Rosa Nouchette Carey

'He, being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long time.'—Wisdom of Solomon.

All her life long Audrey never forgot that long weary journey. The lateness of the hour compelled her to take a circuitous route to London. Dr. Ross accompanied her part of the way, and did not leave her until he placed her under the care of the guard, who promised to keep the compartment for her.

'You will be all right now, Audrey,' he said, with a poor attempt at cheerfulness. 'I have tipped the guard half-a-crown—a piece of extravagance on my part, I believe, as you only stop once between this and King's Cross, and Michael will meet you at the other end. God bless you, my child!' he continued, with deeper feeling, as the train began to move. 'Give my love to Cyril, and try and trust him to his Heavenly Father.'

'I will try, dear father,' was Audrey's answer.

And then she leant back on her seat and attempted to pray; but she only found herself repeating over and over again the same petition—that she might be in time; for Michael's message, so carefully worded, had read to her like Cyril's death-warrant. 'He will die,' she had said with tearless eyes to her father, as she had carried him the telegram.

It was eleven o'clock before she reached King's Cross; but before the train stopped she could see Michael standing alone under a gas-lamp, and before he discerned her she was beside him.

'Am I in time, Michael?'

Then he started, and drew her hand through his arm.

'Quite in time, dear; he has still a few hours to live.'

For he saw at once that she was prepared for the worst.

'That is well,' she replied calmly; 'let us go.'

And then Michael handed her into the hansom.

How pale she was, he thought, and how sad those dear gray eyes looked, as she turned to him and asked that question that he so dreaded to hear!

'We are out of the station now, and I can hear better. What was the accident, Michael? How did it all happen? Tell me everything, please.'

Then, as far as he was able, he told her all, and she heard him very quietly, though once he felt the shudder that passed through her when she first understood the nature of the terrible thing that had happened.

'Abercrombie saw it all from the first,' he went on; 'he said he never saw anything so splendidly done. Not a man in a thousand would have ventured it. What did I tell you, Audrey?—that Blake was just the fellow to win the Victoria Cross.'

'He was very brave,' she murmured; but she trembled all over as she spoke.

'He was more than brave. What was my action in Zululand compared to his? He stepped into the jaws of death quietly, and with his eyes opened, for he must have known that two could not have been saved. He has given his noble life for a wretched worthless one. It sounds inhuman to say it, but who would have mourned if that poor old man had been swept away? Would it not have been better if he had left him to his fate?'

'You must not say that!' returned Audrey. And now the tears were running down her face. 'It is this that makes it so noble, so Christ-like—a life laid down out of love and pity for the worthless. My brave Cyril! Who is more fit to go than he? Ah, I knew him so well; he is very reserved; he is not one to speak of religion—very few young men do; he never liked to do so; but in a simple, manly way he has tried to live it. I always knew he was good. Yes, Michael, it was better for him to give up his fresh young life than for that old man to die in his sins.'

He could not steady his voice to answer her. Would any other girl have taken it in this way? He felt there were depths in her nature that he had not fathomed yet. The nobleness of the action seemed to lift her up out of her grief. The heroic death was a fit ending to that brave life, short as it was.

There were a few minutes' silence, during which she wept quietly, and then she roused herself to ask after Mrs. Blake. A deeper shade passed over Michael's face as she put the question.

'Poor soul!' he returned in a grieved voice; 'I fear it will go very hardly with her. Abercrombie tried to say a word to her about her son's hopeless condition, but she dropped at his feet like a dead thing. I had to leave him with her, and go back to poor Blake, as he was asking for her. I am afraid Abercrombie had to be very stern with her, for by and by she crept in quietly enough, and sat down beside him. When I left he was talking to her, but I do not believe that she understood a word that he said; she looks as though she has been turned to stone.'

Audrey sighed, and a moment afterwards she said a little wearily:

'Oh, how slowly we are going! Shall we ever be there?'

Then Michael took her hand gently in his; she was so patient, so good: if only he could comfort her!

'We have a very fast horse, and a capital driver. Yes, we shall be there soon now. Your journey must have tired you, dear. I wish someone could have come with you.'

'Father wanted to do so, but I told him I would rather be alone. Never mind about me, Michael; what does it matter if I am tired or not? If I could only be with him! but the time is passing so!' Then, as she saw the pained look on Michael's face, she said in a low voice: 'Don't be too sorry for me; it is hard—very hard—but we must only think of him;' and then she did not speak again until the hansom stopped.

Mollie was on the watch, for the door opened before they had alighted; but as she flung her arms round Audrey with a tearful welcome, the latter gently disengaged herself.

'Do not keep me, dear Mollie; let me go to him.'

'Yes, you shall go to him, dear Miss Ross; he is a little better just now; at least, he does not suffer so much. I wish mamma could speak to him, but she only sits there sighing as though her heart would break, and it must be so sad for Cyril to hear it. That is the door; you can go in;' and Audrey needed no more.

A tall, gray-haired man stood aside to let her pass, but it may be doubted whether she even saw him, any more than she noticed that rigid figure at the foot of the bed. Audrey saw nothing but that death-like face on the pillow, and the glad light in Cyril's eyes, as she went straight to him, and kneeling down beside him, kissed his lips.

'My poor Cyril! My poor, dear Cyril!' she said in a voice that was heavenly in its sweetness to him.

'No, not poor now,' he whispered, as he moved his head until it rested on her breast. 'My darling, it is worth even this to see you again. If you could only know what these five months have been to me!'

He spoke in a voice so low and feeble that only she could hear him. Mrs. Blake did not move as Audrey entered; her eyes were fixed on her boy's face. They seemed the only living things about her. From time to time, even in his awful suffering, he had struggled to say a word to her, but she had scarcely answered him, though now and then a low moan issued from her lips.

'I could not have borne it much longer,' he went on, as in her mute sympathy Audrey rested her face against his cold, damp forehead; 'the life was killing me. How was a man to live without hope? And I had no hope.'

'I should always have loved you,' she said simply.

'Yes, my own faithful one; but even your love, precious as it was, could not have consoled me for the unnatural loneliness that was my lot. The very knowledge that you were mine and that I could never claim you seemed to add a deep bitterness to my grief. Do not let us speak of that dreary time, my darling; it is gone now, and it is come to this: that I thank God that I lie here with only a few hours to live.'

'Oh, Cyril! for your mother's sake, do not say this!'

'She does not hear us,' he replied; 'she seems to take no notice of anything. Poor, dear mother! I am sorry for her!'

'And not for me!' Audrey's unselfishness could not refrain from that low cry.

'No, not for you,' he returned tenderly. 'It is better, far better, for you, my darling, that things are ending thus. Why should you have wasted your sweet life for me, Audrey? I could not have borne the sacrifice. In a little while I should have written to you, and begged you to give me up.'

'There would have been no use in writing such a letter.'

Then he smiled happily, as though even on his dying bed it gave him pleasure to hear that.

'Cyril, you must not talk; Michael says it hurts you.'

'No, not quite so much now; somehow the pain seems easier, and it is such a relief to say all this. Does it make you unhappy, darling?'

'Not if it gives you comfort; you may say anything—anything—to me.'

'I only wanted to tell you that it is all right. I am glad I did it. I have not done much for Him all my life,' dropping his voice reverently, and she knew what he meant. '"Inasmuch"—how does that go on, Audrey?'

Then she softly repeated the words:

'"Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these, My brethren, ye have done it unto Me."'

'Well, He did more than that for us. What was a moment's pain compared with His? Audrey, do you think someone could say a prayer?'

Then Audrey suggested that they should send for Michael, and he came at once.

Cyril listened with his eyes closed; but his lips moved, and Audrey's hand was in his all the time. He seemed a little exhausted after this, and Dr. Abercrombie gave him some restorative.

Michael did not leave the room for long after this. He came in from time to time to see if he were wanted. But there was very little for anyone to do. The flame of life was flickering to its close, and the practised eye of the physician knew that in another hour or two all would be over.

'You can go in,' he said to Mollie; 'nothing makes any difference now.'

Then Mollie crept to her brother's side.

Cyril lay very quiet; but by and by he roused himself to send a message to Kester. And then he spoke of his father.

'Will you give him my love?' he said. 'I wanted to see more of him. I think if I had only known him better I could have loved him.'

'I will tell him this, dear Cyril.'

'Thank you.'

And then he closed his eyes again. And as Audrey bent over him, it seemed to her as though his face were almost perfect in that stillness. Presently he asked his mother to come closer, and she at once obeyed him.

'Mother,' he said pleadingly, 'you will try to give me up?'

But she made a gesture of dissent.

'I cannot; I cannot, Cyril! I do not believe I can live without you.'

'You have Mollie and Kester,' he panted, for her suppressed agitation evidently disturbed him. 'Mother, I know what we have been to each other.'

Then she fell on her knees with a bitter cry.

'Cyril, it is all my fault that you are lying there. Your mother has killed you. It would not have happened but for me. My boy! my boy! I cannot, I will not live, without you!'

'Mother.'

But Michael saw he could bear no more, and at a sign from the doctor he raised the unhappy woman and led her from the room.

'It is too much for them both,' he said to Biddy; 'neither of them can bear it.'

And then he saw the old woman take her mistress in her arms and cry over her like a child.

'Biddy, I shall die too. You will bury me in my boy's grave—my boy and me together.'

But Michael heard no more. He went back to the room just as Cyril was asking for him.

'Burnett, will you say good-bye?' he gasped. 'I think it will not be long now, and I have said good-bye to Mollie. Oh! this pain, doctor—it has come back again. Can you do anything for me?'

But Dr. Abercrombie shook his head sorrowfully.

'Never mind, then; it must be borne. Burnett, God bless you for all you have done! You will be good to her, I know'—with a glance at his betrothed.

'I will,' returned Michael Burnett.

And then the two men grasped hands.

Cyril hardly spoke after this—his pain was too intense. But once Audrey saw his eyes rest on her ring. 'It is still there,' she heard him murmur. And another time he made signs that she should lay his head on her shoulder.

'I want to die so,' he whispered. And a little later he asked her to kiss him again.

He lay so quiet now that they thought he was going, and Michael knelt down by the bed and offered up the commendatory prayer. But once more the dark eyes opened: there was a strange, unearthly light in them.

'Inasmuch,' he said; 'Inasmuch——'

His head fell back a little heavily, and the soul of Cyril Blake was with its God.

******

'He does not suffer now,' were Audrey's first words, as she laid him gently down and gave her last solemn kiss. When Michael put his arm round her and led her gently away, she offered no resistance.

'I must leave you for a little while, dear,' he said, as he stood beside her a moment; 'but I will send Mollie to you.'

Then she begged that she might be left alone.

'Her mother will want her; and I would rather, much rather, be alone.'

Then, when Michael had gone, she laid her head down on Cyril's writing-table, and the tears had their way. Until now she had not thought of herself; but now it seemed to her as though the world had grown suddenly cold and dark. He had loved her—oh, how well he had loved her!—and now the Divine will had taken him from her!

But Audrey wept less for herself than for that bright young life cut off so mysteriously in its early bloom, before its youthful promise had come to maturity. But as her tears flowed, certain words she had often read recurred to her mind, and comforted her:

'For honourable age is not that which standeth in length of time, nor that is measured by number of years.

'But wisdom is the gray hair unto men, and an unspotted life is old age.

******

'For his soul pleased the Lord: therefore hasted He to take him away from the wicked.'

Certainly there was no bitterness in Audrey's grief when, a few hours later, she stood with Michael beside that still form. How beautiful her Cyril looked! she thought; and even Michael marvelled as he gazed at him. He lay there like a young knight who had fallen in his maiden fight, and who in death was still a conqueror. The living man who stood there could almost have envied him, he was so worn and jaded with the battle of life.

'How peacefully he sleeps!' he said, in a moved voice; 'he looks as though he were dreaming happily, Audrey. Surely it will comfort his mother to see him like this!'

'She will not see him yet; Biddy says she is too ill. We must give her time to recover herself—the blow has been so awfully sudden. Yes, he looks happy; my darling sleeps well. Did you hear what he said, Michael?—that he was glad that he lay there; that it was all as it should be? If ever a man yielded his life willingly, Cyril did!'

'His life was so hard, you see.'

'Yes; but he would have given it all the same if his happiness had been perfect. He would not have stood by and seen even a beggar perish, he was so generous. You would have done it yourself, Michael.'

'I do not know,' he returned with a shudder; 'I would not answer for myself: it was such an awful death!'

'But I can answer for you,' she replied calmly: 'you would have done it if he had not been beforehand.'

And then she moved away from him, and began to arrange the few flowers that the people of the house had sent up to her.

Michael waited until she had finished. She was exhausted and weary, he knew, and he was anxious to take her to South Audley Street, where her mother would be awaiting them. Michael had telegraphed to her earlier in the day, and the answer had come that she was already on her way.

Audrey made an attempt to see Mrs. Blake before she left, but Biddy would not admit her.

'It will drive my mistress crazy to see anyone,' she said. 'She has quieted down a bit, and the doctor has given me some stuff to make her sleep; and his orders were that I was to keep her as still as possible.' And after this Audrey dared not persist.

But it grieved her to leave poor Mollie in that desolate house, the girl seemed so utterly alone; but Michael said he had spoken to the woman of the house, and that she had promised to look after her.

'We ought not to take her with us, dear Audrey,' he said gently, but firmly; 'it is her duty to stay with her mother.' And Audrey acquiesced a little reluctantly.

Mrs. Ross cried abundantly as she took Audrey in her arms; her motherly soul was filled with pity for her girl. But Audrey had no more tears to shed.

'Mother,' she said pleadingly, when, after the late evening meal, Michael had retired and left them alone together—'mother, I must wear mourning for Cyril. I hope father will not mind.'

'You shall do as you like, my love,' returned her mother sadly. 'Your father will not object to anything you wish to do. You know we all loved dear Cyril.'

'Yes, mother; and you were always so good to him. Towards the last he mentioned you and father: "Give my love to them both." Michael heard him say it.'

'Geraldine is as unhappy as possible. She drove with me to the station. She begged me over and over again to say how grieved she was for you.'

'Poor dear Gage is always so kind!' replied Audrey calmly. 'Mother dear, should you mind my going to bed now? My head aches so, and I am so tired!'

Then Mrs. Ross attended her daughter to her room, and did not leave her until her weary head was on the pillow.

'I should like to stay,' she said, looking at her child with yearning eyes; 'but I suppose you would rather be alone.'

'Yes, mother dear;' and then she drew her mother's face down to hers and kissed it tenderly. 'Dearest, you are so good to me, and so is Michael.'

'Who could help being good to you, Audrey?'

'Yes; but you must not be too kind to me. One must not let one's unhappiness spoil other people's lives. I want to be as brave as he was. Will you draw up the blind, mother dear? It is such a beautiful moonlight night.' And, as Mrs. Ross did as she was asked, Audrey raised herself upon her elbow. 'Oh, how calm and lovely it looks! Even the housetops are transfigured and glorified. Oh, mother, it is all as it should be! Cyril said so; and he is safe in his Father's house—in his Father's and mine!' she half whispered to herself, as she sank back on the pillow again.