Rosa Nouchette Carey

'Earth has nothing more tender than a woman's heart, when it is the abode of piety.'—Luther.

Dr. Ross had deferred telling his wife for more than one reason: he dreaded the effect on her emotional nature, and, above all things, he hated a scene. But for once he was agreeably disappointed. Mrs. Ross received the news more quietly than he expected; the very suddenness and force of the shock made her summon up all her womanly fortitude to bear such an overwhelming misfortune. Her first thought was for Audrey, and she would have gone to her at once; but her husband gently detained her.

'Give her time, Emmie; she has only just left me, and she will not be ready even for her mother. Sit down again, my dear; I cannot spare you yet.' And Mrs. Ross very reluctantly took her seat again on the couch.

They talked a little more, and Mrs. Ross wept as she thought of that poor dear boy, as she called him; for Cyril had grown very dear to her, and she had begun to look on him as her own son. But it seemed as though the whole vial of her wrath was to be emptied on the head of Mrs. Blake. At any other time, and in different circumstances, Dr. Ross would have been amused at the scathing invectives that were uttered by his sweet-tempered wife.

'But, my dear Emmie, you must consider her provocations. Think of a woman being tied to a feckless ne'er-do-well like Matthew O'Brien!'

'Don't talk to me, John; I will not listen to you. Was she not his wedded wife, and the mother of his children? Had she not vowed to be faithful to him for better and for worse?'

'Yes, my dear; but you must allow it was for worse.'

'That may be; but she was bound to him all the same by her wifely duty. She might have saved him, but instead of that she has been his ruin. How dare any woman rob her husband of his own children, and forbid him to lay claim to them? She is a false, perjured wife!' exclaimed Mrs. Ross, with rising excitement.

'My dear, I am not defending her; but at least she is to be pitied now.'

'I do not think so. It is Cyril and Kester and Mollie who are to be pitied, for having such parents. My heart bleeds for them, but not for her. What will become of them all? How will that poor boy bear his life?'

'I do not know. But, Emmie, tell me one thing—you agree with me that Audrey must not marry him?'

'Of course she must not marry him! What would Geraldine and Percival say?'

Then the Doctor muttered 'Pshaw!'

'Why, his name is not Blake at all. How could a daughter of ours form a connection with the O'Briens? My poor Audrey! And now, John, you must let me go to her.' And this time Dr. Ross made no objection.

It was nearly midnight by this time, but Audrey had not thought of retiring to bed; she was sitting by her toilet-table, with her hands folded in her lap. Her mother's appearance seemed to surprise her.

'Dear mother, why have you come? There was no need—no need at all.'

Then, as her mother put her arms round her, she laid her head on her shoulder as though she were conscious of sudden weariness. Mrs. Ross's eyes were red with weeping, but Audrey's were still quite bright and dry.

'Mother dear, you will be so tired!'

'What does that matter? It is your father who is tired; he feels all this so terribly. My own darling, what am I to say to you in this awful trouble that has come upon you, but to beg you to be brave for all our sakes?'

'Yes; and for his, too.'

'If I could only bear it for you—that is what a mother feels when her child suffers—if I could only take it from you, and carry it as my own burden!'

Then the girl gently pressed her with her arms.

'That is what I feel about him,' she returned, and there was a pained look in her eyes as she spoke. 'He is so young, and all this is so terrible; his pride will suffer, and his heart, and his mother will be no comfort to him. If he only had you!' And then she did break down a little, but she soon recovered herself. 'I have been sitting here trying to find out why this has been allowed to happen to him. I think there is no one so good, except Michael. It is very dreadful!' And here she shuddered slightly. 'How will he live out his daily life and not grow bitter over it? My poor, poor Cyril!'

'My darling, are you not thinking of yourself at all?'

'Of myself? No, mother. Why should I think of myself? I have you and father and Michael—you will all comfort me; but who will comfort him?'

'His Heavenly Father, Audrey.'

'Oh yes, you are right; but do young men think as we do? Cyril is good, but he never speaks of these things. He is not like Michael.'

'It was trouble that taught Michael.'

'Yes, I know; but I would fain have spared my poor Cyril such a bitter lesson. Mother, I want you to tell them all not to talk to me—I mean Michael and Gage and Percival; I could not bear it. As I told father, I shall never give him up. If he goes away, I must bid him good-bye; but if he will write to me I shall answer his letters.'

'I do not think your father would approve of that, Audrey. My child, consider—would it not be better, and more for Cyril's good, that you should give him up entirely?'

'No, mother; I do not think so. I believe in my heart that the knowledge that I am still true to him will be his only earthly comfort. No one knows him as I do; his nature is very intense. He is almost as intense as Michael, and that is saying a great deal.'

'My love, will you let your mother say one thing to you?—that I think you are making a grievous mistake, and that your father thinks so too.'

'I know it, mother, and it pains me to differ from you both in this; but you will never convince me. I plighted my troth to Cyril because I loved him dearly, and nothing will change that love. It is quite true,' she continued dreamily, as though she were following out some train of habitual thought, 'that I have often asked myself if I loved him in the same way in which other girls cared for their lovers—as Gage did for Percival, for example—if mine were not too quiet and matter-of-fact an attachment; and I have never been able to answer myself satisfactorily.'

'Have you not, Audrey?'

'No, mother dear; but of course this is in confidence: it must be sacred to you and me. I think I am different from most girls. I have never wished to be married; and dear as Cyril is to me, the thought of my wedding-day has always oppressed me. I have made him unhappy sometimes, because he saw that I shrank from it.'

Mrs. Ross felt a quick sense of relief that almost amounted to joy. Was Audrey in love with him, after all? She had never heard a girl talk so strangely. What an unutterable blessing it would be to them all if she were not utterly crushed by her misfortune, and if any future healing would be possible; but she was careful not to express this to her daughter.

'My experience has been very different,' she answered quietly. 'My happiest moments were those in which your dear father spoke of our future home. I think I was quite as averse to a long engagement as he was.'

'I can believe it, mother dear, but our natures are not alike; but there is one thing on which we are agreed, that an engagement is almost as binding as marriage; that is,' correcting herself, 'as long as two persons love each other.'

'It ought not to be binding under such circumstances, Audrey.'

'Ought it not? Ah, there we differ! With all my want of enthusiasm, my absence of sentimentality, I shall hold fast to Cyril. I have never yet regarded myself as his wife; I did not wish to so regard myself. But now I shall give myself up in thought wholly to him, and I pray God that this knowledge will give him comfort.'

Mrs. Ross was silent. She felt that she hardly understood her daughter; it was as though she had entered on higher ground, where the wrappings of some sacred mist enveloped her. This was not the language of earthly passion—this sublime womanly abnegation. It was not even the tender language of a Ruth, widowed in her affections, and cleaving with bounteous love and faith to the mother of her young Jewish husband, 'Whither thou goest I will go;' and yet the inward cry of her heart seemed to be like that of honest Tom O'Brien: 'The Lord do so unto me, and more also, if ought but death part me and thee.'

The one thought wholly possessed her that she might give him comfort.

'My poor, dear child, if I could only make you feel differently!'

Then Audrey laid her hand gently on her mother's lips. It was an old habit of hers when she was a child, and too much argument had proved wearisome.

'Hush! do not let us talk any more. I am so tired, so tired, mother, and I know you are, too.'

'Will you let me stay with you, darling?'

Then Audrey looked at her trim little bed, and then at her mother, and smiled.

'There is no room. What can you mean, mother dear? and I am not ill; I am never ill, am I?'

'Thank God at least for that; but you are worse than ill—you are unhappy, my dear. Will you let me help you to undress, and then sit by you until you feel you can sleep?'

But Audrey only shook her head with another smile.

'There is no need. Kiss me, mother, and bid me good-night. I shall like to be with my own self in the darkness. There, another kiss; now go, or we shall both be frozen;' and Audrey gently pushed her to the door.

'She would not let me stop with her, John!' exclaimed Mrs. Ross, as she entered her husband's dressing-room. 'She is very calm: unnaturally so, I thought; she hardly cried at all; she is thinking nothing of herself, only of him.'

'Do you know it is one o'clock, Emmie?' returned her husband rather shortly. He was tired and sore, poor man, and in no mood to hear of his daughter's sufferings. 'The deuce take the woman!' he said to himself fretfully, as Mrs. Ross meekly turned away without another word; but he was certainly not alluding to his wife when he spoke. 'From the days of Eve they have always been in some mischief or other'—from which it may be deduced that Mrs. Ross was not so far wrong when she thought her husband was threatened with gout, only his malaise was more of the mind. He was thinking of the interview that awaited him on the morrow. 'I would as lief cut off my right hand as tell him that he must not have Audrey,' he said to himself, as he laid his head on the pillow.

Now, as Michael lay awake through the dark hours revolving many things in his uneasy brain, it occurred to him that he would send a note across to Cyril as soon as he heard the household stirring, and he carried out this resolution in spite of drowsiness and an aching head.

To this came the following reply, scrawled on a half-sheet of paper:

'Thanks awfully; will accept your offer. Please tell Dr. Ross that I will come across to him soon after ten.'

'Poor beggar! he is awake now, and pulling himself together with a vengeance. This looks well; now for the grind.'

And Michael went down to the schoolroom and gave Cyril's class their divinity lesson with as much coolness and gravity as though his whole life had been spent in teaching boys.

Dr. Ross winced slightly as he gave him Cyril's message after breakfast, but he said, a moment afterwards: 'I intended sending for him; but I am glad he has saved me the trouble—only I wish it were over, Mike.'

Michael shrugged his shoulders with a look of sympathy. He had no time to say more; he must take Cyril's place in the schoolroom again, in spite of all Booty's shivering solicitations for a walk this fine morning. 'Booty, old fellow,' he observed, as he noticed the little animal's manifest disappointment, 'you and I are not sent into the world to please ourselves; there are "still lame dogs to help over stiles," and a few burdens to shift on our own shoulders. If our head ache, what of that, Booty? It will be the same a hundred years hence. Now for Greek verbs and general discord, so right about face!' And if Booty did not understand this harangue, he certainly acted up to the spirit of it, for he pattered cheerfully after his master to the schoolroom, and curled himself up into a compact brown ball at his feet, to doze away the morning in doggish dreams.

Meanwhile, Dr. Ross made a feint of reading his letters; but he found as he laid them down that their contents were hopelessly involved. Was it Rawlinson, for example, whom an anxious mother was confiding to his care? 'He had the measles last holidays, and has been very delicate ever since, and now this severe cold——' Nonsense! It was not Rawlinson, it was Jackson minor, and he was all right and had eaten an excellent breakfast; but he thought Major Sowerby's letter ought to be answered at once. He never allowed parents to break his rules; it was such nonsense sending for Charlie home, just because an uncle had come from India. He must write and remonstrate; the boy must wait until the term was over—it would only be a fortnight. And then he read the letter again with growing displeasure, and found that Captain MacDonald was the name of the erring parent.

'I will settle all that,' he remarked, as he plunged his pen rather savagely into the inkstand; and then a tap at the door made him start, and a huge blot was the result. Of course it was Cyril, who was standing at the door looking at him.

'Are you disengaged, Dr. Ross?'

'Yes—yes. Come in, my dear fellow, and shut the door.'

And then Dr. Ross jumped up from his seat and grasped the young man's hand; but his first thought was, What would Audrey say when she saw him? Could one night have effected such a change? There was a wanness, a heaviness of aspect, that made him look ten years older. Somehow Dr. Ross found it necessary to take off his spectacles and wipe them before he commenced the conversation.

'My poor boy, what am I to say to you?'

'Say nothing, sir; it would be far better. I have come——' Here Cyril paused; the dryness of his lips seemed to impede his utterance. 'I have come to know your wishes.'

'My wishes!' repeated Dr. Ross in a pained voice; and then he put his hand on his shoulder: 'Cyril, do not misjudge me, do not think me hard if you can help it, but I cannot give you my daughter.'

He had expected that Cyril would have wrenched himself free from his detaining hand as he heard him, but to his surprise he remained absolutely motionless.

'I know it, Dr. Ross. There was no need to tell me that—nothing would induce me to marry her.'

Then the Doctor felt as though he could have embraced him.

'Why should you think so meanly of me,' went on Cyril in the same heavy, monotonous voice, as though he were repeating some lesson that he had carefully conned and got by heart, 'as to suppose that I should take advantage of her promise and yours? If you will let me see her, I will tell her so. Do you think I would drag her down to my level—mine?'

'You are acting nobly.'

'I am acting as necessity compels me,' returned Cyril with uncontrollable bitterness. 'Do you think I would give her up, even at your command, Dr. Ross, if I dared to keep her? But I dare not—I dare not!'

'Cyril, for my peace of mind, tell me this one thing—have I ever been unjust to you in all our relations together?'

'No, Dr. Ross. I have never met with anything but kindness from you and yours.'

'When you came to me five months ago and told me you loved my daughter, did I repulse you?'

Then Cyril shook his head.

'But I was very frank with you. I told you even then that I had a right to look higher for my son-in-law, but that, as you seemed necessary to my girl's happiness, your poverty and lack of influence should not stand in your way. When I said this, Cyril, when I stretched out the right hand of fellowship to you, I meant every word that I said. I was teaching myself to regard you as a son; as far as any man could do such a thing, I intended to take your future under my care. In all this I did you no wrong.'

'You have never wronged me, sir,' and with a low but distinct emphasis: 'God forbid that I should wrong either you or her.'

'No! My heart was always full of kindness to you. Young as you were—young in years and in work—you had won my entire respect and esteem. I thank you, Cyril—I thank you in my own and in my wife's name—that I can respect you as highly as ever.'

Dr. Ross's voice faltered with emotion, and the hand that still lay on Cyril's shoulder trembled visibly; but there was no answering gleam of emotion on the young man's face.

'You mean it kindly, Dr. Ross, but I have not deserved this praise.' He spoke coldly, proudly. 'Have I an unsullied name to offer any woman? And even if this difficulty could be got over, do I not know that my career is over? Would you—would any other man, do you think—employ me as a master? I have been facing this question all night, and I know that, as far as my worldly prospects are concerned, I am practically ruined.'

'No, no; you must not say that. There are plenty of openings for a clever man. You shall have my help. I will employ my influence; I have powerful friends. We might find you a secretaryship.'

'I think a clerkship will be more likely,' returned Cyril, in the same hard voice, though the pent-up pain threatened to suffocate him. 'I may have some difficulty even there; people like their clerks to be respectably connected, and when one's father has been in prison——'

But Dr. Ross would not let him proceed.

'My poor boy, your father's sin is not yours. No one can rob you of your self-respect and stainless honour. If it were not for Audrey, I might even venture to brave public opinion and keep you myself. It might bring me into trouble with Charrington, but, as you know, I am my own master. I could have talked him over and got him to hush it up, and we could have moved your mother to a little distance. Yes, Cyril, I would have done it; you should have fought out your battle at my side, if it were not for my child.'

'I do not know how to thank you for saying this;' and Cyril's rigidity relaxed and he spoke more naturally. 'I shall never forget this, Dr. Ross—never, never! But'—here his voice shook—'you will let me go—you will not make me stop when people begin to talk about it? I am no coward, but there are some things too hard to put on any man; and to do my work when I see on the boys' faces that they know everything—it would be the death of me. I could not stand it—no, by heavens! I could not.'

'You shall not be asked to bear it. My poor boy, have you no faith in me? Do you think I should ask you to perform so cruel, so impossible a duty? From this hour you are free, Cyril; do not trouble about your work. I can find a substitute, or, if that fails, I will do your work myself. You are ill—it will be no falsehood to say that—and in another fortnight the school will break up. Keep quiet—go away somewhere for a time, and take Burnett into your confidence; he will be a better friend for you just now than I.'

'I doubt it, sir.'

Then the Doctor's eyes glistened with tears.

'God help you, my dear fellow! You are doing the right, and He will. This is not good-bye; I will see you again. Now go to her, and teach my child to do the right too.' And then Dr. Ross turned his back upon him rather abruptly, and walked to the window.