Rosa Nouchette Carey

'There are some natures that cannot unfold under pressure, or in the presence of unregarding power. Hers was one. They require a clear space round them, the removal of everything which may overmaster them, and constant delicate attention.'—Mark Rutherford.

Audrey had no cause to regret her concession. Mrs. Blake quieted down the moment she resumed her seat; and though the remainder of her conversation concerned herself and Cyril, she did not venture again on any dangerous allusion.

It was only when Audrey said that she must really go, as she had promised her mother to be back by tea-time, that she made an attempt to coax her into sending Cyril a message; but Audrey's strong sense of honour made her proof against this temptation. She would send him no message at all. Even if she thought it right to do so, how could she rely on Mrs. Blake's veracity? how could she be sure that it might not be delivered with annotations from her own fertile brain?

'But you will at least send him your love?' pleaded Mrs. Blake.

'There is no need for me to send him that,' returned Audrey with rising colour. 'Indeed, there is no need of any message at all: Cyril and I understand each other.'

And then Mrs. Blake cried a little and called her a hard-hearted girl, but relented the next minute, and kissed her affectionately.

'You will tell Mollie to come to me as usual to-morrow?' were Audrey's parting words, and Mrs. Blake nodded assent.

As Audrey opened the green gate some impulse made her look back. Mrs. Blake was still on the threshold, watching her, and her large dark eyes were full of tears. There was something pathetic in her appearance. With a sudden impulse, for which she was unable to account, Audrey went back and gave her another kiss.

'We do not know when we shall meet again,' she said in a low voice. 'Try to be as happy as you can, and to make him happy too.'

She was glad that it was over, she told herself, as she walked back to Woodcote; nevertheless, she could not shake off a certain sense of depression. That dear Gray Cottage—how she had grown to love it, and what happy hours she had passed there, sitting by that window and watching the pigeons fluttering among the arches! Her heart was soft towards the woman she had left. Could she help it, she thought, if her moral sense were blunted and distorted? There was something defective and warped in her nature—something that seemed to make her less accountable than other people. Truth was not dear to her, or her marriage-vows sacred in her eyes. How came it that she and Matthew O'Brien should have a son like Cyril? Audrey's girlish brains grew confused over questions that might well baffle a psychologist; she could make nothing of them.

Mollie came to her the next morning with her eyes swollen with crying.

'Oh, dear Miss Ross!' she exclaimed, the moment she entered the room, 'do you know mamma says that we are going away to-morrow? I thought it was to be next week, and Biddy thought so too; but mamma says that Cyril is all alone in the lodgings, and that we ought to go to him at once. Biddy and she are packing up the books and things, and mamma seemed to think that I ought to have remained to help her; but I told her that I must—I must say-good-bye to my dear, dear Miss Ross;' and here Mollie gave her a low-spirited hug.

'My dear Mollie,' returned Audrey kindly, 'I have arranged that already with your mother, and you are to spend the whole morning with me. We will not do any lessons; I can see you are not fit for them. And it is such a lovely morning. We will go in the garden, and sit on that nice sunny seat overlooking Deep-water Chine. Do you remember our voyage there, and how contemptuous you were about the scenery?' but this allusion to one of the happiest days she had ever spent in her young life only brought on a fresh burst of grief.

Poor Mollie was broken-hearted at the idea of leaving her friend, and it was a long time before Audrey could induce her to look at things in a less lugubrious light. Michael, prowling about with his cigarette, and followed closely by his short-legged favourite, came upon them sitting hand-in-hand on a bench near the pond; but he was careful not to betray his presence, and he called off Booty rather sternly when the affectionate little animal showed some disposition to join his friends. Neither of them saw him. Audrey was talking earnestly, but he only heard a fragment of what she was saying.

'So you see, dear Mollie,' she went on, in a soft, persuasive voice, 'that you will be as great a comfort to me when you are away as you have been here. When I think of you all, I shall say to myself: "Mollie is taking care of them."'

'Yes, I see; and indeed, indeed I will try to do my best for Cyril and mamma,' replied Mollie, with a sob. 'I know how unhappy poor Cyril is; and mamma will not be the comfort to him that she used to be. Is it not sad to think of it, Miss Ross? Mamma sometimes shows me his letters—she always did, you know—but somehow they seem so different. I wonder sometimes if she notices the change in them; but she never says so. He does not want her to come up to London—one can see that so plainly—he keeps begging her to be patient, and give him time to settle things. But you know mamma: she is always in such a hurry—she never can wait for anything,' finished Mollie, in her artless way.

Audrey suppressed a smile. Mrs. Blake's children certainly read her truly; but with all her faults they loved her well. Perhaps Kester had stood aloof from her most; but Mollie had always been devoted to her mother.

'You will miss the country, of course,' went on Audrey cheerfully; 'but London has its charms. You must get your brother to take you in the parks and Kensington Gardens; you must tell him that you and Zack want exercise, and then he will not refuse.'

'Mamma will walk with me,' returned Mollie disconsolately. 'She is very fond of crowded streets and shops; she will want me to go with her, and then we shall be obliged to leave Zack at home, for fear he should be lost. Oh, I know all about it!' continued Mollie, with a sigh. 'I shall be far too tired to walk with Cyril, even if he asked me; but he would not, because he knows mamma would be hurt: she always likes him to ask her.'

'Never mind,' replied Audrey, changing the subject abruptly. 'Remember, Mollie, we can only do our best for people, and leave all the rest. I am sure that in a thousand ways you will be a comfort to them. You have always been their thoughtful little housekeeper, and you can be that still. You can keep the place bright and cheery, and make it look as home-like as possible. And, Mollie, I want you to do something; but it is to be a secret between you and me, and no one—no one'—repeating the word emphatically—'is to know about it.'

And Mollie promised faithfully to hold her tongue.

'Your mother is passionately fond of flowers.' (But Audrey, in her heart, knew someone else loved them too.) 'I want you to lay out this prudently and by degrees;' and she slipped a sovereign into Mollie's hand. 'Flowers are so plentiful in London, and you can always have a nice fresh bunch for the breakfast-table. I remember your mother once saying she would go without food to buy flowers. When I think you have come to an end of the money, I shall send you some more.'

'But if anyone asks me who bought them,' asked Mollie, with one of her wide-open glances, 'what can I say then, Miss Ross?'

'Say that you have bought them with your own money—for it is your money, Mollie; and if you would rather buy gloves with it, you are welcome to do so.'

But Mollie protested eagerly that she would far rather buy flowers.

'Cyril is so fond of them,' she added innocently, 'and I shall always take care to have a good-sized bunch on his writing-table. But what shall I do about lessons, Miss Ross?' she continued, when this point was settled. 'I am getting on so beautifully with French and music, and it will be such a pity to lose it all. I asked mamma the other evening, and she said she was sure she did not know; she might help me with my French, but she was afraid Cyril could not afford music-lessons. Besides, there would be the piano to hire; for of course I must practise. Oh dear! I don't see how I am to get on!' with another big sigh.

'I think we must leave all that for the present, dear Mollie,' replied Audrey, rather sorrowfully. 'One needs a great deal of faith when things go crooked. Keep up by yourself as well as you can, and leave the music alone for a little. By and by, when you think he can bear it, you might speak to your brother; but if he cannot afford it——'

Audrey stopped. Michael's generosity must not be taxed any further; but she had money of her own, and nothing would please her more than to spend a little on Mollie's education. Would her father allow it? she wondered.

'I think we must leave this question for the present, Mollie,' she said, in her decided way. 'Make up your mind not to trouble about it for a month or two.'

And Mollie, with her usual sweet unselfishness, agreed to this.

Audrey sent her away cheered, and a good deal comforted, at receiving her dear Miss Ross's permission to write long letters.

'I don't mind how long they are,' Audrey had observed, with an indulgent smile; 'but you must not write too often, neither must you expect to hear from me always in return. My letters will be very few, dear Mollie, and they are only for your own eyes—remember that.' And when Mollie had promised this with some reluctance, the gong sounded for luncheon, and Audrey was obliged to dismiss her a little hurriedly.

Audrey was surprised to find how much she missed her favourite. Mollie's lessons had occupied the greater part of her mornings, and lately this occupation had been a boon to her.

Audrey had never loved idleness, but now she loathed it; her girlish employments no longer satisfied her. She made wider margins for her activity, and schemed with an anxiety that looked like restlessness how she might fill up the day.

Perhaps her happiest hours, after Mollie left her, were spent in the Hillside nursery, playing with her baby-nephew. Geraldine noticed with secret satisfaction that her boy was becoming an engrossing interest to his young aunt.

'I am sure he knows you, Audrey,' she would say. 'Look how he stretches out his dear little arms and coos to you to take him! Go to Aunt Audrey, my precious!' and Geraldine would place him in her sister's arms as though she loved to see them together.

Geraldine had certain fine instincts of her own. Her womanly intuition told her that nothing could be more healing than the touch of those baby fingers. When Audrey sat down opposite to her, with her nephew sprawling on her lap, and kicking up his pink toes in a baby's aimless fashion, her face always looked happier, and a more contented look came into her eyes.

'You are very like your mother, Leonard,' she would say to him: 'but I do not believe that you will ever be as handsome.'

Baby's gurgling answer was no doubt rich with infantile wisdom, if he could only have couched it in mortal language. But, all the same, he was fulfilling his mission. Audrey felt somehow as though things must come right some day when baby gripped her finger and held it fast, or else tangled her hair. 'You are a happy woman, Gage,' she said one day; but she was a little sorry that she made the remark when Geraldine got up quickly and kissed her, with tears in her eyes.

'You will be happy, too, some day, my darling,' she said very tenderly. But to this Audrey made no reply.

Mollie was faithful to her compact, and did not write for three whole weeks. The school had reassembled by that time, and a tall, pale young man with spectacles filled Cyril's place at table. Audrey took very little notice of him. When Michael was there, she talked to him; but she found any conversation with the new-comer almost impossible.

'It hurts me to see him there,' she said once to her mother, and her lip quivered as she spoke. And of course her mother understood her.

'Yes, dear, it is very hard; your father was only saying so last night. I think he notices how silent you are at luncheon. Mr. Gisbourne is certainly not prepossessing—not like our dear Cyril; but your father says he is an excellent fellow.'

'I think I shall change my place at table, mother. I shall sit between you and father. That is, if you do not mind,' she added, with ready courtesy.

'My love, as though I should mind! And I am sure your father will be delighted to have you. He was only speaking of you an hour ago. He thinks you are behaving so well, Audrey, and so does Percival. Percival declared that he was quite proud of you at the Charringtons' "at home"; that it must have been such an ordeal for you to meet all those people. A girl in your position is generally so sensitive; but he told me that even Geraldine could not have been more dignified and at her ease.'

'That is high praise from Percival,' returned Audrey, smiling. 'He thinks Gage's manners are perfection—and so they are; but, mother, he need not have praised me so much. The people were nothing to me—I hardly thought of them at all. I was only remembering the last time I was there, and how Cyril was with me; it was the saddest evening I have spent yet.'

And then she sighed and disengaged herself from her mother's embrace.

'Don't let us talk of it, mother dear; one can bear things better if one does not speak of them. I am going to drive with Gage now, and perhaps she will keep me to dinner;' and then she went quickly away.

After all, it was better to do something than to waste her time in complaining: it was seldom that she allowed herself to speak of her feelings even to her mother, and if she suffered a word or two to escape her, she always reproached herself afterwards for her weakness.

When Mollie's letter arrived the next day she left it unopened until she was in her own room. Michael was up in town, as usual. He rarely spent more than a few days together at Woodcote now. Audrey did not regret his absence as she would otherwise have done, because she knew he would be with Cyril.

When her father glanced at her letter she said quietly that it was from Mollie, and then he made no further observation.

But when she was in her own room she opened it somewhat eagerly. 'Dear little Mollie! I never thought I should miss her quite so much,' she thought.

Evidently Mollie had taken a long time to write that letter; it had been commenced two days after her arrival in London, and it had not been completed until now.

The first two or three pages, written in Mollie's girlish angular handwriting, were filled with plaintive lamentations over her enforced exile and separation from her dear Miss Ross; and here and there a bleared word showed touchingly where a great tear had rolled down and blotted the page; but the next entry, written a few days afterwards, showed some signs that the prospect had brightened a little. One passage gave great pleasure to Audrey:

'Mamma likes our lodgings excessively, and though I shall never love any place like our dear Gray Cottage, they are really very nice; indeed, they are better than any lodgings we have been in yet. Mamma says she never saw rooms so well furnished; the carpets and papers are rather ugly, and I cannot say much for the curtains; but there is a delicious couch—one of those soft, springy ones that are so comfortable, rather like the one in the Woodcote drawing-room, and two delightfully easy chairs.

'Then, in the little room we call Cyril's study, there is really a very handsome writing-table, with one of those green reading-lamps that Dr. Ross always uses, and a nice little secretaire for papers. Mamma was so charmed when she saw that; she told Cyril that he only wanted a few stained shelves to hold his books, and that then he would be as snug as possible. I thought Cyril looked a little queer when she said that, and when she exclaimed at the softness of the couch I saw such an odd smile on his face. I fancy he must have bought it himself, and that he does not wish mamma to know it.' ('Oh, you little goose!' observed Audrey, when she came to this; but her eyes were very bright as she went on with the letter.)

'There were such quantities of flowers and plants about the room when we arrived, and the most beautiful tea set out on the big round table. Mamma laughed, and said Cyril was very extravagant to provide such luxuries; but he told her he had had nothing to do with it, and he did not seem to enjoy anything.

'I am afraid he works too hard. Mamma is beginning to say that she might as well have remained in Rutherford, for all she sees of him; but I know she does not mean it, for she is as happy as possible.

'Cyril never gets home until half-past six, and then we have tea. His pupil comes to him at eight for two hours. I think Zack has the best of it. Cyril always takes him out for a long walk before breakfast. I should like to go with them, but I think Cyril prefers going alone. He only walks with mamma on Sunday afternoon, and then he comes in looking so tired. He often falls asleep when he sits down. I never remember his ever doing such a thing before; but mamma says she is sure that he sleeps badly, though he will never own to it. Cyril never did like to be questioned about himself.

'We see Captain Burnett sometimes, and Cyril says he often meets him on his way home. One day Captain Burnett asked me if I should like to see some pictures, and of course I said yes. We drove such a long way in a hansom, and I did so enjoy seeing all those beautiful pictures. Captain Burnett was kind; he explained everything to me, and when he thought I was tired he took me to a grand place, where we had ices and coffee.

'He asked me a great many questions, and when I told him that I had no one to teach me now I had left my dear Miss Ross, he looked very grave. He wanted to know if mamma did not help me at all, and I was obliged to confess that the French books were still unopened; and then he looked grave again and said, "Poor little thing!" as though he were sorry for me.

'Well, was it not strange?—the very next night Cyril began talking to mamma about it. He told her that now Kester was away they ought to be able to afford to give me a good education, that they were not poorer than they had been at Rutherford, and that something must be done at once.

'Cyril spoke as though he thought mamma was to blame, and then mamma cried, as she always does if Cyril finds fault with her; but the very next day she went out alone, and in the evening she told Cyril that she had found a very good school close by our lodgings, where they had excellent masters, and that she had arranged that I was to go there four times a week to take French, German, and music lessons. I could see Cyril was pleased, though he said very little, but by and by he asked me what I should do about a piano, and mamma suggested that we should hire one. Is this not nice, my dear Miss Ross, and is not Cyril a darling for thinking of everything so nicely?'

'Ah, Mollie, I am afraid you are a sad goose!' was Audrey's inward ejaculation at this point, and there was a smile on her lips as she finished the letter.

Michael was fulfilling his promise nobly. Audrey knew him well enough to be sure that those meetings with Cyril were by no means accidental. 'Whatsoever thou doest, do it with thy might,' was a precept literally obeyed by Michael Burnett. When he held out that right hand of fellowship to his rival, there was no sense of grudging in his mind. If a cheery word or two would brighten Cyril's day, and make his hard life a little less unendurable, Michael would speak that word at the cost of any inconvenience to himself. Audrey may be forgiven if she cherished the notion that Michael's frequent visits to London were undertaken more for Cyril's benefit than his own; and if Michael could have given a somewhat different version of his motives, he kept all such interpretation to himself.