'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.
'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 Michael with marked disfavour when he asked if he could see her mistress. In her ignorant way, she had arrived at the conclusion that the Captain was at the bottom of the mischief.
'Why couldn't he leave things to sort themselves?' she grumbled within herself. 'But men are over-given to meddling; they mar more than they make.'
'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. The door of the adjoining room was wide open, and he was certain that it was empty.
'Sick folk do not always stop in their beds,' retorted Biddy still more sourly; 'but for all that, she is not fit to see visitors.'
She squared her skinny elbows as she spoke, as though prepared to bar his 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 old woman drew back, muttering as she did so.
But he was obliged to confess that Biddy was right as heopened the door, and for a moment he hesitated on the threshold.
Mrs. Blake was half sitting, half lying on the couch in a curiously uneasy position, as though she had flung herself back in some sudden faintness; her eyes were closed, and the contrast between the pale face and dark dishevelled hair was very striking; her lips, even, were of the same marble tint. He had always been compelled to admire her, but he had done so in grudging fashion; but now he was constrained to own that her beauty was of no mean order. An artist would have raved over her; she would have made a model for a Judith or a Magdalene.
As he stood there with his hand on the door, she opened her eyes and looked 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 drew it 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 without delay.'
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's graphic account of the scene last night had greatly alarmed him. Mrs. Blake was of a strangely excitable nature; he had been told that from her youth she had been prone to fits of hysterical emotion. She was perfectly unused to self-control, and only her son had ever exercised any influence over her. Was there not a danger, then, that, the barriers once broken down, she might pass beyond her own control? He had heard and had read that ungovernable passion might lead to insanity; he almost believed it, as he listened to Mollie's story. This is why he had insisted on seeing her. He must judge of her condition for himself; he must do his best to prevent the recurrence of such a scene. And now, as he saw her terrible exhaustion and the dim languor in her eyes, he told himself 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 your best to throw off this illness that oppresses you.'
But she interrupted him.
'Why are you here this morning? Are you going to him?' she asked abruptly.
'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 given him up?'
Michael hesitated.
'Your son has broken off his engagement with Miss Ross. He felt he could not 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 to this?'
'No,' he returned reluctantly, for it pained him to enter on this subject with her; 'she has refused to be set free. As far as your son is concerned, the engagement is broken; but my cousin declares her intention 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 man over. Oh! I love her for this. She is a darling, a darling, but'—relapsing into her old melancholy—'they will never let her marry him—never, never!'
'I am afraid you are right.'
'No, he is doomed; my poor boy is doomed. If you see him, what is there that you can say to comfort him?'
'I shall not try to comfort him. I shall bid him do his duty. Comfort will 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 you before 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 fit for any scene. If you reproach him, you will only send him from you again.'
'I will promise anything—everything—if you will only bring him.' And now her eyes were wet; it seemed as thoughhe had given her new life. She sat erect; she was no longer like a marble image of despair. 'If I can only see him, if he will let me speak to him! but it is this emptiness—this blank, this dreadful displeasure—that is shutting me out from him, that is killing me by inches.'
And here she put her hand to her throat, as though the words suffocated her.
'Be calm and quiet, and all may yet be well,' he returned in a soothing voice; 'I will do what I can for you and him too.' And with a reassuring look he left her.
What had become of his dislike? He felt he no longer disliked her. She was false—falser than he had thought any woman could be; she had qualities that he detested, faults that he, of all men, was most ready to condemn; but the one spark of goodness that redeemed her in his eyes was 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 demanded his 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; the bed had not been slept in that night—that was plainly evident—but the crushed pillow and the rug flung across the foot proved clearly that he had thrown himself down fully dressed when weariness compelled him.
He had evidently only just completed his toilet: the shirt he had thrown aside was still on the floor, in company with his bath towels; and something 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 out because I could not stop indoors any longer; but there is plenty of time between this and night.' And then he offered Michael the only chair, and sat down on the bed. 'This place is not fit for you,' he continued apologetically; '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 did not concern him; 'and I dreamt that I was in purgatory. It was not a pleasant place, but I believe I was rather sorry when I woke. It is very good of you to look me up, Burnett.' And here he paused, and then said in 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, of course, 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 stand by you, and see you through this; and I think there is no one so suitable as myself at the present.'
'You are very good; but I can have no possible claim on you, Captain Burnett.'
Cyril spoke a little stiffly.
'If you put it in that way, perhaps not; in this sense, a shipwrecked sailor has no claim on the man who holds out a helping hand to him; but I 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 world has ever suffered more complete shipwreck. I have been trying to face my position 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 had everything—everything that a man needs for his happiness; and at this moment no beggar could be poorer. I feel as though I had no bread to eat, 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 in the hospital. I was covered with wounds; health was impossible; my work was gone. I could not face my life. Would you believe it, Blake?—I was the veriest coward, and could have trembled at my own shadow. It made a woman 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 alower voice—'the help that came to me was from a higher source. One day I will 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 could benefit 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 are right. Dr. Ross and I were speaking about you yesterday; he is deeply grieved at the idea of parting with you so abruptly. He says, under any other circumstances (he was thinking of his daughter when he spoke) that it would have been well for you to go on with your work as usual—the change could have been made after the holidays—but he fears now that this 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 told me with tears in his eyes that he never knew anyone so young with so great a moral influence; that your work was at all times excellent, and that he had never had so high a respect for any of his masters. And he begs me to say that you may command his purse or influence to any reasonable extent. He will be truly grateful to you if you will not refuse his help.'
'I fear I must refuse it.' And Cyril threw back his head with his old proud gesture. 'But do not tell him so, Captain Burnett. Give him my kindest, my most respectful regards. Say anything you like, but do not compromise 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 go to when you leave here, Blake?'
Then Cyril shook his head.
'One can always take lodgings,' he replied. 'I must go up to town and look out for some situation. I suppose, after all, my testimonials will help me.'
'Without doubt they will. What do you say to a secretaryship? I have one in my mind that I think would suit you. It is a friend of my own who is wanting someone as a sort of general amanuensis and secretary. He is a literary man and extremely wealthy, an old bachelor and somewhat of an oddity; 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's reflection. 'At least, I might try it for a time. Last night I thought of going to New Zealand. I could get a mastership there.'
'That is not a bad idea; but you might try the secretaryship first, if Unwin be willing to come to terms. The work would be novel and interesting, 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. When would you like to start—to-morrow?' Here Cyril nodded. 'I have diggings of my own, you know, in South Audley Street. They are very comfortable rooms, and I can always get a bed for a friend. The people of the house are 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 to bear you company after the first week or so; but by that time you will find yourself quite at home. And we will interview the old fellow as soon as possible.'
'You are too good! I have no right to burden you so;' but a ray of hope shone in Cyril's sunken eyes: he was not the outcast he had seemed to be, if this man stood by him.
'Nonsense! How can you burden me?' returned Michael briskly. 'I shall be delighted to have your company. And the rooms are always there, you know. 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 will say to-morrow. I shall be quite at your service, then; but there are two things that must be done first. Blake, do you know how ill your mother is? 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 remain where I was; I was in no mood for a scene;' and Cyril knitted his brows as he spoke.
'You were the best judge of that, of course; but I should advise you to see 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 is more mental than bodily; but she is evidently suffering acutely. If you leave her to herself much longer I would not answer for the consequences. Her nature is a peculiar one, as you must know for yourself. If you could say a word to her to soothe her, I think it would be 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 too hard on her. If you cannot extenuate her fault, you can at least remember 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 still more painful one. Surely you intend to see your father?'
'I do not see the necessity, Captain Burnett; my father is nothing to me nor 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 dear fellow. Will you put aside your feelings and do this thing for my satisfaction? I have given my word to Mr. O'Brien that I will do my best to bring you together, and if you refuse I shall accuse myself of failure.'
'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 this Cyril made no demur. 'Now I havedetained you long enough, and Mrs. Blake will be wearying for you. I will bring the trap round at half-past two.'
Cyril nodded, and they went downstairs together. Michael paused for an instant at the drawing-room door:
'Be gentle with her, Blake,' he said, as he grasped his hand. 'What is done cannot be undone;' and then he went down to Kester.
Mrs. Blake was still in the same position. The tension of that long waiting had been too much for her, and the old faintness had returned; but when she saw her son she struggled into a sitting posture and stretched out her hands to him as he came slowly, and almost reluctantly, towards her.
'Cyril! my darling Cyril!' Then he took her hand and held it for a moment. 'My boy,' she said a little piteously, 'have you nothing else for your mother?'
But he seemed as though he failed to understand her, and when she pointed mutely to the seat beside her, he did not at once seat himself.
'Mother,' he said, still speaking as though the words were difficult to him, '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 ruin of my life—of all our lives.'
Then as he stood before her she threw her arms round him with a faint cry; but he gently, very gently, repulsed her.
'Do not let there be any scene; I could not bear it;' and the weariness in his voice made her heart ache still more. 'Mother, I think that we had 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 begin afresh—you and I.'
His tone made her shiver, and as she looked up in his dark impassive face, and saw the deep-seated melancholy in his eyes, a sort of despair seized her.
'Oh!' she cried passionately, 'can it be my son who speaks? Blot out the past?—that happy past, when we were all in all to each other—when even poverty 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 may bring me when your heart has gone from me? How am I to bear my life when you treat me with such coldness?Cyril, you do not know what a mother's love is. If you had sinned, if you had come to me and said, "Will you take my hand, red as it is with the blood of a fellow-creature?" with all my horror I would still have taken it, for it is the hand of my son.'
She spoke with a wild fervour that would have touched any other man; but he 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 no self-sacrifice; but, Cyril, with all my faults, I have been a good mother 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,' and here his voice became more agitated, 'that you have yourself destroyed my faith in my mother: the mother in whom I believed, who was truth itself to me, is only my own illusion. I know now that she never existed; that is why I say that you must give me time, that I may become used 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, the scrupulous honour, of such a nature be comprehended by a woman like Olive O'Brien, a creature of wild impulses, whose notions of morality were as shifty as the quicksands, whose sense of right and wrong was so strangely warped? For the first time in her life the strong accusing light of conscience seemed to penetrate the murky recesses of her nature with an unearthly radiance that seemed to scorch her into nothingness. Her son had become her judge, and the penalty he imposed was worse than death to her. Of what use would her life be to her if the idol of her heart had turned against her? And yet, with all her remorse and misery, there was no repentance: if the time had come over again, she would still have freed herself from the husband she loathed, she would still have dressed herself in her widows' weeds, and carried out her life's deception.
Cyril was perfectly aware of this; he knew all her anguish was caused by his displeasure, and by the bitter consequences that he was reaping. Her plot had failed; it had only brought disaster on him and his. If he could have seen one spark of real repentance—if she had owned to him with tears that her sorrow was for her sin, and that she would fain undo it—hisheart would have been softer to her as she sat and wept before him.
'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 there should 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 a temporary home.
'It is better for me to be alone a little,' he went on. 'When I have settled work, and you can get rid of the house, I will ask you to join me; but that will not be for some time.'
'And I must stop on here alone? Oh, Cyril, my own boy, let me come with you! I will slave, I will be content with a crust, if you will only take me!'
'It is impossible, mother; I shall have no home for you. You must stay here 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 and kissed her forehead. 'We must begin afresh,' he said, half to himself, as he left the room.
'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.
'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.'
'To err is human; to forgive, divine.'
The drive to Brail that afternoon was a silent one; grim care sat on the two young faces, and Michael, with his usual tact, devoted himself to his mare. Now and then her skittishness gave him an opportunity of saying 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. 'Thomas O'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 I have ever known, Thomas O'Brien is the one I have most honoured. I have always had the greatest respect for him—for his honesty, integrity, and child-like simplicity. In spite of his want of culture, he is the gentleman his Creator intended him to be. Let me tell you, Blake, that you may be proud to call such a man your uncle.' And with these words Michael unlatched the little gate, and waited for them to follow him.
They were not unperceived. Long before they reached the porch the cottage 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 no need 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 eyes on you before. You are kindly welcome, young gentlemen, for your own and for your father's sake.' And here he gave them a hearty grasp of the hand. 'The Captain is always welcome, as he knows. He and me have been friends 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, and Cyril 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 same incredulous, awestruck voice.
'Ay, lad, they are your own, surely; and you had better be thanking God for His mercy in giving you such sons than be taking the holy name on your lips.'
But Mat did not seem to hear this mild rebuke.
'Will you shake hands with your father, Cyril?' he said, with an air of deep dejection. 'I wish it were a cleaner hand, for your sake; but I can give 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 my shoulder and hold on by my hair? Dear! dear! who would have believed it?'
Kester's pale face flushed a little.
'You are looking at my crutch, sir,' he said nervously; 'but I shall soon 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 used to call her?'
'Let us come away,' whispered Michael in Mr. O'Brien's ear. 'They will get on better without us.'
The tears were running down the old man's face as they turned into the little parlour.
'It beats me, sir, it beats me utterly, to see my poor lad trying to make 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's sweetheart, 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 better set up than Mat ever was. "I believe you are my uncle, sir." Few young chaps 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 light my 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 come another time.'
'Thank you, my lad; that is kindly spoken. And I have a sort of longing to set eyes on her again. But you need not think that I am going to trouble her, or you either. A man like me has no right to trouble anyone.'
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 moustache fiercely.
'My children belong to their mother, and not to me. I made you over to her years ago. She said I was not fit to have the charge of my own children; and maybe she was right. It was not a wifely speech, but I can't blame her. When you go home, tell her I'll keep my word—that I'll lay no sort of claim to any of you.'
He spoke in the slow, brooding tone that was natural to him, and the tears came into Kester's eyes as he listened.
Boy as he was, he understood the deep degradation of such words. This tall, hungry-eyed man, who stood aloof and talked so strangely, was his own father, who was voluntarily denuding himself of a father's rights—an outcast thrown over by his wife and children—an erring, and yet a deeply repentant man. Could anything be more unnatural and horrible? Kester's boyish sense of justice revolted against this painful condition 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, and we will be good to you.' This is what hewould have said; but he only looked at Cyril and held his peace.
Cyril had felt himself strangely attracted from the first. This was not the father whom he had dreaded to see, and on whose countenance he had feared to behold the stamp of the felon. Mat's worn, gentle face and deep-set, sorrowful eyes only inspired him with pity; the haggard weariness, the utter despondency of the man before him told their own story. True, there was weakness, moral weakness; but, at least, there was no glorying in his wrong-doing. The prodigal had come home weary of his 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 to make 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 we had 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 Mat humbly.
Cyril's words brought him some amount of consolation, only he could not quite bring himself to believe them.
'I hope that I shall always be on the side where the right lies,' was Cyril's answer. 'I do not wish to blame my mother. I think it is best and wisest to be silent. You are a stranger to us, and we have not even your memory to aid us. My own childish reminiscences are very vague: I can just remember a big man who used to play with us, and whom we called daddy; but I have no special recollection of him.'
'I hardly expected you to say as much as that,' and Mat's eyes brightened; 'but, after all, I doubt if I am better off in that respect than you. How am I to find my little chaps again when I look at you both—a fine grown man, and that poor sickly lad beside you? Why,' he continued in a tender, musing tone, 'the little chaps I remember had rosy cheeks and curly heads. I can feel their bare legs swarming up me now. "Give us a ride, dad!" It was always Kester who said that. He was never still a moment unless he was asleep, and then he used to look so pretty; but where shall I find him?—there is not a trace of the little rogue 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 crutch slipped from under his arm, and he would have lost his balance if his father 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 your chair.'
But, to his surprise, Kester held him tightly by the wrist.
'Never mind the crutch, father; I am not afraid of a tumble. Somehow, my leg gets stiff, but I don't mind it. I only wanted to say that, if you like, I will come and see you sometimes, when I can get a lift; and I will bring Mollie with me. I can't help what mother says,' continued the boy, his face working, 'and I don't mean to let her hinder us from coming. Cyril is going away, so he will not count; but I'll bring Mollie: and though she is not your baby now, she will take to you and cheer you up.'
Kester was quite out of breath with this long speech that he blurted out, but he was hardly prepared for the result; for before he had finished a low sob broke from Mat's lips, and he sat down shaking with emotion, and covered his face with his hands. Kester looked at him wistfully.
'Have I said anything to hurt him?' he whispered; but Mat's ears caught the words.
'No, no,' he returned vehemently; 'you have put fresh life into me by speaking so kindly. It was only the word "father" that I never thought to hear. God bless you, my boy, for saying that! I thought that she would have taught you to hate me—as she did herself.'
'I shall never hate you, father; I would not be so wicked. If you will let me come and see you sometimes I will try to be good to you, and I know Mollie will, too. I suppose,' continued Kester doubtfully, 'that I must 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 this life.' And now he spoke with a sort of mournful dignity. 'The time was when I worshipped the ground she walked upon; but there are limits to a man's love. When she forsook me in my shame and trouble, when she stood there 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 me on 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 has always been my charge. I shall tell her that she must not hinder Mollie or Kester from coming to see you. Shall you still remain here, father?'
He said the word with some little effort, but the same brightness came into Mat's eyes.
'I think so, my lad; I would as lief stay with Tom. All these years he has 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's eyes glistened with pleasure.
'I doubt if I was ever so comfortable in my life,' he returned, without any hesitation. 'You are young, my boy, and trouble is new to you, and Heaven 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 someone again!
'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 she keeps things comfortable and ship-shape, and when she has gone off to bed there is Tom and his pipe in the chimney-corner, and it is "Come and have a chat, my lad, until it is time to turn in." Yes, yes, I'll bide with 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 then continued hurriedly: 'I shall not see you again for some time. I am leaving Rutherford.'
'Yes, lad, I know,' and Mat sighed heavily; 'and it is all through me that you are going. I wanted the Captain to hush it all up; but he would not hear of it. When I think of all I have brought on you, I wonder you can 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 things are going badly with me; but I shall always be ready to help you, if you need 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 moved to 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 Olive never had. I almost felt shamed when he called me father; but the other one—he is not my little chap, and yet he is—but somehow when he spoke my whole heart seemed to go out to him.' And then Mat tried to light his pipe, only his hand trembled too much to do it. 'If I could only have my life back again!' he said to himself with a groan.
Cyril hardly broke the silence once during the drive back. It was not until several days had passed that Michael heard how that interview with his father had affected him. Cyril said very little even then, but Michael was relieved to find that, on the whole, he had been more attracted than repelled.
'Kester likes him, and in a way I like him too,' he remarked; 'we both think he has been hardly used. My mother could have kept him straight—there is no doubt of that—but she never tried to do so. One is 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's work had been somewhat arduous, and he felt fagged and weary. It was long past tea-time, he knew, but he wondered if he could ask Crauford to bring him some. Michael's long years of ill-health made him depend on this feminine panacea for all ills more than most men. That Michael hated 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 he dragged himself up the stairs in a spiritless manner. Tired Nature was avenging herself in her usual fashion, and Michael's head and limbs were aching. Perhaps something else ached too.
But his mood changed when he entered his room. After all, he had not been forgotten. A cheery little fire burnt and spluttered as though newly lighted, and a tiny kettle sang merrily on its trivet; the tea-tray was on the table, and, as Michael regarded these preparations with an expression of satisfaction, he heard Audrey's well-known knock at the door.
'Shall I make your tea, Michael,' she asked, 'or would you rather be alone? Gage and Percival are downstairs, and, as Iwas sure you would be 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 his easy-chair.
He would have thanked her—and she evidently expected to be thanked—but he was afraid he should say too much. She had thought of him and his comfort in her own unhappiness, though her face was still pale with her inward trouble.
'You have had a trying day,' she continued, as she knelt down on the rug a moment to coax the fire to burn more brightly; 'and of course it has taken it out of you. I was quite sure that you would not be in the mood for Gage and Percival. Percival is very kind, but somehow he is not restful; he is so very bracing.' And she sighed as though she had found him 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 his conversation 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 is something else I want to know. I guess where you have been this afternoon. 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 will be the happier for not shirking his duty.'
Then she looked at Michael a little pleadingly, as though to beg for some account of the interview.
'I am afraid I cannot tell you much,' he returned, feeling sorry that he had so little to communicate. 'As far as I could see, Blake behaved uncommonly 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 and by, I am going up to town with him to-morrow,and we shall have plenty of 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 at South Audley Street, and then he can look about him for a bit. I daresay I shall be back in a week or two.'
'Oh, Michael, I never thought of this. Are you sure it will not trouble you?'
'Not a bit,' he returned cheerfully. 'I want to see my lawyer, and do one 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 the gleam of a tear on her eyelash. 'No one but yourself would ever do such things. I shall miss you—I think I shall miss you more than ever—but it 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 settled I shall come home. I want to speak to Unwin about him. You have often heard me speak of Unwin: he is nearly old enough to be my father; but we are great chums, and I mean to tell him the whole story about Blake. If I could only get Unwin to stand his friend, there will be some hope for him.'
'Yes, I understand; but it is you who will be his benefactor. Don't frown, Michael, I am not going to thank you; I cannot. Now please tell me one other thing before I go: will you write to me?'
'If you wish it,' he replied without hesitation. 'Oh yes, I will certainly write and let you know how we are getting on; but I think it might be as well for you not to answer my letters.'
A flush came to Audrey's face, but she perfectly understood the delicacy that induced Michael to make this stipulation; he would deprive himself of one of his greatest pleasures rather than Cyril should be pained by the sight of her handwriting.
'I will not write,' she said in a low voice. 'Now I must go down to Gage.'
But he detained her.
'Wait a moment; there is no hurry, is there? And it is my turn to ask questions. I want to know what you are going to do with yourself during my 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 me every 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?' he asked.
'There is no reason why he should disapprove,' she replied quickly; 'but of course I shall speak to him. There can be no possible reason why my poor Mollie should be punished. Father would not wish me to go to the Gray Cottage, and, indeed, I should not wish it myself; but there can be no 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 not trouble about me, Michael; I shall be as busy as possible. I am not going away with Gage, as she wishes. I tell her I would rather stay quietly with father and mother—perhaps next holidays—but we need not talk of that.'
'But you will be very dull.'
'No, indeed, I shall have too much to do—at least, I do not mean to think whether I am dull or not; but, Michael, I shall depend for a great deal of my comfort on your letters.'
Then he knew that the burden of her lover's unhappiness was very heavy upon 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 let her go.
He did not speak to her again that evening; for though Mr. Harcourt had taken his departure, Geraldine had remained, with the amiable intention of cheering her sister. If she did not quite succeed in her mission, it was for no want of effort on Audrey's part, who, as usual, did her best for everyone. But more than once Michael detected a weary look in her eyes, that told him that she would fain have been left alone. 'But that is the last thing that Gage and Harcourt would ever do,' he said to himself, with a shade of bitterness, as he saw the gentleness and patience with which Audrey received her sister's attentions.