'Thy word unspoken thou canst any daySpeak; but thy spoken ne'er again unsay.'
'Thy word unspoken thou canst any day
Speak; but thy spoken ne'er again unsay.'
Eastern Proverb—Trench.
Eastern Proverb—Trench.
Michael was still away. The business that detained him was not to be settled as easily as he had expected; there were complications—a host of minor difficulties. He was unwilling to return until things were definitely arranged.
'I am too proud of my present position,' he wrote to Audrey; 'the mere fact that I am of some use in the world, and that one human being feels my advice helpful to him, quite reconciles me to my prolonged absence. Of course I mean to keep Kester with me. He is perfectly happy, and fairly revels in London sights. He and Fred are thick as thieves. Abercrombie saw him the other day—you know who I mean: Donald Abercrombie. He is a consulting physician now, and is making quite a name for himself. He has good-naturedly promised to look into the case. He says, from the little he has seen, he is sure the boy has been neglected, and that care and medical skill could have done much for him in the beginning. Abercrombie is just the fellow to interest himself thoroughly in a case like Kester's, and I have great hopes of the result. I have written to his brother, but perhaps you would be wise to say as little as possible to Mrs. Blake. She is far too sanguine by nature; and it would never do to excite hopes that might never be gratified. Mr. Blake is of a different calibre; he will look at the thing more sensibly.'
Audrey sighed as she laid aside Michael's letter. She seemed to miss him more every day, and yet she was quite willing that his absence should be prolonged. Michael would have noticed her want of spirits in a moment; she would never have beenfree from his affectionate surveillance. At a distance everything was so much easier; she could write cheerfully; she could fill the sheets with small incidents and matters of local interest, with pleasant inquiries about himself and Kester.
Nevertheless, Michael's face grew graver over each letter. He could not have told himself what was lacking to his entire satisfaction, only some strange subtle chord of sympathy, as delicate as it was unerring, warned him that all was not right with the girl.
'She is not as bright as usual,' he thought. 'Audrey's letters are generally overflowing with fun. There is a grave, almost a forced, tone about this last one. And she so seldom mentions the Blakes.'
Audrey had certainly avoided the Gray Cottage during the last three weeks; even Mollie's lessons were irksome to her. Mollie's tongue was not easily silenced. In spite of all her efforts, her cheeks often burnt at the girl's innocent loquacity. Mollie was for ever making awkward speeches or asking questions that Audrey found difficult to answer; she would chatter incessantly about her mother and Cyril.
'Mamma is so dreadfully worried about Cyril!' she said once. 'She wants him to speak to Dr. Powell; she is quite sure that he is ill. He hardly eats anything—at least, he has no appetite—and mamma says that is so strange in a young man. And he walks about his room half the night; Biddy hears him. You recollect that evening he dined at Woodcote? Well, he never came home that night until past twelve, and Biddy declares that his bed was not slept in at all; he must just have thrown himself down on it for an hour or two. And he had such a bad headache the next morning.'
Audrey walked to the piano and threw it open.
'I am very sorry your brother is not well,' she said in rather a forced voice, as she flecked a little dust off the legs. 'Mollie, I think Caroline has forgotten to dust the piano this morning. Will you hand me that feather-brush, please? I want you to try this duet with me; it is such a pretty one!' And after that Mollie's fingers were kept so hard at work that she found no more opportunity for talking about Cyril.
Another time, as Audrey looked over her French exercise, she heard a deep sigh, and glancing up from the book, found Mollie gazing at her with round sorrowful eyes.
'Well, what now?' she asked a little sharply.
'Oh, I am so sorry, Miss Ross!' returned Mollie, falteringand turning red; 'I am so dreadfully sorry, Miss Ross, that Cyril has offended you. I thought you were such good friends, but now——' She stopped, somewhat abashed at Audrey's displeased expression.
'My dear Mollie, I have never been really vexed with you before; but you will annoy me excessively if you talk such nonsense. I am not in the least offended with your brother—whatever made you say such a thing?—and we are perfectly good friends.'
Audrey spoke with much dignity as she took up her pen again.
Poor Mollie looked very much frightened.
'Oh dear, Miss Ross,' she said penitently, 'you are not really cross with me, are you? It was not my own idea; only mamma said last night that she was sure you were offended about something, for you never come to see us now, and your manner was so different when she spoke to you after chapel on Sunday; and then she said perhaps Cyril had offended you.'
'I tell you it is all nonsense, Mollie!'
'Yes, but I am sure there is something,' returned Mollie, half crying, for Audrey had never been impatient with her before. 'Cyril will never let me talk to him about you; he gets up and leaves the room when mamma begins wondering why you never come. Cyril was quite cross when she asked him to give you a message the other day. "It is more in Mollie's line," he said; "I never can remember messages," and he walked away, and mamma cried, and said she could not think what had happened to him—that he had never been cross with her in his life before; but that now she hardly dared open her lips to him, he took her up so.'
Audrey sighed wearily, then she gave Mollie a comforting little pat.
'Mollie, dear,' she said kindly, 'I did not mean to be cross with you; but you do say such things, you know, and really you are old enough to know better'—and as Mollie only looked at her wonderingly—'oh, go away!—you are a dear little soul; but you talk as though you were a baby; no one is offended. If your brother is not well, why cannot you leave him in peace? I don't think you understand that men never like to be questioned about their ailments; they are not like women. Cornwall certainly did not agree with him.'
'Do you think it is only that? Oh, I won't say another word if you will only not be cross with me;' and Mollie relieved her feelings by one of her strangling hugs.
Mollie was quite used to people finding fault with her andtelling her she was a goose. When Audrey kissed her, she sat down and copied her exercise in a humble and contrite spirit; it was Audrey who felt sad and spiritless the rest of the day. 'It has gone deeper than I thought; it has gone very deep,' she said with a sort of shiver, as she walked up to Hillside that afternoon.
But a far worse ordeal was before Audrey—one that threw all Mollie's girlish chatter into the shade. A few days afterwards she received a little note from Mrs. Blake.
'My dear Miss Ross,' it began,'I am nearly desperate. What have Mollie or I done that we should be sent to Coventry after this fashion? At least, not Mollie—I am wrong there: Mollie still basks in the light of your smiles, is still allowed to converse with you; it is only I who seem to be debarred from such privileges. Now, my dear creature, what can you mean by keeping away from us like this? I was at Woodcote yesterday, but you had flown. I had to sit and chat with Mrs. Ross instead; she is delightful, but she is not her daughter; no one but yourself can ever fill your place; no one can be Miss Ross. Now will you make us amends for all this unfriendliness? If you will only come to tea with me to-morrow I will promise you full forgiveness and the warmest of welcomes.'Yours affectionately but resentfully,M. Blake.'
'My dear Miss Ross,' it began,
'I am nearly desperate. What have Mollie or I done that we should be sent to Coventry after this fashion? At least, not Mollie—I am wrong there: Mollie still basks in the light of your smiles, is still allowed to converse with you; it is only I who seem to be debarred from such privileges. Now, my dear creature, what can you mean by keeping away from us like this? I was at Woodcote yesterday, but you had flown. I had to sit and chat with Mrs. Ross instead; she is delightful, but she is not her daughter; no one but yourself can ever fill your place; no one can be Miss Ross. Now will you make us amends for all this unfriendliness? If you will only come to tea with me to-morrow I will promise you full forgiveness and the warmest of welcomes.
'Yours affectionately but resentfully,M. Blake.'
Audrey wrote a pretty playful little answer to this. She was sorry to be accused of unfriendliness, but nothing was farther from her thoughts; she was very busy, very much engaged. Relays of parents had been interviewing them at Woodcote; her sister had not been well, and all her afternoons had been spent at Hillside. Mrs. Blake must be lenient; she would come soon, very soon, and so on. Mrs. Blake was more formidable than Mollie, and Audrey was determined to delay her visit as long as possible. Just now she had a good excuse. Geraldine was a little delicate and ailing, and either she or her mother went daily to Hillside.
Audrey breathed more freely when she had sent off her note; she had given it into Cyril's hand at luncheon—a sudden impulse made her choose that mode of delivery.
'I wish you would give this to your mother,' she said, addressing him suddenly as he sat beside her. 'She wants me to have tea with her to-morrow; but it is impossible, I have so much to do just now.'
'I could have told her; there was no need for you to writeor to trouble yourself in any way. I am afraid my mother is rather exacting; it is a Blake foible.' He smiled as he spoke, and there was no special meaning in his tone; he seemed to take it as a matter of course that Audrey's visits to the Cottage had ceased. 'It will be all right,' he said, as he put the letter in his breast-pocket; and then he stopped and called some boy to order. 'You will stay in after luncheon, Roberts,' he said severely, and after that he did not speak again to Audrey.
But that letter, strange to say, brought things to a climax. The very next morning Mollie gave Audrey a note.
'It is from mamma,' she said, rather timidly. 'Would you like me to begin my piece, Miss Ross, while you read it?'
'Yes, certainly; but it does not seem a long letter.' And, indeed, it only contained a few words:
'Dear Miss Ross,'I must see you. If you will not come to me, will you tell Mollie when I may call? But I must and will speak to you alone.'
'Dear Miss Ross,
'I must see you. If you will not come to me, will you tell Mollie when I may call? But I must and will speak to you alone.'
Audrey twisted up the paper in her hand; then she stood behind Mollie and beat time for a moment.
'Mollie,' she said hurriedly, as she turned over the page, 'will you tell your mother that I will come to her this afternoon a little before three? I shall not be able to stay, but just for half an hour;' and then she sat down and quietly and patiently pointed out how an erring passage ought to be played. But there was a tired look on her face long before the lesson ended.
All her life long Audrey never forgot the strange chill sensation that came over her as she read that note; it was as though some dim, overmastering force were impelling her against her own will. As she crushed the letter in her hand, she told herself that circumstances were becoming too strong for her.
Her face was very grave that afternoon as she pushed open the green gate and walked up to the open door. It seemed to her as though she were someone else, as she crossed the threshold and stood for a moment in the little hall. Biddy came out of the kitchen. The mistress was in the drawing-room, she said, and Miss Mollie was out; and Audrey, still with that strange weight at her heart, went upstairs slowly. Mrs. Blake was sitting in her usual seat by the window. She rose without speaking and took Audrey's hands, but there was no smile upon her face. She looked very pale, and Audrey could see at once that she had been weeping.
'You have come,' she said quietly; 'I thought my letter would bring you. Perhaps it was wrong of me to write; I ought to have come to you instead. But how was I to speak to you alone? Last night I was almost desperate, and then I was obliged to send for you.'
'If you wanted me so much, of course you were right to send for me.'
Audrey was conscious that her manner was cold, and that her voice was hardly as sympathetic as usual. She was sure Mrs. Blake noticed it, for her eyes filled with tears.
'Oh, how coldly you speak! My poor boy has indeed offended you deeply. Oh, I know everything; he was too unhappy last night to hide it any longer from his mother. Do you know what he said to me?—that with all his strength he could not bear it, and that he must go away.'
'Go away—leave Rutherford?'
'Yes;' and now the tears were streaming down her face, and her voice was almost choked with sobs. 'He said he must give it up, and that we must all go away—that the effort is killing him, and that no man could bear such an ordeal. Oh, Miss Ross'—as Audrey averted her face—'I know you are sorry for him; but think what it was for his mother to stand by and hear him say such things. My boy—my brave, noble-hearted boy, who has never given me an hour's pain in his life!'
'And you have sent for me to tell me this?'
There was something proud, almost resentful, in Audrey's tone.
'Yes; but you must not be angry with me. I think that, if Cyril knew that I was betraying him, he would never give me his confidence again. Last night I heard him walking about his room, and I went up to him. He wanted to send me away, but I would not go. I knelt down beside him and put my arms round his neck, and told him that I had found out his secret. It had come to me with a sudden flash as I sat beside him in chapel last Sunday. You passed up the aisle, and I saw his face, and then I knew what ailed him. And in the darkness I whispered in his ear, "My poor boy, you love Audrey Ross!"'
Audrey put up one hand to shield her face, but she made no remark. She must hear it all; she had brought this misery upon them, and she must not refuse to share it.
'He owned it then. I will not tell you what he said; it must be sacred between my boy and me. Oh, you do not know him! His nature is intense, like mine; he takes nothing easily. When he says that it is killing him by inches, andthat we must go away, I know he is speaking the truth. How is he to live here, seeing you every day, and knowing that there is no love for him in your heart? How could any man drag out such a hopeless existence?'
'Such things are done every day.' Audrey hardly knew what she was saying. A dull pain seemed to contract her heart; he was going away. Somehow, this thought had never occurred to her.
'Yes, but not by men of Cyril's nature. He is strong, but his very strength seems to make him suffer more keenly. If he stayed here, people would begin to talk; he would not always be able to hide what he felt. He thinks he ought to go away for your sake. "I am giving her pain now, and by and by it will be worse"—those were his very words.'
'I think it would be braver to stay on here. Will you tell him so, Mrs. Blake?'
'No, Miss Ross, I will not tell him so; I will not consent to see him slowly tortured. If he tells us we must go, I will not say a dissenting word. What is my own comfort compared to his? I have had a hard life, God knows! and now it will be harder still.'
'But you have other children to consider,' remonstrated Audrey faintly. 'If you leave here, Mollie and Kester will be sacrificed. Surely, you have put this before him.'
'No, indeed, I have not; he has always been my first consideration. Of course, I know how bad it will be for the poor children; but if it comes to that—to choose between them and Cyril——' And a strange, passionate look came into her eyes.
'Hush, hush! I do not like to hear you talk so,' replied Audrey. 'It is wrong; no mother ought to make such a difference. You are not yourself, or you would not say such things. It is all this trouble.'
'Perhaps you are right,' she returned drearily. 'I think it has half crazed me to know we must go away. Oh, if you knew what my life has been, and what a haven of rest this has seemed!' She looked round the room, and a sort of spasm crossed her face. 'It is all so sweet and homelike, and he has loved it so; and now to begin all afresh, and to go amongst strangers—and then the loss——' She stopped as though something seemed to choke her.
Audrey felt as though she could hear no more. 'It is all my fault,' she burst out; 'how you must hate me!' But Mrs. Blake shook her head with a sad smile.
'I don't seem to have the power of hating you,' she said, so gently that Audrey's lip quivered. 'How can I hate what my boy loves?' and then she paused and looked at Audrey, as though the sight of her suppressed emotion stirred some dim hope within her: 'If I thought it would help him, I would kneel at your feet like a beggar and pray you to have compassion upon him; but I know what such pity would be worth—do you think Cyril would accept any woman's pity?'
'No, no,' and then Audrey rose and put out her hands in a beseeching way. 'Will you let me go? Indeed, indeed, I can bear no more——'
'Yes, you shall go,' returned Mrs. Blake in a stifled tone. 'I have not been generous, I have spared you nothing, and yet it is not your fault. You have not played with my boy's heart; you never tried to win his heart. Cyril said so himself.'
'No, you have not spared me,' was Audrey's answer, and then the two women parted without kissing each other—Audrey was too sore, too bewildered, for any such caress. They stood holding each other's hands for a moment, and then Mrs. Blake walked to the other end of the room and threw herself down upon a couch. Audrey looked at her for an instant, then she turned and went slowly down the stairs. But as she closed the green gate after her, she told herself that she must be alone for a little, and with a sudden impulse she turned into the courtyard that led to the school-house and chapel. There was one spot where she would be in perfect seclusion, and that was the school library; even if some stray boy were to make his appearance in search of a book—a very unlikely thing at this time in the afternoon—her presence there would attract no notice: she had several times chosen it as a cool, quiet retreat on a hot summer's afternoon. The sight of the big shabby room, with its pillars and book recesses and sloping desks, gave her a momentary sense of relief. The stillness soothed her, and the tumultuous singing in her head and ears seemed to lull. She sat down in one of the inner recesses and looked out on the row of ivy-covered studies and the little gate that led down to the town. A tame jackdaw was hopping among the stones, and a couple of fan-tail pigeons were strutting near him. The mellow brightness of the October sunshine seemed to flood the whole court. Oh, how peaceful it looked, how calm and still! and then Audrey suddenly put down her face on her hands and cried like a baby. 'Oh, if it were only not my fault!' she sobbed; 'but I cannot, cannot bear it,' and for a time she could do nothing but weep.
'To his eyeThere was but one beloved face on earth,Andthatwas shining on him.'
'To his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
Andthatwas shining on him.'
Chapman.
Chapman.
Audrey never knew how long she sat there, shedding those healing tears, every one of which seemed to relieve her overcharged heart; it was a luxury to sit there in that cool shadowed stillness. Presently she would rouse herself and go back to her world again; presently, but not just now! By and by she would think it all out, she would question her own heart more closely. Hitherto she had feared any such scrutiny—now it would be selfish, cowardly, to avoid it any longer; but at the present minute she was only conscious that she and everyone else were miserable.
At this moment she heard footsteps crossing the courtyard. Then, to her dismay, they entered the lobby. She had only just time to drag down a book from the shelves and open it haphazard; it was a volume on natural history. Anyone would have thought her absorbed, she pored so attentively over that plate of gaudy butterflies, never raising her head to look at the new-comer, who stood a few yards off regarding her with unqualified astonishment. Cyril Blake—for it was he, and no other, who had entered the library—would willingly have withdrawn without attracting her notice; but one of the boys in the sanatorium wanted a certain fascinating book of adventures, and he had promised to fetch it. He knew the volume was in this very recess, and he saw with some annoyance that it would be necessary to disturb her.
'Miss Ross,' he said, in that quiet, guarded tone in which he always addressed her now, 'may I trouble you to move just forone moment? I am so sorry to disturb you, but Willie Taylor—' and then he stopped as though he were suddenly petrified.
Audrey had risen quickly, but as she moved aside he had a full view of her face—the flushed cheeks and swollen eyelids told their own tale.
'Good heavens!' he exclaimed, forgetting his errand and speaking in excessive agitation, 'you are unhappy—something is the matter!' and Cyril turned quite pale.
Poor Audrey! her feelings were not very enviable at that moment. That she should be discovered by the very person whom she was most anxious to avoid! If he would only go away and leave her, and not stand there asking her questions! But nothing was farther from Cyril's intentions. For the minute he had forgotten everything, except that she was unhappy.
'You are not well, or else something has been troubling you,' he continued, and his voice softened with involuntary tenderness. 'Miss Ross, you promised that we should be friends—will you not treat me as one now? There is nothing I would not do to help you, if you would only tell me what is troubling you.'
'It is impossible,' she returned with a little sob. Oh, if he would only go away, and not speak to her so kindly! 'One must be troubled sometimes, and no one can help me—if you will only leave me to myself.'
'Leave you like this?'
'Yes, indeed—indeed. I cannot talk;' and Audrey wiped away the tears that seemed to blind her. She so seldom gave way—she so seldom permitted herself this feminine luxury of tears—but when once she set them flowing they were simply uncontrollable. She could not help what Cyril thought of her. 'If you would only go away,' she repeated, turning from him as he stood there as though rooted to the spot.
'I cannot go;' and here Cyril's lips became quite white under his moustache.
Some sudden intuition of the truth had come to him. Why had he not thought of that before? It had never even occurred to him. An hour ago he had met Mollie wandering about the town disconsolately. Miss Ross was at the Cottage, she had said; it was only a call, and she had taken the message herself; and then her mother had given her some errands to do, and had charged her strictly not to return for at least an hour.
'Mamma never likes me to be at home when Miss Rosscomes,' Mollie had observed in an aggrieved tone. But Cyril had taken no notice of the speech—he knew his mother's little ways, and no suspicion of the truth had come to him. It was only the sight of Audrey's emotion that quickened it into life now.
'You have seen my mother,' he exclaimed; and here his face grew dark and stern. 'She has been talking to you—making you unhappy. Miss Ross,' as she remained silent, 'you must answer me. This concerns me very closely. I have a right to know if my mother has betrayed me!'
His tone frightened Audrey.
'You must not be vexed with her,' she said, rousing herself to defend the absent. 'She is very unhappy, and of course it troubled me.' Audrey spoke with her usual simplicity—what was the use of trying to hide it any longer? Cyril's impetuous pertinacity gave her no chance of escape.
'And she told you that I was going away?'
Audrey bowed her head.
'It was very wrong,' he returned, still sternly. 'Whom is a man to trust, if he cannot trust his own mother? She has betrayed my confidence. It was cruel to me, but it was far more cruel to you—it is that I cannot forgive.'
'No, no! You must not say that—she did not mean to be cruel, Mr. Blake. Of course I ought not to have known this, and of course it has made me very unhappy. But now I must ask you something. Will you not wait a little? Things may be better—easier——' And here she looked at him timidly, and her expression was very sweet.
But Cyril was not looking at her; he was having a hard fight with himself. He was angry—justly angry, as he thought; nay, more, he was humiliated that his mother should have appealed to this girl—that, knowing her kind heart, she should have inflicted this pain on her. The sight of her grief, her gentleness, almost maddened him, and he averted his eyes as he answered her.
'They cannot be easier. But do not mistake my meaning—perhaps my mother has misled you—let me put it right. No pain or difficulty is driving me away; do not think that for a moment. However hard it might be to go on living here, I think I could have endured it, if it were only right to do so. But I have made up my mind that it is not right, and to-morrow morning I shall speak to Dr. Ross.'
'Oh no, no!' and here Audrey clasped her hands involuntarily.But Cyril's eyes were fixed on some carrier-pigeons fluttering across the courtyard.
'It is my duty to do it, and it must be done. If Dr. Ross questions me, I shall tell him the truth: "I must go away because I have dared to love your daughter; and if I stayed here I should never cease from my efforts to win her." That is what I should tell him, Miss Ross. I think he will not press me to remain under these circumstances.' And Cyril gave a bitter little laugh.
'Perhaps not;' and here Audrey sank down upon her chair, for she felt weak and giddy.
'I am glad, at least, that you think I am doing right.'
'I did not say so.'
'Pardon me;' and here Cyril did try to get a glimpse of her face, for something in her tone baffled him. 'You, who know all, must of course approve my conduct. If I stayed here I could not answer for myself; it is better—safer—that I should go; though wherever I am,' here his voice trembled with exquisite tenderness, 'I must always love you.'
'Then in that case you had better remain.'
Audrey tried to shield her face as she spoke, but he had seen a little tremulous smile flit over her features, and she could not hide her dimple. What could she mean? Was he fooling himself—dreaming? The next moment he had dropped on one knee beside her, and was begging her, with tears in his eyes, to look at him.
'This is a matter of life and death to me,' he implored, compelling her by the very strength of his will to turn her blushing face to him. 'Miss Ross—Audrey'—his tone almost amounting to awe—'you cannot mean that you really care for me?'
'I am afraid I do care too much to let you go,' she half whispered. But as he grasped her hands, and looked at her almost incredulously: 'Why is it so impossible? I think in a way I have long cared.'
But even then he did not seem satisfied.
'It is not pity—you are sure of that? It is nothing that my mother has said? Audrey, if I thought that, I would rather die than take advantage of you. Tell me, dear'—and the pleading of his eyes was almost more than she could bear—'you would not so humiliate me?'
'No, Cyril, I would not.'
His name came so naturally to her, she hardly knew shesaid it; but a gleam of joy passed over the young man's face as he heard it, and the next moment he drew her towards him.
Audrey took it all quite simply; she listened to her young lover's passionate protestation of gratitude, half shyly, half happily. The reverence with which he treated her touched her profoundly; he did not overpower her with the force of his affection. After the first few moments of agitated feeling he had quieted himself and her.
'I must not try you too much,' he said. 'If I were to talk for an hour I could never make you understand how happy I am. It is a new existence; it is wonderful. Yesterday I was so tired of my life, and to-day—to-day, Audrey——'
'I am happy, too,' she said, in a soft, contented voice. 'All these weeks have been so miserable; I seemed to miss you so—but you would have nothing to say to me. Do you remember that evening when you took my queen? Oh, how unhappy I was that night! And you saw it, and went away.'
'I did not go far,' he returned, taking possession of one hand—the soft white hand that lay so quietly in his. 'It was the only thing I could do for you—to keep out of your sight as much as possible. I walked up and down the road like a sentinel for hours; it did not seem possible to go home and sleep. I felt as though I never wanted to sleep again. I could only think of you in your white gown as you sat opposite to me, and how your hand trembled, and how cold it felt when I said good-night. I thought it was all your goodness, and because you were sorry for me. Were you beginning to care for me a little even then, my darling?'
'I do not know,' she answered gently. 'You must not question me too closely. I hardly understand myself how it has all come about.'
'No,' he returned, looking at her with a sort of worship in his eyes—the worship with which a good, true woman will sometimes inspire a man, and which makes their love a higher education; 'it is all a miracle. I am not worthy of you; but you shall see—you shall see how dearly I shall prize this precious gift.'
And then for a moment they were both silent.
'You will not now forbid me to speak to your father?' he said presently; and a shade of anxiety crept into his voice in spite of his intense happiness.
The thought of that interview somewhat daunted him. It was surely a daring thing for a junior classical master to tellhis chief that he had won his daughter's affections; it was an ordeal that most men would have dreaded.
Audrey seemed to read his thoughts.
'I hope I shall never hinder you from doing your duty,' she said quietly, 'and, of course, you will have to speak to him; but'—looking at him with one of her radiant smiles—'you will find him quite prepared.'
'Do you mean that you will speak to him first? Oh no; it is surely my prerogative to spare you this.'
'But I do not wish to be spared,' she returned happily. 'Cyril, I do not think you have any idea of what my father is to me, and I to him. Do you suppose I should sleep until I have told him? There has never been any secret between us. Even when I was a little child, I would take him all my broken toys to mend, and if I fell down or cut my finger—and I was always in mischief—it was always father who must bind it up, and kiss and comfort me; and, with all his hard work, he was never too busy to attend to me.'
'I think in your place I would have gone to your mother. You must not be jealous, darling, if I tell you that I fell in love with her first.'
'I am so glad. Dear mother! everyone loves her. But when Gage and I were children, I was always the one most with father. I think there is no one in the world like him, and Michael says the same. I must write and tell Michael about this.'
'Oh yes; he is like your brother. I remember you told me so. But, dearest, I must confess I am a little anxious about Dr. Ross. I am only a poor man, you know; he may refuse his consent.'
Audrey shook her head.
'Father is not like that,' she said tranquilly. 'We think the same on these matters; we are both of us very impulsive. I have some money of my own, you know—not much'—as Cyril's brow contracted a little—'but enough to be a real help. But do not let us talk about that; I have never cared for such things. If you had not a penny in the world you would be still yourself—Cyril Blake.'
Audrey looked so charming as she said this, that the cloud on Cyril's brow cleared like magic.
'And you do not think your father will be angry?'
'Angry! Why should he be angry?' opening her eyes widely. 'He may be disappointed—very probably he will beso; he may think I might have done better for myself. He may even argue the point a little. The great blessing is that one is not obliged to consult one's sister in such cases; for'—looking at him with her old fun—'I am afraid Gage would refuse her consent.'
'Yes; I am afraid both Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt will send me to Coventry.'
'To be sure they will; but I suppose even Coventry will be bearable under some circumstances. Oh dear!' interrupting herself, 'do you see how dark it is growing? We have actually forgotten the time. I must really be going.'
'I ought not to have kept you so long,' he returned remorsefully. 'There, you shall go! I will not detain you another moment. I think it will be better for you to go alone. I will stay here another half-hour; I could not speak to anyone just now. I must be alone and think over this wonderful thing that has happened.'
'Very well,' she replied. But some minutes elapsed before the last good-bye was said. There were things he had forgotten to say. More than once, as she turned away, he detained her with some parting request. When she had really gone, and the last sound of her footsteps died away, he went back into the dusky room, and threw himself down on the chair where she had sat, and abandoned himself to a delicious retrospect.
'And it is true—it is not a dream!' he said to himself when, an hour later, he roused himself to go back to the Gray Cottage. 'Oh, thank God that He has given me this priceless gift! If I could only be worthy of her!' finished the young man with tender reverence, as he crossed the courtyard and let himself in at the green door.
Mrs. Ross looked at her daughter rather anxiously that evening; she thought Audrey was rather quiet and a trifle subdued. Geraldine and her husband were dining at Woodcote. Audrey, who had forgotten they were expected, was rather taken aback when she saw her sister, and made her excuses a little hurriedly. She had been detained—all sorts of things had detained her. She had been to the Gray Cottage and the library. She had not walked far enough to tire herself—this being the literal fact, as not a quarter of a mile lay between Woodcote and the Cottage. Oh no, she was not the least tired, and she hoped Geraldine felt better.
'Much better, thank you,' returned Geraldine, with one of her keen glances; and then she somewhat elaborately changed the subject. Audrey was not subjected to any cross-examination; indeed, there was something significant in Mrs. Harcourt's entire dearth of curiosity; but all the time she was saying to herself: 'Audrey has been crying; her eyes are quite swollen, and yet she looks cheerful. What can it mean? What has she been doing? She has hardly had time to smooth her hair, it looks so rough. I wonder if Percival notices anything! I am sure father does, for he keeps looking at her,' and so on.
It was Mr. Harcourt who was Audrey'sbête noirthat evening. He was in one of his argumentative moods, and could not be made to understand that his sister-in-law would have preferred silence. He was perpetually urging her to single combat, touching her up on some supposed tender point in the hope of getting a rally. 'I suppose Audrey, who goes in for women's rights so warmly, will differ from me if I say so and so?' or 'We must ask Audrey what she thinks of that, my dear; she is a great stickler for feminine prerogative;' and then he would point his chin, and a sort of sarcastic light would come into his eyes. It was positive enjoyment to him when Audrey rose to the bait and floundered hopelessly into an argument. But, on the whole, she acquitted herself ill. 'You are too clever for me to-night, Percival,' she said a little wearily, as he stood talking to her with his coffee cup in his hand; 'I cannot think what makes men so fond of debating and argument. If they can only persuade a person that black is white, they go home and sleep quite happily.'
'It is such a triumph to make people see with one's own eyes,' he returned, as though accepting a compliment. 'Have you ever read theRepublicof Plato? No! I should recommend it for your perusal: it is an acknowledged masterpiece; the reasoning is superb, and it is rich in illustrations. The want of women is that, with all their intelligence, they are so illogical. Now, if women only had the education of men——'
'Harcourt, I think Geraldine is tired, and would like you to take her home,' observed Dr. Ross, interrupting the stream of eloquence; and Mr. Harcourt, without finishing his sentence, went at once in search of his wife. Women might be illogical, but they were to be considered, for all that. With all his satire and love of argument, Mr. Harcourt valued his wife'scomfort before his own. 'I am quite ready, dear,' he said, as she looked up at him with a deprecating smile; 'and I know your mother will excuse us.'
Dr. Ross had walked with his daughter to the gate. Young Mrs. Harcourt was a woman who always exacted these little attentions from the menkind around her; without demanding them, she took them naturally as her right and prerogative. It would have seemed strange to her if her father had not offered her his arm. 'Good-bye, father dear,' she said, giving him her firm cool cheek to kiss; 'Percy and I have had such a nice evening.'
Dr. Ross walked back to the house; then he went to his study and lighted his reading-lamp. There was a certain interesting debate in theTimeswhich he wished much to read—a Ministerial crisis was at hand, and Dr. Ross, who was Conservative to the backbone, was aware that his party was menaced. He had just taken the paper in his hand when Audrey came into the room. 'Good-night, my dear,' he said, without looking up; but Audrey did not take the hint.
'Daddy, I want to speak to you,' she said very quietly; 'will you please put that paper down for a moment?' And then she added, 'I want to speak to you very particularly.'
Dr. Ross heaved a sigh and lowered his paper somewhat reluctantly. 'Would not another time have done as well?' he grumbled good-humouredly; 'Harcourt has taken up all the evening. That is the worst of having an elderly son-in-law; one is bound to be civil to him; one could not tell him to hold his tongue, for example.'
'I think Percival would resent such a hint,' returned Audrey rather absently. She had drawn a low chair close to her father's knee, so that she could touch him, and now she looked up in his face a little pleadingly.
'Well, what is it, child?' he went on, still fingering his paper; 'I suppose you want help for someprotégéeor other—moderation in all things. I warn you that I have not got Fortunatus's purse.'
'It is not money I want,' she returned, so gravely that he began to feel uncomfortable. 'Daddy, it is something very, very different. This afternoon Cyril Blake spoke to me, and I—that is, we—are engaged.'
Dr. Ross gave a great start and dropped theTimesas though it burnt him. For a moment he did not speak. With all his mildness and benevolence, he was a man of strongpassions, though no one would have guessed it from his habitual self-control.
'We are engaged,' she repeated softly, and then she stroked her father's hand; but he drew it rather quickly away.
'Audrey,' he said, in a voice that she did not recognise, it was so stern, so full of displeasure; 'I would rather have heard anything than this, that a child of mine should so far forget herself as to engage herself to any man without her parents' consent.'
'Oh, daddy——' she began caressingly, but he stopped her.
'It was wrong; it was what I would not have believed of you, Audrey; but with regard to Mr. Blake, it was altogether dishonourable. How dared he,' here the Doctor's eyes flashed through his spectacles, 'how dared he win my daughter's affections in this clandestine way?'
'Father, you must not speak so of Cyril!' returned Audrey calmly, though she was a little pale—a little disturbed at this unexpected severity; 'it is not what you think: there was nothing clandestine or dishonourable. He did not mean to speak to me; it was more my fault than his. You shall hear all, every word from the beginning. Do you think I would hide anything from my father?' And here two large tears welled slowly from Audrey's eyes, but she wiped them away. Perhaps her gentleness and the sight of those tears mollified Dr. Ross, for when Audrey laid her clasped hands upon his knee he did not again repulse her. Nay, more, when she faltered once in telling her story, he put his hand on her head reassuringly.
'Is that all you have to tell me, my dear?' and now Dr. Ross spoke in his old kind voice.
'Yes, father dear; you have heard everything now, and—and—' beseechingly, 'you will not be hard on us!'
'Hard on him, I suppose you mean,' returned Dr. Ross, with rather a sad smile; 'a man is not likely to be hard to his own flesh and blood. I still think he has acted rather badly, but I can make allowance for him better now—he was sorely tempted. But now I want you to tell me something: are you sure that your happiness is involved in this—that it would really cost you too much to give him up?'
Audrey looked at her father with some astonishment—that wide, clear-eyed glance conveyed reproach.
'Do you think it necessary to ask me such a question?' shesaid, with a little dignity; 'should I have engaged myself to any man without loving him?'
'But he may have talked you into it; you may have mistaken your feelings,' suggested Dr. Ross; but Audrey shook her head.
'I am not a child,' she said, rather proudly. 'Father, you have always liked Mr. Blake. You can surely have no objection to him personally?'
'Yes, but my liking did not go to the extent of wishing him to be my son-in-law,' he replied, with a touch of grim humour; 'in my opinion, Audrey, Mr. Blake is far too young.'
'He is three-and-twenty,' she pleaded; 'he is two months older than I am. What does age matter, father? He will grow older every day. I know some men are boyish at that age; but I think Cyril's life has matured him.'
'Still, I would rather have entrusted you to an older man, and one who had in some measure made his position. Mr. Blake is only at the beginning of his career; it will be years before he achieves any sort of position. Audrey, you know me well enough by this time: I am not speaking of his poverty, though that alone should have deterred him from aspiring to my daughter. We think alike on these points, and I care nothing about a rich son-in-law; but Mr. Blake has only his talents and good character to recommend him. He is far too young; he is poor, and his family has no social standing.'
'But, father, surely a good character is everything. How often I have heard you say what a high opinion his Dean had of him, and what an excellent character he had borne at school and college; and then think what a son and a brother he is—how unselfish, how hard-working! How could any girl be afraid of entrusting her future to him?'
Dr. Ross sighed. Audrey's mind was evidently made up. Why had he brought this misfortune on them all by engaging this fascinating young master—for he certainly looked upon it as a misfortune. After all, was it any wonder that Cyril Blake, with his perfect face and lovable disposition, had found his way to his daughter's heart? 'Why could he not have fallen in love with someone else?' he groaned to himself; for Audrey was the very apple of his eye, and there was no one he thought good enough for her, unless it were Michael. Not that such an idea ever really occurred to him. Michael's ill-health put such a thing out of the question; but Michael was his adopted son, and far above the average of men, in his opinion.
'Father, you will remember that my happiness is involved in this,' Audrey said, after a little more talk had passed between them. 'You will be good to Cyril when he speaks to you to-morrow.'
'Oh yes; I will be good to him.'
And then Audrey laid her hot cheek against him, and thanked him as she bid him good-night; but when she had gone there were no debates read that night—Dr. Ross had too many thoughts to occupy him as he sat alone in his empty study.