Rosa Nouchette Carey

'Try how the life of the good man suits thee: the life of him who is satisfied with his portion out of the whole, and satisfied with his own just acts and benevolent disposition.'—M. Aurelius Antoninus.

Michael's morning in the schoolroom had been truly purgatorial; fortunately for him, it was a half-holiday, and the luncheon-hour set him free from his self-imposed duties. On his way to his own room, he had overheard Geraldine's voice speaking to her father, and he at once guessed the reason why Dr. Ross had invited her into the study.

He had never been less enamoured of solitude and of his own society; nevertheless, he told himself that any amount of isolation would be preferable to the penalty of hearing Geraldine discuss the matter. He could hear in imagination her clear sensible premises and sound, logical conclusion, annotated by womanly lamentations over such a family disaster. The probable opinions of Mrs. Bryce and Mrs. Charrington would be cited and commented on, and, in spite of her very real sympathy with her sister, Michael shrewdly surmised that the knowledge that the Blake influence was waning would give her a large amount of comfort in the future.

When Crauford announced that the ladies were having tea in the drawing-room, he begged that a cup might be sent up to him.

'Will you tell Mrs. Harcourt that I have a headache?' he said; and, as Crauford delivered the message, Geraldine looked meaningly at her mother.

'I expect Michael has taken all this to heart,' she said, as soon as Crauford had left the room; 'he is very feeling, and then he is so fond of Audrey.' And as Mrs. Ross sighed in assent, she went on with the topic that was engrossing them at that moment—how Audrey was to be induced to leave home for a while.

Michael's table was strewn with books, and one lay open on his knee, but he had not once turned the page. How was he to read when the very atmosphere seemed charged with heaviness and oppression?

'She thinks that she loves him, and therefore she will suffer,' he said to himself over and over again; 'and it will be for the first time in her life; for she has often told me that she has never known trouble. But her suffering will be like a grain of sand in comparison with his. Oh, I know what he is feeling now! To have had her, and then to have lost her! Poor fellow! it is a cruel fate.'

Michael pondered drearily over the future that lay before them all. How was he to bear himself, he wondered, under circumstances so exasperating? She was free, and he knew her to be free—for Cyril would never claim her—and yet she would regard herself as altogether bound.

He must go away, he thought; not at once—not while she needed him—but by and by, when things were a little better. Life at Rutherford was no longer endurable to him; for months past, ever since her engagement, he had chafed under a sense of insupportable restlessness. A sort of fever oppressed him—a longing to be free from the influence that dominated him.

'If I stay here I must tell her how it is with me, and that will only make her more miserable,' he thought. 'She is not like other women—I never saw one like her. There is something unreasonable in her generosity. Girls sometimes say things they do not mean, and then repent of their impulsiveness; but she will never repent, whether she loves him or not. She believes that it is her mission to comfort him. Perhaps, if I had appealed to her, I might have made her believe that she had a different mission. Oh, my dear, if it only could have been so!'

And he sighed in the bitterness of his spirit; for he knew that in his unselfishness he had never wooed her.

At that moment there was a light tap at his door, and he started to his feet with a quick exclamation of surprise as Audrey entered. He had been thinking of her at that moment, and he almost felt as though the intensity of his thoughts had attracted her by some unconscious magnetism; but a glance at her dispelled this illusion.

She was dressed for dinner, and he noticed that there was an air of unusual sombreness about her attire, as though she felt that any gaiety of apparel would be incongruous. And as she came closer to him, he was struck with her paleness and the sadness in her large gray eyes.

'Michael,' she said, in a low voice, 'I want to speak to you. I hope I am not interrupting you.'

'You never interrupt me,' he returned quickly. 'Besides, I am doing nothing. Sit down, dear, and then we shall talk more comfortably.' For he noticed that she spoke with an air of lassitude that was unusual to her, and her strong lithe figure swayed a little, as though with weakness.

'Do you think you should be here?' he asked, with grave concern. 'You look ill, Audrey, as though you ought to be resting in your own room.'

'I have been resting,' she replied gently. 'And then Gage came to me, and after that I thought I had been idle long enough. Michael,'—and here her lips quivered as though she found it difficult to maintain her self-control—'you know all that has happened. Cyril has gone away—he has said good-bye to me—and he looks as though his heart were broken. I have done what I could to comfort him. I have told him that I shall always be true to him; but it is not in my power to help him more.'

'Dear Audrey,' he said—for he understood her meaning well, and there was no need for her to speak more plainly—'it was not for me to go to him after such a parting as that. The presence of one's dearest friend would be intolerable.'

'I did not mean to-day,' she returned sadly; 'but there is to-morrow, and there is the future. And he has no friend who is worthy of the name. Michael, there is no one in the whole world who could help him as you could. This is the favour I have come to ask you.'

'It is granted, Audrey.'

Then her eyes were full of tears as he said this.

'Oh, I knew you would not refuse! When have you ever refused to do a kindness for anyone? Michael, I told my poor boy to-day that if he valued my peace of mind he would consent to be guided by your advice. He is so young; he does not know the world as you do, and he is so terribly unhappy; but if you would only help him——'

'My dear,' he said very quietly, 'there is no need to distress yourself, or to say any more; we have always understood each other without words. You are giving me this charge because you are unable to fulfil it yourself. You wish me to be a good friend to poor Blake, to watch over him and interest myself in his welfare—that is, as far as one man will permit another to do so. Well, I can promise you that without a moment's hesitation. I will be as solicitous for him as though he were my brother. Will that content you?'

But he could not easily forget the look of gratitude that answered him.

'God bless you, Michael! I will not try to thank you. Perhaps some day——'

She stopped as though unable to say more.

'Oh,' he said lightly, and crushing down some dangerous emotion as he spoke, 'I have done nothing to deserve thanks. Even if you had not asked me this, do you think I would have gone on my own way, like the Levite in the parable, and left that poor fellow to shift for himself? No, my dear, no; I am not quite so flinty-hearted. Unless Blake will have none of my help—unless he absolutely repulse me—I will try as far as lies in my power to put him on his feet again.'

'He will not repulse you; I have his word for that. Ah! there is the dinner-bell, and I have not said all that I wanted. The day seems as though it would never end, and yet there is time for nothing.'

'You will not come downstairs, Audrey? Let me ask your mother to excuse you. See! you can stay in this room; I can clear the table and put things ship-shape for you.'

Then she looked at him with the same air of innocent surprise with which she had regarded her mother the previous night, when she had asked to remain with her.

'Why do you all treat me as though I were an invalid?' she said protestingly. 'I am not ill, Michael. What does it matter where one eats one's dinner? It is true I am not hungry, but there is father—why should I make him uncomfortable? We must think of other people always, and under all circumstances.'

She seemed to be saying this to herself more than to him, as though she would remind herself of her duty. Michael said no more, but as he followed her downstairs he told himself that no other girl could have borne herself so bravely and so sweetly under the circumstances.

He wondered at her still more as he sat opposite to her at table, and saw the quiet gravity with which she took her part in the conversation. She spoke a word or two about her sister, and mentioned of her own accord that she had promised to bring Leonard to see her the next day.

'I do not mean to call him baby,' she said; 'he is far too important a personage. Did you hear nurse speak of him as Master Baby the other day? I think Gage must have given her a hint about it.'

And then she listened with an air of interest as her mother related a little anecdote that recurred to her memory of Geraldine's babyhood.

But he saw her flush painfully when Mrs. Ross commented on her want of appetite.

'You have eaten nothing to-day, Crauford tells me,' she continued anxiously.

Audrey shook her head.

'One cannot always be hungry, mother dear,' she said gently; but it was evident that her mother's kindly notice did not please her.

And she seemed still more distressed when her father once rose from his place to give her some wine.

'Why do you do that?' she asked, with a touch of impatience. 'It is not for you to wait on me, father. Michael would have filled my glass quite easily.'

'You are paying me a very bad compliment, Audrey,' returned Dr. Ross with a smile. 'You are telling me that I am too much of an old fogey to wait on ladies. Mike is the younger man, of course, and if you should prefer that he should help you to madeira——'

'No, father, it is not that; but it is for me to wait on you. You must never, never do that for me again.'

And somehow Dr. Ross seemed to have no answer ready as he went back to his chair.

But when she was alone with her mother she spoke still more plainly. Mrs. Ross had persuaded her to take the corner of the couch; but as she stood by her manipulating the cushions and adjusting them more comfortably, Audrey turned round quickly and took hold of her hands.

'Mother, do please sit down. I think you have all entered into a conspiracy to-night to kill me with kindness.'

'We are so sorry for you, darling.'

'Perhaps I am sorry for myself; but is that any reason why I should be treated as though I had lost the use of my limbs? I want you to behave to me as usual; it will be far better for me and you too. Why did not father and Michael talk politics, instead of making little cut-and-dried speeches that seemed to fit into nothing?'

'I daresay they found it very difficult to talk at all under the circumstances.'

'That sounds as though I had better have remained upstairs, as Michael suggested; indeed, I must do so if you will persist in regarding me as the skeleton at the feast.'

'My darling child, how you talk! Surely you will allow your parents to share your sorrow?'

'No, mother; that is just what I cannot allow; no one shall be burdened with my troubles. Listen to me, mother dear: I think people make a great mistake about this; they mean to be kind, but it is not true kindness; they are ready to give everything—sympathy, watchfulness, attention—but they withhold the greatest gift of all, the freedom, the solitude, for which the sufferer craves.'

'Do you mean that we are to leave you alone, Audrey? Oh, my dear, this is a hard saying for a mother to hear!'

'But it is not too hard for my mother,' returned Audrey caressingly. 'Yes, I would have you leave me alone until I recover myself. I would be treated as you have always treated me, and not as though I were a maimed and sickly member of the flock. Neither would I be reminded every moment of the day that any special hurt has come to me.'

'And I am not to ask you even to rest yourself?'

'No, not even that. I would rather a thousand times that you gave me some work or errand. Mother dear,' and here her voice was very sad, 'I will not deny that this is a great trouble, and that my life will not be as easy and as happy as it used to be. The shadow of my poor boy's sorrow will be a heavy burden for me to bear; but we must ask God to lighten it for both of us. I tell you this to-night because you are my own dear mother, and such confidence is your due; but after to-night I shall not say it again. If you and father wish to help me, it will be by allowing me to feel that I am still your comfort;' and then she threw herself in her mother's arms. 'Tell father this,' she whispered, 'and ask him to give me time. One day, perhaps, I shall be more like my old self; but we must wait: it is too soon to expect much of me yet.'

'I will tell your father you are our good, dear child, Audrey, and you shall have your way.'

'Thank you; I knew you would understand. After all, there is no one like one's mother.' And then she sighed, and Mrs. Ross knew where her thoughts had wandered. 'Now, for this one evening, I will take your advice and rest. I will go up to my room now; but to-morrow'—she stopped, and then said firmly—'to-morrow everything shall be as usual.' And then she gave her cheek to her mother's kiss, and went up to her room.

Michael did not make his appearance in the drawing-room that night. To Booty's secret rapture, he put on his great-coat, and went out into the chill darkness. He had much to consider; and it was easier to make his plans under the dim March starlight. A difficult charge had been given him, and he had not shrunk from it; on the contrary, he had felt much as some knight in the olden times must have felt when his liege lady had given him some hazardous work or quest. To be sure, there was no special guerdon attached to it; but a man like Michael Burnett does not need a reward: if he could only give Audrey peace of mind, he would ask no other reward.

He made up his mind that he would go to Cyril the next morning, and he thought he knew what he should say to him. He and Dr. Ross had talked matters over after dinner. Dr. Ross had already suggested a substitute—a young Oxford man, who was staying at the Vicarage, and who was on the look-out for a mastership.

'I told Cyril that he had better discontinue his work,' he went on. 'If it were not for Audrey, he could have made some sort of shift, and kept on until the holidays; but it would never do to run the risk of another scene between them: it would be bad for her, and it would be terrible for him. It is an awkward complication, Mike; it would be better to get him away as soon as possible.' And to this Michael assented.

He went round to the Gray Cottage soon after breakfast. Audrey was watering her flowers in the hall. She looked at him as he passed her, but did not speak; of course, she guessed his errand, for he saw her head droop a little over the flowers.

Mollie received him. The poor girl's eyes were swollen with crying, and she looked up in his face very piteously, as he greeted her with his usual kindness.

'Where is your brother, Mollie?'

'Do you mean Cyril? He is in his room; but no one has seen him. Oh, Captain Burnett, is it true? Mamma has been saying such dreadful things, and we do not know whether we are to believe her. Biddy tries to hush her, but she will go on talking; she is quiet now, and Kester and I crept down here. Ah, there is Kester looking at us; he wants you to go in and speak to him.'

'Is it true?' were Kester's first words when he saw his friend. The poor lad's lips were quivering. 'Oh, Captain Burnett, do tell us that it is not true!'

'I cannot do that, my boy,' returned Michael gravely; and then he sat down and listened to what they had to tell him. He soon found that the mother's wild ravings had told them the truth. In her despair at being refused admittance to her son's room, she had given way to a frantic outburst of emotion. Biddy had tried to get rid of them, but Kester and Mollie had remained, almost petrified with horror. What could their mother mean by telling them that she hated the sight of them, and adjuring them to go to their father?

'Father is dead; does she wish us to be dead, too?' Mollie had faltered. 'Dear mamma, do let me go and fetch Cyril! You are ill; you do not know what you are saying!' But as she turned to go, her mother had started up, and gripped her arm so fiercely that the poor child could have screamed with pain.

'Yes, you shall fetch him, but he will not come; he will not listen to you any more than he would to me. When I implored him on my knees to open the door, he said that he was ill, and that he could not speak to me. But was I not ill, too? If I were dying he would not come to me! and yet he is my son!'

'Dear mamma! oh, dear mamma! do you know how you are hurting me?'

'No; it is he who is hurting me: he is killing me—absolutely killing me!—because I kept from him that his father was alive! Did I not do it for his sake—that he should not be shamed by such a father? Go to him, Mollie; tell him that you know all about it, and that Audrey Ross will have nothing to say to him, because he is the son of a felon. Why are you staring at me? Go! go!' And she pushed her from her so roughly that Mollie would have fallen if Biddy had not caught her.

'Go, Miss Mollie, or you will drive her crazy with your big eyes and frightened face. Whist! don't heed the mistress's wild talk; it is never the truth she is telling you.'

But Mrs. Blake had interrupted the old woman; her eyes were blazing with angry excitement:

'Where do you expect to go, Biddy, if you tell Mollie such lies? You are a wicked old woman! You have helped me to do all this mischief! Would you dare to tell me to my face that I am not the wife of Mat O'Brien?'

'Sorra a bit, Miss Olive; you are the widow of that honest man Blake. Heaven rest his soul!' returned the old woman doggedly. 'We must be having the doctors to you, Miss Olive avick, if you tell us these wild stories.'

'Biddy, you are a false, foolish old creature! and it is you who are driving me out of my sane senses.'

But at this point Mollie fairly fled.

'Did you see your brother?' asked Michael, as she stopped to dry her eyes. Kester had never uttered a word; he left Mollie to tell her own story, and sat leaning his head on his hands. For once Mollie's loquacity was suffered unchecked.

'It was dark, and I could not see him; it was quite late, you know—nearly twelve o'clock. He came out and listened to me; but the passage and the room were quite dark.

'"Go down, Mollie," he said, "and tell my mother that I cannot speak to her to-night. It is quite impossible; she ought not to expect it."

'"But she is ill, Cyril—I am sure she is dreadfully ill; her eyes look so strange, and she is saying such things!"

'"Biddy will take care of her; if she needs a doctor, you must go for one. But nothing on earth would induce me to see her to-night." And then he went back into his room and locked the door.'

'Poor Mollie!'

'Oh, that was nothing to what came afterwards. Would you believe it, Captain Burnett?—mamma had heard every word. When I left Cyril, I found her crouching on the stairs in a dark corner. Oh, I shall never forget the turn it gave me! She had got her arms over her head, and they seemed quite stiff, and her fingers were clenched. Biddy was crying over her; but she did not move or speak, and it was quite an hour before we could get her into her own room.'

'You ought to have sent for the doctor.'

'Biddy would not let us; she said it was only sorrow of heart, and that she had seen her once before like that, when her husband died. What makes Biddy say that, Captain Burnett, if our father be still living?'

Michael shook his head.

'Biddy chooses to persist in her falsehood. I have seen your father, Mollie. I am very sorry for him; with all his faults, he loves his children.' Then a low sound like a groan escaped Kester's lips. 'And I think his children should be sorry for him, too; he has had a hard, unhappy life. But there is no time to talk of this now; I want you to finish about last night, and then I must go upstairs.'

'There is nothing more to tell. We could not induce mamma to undress or to go to bed, so Biddy covered her up and told me to go away. She was with her all night. With all her crossness and tiresome ways, Biddy is always good to mamma; she was talking to her almost as though she were a baby, for I stood and listened a minute before I closed the door. I could hear her say:

'"Miss Olive avick, what was the good of telling the children? You should hush it up for Mr. Cyril's sake, and for the sake of the dear young lady he is going to marry." But he is not going to marry her; mamma said so more than once.'

And then, in a few grave words, Michael told them all that it was necessary for them to know.

'Poor, poor Cyril! Oh, my dear Miss Ross!' was all Mollie could say. Kester seemed nearly choking.

'Let me go to him, dear Mollie. But I think I will see your mother first. Biddy seems to be a bad adviser. After all, she may require a doctor.'

And then he put his hand on Kester's shoulder and whispered something into his ear. Mollie could not hear what it was, but she saw the boy's face brighten a little as he took up Booty to prevent him from following his master.