'This world is a comedy to those who think, a tragedy to those who feel.'—Horace Walpole.
'This world is a comedy to those who think, a tragedy to those who feel.'—Horace Walpole.
It may be doubted if either Audrey or her brother-in-law enjoyed their walk to Hillside. Mr. Harcourt felt that he had failed signally in his brotherly mission, and any sort of failure was intolerable to him. To do him justice, he was thinking only of Audrey's future welfare. As he took up the wide clerical-looking hat that he affected, and walked with her down the terrace, he told himself sorrowfully that he might as well have held his tongue; but, all the same, he could not refrain from speaking another word or two.
'I do so wish I could make you see this thing as your friends will see it!' he said, no longer laying down the law, but speaking in a tone of mild insistence, as became a man who knew himself to be right. 'They may not be so closely interested in the matter, but perhaps their view may be less prejudiced. Think, my dear girl, what a serious, what a terrible thing it would be if you were to discover too late that you had made a mistake!'
'I should never own it to be one,' she said, trying to smile; but it could not be denied that she found her brother-in-law a little depressing; 'and you may be quite sure that I should abide by it. There is a fund of obstinacy in my nature that no one seems to have discovered but myself.'
Then Mr. Harcourt gave vent to an impatient sigh. He must leave her to Geraldine, he thought; but even then he could not forbear from one Parthian thrust.
'You will live to repent it,' he said very seriously, 'and then you will remember my warning. You must not look to me tohelp you out of your difficulties then, Audrey; I would have done anything for you now.'
'I will promise you that I will not ask for your help,' she returned, so promptly that he looked quite hurt. And she hastened to soften her words. 'If one makes a mistake of that kind, one must only look to one's self.'
'I have always regarded your interests as identical with Edith's,' he returned a little stiffly. 'I mean, I have always treated you as though you were my own sister; but, of course, if you cannot rely on me as your brother——'
But Audrey would not let him finish his sentence.
'Why, Percival,' she said gently, 'I do believe you are quarrelling with me, just because I am taking you at your word. Are you not just a little illogical for once? In one breath you tell me not to look to you for help, and then you reproach me with unsisterly feelings. How are we to understand each other at this rate?'
Then a faint smile played round Mr. Harcourt's mouth. It was true that, in the heat of argument, he did not always measure his words; even Geraldine had ventured to tell him so once.
'Well, well, we will say no more about it,' he returned somewhat magnanimously; and though he could not pluck up spirit to turn the conversation into another channel, he refrained from any more depressing remarks. He gave her a friendly nod and smile as they parted in the hall.
'You will find Geraldine in the morning-room,' he said; and Audrey was much relieved that he did not offer to accompany her.
Mrs. Harcourt evidently regarded herself as an invalid that morning. She was sitting in the corner of the big couch, in her pale-pink tea-gown. She rose at her sister's entrance, however, and crossed the room with languid steps.
'Did Percival bring you?' she asked, as she kissed her.
Audrey felt as though she were to blame when she saw Geraldine's heavy eyes.
'I am afraid you are far from well, Gage,' she said a little anxiously, for, after all, Geraldine was her only sister, and if things should go wrong with her——. She felt a momentary compunction—one of those keen, pin-like pricks of conscience—as she remembered how often she had been vexed with her little ways.
Mrs. Harcourt looked at her mournfully.
'How can I be well?' she said, with reproachful sweetness in her voice. 'I do not think I had three hours' sleep last night. Percival got quite concerned about me at last. Oh, Audrey, you have made me so very unhappy!' and her eyes filled with tears.
'My dear Gage, I would not willingly make you unhappy for worlds!'
'But, all the same, it has been such a shock—such a cruel disappointment to us both! Percival was nearly as upset about it as I was. If you could have seen him walking up and down the room last night! "She must be mad to throw herself away in this fashion!"—he would say nothing else for a long time.'
'I am quite aware of Percival's sentiments,' returned Audrey coldly.
Her manner alarmed Geraldine. 'But you have not quarrelled with him for telling you the truth?' she asked with unmistakable anxiety. 'Oh, Audrey, you do not know how fond Percival is of you! He is as proud of you as though you were his own sister. He has always looked forward to your marriage. He used to say none of the men he knew were half good enough for you; that you ought to have someone who would be in every way your superior, and to whom you could look up.'
'Yes, and it is such a blessing that I can look up to Cyril.'
'But he is so young; and though he is nice—yes, of course, he is very nice and good-looking and clever—still one wants more in a husband. Somehow I never realised these things until I was actually standing at the altar with Percival and said those solemn words for myself: "For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death us do part." I felt then that if I had not been so sure of Percival I would rather have died than have said those words.'
A faint shiver passed over Audrey as Geraldine spoke. She had never heard her talk in this way before. 'Dear, dear Audrey,' she continued, taking her sister's hand; 'can you wonder that I am anxious that you should be as happy as I am, that it nearly breaks my heart to know that you are taking this false step?'
A painful flush crossed Audrey's face. This was a worse ordeal than she had expected. She had been prepared for reproaches, even for bitter words; but this softness, this tearful and caressing gentleness, seemed to deprive her of allstrength, to cut away the ground from under her feet. She was at once touched and grateful for her sister's forbearance.
'You are very good to me, Gage,' she said in a low voice; 'I know how utterly I have disappointed you and Percival—and from a worldly point of view I daresay you are both right. Cyril is poor, he has to work his way up, he is not what people would call a good match; but then, you know, I have always been terribly unpractical.'
'It is not only that,' sighed Geraldine; 'as far as Mr. Blake is concerned, one cannot say much against him; he is very gentlemanly. I suppose one would get used to him, though I shall never, never think him good enough for you. But there are other objections: the idea that Mrs. Blake will be your mother-in-law makes me utterly wretched.'
'Poor woman! she is so nice, and I am so fond of her. I often wonder why you are so prejudiced against her, Gage; but of course it is all that tiresome Mrs. Bryce.'
'No, indeed, it is not,' returned Mrs. Harcourt quickly. 'I do not want to vex you, Audrey; things are miserable enough without our quarrelling, and however unhappy you make me, I will never quarrel with my only sister. But you must let me say this for once, that I cannot like Mrs. Blake. From the first moment I have distrusted her, and I know Percival feels the same.'
'But, Gage, do be reasonable. I am going to marry Cyril, not Mrs. Blake!'
'When a woman marries she enters her husband's family,' returned Geraldine in her old decided manner; 'you will belong to them, not to us—at least,' correcting herself, as the thought of her daily visits to Woodcote occurred to her, 'you will have to share your husband's interests and responsibilities with regard to his family. You cannot divide yourself from him without failing in your wifely duty.'
'I am quite of your opinion,' returned Audrey happily; 'Cyril's mother and Kester and Mollie will be very dear to me. I never dreamt for one moment of separating my interests from his.'
'If I thought you really loved him——' observed Geraldine, but here she stopped, warned by an indignant flash in Audrey's gray eyes.
'You might have spared me that, Gage,' she said, rather sadly; 'I think I have had enough to bear already from you and Percival. You have done your best to depress and disheartenme; you have not even wished me happiness.' Then Geraldine burst into tears.
'I don't want to be unkind,' she sobbed, in such distress that Audrey repented her quick words; 'but you must give me time to get over this. It is the first real trouble I have ever had.' And then, as Audrey kissed her and coaxed her, she allowed herself to be somewhat consoled.
'You know you must think of yourself, Gage; you must not make yourself ill about me. I am not worth it.' Then Geraldine did summon up a smile.
'And you will be good to Cyril? The poor fellow could not help falling in love with me, you know.'
'Of course we shall behave properly to him,' returned Geraldine, drawing herself up a little stiffly; 'you must not expect us to receive him with open arms. Mr. Blake must know how entirely we disapprove of the engagement; but, of course, as my father has given his consent, we have no right to make ourselves disagreeable. You must give me a little time, Audrey, just to recover myself, and then he shall be asked to dinner.'
'I hope you will not ask me at the same time!' exclaimed Audrey in genuine alarm; and Geraldine looked rather shocked.
'Of course you must come with him! that is understood. You will be asked everywhere if—if——' looking at her suggestively, 'you mean your engagement to be known.'
'Most certainly! I object very strongly to secrecy under any circumstances.'
'Then in that case you must be prepared for congratulations and a round of dinners.'
'I prefer congratulations to condolences,' returned Audrey a little wickedly; and then, as though to atone for her joke, she suddenly knelt down before her sister and put her arms round her. 'Dear Gage, I do feel such a wretch for having upset you like this. No wonder Percival owes me a grudge. Now, do say something nice to me before I go—there's a darling!' and, of course, Geraldine melted in a moment.
'I do pray, with all my heart, that you may be happy,' she sighed, and then they kissed each other very affectionately. 'Give my love to mother, and tell her I am not well enough to come to her to-day,' were Geraldine's parting words as Audrey left her.
Mr. Harcourt came out of his study the moment he heard the door close.
'Well,' he asked, with a shade of anxiety in his tone, 'have you made any impression, my dear?'
'No, Percy,' returned his wife sadly. 'She is bent on taking her own way—the Blake influence is far too strong.'
'Ah, well,' in a tone of strong disgust, 'she is making her own bed, and must lie on it. It was an evil day for all of us when your father engaged Blake for his junior classical master. I wanted him to have Sowerby—Sowerby is the better man, and all his people are gentlefolks—but there is no turning the Doctor when he has got an idea in his head: no one but Blake would do. And now mischief has come of it. But, all the same, I won't have you making yourself ill about it—remember that, my love. You have got me to think about, and I don't choose to have my wife spoiling her eyes after this fashion. It is too damp for you to go out, for there has been a sharp shower or two; but I have half an hour to spare, and can read to you if you like.' And to this Geraldine gratefully assented.
It may be doubted whether she heard much of the brilliant essay that Mr. Harcourt had selected for her delectation, but it was very soothing to lie there and listen to her husband's voice. The sentences grew involved presently, and there was a humming, as though of bees, in the quiet room. Mr. Harcourt smiled to himself as he went on reading—the sleep would do her more good than the essay, he thought; and in this he was right.
When Mrs. Ross received her daughter's message she at once prepared to go up to Hillside, and spent the remainder of the afternoon there.
Geraldine had awakened from her nap much refreshed, and was disposed to take a less lugubrious view of things. She was certainly somewhat depressing at first, and her mother found her implied reproaches somewhat hard to bear; but she was still too languid and subdued to speak with her usual decision.
'I suppose that we shall have to make the best of it,' she observed presently, in a resigned tone of voice. 'It will always be a great trouble to me—but one must expect trouble in this world, as I said to Percy just now. I am afraid we have been too happy.'
'Oh, my dear! you must not say such things.'
'It is better to say them than to think them. Percy never minds how much I complain to him, if I will only not brood over worries by myself. He says that it is so bad for me.'
'Percival is quite right, my love;' and Mrs. Ross looked anxiously at her daughter's pale face. 'But you know your one duty is to keep yourself cheerful. Try and put all this away from your mind, and leave Audrey to be happy in her own way. Mr. Blake is really a very nice lovable fellow, and I am quite fond of him already, and so is your father—and I am sure your father is a good judge of character.'
'Yes, mother dear; and you must not think Percy and I mean to be tiresome and disagreeable. It is not the young man so much that we mind—though we shall always think Audrey is lowering herself in marrying him—but it is that odious Mrs. Blake.'
Then, for the moment, Mrs. Ross felt herself uncomfortable. Mrs. Blake had called on her that very morning, while Audrey was at Hillside, and in spite of her mildness and toleration she had been obliged to confess to herself that Mrs. Blake's manners had not quite pleased her. Geraldine managed to extract the whole account of the interview, though Mrs. Ross gave it rather reluctantly.
'And I suppose she was absurdly impulsive, as usual, mother?' she asked, when Mrs. Ross had finished a somewhat brief narrative.
'Well, yes. She is always rather effusive; people have their own style, you see.'
'Only Mrs. Blake's is, unfortunately, a very bad style.'
'I daresay you are right, my dear, and I certainly prefer a quieter manner; and it was not quite good taste lauding your father and me to the skies for our goodness in allowing the match. Poor woman! I daresay she was a little excited; only it was a pity to let her feelings carry her away—still, she was very nice about Audrey.'
'She will be her daughter-in-law, you know.'
Then Mrs. Ross winced slightly. She was glad that Mrs. Charrington was that moment announced—she was a pleasant chatty woman, and always paid long visits: Geraldine was her special favourite. As the news of the engagement had not yet reached her, the talk was confined to certain local interests: a new grant of books to the library, the difficulty of finding a butler, and the lameness of one of Dr. Ross's carriage-horses; and Mrs. Ross was in this manner relieved from any more awkward questions.
Her husband was her only confidant, and to him she did disburden herself.
'I do wish that Mrs. Blake were a different sort of woman, John,' she observed that night. 'She is very handsome and amusing; but she is certainly too unrestrained in her talk.'
'We must take folk as we find them, Emmie,' returned Dr. Ross quietly. 'Mrs. Blake is not your sort. In spite of having a grown-up son, she is not quite grown-up herself: middle-aged people ought not to talk out all their feelings as though they were children. But she is a very pleasing person for all that.'
'So I always thought; but she tires one. Not that I would let Audrey know that.'
'Oh, Audrey would keep a dozen Mrs. Blakes in order,' was her husband's response; and then Mrs. Ross said no more.
Geraldine kept her word, and about a week later Cyril Blake received a civil little note, asking him to dine at Hillside on the following evening.
'We shall be quite by ourselves. It will be only a family party—just my husband's brother, Mr. Walter Harcourt, and his wife;' for the Walter Harcourts had come on a visit.
Cyril looked a little grave as he showed the note to Audrey.
'I suppose I must go; but it will be very terrible. I don't mind telling you, Audrey, that I am awfully afraid of your sister.'
'Poor fellow!' returned Audrey, with one of her charming smiles; 'I wish I could spare you this ordeal. But I can give you one bit of comfort: Gage will behave very nicely to you.' And though Cyril still felt a little dubious on this point, he was obliged to own afterwards that she was right.
The evening was a far pleasanter one than he expected. Mr. Harcourt was thawed by his brother's presence, and though there was a slight stiffness and reserve in his manner to Cyril, there was no aggressiveness; and Geraldine was too much of a gentlewoman to behave ungraciously to any guest. Both of them were quite civil to Cyril, though they could not be said to be demonstrative, and there was no attempt to treat him as one of themselves.
Mr. Walter Harcourt was a barrister, and was rapidly rising in his profession. He was considerably younger than his brother, and had recently married a wealthy young widow. He was a clever talker, and his stock of legal anecdotes kept them all well amused. He and Audrey were old friends, and at one time Geraldine and her husband had privately hoped that their acquaintance might ripen into a tenderer feeling.
As soon as the ladies reached the drawing-room, Mrs. WalterHarcourt, who was a pretty, vivacious little woman, observed confidentially to Geraldine:
'My dear, I must congratulate you. That future brother-in-law of yours is one of the handsomest men I have ever seen. I always thought Walter a good-looking fellow, and I daresay you thought much the same of Percival; but both our husbands looked very ordinary people beside him. In fact, Walter was quite clumsy.'
'Nonsense, Maggie!' returned Geraldine, glancing behind her to see if Audrey were within earshot. 'How can you make such absurd comparisons? Of course Mr. Blake is good-looking; but, for my own part, I always distrust handsome men.'
'They are generally such fools, you see. I hate talking to a man who is too self-engrossed to pay me attention. But Mr. Blake is thoroughly nice. I must go to Audrey and tell her how much I admire herfiancé.'
'Thank goodness, that is over!' exclaimed Cyril fervently, as Audrey joined him in the porch. 'I have not had a word with you yet.'
Audrey smiled as she gathered up her long dress and stepped out into the dark shrubberies.
'It was very pleasant,' she observed tranquilly. 'The Walter Harcourts are clever, amusing people. You got on capitally with both of them; and, Cyril, I am sure Gage was as nice as possible.'
'Oh yes!' he returned quickly; 'and I admire her excessively; but, all the same, I shall never feel at my ease with her.' And, as Audrey uttered a protest at this, he continued seriously: 'Of course, I know what Mrs. Harcourt thinks of my presumption; her manner told me that at once. "You are not one of us"—that is what her tone said to me; and yet she was quite kind and civil. Oh, Audrey'—interrupting himself, and speaking almost passionately—'if I were only more worthy of you! But have patience with me, and your people shall respect me yet.'
'Dear Cyril, please do not talk so!' and Audrey stole closer to him in the October darkness. 'You have behaved so beautifully to-night, and I felt, oh! so proud of my sweetheart. And if I am content, what does it matter what other people think?'
'Forgive me, darling,' he returned remorsefully; 'I am only sometimes a little sore because I can give you so little.'
And then his mood changed, for the subtle comfort of hersweet words was thrilling through him; for he was young, and the girl he worshipped from the depths of his honest heart was alone with him under the dim, cloudy skies. Was it any wonder that the world was forgotten, and only the golden haze of the future seemed before them, as they walked together through the quiet streets to Woodcote?
'Not to be solitary one must possess, entirely to one's self, a human creature, and belong exclusively to her (or him).'—Guizot.'How, then, is one to recover courage enough for action?******By extracting a richer experience out of our losses and lessons.'—Amiel.
'Not to be solitary one must possess, entirely to one's self, a human creature, and belong exclusively to her (or him).'—Guizot.
'How, then, is one to recover courage enough for action?
******
By extracting a richer experience out of our losses and lessons.'—Amiel.
Captain Burnett had finished his troublesome piece of business, and was thinking of his return home. His friend was, metaphorically speaking, on his feet again, and Michael was now free to leave London. He had waited, however, for another day or two on Kester's account; the friendly doctor who had undertaken to look into his case had already done wonders. Kester was making rapid progress under his care, and his bright looks and evident enjoyment of his town life reconciled Michael to their long, protracted stay.
'We must certainly go back to Rutherford next week,' he observed one morning, as they sat at breakfast together.
Kester had some appointment with Fred Somers that called him out early, and Captain Burnett good-naturedly left his letters unread, that he might pour out the coffee and attend to his wants.
'They will keep, and I have nothing to do this morning,' he remarked carelessly, as he took them up and laid them down again.
After all, he would not be sorry to read them alone. There was an Indian letter, and one from Audrey, and several notes that were evidently invitations.
When Kester had left him, he sat down in an easy-chair by the window. There was a little table beside him, with a red jar full of brown leaves and chrysanthemums. He picked out one and played with it for a moment, and then Booty jumped up uninvited and curled himself up on his knee.
He read the invitations first, and then threw them aside.
'I shall be at Rutherford,' he thought; and then he opened his Indian letter.
It was from a fellow-officer, and contained an amusing account of a visit he had lately paid to Calcutta. Just at the end it said: 'By the bye, somebody told me the other day that your uncle, Mr. Carlisle, was ill. He has got a nasty attack, and the doctors are shaking their heads over him. The fellow who told me—it was Donarton—mentioned that you were likely to take a lively interest in the news. Is that true, old man, or has Mr. Carlisle any nearer relative than yourself? From what I hear, he is a sort of nabob in these parts.'
Captain Burnett put down this letter, and looked dreamily out of the window. Was it really so, he wondered? Major Glenyow was not the sort of fellow to mention a mere report. His uncle was by no means an old man, and once or twice a rumour of his intended marriage had reached his ears, but it had never been verified. If it were true that his uncle were in a bad way, that he should not recover, then, indeed, there was a possibility. And here, in spite of himself, Michael fell into a day-dream.
If he were rich, if he had sufficient to offer a comfortable home and some of the luxuries of life to the woman he wished to make his wife, would it be right for him to speak? For years his poverty and ill-health had kept him silent; he had made no sign: he had been her faithful friend and cousin—that was all!
But now, if the pressure of narrow means were removed, if, after all, he were his uncle's heir—as he verily believed himself to be—might he not venture to plead his cause at last? His health was better, and his doctor had often told him, half seriously and half in joke, that all he needed was a good wife to take care of him.
'I shall never be as strong as other men,' he said to himself; 'some women might object to me on that score. But she is not that sort: she loves to take care of people, to feel herself necessary to them.' And here a smile came to his lips. 'I have never spoken to her, never dropped a hint of my feelings; but, somehow, I do not think she would be surprised if I ever told them—we have been so much to each other. I think I could teach her to love me in time—at least, I would try, my sweet.' And here there was a sudden gleam and fire in his eyes, and then he took up Audrey's letter, and began to read it.
But when he had finished the first sentence, a curious dull feeling came over him, and he found that he could not understand what he was reading; he must go over the passage again. But as he re-read it the same numbness and impossibility of comprehension came over him; and yet the words were very clearly written:
'Shall you be very much surprised, my dear Michael, to hear some news I have to tell you? I am engaged to Mr. Blake. I will tell you all about it presently, just as though you were my father-confessor; I will not hide one little thing from you. But I was never one to beat about the bush, and I hope my abruptness has not made you jump; but oh, Michael dear, I am so happy!' etc.
He read this sentence half a dozen times, until something of its meaning had taken hold of his dense brain; and then he read the letter straight through to the very end, slowly, and often pausing over a sentence that seemed to him a little involved. And as he read there was a pinched gray look upon his face, as though some sudden illness had seized him; but he was not conscious of any active pain, though the whole plan and purpose of his life lay crushed in the dust before him, like the chrysanthemum that Booty was tearing, petal by petal, until his master's coat-sleeve was covered with golden-brown shreds. On the contrary, as he sat there, holding the letter between his limp hands, his mind wandered off to a story he had once read.
Was it the wreck of theRoyal George, he wondered? The name of the vessel had escaped him, but he knew the story was a true one; it had really happened. He had read how the vessel was doomed. She was a troop-ship, and there were hundreds of brave English soldiers on board; and when they knew there was no hope, the officers drew up their men on the deck, just as though they were on parade; and the gallant fellows stood there, in rank and file, as they went down to their watery grave.
'And not a man of them flinched, you may depend on that,' he said, half aloud; 'for they were Englishmen, and Englishmen know how to die.'
And it seemed to him that he was still ruminating over this old story that had happened so many, many years ago, when Kester returned, and he must needs tell him the story again, and he told it very well, too.
'And not a man of them flinched,' he repeated, rising alittle feebly from his chair, 'for they were Englishmen, and Englishmen know how to die. Why are you staring at me, boy? It is a good story, is it not?'
'Very good indeed, but I was only afraid you were not quite well, Captain Burnett; you look so queer, somehow, and your hand is shaking.'
'I have sat too long. I think I must walk off my stiffness. Don't wait lunch for me, Kester. I may go to my club.'
And then he took down his hat, and went out in the streets, with Booty ambling along at his heels.
But he did not go far; he strolled into the Park and sat down on a bench. The air refreshed him, and the miserable numb feelings left him, and he had power to think.
But there were deep lines in his face as he sat there, and a great sadness in his eyes, and just before he rose to go home a few words escaped him. 'Oh, my darling, what a mistake, when you belong to me! Will you ever find it out for yourself? Will you ever recognise that it is a mistake?' And then he set his teeth hard, like a man who knows his strength and refuses to be beaten.
And the next morning, as they sat at breakfast, Michael looked up from his newspaper and asked Kester if he had heard the Rutherford news.
'Perhaps your mother or Mollie has written to you?' he observed, as he carelessly scanned the columns.
Kester looked up a little anxiously.
'No one has told me anything,' he said, rather nervously. 'I hope it is not bad news.'
'Most people would call it good news. Your brother and Miss Ross are engaged. Well'—as Kester jumped from his seat flushing scarlet—'aren't you delighted? I think you ought to write a pretty note to Miss Ross to go with my letter.'
'Have you written to her? Will you give her a message from me? I would rather write to Cyril. I don't take it in, somehow; you are quite sure it is true, Captain Burnett? Of course, I am glad that Cyril should be happy, but I always thought——'
And here Kester stammered and got confused; but Michael did not help him. He took up his paper again, and left him to finish his breakfast in silence, and after that he remarked that he was going down to his club.
Kester curled himself up on the window-seat as soon as he was left alone, and fell into a brown study. Somehow he couldnot make it out at all. He was sharp-witted by nature, and years of suffering and forced inaction had made him more thoughtful than most boys of his age. He had long ago grasped the idea that his idolised hero was not happy, and during their stay in Scotland some dim surmise of the truth had occurred to him.
'Dear old Cyril!' he observed, half aloud; 'I am awfully glad for his sake; but it always seemed to me as though Miss Ross were a cut above us. If only I were sure that he was glad, too.'
And here a troubled look crossed the boy's face; he was thinking of the story Captain Burnett had told him yesterday, and of the strange dazed look in Michael's eyes: 'And not a man of them flinched; for they were Englishmen, and Englishmen know how to die.' 'Ah, and to live, too!' thought Kester, as he roused himself at last and sat down to his Greek.
When Audrey heard that Michael was really coming home, she felt as though she had nothing more to wish. She had read his letter at least a dozen times; its brotherly tenderness and anxiety for her welfare had touched her to the heart.
'I am very grateful for your confidence,' he wrote, after a few earnest wishes for her happiness. 'I would like, if it were possible, to keep my old place as Mentor—we have always been such friends, dear, such true and trusty comrades; and I do not think that Mr. Blake will object to my cousinly surveillance. I could not afford to lose you out of my life, Audrey; so let me subscribe myself, now and for ever, your faithful friend and brother—Michael.'
Audrey sighed gently as she put down the letter; it touched, but it did not completely satisfy her. Michael had not said he was glad to hear of her engagement. He was truthful almost to a fault. The conventional falsehoods that other men uttered were never on his lips. If he could not approve, he would take refuge in silence. 'Silence never damages a man's character,' he was fond of saying; but many people found this oppressive. Audrey had secretly longed for some such word of approval. If Michael had only told her that he applauded her courage in marrying a poor man, if he had praised her unworldliness, she would have been utterly content; but the letter that Michael had written with a breaking heart held no such comfort for her. He had accepted her decision without a word, and though his message of congratulation to Cyril was all that could be wished, there was no further allusion to him.
'Michael thinks I have been rash,' she said to herself a little sorrowfully. 'I suppose he, too, considers that Cyril is rather too young. If Michael were only on our side, I should not care what the rest of the world thinks;' and then she folded up the letter.
But on the day Michael was expected her face was so radiant that Cyril pretended to be jealous. 'You are very fond of your cousin,' he observed as he followed her to the window, where she was watching the clouds a little anxiously.
Audrey heard him rather absently. She was thinking that the dampness might bring on Michael's neuralgia, and that, if he had only named his train, the carriage might have been sent for him—indeed, she would have driven out herself to meet him and Kester. 'Oh yes,' she rejoined; 'I have missed him terribly all this time. Nothing is right without Michael——' and as Cyril looked a little surprised at this, she added quickly: 'He is like my own brother, Cyril, so it is perfectly natural, you see; ever since his illness he has been one of us.' And as Cyril professed himself satisfied with this explanation, there was nothing more said, and Audrey went up to put the finishing touches to Michael's rooms, and to arrange the chrysanthemums and coloured leaves in the big Indian jars. If she had only known how Michael would shudder at the sight of these chrysanthemums! He had taken a dislike to the flowers ever since Booty had covered his coat-sleeve with golden-brown petals.
After all, Michael came before he was expected. Audrey was sitting chatting to her mother in the twilight, when they heard the hall door open and close, and the next moment they saw Michael standing on the threshold looking at them.
'My dear Michael!' exclaimed Mrs. Ross; but Audrey had already crossed the room: both her hands were in Michael's, and he was looking at her with his old kind smile, though he did not say a word; but Audrey did not seem to notice his silence.
'Have you walked from the Gray Cottage? We did not hear any wheels. Why did you not let us know your train, and I would have driven in to meet you? Mother, I am going to ring for the lamp and tea; Michael will be tired!' And Audrey did as she said, and then picked up Booty and lavished all sorts of caresses on the little animal, while she listened to the quiet explanations that Michael was giving to Mrs. Ross.
'You are looking very well, Audrey,' he said at last; 'you have not lost your moorland colour yet.' And though he saidthis in his usual tone, he thought that never in his life had he seen her look so sweet.
'I wish I could return the compliment,' was her answer; 'you are looking thin and pale, Michael. You have been giving us such a good account of yourself, but London never suits you.'
'I think it suits me better than it did,' he returned quietly; but he could not quite meet her affectionate look. 'I shall have to run up there pretty frequently now; one must look up one's friends more: out of sight is out of mind in many cases.'
Audrey gave an incredulous smile. She thought Michael would not act up to this resolution; but he fully meant what he said. Woodcote, dearly as he loved it, would never be his home now. Of course, he would do things by degrees: his brief absences should grow longer and more frequent, until they had become used to them; and perhaps in time he might break with his old life altogether. But he put away these thoughts, and talked to them in his usual easy fashion, asking questions about Geraldine and her husband; and presently Dr. Ross came in and monopolised him entirely.
Audrey felt as though she had not had a word with him when she went upstairs to dress for dinner. True, he had asked after Cyril, and inquired if he were coming in that evening; but on Audrey's replying in the negative he had made no observation.
'When father is in the room he never will let Michael talk to anyone else,' she said to herself rather discontentedly; 'if I could only get him alone!'
She had her wish presently, for on her return to the drawing-room she found him lying back in an easy-chair, looking at the fire. He was evidently thinking intently, for he did not hear her entrance until she was close beside him; but at the touch of her hand on his shoulder he started violently.
'A penny for your thoughts, Michael,' she said gaily, as he jumped up and stood beside her on the rug.
'They are too valuable to be saleable,' he returned lightly; 'suppose you let me hear yours instead.'
'You shall have them and welcome. Oh, Michael, how delicious it is to be talking to you again; letters are so stupid and unsatisfactory!'
'Do you mean my letters in particular?'
'Oh no! They were as nice as possible; but, all the same, they did not quite satisfy me. Do you know,' and here her tone was a little wistful, 'you have not told me that you are glad about my engagement? You said so many nice things;but somehow I was longing for just one word of approval from my old Mentor.'
An uneasy flush crossed Michael's face; but the firelight was flickering just then, and Audrey could not see him distinctly. For one moment he was silent; then he put her gently in a seat and placed himself beside her. It would be easier to talk to her so, and perhaps he was conscious of some sudden weakness.
'How cold your hands are!' she observed anxiously; 'if you will break the big coal the fire will burn more brightly.' And as he obeyed her she continued: 'Ah, now we can see each other! I do dislike a flickering, uncertain light. Now, will you tell me frankly if you were glad or sorry when you got my letter?'
He was more prepared now, and his voice was quite steady as he answered her.
'Mentor has no objection to be catechised, but he wishes to put one question first. Are you quite content and happy, Audrey?'
'Indeed I am!' turning to him one of the brightest faces he had ever seen.
'Then, my dear, I am satisfied, too.'
'Oh, but that will not do! You must tell me your own private opinion. I know you like Cyril—you have always spoken well of him; but are you sure that in your heart you thoroughly approve my choice?'
She was pressing him close, but he did not flinch; he only turned to her rather gravely.
'My dear Audrey, there are limits even to Mentor's privileges. When two people make up their minds to take each other for better, for worse, no third person has a right to give an opinion. I know little of Mr. Blake, but I have already a respect for him. I am perfectly sure that in time we shall be good friends.'
'I hope so—I hope so from my heart!' she returned earnestly. 'You are very guarded, Michael; and, though you are too kind to say so, I know you think I have acted rather hastily. Perhaps you would rather I had waited a little longer; but Cyril was so unhappy, and I—well, I was not quite comfortable myself. It is so much nicer to have it all settled.'
'Yes, I see.'
'And now everything is just perfect. Oh, Michael, you must not go away for a long time! I cannot do without you.'
'I hope you don't expect me to believe that?'
'But it is perfectly true, I assure you. Actually, Cyril pretended to be jealous to-day, because I could think of nothing but your coming home. He was only teasing me; for of course he understands what we feel for each other. If you were my own brother, Michael, I could not want you more. But that is the best of Cyril; he is really so unselfish—almost as unselfish as you.'
'My dear child,' returned Michael lazily, 'did you ever hear of a certain philosopher named Diogenes, and how he set off one day, lamp in hand, to search through the city for an honest man? Really, your remark makes me inclined to light my own private farthing dip, and look for this curious anomaly, an unselfish man.'
'You would not have to go far,' she returned innocently. 'There are two of them in Rutherford at the present moment.'
But he only shook his head and laughed at this guileless flattery, and at that moment, to his relief, Dr. Ross came into the room.
But as he took his place at the dinner-table he had a curious sensation, as though he had been racked; and, though he laughed and talked, he had an odd feeling all the time as though he were not quite sure of his own identity; and all that evening a few words that Audrey had said haunted him like a refrain:
'If you were my own brother, Michael, I could not want you more—if you were my own brother I could not want you more!'
'My privilege is to be the spectator of my own life-drama, to be fully conscious of the tragi-comedy of my own destiny; and, more than that, to be in the secret of the tragi-comic itself.******'Without grief, which is the string of this venturesome kite, man would soar too quickly and too high, and the chosen souls would be lost for the race, like balloons, which, but for gravitation, would never return from the empyrean.'—Amiel.
'My privilege is to be the spectator of my own life-drama, to be fully conscious of the tragi-comedy of my own destiny; and, more than that, to be in the secret of the tragi-comic itself.
******
'Without grief, which is the string of this venturesome kite, man would soar too quickly and too high, and the chosen souls would be lost for the race, like balloons, which, but for gravitation, would never return from the empyrean.'—Amiel.
Michael's return had greatly added to Audrey's happiness. In spite of her lover's society and her natural joyousness of disposition, she had been conscious that something had been lacking to her complete contentment.
'No one but Michael could take Michael's place,' as she told him a little pathetically that first evening.
But when a few days had elapsed she became aware that things were not quite the same between them—that the Michael who had come back to her was not exactly the old Michael.
The old Michael had been somewhat of an autocrat—a good-natured autocrat, certainly, who tyrannised over her for her own good, and who assumed the brotherly right of inquiring into all her movements and small daily plans. They had always been much together, especially since Geraldine's marriage had deprived her of sisterly companionship; and it had been an understood thing in the Ross family that where Audrey was, Michael was generally not far off.
Under these circumstances, it was therefore quite natural that Audrey should expect her cousin to resume his usual habits. She had counted on his companionship during the hours Cyril was engaged in his schoolroom duties. In old times Michael had often accompanied her on her visits to her variousprotégées; he had always been her escort to the garden-partiesthat were greatly in vogue at Rutherford, or he would drive her to Brail or some of the outlying towns or villages where she had business.
It was somewhat of a disappointment, then, to find that Michael had suddenly turned over a new leaf, and was far too occupied to be at her beck and call. Kester came to him almost daily, and it became his custom to spend the remainder of the morning in Dr. Ross's study. He had a habit, too, of writing his letters after luncheon; in fact, he was seldom disengaged until the evening, when he was always ready to take his place in the family circle.
Audrey accused herself of selfishness. Of course she ought to be glad that Michael's health had so much improved. Her father was always remarking on the change in a tone of satisfaction.
'He is like the old Mike,' he said once; 'he has taken a new departure, and has shaken off his listlessness. Why, he works quite steadily now for hours without knocking up. He is a different man. He takes a class for me every morning; it does me good to see him with half a dozen boys round him. Blake will have to look out for himself; he is hardly as popular as the Captain.'
Audrey took herself to task severely when her father said this. It was evident that Michael had spoilt her. She was determined not to monopolise him so selfishly; but, somehow, when it came to the point, she was always forgetting these good resolutions.
And another thing puzzled Audrey: Michael was certainly quieter than he used to be; when they were alone—which was a rare occurrence now—he seemed to have so little to say to her. Sometimes he would take up his book and read out a few passages, but if she begged him to put it down and talk to her instead, he would dispute the point in the most tiresome fashion.
'I think people talk too much, nowadays,' he would say in his lazy way; 'it is all lip-service now. If women would only cultivate their minds a little more, and learn to hold their tongues until they have something worth saying, the world would not be flooded with all this muddy small-talk. Now, for example, if you would allow me to read you this fine passage from Emerson.'
But if Audrey would allow nothing of the kind, and if, on the contrary, she manifested an obstinate determination to talk,he would argue with her in the same playful fashion; but she could never draw him into one of their old confidential talks.
But when they were all together of an evening, Michael would be more like his old self. He would sit beside the piano when she sang, and turn over the leaves for her, or he would coax her to be his partner in a game of whist, and lecture her in his old fashion; but all the time he would be looking at her so kindly that his lectures never troubled her in the least.
But when Cyril spent the evening at Woodcote, which was generally once or twice a week, Michael never seemed to think that they wanted him: he would bury himself in his book or paper, or challenge Dr. Ross to a game of chess. He never took any notice of Audrey's appealing looks, and her kindly attempts to draw him into conversation with her and Cyril were all disregarded.
Audrey bore this for some time, and then she made up her mind that she must speak to him. She was a little shy of approaching the subject—Michael never seemed to give her any opening now—but she felt she must have it out with him.
One evening, when she and Cyril had exchanged their parting words in the hall, she went back to the drawing-room and found Michael standing alone before the fire. She went up to him at once, but as he turned to her she was struck with his air of weariness and depression.
'Oh, Michael, how tired you look!' she observed, laying her hand on his arm. 'Have you neuralgia again?' And as he shook his head, she continued anxiously: 'Are you sure you are quite well—that nothing is troubling you? You have been so very quiet this evening. Michael'—and here she blushed a little—'I want to say something to you, and yet I hardly know how to put it—it is just like your thoughtfulness—but, indeed, there is no need: you are never in the way.'
'Is this an enigma? If so, I may as well tell you I give it up at once. I never could guess conundrums;' and Michael twirled his moustache in a most provoking way; but, all the same, he perfectly understood her. 'I give it up,' he repeated.
Audrey pretended to frown.
'Michael, I never knew you so tiresome before. It is impossible to speak seriously to you—and I really am serious.' And then her tone changed, and she looked at him very gently. 'You mean it so kindly, but indeed it is not necessary. Neither Cyril nor I could ever find you in the way.'
He looked down at the rug as she spoke, and there was amoment's silence before he answered her. She had come straight to him from her lover to say this thing to him. It was so like Audrey to tell him this. An odd thought occurred to him as he listened to her—one of those sudden flashes of memory that sometimes dart across the mind: he remembered that once in his life he had kissed her.
It had been half a lifetime ago. She was only a child. They were staying in London, and he had come to see them on his way from some review. He remembered how Audrey had stood and looked at him. She had the same clear gray eyes then.
'How grand you look, Mike!' she exclaimed in an awestruck tone, for as a child she had always called him 'Mike.' 'I wish you would always wear that beautiful scarlet coat; and I think, if you did not mind, I should like you to kiss me just for once.'
Michael remembered how he had felt as she made that innocent request, and how Dr. Ross had laughed; and then, when he kissed her cheek, she thanked him quite gravely, and slipped back to her father.
'Why don't you ask for a kiss, too, Gage?' Dr. Ross observed in a joking way.
But Geraldine had looked quite shocked at the idea.
'No, thank you, father; I never kiss soldiers,' she replied discreetly—at which reply there had been a fresh laugh.
'He may be a soldier, but Mike's Mike, and I wanted to kiss him,' returned Audrey stoutly. 'Why do you laugh, daddy?—little girls may kiss anybody.'
Had he cared for her ever since then, he wondered; and then he pulled himself up with a sort of start.
'Michael, why do you not answer me?'
'Because I was thinking,' he returned quietly. 'Audrey, do you know you are just as much a child as you were a dozen years ago? Does it ever occur to you, my dear, that Blake might not always endorse your opinion? Stop,' as she was about to speak; 'we all know what a kind-hearted person our Lady Bountiful is, and how she never thinks of herself at all. But I have a sort of fellow-feeling with Blake, and I quite understand his view of the case—that two is company and three are none.'
'But, Michael,' and here Audrey blushed again, most becomingly, 'indeed Cyril is not so ridiculous. I know what people generally think: that engaged couples like to be left tothemselves—and I daresay it is pleasant sometimes—but I don't see why they are to be selfish. Cyril has plenty of opportunities for talking to me; but when he comes of an evening there is no need for you to turn hermit.'
'It is a character I prefer. All old bachelors develop this sort of tendency to isolate themselves at times from their fellow-creatures. To be sure, I am naturally gregarious; but, then, I hate to spoil sport. "Do as you would be done by"—that is the Burnett motto. So, by your favour, I intend Blake to have his own way.'
'Oh, how silly you must think us!' she returned impatiently. 'I wish you would not be so self-opinionative, Michael; for you are wrong—quite wrong. I should be far happier if you would make one of us, as you do on other evenings.'
'And this is therôleyou have selected for me,' replied Michael mournfully: 'to play gooseberry in my old age, and get myself hated for my pains. No, my dear child; listen to the words of wisdom: leave Mentor to enjoy a surreptitious nap in his arm-chair, and be content with your Blake audience.' And, in spite of all her coaxing and argument, she could not induce him to promise that he would mend his ways.
'You are incorrigible!' she said, as she bade him good-night. 'After all, Cyril gives me my own way far more than you do.'
But Michael seemed quite impervious to this reproach: the smile was still on his face as she left him; but as the door closed his elbow dropped heavily on the mantelpiece, and a sombre look came into the keen blue eyes.
'Shall I have to give it up and go away?' he said to himself. 'Life is not worth living at this price. Oh, my darling! my innocent darling! why do you not leave me in peace? why do you tempt me with your sweet looks and words to be false to my own sense of honour? But I will not yield—I dare not, for all our sakes. If she will not let me take my own way, I must just throw it all up and go abroad. God bless her! I know she means what she says, and Mike is Mike still.' And then he groaned, and his head dropped on his arms, and the tide of desolation swept over him. He was still young—in the prime of life—and yet what good was his life to him?
Audrey was a healthy-minded young person; she was not given to introspection. She never took herself to pieces, in a morbid way, to examine the inner workings of her own mind, after the manner of some folk, who regulate themselves in abungling fashion, and wind themselves up afresh daily; and who would even time their own heart-beats if it were possible.
Audrey was not one of these scrupulous self-critics. She would have considered it waste of time to be always weighing herself and her feelings in a nicely-adjusted balance. 'Know thyself,' said an old thinker; but Audrey Ross would have altered the saying: 'Look out of yourself; self-forgetfulness is better than any amount of self-knowledge.'
Nevertheless, Audrey was a little thoughtful after this conversation with Michael, and during the next few weeks she was conscious of feeling vaguely dissatisfied with herself. Now and then she wondered if she were different from other girls, and if her absence of moods, and her constant serenity and gaiety, were not signs of a phlegmatic temperament.
She was perfectly content with her own position. She had never imagined before how pleasant it would be to be engaged, and to have one human being entirely devoted to her. She was very much attached to herfiancé. He never disappointed her; on the contrary, she discovered every day some new and admirable trait that excited her admiration, and as a lover he was simply perfect. He never made her uneasy by demanding more than she felt inclined to give; at the same time, it deepened her sense of security and restfulness to feel how completely he understood her.
But now and then she would ask herself if her love for Cyril were all that it ought to be. She began to compare herself with others—with Geraldine, for example. She remembered the months of Geraldine's engagement, and how entirely she and Percival had been absorbed in each other. Geraldine had never seemed to have eyes or ears for anyone but her lover, and in his absence she had hardly seemed like herself at all.
She had been obliged to pay a few weeks' visit to some friends in Scotland, and Audrey had accompanied her, and she remembered how, when their visit was half over, she had jestingly observed that she would never be engaged to anyone if she were compelled to lose her own identity. 'For you know you are not the same person, Gage,' she had said; 'instead of taking pleasure in our friends' society, you shut yourself up and write endless letters to Percival; and when we drive out or go in the boat, you never seem to see the beautiful scenery, and the mountains and the loch might be in the clouds; and when anyone asks you a question, you seem to answer it from a distance, and everyone knows that your thoughts are at Rutherford.'And though Geraldine had chosen to be offended at this plain speaking, she had not been able to defend herself. And then, had not Audrey once found her crying in her room, and for a long time she had refused to be comforted? Audrey had been much alarmed, for she thought something must be wrong at Woodcote; but it was only that Percival had a headache and seemed so dull without her. 'He says he really cannot bear the place without me, that he thinks he must go to Edith—and, and, I want to go home dreadfully,' finished Geraldine tearfully; 'I don't think engaged people ought to leave each other, and I know Percival thinks so too.'
Audrey remembered this little episode when during the Christmas holidays Cyril was obliged to go up to town for ten days. She missed him excessively, and wrote him charming little letters every day; but, nevertheless, the time did not hang heavily on her hands. But she was glad when the day of his return arrived, and she went down to the Gray Cottage to welcome him. Mrs. Blake had suggested it as a little surprise, and Audrey had agreed at once. Cyril's delight at seeing her almost deprived him of good manners. He knew hisfiancéeobjected to any sort of demonstration before people; and he only just remembered this in time, as Audrey drew back with a heightened colour.
But he made up for it afterwards when Mrs. Blake left them alone, and Audrey was almost overwhelmed by his vehement expressions of joy at finding himself with her again.
'It has been the longest ten days I have ever spent in my life,' he observed; 'I was horribly bored, and as homesick as possible. I am afraid Norton found me very poor company. If it had not been for your letters, I could not have borne it. You shall never send me away again, dearest.'
'But that is nonsense,' she returned, in her sensible way; 'you cannot stop at Rutherford all the year round, and it will not do for you to lose your friends. I shall have to pay visits myself; and I am afraid I shall not always ask your leave if any very tempting invitations come.'
'You will not need to do so,' he answered quietly; 'do you think I should begrudge you any pleasure? I have no wish, even if I had the right, to curtail your freedom. I am not so selfish.'
'You are never selfish,' she returned softly. 'Cyril dear, I suppose I ought to be pleased that you feel like this; but, do you know, I am just a little sorry.'
'Sorry!' and indeed he could hardly believe his ears, for was he not paying her a pretty compliment?
'Yes; it makes me rather uncomfortable. It seems to me as though I ought to feel the same, as though there were something wanting in me. I sometimes fancy I am different from other girls.'
'Do not compare yourself with other people,' he returned quickly, for he could not bear her to look troubled for a moment. This mood was new to him, and he had never seen a shade on her bright face before. 'You have a calm temperament—that is your great charm—you are not subject to the cold and hot fits of ordinary mortals. It is my own fault that I cannot be happy without you; but I do not expect you to share my restlessness.'
'Ah, that is right,' she replied, very much relieved by this. 'You are always so nice at understanding things, Cyril. Do you know, I was blaming myself for feeling so comfortable in your absence. But I was so busy—I had so many things to interest me; and, then, I had Michael.'
The young man flushed slightly, but he had learnt to repress himself: he knew, far better than she did, that his love was infinitely greater than hers. But what of that? She was a woman made to be worshipped. It never troubled him when she talked of Michael—Cyril's nature was too noble for jealousy—but just for the moment her frankness jarred on him.
'I think I was nearly as happy as usual,' she went on, determined to tell the truth; 'and yet, by your own account, you were perfectly miserable.'
'But that was my own fault,' he returned lightly. 'Men are unreasonable creatures; they are not patient like women. It is true that I have no life apart from you now, and that I always want to be near you; but I do not expect you to feel the same.'
Audrey looked at him thoughtfully; he gave her so much, and yet he seemed to demand so little.
'You are very good to me, Cyril,' she said, in a low voice. 'I never thought you would understand me so thoroughly. You leave me so free, and you make me so happy. I wonder where you have learnt to be so wise.'
'My love for you has taught me many things,' he answered. 'Do I really make you happy, sweetheart?'
But the look in her eyes was sufficient answer. This was his reward—to see her perfect content and trust in him, and to bask in her sweet looks and smiles.