'Still, it seems to me that love—true and profound love—should be a source of light and calm, a religion and a revelation, in which there is no place left for the lower victories of vanity.'—Amiel.
'Still, it seems to me that love—true and profound love—should be a source of light and calm, a religion and a revelation, in which there is no place left for the lower victories of vanity.'—Amiel.
It cannot be denied that Cyril Blake had rather a hard time of it in the Doctor's study. Dr. Ross received him kindly; but his kindness was a trifle iced as he shook hands with the young man, and then seated himself in his big easy-chair. He groaned inwardly: 'I am an old fool,' he thought, 'ever to have brought him here. How confoundedly handsome the fellow is! if one could only honestly dislike him!' and then he assumed a judicial aspect as he listened to the culprit.
On the whole, Cyril acquitted himself fairly; he was very pale, and hesitated a little over his words; but he stated his case with sufficient eloquence. His love for Audrey bore him triumphantly even through this ordeal.
'You have reason to be angry with me,' he said with ingenuous frankness. 'I had no right to speak to Miss Ross until I had gained your permission to do so.'
'It was certainly a grievous mistake, Mr. Blake.'
'You are very kind not to call it by another name; I will own frankly it was a mistake. I must beg you to make allowances for a very strong temptation. Under some circumstances a man is not always master of himself.'
Dr. Ross half smiled. After all, this braw wooer was bearing himself with manly dignity.
'I hope you will believe me,' continued Cyril earnestly, 'when I say that I acted with no preconceived intention. My first declaration was perfectly hopeless. I expected nothing, asked for nothing; on the second occasion'—here he paused,and, in spite of his nervousness, a light came in his eyes—'circumstances forced me to speak.'
'Circumstances can be controlled, Mr. Blake. If you had come to me, for example——'
'It had been my intention to come to you, Dr. Ross, and to tender my resignation. I had made up my mind that it was my duty to leave this place. I had even spoken to my mother on the subject. "I love your daughter, and therefore it will not be right for me to stay." These were the very words I should have spoken to you, only—she—she—asked me not to go;' and here the young man's voice trembled.
Dr. Ross's magisterial aspect relaxed a little; his good heart, yearning only for his child's happiness, began to relent.
'I am quite sure of your affection for Audrey, Mr. Blake.'
'You may be sure of it. There is no proof you could ask that would be refused by me. If I thought—that is, if you and she thought that this would not be for her happiness, I should be ready, even now, to go away.'
'Thank you! I can quite believe that you mean what you say; but I shall not put you to so severe a proof. My child told me last night that her mind was made up—indeed, I understand that you and she are already engaged.'
'Only with your permission, sir.'
'I do not see how I am to withhold it when the girl tells me that her happiness is involved. I will speak to you plainly, Mr. Blake. You are certainly not in the position in which I should wish to see my future son-in-law. A man of your age, at the very beginning of his career, has no right to think of marrying.'
Cyril flushed.
'I do not think of it. I must work my way before such a thing would be possible.'
'You mean because you are poor. Poverty is, of course, a serious obstacle; but just then I was thinking more of position. I should hardly be willing for my daughter to marry a junior classical master. Her sister is in a far better position.'
'I shall hope not always to be a junior master, Dr. Ross.'
'True; and, of course, interest can do a great deal. I must speak to Charrington, and see what is to be done in the future. Perhaps you know that Audrey has a little money of her own?'
'I am sorry to hear it.'
'Their grandfather left them each five thousand pounds—asAudrey is of age, she is, of course, her own mistress. It was my intention to give her a couple of thousands on her marriage—Geraldine had it—anything else will only come to them on my death.'
'I wish you had not told me all this.'
Dr. Ross smiled.
'You are young, Blake,' he said, in his old friendly manner, 'or you would not be so romantic as to wish Audrey were penniless. You will find a few thousands very serviceable by and by, when, in the course of time, a house falls vacant. I am speaking of the future, mind—for I do not mean you to have Audrey for at least a couple of years; we are in no hurry to lose her, and you must make your way a little first. Now I think we have talked enough for the present. I will just have a word with Audrey, and send her to you.' Then he held out his hand, and Cyril grasped it with a word or two of gratitude.
Meanwhile Audrey, seated close to her mother on the drawing-room couch, was pouring out the whole story. She told it very comfortably, with her face resting against her mother's shoulder, and only interrupted by a tearful inquiry at intervals.
'Oh, Audrey! Oh, my darling child!' exclaimed Mrs. Ross, in a sighing sort of voice, when the girl had finished her recital.
'Are you sorry, mother? Why do you speak in that tone? You know you have always liked Cyril.'
'Yes, my dear,' but here Mrs. Ross sighed again; 'how can one help liking him, when he is so lovable? But, Audrey, what will your sister say—and Percival?'
'Poor dear mother! So that was the reason of that dolorous voice? Well, do you know,' with an engaging air of frankness, 'I am afraid we shall have a bad time with Gage; she will want me put in a strait-waistcoat and fed on a cooling diet of bread and water. Father will have to assure her that there is no insanity in the family; and as to Percival—oh, Percival's face, when he hears the news, will be a joke!'
'I must say I don't see the joke, Audrey. I am really afraid they will both be dreadfully shocked. You must tell them yourself. I would not take the news to Hillside for the world—and just now, too, when dear Geraldine ought to be spared all agitation.'
Audrey did not dare laugh; her mother was far too much in earnest.
'You must go yourself, Audrey,' she repeated; 'and I hope you will be very, very careful.'
'Don't you think it would be better to write, mother? I am so sure that Gage will disapprove and say cutting things—and of course it will not be pleasant. If I were to write her a sisterly little note, just telling her the news, and saying I would go to her to-morrow?'
And, after a good deal of consideration, Mrs. Ross was brought to own that this plan would be the best.
Mrs. Ross was so oppressed by the fear of Geraldine's disapproval that she could hardly give her attention to Audrey; and yet her motherly heart was stirred to its foundations. Audrey pretended to be hurt at last.
'Oh, do not let us talk any more about Gage!' she said impatiently; 'we must give her time to come round. I want you to think about me and Cyril. "Cyril"—is it not a nice name? And you must be very fond of him, and treat him like your own son. He is to be a second Michael.'
'Dear me, Audrey! I wonder what Michael will say; he can never have guessed anything before he went away.'
'I don't know, mother. Michael is very sharp, you know. It struck me once or twice that he was watching Cyril; but he liked him—he always liked him;' and here Audrey's voice was full of gladness. Michael's approval was necessary to her happiness: whoever else might choose to cavil at her choice, it must not be Michael—dear old Michael!
'I wish he would come back,' she said softly; for she felt a strange sort of longing to see his kind face again. She must write to him; she must tell him everything, just as though he were her brother. 'Mother,' interrupting herself, 'I want to tell you something very pretty that Cyril said yesterday. I was talking of you and father, and he said I must not be hurt, but he had fallen in love with you first. He thinks you the sweetest woman he has ever seen.'
'Dear fellow!' murmured Mrs. Ross; for the little compliment pleased her.
With all her loyalty to Geraldine's husband, there were times when he was a little formidable to her. Perhaps, in her secret heart, she felt herself too young to be the mother-in-law of a man of forty; and, in spite of Mr. Harcourt's real liking and respect for his wife's mother, he had never been guided by her. It had not been with him, as with younger men, to say, 'Your mother thinks so-and-so should be done.' Indeed, if the truthbe told, Geraldine very rarely quoted her mother's opinions—she was so certain that Percival would contradict them.
'We are surely able to make up our own minds without consulting your parents, my dear,' he would say, in rather a crushing tone; for prosperity had fed his self-confidence, and it needed the discipline of trouble to teach him humility.
At that moment Dr. Ross entered the room, and at the first sight of his face Audrey sprang up, and he opened his arms to receive her.
'Oh, daddy, is it all right?'
'Well, it is as far right as it can be,' he replied, in rather an inexplicable voice. 'Emmie, my dear, this girl of ours has taken the bit between her teeth. Geraldine never gave us this trouble. She fell in love with the right man at the right time, and everything was arranged properly.'
'And now the right man has fallen in love with me,' whispered Audrey in her father's ear.
'But you have given your consent, John?' returned his wife, in a pleading tone. In spite of her fears about Geraldine, her sympathies were by this time enlisted on the side of the lovers. 'Of course, Mr. Blake is a poor man; but I daresay Dr. Charrington will push him when he knows how things are; and he is so nice and pleasant and clever, and dear Audrey really loves him.'
'Are you sure of that?' trying to catch a glimpse of his daughter's face. 'Girls make mistakes sometimes.' And then, as a faint protest reached him: 'Well, you will find the fellow in my study, if you want to talk to him. Perhaps you had better bring him in to see your mother.'
And Audrey withdrew, blushing like a rose.
'She is very fond of him, John,' observed Mrs. Ross, with a trace of anxiety in her tone, as though her husband's manner did not quite satisfy her. 'She has been talking to me for the last hour. Audrey never cared for anyone before. You remember young Silverdale and Fred Langton—they were both in love with her, and would have spoken if she had given them the chance; but she was as distant as possible.'
'Yes; and Fred Langton has fifteen hundred a year, and his father is a Member of Parliament. He is a nice fellow, too—only a little too stout for so young a man; but he is not the sort Audrey would fancy. Blake is a good fellow, and I liked him from the first,' continued the Doctor, in a musing tone; 'but I never should have picked him out for Audrey.'
'Perhaps you think him too young?' hazarded his wife.
'Yes; I should have liked her to have married an older man. They are too much of an age, and Audrey, with all her good-nature, has a will of her own. Blake is by no means a weak man; on the contrary, I should say he is strong; but he will have to give in to her.'
'Oh, I hope not!' for Mrs. Ross held the old-fashioned doctrines of wifely submission and obedience.
'They will not find it out for a little; but, if I am not mistaken, Blake will discover in time that he is somewhat handicapped. The girl has too much on her side: there is her position, her little bit of money, and her equality as regards age. Blake will have to steer his way prudently, or he will find himself among shoals.'
Mrs. Ross looked distressed; her husband's opinion was infallible to her. It never occurred to her that he might be occasionally wrong in his premises.
'Percival and Geraldine will be dreadfully shocked,' she replied. 'I quite dread the effect on Geraldine.'
Then Dr. Ross's mood changed.
'It is no business of hers, or of Harcourt's either,' he said, rather sharply. 'If Audrey has her parents' consent, she need not trouble herself about other people's opinions.'
Then Mrs. Ross knew that, whatever stormy discussion might be in store for her, she must not expect her husband to come to her assistance. He had more than once hinted that his son-in-law took rather too much upon himself, and on one occasion he had gone so far as to say that it was a pity Geraldine had married a man so much older than herself.
'Harcourt is a clever fellow, but he plays the autocrat rather too much. A man has a right to be master in his own house, but Woodcote is not Hillside.' And this speech had alarmed Mrs. Ross dreadfully.
'I wish your father cared for Percival as much as he does for Michael,' she said once a little plaintively to Audrey. 'Nothing Michael says or does is ever wrong in his eyes.'
'But there could not be two Michaels, mother,' returned Audrey; 'and really, Percival does lay down the law far too much. I don't wonder father was a little put out, for of course he is the older man.'
Meanwhile, the lovers were enjoying themselves after their own fashion. When Audrey entered the study, Cyril was standing in the bay-window with his back towards the door;but at the sound of her footstep he turned round quickly and crossed the room. As he took her hands he looked at her for a moment without speaking, and she saw at once that he was deeply moved. Then he put his arm round her very gently and kissed her. Somehow that silent caress touched Audrey, it was so much more eloquent than words; and when he did speak, his speech was very grateful to her ears.
'Your father has been so good to me.'
'Yes, I know. I told you yesterday how good he would be.'
'Ah, but I had a rather bad time of it at first,' he replied, shaking his head. 'Do you see that chair?' pointing to the high-backed oaken chair that always occupied the corner by the writing-table. 'Dr. Ross sat there, and I stood leaning against the mantelpiece, just opposite to him.'
'Do you mean that father did not ask you to sit down?'
'Oh no; he more than once pressed me to take a seat; but I felt it would be unbecoming for a culprit not to stand before his judge. I felt such a culprit, you see. When a man steals another man's dearest possession without asking his leave, he must regard himself as a sort of traitor.'
Audrey smiled; but as Cyril drew her gently down beside him on the wide cushioned window-seat, she made a faint protest.
'I think mother will be looking for us,' she said a little shyly.
'But not just now,' he pleaded. 'You will stay with me for a few minutes, will you not, darling? I could not talk to you before your mother, and I want to tell you what Dr. Ross said. In spite of my presumption, he has treated me most generously; but, Audrey,' half whispering her name, as though it thrilled him to say it, 'he says that he will not spare you to me for at least two years.'
'Oh no, of course not; I could not leave father and mother for a long, long time,' returned Audrey, somewhat troubled by this allusion to her marriage. It was one thing to be engaged and to make Cyril happy, but to be married was a far more serious consideration. 'If I had been asked, I should have said at least three years,' she added quickly.
For one instant the young lover felt himself wounded, but his good sense enabled him to hide this from her.
'You are right, dearest,' he said quietly. 'It would be mere selfishness for me to wish to take you away from this beautiful home until I have made one that shall in some degreebe fitting for you. You will not expect a grand one; you know you have linked your lot to a poor man.'
'Of course I know it,' she replied calmly; 'you need not trouble about that, Cyril. I think I am different from other girls: I have never cared for wealth or luxury in the least. Woodcote is my home, and I love every stone of it; but I could be just as happy in a cottage.'
'If it were like the Gray Cottage, for example?'
'Oh, I have always been fond of the Gray Cottage!' she returned, smiling at him; and the look of those sweet gray eyes made the young man's pulses beat faster. 'I should be perfectly satisfied with a home like that. Why,' as he interrupted her with a rapturous expression of gratitude, 'did you think I should be hard to please? I am not a fine lady, like Geraldine!'
'You are the finest lady in the world to me!' was Cyril's answer. It took all his self-control to sit there, just holding her hand and listening to her. He felt as though in his joy he could have been guilty of any extravagance—as though he ought to be kneeling before her, his lady of delight, pouring out his very soul in a tumultuous, incoherent stream of words. But it spoke well for his knowledge of Audrey's character that he restrained himself so utterly: any such passionate love-making would have disturbed her serenity and destroyed her ease in his society; her inborn love of freedom, and a certain coyness that was natural to her, would have revolted against such wooing. Cyril had his reward for his unselfish forbearance when he saw how quietly she rested against his arm, how willingly she left her hand in his, as she talked to him in her frank, guileless way.
'I suppose your mother is pleased about this?' she said presently.
'You would have said so if you had heard us talking last night, until one o'clock in the morning! You have made more than one person happy, dear; my mother will be your debtor for life.'
'I wonder she is not a little jealous of me,' returned Audrey. 'She has had you so long to herself, I should think she would find me a little in her way.'
'Oh no! she is too grateful to you for making me happy. My darling, it would cause me utter misery if you and my mother did not get on. I have been her one thought all these years; it is not right, of course,' as Audrey's eyes expresseddisapproval at this. 'I have had more than my fair share; but I am only stating facts from her point of view. If you had refused me—if we had gone away—she would have broken her heart; as it is, she is ready to worship you for your goodness to me.'
'You must take me to her by and by,' returned Audrey gently; 'but now, Cyril, indeed we must go to my mother;' and this time he made no objection.
Mrs. Ross welcomed him very nicely.
'Audrey tells me that I am to have another son,' she said softly, as she held out her hand to him.
'If you will only let me be one,' he returned gratefully, as he carried the soft motherly hand to his lips.
Audrey might be forgiven if she regarded Cyril's behaviour as perfect. As for Mrs. Ross, the tears started to her eyes at that act of reverential homage. She told Audrey afterwards that she felt as though she could have kissed him.
'What a pity you did not! I think Cyril would have liked it,' was Audrey's quiet answer.
She heard her mother inviting him to dinner as she turned to the tea-table, for the afternoon was nearly over. 'We shall be just by ourselves, Mr. Blake.'
'Will you call me Cyril now?' he asked in almost a whisper, and a blush came to Mrs. Ross's comely face.
'I will try and remember,' she said, in the kindest possible voice; and then he joined Audrey at the tea-table, and made himself very busy in waiting on them both, and they were soon as easy and comfortable as possible.
'Would you like my mother to come and see you to-morrow?' he asked presently, when lamps had been brought in and the October twilight had been excluded; 'that will be the correct thing, will it not, Mrs. Ross?'
'I suppose so,' she assented; but Audrey, with her usual impulsiveness, interrupted her:
'Why should you not take me across now?' she said; 'I think it is so stupid thinking about etiquette. Your mother is older than I, and it is for me to go to her.' Audrey spoke with decision, and Cyril looked enchanted.
'I did not like to propose it,' he said delightedly; 'will you really come? May I take her, Mrs. Ross?'
But Audrey did not wait for her mother's permission. She left the room, and returned presently in her hat and jacket.
'I am quite ready,' she said, speaking from the threshold;but she smiled as she said the words. Was she interrupting an interesting conversation? Cyril was on the couch beside her mother, and he was talking eagerly. Perhaps, though Audrey did not know it, he was making up for his previous self-restraint by pouring out some of his pent-up feelings.
'You understand?' he said as he stood up, and Mrs. Ross beamed at him in answer.
'Are you two having confidences already?' observed Audrey happily, as she looked on at this little scene; and Cyril laughed as he followed her into the hall.
'She is the sweetest woman in the world but one,' he said, as they went out together into the soft damp air; and Audrey, perhaps in gratitude for these words, took his arm unasked as she walked with him through the dark village street.
'It is idle totalka young woman in love out of her passion. Love does not lie in the ear.'—Horace Walpole.
'It is idle totalka young woman in love out of her passion. Love does not lie in the ear.'—Horace Walpole.
Mrs. Blake was expecting them—had been expecting them for hours; Audrey could see that in a moment. The October evenings were chilly, and most people in Rutherford lighted a fire at sundown; so a clear little fire burnt in the drawing-room grate, and Mrs. Blake's favourite lamp with the pink shade cast a rosy glow over the little tea-table. The cups were ranged in due order, and some hot cakes were on the brass trivet, but the little tea-maker was not at her usual post. Only Mrs. Blake was standing alone in the middle of the room, and as Cyril led Audrey to her she threw her arms round the girl with almost hysterical violence. 'Oh, my dear, dear, dearest girl!' she exclaimed, pressing her with convulsive force; and Audrey felt a little embarrassed.
'I thought you would be looking for us,' she said, releasing herself gently; 'I asked Cyril to bring me—it seemed the right thing.'
'No, dear, it was not the right thing,' returned Mrs. Blake, almost solemnly; 'it was for me to come to you. But all the same, I knew Cyril would bring you; my boy would remember his mother even in his happiness.'
'It was not my thought,' began Cyril; but a very sweet look from Audrey checked him.
'What does it matter whose thought it was?' she said, in her direct way; 'if I asked him to bring me, it was because I knew it was what he wished, though he did not like to ask me. Dear Mrs. Blake, was it likely that I should stay away when we have always been such friends?'
For a moment Mrs. Blake seemed unable to answer. Some curious emotion impeded her utterance. She turned very pale and trembled visibly.
'And we shall be better friends than ever now,' continued Audrey, taking her hand, for she felt very tender towards the beautiful woman who was Cyril's mother.
'I trust so,' returned Mrs. Blake in a low voice; but there was a melancholy gleam in her large dark eyes. Then, with an effort to recover her usual manner: 'Audrey, I hope you have forgiven me for troubling you so yesterday. You must not expect me to say I am sorry, or that I repent a word that I said then; but all the same, I was rather hard on you.'
'You certainly made me very wretched.'
'Yes, I felt I was very cruel; but one cannot measure one's words at such a moment. I felt as though my children and I were being driven out of our paradise.'
'And you thought it was my fault?' but Audrey blushed a little as she asked the question.
'Oh, hush!' and Mrs. Blake glanced at her son with pretended alarm; 'do you know that in spite of all I had done for him, that ungrateful boy actually presumed to lecture me. He would have it that I had been cruel to you, and that no one but a woman would have taken such a mean advantage; but all the time he looked so happy that I forgave him. "All's well that ends well." That is what I told him.'
Cyril shook his head. Even in his happiness he had been unable to refrain from uttering his disapproval of his mother's tactics. His nature was almost as simple and transparent as Audrey's. It hurt him to remember how his mother had appealed to this girl's sense of compassion.
'Do not let us talk any more of it,' he said quickly. 'I think Audrey has a great deal to forgive; but you and I, mother, know her generosity.'
And the look that accompanied these words left Audrey silent for a moment.
'Where is Mollie?' she exclaimed presently, when, after a little more conversation, Mrs. Blake insisted that she must have just one cup of tea. In vain Audrey protested that they had had tea already at Woodcote, that in another hour or so they would have to dine. Mrs. Blake could not be induced to let them off.
'Where is Mollie?' she continued; 'may I go and look for her, Mrs. Blake?'
But before Mrs. Blake could answer, Audrey had exchanged a glance with Cyril and disappeared.
She found Mollie in the dining-room; she was pacing up and down the room with a small black kitten in her arms, but the moment Audrey appeared the kitten was discarded, and flung upon four trembling, sprawling legs, and Mollie sprang towards her, almost overwhelming her with her girlish vehemence.
'Oh, Miss Ross, my dear Miss Ross! is it really true? Cyril said so this morning, but I could not believe him; I must hear it from your own lips.'
'Do you mean, is it true that I hope one day to become your sister? Of course it is true, dear Mollie.'
'Oh, I am so glad! I am more than glad; I have been crying with joy half the day. But is he good enough for you, Miss Ross?' gazing at her idol with intense anxiety. 'I am very fond of Cyril—Kester and I think there is no one like him—but it does not seem as though anyone were quite good enough for you.'
'Oh, Mollie, what nonsense! but I am not going to believe you; and what do you mean by calling me Miss Ross, you silly child? Don't I tell you we are going to be sisters?'
Mollie, who had been rubbing her cheeks against her friend in a fondling, kittenish sort of way, started back in a moment.
'But I could not call you anything else,' she returned, becoming crimson with shyness. 'You will always be Miss Ross to me—my Miss Ross, you know; I could not think of you as anyone else. It would be such a liberty to call you by your Christian name.'
'Well, never mind; it will come naturally by and by,' returned Audrey tranquilly. 'I shall know you are fond of me, whatever you choose to call me; so you and Kester can do as you like.'
'May I write and tell him?' pleaded Mollie. 'Oh, dear Miss Ross, do let me!'
But Audrey was not inclined to give permission; she explained to Mollie that she meant to write herself to Captain Burnett, and that she thought Cyril would send Kester a note.
'Better leave it to him,' she suggested; 'you can write to him afterwards;' and as usual Mollie was docile.
They went upstairs after this, Mollie picking up the kitten on the way. Cyril sprang to the door as he heard their footsteps.
'Have we been long?' Audrey asked, turning to him with a smile.
Cyril hardly knew what he answered. For a moment a sense of giddiness came over him, as though he were suddenly dazzled. 'Could it be really true?' he asked himself more than once. Audrey did not seem to guess his feelings: she was perfectly tranquil and at her ease; she had laid aside her hat and jacket to please Mrs. Blake, and as she sat there sipping her tea and talking softly to them all, she looked so fair and girlish in her lover's sight, that the infatuated young man could not remove his eyes from her.
And yet Audrey was only in the old dark-red cashmere that was Geraldine's pet aversion; but her brown hair had golden gleams in it, and the gray eyes were very bright and soft, and perhaps with that changing colour Audrey did look pretty; for youth and love are great beautifiers even of homely features. Audrey was sorry when Cyril reminded her that it was time to go. She was loath to leave that little drawing-room, so bright with lamplight and firelight. She went home and dressed for dinner in her white gown, feeling as though she were in some placid dream.
The rest of the evening passed very tranquilly. Dr. Ross asked for some music; he was not in the mood for conversation, so Audrey sang to them all her favourite songs, while Cyril stood beside her and turned over the leaves. Now and then they could exchange a word or two.
And just at the last she must needs sing 'Widow Miller,' and as usual Dr. Ross softly beat time and crooned an accompaniment:
'The sang o' the lark finds the widow asteer,The birr o' her wheel starts the night's dreamy ear,The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain,Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.'
'The sang o' the lark finds the widow asteer,
The birr o' her wheel starts the night's dreamy ear,
The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain,
Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.'
'What a sad song, my darling! I should like to hear something more cheerful,' whispered Cyril, as she finished.
But she did not seem to hear him; she rose from her seat and crossed the room to the corner where Dr. Ross was sitting.
'That is your favourite song, daddy,' she said, leaning over him.
And as he smiled and nodded, she sat down on the low chair beside him and looked thoughtfully into the fire.
She roused herself presently to bid Cyril good-bye, and to linger a moment with him at the door in the starlight.
'I shall not see you until luncheon to-morrow, unless you pass the window,' he said, with the egotism common to lovers. 'You will think of me until then, will you not, dear?'
'Of course I shall think of you,' returned Audrey, with her usual gentleness.
But she seemed to wonder a little at the sudden passion with which Cyril clasped her to him.
'Good-night, Cyril dear. I shall be very busy all the morning writing letters; but we can have the walk you propose after four.'
And then she went back to her seat and leant her cheek against her father's arm, as she looked into the fire again.
'A penny for your thoughts, my child,' observed Dr. Ross, when they had both been silent for a long time; 'though I suppose I need not ask.'
'I was thinking of Michael,' she returned guiltily. 'Dear old Michael! how I wish he could be happy, too!' And then she bade them both good-night and went up to her room, and, strange to say, her last thought before she fell asleep was to wonder what Michael would say.
The boys marvelled more than once the following morning at their master's evident abstraction. In spite of his efforts to fix his attention on Greek verbs and exercises, Cyril's eyes would turn perpetually to the window; but no slight girlish figure in dark-red cashmere appeared on the terrace to gather the yellow and white and violet chrysanthemums that bloomed in the borders.
Audrey was in her own private sanctum, and had given orders that no one should disturb her. Even Mollie was to be sent away. She had very important business on her hands. There was her letter to Geraldine, and a very difficult one it was to write—so difficult, that more than once Audrey thought that she would put on her hat and go up to Hillside instead; but she remembered that Gage was expecting visitors to luncheon. They would probably come early, and drive away before dusk; her letter must not be delivered before then. So she addressed herself again to her task.
After all, it was a very sweet, womanly letter, and might have touched any sister's heart.
'If you cannot conscientiously approve, you can at least wish me joy in the life I have chosen for myself,' she wrote.'I have accepted Mr. Blake of my own free will, because I think he is worthy of my affection. You do not know him yet; but he is so good—so good: sometimes I think even Michael is not more to be trusted.' And so on.
But, after all, it was far easier to write to Michael. Audrey had no need to pick her words or arrange her ideas with him. She could tell him everything as frankly as though he were her brother. There need be no limit to her confidence; Michael would never misunderstand her.
'The one drawback is that you are still away,' she finished affectionately. 'I shall not feel things are perfect until we have had one of our long talks on "Michael's bench." When are you coming home? It will soon be November, and the trees will be stripped of their leaves. Why do you trouble yourself about another man's business? No one wants you more than your devoted cousin and friend—Audrey Ross.'
And when this letter was in the post, and the note for Geraldine lying on the marble slab in the hall, she felt a sense of relief, and had leisure to think of Cyril.
They had their walk together after afternoon school, but it soon grew dusk, and Audrey suggested that, as her mother was alone, they should go back to Woodcote to tea. There was no invitation to dinner that night, but Cyril did not expect it—he had his dormitory work; and as Audrey promised to see him before he went away for the night, he was quite content.
'You must not think that I mean to bore Mrs. Ross with intruding myself on all occasions,' he said. 'I know you will tell me when I may come. I mean to be guided entirely by you. Under these circumstances a man is tempted to be selfish.'
'You will never be selfish,' she said, with one of her charming smiles. 'I could never have promised to marry a selfish man. But, Cyril, you will be guided by me in that other thing?' changing her tone, and looking at him very seriously; for they had had rather a hot argument.
Cyril was going to Peterborough the next day to buy the betrothal ring, and Audrey had petitioned for a gold one.
'But it will only look like a wedding-guard,' he had remonstrated; for he would rather have denied himself everything for six months, if only he could buy something fit for her acceptance—a pearl or sapphire ring, for example. Diamonds were beyond his means.
But Audrey could not be induced to say that she likedpearls; on the contrary, she manifested an extraordinary preference for the idea of a broad chased gold band, with her own and Cyril's initials inside.
'I am going to marry a poor man,' she said decidedly, 'and he must not waste his money on me. What does it matter if it look like a guard? It can serve that purpose afterwards. Please do not look so disappointed, Cyril. When you can afford it, you shall give me any ring you like—pearl or diamond; but I like diamonds best.' And she was so evidently in earnest that he had to yield to her; and Audrey wore her gold ring with immense satisfaction.
Audrey spent her evening quietly with her parents. She and Dr. Ross played chess together, and when he went off to his study she stayed and talked to her mother.
Mrs. Ross was not a lively companion that evening. The fear of Geraldine's disapproval was quickening her latent feelings of uneasiness into activity, and she could not keep these feelings to herself.
'I wonder if Geraldine will answer your letter this evening, Audrey?'
'I don't think so, mother dear. I am to go there to-morrow, you see, so there will be no need for her to write.'
'I am afraid that she will be hurt because you have not gone to her to-day; she will think it rather odd for you to write.'
'Why, mother,' opening her eyes rather widely at this, 'don't you remember Mr. and Mrs. Bland were to lunch there? How could Gage have given me her attention? And then, with guests to entertain, it would never have done to run the risk of upsetting her. Percival would have glared at us all through luncheon if he had noticed her eyes were red. You know how easily Gage cries.'
'Did you tell her this in your letter?'
'I think I implied it, but I am not sure.'
'Ah, well, we must wait until to-morrow,' with a sigh; 'but I cannot deny I am very anxious. You will go up to Hillside directly after breakfast, will you not, my dear? And do beg Geraldine to come back with you. I feel I shall not have a moment's peace until I have seen her.'
'Poor dear mother!' observed Audrey caressingly; for there was a look of care on Mrs. Ross's brow.
But though Audrey cheered up her mother, and made her little jokes, she was quite aware of the ordeal that was beforeher, and it was with some undefined idea of propitiating her sister that she laid aside the red cashmere the next morning and put on a certain gray gown which Gage especially admired. It had a hat to match, with a gray wing, and Geraldine always looked at her approvingly when she came to Hillside in the gray gown. She was on the terrace, picking two or three yellow chrysanthemums, when she saw her brother-in-law coming towards her. A visit from him at this hour was a most unusual proceeding, and Audrey at once guessed that his business was with her. The idea of any interference from her brother-in-law was decidedly unpalatable; nevertheless, she awaited him smilingly. Mr. Harcourt was a man who walked well. He had a fine carriage of the head, though some people said he held himself a little too erect, and too much with the air of a man who recognises his own superiority; but, as Audrey watched him as he walked up the terrace, she thought he had never held his head so proudly before.
'You are a very early visitor this morning, Percival,' she observed, as she arranged the chrysanthemums in her gray dress; and she looked up at him pleasantly as she shook hands with him.
But there was no answering smile on Mr. Harcourt's face.
'It is a very unusual business that brings me,' he replied rather solemnly. 'Is there anyone in the drawing-room, Audrey? I should like to speak to you quietly.'
'Susan is in there, dusting the ornaments, but I can easily send her away,' rejoined Audrey cheerfully. 'Mother is in the study.' And then she led the way to the drawing-room, and gave Susan a hint to withdraw.
Mr. Harcourt waited until the door was shut, then he put down his hat and faced round on his sister-in-law.
'This is a very sad business,' he said, still with the same portentous air of solemnity. 'I am sorry to say your sister is dreadfully upset.'
'Oh, I hope not,' returned Audrey quickly.
'I have never seen her more upset about anything. She hardly slept at all last night, and I was half afraid I should have to send for Dr. Musgrave this morning: she was not quite strong enough to bear such a shock.'
'Gage is so sensitive, you see.'
'She is not more sensitive than other people,' feeling himself bound to defend his wife's nerves. 'I am not in the least surprised to find how much she has taken it to heart. I thinkshe feels very properly about it. We are both as disappointed as possible—we hoped better things of you, Audrey.'
'Is not that a little severe?'
'I think not. I am bound to tell you the truth plainly, that Geraldine and I strongly disapprove of this engagement.'
'I am so sorry,' returned Audrey, with provoking good-humour; 'but you see, Percival, one must be guided by one's own feelings in such a personal matter; and I hope when you and Gage know Mr. Blake a little better that you will alter your opinion.'
'I am afraid I must differ from you there, even at the risk of displeasing you. I must say that I think Mr. Blake is the last man to make you happy.'
'Now, what reason can you have for making such a sweeping assertion?' asked Audrey, waxing a little warm at this. Percival had no right to stand there lecturing her after this fashion; it was not in a brother-in-law's province to interfere with her choice of a lover. If her parents had given their sanction to her engagement, and allowed her to throw herself away on a poor man, it was surely no one else's business to say a dissenting word. Percival might go home and lecture his own wife if he liked. 'It is a pity you and Gage are so worldly,' she said, in what was meant to be a withering tone. Audrey had never been so near quarrelling with her brother-in-law.
'Worldly?' he repeated, in rather a perplexed tone. 'My dear girl, I confess I do not understand you.'
'It is very easy to understand,' she returned coldly. 'You and Gage object to Mr. Blake because he is poor and has not made his position; you think I am throwing myself away, because I have engaged myself to a junior classical master who has to work his way up.'
'Just so,' observed Mr. Harcourt; 'that is exactly what we do think.'
'And yet you are surprised because I call you worldly. If you only knew how differently father and I think! Perhaps he is disappointed too—indeed, I know that he is; he wanted me to marry an older man—but, all the same, he agrees with me, that a man so honourable and clever, one who has borne so high a character, who is so good a son and brother, would be likely to make a woman happy.'
Mr. Harcourt shrugged his shoulders. They were arguing from different points. Audrey was not likely to convince him: he had started with a preconceived dislike to the whole business.He now proceeded to pull Audrey's impulsive speech to pieces.
'I do not deny that Blake is a good fellow, and he is clever, too; but in marrying him you will be descending in the social scale. Who are the Blakes? No one knows anything about them—Edith always declared the father was a City man—but we do know that his mother is distinctly objectionable!'
'Excuse me, Percival, but you are speaking of a close friend. Even if she were not Cyril's mother, my friendship for her should prevent you from speaking against her in my presence.'
Mr. Harcourt groaned as he heard the word 'Cyril,' but he felt at the same time that he had gone too far: his quick temper had carried him away. He hastened to apologise.
'You must forgive me, Audrey, if I speak a little too plainly. But this is such a bitter disappointment to me, my very affection for you makes me object all the more strongly to this engagement. As Geraldine said to me last night, she has only one sister—and this makes it all the harder for her.'
'Yes, I understand; and I am very sorry to disappoint you both. But, Percival, the thing is done now, and I want you and Gage to make the best of it.'
'Will you not reconsider your decision?' he asked, and there was softness and real affection in his look. 'Perhaps, after all, you may have mistaken your feelings; a girl is sometimes talked into a thing.'
But she shook her head.
'I have not mistaken them,' she said quietly. 'Don't say any more, Percival; I have no wish to quarrel; and, of course, I am a little sore about this.'
Then Mr. Harcourt felt that his mission had been unsuccessful; the girl was contumacious, and would listen to no one.
'It's all Dr. Ross's fault,' he said to himself, as he took up his hat and prepared to walk with her to Hillside. 'If he had refused his consent she would have given the thing up; but in worldly matters my respected father-in-law is a mere child.'