryman, the brilliant andversatile man of letters who has undertaken the task, and if any proofwere wanted either of his qualifications or of his skill and discretionin displaying them, Mr. Lang has furnished it abundantly in his charmingIntroduction to 'Waverley. ' The editor's own notes are judiciouslysparing, but conspicuously to the point, and they are very discreetlyseparated from those of the author, Mr. Lang's laudable purpose being toillustrate and explain Scott, not to make the notes a pretext fordisplaying his own critical faculty and literary erudition. Theillustrations by various competent hands are beautiful in themselves andbeautifully executed, and, altogether, the 'Border Edition' of theWaverley Novels bids fair to become the classical edition of the greatScottish classic. " _SPECTATOR. _--"We trust that this fine edition of our greatest and mostpoetical of novelists will attain, if it has not already done so, thehigh popularity it deserves. To all Scott's lovers it is a pleasure toknow that, despite the daily and weekly inrush of ephemeral fiction, thesale of his works is said by the booksellers to rank next belowTennyson's in poetry, and above that of everybody else in prose. " _ATHENÆUM. _--"The handsome 'Border Edition' has been brought to asuccessful conclusion. The publisher deserves to be complimented on themanner in which the edition has been printed and illustrated, and Mr. Lang on the way in which he has performed his portion of the work. Hisintroductions have been tasteful and readable; he has not overdone hispart; and, while he has supplied much useful information, he has by nomeans overburdened the volumes with notes. " _NOTES AND QUERIES. _--"This spirited and ambitious enterprise has beenconducted to a safe termination, and the most ideal edition of theWaverley Novels in existence is now completed. " _SATURDAY REVIEW. _--"Of all the many collections of the Waverley Novels, the 'Border Edition' is incomparably the most handsome and the mostdesirable. . . . Type, paper, illustrations, are altogether admirable. " _MAGAZINE OF ART. _--"Size, type, paper, and printing, to say nothing ofthe excessively liberal and charming introduction of the illustrations, make this perhaps the most desirable edition of Scott ever issued onthis side of the Border. " _DAILY CHRONICLE. _--"There is absolutely no fault to be found with it, as to paper, type, or arrangement. " THE WORKS OFTHOMAS HARDY Collected Edition 1. TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. 2. FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD. 3. THE MAYOR OF CASTERBRIDGE. 4. A PAIR OF BLUE EYES. 5. TWO ON A TOWER. 6. THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE. 7. THE WOODLANDERS. 8. JUDE THE OBSCURE. 9. THE TRUMPET-MAJOR. 10. THE HAND OF ETHELBERTA. 11. A LAODICEAN. 12. DESPERATE REMEDIES. 13. WESSEX TALES. 14. LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES. 15. A GROUP OF NOBLE DAMES. 16. UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. 17. THE WELL-BELOVED. 18. WESSEX POEMS, and other Verses. 19. POEMS OF THE PAST AND THE PRESENT. 20. A CHANGED MAN, THE WAITING SUPPER, and other Tales. THE WORKS OFCHARLES KINGSLEY WESTWARD HO! HYPATIA; or, New Foes with an old Face. TWO YEARS AGO. ALTON LOCKE, Tailor and Poet. An Autobiography. HEREWARD THE WAKE, "Last of the English. " YEAST: A Problem. POEMS: including The Saint's Tragedy, Andromeda, Songs, Ballads, etc. THE WATER-BABIES: A Fairy Tale for a Land-Baby. With Illustrations byLINLEY SAMBOURNE. THE HEROES; or, Greek Fairy Tales for my Children. With Illustrations bythe Author. GLAUCUS; or, The Wonders of the Shore. With Illustrations. MADAM HOW AND LADY WHY; or, First Lessons in Earth Lore for Children. With Illustrations. AT LAST. A Christmas in the West Indies. With Illustrations. THE HERMITS. HISTORICAL LECTURES AND ESSAYS. PLAYS AND PURITANS, and other Historical Essays. THE ROMAN AND THE TEUTON. PROSE IDYLLS, New and Old. SANITARY AND SOCIAL LECTURES AND ESSAYS. LITERARY AND GENERAL LECTURES AND ESSAYS. ALL SAINTS' DAY: and other Sermons. DISCIPLINE: and other Sermons. THE GOOD NEWS OF GOD. Sermons. GOSPEL OF THE PENTATEUCH. SERMONS FOR THE TIMES. VILLAGE SERMONS, AND TOWN AND COUNTRY SERMONS. WESTMINSTER SERMONS. THE NOVELSOFF. MARION CRAWFORD 1. MR. ISAACS: A Tale of Modern India. 2. DOCTOR CLAUDIUS: A True Story. 3. A ROMAN SINGER. 4. ZOROASTER. 5. MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX. 6. A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 7. PAUL PATOFF. 8. WITH THE IMMORTALS. 9. GREIFENSTEIN. 10. TAQUISARA: A Novel. 11. A ROSE OF YESTERDAY. 12. SANT' ILARIO. 13. A CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE. 14. KHALED: A Tale of Arabia. 15. THE THREE FATES. 16. THE WITCH OF PRAGUE. 17. MARION DARCHE: A Story without Comment. 18. KATHARINE LAUDERDALE. 19. THE CHILDREN OF THE KING. 20. PIETRO GHISLERI. 21. DON ORSINO. 22. CASA BRACCIO. 23. ADAM JOHNSTONE'S SON. 24. THE RALSTONS. 25. CORLEONE: A Tale of Sicily. 26. VIA CRUCIS: A Romance of the Second Crusade. 27. IN THE PALACE OF THE KING: A Love Story of Old Madrid. 28. CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome. 29. MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice. 30. THE HEART OF ROME. 31. SOPRANO: A Portrait. 32. THE PRIMADONNA. 33. THE DIVA'S RUBY. 34. "WHOSOEVER SHALL OFFEND----" 35. A LADY OF ROME. 36. ARETHUSA. 37. THE WHITE SISTER. 38. STRADELLA: An Old Italian Love Tale. THE NOVELSOFROLF BOLDREWOOD 1. ROBBERY UNDER ARMS: A Story of Life and Adventure in the Bush and inthe Gold-fields of Australia. 2. A MODERN BUCCANEER. 3. THE MINER'S RIGHT: A Tale of the Australian Gold-fields. 4. THE SQUATTER'S DREAM. 5. A SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON. 6. A COLONIAL REFORMER. 7. NEVERMORE. 8. PLAIN LIVING: A Bush Idyll. 9. MY RUN HOME. 10. THE CROOKED STICK; or, Pollie's Probation. 11. OLD MELBOURNE MEMORIES. 12. WAR TO THE KNIFE; or, Tangata Maori. 13. BABES IN THE BUSH. 14. IN BAD COMPANY, and other Stories. By H. G. WELLS THE PLATTNER STORY: and others. TALES OF SPACE AND TIME. THE STOLEN BACILLUS: and other Incidents. THE INVISIBLE MAN. A Grotesque Romance. LOVE AND MR. LEWISHAM. A Story of a very Young Couple. WHEN THE SLEEPER WAKES. THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. TWELVE STORIES AND A DREAM. THE FOOD OF THE GODS AND HOW IT CAME TO EARTH. KIPPS: The Story of a Simple Soul. IN THE DAYS OF THE COMET. TONO-BUNGAY. By A. E. W. MASON THE COURTSHIP OF MORRICE BUCKLER. THE PHILANDERERS. MIRANDA OF THE BALCONY. By EGERTON CASTLE "LA BELLA": and others. MARSHFIELD THE OBSERVER. By AGNES and EGERTON CASTLE THE BATH COMEDY. THE NOVELS OFROSA N. CAREY _WESTMINSTER GAZETTE. _--"A clever delineator of character, possessed ofa reserve of strength in a quiet, easy, flowing style, Miss Carey neverfails to please a large class of readers. " _STANDARD. _--"Miss Carey has the gift of writing naturally and simply, her pathos is true and unforced, and her conversations are sprightly andsharp. " _LADY. _--"Miss Carey's novels are always welcome; they are out of thecommon run, immaculately pure, and very high in tone. " Nearly 800, 000 of these works have been printed. 1. NELLIE'S MEMORIES. 58th Thousand. 2. WEE WIFIE. 42nd Thousand. 3. BARBARA HEATHCOTE'S TRIAL. 35th Thousand. 4. ROBERT ORD'S ATONEMENT. 30th Thousand. 5. WOOED AND MARRIED. 40th Thousand. 6. HERIOT'S CHOICE. 29th Thousand. 7. QUEENIE'S WHIM. 34th Thousand. 8. NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 43rd Thousand. 9. MARY ST JOHN. 27th Thousand. 10. FOR LILIAS. 26th Thousand. 11. UNCLE MAX. 36th Thousand. 12. RUE WITH A DIFFERENCE. 24th Thousand. 13. THE HIGHWAY OF FATE. 25th Thousand. 14. ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 40th Thousand. 15. LOVER OR FRIEND? 31st Thousand. 16. BASIL LYNDHURST. 26th Thousand. 17. SIR GODFREY'S GRAND-DAUGHTERS. 27th Thousand. 18. THE OLD, OLD STORY. 30th Thousand. 19. THE MISTRESS OF BRAE FARM. 32nd Thousand. 20. MRS. ROMNEY and "BUT MEN MUST WORK. " 14th Thousand. 21. OTHER PEOPLE'S LIVES. 5th Thousand. 22. HERB OF GRACE. 27th Thousand. 23. A PASSAGE PERILOUS. 25th Thousand. 24. AT THE MOORINGS. 21st Thousand. 25. THE HOUSEHOLD OF PETER. 23rd Thousand. 26. NO FRIEND LIKE A SISTER. 21st Thousand. 27. THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS. 20th Thousand. 28. THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE HILL. 18th Thousand. 29. THE KEY OF THE UNKNOWN. 17th Thousand. THE NOVELS AND TALES OFCHARLOTTE M. YONGE THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE. With Illustrations by KATE GREENAWAY. HEARTSEASE; or, the Brother's Wife. New Edition. With Illustrations byKATE GREENAWAY. DYNEVOR TERRACE; or, the Clue of Life. With Illustrations by ADRIANSTOKES. THE DAISY CHAIN; or, Aspirations. A Family Chronicle. With Illustrationsby J. P. ATKINSON. THE TRIAL: More Links of the Daisy Chain. With Illustrations by J. P. ATKINSON. THE PILLARS OF THE HOUSE; or, Under Wode, under Rode. Two Vols. WithIllustrations by HERBERT GANDY. THE YOUNG STEPMOTHER; or, a Chronicle of Mistakes. With Illustrations byMARIAN HUXLEY. THE CLEVER WOMAN OF THE FAMILY. With Illustrations by ADRIAN STOKES. THE THREE BRIDES. With Illustrations by ADRIAN STOKES. MY YOUNG ALCIDES: A Faded Photograph. With Illustrations by ADRIANSTOKES. THE CAGED LION. With Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY. THE DOVE IN THE EAGLE'S NEST. With Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY. THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS; or, the White and Black Ribaumont. WithIllustrations by W. J. HENNESSY. LADY HESTER; or, Ursula's Narrative; and THE DANVERS PAPERS. WithIllustrations by JANE E. COOK. MAGNUM BONUM; or, Mother Carey's Brood. With Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY. LOVE AND LIFE: an Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume. WithIllustrations by W. J. HENNESSY. UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. A Story of the Captivity of Mary of Scotland. WithIllustrations by W. J. HENNESSY. THE ARMOURER'S 'PRENTICES. With Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY. SCENES AND CHARACTERS; or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft. WithIllustrations by W. J. HENNESSY. CHANTRY HOUSE. With Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY. A MODERN TELEMACHUS. With Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY. BYWORDS. A collection of Tales new and old. BEECHCROFT AT ROCKSTONE. MORE BYWORDS. A REPUTED CHANGELING; or, Three Seventh Years Two Centuries Ago. THE LITTLE DUKE, RICHARD THE FEARLESS. With Illustrations. THE LANCES OF LYNWOOD. With Illustrations by J. B. THE PRINCE AND THE PAGE: A Story of the Last Crusade. With Illustrationsby ADRIAN STOKES. TWO PENNILESS PRINCESSES. With Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY. THAT STICK. AN OLD WOMAN'S OUTLOOK IN A HAMPSHIRE VILLAGE. GRISLY GRISELL; or, The Laidly Lady of Whitburn. A Tale of the Wars ofthe Roses. HENRIETTA'S WISH. Second Edition. THE LONG VACATION. THE RELEASE; or, Caroline's French Kindred. THE PILGRIMAGE OF THE BEN BERIAH. THE TWO GUARDIANS; or, Home in this World. Second Edition. COUNTESS KATE AND THE STOKESLEY SECRET. MODERN BROODS; or, Developments Unlooked for. STROLLING PLAYERS: A Harmony of Contrasts. By C. M. YONGE and C. R. COLERIDGE. STRAY PEARLS. Memoirs of Margaret de Ribaumont, Viscountess of Bellaise. With Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY. Works by Mrs. Craik Olive: A Novel. With Illustrations by G. BOWERS. Agatha's Husband: A Novel. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. The Head of the Family: A Novel. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. Two Marriages. The Laurel Bush. King Arthur: Not a Love Story. About Money, and other Things. Concerning Men, and other Papers. Works by Mrs. Oliphant Neighbours on the Green. Kirsteen: the Story of a Scotch Family Seventy Years Ago. A Beleaguered City: A Story of the Seen and the Unseen. Hester: a Story of Contemporary Life. He that Will Not when He May. The Railway Man and his Children. The Marriage of Elinor. Sir Tom. The Heir-Presumptive and the Heir-Apparent. A Country Gentleman and his Family. A Son of the Soil. The Second Son. The Wizard's Son: A Novel. Lady William. Young Musgrave. The Works of Dean Farrar SEEKERS AFTER GOD. The Lives of Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius. ETERNAL HOPE. Sermons preached in Westminster Abbey. THE WITNESS OF HISTORY TO CHRIST. THE SILENCE AND VOICES OF GOD, with other Sermons. "IN THE DAYS OF THY YOUTH. " Sermons on Practical Subjects. SAINTLY WORKERS. Five Lenten Lectures. EPHPHATHA; or, the Amelioration of the World. MERCY AND JUDGMENT: a few last words on Christian Eschatology. SERMONS & ADDRESSES DELIVERED IN AMERICA. THE WORKS OFFrederick Denison Maurice SERMONS PREACHED IN LINCOLN'S INN CHAPEL. In five vols. SERMONS PREACHED IN COUNTRY CHURCHES. CHRISTMAS DAY: and other Sermons. THEOLOGICAL ESSAYS. THE PROPHETS AND KINGS OF THE OLD TESTAMENT. THE PATRIARCHS AND LAWGIVERS OF THE OLD TESTAMENT. THE GOSPEL OF ST. JOHN. THE EPISTLES OF ST. JOHN. THE FRIENDSHIP OF BOOKS: and other Lectures. THE PRAYER BOOK AND THE LORD'S PRAYER. THE DOCTRINE OF SACRIFICE. Deduced from the Scriptures. THE ACTS OF THE APOSTLES. THE KINGDOM OF CHRIST; or, Hints to a Quaker respecting the Principles, Constitution, and Ordinances of the Catholic Church. 2 vols. By J. H. SHORTHOUSE JOHN INGLESANT: A Romance. SIR PERCIVAL: a Story of the Past and of the Present. THE LITTLE SCHOOLMASTER MARK. THE COUNTESS EVE. A TEACHER OF THE VIOLIN. BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE. By GERTRUDE ATHERTON A DAUGHTER OF THE VINE. THE CALIFORNIANS. By HUGH CONWAY A FAMILY AFFAIR. By W. CLARK RUSSELL MAROONED. By ANNIE KEARY A YORK AND A LANCASTER ROSE. CASTLE DALY: the Story of an Irish Home thirty years ago. JANET'S HOME. A DOUBTING HEART. THE NATIONS AROUND ISRAEL. OLDBURY. By GEORGE BORROW LAVENGRO. By THOMAS HUGHES TOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS. TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. THE SCOURING OF THE WHITE HORSE. ALFRED THE GREAT. By ARCHIBALD FORBES BARRACKS, BIVOUACS, AND BATTLES. By MONTAGU WILLIAMS LEAVES OF A LIFE. ROUND LONDON. By E. WERNER FICKLE FORTUNE. By W. E. NORRIS THIRLBY HALL. A BACHELOR'S BLUNDER. The Works of SHAKESPEARE VICTORIA EDITION. In Three Volumes. Vol. I. COMEDIES. Vol. II. HISTORIES. Vol. III. TRAGEDIES. UNIFORM EDITION OF THENOVELS OF CHARLES LEVER With all the Original Illustrations. 1. HARRY LORREQUER. Illustrated by PHIZ. 2. CHARLES O'MALLEY. Illustrated by PHIZ. 3. JACK HINTON THE GUARDSMAN. Illustrated by PHIZ. 4. TOM BURKE OF OURS. Illustrated by PHIZ. 5. ARTHUR O'LEARY. Illustrated by G. CRUIKSHANK. 6. LORD KILGOBBIN. Illustrated by LUKE FILDES. By W. WARDE FOWLER A YEAR WITH THE BIRDS. Illustrated. TALES OF THE BIRDS. Illustrated. MORE TALES OF THE BIRDS. Illustrated. SUMMER STUDIES OF BIRDS AND BOOKS. By FRANK BUCKLAND CURIOSITIES OF NATURAL HISTORY. Illustrated. In four volumes: FIRST SERIES--Rats, Serpents, Fishes, Frogs, Monkeys, etc. SECOND SERIES--Fossils, Bears, Wolves, Cats, Eagles, Hedgehogs, Eels, Herrings, Whales. THIRD SERIES--Wild Ducks, Fishing, Lions, Tigers, Foxes, Porpoises. FOURTH SERIES--Giants, Mummies, Mermaids, Wonderful People, Salmon, etc. Works by Various Authors Hogan, M. P. Flitters, Tatters, and the Counsellor The New Antigone Memories of Father Healy CANON ATKINSON. --The Last of the Giant Killers ---- Playhours and Half-Holidays; or, further Experiences of TwoSchoolboys SIR S. BAKER. --True Tales for my Grandsons R. H. BARHAM. --The Ingoldsby Legends REV. R. H. D. BARHAM. --Life of Theodore Hook BLENNERHASSET AND SLEEMAN. --Adventures in Mashonaland LANOE FALCONER. --Cecilia de Noël W. FORBES-MITCHELL. --Reminiscences of the Great Mutiny REV. J. GILMORE. --Storm Warriors MARY LINSKILL. --Tales of the North Riding S. R. LYSAGHT. --The Marplot ---- One of the Grenvilles M. M'LENNAN. --Muckle Jock, and other Stories G. MASSON. --A Compendious Dictionary of the French Language MAJOR GAMBIER PARRY. --The Story of Dick E. C. PRICE. --In the Lion's Mouth LORD REDESDALE. --Tales of Old Japan W. C. 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