'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.
'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 the tennis-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, and had a basket of flowers in her hand.
She was hurrying past him with a nod and a smile, but he coolly stopped her.
'May I ask where you are going, my Lady Bountiful?' for this was a name he 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, that Captain Burnett metaphorically pricked up his ears. To use his own language, he immediately scented the whole business.
'I am going into the town; but I have a great deal to do,' she returned quickly. 'Please do not detain me, Michael. I am not like you: I cannot afford the luxury of idleness.'
'Well, no; it is rather a dear commodity, certainly,' he replied pleasantly, though that hasty speech made him inwardly wince, as though someone had touched an unhealed wound. 'Luxury of idleness!' how he loathed it!
'If you are too long, I shall come and look after you,' he continued significantly; but to this she made no reply. She took herself to task as she walked on. She had not been perfectly open with Michael, but then he had no right to question her movements. She had spoken the truth; she certainly had business in the town—several orders to give—before she went to the Gray Cottage. Michael was her ally—her faithful, trusty ally. No knight sworn to serve his liegelady had ever been more zealous in his fealty. But even to Michael she did not wish to confess that 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—that he was smiling over it as he unfolded his paper. Her conscience was perfectly easy with regard to her motives. Pure compassion for those two poor children was her only inducement. There was no danger of encountering the elder brother.
The windows of the great schoolroom opened on the terrace, and as Audrey had passed to gather her flowers she had had a glimpse of a dark, closely-cropped head, and the perfect profile that she had admired last night, and she knew the new master would be fully occupied all the morning. Audrey felt a little needle-prick of unavailing compunction as she remembered her allusion to the Greek god yesterday.
'I wish I were not so foolishly outspoken!' she thought. 'I always say just what comes into my head. With some people it would not matter—with Michael, for example. He never misunderstands one's meaning. But poor dear 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 she left the shop she took up the same thread again:
'I am always making resolutions to be more careful, but it never seems any use. The thoughts will come tumbling out like ill-behaved children just 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 so surprised when he blurted out that little bit about his brother. He looked so sad over it, too. I think I must have made a mistake in supposing that he only cared for his mother. It was odd to make me his confidante; but, then, people always do tell me things. He is Irish, of course. Irishmen are always impulsive.'
But here another list of orders to be given at the ironmonger's checked these vague musings.
Audrey was fully expected at the Cottage. She had hardly lifted the latch of the gate before Mollie appeared in the doorway.
'I knew you would come,' she said shyly, as Audrey kissed her and put the flowers in her hands. 'Oh what lovely flowers! Are they for mamma, Miss Ross? Thank you ever so much! Mamma is so passionately fond of flowers, and so is Cyril.'
'And not Kester?'
'Oh yes; he loves them too,' burying her face in the delicious blossoms—'roses especially; they are his favourite flowers. But, of course, 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 right in thinking those are for your mother. May I go in and speak to her?—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 was wanting to hear all about his evening, and it was such a lovely night that they were in the garden until nearly twelve o'clock, and so, of course, she is tired this morning.'
Audrey made no reply to this. Mrs. Blake was charming, but she was certainly a little erratic in her habits. No wonder there was so little comfort in the house when the mistress disliked early rising.
Mollie seemed to take it as a matter of course; besides, she was too much absorbed in the flowers to notice Miss Ross's reproving silence. She rushed off to find a jug of water, and Audrey turned into the dining-room, which presented the same aspect of confusion that it had worn yesterday. Kester was on his knees trying to unpack a hamper of books. It cost him a painful effort to rise, and he looked so pale and exhausted that Audrey at once took him in hand.
'My dear boy,' she said kindly, as she helped him to the sofa, 'how very imprudent! You have no right to try your strength in that way. How could Mollie 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 has put up the bookcase, you see. He did that this morning—he had scarcely time to eat his breakfast—and then he asked Mollie if she would unpack the 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 someone has put outside the window? and we will just fly round, as the Yankee domestics say.'
Audrey spoke with such good-natured decision, with such assurance of being obeyed, that Kester did not even venture ona grumbling remonstrance—the poor fellow was too much accustomed to be set on one side, and to be told that he was no use. But Audrey had no intention of leaving him in idleness.
'By and by, when the room is a little clearer, you can be of the greatest help to us; for you can sit at the table and dust the books in readiness 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 was robust enough for a housemaid. The well-ordered establishment at Woodcote, with its staff of trained domestics and its excellent matron, afforded little scope for her youthful activities. Mrs. Ross was her own housekeeper, and though she had contentedly relinquished her duties to Geraldine for the last few years, she had not yet offered to transfer them to Audrey.
Audrey pretended to be a little hurt at this arrangement, but in reality she was secretly relieved. Her tastes were not sufficiently domestic. She liked better to supplement her mother's duties than to take the entire lead. In her way she was extremely useful. She wrote a great many of the business letters, undertook all the London shopping, and assisted Mrs. Ross in entertaining her numerous visitors, many of whom were the boys' mothers; and though Mrs. Ross still regretted the loss of her elder daughter, and complained that no one could replace Geraldine, she was fully sensible of Audrey's efficiency and good-humoured and ready help.
'Audrey is as good as gold, and does all I want her to do,' she said to Geraldine, when the latter had questioned her very closely on the subject.
It was no trouble to Audrey to dash off half a dozen letters before post-time, or to drive into Sittingbourne to meet a batch of boys' relatives. She was naturally active, and hated an idle moment; but no work suited her so well as this Herculean task of evoking order out of the Blake chaos. Molly was so charmed with her energy, so fired by her example, that she worked like a dozen Mollies. The books were soon unpacked and on the table; then Biddy was called in to clear away the straw and hampers, and to have a grand sweep. Nothing more could be done until this had been carried out, so they left Biddy to revel in dust and tea-leaves, while they turned out another hamper or two in the kitchen; for in the course of their labours Mollie had confided to Audrey that certain indispensable articles were still missing.
'The best thing would be to get rid of as many of the hampers as possible,' replied Audrey; 'they are only in the way; let us pack them up 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 Mollie arranged them on the shelves. There were not so very many, but they were all well and carefully chosen—Greek and Latin authors, all Carlyle's and Emerson's works, a few books of history and philosophy, the principal poets, and some standard works of fiction: Dickens, Thackeray, and Sir Walter Scott—the latter bound very handsomely. Audrey felt sure, as she placed the books on the shelves, that this little library was collected by a great deal of self-denial and effort. The young student had probably little money to spare. With the exception of Sir Walter Scott and Thackeray, none of the books were handsomely bound; that they were well read was obvious, for a volume of Browning's poems happening 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 answering Audrey's thought. 'Poor Cyril! it is such a trouble to him that he cannot afford to buy more books. When he was at Oxford he used to go without things to get them; he said he would sooner starve than be without books. Is it not sad to be so dreadfully poor, Miss Ross? But I suppose you don't know how it feels. Mamma bought him that lovely edition of Thackeray—oh, and Sir Walter Scott's novels too. Don't you like that binding? it is very expensive. Cyril was so vexed at mamma's spending all that money on him when Kester wanted things, I am afraid he hardly thanked her, and mamma cried about it.'
Mollie was chattering on without thinking until a bell made her start and hurry away. She did not come back for some time, and Audrey finished her task alone.
'I have been making mamma some coffee,' she said gravely; 'she had one of her headaches. She has sent you a message, Miss Ross; she is so delighted 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 was better; but she will be down presently.'
'Then we must make haste and finish the room before shecomes. Mollie, I can do nothing with those pictures; we will put them up against the wall until your brother can hang them. Let me see; that corner behind the writing-table—no one can see them there. Quick! hand me another. Is this a portrait of your father?' stopping to regard a half-length figure of a fine-looking man in naval uniform.
'No, that is only an uncle of mamma's; I forget his name. Do you remember 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 why we are so poor. Mamma has often told us that it is her money we are living on. I don't know how she managed to send Cyril to Oxford; but we had no house all that time, only poky little lodgings. Are we going to arrange the furniture now, Miss Ross? Oh, how comfortable the room begins to look, and how delighted Cyril will be when he comes home this afternoon! He says that Dr. Ross wants him after school, so he will not run home before dinner. How glad I am that Cyril will always have a nice dinner now! He does so hate Biddy's cooking; he declares everything tastes alike. You say so, too, don't you, Kester?'
Kester's answer was a shrug of the shoulders; he seemed more reserved than Mollie, who was chattering to her new friend with all the frankness and thoughtlessness of a very young girl.
'Mamma never minds what sort of dinner Biddy sends up, if only Cyril does not find fault. I think she would live on tea and dry bread all the year round if only Cyril could have nice things.'
Cyril—always Cyril! Audrey turned the subject by asking Mollie if she would like the couch in the window. Mollie clapped her hands delightedly at the effect.
'It looks beautiful; don't you think so, Kester? And how funny! Miss Ross has put your own particular little table beside it, just as though she guessed that it was to hold your desk and your books. There is Kester's little box of books, but he will unpack them himself by and by.'
'Mollie, have you ordered the dinner?' interrupted Kester a little anxiously—and poor Mollie's face fell.
'Oh dear, I am so sorry, but I have forgotten all about it; the butcher has 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 very sensibly.
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, and when Audrey found herself alone with Kester she could not help saying to him:
'Mollie is a very young housekeeper—girls of fourteen are liable to forget 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 to herself; all her lessons are neglected. If only mother would send Biddy away 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 hour or two in the evening, when his work is done, but of course Mollie does not care to learn Greek.'
'Do you mean that your brother gives you lessons when he has been teaching all day?'
'Yes, and he is awfully tired sometimes; but he never likes me to be disappointed. Mother often tries to make him take a walk instead; but Cyril is such a brick: he never will listen to her.'
Audrey felt a little glow of satisfaction as she heard this. What a kind brother Mr. Blake seemed to be—how truly estimable! she would never judge hastily of anyone again. Just then the clock struck one, and she told Kester that she must hurry away. She was disappointed that Mrs. Blake had not yet appeared—she wanted to see the face that had haunted her so persistently; but the bewitching widow had not shown herself.
'I am afraid I must go, or I shall be late for luncheon,' she said hurriedly.
'I will tell Mollie,' returned the boy; and then he said a little awkwardly: 'You have been awfully good to us, Miss Ross; I don't know how 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 of work. Do you think your mother would mind if I were to look in to-morrow afternoon and help a little with the drawing-room? Mollie said something about it just now, andI half promised—she is to help Biddy put up the plates and dishes this afternoon; that will be as much as she can do.'
'I am sure mother will be only too delighted,' replied Kester gratefully; and then Audrey went in search of Mollie, and found her occupied with the chops, while Biddy cleaned the knives. Mollie turned a scorched cheek to her.
'Dear Miss Ross, thank you ever so much,' she said fervently as Audrey repeated her promise of looking in the next afternoon.
'Poor little soul! how interested Michael will be when I tell him all about her!' she thought as she walked briskly towards Woodcote.
Audrey had scarcely closed the green gate behind her before Mrs. Blake's foot sounded on the stairs. She looked pale and heavy-eyed, and walked into the room a little languidly; but if Audrey had seen her she would only have thought that her paleness invested her with fresh interest.
'Miss Ross has gone, mamma,' observed Mollie regretfully, as she followed her into the room.
'Yes, I know; I felt too jaded to face visitors this morning—Miss Ross looks 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't believe I closed my eyes until four o'clock. Dear me!' interrupting herself; 'there are Cyril's books nicely arranged—did you do them, Mollie? Why, the room looks quite comfortable and homelike. Miss Ross must have helped you a great deal.'
'Oh yes, mamma,' exclaimed Mollie and Kester eagerly; and they were about to expatiate on Audrey's wonderful goodness, when their mother checked them:
'Please don't speak so loud, children, or you will make my head bad again. I will tell you what we will do, Mollie. We will make those curtains, and then this room will be quite finished. There are only the hems and just the tops to do. We can have no difficulty in finishing them before Cyril comes home. The red tablecloth is at the top of the black box—if you will fetch it, Mollie—and I have arranged the flowers in that pretty green vase.'
'But, mamma,' pleaded Mollie, in a vexed voice, 'the room will do quite well without curtains for one day, and I promised Miss Ross to help Biddy with the plates and dishes. All the hampers are unpacked, and there is not a corner in the kitchen to put anything—and it does make Biddy so cross.'
'Nonsense, Mollie! Who minds about Biddy's crossness! I suppose I may do as I like in my own house. Let us have dinner, and then we will set to work at once—you and I—and Kester can read to us;' and, seeing that her 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's work-basket and a shabby little cotton-box that was appropriated to her own use, and sewed industriously, only pausing at intervals to watch the white, slender fingers that seemed to make the needle fly through the stuff.
Mrs. Blake was evidently an accomplished seamstress, and long before four o'clock the curtains were put up, and duly admired by the whole family and Biddy.
'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.'
'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.
Ugo Bassi.
Audrey was bent on keeping her promise to Mollie, but she found a great deal of finesse and skilful management were necessary to secure her afternoon from interruption.
First, there was a note from Hillside. Mrs. Harcourt had to pay a round of visits, and would be glad of her sister's company: and as Mrs. Ross evidently thought that a refusal was impossible under such circumstances, Audrey felt that she was in a dilemma.
'Gage will have the carriage,' she said, with a trace of annoyance in her tone. 'She cannot possibly require me, especially as she knows an afternoon spent in paying formal calls is my pet abomination.'
'But, my dear Audrey, you would surely not allow your sister to go alone,' began her mother in a voice of mild remonstrance. She very seldom interfered with Audrey—indeed, that young person was in most respects her own mistress—but when Geraldine's interests were involved Mrs. Ross could be firm. 'You are very good-natured,' she went on, 'and I am sure it is very good of you to take all that trouble for those poor neglected children'—for Mrs. Ross's motherly sympathies were already enlisted on behalf of Mollie and Kester—'but, of course, your first duty is to your sister.'
'But, my dear mother, a promise is a promise, and poor little Mollie is expecting me.' And then a bright idea came to Audrey. 'Why should you not go with Gage yourself? It isa lovely afternoon, and the drive will do you good. Gage would much prefer your company to mine, and you know how much she admires your new bonnet;' and though Mrs. Ross faintly demurred to this, she was in the end overruled by Audrey.
'Dear mother! she and Gage will enjoy themselves thoroughly,' thought Audrey, as she watched Mrs. Ross drive from the door, looking the picture of a well-dressed English gentlewoman.
Audrey had to inflict another disappointment before she could get her own way. Michael wanted her to go with him to the cricket-field. There was a match being played, and on these occasions Audrey was always his companion. She understood the game as well as he did, and always took an intelligent interest in it. Audrey was sorry to refuse him and to see him go off alone.
'Never mind; I daresay I shall only stay for an hour,' he said, as he took 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! Mamma has had to go up to London this morning on business, and she is so sorry because she did not see you yesterday; and I was to give you all sorts of messages and thanks. And now please do come into the kitchen a moment, 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 genuine surprise, as she looked round her.
The plates and dishes were neatly arranged on the dresser, the dish-covers and tins hanging in their places, the crate of glass and china emptied of its contents and in the yard. The floor had been scrubbed as well as the table, and Biddy stood by the side of her freshly-blackleaded stove, with the first smile Audrey had yet seen on her wrinkled face.
'It is not all Miss Mollie's doing,' she said, with a chuckle, as she carried off the kettle.
'Did your mother help you?' asked Audrey, for Mollie only looked mysterious.
'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. Dear Miss Ross, you do look so puzzled. It was not mamma, and it was not Biddy, thoughshe cleaned the kitchen this morning; and of course it could not be Kester.'
'I will give it up,' returned Audrey, laughing. 'Some magician must have been at work—and a very clever magician, too.'
'Oh, I will tell Cyril that!' replied Mollie, clapping her hands. 'Why did you not guess Cyril, Miss Ross? He is clever enough for anything.'
'Do you mean Mr. Blake put up all these plates and dishes?' observed Audrey, feeling as much surprised as an Athenian damsel would have been if she had heard of Apollo turning scullion.
'Yes, indeed! I must tell you all about it,' returned Mollie garrulously, for she was an inveterate chatterbox. 'You know, I had promised to help Biddy because she was in such a muddle, and then mamma came down and said we must get the dining-room curtains ready, to surprise Cyril when he came home.
'Well, he was very pleased; but I am afraid mamma thought that he took more notice of the way his books were arranged than of the curtains; but he 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 as well 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 does things 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; she likes beginning things, but she hates being compelled to finish them. That is why I am obliged to wear this shabby old frock,' looking down at it ruefully. 'Mamma has two such pretty ones half done, and I don't know when 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 not always in the mood, and then it troubles her; she was in the curtain mood last night. Cyril saw I was vexed about something, and when mamma went out of the room he asked me if I were tired; and I could hardly help crying as I told him about my promise to you; and then he called me a little goose, and pulled my hair, as he does sometimes, and told me to leave it to him.'
'Yes——' as Mollie paused from sheer want of breath.
'Of course Cyril can always manage mamma. He sent meinto 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 hard at work till ten o'clock; and Biddy was so pleased.'
'And now we must go upstairs,' returned Audrey, when Mollie's story was told. 'Perhaps Biddy will be good enough to help us.' And in a little while 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; then the curtains were hung and draped in the most effective manner, and some old china, that Mollie said was her mother's special treasure, was carefully washed and placed on the shelves of an old cabinet.
'It really looks very nice,' observed Audrey contentedly, when Biddy had gone down to see after the tea. She had enjoyed her afternoon far more than if she had been paying those calls with Geraldine. 'I always liked this room so much;' and she gave a touch to the big Japanese screen and flecked some dust from the writing-table. 'I daresay your mother will alter 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 that recess. 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 it for a moment as she spoke, and looked down at the old arches and the quiet courtyard, with its well-worn flagstones. The martins were twittering about the eaves; some brown, dusty sparrows were chirping loudly. The ivy-covered buildings round the corner were just visible; and a large gray cat moved stealthily between the arches, intent on some subtle mischief. Mr. Charrington's boys were all on the cricket-field, watching an exciting match between Rutherford and Haileybury, and the school-house was deserted.
'That must be your seat when you come to see us,' observed Mollie affectionately. 'Mamma was only saying this morning that she had taken a fancy to you, and hoped you would come very often; and Kester said he hoped 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 voice through the open window; it sounded bright and animated. It could not possibly be his brother; Mr. Blake would be with the boys on the cricket-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 none of us liked Headingly much, except Cyril. Everyone was nice to him, but when mamma fretted and said she was miserable, and that no one in the place cared for her, he seemed to lose interest, too; and when this vacancy occurred, he just said he had had enough of it, and that mamma would be happier in a fresh place, and so we came here, and now we have found you;' and Mollie's brown eyes were very soft as she spoke.
'Oh, you will find plenty of people to like at Rutherford,' replied Audrey. 'You have not seen my mother yet, Mollie; she is so good to everyone, and so is father. And then there is my cousin, Captain Burnett, 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 minute talking to Kester. It fell out in this way: Michael found it slow on the cricket-field without Audrey; so many people came up and talked to him that he got quite bored. Captain Burnett was a general favourite with men as well as women; he had the reputation of being a hero: women pitied him for his ill-health and misfortunes, and men admired him for the 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 wound of his gives him trouble. Anyhow, he never plagues other people with his ailments. "Grin and bear it"—I fancy that is Burnett's motto.'
Michael found the cricket-field dull without Audrey's liveliness to give zest to the afternoon; she always took people away when he was tired. He had had enough of it long before the match was over. Just as he was sauntering homewards he encountered Mr. Blake, and in the course of brief conversation he learnt that Mrs. Blake was in town.
Michael thought he would call and see if Audrey were ready to come home—it would do no harm to inquire at the door; but Biddy, who was scouring the doorsteps, told him abruptly to step in and he would find the lady; and, half amused at his own coolness, he, nothing loath, accepted the invitation.
He found Kester alone in the dining-room busy over hislessons. He looked up in some astonishment at the sight of a strange gentleman, and Zack, the retriever, growled rather inhospitably at Booty. Perhaps the Dachs-hund's short legs affronted him.
'Am I disturbing you?' asked Michael in his most genial manner. And he looked at the boy's pale intelligent face with much interest. 'I have come to see after my cousin, Miss Ross. Is she anywhere about? My name is Captain Burnett.'
'Oh, I know,' returned Kester, flushing a little nervously under the scrutiny of those keen blue eyes; 'Cyril told us about you. Miss Ross is upstairs with Mollie; they are putting the drawing-room to rights, but they will be down to tea presently. Will you sit down,' still more nervously, 'or shall I call Mollie?'
'No, no; there is no hurry, unless I am interrupting you,' with a glance at Kester's books. 'You are doing Greek, eh?'
'Yes, I am getting ready for Cyril this evening; but I am too tired to do more.'
And Kester pushed away his papers with a movement that betrayed latent irritability. Michael knew that sign of weakness well.
'That is right; shut up your books,' he said with ready kindness. 'Never work when you are tired: it is bad economy; it is using up one's stock of fuel too recklessly—lighting a furnace to cook a potato. The results are 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 to see the gravity that crept over the young face. 'It does not do to think too much of one's feelings; one has just to bear it, you know. I am ignorant enough as it is, and I must learn; I will learn!' setting his teeth hard.
Michael shot a quick glance at the lad; then he turned over the leaves of the book next him for a moment in silence.
'I must know more of this fellow,' he thought; 'Audrey is right; she is generally right about people.' Then in his ordinary quiet tone:
'I wonder your brother finds time for private tuition. I live at the lower school, you know, and so I understand all about the junior master's work. Mr. Blake has his evenings free generally, but there is dormitory work and——'
'Cyril says he will always give me an hour and a half,'interrupted Kester eagerly. 'Of course, it is not good for him to have any more teaching; but he says he would hate to see me grow up a dunce—and—and'—swallowing down some secret emotion—' I think it would 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 in the boy's eyes. 'I must do something, and my lameness hinders everything but that—perhaps, if I learn plenty of Latin and Greek, I may be able to help Cyril one day. We often talk about it, and even mother thinks it is a good plan. One day Cyril hopes to have a school of his own—when he is older, you know—and then I could take the younger boys off his hands and save him the cost of an usher; don't you think that would be possible?' looking anxiously at Michael, for somehow those steady clear eyes seemed so thoroughly to comprehend him.
'I think it an excellent plan,' retained Michael slowly; "knowledge is power"—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 took it up as a sort of amusement when I was seedy; it would not be bad fun to work together sometimes. I daresay you are ahead of me in Greek, but I don't believe you could beat me in mathematics. We could help each other, and it would be good practice. I suppose your brother gives you lessons in mathematics.'
Kester shook his head.
'There is not time for everything, and Cyril always says mathematics are not in his line—he is a classical master, you see.'
'Oh yes, that is easily understood; but you can have more than one master. Come, shall we make a bargain? Will you read Greek with me? and I will give you an hour three times a week for mathematics, or anything else you like. I am an idle man, and any fixed occupation would be a boon to me.'
'Do you mean it?' was the breathless answer; and then he added, a little shyly: 'I am awfully obliged; I should like it of all things; but you are 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 heavily handicapped—we are both in the same boat, are we not?—but we may as well make a fight for it.'
'Someone told me,' returned Kester, in a tone of great awe, 'that you have 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. 'I hope you don't mind my asking you, but I have always so wanted to see it. I am afraid you won't tell us all about it, but I should dearly love to hear.'
No one had ever induced Michael to tell that story; the merest allusion to his gallantry always froze him up in a moment—even Dr. Ross, who was his nearest confidant, had never heard the recital from his own lips. But for once Michael let himself be persuaded; Kester's boyish eagerness prevailed, and, to his own surprise, Michael found himself giving the terrible details in a cool, business-like manner.
No wonder Kester forgot the time as he listened; the lad's sensitive frame thrilled with passionate envy at the narrative. At last he had met a hero face to face. What were those old Greek fellows—Ajax, or Hector or any of those gaudy warriors—compared with this quiet English soldier?
'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 the happiest 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 have ever seen.'
A dim, inscrutable smile flitted over Captain Burnett's features.
'My dear fellow, happiness is a purely relative term. I am not a great believer in happiness. A soldier without his work is hardly to be envied.'
Kester was young, but his life had already taught him many things. He was acute enough to detect a note of bitterness in his new friend's voice. It said, more than his words, that Captain Burnett was a disappointed man. He looked at him wistfully for a moment.
'Yes, I know what you mean. You would like to be back with your regiment. It is very hard—very hard, of course;but you are not suffering for nothing, like me. Don't you see the difference?'—dropping his voice. 'I have got this pain to bear, and no good comes of it; it is just bearing, and nothing else. But you have suffered in saving other men's lives. It is a kind of ransom. Oh, I don't know how to express myself, but it must be happiness to have a memory like that!'
Kester had spoken with a sort of involuntary outburst. For a moment Captain 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 lad acquiesced so meekly in his fate? Had Kester deserved his lot?
'You are right,' observed Michael, in a low tone. 'One ought only to be thankful, and not complain.'
And just at this moment Audrey came in, and stood on the threshold transfixed with amazement, until Michael rose and offered her a chair.
'You here!' she gasped. 'I thought I heard voices. Mollie, this is my cousin, Captain Burnett. I suppose we must let him stay to tea.'
Mollie gave her invitation very shyly. The poor child was thinking of her shabby frock, with the great rent in the skirt, so hastily cobbled up. The pale man with the reddish moustache was very formidable in Mollie's eyes. Mollie was sure her hand would tremble when she lifted the heavy teapot. She had been so looking forward to having a cosy tea with their dear Miss Ross, and now everything was spoilt.
When Mollie was shy she always looked a little sulky; but Michael, who noticed 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 herself assisted by the formidable Captain Burnett.
Before half an hour was over Mollie thought him quite the nicest man that she had ever seen. He was so kind, so helpful; he told such interesting stories. Mollie forgot her Cinderella rags as she listened. Her eyes sparkled; a pretty colour came to her face; her rough brown hair had gleams of gold in it. Mollie did not look plain or awkward then.
'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 there watching some pigeons circling among the arches! The little garden was still and pleasant. Zack was stretched out beside them, with Booty curled up near him. Audrey was the first to call attention to the lateness of the hour.
'We must go home now, Michael,' she said, in a tone of regret, which was loudly 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 so afraid 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 brother contemptuously. 'That is so like a girl! Who cares about his eyes? Do you know what he is? He is a hero—he has the Victoria Cross. He has saved a lot of lives. Come here, and I will tell you all about it; it will make your hair stand on end more than it does now.'
But the story made Mollie cry, and from that hour she and Kester elected Captain 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 the best, and the nicest, and the bravest man I have ever seen.'
'Hear, hear!' interposed Cyril mischievously, thrusting his dark face out of the dining-room window. He had heard the whole story with a great deal of interest. And then, as Mollie darted towards him with a little shriek of assumed anger, he laughed, and sauntered out into the garden.
'Let us do our Greek out here, old fellow,' he said, throwing himself down on the grass, while Zack jumped on him. 'Have you got some tea for me, Mollie, or have you forgotten the teapot in your hero-worship? How late mother is!' He hesitated and looked at Kester. 'She would like me to meet her; it is such a long, lonely walk. But no'—as a cloud stole over Kester's face—'perhaps she will take the omnibus. Open your books and let me see your day's work;' and Cyril quietly repressed a yawn as he took a cup of cold tea from Mollie's hand.
He was tired. A walk through the dewy lanes would refresh him. He was in a restless mood; he wanted to bealone, to stretch himself and to think—perhaps to indulge in some youthful dream. But he was used to combating these moods; he would rather bear anything than disappoint Kester. And then he drank off his tea without a murmur, and the next moment the two brothers were hard at work.