'When a man begins to do wrong, he cannot answer for himself how far he may be carried on. He does not see beforehand; he cannot know where he will find himself after the sin is committed. One false step forces him to another.'—Newman.'An Italian proverb, too well known, declares that if you would succeed you must not be too good.'—Emerson.
'When a man begins to do wrong, he cannot answer for himself how far he may be carried on. He does not see beforehand; he cannot know where he will find himself after the sin is committed. One false step forces him to another.'—Newman.
'An Italian proverb, too well known, declares that if you would succeed you must not be too good.'—Emerson.
Audrey found Michael strangely uncommunicative that evening; he hardly responded to her expressions of pleasure at seeing him again, and all her questions were answered as briefly as possible. His manner was as kind as ever; indeed, he spoke to her with more than his usual gentleness; but during dinner he seemed to find conversation difficult, and all her little jokes fell flat. She wanted to know how many pretty things he had bought, and if he had put down his name for the proof engraving of a certain picture he had longed to possess.
'Twenty guineas is nothing to you now, Michael,' she observed playfully.
'No, I forgot all about the picture,' he returned, starting up from his chair; 'but I have brought you a present.'
And the next moment he put in her hand a little case. When Audrey opened it, there was a small cross studded with diamonds of great beauty and lustre, and the whole effect was so sparkling and dainty that Audrey quite flushed with surprise and pleasure.
'Oh, mother, look how beautiful! But, Michael, how dare you waste your money on me; this must have cost a fortune!' And then she added a little thoughtfully, 'I am afraid Cyril will be sorry when he sees this; he is always lamenting that he cannot give me things.'
'I chose a bracelet for Geraldine,' he returned carelessly, asthough buying diamonds were an everyday business with him. 'Would you like to see it?' and he showed her the contents of the other case. 'I have a small offering for my godson in the shape of the inevitable mug, and I mean to give this to Leonard's mamma.'
'It is very handsome; mother thinks so: don't you, mother? and Gage is devoted to bracelets; but I like mine ever so much better; it is the very perfection of a cross, and I shall value it, ah, so dearly, Michael!' and Audrey held out her hand as she spoke.
Michael pressed it silently. It was little wonder, he thought, that Audrey liked her gift better than Geraldine's; it had cost at least three times as much; in fact, its value had been so great that he had written the cheque with some slight feeling of shame and compunction. 'There is no harm, after all, and she is so fond of diamonds,' he assured himself, as he put the little case in his pocket; 'she will not know what it cost me, and he will never be able to buy ornaments for her—I may as well give myself this pleasure;' and just for the moment it did please him to see her delight over the ornament.
'It is not so much the diamonds that please me, as Michael's kindness and generosity,' she said to Cyril the next day. 'He has bought nothing for himself, and yet he has been in town a whole month; he only thought of us.'
And Cyril observed quietly, as he closed the case, that it was certainly very kind of Captain Burnett; but a close observer would have said that Michael's generosity had not quite pleased him.
'I suppose you will wear this to-night at the Charringtons'?' he asked presently.
'Yes; and those lovely flowers you have brought me,' she added, with one of her charming smiles; and somehow the cloud passed in a moment from the young man's brow.
What did it matter, after all, that he could not give her diamonds? Had he not given himself to her, and did they not belong to each other for time and for eternity? And as he thought this he took her in his arms with a loving speech.
'You are sweet as the very sweetest of my flowers,' he said, holding her close to him. 'You are the very dearest thing in the world to me, Audrey; and sometimes, when I think of the future, I am almost beside myself with happiness.'
When the little excitement of the diamonds was over,Michael relapsed again into gravity, and he was still grave when he went up to Hillside the next day. A wakeful night's reflection had brought him no comfort; he felt as though a gulf were opening before him and those whom he loved, and that he dared not, for very dread and giddiness, look into it.
When they returned from church, and were about to sit down to the sumptuous luncheon, he took Geraldine aside and presented his offerings. To his surprise, she was quite overcome, and would have called her husband to share her pleasure; but he begged her to say nothing just then.
'Audrey has a present, too, but she took it far more calmly,' he said, in a rallying tone. But as he spoke he wondered at his cousin's beauty. Her complexion had always been very transparent, but now excitement had added a soft bloom. Was it motherhood, he asked himself, that deepened the expression of her eyes and lent her that new gentleness? 'I never saw you look better, Gage,' he said, in quite an admiring voice; but Geraldine was as unconscious as ever.
'I am very well,' she returned, smiling, 'only not quite as strong as usual. It is such a pity that Percival would not allow me to invite you to dinner, because he says that I ought to be quiet this evening. He and mother make such a fuss over me. Percival means to take baby and me for a change during the Easter holidays. That will be nice, will it not? I think we shall go to Bournemouth.'
'Very nice,' he returned absently.
'I wish Audrey would go too, but I am afraid she will not leave Cyril; he is not going away this vacation. That is the worst of a sister being engaged, she is not half so useful.'
'I think Audrey would go with you if you asked her; she is very unselfish.'
'Yes; but she has to think about someone else now, and I do not wish to be hard on Cyril. He is very nice, and we all like him.'
'I am very glad to hear that, Gage.'
'Yes; we must just make the best of it. Of course, Percival and I will always consider she is throwing herself away; but that cannot be helped now. By the bye, Michael, this is the first time I have seen you since you came into your fortune. I have never been able to tell you how delighted we both were to hear of it.'
'Well, it was a pretty good haul.'
'Yes; but no one will do more with it. But you must notbuy any more diamonds;' and then she smiled on him. And just then Master Leonard made his appearance in his long lace robe, and, as Geraldine moved to take her boy in her arms, there was no further conversation between them.
They left soon after luncheon. Mr. Bryce had to take an early afternoon train, and Dr. Ross accompanied him to the station. Audrey drove home with her mother; they expected Michael to follow them, but he had other business on hand. There was his interview with Mrs. Blake, and on leaving Hillside he went straight to the Gray Cottage.
Mollie met him at the door. She looked disturbed and anxious.
'Yes; you are to go up to the drawing-room, Captain Burnett,' she said, when he asked if Mrs. Blake were at home. 'Mamma is there. I heard her tell Biddy so. Do you know'—puckering up her face as though she were ready to cry—'mamma will not speak to any of us—not even to Cyril! She says she is ill, and that only Biddy understands her. It is so odd that she is able to see a visitor.'
'What makes you think she is ill, Mollie?'
'Oh, because she looked so dreadful when she came home last night; she could hardly walk upstairs, and Cyril was not there to help her. He was quite frightened when I told him, and went to her room at once; but her door was locked, and she said her head ached so that she could not talk. Biddy was with her then; we could hear her voice distinctly, and mamma seemed moaning so.'
'Has she seen your brother this morning?'
'Yes, just for a minute; but the room was darkened, and he could not see her properly. She told him that the pain had got on the nerves, and that she really could not bear us near her. But she would not let him send for a doctor, and Biddy seemed to agree with her.'
'Perhaps she will be better to-morrow,' he suggested; and then he left Mollie and went upstairs. 'Poor little girl!' he said to himself; 'I wonder what she would say if she knew her father were living!'
And then he tapped at the drawing-room door. He was not quite sure whether anyone bade him enter. Mrs. Blake was sitting in a chair drawn close to the fire; her back was towards him. She did not move or turn her head as he walked towards her, and when he put out his hand to her she took no notice of it.
'You have come,' she said, in a quick, hard voice. And then she turned away from him and looked into the fire.
'Yes, I have come,' he replied quietly, as he sat down on the oak settle that was drawn up near her chair. 'I am sorry to see you look so ill, Mrs. Blake.'
He might well say so. She had aged ten years since the previous night. Her face was quite drawn and haggard—he had never before noticed that there were threads of gray in her dark hair—she had always looked so marvellously young; but now he could see the lines and the crows'-feet; and as his sharp eyes detected all this he felt very sorry for her.
'Ill; of course I'm ill,' she answered irritably. 'All night long I have been wishing I were dead. I said yesterday that I would rather kill myself than tell you my story; but to-day I have thought better of it.'
'I am glad of that.'
'Of course I am not a fool, and I know I am in your power—yours and that man's.' And here she shivered.
'Will you tell me this one thing first? Is he—is Matthew O'Brien your husband?'
'Yes; I suppose so. I was certainly married to him once.'
'Then, why, in the name of heaven, Mrs. Blake, do you allow people to consider you a widow?'
'Because I am a widow,' she returned harshly. 'Because I have unmarried myself and given up my husband. Because I refused to have anything more to do with him—he brought me disgrace, and I hated him for it.'
'But, pardon me, it is not possible—no woman can unmarry herself in this fashion—unless you mean——'
And here he stopped, feeling it impossible to put any such question to her. But what on earth could she mean?
'No, I have not divorced him. I suppose, in one sense, he may still be regarded as my husband; but for fourteen years he has been dead to me, and I have called myself a widow.'
'But you must have known it was wrong,' he returned, a little bewildered by these extraordinary statements. If she had not looked so wan and haggard, he would have accused her of talking wildly.
'No, Captain Burnett; I do not own it was wrong. Under some circumstances a woman is bound to defend herself and her children—a tigress will brave a loaded gun if heryoung are starving. If it were to come over again, I would do the same. But I will acknowledge to you that I did not love my husband.'
'No; that is evident.'
'I never loved him, though I was foolish enough to marry him. I suppose I cared for him in a sort of way. He was handsome, and had soft, pleasant ways with him; and I was young and giddy, and ready for any excitement. But I had not been his wife three months before I would have given worlds to have undone my marriage.'
'Was he a bad husband to you?'
'No. Mat was always too soft for unkindness; but he was not the man for me. Besides, I had married him out of pique—there was someone I liked much better. You see, I am telling you all quite frankly. I am in your power, as I said before. If I refused to speak, you would just go to Mat, and he would tell you everything.'
'I am very much relieved to find you so reasonable, Mrs. Blake. It is certainly wiser and better to tell me yourself. You have my promise that, as far as possible, I will give you my help; but at present I do not know how this may be.'
'Yes; I will tell you my story,' she answered. But there was a bitterness of antagonism in her tone as she said this. 'I have always been afraid of you, Captain Burnett; I felt you disliked and mistrusted me, and I have never been easy with you. If it were not for Kester, and your kindness to him, I should be horribly afraid of you. But for Kester's sake you would not be hard on his mother.'
'I would not be hard on any woman,' he answered quietly. 'It is true I have mistrusted you. I told you so yesterday. But if you will confide in me, you shall not repent your confidence.'
'You mean you will not be my enemy.'
'I am no woman's enemy,' he said a little proudly. 'I wish someone else had been in my place yesterday; you can understand it is not a pleasant business to ask these questions of a lady; but there are many interests involved, and I am like a son to Dr. Ross. I am bound to look into this matter more closely for his sake, and——' he paused, and, if possible, Mrs. Blake turned a little pale.
'Let me tell you quickly,' she said. 'Perhaps, after all, you will not blame me, and you will help me to keep it from Cyril.' And here she looked at him imploringly, and he couldsee the muscles of her face quivering. 'No, I never loved Mat. I felt it was a condescension on my part to marry him. My people were well connected. One of my uncles was a dean, and another was a barrister. My father was a clergyman.'
'What was his name?'
'Stephen Carrick. He was Vicar of Bardley.'
'I have heard of Dean Carrick; he wrote some book or other, and came into some notoriety before his death. Is it possible that you are his niece?'
'Yes. I was very proud of him, and of my other uncle; but they would have nothing to do with me after my marriage. We were living in Ireland then, and when Mat brought me to London I seemed to have cut myself adrift from all my people. My father died not long afterwards, and my mother followed him, and my two brothers were at sea. I saw the name of Carrick in the papers one day—James Carrick—he was in the navy; so it must have been Jem. Well, he is dead, and, as far as I know, Charlie may be dead too.'
She spoke with a degree of hardness that astonished him, but he would not interrupt her by a question. He saw that, for some reason of her own, she was willing to tell her story.
'I soon found out my mistake when Mat brought me to London. From the first we were unfortunate; we had neither of us any experience. Our first landlady cheated us, and our lodgings were far too expensive for our means—my money had not then come to me. At my mother's death I was more independent.
'I might have grown fonder of Mat but for one thing. Very shortly after our marriage—indeed, before the honeymoon was over—I discovered that he had already stooped to deceit. He had always led me to imagine that his people were well-to-do, and that his parentage was as respectable as mine; indeed, I understood that his only brother was a merchant, with considerable means at his disposal. I do not say Mat told me all this in words, but he had a way with him of implying things.
'I was very proud—ridiculously proud, if you will—and I had a horror of trade. You may judge, then, the shock it was to me when I found out by the merest accident—from reading a fragment of a letter—that this brother was a corn-chandler in a small retail way.
'We had our first quarrel then. Mat was very cowed and miserable when he saw how I took it; he wanted to coax me into forgiving his deceit.
'"I knew what a proud little creature you were, Olive," he said, trying to extenuate his shabby conduct, "and that there was no chance of your listening to me if you found out Tom was a tradesman. What does it matter about the shop? Tom is as good a chap as ever breathed, and Susan is the best-hearted woman in the world." But I would not be conciliated.
'I would not go near his people, and when he mentioned their names I always turned a deaf ear. It is a bad thing when a woman learns to despise her husband; but from that day I took Mat's true measure, and my heart seemed to harden against him. Perhaps I did not go the right way to improve him or keep him straight, but I soon found out that I dared not rely on him.
'I think I should have left him before the year was out, only my baby was born and took all my thoughts; and Mat was so good to me, that for very shame I dare not hint at such a thing. But we were not happy. His very fondness made things worse, for he was always reproaching me for my coldness.
'"You are the worst wife that a man could have," he would say to me. "You would not care if I were brought home dead any day, and yet if the boy's finger aches you want to send for the doctor. If I go to the bad, it will be your own fault, because you never have a kind look or word for me."
'But he might as well have spoken to the wind. There was no love for Mat in my heart, and I worshipped my boy.'
'You are speaking now of your eldest son?'
'Yes; of Cyril. He was my first-born, and I doted on him. I had two other children before Kester came; but, happily, they died—I say happily, for I had hard work to make ends meet with three children. I was so wrapped up in my boy that I neglected Mat more and more; and when he took to going out of an evening I made no complaints. We were getting on better then, and I seldom quarrelled with him, unless he refused to give me money for the children. Perhaps he was afraid to cross me, for the money was generally forthcoming when I asked for it; but I never took the trouble to find out how he procured it. And he was only too pleased to find me good-tempered and ready to talk to him, or to bring Cyril to play with him; for he was fond of the boy, too. Well, things went on tolerably smoothly until Mollie was born; but she was only a few months old when the crash came.'
She stopped, and an angry darkness came over her face.
'You need not tell me,' returned Michael, anxious to spare her as much as possible. 'I am aware of the forgery for which your husband incurred penal servitude for so many years.'
'You know that!' she exclaimed, with a terrified stare. 'Who could have told you? Oh, I forgot Mat's brother at Brail! Why did I never guess that Audrey's old friend she so often mentioned was this Tom O'Brien? But there are other O'Briens—there was one at Richmond when we lived there—and I thought he was still in his shop.'
'We heard all the leading facts from him; he told Audrey everything.'
'Then you shall hear my part now,' she returned, with flashing eyes. 'What do you suppose were my feelings when I heard the news that Mat was in prison, and that my boy's father was a convicted felon? What do you imagine were my thoughts when I sat in my lodgings, with my children round me, knowing that this heritage of shame was on them?'
'It was very bad for you,' he whispered softly, for her tragical aspect impressed him with a sense of grandeur. She was not good: by her own account she had been an unloving wife; but in her way she had been strong—only her strength had been for evil.
'Yes, it was bad. I think for days I was almost crazed by my misfortunes; and then Mat sent for me. He was penitent, and wanted my forgiveness, so they told me.'
'And you went?'
'Of course I went. I had a word to say to him that needed an answer, and I was thankful for the opportunity to speak it. I dressed myself at once, and went to the prison. Cyril cried to come with me, and slapped me with his little hands when I refused to take him; but I only smothered him with kisses. I remember how he struggled to get free, and how indignant he was. "I don't love you one bit to-day, mamma! you are not my pretty mamma at all." But I only laughed at his childish pet—my bright, beautiful boy!—I can see him now.
'Mat looked utterly miserable; but his wretchedness did not seem to touch me. The sin was his, and he must expiate it; it was I and my children who were the innocent sufferers. He began cursing himself for his mad folly, as he called it, and begged me over and over again to forgive him. I listened to him for a few minutes, and then I looked at him very steadily.
'"I will forgive you, Mat, and not say a hard word to you, if you will promise me one thing."
'"And what is that?" he asked, seeming as though he dreaded my answer.
'"That you will never try to see me or my children again."'
'Wouldst thou do harm, and still unharmed thyself abide?None struck another yet, except through his own side.******From our ill-ordered hearts we oft are fain to roam,As men go forth who find unquietness at home.'
'Wouldst thou do harm, and still unharmed thyself abide?
None struck another yet, except through his own side.
******
From our ill-ordered hearts we oft are fain to roam,
As men go forth who find unquietness at home.'
Trench.
Trench.
Michael raised his eyes and looked attentively at the woman before him; but she did not seem to notice him—she was too much absorbed in her miserable recital.
'I had made up my mind to say this to him from the moment I heard he was in prison—he should have nothing more to do with me and the children. It was for their sake I said it.
'He shrank back as though I had stabbed him, and then he began reproaching me in the old way: "I had never loved him; from the first I had helped to ruin him by my coldness; he was the most wretched man on earth, for his own wife had deserted him;" but after a time I stopped him.
'"It is too late to say all this now, Mat; you are quite right—I never loved you. I was mad to marry you; we have never been suited to each other."
'"But I was fond of you. I was always fond of you, Olive."
'But I answered him sternly:
'"Then prove your affection, Mat, by setting me free. Let me go my way and you go yours, for as truly as I stand here I will never live with you again."
'"But what will you do?" he asked; "oh, Olive, do not be so cruelly hard! There is Tom; he will take you and the children, and care for you all."
'But at the mention of his brother I lost all control over myself. Oh, I know I said some hard things then—I am not defending myself—and he begged me at last very piteously not to excite myself, and he would never mention Tom again; only he must know what I meant to do with myself and the children while he was working out his sentence.
'"Then I will tell you," I replied; "for at least you have a right to know that, although from this day I will never acknowledge you as my husband. I will not go near your beggarly relations; but I have a little money of my own, as you know, though you have never been able to touch it. I will manage to keep the children on that."
'Well, we talked—at least I talked—and at last I got him to promise that he would never molest me or the children again. Mat was always weak, and I managed to frighten him. I threatened to make away with myself and the children sooner than have this shame brought home to them, not that I meant it; but I was in one of my passionate moods, when anything seemed possible.
'I told him what I meant to do, for I had planned it all in my head already. I would sell out all my money and change my investments, so that all clue should be lost; and I would take another name, and after a time the children should be told their father was dead. I would give myself out to be a widow, and in this way no disgrace would ever touch them. Would you believe it? Mat was so broken and penitent that he began to think that, after all, this would be best—that it would be kinder to me and the children to cut himself adrift from us.
'I saw him again, and he gave me his promise. "You are a clever woman, Olive," he said; "you will do better for the youngsters than ever I could have done. I have brought disgrace on everyone belonging to me. If you would only have trusted to Tom!—but you will go your own gait. I dare not cross you; I never have dared, lest evil should come of it; but I think no woman ever had a colder heart."
'"You have killed it, Mat," was my answer; and then I said good-bye to him, and we parted.
'Well, I took Biddy into my confidence; she was a faithful creature, and had been devoted to me since my childhood. She had accompanied me to England on my marriage, and had been my one comfort before the children were born. Strange to say, she had always disliked Mat, and if I had only listened to her, his wooing would have been unsuccessful.
'I found a lawyer who would do my business, and then I took a lodging at Richmond and called myself Mrs. Blake, and for a few years we lived quietly and comfortably.'
'The investments had prospered, one especially was yielding a handsome dividend, so I was better off than I expected. I had got rid of some house property, and I put aside this money for my boy's education. I need not tell you that he was my one thought. Sometimes, when I saw him growing so fast, and looking so noble and handsome, my heart would quite swell with pride and happiness to think he was my son; and I forgot Mat and the past wretchedness, and only lived in and for him. My other children were nothing to me compared to him.'
'And you heard nothing of your husband?'
'I tell you I had no husband; he was dead to me. Do you think I would allow a man like Mat to blight my boy's career—a poor creature, weak as water, and never able to keep straight; a man who could be cowed into giving up his own wife and children? I would have died a hundred times over before I would have let Cyril know that his father was a convict.'
Michael held his peace, but he shuddered slightly as he thought of Audrey. 'They will make her give him up,' he said to himself.
'Yes, I was happy then,' she went on. 'I always had an elastic temperament. I did not mind the poverty and shifts as long as Cyril was well and contented. I used to glory in giving up one little comfort after another, and stinting myself that he might have the books he needed when he was at Oxford. I used to live on his letters, and the day when he came home was a red-letter day.'
'And you never trembled at the idea that one day you might come face to face with your husband?'
'Oh no; such a thought never crossed my mind. I knew Mat too well to fear that he would hunt me out and make a scene. Another man would, in his place, but not Mat: he had always been afraid of me, and he dared not try it on. It was accident—mere accident—that made him cross my path yesterday. But I know I can manage him still, and you—you will not betray me, Captain Burnett?'
'I do not understand you,' he returned, almost unable to believe his ears. Could she really think that he would make himself a party to her duplicity?
'I think my meaning is sufficiently clear,' she replied, as though impatient at his denseness. 'Now you have heard my story, you cannot blame me; under the circumstances, you must own that my conduct was perfectly justifiable.'
'I am not your judge, Mrs. Blake,' he answered quietly; 'but in my opinion nothing could justify such an act of deception. None of us have any right to say, "Evil, be thou my good." When you deceived the world and your own children, by wearing widow's weeds, when all the time you knew you had a living husband, you were distinctly living a lie.'
'And I glory in that lie!' she answered passionately.
'Do not—do not!' he returned with some emotion; 'for it will bring you bitter sorrow. Do you think the son for whom you have sacrificed your integrity will thank you for it——' But before he could finish his sentence a low cry, almost of agony, stopped him. Ah, he had touched her there.
'You will kill me,' she gasped, 'if you only hint at such a thing! Captain Burnett, I will say I am sorry—I will say anything—if you will only help me to keep this thing from my boy. Will you go to Mat? Will you ask him, for all our sakes, to go away? He is not a bad man. When he hears about Cyril's prospects he will not spoil them by coming here and making a scene. I will see him if he likes—but I think it would be better not. Tell him if he wants money he shall have it: there is a sum I can lay my hands on, and Cyril will never know.'
'You want me to bribe your husband to go away?'
'Yes. You have promised to help me; and this is the only way.'
'Pardon me! There are limits to anything—an honest man cannot soil his hands with any such acts of deception. When I said I would help you, it was real help I meant—for good, and not for evil. I will not attempt to bribe your husband; neither will I stand by and see you blindfold your son.'
Then she threw herself on her knees before him, with a faint cry for mercy. But he put her back in her seat, and then took her hands in his and held them firmly.
'Hush! you must not do that. I will be as kind to you as I can. Do you think that my heart is not full of pity for you, in spite of your wrong-doing? Try to be reasonable and listen to me. I have only one piece of advice to give you. Tell your son everything, as you have told me.'
'Never, never! I would die first.'
'You do not know what you are saying,' he returned soothingly. 'Do you think a son is likely to judge his own mother harshly? If I can find it in my heart to pity you, will your own flesh and blood be more hard than a stranger?'
'Oh, you do not know Cyril!' she replied with a shudder. 'He is so perfectly truthful. I have heard him say once that nothing can justify a deception. In spite of his goodness, he can be hard—very hard. When Kester was a little boy, he once, told a lie to shield Mollie, and Cyril would not speak to him for days.'
'I do not say that he will not be shocked at first, and that you may not have to bear his displeasure. But it will be better—a hundred times better—for him to hear it from your own lips.'
'He will never hear it,' she returned; and now she was weeping wildly. 'The story will never be told by me. How could I bear to hear him tell me that I had ruined him—that his prospects were blasted? Oh, have mercy upon a miserable woman, Captain Burnett! For the sake of my boy—for Kester's and Mollie's sake—help me to send Mat away!'
He made no answer, only looked at her with the same steady gentleness. That look, so calm, yet so inexorable, left her no vestige of hope. A rock would have yielded sooner than Michael Burnett, and she knew it.
'I was wrong to trust you,' she sobbed. 'You are a hard man—I always knew that; you will stand by and see us all ruined, and my boy breaking his heart with shame and misery, and you will not stretch out your hand to save us.'
But he let this pass. Her very despair was making her reckless of her words.
'Mrs. Blake,' he said quietly, 'will you tell your son that he has a father living?'
'No; I will not tell him!'
Then Michael got up from his chair as though the interview were at an end. His movement seemed to alarm Mrs. Blake excessively.
'You are not going? Do you mean that you are actually leaving me in this misery? Captain Burnett, I would not have believed you could be so cruel!'
'There is no use in my staying. I cannot convince you that your best hope for the future is to throw yourself on your son's generosity. I regret that you will not listen to me—you are giving me a very painful task.'
Then she started up and caught him by the arm.
'Do you mean that you will tell him?'
'I suppose so—somebody must do it; but I would rather cut off my right hand than do it.'
'Shall you tell him to-night?'
'No, certainly not to-night.'
'To-morrow?'
'Yes, to-morrow or the next day; but I must speak to Mr. O'Brien and Dr. Ross first.'
Then she left him without saying another word; but it went to his heart to see her cowering over the fire in her old miserable attitude.
'Mrs. Blake,' he said, following her, 'if you think better of this, will you write to me? Two or three words will be enough: "I will tell him myself" just that——' but she made no reply. 'I shall wait in the hope that I may receive such a note; a few hours' delay will not matter, and perhaps a little consideration may induce you to be brave. Remember, there is no wrong-doing except that of heinous and deadly sin that we may not strive to set right. It needs courage to confess to a fellow-creature, but love should give you this courage.'
But still she did not move or speak, and he was forced to leave her. He found Biddy hovering about the dark passage, and he guessed at once that she had been a listener. A moment's consideration induced him to take the old woman by the shoulder and draw her into an empty room close by.
She looked somewhat scared at his action. She had a candle in her hand, and he could see how furtively her wild, hawk-like eyes glanced at him.
'Biddy, I know you are your mistress's trusted friend—that she confides in you.'
'Ay.'
'Use every argument in your power, then, to induce her to tell her son about his father.'
'I dare not, sir; she would fly into one of her mad passions and strike me.'
'Good heavens!'
'I have work enough with her sometimes; she has always had her tantrums from a child; but I'm used to them, and I know how to humour her. She will never tell Mr. Cyril; I know them both too well for that.'
'You heard all I said, Biddy. You need not deny it. You have been listening at the door.'
'It is not me who would deny it,' she returned boldly; but there was a flush on her withered cheek. 'There is nothing that my mistress could say that she would wish to keep from me. I have been with her all her life. As a baby she slept in my bosom, and I loved her as my own child. Ah, it was an ill day for Miss Olive when she took up with that good-for-nothing Matthew O'Brien; bad luck to him and his!'
'Nevertheless, he is her husband, Biddy.'
'I don't know about that, sir. I was never married myself, and fourteen years is a long absence. Aren't they more her children than his, when she has slaved and sacrificed herself for them? You meant it well, sir, what you said to the mistress; but I take the liberty of differing from you, and I would sooner bite my tongue out than speak the word that will bring them all to shame.'
'Then I must not look to you for help?'
'I am afraid not, sir. I am on my mistress's side.'
'You are an obstinate old woman, Biddy, and I looked for better sense at your age.'
Nevertheless, he shook her by the hand very kindly, and then she lighted him downstairs.
Mollie came out of the dining-room and looked at him wistfully.
'Is mamma better now, Captain Burnett?'
'Well, no, I am afraid not: but I think you need not trouble. Biddy will look after her.'
'Biddy is dreadfully mysterious, and will hardly let any of us speak to mamma; but I think it is my place, not Biddy's, to wait on her. She has no right to tell me to go downstairs, and to treat me like a child. I am fifteen.'
'Yes; indeed, you are growing quite a woman, Mollie.'
And Michael looked very kindly at Audrey'sprotégée. He and Mollie were great friends.
'Cyril came in some time ago. He had to dress for the party, you know, and Biddy would not let him go into the drawing-room and interrupt you; she was mounting guard all the time. Cyril was quite cross at last, and asked me what on earth was the matter, and why you and mamma were having a private interview; but of course I could not tell him.'
'I suppose not, my dear.'
'He says he shall ask mamma to-morrow, and that he shall bring Miss Ross to see her, because he is sure she is ill. Will you come in and see Kester, Captain Burnett?—he is busy with his Greek.'
But Michael declined; it was late, and he must hurry home and dress for dinner.
He had forgotten all about the Charringtons' dinner-party and dance, and he was a little startled, as he entered the hall, to see Audrey standing before the fire talking to Cyril. Both of them were in evening dress.
Audrey looked very pretty; she wore a white silk dress. He had seen her in it once before, and he had thought then how wonderfully well it became her; and the sparkling cross rested against her soft throat. Cyril's roses, with their pale pinky tint, gave her just the colour that was needed, and her eyes were very bright; and perhaps her lover's praise had brought that lovely glow to her face.
'You will be late, Michael; the dressing-bell sounded an age ago, and father is in the drawing-room. What have you been doing with yourself all these hours?'
'I had forgotten you were going out,' he returned, parrying her question. 'How nice you look, Audrey! I thought white silk was bridal finery. Cinderella turned into a princess was nothing to you.'
'I feel like a princess with my roses and diamonds;' but she looked at Cyril, not at Michael, as she spoke. Cyril was standing beside her with one arm against the carved mantelpiece; he was looking handsomer than ever. Just then there was the sound of carriage-wheels, and he took up the furred cloak that lay on the settee beside him, and put it gently round her shoulders.
'You must not take cold,' Michael heard him say. There was nothing in the words, but the glance that accompanied this simple remark spoke volumes. Michael drew a deep heavy sigh as he went upstairs. 'Poor fellow! how he worships her!' he thought;' what will be the end of this tangle?' And then he dressed himself hastily and took his place at the table to eat his dinner with what appetite he might, while Mrs. Ross discoursed to him placidly on the baby's beauty and on dear Geraldine's merits as a mother and hostess.
'Ah! the problem of grief and evil is, and will be always, the greatest enigma of being, only second to the existence of being itself.'—Amiel.
'Ah! the problem of grief and evil is, and will be always, the greatest enigma of being, only second to the existence of being itself.'—Amiel.
Michael listened in a sort of dream. He was telling himself all the time that his opportunity was come, and that it was incumbent on him not to sleep another night under his cousin's roof until he had made known to him this grievous thing.
As soon as they rose from the table, and Dr. Ross was preparing as usual to follow his wife into the drawing-room until the prayer-bell summoned him into the schoolroom, Michael said, a little more seriously than usual:
'Dr. Ross, would you mind giving me half an hour in the study after prayers? I want your advice about something;' for he wished to secure this quiet time before Audrey returned from her party.
The Doctor was an observant man, in spite of his occasional absence of mind, and he saw at once that something was amiss.
'Shall you be able to do without us this evening, Emmie?' he said, with his usual old-fashioned politeness, that his wife and daughters thought the very model of perfection: 'it is too bad to leave you alone when Audrey is not here to keep you company.'
But Mrs. Ross assured him that she would not in the least mind such solitude; she was reading the third volume of an exciting novel, and would not be sorry to finish it. And as soon as this was settled and the coffee served, the gong sounded, and they all adjourned to the schoolroom.
Michael never missed this function, as he called it. He liked to sit in his corner and watch the rows of boyish faces before him, and try to imagine what their future would be;and, above all things, he loved to hear the fresh young voices uniting in their evening hymn; but on this evening he regarded them with some degree of sadness.
'They have the best of it,' he thought rather moodily; 'they little know what is before them, poor fellows! and the hard rubs fate has in store for them.' And then, as they filed past him and one little fellow smiled at him, he drew him aside and put him between his knees.
'You look very happy, Willie. I suppose you have not been caned to-day?'—a favourite joke of the Captain's.
'No, sir,' returned Willie proudly; 'but Jefferson minor fought me, and I licked him. You may ask the other fellows, and they would tell you it was all fair. He is a head taller than me, and I licked him,' finished Willie, with an air of immense satisfaction on his chubby baby face.
'Ah, you licked him, did you?' returned Michael absently; 'and Jefferson minor is beaten. I hope you shook hands afterwards; fair fight and no malice, Willie. There's a shilling for you because you did not show the white feather in the face of the enemy. You will be at the head of a brigade yet, my boy.' For all Dr. Ross's lads were bitten with the military fever, and from Willie Sayers to broad-shouldered Jeff Davidson each boy nourished a secret passion and desire to follow the Captain's footsteps, and were ready to be hewed and slashed into small pieces if only the Victoria Cross might be their reward.
As soon as the curly-haired champion had left him, Michael followed his cousin into the study. Dr. Ross had already lighted his lamp, and roused his fire into a cheerful blaze.
'What is it, Mike? you look bothered,' he asked, as Michael drew up his chair. 'Nothing wrong with the money, I hope?'
'What should be wrong about it?' returned Michael rather disdainfully; 'it is about as safe as the Bank of England. No; it is something very different—a matter that I may say concerns us all. I heard something the other day rather uncomfortable about the Blakes.'
'Nothing discreditable, I hope?' returned the Doctor quickly.
'I am afraid I must answer "Yes" to that question; but, at least, I can assure you that there is nothing against Blake.'
Then Dr. Ross looked relieved.
'Whatever blame there is attaches solely to the mother.'
'Humph! With all her good looks, I never quite liked the woman,' ejaculated Dr. Rosssotto voce. Nevertheless, he had always been extremely pleasant with her; but perhaps a man finds it difficult to be otherwise with a pretty woman.
'I have unfortunately found out—but perhaps I ought to say fortunately for us—that Mrs. Blake is not a widow: her husband is living.'
'Good heavens!'
'Neither is her name Blake; she changed it at the time she discarded her husband. I am afraid you must prepare yourself for a shock, Dr. Ross, for the whole thing is distinctly reprehensible.'
'And you mean to tell me,' returned the Doctor, with an anxious blackness gathering on his brow, 'that Cyril—that my future son-in-law is cognisant of this fact?'
'No, no!' replied Michael eagerly; 'you are doing him injustice. Blake is as ignorant of the thing as you are yourself; he has no more to do with it than you or I. Did I not tell you that the sole blame rests with his mother?'
Then the Doctor, in spite of his Christianity, pronounced a malediction against the Blake womankind.
'She is just the sort to get into mischief,' he continued; 'there is a dangerous look in her eyes. Go on, Michael; don't keep me in suspense. There is something disgraceful behind all this. What reason has any woman to allege for giving up her husband?'
'Her excuse is that he brought shame and dishonour on her and on his children, and that she would have nothing more to do with him. He had committed a forgery, and had been condemned to penal servitude for seven years.'
Then the Doctor said 'Good heavens!' again. At certain moments of existence it is not possible to be original—when the roof is falling on one's head, for example, or a deadly avalanche is threatening. But Michael needed no answer; he only wished to finish his story as quickly as possible.
'You know Audrey's friend, Thomas O'Brien?'
'To be sure I do. He is a retired corn-chandler. I went to his shop once, in Peterborough.'
'And you have probably heard of his brother Mat?'
Then Dr. Ross gazed at him with a face of despair. His misfortunes were accumulating; he had a sense of nightmare and oppression. Surely this hideous thing could not be true! no such disgrace could threaten him and his! If an earthquakehad opened in the Woodcote grounds, he could not have looked more horrified.
'Do you mean to tell me, Mike, that this Mat O'Brien is Cyril's father?'
Then Michael gave him a detailed and carefully-worded account of his interview with Mrs. Blake.
'Then it is true—quite true?' in a hopeless tone.
'There cannot be a doubt of it; I had it from her own lips. To-morrow I must see O'Brien himself, and hear his side. I cannot help saying that I am sorry for the woman, in spite of her falseness; she is utterly crushed with her misery.' But it may be doubted if Dr. Ross heard this: he was occupied with his own reflections.
'This will break Audrey's heart; she is devoted to the fellow.'
'Oh, I hope not; she has more strength than other girls.'
'Of course I cannot allow this affair to go on: I must see Blake, and tell him so at once.'
'There is no hurry, is there? I think you should let me speak to O'Brien first.'
'Well, if you wish it; but I confess I do not see the necessity.'
'And I hope you will be gentle with Blake: remember that not a vestige of blame attaches to him; it is simply his misfortune that he is the son of such parents. I expect he will be utterly broken-hearted.'
Then Dr. Ross gave vent to an impatient groan. No man had a softer heart than he, and he had liked Cyril from the first.
'I must think of my child, Mike,' he said at last.
'Yes, you must think of her; but you must be merciful to him, too. Think what he will suffer when he knows this; and he is as innocent as a babe! I suppose'—and then he hesitated, and looked at his cousin—'that there will be no way of hushing up things, and letting the engagement go on?'
Then the Doctor nearly sprang out of his chair.
'Are you out of your senses, Michael, to put such a question to me? Is it likely that any man in my position would allow his family to be allied to a convicted criminal? Would any amount of hushing up render such an alliance tolerable?'
'Well, I suppose not.'
'I have never cared much for conventionality, or for the mere show of things; but I suppose that, in some sense, thegood opinion of my fellow-men is necessary for my comfort. When Blake came to me, and told me that he had not a shilling in the world beside his earnings as my classical master, I did not let his poverty stand in the way. I told him that, as my girl's happiness was involved, I could not find it in my heart to withhold my consent.
'"You are certainly not in the position in which I should wish to see my son-in-law," I said to him; "but I will speak to Charrington, and see what is to be done."
'Well, I have spoken, and Charrington only promised the other day that he would push him on. I have no doubt at all that, with my interest and standing in the place, Cyril would have had a house in time, and Audrey's position would have been equal to her sister's.'
'And you mean to say that all this is at an end?'
'Of course it is at an end!' almost shouted the Doctor; 'and Cyril's career is practically at an end, too. Do you suppose any public school in England would employ a master whose relatives are so disreputable that he is obliged to make use of an assumed name? When I refuse to allow him to marry my daughter, I must give him hiscongéat the same time.'
'Then in that case he is a ruined man;' and to this Dr. Ross gave a sorrowful assent.
'How am I to help myself or him, Mike? I will do all in my power to soften the weight of this blow to him; but when all is at an end between him and Audrey, how am I to keep him in Rutherford? The thing would he impossible. He would not wish it himself. He is very proud and high-spirited by nature, and such a position would be intolerable to him. No, he must go; but if money will help him, he may command me to any reasonable amount.'
'He will not take your money;' and then he added 'Poor beggar!' under his breath.
'You will stand by me, Mike?'
'Most certainly I will; but I mean to befriend Blake, too, as far as he will let me.'
'I should not think he would refuse your sympathy; a man needs someone at such a time. But when I spoke I was thinking of my girl. You have great influence with her, Michael; sometimes I think no brother's influence could be stronger. How would it be if she were to hear the news first from you?'
Then Michael recoiled as though someone had struck him in the face.
'Impossible! I could not tell her. I would rather be shot!' he returned vehemently.
'Well, it is not a pleasant business, and I suppose I must do it myself; only the idea crossed my mind that perhaps it might come better from you. I shall not be able to refrain from indignation; I am apt to get a little warm sometimes.'
But Michael firmly negatived this notion.
'It will go hard with her, whoever tells it,' he said decidedly. 'Nothing can soften such a blow, and it is far better for her to hear it from her father. You see,' he continued rather sadly, 'it will be a fair division, for I have to break it to poor Blake; and I shall have tough work with him, for he worships the ground she walks on.'
'Ay, poor fellow! I know he does. What a cruel affair it is, Mike! That woman's deceit will go far to spoil two lives.'
But to this Michael would not agree. He said, with a great deal of feeling, that Audrey was not the girl to let any love-affair spoil her life; she thought too little of herself, was too considerate and unselfish, to allow any private unhappiness to get too strong a hold over her, and so spoil other people's lives.
'You will see what sort of stuff she has in her,' he said, with the enthusiasm of a lover who can find no flaw at all. 'She will bear her sorrow bravely, and not allow it to interfere with others. She is far too good and noble. You need not fear for her; she has strength enough for a dozen women.'
And Dr. Ross felt himself a little comforted by such words.
'Do you mind waiting up for her to-night?' he asked presently. 'Unfortunately, Emmie has sent all the servants to bed, because I said I had some writing to do. I feel very upset about all this, and she will find out from my manner that something is amiss. Would it bother you, Mike? She will just come in here and warm herself; but if you tell her you are tired, she will not detain you.'
'I can have no objection to do that,' replied Michael, trying to hide his reluctance; and, indeed, Dr. Ross looked so pale and jaded, that Audrey's suspicions would have been excited. 'Go to bed and get a good night's rest; it is nearly twelve now, and they meant to be home by one.'
Then Dr. Ross allowed himself to be persuaded.
'I don't know about the good night's rest,' he replied; 'but I should be glad to think over the whole thing quietly before I see either of them. There is no hurry, as you say, and perhaps you had better get your interview over with O'Brien.'
'Shall you tell Cousin Emmeline?'
'Tell Emmie!' and here the Doctor's voice was somewhat irritable, as one disagreeable detail opened after another. 'Not to-night, certainly. Why, she will be asleep. No, it would never do to tell her before Audrey; it would get round to Geraldine, and there would be the deuce of a row. Tell the child I was tired, and bid her good-night.'
And then Dr. Ross shook Michael's hand with fervour and took himself off.
Michael spent a dreary hour by himself in the study. It was a relief to him when he heard the carriage-wheels, but as he opened the door he was quite dazzled at the scene before him. It was a brilliant moonlight night, and the terrace and wide lawn were bathed in the pure white light. A crisp frost had touched the grass and silvered each blade, and the effect against the dark background of trees and shrubs was intensely beautiful.
And the moonlight shone full on Audrey's upturned face, as she stood talking to her lover, and the silken folds of her dress and her soft furred cloak and hood looked almost of unearthly whiteness. In Michael's bewildered eyes she seemed invested at the present moment with some new and regal beauty; but her light musical laugh dispelled the illusion.
'Why, Michael, what has become of father?'
'He was tired, and went off to bed more than an hour ago. I hope you do not object to his deputy. I suppose you are not coming in, Blake, as it is so late?'
'Of course he is not,' returned Audrey in a tone that allowed of no appeal. 'He has early work to-morrow, and must get as much rest as he can. Good-night, Cyril; we have had a delightful evening, have we not?' And to this Cyril responded gaily—for it was not possible there could be any lingering adieus before Michael; and as Cyril ran down the terrace Audrey waited until Michael had fastened the door, and then accompanied him to the study.
'How nice and warm it is!' she observed in a pleased tone. 'You always keep up such a splendid fire.'
'I am a chilly mortal, you know, and these March nights have a touch of December in them.'
'Yes; it is quite frosty.'
And Audrey threw back her hood and cloak and sat down in Dr. Ross's favourite chair. 'Had she any idea how like a picture she looked,' Michael wondered, 'with all those soft white draperies about her, and the sparkling cross upon her neck?' Then he turned away his head with a mute sensation of pain. How happy, how very happy, she looked!
'We have had such a nice evening, she began in her most animated manner; 'everything was so well arranged. There was a dinner-party first, which was followed by what they called a Cinderella dance; but actually they do not mean to break up for another hour and a half. Mrs. Charrington was quite annoyed because we came home so early.'
'And you enjoyed yourself?'
'Oh, immensely! I waltzed twice with Cyril. Do you know, he dances splendidly—he was certainly my best partner.'
'Yes; he looks as though he would dance well. Would you believe it, Audrey, that when I was a youngster I was considered a good dancer, too? It is rather droll to remember that now.'
'I can very easily believe it—you do everything well, Michael.'
'Pshaw!' And then Michael added, with a pretended yawn: 'I think I could sleep well, though.'
But Audrey refused to take this very broad hint.
'What a hurry you are in! And I have not warmed myself yet. Do stay a little longer, Michael. I so seldom get you to myself.'
'But it is very late,' he returned, unwilling to yield.
'I will only keep you a few minutes,' she replied eagerly; 'but I want to tell you something.'
Then he was obliged to sit down again.
'What is it?' he asked a little languidly, for the spell of her presence was so strong that it threatened to subjugate him. He was never willingly alone with her now. The fear was always upon him that, in some weak moment, he might betray himself. The fear was an idle one—no man was less likely than Michael to lose his self-control; but, nevertheless, it was there.
'It is about Cyril,' she returned softly. 'Dr. Charrington has been so nice to him to-night. He stood out once during the Lancers, and Dr. Charrington came up to him, and they had quite a long talk together. He said father had been speaking to him, and that he had quite made up his mind thatCyril should be in the upper school next year, when Mr. Hanbury left. It would be a better position, and he would be able to have private pupils. And he as good as told him that he would do his best to push him, for father's sake.'
'Blake must have been very pleased at this,' replied Michael; but he spoke in a dull, monotonous way.
'Yes; he is quite excited. Don't you see,' she continued a little shyly, 'it will make all the difference to us if Dr. Charrington pushes Cyril; for of course it will make it possible for him to marry.'
Then Michael felt as though he had accidentally touched a full-charged battery. He waited until the numb, tingling sensation had left him before he answered her.
'I did not know that you wished to shorten your engagement,' he said very quietly; 'I understood that there would be no talk of settling for the next two or three years; but, of course, if your father has no objection——'
'How you talk, Michael!' returned Audrey, blushing with some annoyance at this obvious misunderstanding of her meaning; 'it is Cyril who is in a hurry: for myself, I should be perfectly content to go on as we are for the next five years. Do you not remember my tirade on the pleasures of freedom?'
'I think I do recall something of the kind.' Alas! had he ever forgotten anything she had said to him?
'Well, I am afraid I am of the same opinion still; only I dare not let Cyril know that: he would be so hurt. I suppose,' reflectively, 'men are different from women; they do always seem in such a dreadful hurry about everything. When Cyril complains that he feels unsettled, and that I get between him and his work, I do not pretend to understand him. I am very matter-of-fact, am I not, Michael?'
'I should not have said so.'
'Oh, but I am; and I am afraid Cyril thinks so. Well, as I have told you my good news I will not detain you any longer.' And then Michael rose with a feeling of relief.
But as he followed her a few minutes later upstairs, he wondered what she must have thought of him. With all his efforts, he had been unable to bring himself to utter one word of congratulation. 'It would have been a lie,' he said to himself vehemently; 'how could I find it in my heart to deceive her for a moment? This may be their last happy day, Heaven help them both!' and Michael went to bed in profound wretchedness.
'My roses are withered,' thought Audrey, as she regarded the drooping buds and leaves; 'my poor beautiful roses, and they were Cyril's gift, too. What a pity that flowers must die, and we must grow old—that in this world there must always be decay and change! Shall I ever be happier than I am to-night, with Cyril to love me, and Michael—dear Michael—to be my friend? What makes him so grave? He is always grave now.' And then she sighed and laid down her flowers, and took the glittering cross from her neck. 'My poor Michael! I should like to see him happy, too,' she finished, as she put it away in its case.