'We were apart; yet day by dayI 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.'
'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.
Matthew Arnold.
Audrey never knew how she got through the rest of the day. During the remainder of Michael's visit she seemed in an uneasy dream. Never before in 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 she framed an evasive answer. She could not have told her mother whether she were ill or well: she only knew some moral earthquake had shattered her old illusions, and that she was looking out at a changed world.
But she was conscious through it all that Michael's watchfulness and care shielded her from observation, that he was for ever throwing himself into the breach when any unusual effort was required. Once when her sister and Mr. Harcourt were present, he challenged them to a game of whist, that Audrey might leave her place at the piano. Very likely he had heard the slight quaver in her voice that told him the song tried her.
Audrey longed to thank him as she stole out into the summer dusk, and wandered down the paths between the tall sentinel lilies, that gleamed so ghostly white in the darkness. But with all his thought for her, he was never alone with her for a moment until the last day came, and he went to the morning-room towish her good-bye. She was tending her ferns, but she took off her gardening-gloves at once as he came up to her.
'You are going, Michael; but we shall see you again before you really start?' she said, with an attempt at cheerfulness. But he shook his head.
'I think not. Abercrombie has just written to say that Dick wants to get away a week earlier. I shall not be down here again.'
Something choking seemed to rise in Audrey's throat, and if her life had depended on it she could not have got out another word. But Michael saw the troubled look in her eyes; they seemed to ask him again that question, 'Must you go?'
'Yes, dear; I must go,' he replied gently. 'It is better for us both—better for you, and far, far better for me.' And as she still looked at him without speaking, he drew her towards him and kissed her cheek. 'God be with you, my dearest!' he said very tenderly. 'Think of me 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 nightmare oppression were on her. She heard her father's voice calling to her. 'Where is Audrey?' he said. 'She must bid Michael good-bye.' And then someone—Michael, perhaps—answered him.
A great longing was on her to see him again; but as she hesitated the wheels of the dog-cart sounded on the gravel, and she knew that she was too late. With a sudden impulse she leant out of the window. Michael was looking back at the house; he saw her, and raised his hat. She had just time to wave her hand as Dr. Ross drove rapidly through the gate.
When her mother came to find her she was still standing there; she looked 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, vaguely troubled by the look on the girl's face. 'Your father says he has long wanted 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 for a long time;' and then she broke down, and hid her face in her mother's shoulder. 'If I were only like you, mother! if my life lay behind me, and had not to be livedout day by day and year by year! for I seem so tired of everything.'
Mrs. Ross could make nothing of her girl; but she gave her just what she required 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, my darling.'
And she was right: Audrey's strong will and sense of duty soon overcame the hysterical emotion.
'I think I am tired,' she acknowledged; and to her mother's relief she consented to lie still and do nothing. 'I will make up for this idle day to-morrow,' she said with a faint smile, as she closed her eyes. 'Now go downstairs, mother dear, and don't trouble about me any more, unless you want to make me ashamed of myself for having been such a baby.'
'She is just worn out with keeping everything to herself, and trying to spare us pain,' Mrs. Ross said to her husband, as she recounted this little scene to him. 'I never knew Audrey hysterical before; I was obliged 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 be all right in a day or two.'
But Dr. Ross sighed as he got up and went to his study. Audrey little knew that her father was in the secret; that in his pain and perplexity Michael had at last taken his best friend into his confidence.
'We must leave things to work round,' had been his parting words to Michael that morning. 'No one, not even her father, must coerce her. All these years you have been like a son to me, Mike; and if my child could bring herself to love you as you deserve to be loved, no one would be better 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 a dejected smile, for he hated to keep things from his wife. 'Geraldine would get hold of it, and then it would come round to Harcourt. No, I will 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 in his 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'd choose Mike,' was Dr. Ross's thought as he drove himself back again to Woodcote.
Audrey kept her promise and made up for her one idle day. 'Work was good for everyone,' she said, 'and it was especially good for her.' So the following morning she resumed lessons with Mollie. She had complained a few weeks before that her German was becoming rusty, and by her father's advice she and Mollie were taking lessons together of Herr Freiligrath. The master she had selected was a very strict one, and his lessons entailed a great deal of preparation. No discipline could have been more wholesome. Audrey forgot her perplexities while she translated Wallenstein and followed the unhappy fortunes of Max and Theckla.
But she did not at once regain her cheerfulness, and the daily round of duty was not performed without a great deal of effort and inward prompting; if no task were left unfulfilled, if she were always ready to give her mother or Geraldine the companionship they needed, and if her father never missed one of her usual ministrations, it was because she would listen to no plea of self-indulgence.
'You are unhappy, and I fear you must be unhappy and not at ease for a long time,' she would say to herself in the intervals of her work; 'but idleness will not help you.' And to give her her due, she was never busier than during the summer that followed Michael's leave-taking. She had no idea that Michael knew all she was doing, and that her father often wrote to him. Michael had kept his word, and his letters to Audrey were very few and far between, and there was not a word in them that her mother 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 was impossible to answer them with her old freedom. The happy, sisterly intercourse was now a thing of the past. She could no longer pour out to her 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 the thin paper. And he could not always suppress a sigh as he missed the old playfulness and open-hearted affection that used to breathe in every carelessly-worded sentence. Buthe knew that she could not help herself; that it was impossible for her now to tell him how she missed him and how heavily the days passed without him; and how could he know it, if she thought less of Cyril and more of him every day?
Michael could not guess at all that inward self-questioning that seemed for ever making dumb utterance in her breast. Now and then, when no one needed her, she would wander down to 'Michael's bench' in the dusk or moonlight, 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 bringing his words to her memory. Why had he left her? Could he not have trusted her to do even this for him? She had loved Cyril, but she had not wished to marry him; she had wished to marry no man. It was the instinct of her nature to make others happy, and not to think of herself; and if Michael had 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 the least.
'I must have all your heart or none,' he had said to her; and his eyes seemed to dominate her as he spoke. 'I should ask more than he did.' And she had not dared to answer him.
No; she could not deceive him. She knew that no kindness on her part would ever wear in his eyes the semblance of the love he wanted. What could she do for him or for herself?
'Can love come by trying?' he had asked; and she could recall vividly the bitterness of his tone as he said this.
But the speech over which she pondered most, sometimes for an hour together, was a very different one.
'I shall leave you,' he had told her, and there had been a strange light in 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 you may 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 his look 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. I cannot send for him—I cannot! It is too soon, and——'
But Audrey did not finish her sentence. Even under the dark trees the hot flush was scorching her face.
'Oh, I am so tired of it all!' she would say, springing to her feet with a 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 new lover, with his proud, gentle wooing: not her old Michael who had so satisfied her, but a new, powerful Michael, who half drew and half repelled her, and for whom she had no fitting answer.
Audrey was glad when August came and she could find some relief in change of scene. Dr. Ross had taken a large roomy cottage at Keswick for the summer holidays, and the Harcourts and Kester were to join them. Audrey was thankful that her father had not selected Scotland, as his son-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 as possible; 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 the lake. Audrey liked to paddle herself and Mollie to one of the islands, and sit there reading and working, while Kester and Percival fished and Geraldine roamed by the lake-side with her bonnie boy, sitting like a young prince in his little wheeled carriage, beside her. There was a long-tailed, shaggy pony belonging to the cottage—a sturdy, sure-footed, good-tempered animal, and Dr. Ross would often drive his wife through some of the lovely dales. Mrs. Ross never thoroughly enjoyed herself in a boat—she had a dislike to find herself surrounded by 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 married you,' Dr. Ross remarked, as he tickled up Jemmy's broad back with the whip.
Nevertheless, the Doctor loved these expeditions quite as much as his wife did.
'What a handsome Darby and Joan they look, Jerry!' Mr. Harcourt once said, as he walked beside her, with Leonard proudly seated on his shoulder. '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 sidelong glance at his graceful wife. Geraldine was looking lovelier than ever in the broad-brimmed hat that her husband had chosen for her.
A sad event happened soon after their return to Woodcote.Matthew O'Brien died on the anniversary of his son's death. His end had been very sudden; no one had suspected that for months an insidious disease had been making stealthy progress. He had seemed much as usual, and had made no complaint, only Mrs. Baxter had remarked to her father that Uncle Mat seemed quieter-like and more peaceable. 'He has given up those wearisome 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 half smoked, and went off to bed, and the next day he complained of pain and drowsiness; 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 the October sunshine. And the next day, as the pain and drowsiness did not diminish, 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's eyes a little solemnly.
'You need not be afraid to tell me, doctor,' he said sadly; 'my life has not been much good to me, and I shall not be sorry to part with it.' But the doctor's answer was kindly evasive.
But two or three nights afterwards, as Thomas O'Brien was sitting beside the bed for an hour to relieve Prissy, Mat stretched out his lean arm and grasped his brother's coat-sleeve.
'It is coming, Tom,' he said; 'I shall soon be with my boy—that is, if God's mercy will grant me admittance to that good place. Give my love to Mollie 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 been too hard on her, poor girl! but she could not help her nature. Isn't there something about "To whoever little is forgiven, the same loveth little"? I seem to remember Susie reading it.'
And Thomas O'Brien, bending over the gray face, repeated the words slowly:
'"Wherefore I say unto you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she 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 his unsatisfactory life. His brother mourned for him long and sincerely, and in their way Kester and Mollie grieved, too. At Audrey's wish, Mollie wrote the full particulars of her father's death to the convent. Sister Monica's answer was, in Audrey's opinion, singularly suggestive of the ci-devant Mrs. Blake. It was a strange medley of mysticism and motherly yearnings, 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.'
'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 months that followed Mat's death. Sometimes Mollie accompanied her, but oftener she was alone. Nothing cheered Thomas O'Brien more than the society of his favourite. He loved to talk to her of the dear ones who had passed within the veil, and to Audrey herself the visits were very soothing.
She liked those solitary walks under the gray November skies, or when the December sun hung redly behind the distant hedgerows. How often she had walked there when Cyril had met her half-way, or she had come upon him lingering in the lanes, with Zack bounding beside him. It was in the Brail lanes that he first told her of his love, when she had sent him sorrowfully away from her; but somehow, as she walked there now, between hedgerows white with hoar frost, she thought less of him than of Michael; but as yet no message had been sent to recall the wanderer home.
'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."'
'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.
Matthew Arnold.
Kester had spent his Christmas holidays at Woodcote; Audrey loved to have him with her. Somehow he seemed to belong to Michael, and the boy warmly returned her affection.
'Do you know that Mr. Abercrombie is coming home in March?' he said to her the day before he went back to Brighton; 'he is quite well now, and Captain Burnett says he is in a fever to get back to England. Do you think Captain Burnett will come, too?' and Kester looked anxiously in her face.
Audrey could not satisfy Kester on this point; nevertheless, she felt a secret hope stirring in her heart that Michael would not stay away much longer. After all, was it likely that he would wait for the message when he must know how impossible it would be for her to send it? He had been away seven months, and by this time he must be growing homesick.
Almost the same thought occurred to Michael as, early in March, he sat in the loggia of an old Florentine palace, where he and his friend had a suite of rooms.
How long had he been away, he wondered, as he looked out on the sunset—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 plead his own cause, and see what these months of absence had done for him, or should he wait a little longer?
Michael's self-imposed exile had not been unhappy. Hiscompanion was congenial to him; the varied scenes through which he had passed, the historic interest of the cities, had engrossed and interested him; and, perhaps for the first time, he tasted the delights of a well-filled purse, as he accumulated art treasures and pictures; but, above all, a latent hope, to which he gave no voice or title, kept him patient and cheerful.
'It was too soon; but by and by she will find it out for herself,' he would say, as he strolled through the galleries, or stood by some moss-grown fountain to buy flowers from a dark-eyed Florentine girl.
Should he go back with Abercrombie next week, or should he push on towards Greece and the Holy Land? It was a little difficult to decide, but somehow Michael never answered that question. Fate took the matter into her own hands, as she often does when the knot becomes too intricate for the bungling fingers of poor mortals.
Somehow Audrey became convinced in her own mind that Michael would certainly accompany his friend back to England. They had started together; was it likely that Michael would allow him to return alone? and when March came she began to look anxiously for a letter announcing this 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 in Rutherford would think of leaving their fireside on such an afternoon, when Geraldine entered, glowing from the cold wind, and looking cosy and comfortable in her warm furs.
'My dear, what a day to venture out,' remonstrated her mother; 'even Audrey says the wind is cruel.'
'I am not such a foe to the east wind as Michael is,' returned Geraldine cheerfully, as she seated herself out of the range of the fire; 'and Percival 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 as I was talking to Mrs. Charrington, who should come in but Dora Abercrombie! You know Dora, Audrey. She is the second one; but she is not 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 near relationship, but they are very intimate. She says her brother is expected in Portland Place to-morrow or the day after.' Here Audrey gave a start. 'Take care, my dear: the urn is running over; you are filling the teapot too full.Shall I ring for Crauford? No? Well, as I was saying'—rather absently, for her eyes were still following the thin stream on the tea-tray that Audrey was hurriedly wiping up—'Master Dick is expected back—and here Dora was a trifle mysterious; and then it came out that he was engaged—had been engaged for the last eight months; only the mother of his lady-love had turned restive. But now things were smoother, and she hoped that they would soon be married. Poor Michael! I am afraid he has not had a very cheerful companion all these months.'
'Did Miss Abercrombie mention Michael?' asked Audrey, speaking with manifest effort. How tiresome Gage was! as though anyone wanted to hear about 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 a superior person like young Mrs. Harcourt. 'I had no idea Michael would play truant for so long: actually she says her brother is coming home without him! and he is going to spend the summer and autumn in Greece and the Holy Land, and perhaps winter in Algiers. In fact, Dick Abercrombie 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 in time to hear the last clause. 'Were you speaking of Michael?'
'Yes, father dear.' And Geraldine willingly recapitulated the whole of her speech for his benefit. 'And I do wish someone would write and give him a good scolding for staying away so long, as though no one wanted him! And we have all been missing him so badly!'
'By the bye, that reminds me that I was called away just now to speak to Fergusson, and I have actually left my letter to Michael open on my study-table; and I meant it to go by this post. Do you mind just slipping it into its envelope, Audrey?—it is already directed. Thank you, my dear,' as Audrey silently left the room.
Was Dr. Ross really anxious about his letter, or had he noticed the white look on his daughter's face, and feared that others might notice it 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 her mind. A dull throbbing pain was at her heart; the cold numbness that had crept over her asMichael had bidden her good-bye, and which kept her dumb before him, was over her now—some strange pulse seemed beating in her head. He was going still farther away from her. He was not coming back. He would never come back. Something would happen to him. She would never see his kind face again—never, never!
Perhaps this long silence had angered him—Michael, who had always been so gentle to her, on whose face she had never seen a frown! Michael had grown 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 she would have done her very best to make him happy! How could he be so cruel to himself and to her? How could he have the heart to punish her so bitterly, as though she were to blame? Could she help her nature any more than she could help this separation from her dearest friend?
And then there came over her the deadly feeling of possible loss, and a desolation too terrible to contemplate. She had mourned very tenderly for Cyril; but if Michael died—if any ill should befall him in those distant lands—'Oh, I could not bear it!' was her inward cry. 'Life without Michael would be impossible,' and as this thought flashed through her mind her eyes suddenly fell on an empty space at the end of her father's letter. With a sudden impulse she took up the pen and wrote three words across the page in her clear, legible writing—'Michael, come. Audrey.' She was almost breathless with her haste as she thrust it into the envelope, and carried it to the boy who was waiting for the letters. Then she went back to the drawing-room, for she dare not trust herself to be alone another moment. What had she done? What would Michael think of her? What must she think of herself? No wonder Geraldine looked at her in surprise as she crossed the room and took up her 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 with me to Hillside, so Percival will not mind my being so late. How cold your face and hands are, and I am as warm as possible! You have been running about those draughty passages, and have taken a chill. She looks pale, doesn't she, mother?'
'Come, come,' interrupted her father impatiently, 'you must not keep me waiting 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 sorrowful looks? And why was there a pleased smile on his face as he followed his eldest daughter out of the room?
'I shall write to Michael and tell him to come home,' he said to himself, as he buttoned up his great-coat. 'I promised him that I would watch over his interests, and I shall tell him that in my opinion there is some hope for him now.'
The next few days were terrible to Audrey. More than once she feared she would be ill. She could not sleep properly. The mornings, the afternoons, the evenings, were endless to her. Mollie's merry chatter seemed to jar on her. Her mother's kindly commonplace remarks seemed devoid 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 blood from her heart. Would he write or would he telegraph? Should she hear one day that he was on his way home? Audrey was asking herself these questions morning, noon, and night. She felt as though the suspense would wear her out in time. If anyone had told Audrey that for the first time in her life she had all the symptoms that belong to a certain well-known disease—that these cold and hot fits, this self-distrustfulness and new timidity that were transforming her into a different Audrey, were only its salient features—she would have scouted the idea very fiercely. That she was in love with Michael, and that her love for Cyril was a very dim, shadowy sort of affection compared with her 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 ever she had guessed, and this long absence had taught her the unmistakable fact 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 her life to any passing tide of emotion, and she would not be weak now. Every morning, after a wakeful, unrefreshing night, she braced herself to meet the day's duties. She read French and German with Mollie; she superintended her practising, and only wandered off in a dream when Mollie's scales and exercises became too monotonous. She went up to Hillside and played with Leonard in the nursery, and though Geraldine's sharp eyes discovered that something was amiss, and that Audrey was not in her usual spirits, she had the tactand wisdom not to press for an immediate confidence; and Audrey was very grateful for this forbearance. Audrey's sturdy nature could brook no self-indulgence, and though the March winds were cold, and the Brail lanes deep in miry clay, she persisted in paying her accustomed weekly visit to Thomas O'Brien.
Mollie had a cold, and so had established a claim to remain by the fireside; but Audrey would listen to no weak persuasion to ensconce herself comfortably in the opposite easy-chair. On the contrary, she put on 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, for the walk freshened her, and in cheering her old friend she felt her own spirits revive.
She was in a happier mood as she let herself in, and shook out her wet cloak. She was in far too disreputable a state to present herself in the drawing-room; besides, she was late, and she must get ready for dinner. She ran upstairs lightly, but at the top of the staircase she suddenly stopped as though she had been turned to stone. And yet there was nothing very astonishing in the fact that a small brown dog, with very short legs, should be pattering in a cheerful manner down the corridor, or that he should utter a whine of friendly and delighted recognition when he saw Audrey; and if she stared at him as though he were some ghostly apparition, that was not Booty's fault. But the next moment she had caught him up, and had darted with him into her own room.
'Oh, Booty, Booty!' she gasped, as the little animal licked her pale face in a most feeling manner; 'to think he has come, Booty!' And if the application 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's step at the door, and then she put him down hastily.
'Oh, Audrey dear!' exclaimed Mollie, breathless with excitement. 'Have you really got back at last? They are all asking for you. Dinner is nearly ready, and you have not begun to dress yet. And who do you think is in the drawing-room?'
For Booty, who always knew when he was not wanted, had pattered softly out of the room, thinking it high time to rejoin his master.
'Is it Michael?' asked Audrey, with her face well hidden in her wardrobe.
'To think of your guessing like that!' returned Mollie in a vexed tone. 'Whatever put Captain Burnett in your head, Audrey? Everyone else is so surprised. Mrs. Ross nearly jumped off her chair when she heard his voice. He has been here two hours, and we have all been so busy getting his 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 quickly if 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, as her trembling fingers bungled with the fastening. Her cheeks were burning, and yet her hands were cold as ice. Would he see how nervous she was, and how she dreaded to meet him? And yet the thought that he was there—in the house—and that in a few minutes she should hear his beloved voice, made her almost dizzy with happiness. And as she clasped the brilliant cross on her neck she hardly dare look at herself, for fear she should read her own secret in her eyes.
The gong sounded before she was ready, and she dared not linger, for fear Mollie should come again in search of her. Without giving herself time for thought, she hurried down, and stood panting a little before the drawing-room door. Yes, they were all there: her father and mother and Mollie; and someone else—imperfectly seen through a sort of haze—was there too! Audrey never knew what word of greeting came to her lips as Michael took her hand. Her eyes were never lifted, as she felt that strong, warm pressure. His low-toned 'I have come, Audrey,' might mean anything or nothing, and was met by absolute silence on her part. Perhaps Michael felt this meeting embarrassing, for he dropped her hand in another moment and spoke to Mollie, and Audrey took refuge with her father.
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 the first few minutes. Dr. Ross was questioning Michael about his route, and Michael seemed to have a great deal to say about his journey.
Audrey recovered herself, and breathed a little more freely. He was talking to her father, and she could venture one glance at him. How well he looked! He was not so pale, and hismoustache seemed darker—she had never thought him handsome before. But at this point, and as though aware of her scrutiny, Michael turned his face full on her, and a flash from the keen blue eyes made her head droop over her plate. During the rest of dinner she scarcely spoke, and more than once Mrs. Ross looked at her in some perplexity. Audrey was very strange, she thought. Had she and Michael quarrelled, that they had met so coldly, with not even a cousinly kiss after his long absence. And now they did not speak to each other!
Dinner was later than usual that night, and the prayer-bell sounded before 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 had no hymn-book, and she must offer him hers. He took it from her, perhaps because he noticed that her hand was not steady; and she could hear his clear, full bass, though she could not utter a note.
He was still beside her as they left the schoolroom; but as she was about 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. He was taking her to her father's study; and there he shut the door, as though to exclude the outer world. She was trembling with the fear of what he would say to her, and how she was to answer him, when he came up to 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 her eyes, and the look that met hers said so plainly that he understood everything, that her embarrassment and shyness passed away for ever; and as he took her in his arms, with a word or two that told her of his deep inward gladness, a sense of well-being and utter content seemed to assure her that she had found her true rest at last.
'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.'
'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.
Mrs. Browning.
Neither of them spoke for some minutes; perhaps Michael's strong emotion felt the need of silence. But presently he said in a voice that thrilled her 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 would not go through it again for worlds.'
'Has it been so bad as that?' in his old rallying tone, for he saw how greatly she was moved.
'You have no idea how bad it was. I felt that I had done something very bold and unmaidenly in writing that postscript to father's letter. I had longed for your return; but after that I began to dread it: I was so afraid of what you must think of me.'
'I think you have known my opinion on that subject for a great many years,' he replied gently. 'If you had not been different from other girls, if you had not been immeasurably above them all in my eyes, I would never have asked you to send me that message. I knew I could rely on 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 in his old way.
'You must sit there and talk to me for a little while,' he said quietly.
And as she looked at him rather doubtfully, and suggested that her mother would be wondering at their absence, he negatived the idea at once.
'By this time your father will have told her everything; he has been in my confidence all these months. No, they will not want us, and I have not seen you yet—at least, you have not seen me; I am quite sure of that.' And as Audrey's dimples came into play at this remark, he very nearly made her feel shy again by saying, 'You have no idea how lovely you 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 those three little words, I must still have come home. I could not have stayed away from you any longer.'
'If I had only known that, I might have spared myself a great deal of pain,' she replied quickly; 'but they told me that you were going to Greece and the Holy Land, and Mr. Abercrombie had come back alone, and I thought—I thought that I should never see you again.'
'I began to have the same sort of feeling myself, and then I was so tired of waiting. How long have I wanted you, Audrey?—ten or twelve years, at least. I begin to think that there never was such a fellow for constancy.'
'Ten or twelve years! What can you mean, Michael?'
But she knew well enough what he meant, only she was woman enough to love to hear him say it.
'Oh, it was quite twelve years ago! I can remember the occasion quite well. You were in a short white frock, and you had your hair streaming over your shoulders. You were such a pretty little girl, Audrey. I admired you far more than I admired Gage, with all her regular features.'
'Oh, what nonsense, Michael!'
'Nonsense! You will tell me next that you do not remember asking me to give you a kiss. "I want to kiss you, Mike, because you are so nice and smart." Do you think I shall ever forget that? I lost my heart to you then.'
'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 the same, these memories are very sweet to me. You have been my one and only love, and you know that now.'
'Oh, Michael!' And now the gray eyes filled with tears, for these words sounded like a reproach to her.
'You must not misunderstand me,' he returned, shocked at her evident misconception of his words. 'Do you think that I begrudge the love you gave that poor fellow? Some day, when you are my wife, I will tell you all 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 own keeping.'
And then he stopped, and, in rather an agitated voice, begged her that he 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 I should never make up to you for all you have gone through. Michael'—and here her look was a little wistful—'are you sure that I shall never disappoint you—that what I have to give will content you?'
But his answer fully satisfied her on this point. He was more than content, he said; he needed no assurances of her affection—he would never need them. The first look at her face had told him all he wanted to know.
'I think I can read your very thoughts, Audrey—that I know you better than you know yourself;' and as Michael said this there was a smile upon his face that seemed to baffle her—a smile so penetrating and sweet that it lingered in her memory long afterwards.
And a few minutes later Michael proved the truth of his words. He was showing her the ring that he had chosen—a half-hoop of diamonds of the finest 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 little gold ring she had always worn.
'Do not take it off!' he said hastily, as he read the tender reluctance in her face. 'Dear Audrey, why should not my diamonds keep company with his ring?' And, as her eyes expressed her gratitude, he slipped the brilliant ring into its place. 'They will soon have to make way for another. The diamonds will make a capital guard.'
But though he evidently expected an answer to this, Audrey made no response, except to remark on the lateness of the hour; and then Michael did consent to adjourn to the drawing-room.
They were eagerly expected and heartily welcomed, and as her father folded her in his arms with a murmured blessing, and she received her mother's tearful congratulations, Audrey felt how truly they appreciated her choice. On this occasion there were no drawbacks, no whispered fear of what Geraldine and her husband might say. Mrs. Ross begged that she might be allowed to carry the good news to Hillside. They were coming up to dinner, and she thought that it was due to them that they should be prepared beforehand; and, as everyone assented to this, Mrs. Ross started early the next morning on her delightful embassage.
But she had miscalculated the amount of pleasure that her news would impart. Geraldine cried with joy when she heard the news, and nothing would satisfy her except to put on her bonnet and walk back with her mother to Woodcote.
She interrupted a delightfultête-à-têtebetween the lovers. Not that either of them minded; for, as Michael sensibly remarked, he expected that they would have plenty oftête-à-têtesin their life, and Audrey was sufficiently fond of her sister to welcome her under any circumstances.
'How did you think I could wait until the evening?' she said, as she threw her arms round Audrey. 'Oh, my darling, do you know how glad I am about 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 we have all been as blind and stupid as possible! And yet, when one comes to think of it, you and Audrey are cut out for each other.'
'I was afraid you might say something about the disparity in our ages—five-and-twenty and forty; and actually I have some gray hairs already, Gage.'
'Nonsense!' she returned indignantly. 'I never saw you look younger and better in your life; and as for disparity, as you call it, isn't it just the same between Percival and myself? and can any couple be happier? If you are only as good to Audrey as Percival is to me, she will be the happiest woman in the world!'
It was a pity Mr. Harcourt could not see his wife as shemade this speech, for she looked so lovely in her matronly dignity that Michael and Audrey exchanged an admiring glance. But the climax of their success was 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 when you said "Yes" to Burnett!' was his first speech to Audrey; and then he had turned very red, and wrung her hand with such violence that it throbbed with pain.
'I think you ought to give her a kiss, Percy,' suggested his wife a little mischievously; for it was well known that Mr. Harcourt objected to any such demonstration, except to his own wife.
'No, thank you,' returned Audrey, stepping back. 'I am quite sure of Percival'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, so that she lost a certain straightforward and complimentary speech that gave a great deal of pleasure to Michael, and which he never could be induced to repeat to her.
No one could doubt Audrey's happiness after the first few days of strangeness had worn off, and she had grown used to her new position as Michael'sfiancée. Michael had been very careful not to scare her at first—he had no wish to bring back the shyness that had made their first evening such a misery to them both—and his forbearance was rewarded when he saw the old frankness and joyousness return, and Audrey became her own sweet self again.
Michael was an ardent lover, but he was not an exacting one: Audrey could have had as much freedom as she needed during their brief engagement, but she had ceased to desire such freedom.
She remembered sometimes with faint, unavoidable regret that Cyril's demonstrativeness had at times wearied her; but she had no such feeling with Michael: when he left her for a few days to complete the purchase of a pretty little property he had secured for their future home in one of the loveliest spots in Surrey, she was as restless during his absence as ever Geraldine had been.
Michael was surprised to find how she had missed him, and how overjoyed she was at his return; but he never told her so,or ever alluded to the mistake that had doomed them both to such misery.
'My innocent darling! how could she know that I loved her, when I never told her so? It was I who would have been to blame if she had married Cyril. God grant that in that case she might never have found out her mistake; but I do not know. She would always have cared too much for Michael, and he would have found it out in time;' but he kept such thoughts to himself.
Audrey had no objection to offer when Michael pleaded that they should be married early in August. He had waited long enough, she knew, and there was nothing to gain by waiting.
But she had a long talk with her mother and Geraldine about Mollie, whom she still regarded as her specialprotégée.
'Michael has Kester,' she suggested; 'so I daresay he will not mind Mollie 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 will be at Oxford, and during the long vacation he will join some reading party or other—Michael told me so; but Mollie would want a home all the year round. Why do you not leave her at Woodcote? Mother will be dreadfully dull without you at first, and, of course, I cannot always be with 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,' was Mrs. Ross's reply. 'That is a clever thought of yours, my love, and Michael certainly will want his wife to himself—men always do.'
'If you really think so, mother, and if Mollie does not mind, she shall stay at Woodcote,' was Audrey's reply.
And when Mollie was consulted she proved quite willing to do as they all wished.
'Of course, dear Mrs. Ross will be dull. And I know I should only be in Captain Burnett's way,' argued Mollie, a little tearfully. 'I knew that from the first. I shall miss you dreadfully, Audrey. No one will ever take 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's bridesmaid, speedily consoled Mollie.
Michael had stipulated that their honeymoon should be spent in Scotland, and to Audrey's amusement Braemar wasthe place he finally selected, and he would have the very cottage, or rather cottages, that Dr. Ross had taken for his family.
'We can shut up some of the rooms and only use as many as we want,' he said, when Mrs. Ross had complained of the roominess. 'We are rich people, and can afford it; and as Crauford is to be Audrey's maid, she can come with us and see that things are comfortable. Do you remember that sitting-room, Audrey, and the horse-hair sofa, and the rowan-berries and heather in the big china jars? By the bye, you must have a gray tweed dress and a deerstalker cap, and look as you used to look; and there is the little bridge where Gage and I used to meet you all when you had had a day's outing on the moors. Shall you not love to go 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 the little bridge in the sunset, watching the very same ducks dibble with their yellow bills in the brook that trickled so musically over the stones, while Michael stood beside her, lazily throwing in pebbles for Booty's amusement; on the contrary, she was laughing and talking with a great 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 is nothing, after all, like a Scotch moor. Do look at those ducks, Michael; how angry they are with Booty, and how ridiculous they look waddling over those wet stones!'
'I was thinking of something else,' he replied; and his tone made Audrey look up rather quickly. 'Do you remember your tirade on the subject of single blessedness, my Lady Bountiful, and how freedom outbalanced all the delights of wedded bliss? I recollect we were on the moors then, and Kester was with us, and I took out my pocket-book and wrote down the date. Well, I will be magnanimous and not ask an awkward question. Six weeks 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 only doing it to tease me. As though I were not much happier than I was then!'
'Are you really happier, Audrey—really and truly, my darling?'
'Oh, Michael, what a question! Am I not your wife? Isnot that answer enough? Do you think I would change places with any other woman in the world, or even with my old self?'
And as he looked at her bright face he knew that she was speaking the truth, and that Audrey Burnett so loved and reverenced her husband that she was likely to be a happier woman than Audrey Ross had been.
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