'Evil, like a rolling stone upon a mountain-top,A child may first impel, a giant cannot stop.'—Trench.
'Evil, like a rolling stone upon a mountain-top,
A child may first impel, a giant cannot stop.'—Trench.
'By despising himself too much, a man comes to be worthy of his own contempt.'—Amiel.
'By despising himself too much, a man comes to be worthy of his own contempt.'—Amiel.
Audrey was sure it was the east wind that made everyone so unlike themselves the next morning. Bailey had told her that the wind was decidedly easterly, or, perhaps, more strictly speaking, north-east. She had run down the garden to speak to him about some plants, and perhaps with some intention of intercepting Cyril when he went across to breakfast, and they had had quite a confabulation on the subject.
But when she got back to the house she found rather a subdued state of things. Mrs. Ross looked tired; her husband had kept her awake by his restlessness, and she had got it firmly in her mind that a fit of gout was impending. Dr. Ross had once had a touch of gout—a very slight touch, to be sure—but it had given him a wholesome fear of the complaint, and had implanted in him a deep distrust of other men's port wine; and his devoted wife had never forgotten the circumstance.
'And I am sure,' she observed in an undertone to her daughter, 'that if I were not quite certain that there is nothing troubling your father—for, of course, he would have told me of it at once—I should have said there was something on his mind, for he tossed and groaned so; but mark my words, Audrey, it is his old enemy, the gout; and if only I could induce him to speak to Dr. Pilkington we might ward it off still.'
'What is that you are telling the child, Emmie?' asked the Doctor, who had very sharp ears. 'Gout! stuff and nonsense! I never was better in my life.'
'I think your complexion looks a little sallow this morning, John,' returned Mrs. Ross rather timidly, for she knew her husband's objection to any form of ailment; 'and I am sure you never closed your eyes all night.' But at this Dr. Ross pished impatiently, and it was then that Audrey hazarded her brilliant suggestion about the east wind.
'Michael looks rather limp, too,' she went on; 'and he never could endure an east wind.'
'Have your own way, Audrey,' returned her cousin good-humouredly; but neither to her nor to Mrs. Ross did he confess that his night had been sleepless too. When he had finished his breakfast he went round to the stables, where Dr. Ross joined him. He had ordered the dog-cart to be got ready for him, and he told the groom that there was no need to bring it round to the front door.
Dr. Ross watched him silently as he drew on his driving gloves and turned up the collar of his coat.
'You will have a cold drive, I am afraid,' he said at last, as Michael took the reins and the brown mare began to fidget; 'come to my study the moment you get back.' And Michael nodded.
Much as he disliked the business before him, he was anxious to get it over; so he drove as fast as possible; and as the mare was fresh and skittish, she gave him plenty to think about, and he was quite warm with the exertion of holding her in and restraining her playful antics by the time he pulled up at the village inn, which went by the name of the Cat and Fiddle. Here he had the mare put up, while he walked down the one main street of Brail, and down a lane or two, until he came to Mr. O'Brien's sequestered cottage.
Mr. O'Brien opened the door himself. When he saw Michael, he shook his head with an air of profound sadness, and led the way without speaking into the parlour, where he usually sat, and where Sam was basking before the fire after the luxurious habit of cats.
He got up, however, and rubbed his sleek head against Michael's knee as he sat down in the black elbow-chair; but Mr. O'Brien still stood on the rug, shaking his head sadly.
'You have come, Captain. I made up my mind you would come to-day, to get at the rights of it; I told Mat so. "Depend upon it, the Captain will look us up," I said to him; "he is a man of action, and it is not likely he will let the grassgrow under his feet. He will be round, sure enough, and you will have to be ready with your answers."'
'Where is your brother, Mr. O'Brien?'
'He has gone out for a bit, but he will be back presently. I told him not to go far. "You'll be wanted, you may take my word for it—you'll be wanted, Mat," I told him; and then he promised he would be round directly.'
'I am afraid this affair has been a great shock to you, Mr. O'Brien. Miss Ross once told me that you had no idea whom your brother married.'
'Well, sir, I can't say as much as that. Mat told me that the name of the girl he was going to wed was Olive Carrick, and that she came of respectable people; but he did not tell me much more than that. And now I put it to you, Captain—how was I to know that any woman would falsify her husband's name, and that she should be living close to my doors, as one might say?—for what is a matter of three miles? It gave me a sort of shiver—and I have not properly got rid of it yet—when I think of that dear young creature, whom Susan and me have always loved—that she should be entrapped through that woman's falseness into an engagement with Mat's son. It goes to my heart—it does indeed, Captain—to see that dear, sweet lady dragged into a connection that will only disgrace her.'
'My cousin would think it no disgrace to be connected with you, Mr. O'Brien;' for he knew too well Audrey's large-mindedness and absence of conventionality. 'She has always looked upon you as her friend.'
'Thank you, Captain; that is very handsomely said, and I wish my Prissy could have heard it, for she has done nothing but cry since the news reached her. "Rachel refusing to be comforted" is nothing compared to Prissy when the mood is on her; she literally waters all her meals with her tears. Yes, you mean it handsomely; but I am an old man, Captain Burnett, and know the world a bit, and I have the sense to see that Thomas O'Brien—honest and painstaking as he may be—is no fit connection for Dr. Ross's daughter. Why, to think she might be my niece and call me "uncle"!' and here the old man's face flushed as he spoke. 'It is not right; it is not as it should be. She must give him up—she must indeed, Captain!'
'I am afraid Dr. Ross holds that opinion, Mr. O'Brien. You will understand that he means no disrespect to you; butit is simply intolerable to him that any daughter of his should marry Matthew O'Brien's son. You see, I am speaking very plainly.'
'Yes, sir; and I am speaking just as plainly to you. In this sort of case it is no use beating about the bush. Mat has made his bed, and he must just lie on it; and his children—Heaven help them, poor young things!—must just lie on theirs too. Dear, dear! to think that when she was talking to me so pleasantly about Mollie and Kester, and—what is her lad's name?—that neither she nor I had an idea that she was speaking to their uncle! There, it beats me, Captain—it does indeed!' And there were tears in the old man's eyes.
'I am afraid there is heavy trouble in store for them all, and for my cousin, too; she will be very unwilling to give up Blake.'
'Humph! that is what he calls himself! Well, she was always faithful, Captain; she is made of good stout stuff, and that sort wears best in the long-run. If she is a bit difficult, send her to me, and I'll talk to her. I will put things before her in a light she won't be able to resist.'
In spite of the sadness of the conversation, Michael could hardly forbear a smile.
'I hardly know what you would say to her, Mr. O'Brien.'
'You leave that to me, Captain; it is best not to be too knowing about things. But I don't mind telling you one thing that I would say: "My dear young lady, you have been a good and true friend to Thomas O'Brien, and I am grateful and proud to call you my friend; but I will not have you for my niece. Mat's son may be good as gold—I have nothing to say against the poor lad, who, after all, is my own flesh and blood; but it would be a sin and shame to wed him, when his father picked oakum in a felon's cell." Don't you think that will fetch her, sir? Women are mostly proud, and like their menkind to have clean hands; and I'll say it, too!' And here Mr. O'Brien thumped the arm of his chair so emphatically, that Sam woke and uttered a reproachful mew.
'I hope you will not be put to the pain of saying this to her,' returned. Michael, in a low voice.
What a fine old fellow this was! He wondered what Dr. Ross would say when he repeated this speech to him. Nature must have intended Tom O'Brien for a gentleman. Could anything be more touching than the way he sought to shield his girl-friend, even putting aside the natural claims of his ownflesh and blood to prevent her from being sullied by any contact with him and his?
Michael felt as though he longed to shake hands with him, and tell him how he honoured and respected him; but he instinctively felt that any such testimony would hardly be understood. One word he did venture to say:
'I think it is very good of you to take our side.'
'Nay, sir, I can see nought of goodness in it. As my Susan used to say, you should not praise people for walking along a straight road, and for not taking the first crooked path that offers itself. Susan and I thought alike there—we were neither of us fond of crooked turnings. "There can only be one right and one wrong, Tom," as she would say; and I hope, Captain, that I shall always tell the truth and shame the devil as long as I am a living man.'
'I should think there would be no doubt of that,' returned Michael heartily. And then a faint smile crossed the old man's face; but it faded in a moment, as footsteps sounded in the passage outside.
'That is Mat; he has kept his word in coming back so soon. I had better fetch him in, and then you'll get it over.'
'You need not leave the room, Mr. O'Brien; this is your business as well as ours.'
'I know it, sir. But, thank you kindly, I feel as if I had said my say, and that I may as well bide quiet with Prissy. Mat has had it all out with me; we were up half the night talking. I always hoped I was a Christian, Captain; but I doubt it when I think of the words I spoke about that woman. She married that poor lad to serve her own purposes and to spite her lover; and while he doted on her, she just looked down on him, and scouted his people because they were in trade. She pretty nearly ruined him with her fine lady-like ways, and with pestering him for money that he had not got; and then, when he made that slip of his, and was almost crazy with the sin and the shame, she just gives him up—will have nothing more to do with him. And that is the woman that the Almighty made so fair outside that our poor foolish lad went half wild for the love of her! No, sir; if you will excuse me, I will just send Mat along, and keep in the background a bit. It makes me grind my teeth with pain and anger to hear how she treated the poor fellow, almost driving him mad with her bitter tongue!'
'Then in that case I will certainly not keep you.' And as he spoke he noticed how the vigorous old man seemed to totter as he rose from his chair; but he only shook his head with the same gentle smile as Michael offered him his arm.
'Nay, Captain; that is not needed. I am only a bit shaken with all that's passed, and you must give me time to right myself. Now I will send Mat in; and when you have finished I'll see you again.'
Michael did not have to wait long. He had only crossed the room to look at a photograph of Susan O'Brien which always stood on a little round table in the corner, when he found the light suddenly intercepted, as Matthew O'Brien's tall figure blocked up the little window.
To his surprise, Mat commenced the conversation quite easily:
'You are looking at Susan, Captain Burnett? That was taken twelve or thirteen years ago. Isn't it a kind, true face?—that is better than a handsome one in the long-run. She does not look as though she would desert a man when his head is under water—eh, Captain?'
'No, indeed!' returned Michael, falling at once into the other man's humour. 'Mrs. O'Brien must have been a thoroughly good woman, for her husband never seems to have got over her loss; he is always talking about her.'
'That is so like Tom! He was never given to keep a silent tongue in his head: he must always speak out his thoughts, good or bad. That is rather different from me. Why, I have often spent days without opening my mouth, except to call to my dog. I think Tom finds it a relief to talk; the sound of his own tongue soothes him.'
'Very likely. Shall we sit down, Mr. O'Brien? the fireside is rather a pleasant place this bitter March day.'
'As you like,' returned Mat indifferently; 'for myself, I prefer to stand;' and as he spoke he propped his tall figure against the wooden mantelpiece, and, half shielding his face with one arm, looked down into the blaze.
In this attitude Michael could only see his side-face, and he was startled at the strong likeness to Cyril—the profile was nearly as finely cut; and it was only when he turned his full face that the resemblance ceased to be so striking. Cyril had the same dark eyes and low, broad forehead; but his beautifully-formed mouth and chin were very different from his father's,which expressed far too clearly a weak, irresolute character. But he was a handsome man, and, in spite of his shabby coat, there was something almost distinguished in his appearance. Anyone seeing the man for the first time would have guessed he had a story; very probably, looking at his broad chest and closely-cropped gray hair and black moustache, they would have taken him for a soldier, as Michael did.
Somehow, he found it a little difficult to begin the conversation; he hoped Matthew O'Brien would speak again; but he seemed disinclined to break the silence that had grown up between them.
'You are not much like your brother, Mr. O'Brien.'
'No, sir; Tom and I are not much alike, and more's the pity. Tom has been an honest man all his life.'
Michael was about to reply that that was not saying much in his favour; but he felt that under the circumstances this would be awkward, so he held his peace.
'There aren't many men to beat Tom,' continued Mat. 'Few folk would be so stanch to their own flesh and blood when only disgrace would come of it; but Tom is too fine-hearted to trample on a fellow when he is down and other folk are crying "Fie! for shame!" on him. Would you believe it, sir,' stretching out a sinewy thin hand as he spoke, 'that that brother of mine never said an unkind word to me in my life; and when I came back to him that night, feeling none too sure of my welcome, it was just a grip of the hand and "Come in, my lad," as though I were the young chap I used to be coming home to spend my holiday with him and Susan.'
'I think your brother one of the best men living, Mr. O'Brien.'
'And so he is, sir; and so he is; but you have not come all this way to talk about Tom;' and here he paused, and again the shielding hand went over his eyes, and Michael could see a twitching of the mouth under the moustache. 'It is about Olive that you want to see me.'
'You are right. Will you kindly give me the date and place of your marriage?'
Matthew O'Brien nodded and drew a folded paper from his breast-pocket.
'There it is. Tom told me I had better write it down in black and white to save us all trouble. I have put down the date and the name of the church where we were married.Strange to say, I can even recollect the name of the parson who did the job; he was a little black-haired man, and his name was Craven. It was a runaway match, you know. Olive was stopping with some friends in Dublin, and I met her early one morning and took her to St. Patrick's. You will find it all right in the register—Matthew Robert O'Brien and Olive Carrick. There were only two witnesses: an old pew-opener, and a friend of mine, Edgar Boyle. Boyle is dead now, poor chap! but you will find his name all right.'
'Can you tell me also, Mr. O'Brien, where I can find the entries of your children's baptism? It may be necessary for them to know this some day.'
'Well, sir, I believe I can satisfy you on that point, too. We were living at Stoke Newington when the children were born. You will find their names in the register at St. Philip's—Cyril Langton Carrick: that was a bit of her pride; she wanted the boy to have her family names. Kester and Mary Olivia—my little Mollie as we meant to call her—I have not seen her since she was a baby;' and here Michael was sure Mat dashed away a tear. 'It was a barbarous thing to rob me of my children, and I was so fond of the little chaps, too. I think I took most to Kester; he was such a cunning, clever little rogue, and his mother did not make half the fuss about him that she did about Cyril.'
'She has acknowledged that to me.'
'I don't doubt it, sir. Olive will acknowledge anything; she will have her flare-up one minute and frighten you to death with her tantrums, and the next she will be as placid and sweet-tongued as ever. She was never the same for two days running; it would be always some scheme or other, something for which she needed money. I used to tell her she never opened her lips to me except to ask me for money; and woe betide me if I told her I was hard up.'
'But she had money of her own?'
'Yes; but she muddled it away. She was always a bad manager. I never saw such a woman; and Biddy was just as bad. We might have had a comfortable home, and I might have kept out of trouble, if she had listened to me; but I might as well have spoken to that wall.'
'But surely it was your duty as her husband to restrain her? Her son manages her quite easily now.'
'Perhaps so,' a little sullenly; 'maybe she cares for her son, though she turned against her husband; her heart wasalways like flint stone to me. I was afraid of her, Captain Burnett, and she knew it; and that gave her a handle over me. A man ought not to fear his own wife—it is against nature; but, there, when she looked at me in her cold, contemptuous way, and dared me to dictate to her, I felt all my courage ooze out of me. I could have struck her when she looked at me like that; and I think she wanted me to, just to make out a case against me: but, fool that I was, I was too fond of her and the children to do it. I bore it all, and perilled my good name for her sake; and this is how she has treated me—spurned me away from her as though I were a dog!'
'She has not been a good wife to you; but, all the same, I do not understand why you took her at her word. Did you never in all these years make an effort to be reconciled with her for the sake of your children?'
'You do not know Olive when you put such a question. There will be no reconciliation possible in this world. I may compel her to own herself my wife, but I could not force her to say a kind word to me. She talked me over into setting her free, and made me promise not to hunt her out. She got over me. Olive is a rare talker; she told me it would be better for the little chaps not to bear their father's name—she would take them away and bring them up to be good, honest men, and she would take care no shame should ever touch them; and would you believe it, sir, I was so cowed and broken with the thought of all those years I was to spend in prison, that for the time I agreed with her. It was just as though I had made her a promise to commit suicide. I was to let her and the children go, and not to put in my claims when they set me free; and as she talked and I answered her, it seemed to me as though Mat O'Brien were already dead.'
'Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing,Perceive but a voice as I come to his side;But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing,Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.'
'Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing,
Perceive but a voice as I come to his side;
But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing,
Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.'
Matthew Arnold.
Matthew Arnold.
Michael was trying to frame a suitable reply to this speech, that was at once so tragic and hopeless, when Mat suddenly turned to him and said, in a strangely altered voice:
'I want you to tell me one thing, sir. Why does she call herself Blake?'
'I am afraid I cannot enlighten you on that point,' returned Michael, after a moment's consideration; 'probably it was the first name that occurred to her. You will allow that it is short and handy, and that it is by no means conspicuous.' But this answer did not seem to satisfy Matthew O'Brien. An uneasy, almost suspicious look came into his eyes.
'I suppose it does not mean,' he continued, hesitating over his words, 'that she—Olive—has put herself under another man's protection?'
'Good heavens, O'Brien!' exclaimed Michael, in a shocked voice. 'How can you wrong your wife so? With all her sins, I do not believe she is that sort of woman.'
'You mistake me, sir,' returned Mat doggedly. 'And, in a way, you mistake Olive too. She has not got the notions of other women. She would not think things wrong that would horrify other folk. When she gave me up, she said that she should consider herself free, and she might even make it straight with her conscience to marry another man, who would be a better protector to her and the children. I do not say Olive has done this. But if it be so, by the powers above, CaptainBurnett, I will have the law of her there! So let her and the other fellow look out for themselves!'
'There is no need to excite yourself so, O'Brien. Your wife is too much a woman of the world to get herself into that sort of trouble. Her love for her eldest son is her master passion. And I do not suppose she has even given a thought to another man.'
'I am glad to hear it, Captain. But Olive has fooled me once, and I doubted but she might have done it again. Perhaps you may not have heard it, but she would never have married me if Darrell—Major Darrell, he was—had not jilted her. She told me once, to spite me, that she worshipped the ground the fellow trod on. And he was a cad—confound him!—one of those light-hearted gentry who dance with girls and make love to them, and then boast of their conquests. But he had a way with him, and she never cared for anyone again. She has told me so again and again in her tantrums.'
'My poor fellow,' returned Michael pityingly, 'you may at least be easy on one point. Mrs. Blake—or Mrs. O'Brien, as I suppose we must call her—has certainly led an exemplary life since she left you, devoting herself to her children, and especially to her eldest son.'
Mat made no answer. His brief excitement had faded, and he now resumed his old dejection of manner. He leant his head on his hand again and looked into the fire; but by and by he roused himself from his abstraction.
'Cyril has grown up a fine, handsome fellow, I hear. I suppose he has Olive's good looks?'
'He is very like her, certainly. He is a good-looking man, and exceedingly clever. Any father might feel proud of such a son.'
'And he is to marry the young lady I saw here the other day. I forget her name, but she is the daughter of the chief boss down here.'
Michael gave a faint shudder.
'Her name is Miss Ross.'
'Oh yes, I remember now. Tom says the marriage will be broken off; but we will talk of that presently. I want to hear something about the other little chap—Kester.'
'He has not got his brother's good health, I am sorry to say.' And here Michael gave a short sketch of Kester's boyish accident, and the results that followed. 'He can walk very fairly now,' he continued, 'and will soon lay aside his crutch; but I fear he will never make a strong man.'
'Dear, dear!' returned Mat in a sorrowful tone. 'And to think of the active little monkey he used to be! Why, I can see him now, mounted aloft on my shoulder and holding me round the neck till I was fairly choked, and the other lad clasping me round the knee, and hallooing out that he wanted to ride dada, too, though Olive never seemed to care to see me play with them—we made so much noise, she said. Dear, dear! and to think of the poor chap on crutches! And there is Mollie, too; she was only a baby when I saw her last—such a fat, rosy little thing!'
'Mollie is a fine-grown girl, and as nice a child as you would wish to see. We are all very fond of her.'
'Well, she has kept her word, and done her duty to them. And now look here, sir. You just bring me somewhere where I can see the youngsters, and hear them talk, and I will promise you to keep dark, and not let out to them that I am their father. I will just have a look at them, and then I will never trouble them again.'
'What on earth do you mean, O'Brien?'
'I mean that Olive is right, and that they are better without me,' returned Mat dejectedly. 'Do you suppose they would have any love in their hearts for a father who could only bring disgrace on them? No, sir; I am not going to stand in their light and spoil their lives for them. I have given them up to Olive, and she seems to have done her best for them. Let the youngster have his sweetheart, and I will just bide here quietly with Tom; or, if you think that Brail is too near, I will put the seas between us again; and you can tell Olive so, if you like.'
'I shall tell her nothing of the kind, O'Brien,' returned Michael, much touched at this generosity on the part of the poor prodigal. 'I will not deny that this is the very thing she suggested; she even begged me to propose this to you, but I refused. Do you suppose that either I or my cousin, Dr. Ross, would connive at such deceit and falsehood? It is quite true that Mrs. Blake and her children may refuse to have anything to do with you, but that is solely their affair. In a few hours, Mr. O'Brien, your eldest son will be made aware of his father's existence.'
'I am sorry to hear it, sir,' returned Mat, in a weak, hopeless voice. 'You will make a great mistake, and nothing good will come of it. She will teach the youngsters to loathe my very name, and as for the lad'—here he spoke with strongemotion—'he will be ready to curse me for spoiling his life. No, no, sir; let sleeping dogs lie. Better let me keep dark, and bring trouble to no one.'
But Michael shook his head. Such double-dealing and deceit could only deepen the mischief.
'Dr. Ross will never give his sanction to his daughter's marriage; he has assured me so most solemnly. Whatever trouble comes will be of your wife's causing.'
But Mat would not agree to this.
'She meant no harm, sir. Olive always had curious ideas of right and wrong, and she did her best for the youngsters. According to your account, she has brought them up well, and sent the lad to Oxford. Fancy a son of mine being such a swell, and engaged to that young lady, too! Lord! when I think of it, I am ready to wish I had never left the bush.'
'It is no use wishing that now, Mr. O'Brien.'
'No, sir; and it is no use talking over what can't be mended. If you have made up your mind to tell the lad, it is pretty plain that I can't hinder you; but I will not lift a finger to help you. I will just stop where I am.'
'I think perhaps that will be best under the circumstances.'
'But, all the same, it makes me uncommon restless to feel that Olive and the youngsters are only three miles off, and I can't get at them. Put yourself in my place, sir, and you would not find it very pleasant. And there's Tom, too—with all his fine-hearted Christianity—vowing vengeance on Olive, and threatening to turn her away from the door if she ever dares to show her face here.'
'I do not think that she will ever molest you or your brother.'
'I am quite of your opinion, Captain. Olive will give me a pretty wide berth, unless it is her interest to see me; and then all Tom's rough speeches wouldn't turn her from her purpose. For tenacity and getting her own way, I'd back her against any woman.'
'Well, as you say, there is nothing to be gained by talking.' returned Michael, rising from his chair; but at this moment Mr. O'Brien entered.
'I hope I am not interrupting you, Captain; but it is getting late, and I was thinking you would take a snack with us. The women are dishing up the dinner—just a baked shoulder of mutton and potatoes under it. We are plain folk, but Prissy and I will be glad and proud if you will join us, sir;' and, after a moment's hesitation, Michael consented.
He had had no idea how late it was; they would already be sitting down to luncheon at Woodcote. It would be better for him to take some food before he set out on his cold drive home.
'If you will allow me to leave you directly afterwards,' he observed; and, as Mat left the room that moment, he took the opportunity to give Mr. O'Brien a briefrésuméof the conversation.
'He begged me to keep it all dark,' he finished; 'he is thinking more of his children than himself. But I told him that such a course would be impossible.'
'And you spoke the truth, sir; and no good would come of such crookedness. But Mat meant well; the lad has a good heart, and I do not doubt he has a sore conscience when he thinks of all the evil he has wrought. Leave him with me, sir; I can manage him best. There, I hear Prissy calling to us, and we will just take our places.'
Michael felt faint and weary, and the homely viands seemed very palatable to him; but he noticed how Matthew O'Brien's want of appetite seemed to distress his brother.
'You are eating nought, lad,' he kept saying at intervals, and once he bade Prissy fetch the remains of a meat pie that Mat had enjoyed the previous days; 'maybe he will find it more toothsome,' he said in his hearty way; but Mat would have nothing to say to it.
'You let me be, Tom,' he said at last; 'a man has not always got stomach for his food. The Captain has taken away my appetite with his talk, and the sight of the meat makes me sick;' and then he got up from the table, and they saw him pacing up and down the garden with his pipe.
Michael got away as soon as possible, and Mr. O'Brien walked with him to the inn. When the dogcart was brought out, he shook his hand very heartily.
'Let me know how things go on, Captain, and God bless you!' and then, as though by an afterthought: 'If the girl gives you trouble, send her to me, and I will just talk the sense into her.' And then he stood in the road and watched until the dogcart and driver were out of sight.
Afternoon work had begun as Michael entered Woodcote, but he found Dr. Ross alone in the study.
'I have only a few minutes to give you, Michael,' he said, looking up from the letter he was writing; 'I expected you back at least two hours ago.' Then Michael gave him a concise account of his interview with the brothers.
'Thomas O'Brien is a grand old fellow,' he said enthusiastically; 'you should have heard him talk, Dr. Ross; and as for poor Mat, he has the makings of a good fellow about him, too, only the devil somehow spoilt the batch. Would you believe it?—the poor beggar wanted to efface himself—to clear out altogether for the sake of the youngsters, as he called them. He was not very polished in his language, but what can you expect? Still, he meant well.'
'I daresay he did,' returned the Doctor with a sigh; 'you had better keep that paper to show Cyril. I must send you away now, as Carter and the other boys are coming to me. I will see you later on.'
And then Michael took himself off. He could hear Audrey's voice as he passed the door of her sitting-room; Mollie was with her. A few minutes later, as he stood at his window wondering what he should do with himself, he saw her walk down the terrace towards the gate with Mollie hanging on her arm; they seemed laughing and talking. 'How long will she wear that bright face?' he said to himself as he threw himself into his easy-chair and took up the paper.
He had just fallen into a doze, with Booty stretched on the softest of rugs at his feet, when there was a light tap at his door, and to his surprise and discomposure Cyril Blake entered the room.
The visit was so wholly unexpected that Michael stared at him for a moment without speaking. Cyril had never come to his private sitting-room before without a special invitation.
'I must apologise for this intrusion, Captain Burnett,' began Cyril quickly; 'but I wanted to speak to you particularly. Were you asleep? I am so sorry if I have disturbed you.'
'No, nonsense. I only felt drowsy because I have been out in this cold wind and the room is so warm. Take a chair, Blake. I shall be wide awake in a moment. Have you seen the paper to-day? There is nothing in it, only a remarkably stupid article on Bismarck.'
'I will look at it by and by; but to tell you the truth, I have come to speak to you about my mother. I am seriously uneasy about her: either she is ill, or there is something grievously wrong. I understood from Mollie that you were with her for more than an hour yesterday; in fact, that she sent for you.'
The fire had burnt hollow during Michael's brief nap, and he seized this opportunity to stir it vigorously into a blaze; itafforded him a momentary respite. A few seconds' reflection convinced him, however, that it was no use beating about the bush with a man of Cyril's calibre. The truth had to be told, and no amount of preparation would render it palatable.
'You are right,' he returned quietly; 'Mrs. Blake sent for me. She thought that I should be able to help her in a difficulty.'
Cyril looked intensely surprised. 'I thought Mollie must have made a mistake. It seems very strange that my mother——'
He stopped as though civility did not permit him to finish his sentence. But Michael perfectly understood him.
'It seems strange to you; of course it does. My acquaintance with Mrs. Blake is so slight that it certainly gives me no right to her confidence; but she was in trouble—in great trouble, I may say—and chance threw me in her way, and so——'
But here Cyril interrupted him.
'My mother in trouble!' he returned incredulously, but Michael thought he looked a little pale; 'excuse me, Captain Burnett, if I seem rude, but from a boy I have been my mother's friend. She has never kept anything from me. I find it almost impossible to believe that she would give that confidence to a comparative stranger which she would refuse to her son. May I beg you to speak plainly? I abhor mysteries.'
Cyril spoke impatiently and curtly; his tone was almost displeased. But Michael took no offence; he regarded the young man very kindly.
'I abhor them too,' he replied gravely; 'but I want you to understand one thing: it was a mere chance that brought me in Mrs. Blake's way at a moment when she needed assistance; I was only like any other stranger who sees a lady in difficulty. Now I have told you this I can speak more plainly.'
'I wish to heavens you would!' returned Cyril with growing excitement. 'Do you know the impression you are giving me?—that there is some mysterious confidence between you and my mother. Is it too much to ask if I may know what this difficulty and trouble mean?'
'No, Blake; you shall know all in good time,' replied Michael, with disarming gentleness. 'If I do not speak out at once, it is because I fear to give you too great a shock.'
'Too great a shock?'
'Yes. Your mother, out of mistaken kindness, has kepther children in ignorance all these years that they have a father living. He was not a father of whom they could be proud, and she tried to keep the fact of his existence from them.'
'Wait a moment!' exclaimed Cyril. The poor fellow had turned very white. 'I must take this in. What are you telling me, Burnett? That my mother—my widowed mother—has a husband living?'
'I am telling you the truth. Are you ready to hear me say more? I will wait any time you like; but it is a long story, and a sad one. Your mother has left me to tell it.'
'Go on! Let me hear every word! Hide nothing—nothing!'
Cyril spoke in a dull, stifled voice, as though he felt choking. When Michael began to speak, very slowly and quietly, he almost turned his back to him; and as the story proceeded, Michael noticed how he clutched the carved arms of his chair; but he did not once see his face. Michael afterwards owned that telling that miserable story to Olive O'Brien's son was one of the toughest jobs he had ever done in his life. But he had no idea how well he did it: there was not an unnecessary word. With the utmost care he strove to shield the woman, and to show her conduct in the best light. 'It was for her children's sake she did it,' he said again and again; but there was no answering word from Cyril; if he had been turned to stone, his position could not have been more rigid.
'Have you understood me, Blake? My poor, dear fellow, if you knew how sorry Dr. Ross and I are for you——'
Then, as Michael mentioned Dr. Ross's name, Cyril seemed galvanised into sudden life.
'He knows! he knows! For God's sake give me air!' But before Michael could cross the room, Cyril had stumbled to the window and flung it up, and stood there, with the bitter east wind blowing on his face, as though it were a refreshing summer breeze.
The chill air made Michael shiver; but he knew by experience how intolerable was that sense of suffocation, and he stood by patiently until that deadly feeling had passed.
'Are you better now, Blake? My poor fellow, can you sit down and speak to me?'
Then Cyril turned his face towards him, and Michael was shocked to see how strained and haggard it looked.
'Does she know, too?'
'Not yet; her father will tell her.'
Then the poor boy shuddered from head to foot.
'They will make her give me up! O my God! how can I bear it? Burnett, I think I shall go mad! Tell me it is not true—that my mother has not lied to me all these years!'
'At least, she has lied for her son's sake.' But he knew how futile were his words, as he saw the bitter contempt in Cyril's honest eyes.
'I will never forgive her! She has ruined my life! she has made me wish that I were dead! I will never, never——'
But Michael interrupted him somewhat sternly:
'Hush! hush! You do not know what you are saying. She is your mother, Blake—nothing can alter that fact.'
'She has deceived us all! No, I will not speak; nothing can make it better or worse. If I lose Audrey, I do not care what becomes of me!'
Michael looked at him pityingly.
'Do you think you ought to marry her, Blake!'
Then Cyril flung away from him with a groan; even in his misery he understood that appeal to his generosity. But he put it from him: he was too much stunned, too dazed altogether, to follow out any train of reasoning. In a vague sort of way he understood two facts: that he and Kester and Mollie were disgraced, and that his mother—the mother whom he adored—had deceived him. Beyond this he could not go. The human mind has limits.
Afterwards, in the chill hour of darkness and solitude, Michael's words would come back to him: 'Do you think you ought to marry her, Blake? Do you think you ought to marry her?'
'But there are true hearts which the sightOf sorrow summons forth;Though known in days of past delight,We know not half their worth.'
'But there are true hearts which the sight
Of sorrow summons forth;
Though known in days of past delight,
We know not half their worth.'
Bayly.
Bayly.
The words escaped from Michael almost unconsciously; he hardly knew that he spoke them aloud; but in his inner consciousness he had no doubt at all of the course that ought to be pursued. If he had been in Cyril's place he would not have hesitated for a moment. Dearly as he loved Audrey—and what that love was only he himself knew—he would have refused to marry her. He would have separated himself from her utterly, and at once.
Michael's strong, long-suffering nature would have carried him nobly through such an ordeal. He was a man who would have acted up to the spirit of the Gospel command 'to pluck out the offending eye, or to cut off the right hand;' there would have been no parleying, no weak dalliance with temptation.
'I love you, but it is my duty to leave you, so farewell for ever!'—that is what he would have said to her, knowing all the time that life would be utterly joyless to him. Would Cyril, in his hot, untried youth, be capable of a like generosity, or would he cleave to his betrothed with passionate, one-sided fealty, vowing that nothing on earth should separate them as long as they two loved each other?
'They will make her give me up!'—that was all he had said. That seemed to be the one deadly terror that assailed him.
Cyril had turned away with a groan when Michael spoke,but he made no audible answer, and the next moment his hand was on the door.
'Where are you going, Blake?' inquired Michael anxiously.
It was impossible to keep him, and yet, how could he let him leave him in such a condition?
'I must get away from here!' returned Cyril hoarsely. 'I must be alone somewhere.'
And Michael understood him.
'Let me at least walk with you,' he returned quickly. 'You might meet someone, and perhaps I may be of use. Do not refuse; I will not speak to you.' And, as Cyril made no objection—indeed, it was doubtful whether he even heard what Michael said—he followed him downstairs.
Just as they reached the hall the drawing-room door opened, and, before he could warn Cyril, Audrey came out. She had some music in her hand. She uttered an exclamation of surprise and pleasure when she saw them.
'Michael, I thought you were lost. What have you been doing with yourself all day? Were you going out with Cyril? Please don't go just yet; it is just beginning to rain, and I want him to practise this duet with me. Will you?' looking up in Cyril's face with one of her bright smiles.
'I cannot; another time. Please do not keep me!'
Cyril hardly knew what he said. He pushed by her as she stood there smiling, with the music in her hand, and went out bareheaded into the rain and darkness.
Audrey looked bewildered.
'What does he mean? Is he ill? has anything happened? He is so white, and he has forgotten his hat! He has never left me like this before. Oh, Michael, do call him back; I must speak to him!'
'I cannot. I think something is troubling him. Let me go, Audrey; he will tell you everything by and by.' And Michael snatched up his hat and Cyril's, and hurried after him as fast as his halting gait permitted.
Cyril had not gone far; he was standing by the gate quite motionless, and his hair and face were wet with the heavy rain. Michael took him by the arm and walked on with him; he must see him safely to his room, and charge Mrs. Blake not to go near him.
'He must have time; he is simply stunned and incapable of thought now,' he said to himself, as he piloted him through the dark, wet streets.
Biddy admitted them. She gave them a searching glance as they entered. Cyril's disordered condition must have told her everything, for she put her wrinkled, claw-like hand on his arm with a warning gesture.
'Don't let the mistress see you like that, Mr. Cyril avick, or you'll fright her to death. Go up softly, or she will hear you.'
But Biddy's warning was in vain. The staircase was badly lighted, and Michael made a false, stumbling step. The next moment Mrs. Blake came out on the landing. The sight of the two men together seemed to transfix her with horror.
'You have told him!—oh, heavens! you have told him!' she cried, in a despairing voice.
Cyril raised his heavy eyes and looked at her, but he did not speak; he passed her as he had passed Audrey, and went up to his room, and they heard the door close heavily behind him.
'I will go to him! How dare you detain me, Captain Burnett? I will go to my son!'
But Michael took no notice of this angry remonstrance; his hand was on her arm, and very gently, but firmly, he made her enter the drawing-room.
'Mrs. Blake, will you listen to me for a moment?'
'No, I will not listen!' she answered passionately, and her bosom began to heave. 'I will go to him and make him speak to me. Did you see how he looked at me—his mother—as he has never looked at me in his life?' And the unhappy woman broke into tears and sobs. 'Oh, my boy! my boy! Let me go to him, Captain Burnett, and I will bless you as long as I live; let me go and kneel to him, if I must. Do you think my boy will see his mother at his feet and not forgive her?'
'He will forgive you, Mrs. Blake,' returned Michael, in a pitying voice; 'but you must give him time. He cannot speak to you now—he can speak to no one; he is simply stunned. Give me your promise that you will not see him to-night.'
'Impossible! I will make no such promise. He is my son, not yours. If he cannot speak to me, I can at least take his hand and tell him that I am sorry.'
'He will not be able to hear you. As far as I can tell, he has taken nothing in; the news has simply crushed him. If you will give him time, he will pull himself together; but I would not answer for the consequences if you persist in seeinghim to-night. He is not himself. There would be words said that ought never to be uttered. Mrs. Blake, do be persuaded. I am speaking for your sake as well as his.'
'You are always so hard,' she moaned.
But from her manner he thought she would not disobey him; he had managed to frighten her.
'You will be wise if you take my advice,' he returned, moving away from the door. 'I am going to him now, but I shall not stay; it is, above all things, necessary that he should be alone.'
'Will you speak to him for me? Will you tell him that my heart is nearly broken with that cold, reproachful look of his? Will you at least say this, Captain Burnett?'
'I think it would be better not to mention your name to him to-night.'
Then she threw herself back on the couch in a hysterical outburst.
Michael thought it useless to stay with her. He found Biddy outside as usual, and sent her in to do her best for her mistress; and then he went up to Cyril's room. He found him sitting on the edge of his bed; the window was wide open, and the rain was driving in, and had already wetted the carpet; a candle someone had lighted was guttering in the draught. Michael closed the window, and then he looked at the fireplace. There was plenty of fuel at hand. Cyril often worked in his own room, and now and then his mother's care had provided him with a fire. The room felt cold and damp. There were matches at hand, and Michael had no scruple in lighting a fire now; the crackle of wood seemed to rouse Cyril.
'Why do you do that? there is no need,' he said irritably.
'Pardon me, there is every need. Do you know your coat is wet, Blake? You must change it at once.'
But Cyril only gave an impatient shrug.
'Will you let me see you change it before I go?' he persisted, and he actually had his way, perhaps because Cyril was anxious to get rid of him. 'Now I am going; I only want to say one word, Blake: you will be safe to-night, your mother will not come near you.' Then a look of relief crossed Cyril's wan face. 'You shall, at least, have peace for a few hours. If I can help you in any way, you have only to speak. Will you remember that?'
'Thank you.'
'I mean it. There, that is all I have got to say. Godbless you!' and as he grasped Cyril's hand there was a faint response.
Michael crept down as softly as he could. As he passed the drawing-room door he could hear Mrs. Blake's hysterical sobs, and Biddy soothing her. 'The Nemesis has come,' he said to himself; and then he went into the lower room, where he found Mollie and Kester reading over the fire.
'Don't let me disturb you,' he said hurriedly, as they both sprang up to greet him; 'Mollie, your brother wishes to be quiet to-night. He has just heard something that troubles him a good deal, and he has desired that no one should go near him. If I were you, I should take no notice at all.'
'But what are we to do about supper?' returned Mollie with housewifely anxiety; 'we have such a nice supper, and Cyril will be so cold and hungry shut up in his room. We have made such a big fire, because he was going to spend the evening with us.'
'He has a fire, too; he was very wet, and the room felt damp, so I lighted it. You might take up a tray to him presently and put it outside his door, and perhaps a cup of nice hot coffee.'
'Ah! I will go and make it at once, and mamma shall have some, too.' And Mollie ran off in her usual impetuous manner, but Kester sat still in his place.
'What is the matter, Captain Burnett?' he asked anxiously; 'we heard mother crying just now, and saying that Cyril would not speak to her. Mollie heard it quite plainly, and so did I.'
'You shall know all in good time, my dear boy,' returned Michael, laying his hand on Kester's shoulder; 'do not ask me any more just now.'
Kester looked at him wistfully, but he was trained to self-discipline, and he asked no more; and Michael went back to Woodcote.
It was just dinner-time, and the gong sounded before he was ready; but he made some easy excuse and slipped into his place, and began to talk to Dr. Ross about the new swimming-baths that were being built. It was the first topic that came handy to him, and Dr. Ross at once followed his lead; the subject lasted them until the end of dinner. Audrey was unusually silent, but neither of them made any remark on her gravity. Now and then Michael addressed some observation to her, but she answered him briefly and without interest.
They went into the schoolroom for prayers as usual, and Audrey played the harmonium; but as he was following Mrs. Ross back into the drawing-room, Audrey tapped him on the arm.
'Don't go in there just yet, Michael; I want to speak to you.'
Then he suffered himself very reluctantly to be detained by the hall fire.
'Michael,' she began, in rather a peremptory tone, 'I cannot understand either you or Cyril to-night. You are both very strange, I think. Cyril leaves me without a word, and goes out looking like a ghost, and you tell me that something is troubling him, and yet neither of you vouchsafes me one word of explanation.'
'I cannot help it, Audrey; it is not my affair. Blake was in a hurry; you must have seen that for yourself.'
'He was very extraordinary in his behaviour, and so were you. Of course, if you don't choose to answer me, Michael, I will just send a note across to Cyril, and tell him I must see him at once.'
'I should hardly do that, if I were you.'
'Not write to him!' in an offended voice. 'Really, Michael, you are too mysterious; why, this borders on absurdity! Cyril is in trouble—in one breath you tell me that—and then you would prevent my writing to ask him to come to me! I shall certainly write to him.'
'Will you go to your father instead? He has just gone into the study.'
Then Audrey looked at him with intense astonishment.
'What has my father got to do with it?'
'Never mind all that,' returned Michael slowly. 'Go to Dr. Ross, and ask him why Blake is in trouble. He will tell you; you may take my word for it.'
Audrey still gazed at him; but Michael's grave manner left her in no doubt as to the seriousness of the matter, and her eyes looked a little troubled.
'Go, dear,' he repeated gently; 'it will be best for you to hear it from him.'
Then she left him without another word, and went straight to the study.
It seemed as though her father expected her, for he looked at her as she came slowly towards him, and put out his hand.
'You have come to talk to me, my darling. Sit down besideme. No, not that chair; it is too far off. Come closer to me, my child.'
Then, as Audrey obeyed him, she felt a sense of growing uneasiness. What did that sorrowful tenderness in her father's voice mean? For the moment her courage failed her, and her lips could not frame the question she had come to ask.
'You want me to tell you about Cyril's trouble?'
Then she sat and gazed at him in speechless dread.
Dr. Ross cleared his throat and shifted his spectacles. He began to find his task difficult.
'If I only knew how to prepare you, Audrey! But I can think of no words that will break the force of such a shock. I will tell you one thing: a few hours ago Cyril was as ignorant of the great trouble that has befallen him as you are at this present moment.'
She touched him with a hand that had grown suddenly very cold.
'Wait for one minute, father; I must ask you something: Did Michael tell this thing to Cyril this afternoon?'
'Yes, dear. By some strange chance Michael was put in possession of a terrible secret. There was no one else to break it to the poor fellow, and, as you and I know, Mike is not the man to shirk any unpleasant duty.'
'I understand. You may go on now, father dear; I am prepared—I am quite prepared. I know it was no light trouble that brought that look on Cyril's face; and Michael, too, was very strange and unlike himself.' And then she composed herself to listen.
Dr. Ross told the story as carefully as he could, but he made no attempt to soften facts. A skilful surgeon cuts deep: the patient may quiver under the relentless knife, but the present pain will prevent lasting injury. Dr. Ross wished his daughter to see things from his point of view. It was impossible to spare her suffering; but she was young, and he hoped time and her own strong sense of duty would bring their own healing. He could not judge of the effect on her. Almost at his first words she had dropped her head upon his knees, and her face was hidden from him; and though his hand rested on her soft hair, she made no sign or movement.
'That is all I have to tell you, my darling. No one knows but you and I and Michael. I have not told your mother; I thought it best to wait.' Then she stirred a little uneasilyunder his caressing hand. 'My own child, you do not need to be told how I grieve for you and Cyril; it is a bitter disappointment to you both; but—but'—his voice dropped a little—'you must give him up.'
There was no perceptible start; only, as he said this, Audrey raised her face from his knee, and looked at him. She was very pale, but her eyes were quite dry; only the firm, beautiful lips trembled a little.
'I do not understand, father. Why must I give him up?'
'Why?' Dr. Ross could hardly believe his ears as he heard this. 'My child,' he said, with a touch of sternness, 'it is very easy to understand. Cyril is not to blame—he is as innocent as you are; but the son of Matthew O'Brien can never be my son-in-law.'
'No,' she returned slowly, 'I suppose not. I ought not to be surprised to hear you say that.'
'It is what any father would say, Audrey.'
'Anyhow, it is for you to say it, if you think it right, and it is for me to obey you.'
Then he put his arm round her with an endearing word or two. She was his good, obedient child—his dearly-loved daughter, who had never grieved him in her life.
'I trust I may never grieve you,' she replied gently; but there was a great solemnity in her eyes. 'Father, if you tell me that I must not marry Cyril, I shall be compelled to obey you; but it will break my heart to think that your mind is fully made up on this point.'
'My darling, you are both very young, and in time——' He stopped, arrested by the strangeness of her look.
'You think that we shall get over it: that is your meaning, is it not? But I am afraid you are wrong. Cyril loves me too well; he would never get over it.'
'But, my dear——'
'Father, will you listen to me for a moment? You need not fear that I should ever disobey you—you are my father, and that is enough. But I shall live in the hope that you will change your mind.'
'My child, I must forbid that hope. I cannot let you cheat yourself with any such false supposition. My mind will know no change in this matter.'
'Then, in that case, I shall never marry Cyril. If you cannot give me your blessing on my marriage, I will remain as Iam—Audrey Ross. But, father, I shall never give him up! Never—never!'
'If Cyril be the man I think him, he will give you up, Audrey; he will be far too proud and honourable to hold you to your engagement.'
'That may be,' she answered a little wearily. 'I know the strong pressure that will be put on him. You will have no difficulty with him; he will do as you wish. My poor Cyril! how can he do otherwise? But all the same, I shall be true to him as long as he and I live. I shall feel that I belong to him.'
'But, my darling, do be sensible. When the engagement is broken off you will be free, utterly free.'
But she shook her head.
'I shall never be free while Cyril lives. Father, you do not understand. He may set me free to-morrow, but I shall still consider myself bound. When he comes here, I shall tell him so, and I do not think he will misunderstand me.'
Dr. Ross sighed. Here was an unexpected difficulty. She would obey him, but she would regard herself as the victim of filial obedience. She would not marry her lover without his consent, but she would have nothing to say to any other man. She would consider herself fettered by this hopeless betrothal. He had declined to accept the son of Matthew O'Brien as his son-in-law; but would not his own death set her free to fulfil her engagement? Dr. Ross groaned within himself as he thought of this. If only he could bring her to reason; but at his first word of pleading her eyes filled with tears.
'Father, I can bear no more; you have made me very unhappy. I have promised not to marry without your consent; but no one on earth could make me give him up.'
Then he looked at her very sorrowfully, and said no more. If she had thrown herself into his arms he could almost have wept with her. Would she ever know how his heart bled for her? But she only kissed him very quietly.
'You are not angry with me, father?'
'Angry with you? Oh, Audrey, my child, how can you ask such a question?'
'That is well,' she returned calmly. 'There must never be anything between us. I could not bear that.' Then her breast heaved a little, and a large tear stole down her face. 'Will you tell mother and Michael what I have said—that I will never give him up?'
And then she walked very slowly out of the room.
Half an hour later Michael came into the study. He did not speak; but the Doctor shook his head as he came silently towards him.
'It is a bad business, Mike. That girl of mine will give us trouble. She is as good as gold, but she will give us trouble.'
'She refuses to give him up?'
Michael sat down as he asked the question; his strength seemed to have deserted him.
'That is what she says—that she will regard herself as altogether bound to him. She is very firm. With all her goodness and sweetness, Audrey has a strong will.'
'Do you mean that she will still marry him?'
'Not unless I will give my consent. No, Mike; she is a dutiful child. She will never give herself to any man without her parents' blessing and approval; but she will not marry anyone else.'
Then there was a curious fixed look on Michael's face.
'I am not surprised, Dr. Ross. Audrey is too generous to forsake any man when he is in trouble. She will not think of herself—she never does; her whole heart will be set on the thought of giving him comfort. You must not try to change her resolution. It would be useless.'
'The deuce take it all!' returned the Doctor irritably. 'For there will be no peace of mind for any of us, Mike.' But Dr. Ross's voice was hardly as clear as usual. 'I suppose I must just go and have it all out with Emmie—there is nothing like getting an unpleasant job over; she and Geraldine can put their heads together, but they had better keep Harcourt away from me.'
And the Doctor stalked out of the room with an unwonted gloom on his genial face.
Michael did not follow him. He sat still for a few minutes looking at the Doctor's empty chair.
'I knew it; I could have said it. Audrey is just that sort of woman. She will never give him up—whether she loves him or not—as long as she feels he needs her. Poor Blake! poor fellow! Of the two, I hardly think he is the one to be pitied; but she will never find that out for herself. Never, never!'
And then Booty scratched and whined at the door, and he got up and let him in.