Chapter 16

MOLLIE LETS THE CAT OUT OF THE BAG

'Nothing is true but love, nor aught of worth; Love is the incense which doth sweeten earth.'

TRENCH.

'Oh dear, Miss Ross, what shall I do without you for seven whole weeks?' was Mollie's piteous lament one morning. Audrey was on her knees packing a huge travelling box, and Mollie, seated on the edge of a chair, was regarding her with round, melancholy eyes. It was the first day of the vacation, and Rutherford looked as empty and deserted as some forsaken city. Utter silence reigned in the lower school, from which the fifty boys had departed; and Mrs. Draper, the matron, had uttered more than once her usual formula of parting benediction as the last urchin drove off: 'There, bless them! they are all packed off, bag and baggage, thank Heaven! and not a missing collar or sock among them'--an ejaculation that Michael once declared was a homely Te Deum, sacred and peculiar to the race of Rutherford matrons.

Audrey straightened herself when she heard Mollie's plaintive lament.

'Now, Mollie, I thought you promised me that you would make yourself as happy as possible.'

'I said I would try,' returned Mollie, her eyes filling with tears; 'but how can I help missing you? I do mean to do my very best--I do indeed, Miss Ross.'

'Come, that is bravely said. I know it is hard upon you, my dear, taking Kester away.' But Mollie would not let her finish her sentence.

'Oh no; you must not say that. I am so glad for Kester to go. Do you know, he is so pleased and excited that he can hardly sleep when he goes to bed; and he wakes in the night to think about it. I do believe he loves Captain Burnett as much as I love you; he is always talking about him. After all'--here Mollie dried her eyes--'it is not so bad for me as it is for mamma: she is always wretched without Cyril; you can't think how restless and unlike herself she is when he is away from her; she spends half her time writing to him or reading his letters. Cyril always writes such nice long letters.'

'And Kester and I will write to you; you will be glad of letters, too, Mollie.'

Evidently this charming idea had not occurred to Mollie, for she darted from her place and gave Audrey a grateful hug.

'Do you mean it? will you really write to me? Oh, you dear thing! how I do love you!' with another hug. 'But you must not tire yourself, you know, or Kester either; they need not be long letters, but just nice little notes, that won't trouble you.'

'Oh, we will see about that,' returned Audrey, smiling. She was touched by this thoughtfulness; it was so like Mollie's sweet unselfishness: she never did seem to think of herself. 'You have no idea how quickly the time will pass. Think of all the things you have promised to do for me!' for Audrey had already made all sorts of nice little plans for her favourite. Mollie was to have the run of the house and grounds; she was to bring her mother to sit in the garden every afternoon if she liked--Mrs. Blake would enjoy it; she was so fond of flowers--and Mollie could amuse herself with the canoe. Then there was Audrey's piano: Mollie must promise to practise her scales and exercises on it every day; and there was a pile of delightfully interesting books set apart for her use. She must see, too, that her pet bullfinch was not neglected, and that her flowers were watered; for Audrey had a pretty sitting-room of her own. Molly soon cheered up as Audrey recapitulated these privileges; she was young enough to be soon consoled. She readily agreed with Audrey that her mother would enjoy wandering about the Woodcote gardens; they would bring their books and work, and sit under the trees on fine afternoons.

'Cyril has been making mamma promise to begin Roman history with me,' continued Mollie; 'he was so shocked when he found out I knew nothing about Romulus and Remus. Was it quite true about the wolf, Miss Ross? I thought it sounded like a fable. Oh, do you know,' interrupting herself eagerly, 'I want to tell you something--Kester said I might if I liked: he has got two new suits of clothes.'

Audrey left off packing, and looked at Mollie in some surprise.

'Did you say two suits, my dear?'

'Yes. Is it not nice, Miss Ross? But Cyril said he positively could not do with less than two--a rough suit for every day, and a better one for Sundays. I don't think Kester ever had two whole suits before. Mamma was pleased, but she thought it a little extravagant of Cyril. And he bought him boots and ties, oh, and other things beside!'

'How very good of him!' and Audrey felt a warm glow of pleasure. She longed to question Mollie, but she prudently forebore: it was no business of hers if Mr. Blake chose to get into debt; for where could he have got the money? But her curiosity was soon to be satisfied; Mollie was dying to tell the whole story.

'You would say so if you knew all,' she returned, with a mysterious air; 'mamma does not know yet. I am afraid when she finds out she will be terribly vexed: she does so hate Cyril to go without things. I think she would almost rather let Kester be shabby than see Cyril without----Oh, I was just going to bring it out!'

Audrey took no notice. She was folding a dress, and the sleeves were giving her some trouble.

'Kester never said I was not to tell,' went on Mollie, as though arguing with herself. 'I don't know why I stopped just now. Miss Ross, have you ever noticed what a beautiful watch and chain Cyril wears?'

This was too much for Audrey.

'You don't mean to say that your brother has sold his watch?' she asked, so abruptly that Mollie stared at her.

'No, not his watch; he could not do without one; but he said the chain did not matter--a steel guard would answer the purpose quite as well. But it was such a lovely chain, and he was so proud of it! An old gentleman, General Fawcett, gave them to him. He was very grateful to Cyril for saving his grandson's life--Cyril jumped into the river, you know--and then the General, who was very rich, sent him the watch and chain, with such a beautiful letter. When Cyril saw them he was almost ashamed to accept them, he said they must have cost so much.'

'What a pity to part with such a gift!' murmured Audrey, busying herself over another dress.

'Yes; but, you see, Cyril had so little money, not half enough to pay for all Kester wanted--and he had bought that silk dress, too. Mamma would have had him get the clothes on credit, but Cyril has such a horror of debt. At first he would not let us know anything about it--he took Kester to the shop and had him fitted--but at last he was obliged to tell, because Kester missed Cyril's gold Albert chain. Kester looked ready to cry when he heard it was sold. He did think it such a pity, and he knew mamma would be so vexed. But Cyril only laughed at us both, and said he did not care about jewellery--he would be very much ashamed if Kester went to Scotland in his shabby old clothes; and then he begged us both to say nothing to mamma unless she missed the chain--she will not yet, because Cyril has sent his watch to be cleaned.'

'Mollie, I am really afraid that you ought not to have told me this,' returned Audrey gravely; but there was a wonderful brightness in her eyes, as though the story pleased her. 'I think you ought to have kept your brother's secret.'

'But he never said it was a secret, except from mamma,' pleaded Mollie in self-defence; 'and I wanted you to know, because it was so dear of Cyril. But he is just like that; he will do anything for Kester.'

'But, all the same, I hope you will not tell anyone else;' and as Mollie looked disturbed at this, she went on: 'it will be quite safe with me, you know. People so often tell me their little secrets, and your brother need not know that you have told me.

'Why, do you think he will mind? Oh no, Miss Ross! I am sure you are wrong about that. I was talking to him one evening about you, and I remember I said that I could not help telling you things, because you were so nice and kind; and Cyril answered, quite seriously, "You could never have a better friend than Miss Ross. You will learn nothing but good from her--tell her all you like. There is no one of whom I think more highly." And then he kissed me quite affectionately.'

'But all the same, Mollie, I think you had better not let him know that you have told me--I mean it would only embarrass him;' and here Audrey got up in a hurry and went to her wardrobe for something she had forgotten, and when she came back, it was to remind Mollie of the lateness of the hour.

'But this is not good-bye, you know. We shall stop at the Gray Cottage to-morrow morning, to pick up Kester and his portmanteau.' And then, with some little difficulty, she dismissed Mollie.

Audrey intended to pay a parting visit to her friend, Mr. O'Brien, that evening. Dr. Ross and Michael had gone up to London for the day, and had arranged to sleep in town, and Mr. Harcourt would escort the ladies and look after their luggage until they joined them.

Audrey had arranged with her mother that an informal meal should be served in the place of the ordinary late dinner, and that even this should be postponed until nine. It was impossible to walk to Brail in the heat of the afternoon--the weather was sultry, even at Rutherford, and Audrey proposed not to start until after an early tea.

When she was ready she went in search of Booty, who had been left under her guardianship. She knew exactly where she should find him--lying on Michael's bed. Booty was always a spectacle of woe during his master's brief absences. At the sound of a footstep or an opening door below, his short legs would be heard pattering downstairs; there would be an eager search in every room, then, with a whine of disappointment and a heart-broken expression in his brown eyes, Booty would slink back again to Michael's room to lie on his pillow, or mount guard over some relic--a tie, a glove, or even an old shoe--something that he could identify as his master's property.

Audrey was the only one who could comfort Booty for the loss of that loved presence; but even with her, Booty was still a most unhappy dog. He plucked up a little spirit, however, at the sight of her hat, and jumped off the bed. His master was clearly not in the house; perhaps the road his temporary mistress meant to take would lead to him--even a dog wearies of moping, and Booty's short legs needed their usual exercise. He followed her, therefore, without reluctance, and even lapped a little water out of his special dish; but there was no joyous bark, no unrestrained gambols, as he trotted after her with his soft eyes looking out for that worshipped form that was to Booty the one aim and object of life, for whose special delectation and delight he had been created. Mrs. Ross always said it made her quite miserable to see Booty when Michael was away, and, indeed, Michael never dared to leave him for many days together. If anything had happened to his master the little animal would have pined and fretted himself to death.

'I suppose no one will ever love me as that creature does,' Michael once observed to Audrey; 'he has simply no will or life of his own. What a faithful friend a dog is! I believe Booty understands me better than most people. We have long conversations together sometimes--I talk, and Booty answers by signs.'

Audrey enjoyed her walk, but she was afraid Booty was tired and would need a long rest. When they reached Vineyard Cottage she found Mrs. Baxter mending stockings in the porch.

'Father has gone out for a little stroll, Miss Ross,' she said, rising, with her usual subdued smile. 'He will be back directly. Will you come into the parlour and rest?'

'I would rather stay here,' returned Audrey. 'I am so fond of this pretty old porch, and this bench is so comfortable. Booty is tired, Mrs. Baxter; he has been fretting because his master chose to go up to London to-day, and his low spirits have made him languid. Look at him when I say Michael--there!' as the dog started and sat up eagerly; 'he knows his name, you see.'

'Poor thing! He is as intelligent as a Christian--more intelligent than some Christians I know. The ways of Providence are strange, Miss Ross, putting a loving heart into an animal like that, and leaving some human beings without one--unless it be a heart of stone;' and here Mrs. Baxter sighed heavily and snapped her thread.

'I hope things have been quiet lately,' observed Audrey, taking off her hat.

'You mean, if Joe has been behaving himself?--which is a question I can thankfully answer at present. Joe has not been troubling me again, Miss Ross. I think father frightened him that time. Joe was always a coward; it is an evil conscience that makes him a coward. There is nothing else so frights a man. Joe couldn't treat a woman as he has treated me without feeling his conscience prick him sometimes.'

'No, indeed, Mrs. Baxter. Let us hope that he will repent some day.'

'I tell father his repentance will come too late. We can't sow tares and reap wheat in this world, Miss Ross. "The wicked flee when no man pursueth." I always think of Joe when I read that verse. Oh, there is always comfort to be found in the Scriptures. "A woman forsaken and grieved in spirit"--do you remember those words, Miss Ross? I came upon them quite suddenly one evening as I was sitting in this very porch, and I said out loud to myself, as one does sometimes, "Those words just fit you, Priscilla Baxter; they might be written for you."'

'That makes the Bible such a wonderful book,' returned Audrey thoughtfully. 'Every form of grief finds expression and comfort there; there is food for every mind, every age, every nationality.'

'I never saw anyone to beat father in reading the Bible, Miss Ross. You would be surprised to see how kindly he takes to it. I have known him read the Prodigal Son to Hannah and me on Sunday evening with the tears running down his face, and he not knowing it more than a baby, for all Hannah's sniffs. It is his favourite reading--it is, indeed, Miss Ross, though his voice does get choky sometimes.'

'He is thinking of his poor brother Mat.'

'Begging your pardon, Miss Ross, I would rather not mention Uncle Mat,' returned Mrs. Baxter stiffly. 'Joe has been a thorn in my side, heaven knows! and his wickedness has reduced me, his wedded wife, to skin and bone; but even Joe, with all his villainies, has not made himself a felon, and I can still bear his name without blushing--and so I have told father a score of times when he wants to make out that Joe is the blacker of the two.'

'Oh, I would not hurt him by speaking against his brother! Do you know, Mrs. Baxter, he loves him so dearly still.'

'Yes; but that is father's craze, Miss Ross,' she replied coldly. 'Even a good man has his little weakness, and, being a Churchwoman, and I trust humbly a believer, I would not deny that Providence has given me as good a father as ever breathed this mortal air; but we are all human, Miss Ross, and human nature has its frailties, and father would be a wiser and a happier man if he did not set such store by an ungrateful and good-for-nothing brother, who is a shame to his own flesh and blood, and whom it is a bitterness to me to own as my Uncle Mat.'

'Priscilla!' ejaculated a grieved voice near them; and, looking round, the two women saw Mr. O'Brien standing within a few paces of them. No one had heard his footsteps except Booty, whose instincts were always gentlemanly, and who, in spite of his deep dejection, had given him a friendly greeting.

Mr. O'Brien's good-natured face looked unusually grave.

'Good-evening, Miss Ross. I thought we should see you before your flitting. I am sorry I stepped out for a bit, and so lost your company. Prissy, my girl, I don't want to find fault with you, but I'll not deny that it hurts me to hear you speak against Mat, poor old chap! when he is not here to answer for himself. It is woman-like, but it is not fair'--looking at them with mild reproach--'and it cuts me to hear it. It is not what your mother, my blessed Susan, would have done. She was never hard upon Mat--never!'

Mrs. Baxter gave a penitent little sniff, and a faint flush came to her sallow face; with all her faults, she was devoted to her father. But she was a true daughter of Eve, and this well-deserved reproach only moved her to feeble recrimination.

'Well, father, I was always taught that listeners never heard any good of themselves. Not that the proverb holds strictly true in this case; but if Uncle Mat were standing in your place, and heard what I said to Miss Ross, he would not deny I was speaking the truth--being always praised for my truthfulness and shaming the devil as much as possible; and if you are for saying that Uncle Mat was a kind brother to one who acted as his own father, I am bound to say that I do not agree with you.'

'No, my lass; I am free to confess that Mat might have been kinder, and that as far as that goes you are speaking Gospel truth; but my Susan and I have been used to say the Lord's Prayer together every night; and Susan--that's your mother, Prissy--would sometimes whisper as we knelt down, "Tom, are we sure we have quite forgiven everybody? I was put out this afternoon with Mat;" and sometimes her voice would tremble a bit when she came to the words, "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us."' And Mr. O'Brien took off his straw hat with old-fashioned reverence.

Mrs. Baxter gave a little choke.

'I wish I had left it unsaid, father, if you are going to take on like this,' she observed remorsefully. 'Sooner than grieve you, I would hold my tongue about Uncle Mat for the remainder of my natural life. There is nothing I would do sooner than have my mother quoted to me like a Scripture saint, as though I were not worthy to tie her shoe-string.'

'Nay, nay, my lass, you are misunderstanding my meaning.'

'No, father, begging your pardon, I am not; and, as I have often told Miss Ross, I never feel worthy to be the offspring of such parents. Miss Ross'--turning to her--'my father is a little low this evening, and I have put him out of his usual way. I will leave you to talk to him a bit while I open a bottle of our white currant wine to hearten you for your walk home.'

'Poor Prissy!' observed Mr. O'Brien, shaking his gray head; 'she is a worrier, as Susan used to say; but her bark is worse than her bite. She is a good soul, and I would not change her for one of the lively sort.'

'She is really very sorry for having pained you.'

'Sorry! Bless my heart, you don't know Prissy. She will be that contrite for showing the sharp edge of her tongue that there will be nothing she will not do to make amends. It will be, "Father, what will you have?" and, "Father, do you think you could enjoy that?" from morning to night, as though I were a new-born babe to be tended. No, no, you are not up to Prissy. She has not got her mother's sweet, charitable nature--my Susan, bless her dear heart! always thought the best of everybody--but Prissy is a good girl, for all that.'

Audrey smiled as she drew down a tendril of jasmine to inhale its honeyed fragrance. There was not much girlhood left in the faded, sorrowful woman who had left them just now; but in the father's fond eyes Priscilla would always be a girl. Then, in her serious, sweet way, she began to talk to her old friend--drawing him out, and listening to those vague, far old memories that seemed dearer to him day by day, until he had grown soothed and comforted.

Mrs. Baxter joined them by and by, but she did not interrupt them, except to press another slice of the home-made cake on Audrey.

When she rose to go, father and daughter accompanied her to the gate, and wished her a hearty God-speed.

'Good-bye, my dear old friends,' she returned cheerfully; 'in seven weeks I shall hope to see you again. Take care of Mr. O'Brien, Mrs. Baxter.'

'Oh yes, Miss Ross, I will take care of him. It is not as if one could have a second parent. Father, put on your hat; the dews are falling, and you are not as young as you used to be.'