Chapter 50

And Mollie's eyes grew round with misery.

'Dear Mollie, your mother thinks she knows best, and no one can control her. Perhaps, if she does not like it--if the life be too hard--she will come out at the end of her novitiate.'

And this view of the case seemed to comfort Mollie a little.

'And I am really to live at Woodcote--at that dear, beautiful place?' she continued. 'Oh, Miss Ross, it seems too good to be true!'

'Yes; you are to be my little sister,' returned Audrey tranquilly. 'But, Mollie, I will not be called Miss Ross any longer. If you live with me, you must call me Audrey.'

And Mollie promised that she would.

Mollie said very little about her parting interview with her mother; but she cried bitterly for hours afterwards. 'Poor, poor mamma! Oh, what would Cyril say!' she exclaimed over and over again. And it was a long time before anyone could comfort her.

Michael went down with them to Woodcote, and remained with them for the next month or two. Cyril's sudden death had occurred the first week in October, and the trees in the Woodcote gardens were glorious in their autumnal livery of red and golden-brown, while every day careful hands swept up the fallen leaves from the shrubberies and paths. Michael resumed his old habits. When Audrey wanted him he was always ready to walk or drive with her. No one knew the effort it cost him to appear as usual, when every day his passion gained a stronger mastery over him. Dearly as he had loved her in her youthful brightness, he had never loved her as he did now, when he saw her in uncomplaining sadness fulfilling her daily duties and devoting herself to Mollie. Geraldine used to look at her with tears in her eyes. 'She is sweeter than ever. I never knew anyone so good,' she said to her husband; and Mr. Harcourt had assented to this very cordially. As for Mrs. Ross, before many weeks were over she had drawn down on her maternal head more than one reproof from her daughter.

'Mother,' Audrey said to her one day, 'have you forgotten what I once told you--that you are not to be so kind to me? You are spoiling me dreadfully. You give me my way in everything; and when I say anything that I ought not to say, you do not contradict me. I am growing demoralised, and it is all your and Michael's fault if I get more selfish every day.'

'You selfish, my darling?'

'Yes, selfish and stupid, and as idle as possible; and yet you never scold me or ask me to do anything for you.'

'You are always doing something, Audrey; you are busy from morning till night. Michael says you work far too hard.'

'But I must work; it is my duty to work,' she returned, a little restlessly; 'and, mother, you must help, and not spoil me. When I see you and Gage looking at me with tears in your eyes, it troubles me to see them. I want you to be happy. I want everything to go on as usual, and I mean to be happy, too.'

And then she went away and gave Mollie her music-lesson, and when it was over she went in search of Michael.

Michael knew he was necessary to her--that in certain restless moods he was able to soothe her; so he stayed manfully at his post until after Christmas.

But with the new year he resumed his Bohemian life, spending two or three weeks at South Audley Street, and then running down to Woodcote for a few days. He felt it was wiser to do so, and he could leave her more comfortably now. She was better in every way: she drooped less visibly, her smile became more frequent, and the constant society of Mollie and intercourse with her fresh girlish mind were evidently beneficial.

She would do now without him, he told himself as he went back to his lodgings, and he need no longer put such a force on himself. 'Until I can speak, until the time has come for me to open my heart to her, it is better that we should be apart.'

That Audrey held a different opinion was evident, and she could not always conceal her disappointment when Michael's brief visits became briefer and more infrequent.

'It is all that troublesome money,' she said once, when one spring morning he stood waiting for the dog-cart to take him to the station. 'Of course, Woodcote does not content you now. You want a house of your own, and to be your own master. Well, it is perfectly natural,' she added quickly.

'I have always been my own master,' he returned quietly; 'and as for the house you are so fond of talking about, it seems still in the clouds as far as I am concerned. Neither have I once visited Wardour Street.'

'No; you have been very slow about it,' she replied, smiling; 'you were never in a hurry to possess your good things, Michael. I have often envied you your patience.'

And then the mare trotted round the corner.

'There is an old saying, that "all comes round to him who waits." Do you think that is true, Audrey?'

He did not wait for her answer, as he climbed up into the driving-seat and took the reins; then he lifted his hat to her with rather a sad smile.

'Yes, I have waited a long time, and it will not come yet.' And then he touched the mare a little smartly, and the next moment she was trotting briskly towards the gate.

'Why had he looked so sad?' she wondered, as she went back to Mollie. He had not seemed like himself all the week, and now he had gone. 'If he only knew how much I want him, I think he would not go away so often,' she said to herself as she sat down to correct Mollie's French exercise.

It was in the early days of June that Michael paid one of these flying visits to Rutherford, and as he drove through the green lanes, with the sweet summer breeze just stirring the leaves, he suddenly remembered that Cyril had lain in his quiet grave just eight months. He hardly knew why the thought had occurred to him, for he had been pondering a far different subject. 'Eight months! I had no idea that it had been so long,' he said to himself; 'time passes more quickly as one grows older. If I live to the end of the year I shall be nine-and-thirty. No wonder I feel a sober middle-aged man!'

These reflections were hardly exhilarating, and he was glad when Woodcote was in sight.

'You need not drive in, Fenton,' he said to the groom; 'take the mare round to the stables, and I will walk up to the house.'

The gardens of Woodcote looked lovelier than ever this afternoon, he thought, as he walked slowly up the terrace: the tender green of the foliage, the gay tints of lilacs and laburnums and pink and white horse chestnuts, made a gorgeous background. Here a guelder rose thrust its soft puffy balls almost in his face, while the white shimmering leaves of the maple contrasted superbly with the dark-veined leaves of the copper beech. Dr. Ross had always prided himself on his rare trees and shrubs, and, indeed, no other garden in Rutherford could compete with the grounds of Woodcote; the long lawn that stretched below the terrace was kept free from daisies, and was as smooth as velvet.

Some lads were playing tennis there now, and a young lady in a gray dress was sitting under a clump of lilacs, watching them. For a moment Michael hesitated, thinking it was a stranger; but as she beckoned to him, a sudden gleam came into his eyes, and he hastily crossed the lawn.

'I have been waiting for you; you are a little late, Michael,' she said, as he shook hands with her. 'Mollie has gone out with mother; I asked her to take my place.'

But he stood looking at her, and there was a strangely pleased expression on his face.

'I did not know you,' he said, in a low voice; 'I thought it was a strange young lady sitting on the bench. It was this, I suppose;' and he touched her gown as he spoke.

Audrey coloured. The remark evidently pained her.

'I left off my black gown yesterday,' she replied hurriedly. 'I found out that it troubled father, though he was too kind to tell me so. It was Gage who spoke to me; she said that it was a pity to wear it so long.'

'I don't see that Gage had any right to speak to you. It was your affair, not hers.'

There was a trace of sharpness in Michael's tone, and the light had faded out of his eyes. After all, there was no cause for him to rejoice; she had not left off her mourning of her own accord. What a fool he had been! Of course, she had only done it to please her father.

'No; it was kind of her to speak; and, after all, what does it matter? Father seemed so relieved when I put on this, and I can remember Cyril without the help of a black gown. It is better to please other people than to please one's self, and after the first moment I did not mind. Those boys are so noisy,' she continued in her ordinary manner, as though she were not willing to discuss the subject more fully. 'Shall we go to "Michael's bench"? Booty is making for that direction, as usual, and the pond is so pretty this afternoon.'

'As you like,' he returned, a little moodily.

Strange to say, this little episode of the dress had upset his equanimity, and he could not at once regain his old calmness. Had ever any gown become her so well? he wondered, with the exaggeration natural to a lover. She had a spray of laburnum in her hand, and the sunshine seemed to thread her brown hair with gold. It seemed to him as though there was a softer look in her gray eyes, as though his return were very welcome to her.

'Michael,' she said suddenly, as they stood watching Eiderdown and Snowflake as they came sailing proudly up the pond in all the majesty of unruffled feathers, and Booty, as usual, pattered to the water's edge to bark at them until he was hoarse, 'what is this that I hear about your going away? Father tells me that you have made all sorts of plans for yourself.'

'My money is burning a hole in my purse, you see,' he returned, picking up a dry twig from the ground, a proceeding that seemed to drive Booty frantic with excitement. 'I am beginning to realise my responsibility as a man of property; and as, of course, my first duty is to look after number one----'

But she would not allow him to finish.

'Michael, will you come and sit down? How can we talk properly while you are picking up sticks for Booty?'

Then he followed her to the bench, but, instead of seating himself, he leaned lazily against a baby-willow.

'I am going abroad with Dick Abercrombie,' he said, as though he were mentioning an everyday occurrence. 'You know how often I have planned a tour in Switzerland and Italy, but I have never been able to carry it out; and now I can combine duty and pleasure.'

'Where does the duty lie, Michael?'

But she did not smile as she put the question, and it struck him that she looked a little dull.

'Why, with Dick, of course,' he returned quickly. 'Don't you know, the poor fellow is terribly out of health; his father is very anxious about him. He has been over-working, and I fancy there is some sort of love-affair as well; at least, the Doctor hinted as much. Anyhow, he is to strike work for six months; and as he wanted a travelling companion, I offered my humble services.'

'But you will not be away all that time?' she asked, with visible anxiety.

'Six months is not so very long, is it?' he returned coolly; 'and I do not see how we shall work out our plans even in that time. We are to do Switzerland thoroughly and to spend at least a month in the Engadine; then there are the Swiss Tyrol and the Italian lakes, and afterwards Rome, Florence, Venice, and Naples. If Dick tires of it and throws it up, I can still keep on alone. I want to do the thing properly for once in my life, and I have even thought of Greece and the Holy Land the following spring.'

But again she interrupted him, and this time he saw the pained look in her eyes.

'You will leave us for all that time--you will let him come back alone, and go on by yourself? Oh, Michael! what shall I do without you? You are more necessary to me than ever now.'

She so seldom thought of herself that this speech took him by surprise. There was a tone of reproach in her voice, as though she thought him unkind for leaving her. Michael was not his ordinary calm self that afternoon. For months he had dreaded to find himself alone with her; but now the very sweetness of that loving reproach seemed too much for him.

'A man is not always master of himself,' Cyril had once said; and at that moment Michael felt that it was no longer possible for him to be silent. He could bear it no more.

'I shall stay away,' he said in a strangely-suppressed voice, 'because it is only right for me to do so--because it is my duty to leave you.'

'Your duty to leave me,' she faltered. 'Oh, Michael, why?'

'Do you wish me to tell you?' he said, looking at her fully as he stood opposite to her; and there was a gleam in the keen blue eyes that made her suddenly avert her face. 'Is it possible that all these years you have not known what you have been to me--that you have not guessed my love?'

Then for the first time in her life she shrank from him.

'What do you mean?' she said helplessly. 'We have always loved each other; you have been like my own brother, Michael.'

'Then I can be your brother no longer,' he returned passionately; 'from a child you have been far dearer to me. I never remember the time since I was a subaltern that I did not love you, and my love has grown every year.'

'Do you mean that you cared for me as Cyril cared?'

But even as she asked the question he saw that her face was suffused with a burning blush.

'I do mean it! From a child you have been the one woman in the world to me--the only one I wished to make my wife.'

Then she covered her face with her hands, and he could see that she was trembling from head to foot.

'It is too soon,' he heard her say; 'it is terribly soon;' and he knew the shock of this discovery was very great.

'It is not too soon,' he said, sitting down beside her and trying to draw away her hands. 'Audrey, my dearest, I cannot bear this. You must not shrink from me so. Do not misunderstand me; I am asking you for nothing. Surely you are not afraid of me--of Michael?'

'I think I am afraid of you,' she whispered. 'Oh, Michael, if this be true! But I cannot--cannot believe it! Why have you never told me this before? Why have you let me----'

And then she stopped, as though a sob impeded her utterance.

'I was never in a position to tell you so,' he returned, with his old gentleness. 'For years I doubted whether I should ever be well enough to marry. Do you think I would have condemned my wife, even if I could have won her, to a life of nursing? I was far too proud to demand such a sacrifice of any woman. And then I was a poor man, Audrey.'

'What did that matter?' she replied, with a touch of scorn in her voice; 'Cyril was poor too.'

'You must not think I blame him, if I say we were very different men. I was prouder than he, and I knew your generous nature too well to take advantage of it. When the money came it was too late: you were engaged to him. I had only to hide my pain, so that you should not be made unhappy by it. I thought I was a bad actor; but you never guessed my secret--you would not have guessed it now.'

'How could I?' she returned simply; 'I was only thinking of Cyril.'

'Yes, and you are thinking of him now; he is as much my rival now he is dead as when he was living. That is why I am going away, because I can bear it no longer.'

'Must you go?'

Audrey's voice sank so that he could hardly hear the faint words. Perhaps she herself did not know what they implied; she was too shaken and miserable. That Michael, her own dear Michael, should have suffered all these years, and that she had never known it! Cyril was in his grave--he no longer needed her--what did it matter if the idea of another man wooing her so soon gave her pain, if she could only comfort Michael? But happily for them both, Michael guessed at that secret thought, and as he caught the words the flush mounted to his brow.'

'Yes, I must go,' he said firmly; 'it is my best, my only chance. In my absence you will think of me more kindly. The old Michael--who was your friend, your faithful, devoted friend--will unconsciously blend with the new Michael, who you know is your lover. There,' he continued in a pained voice, 'as I speak the word you shrink again from me; and yet I am asking you nothing. Dear, if you were to promise me this moment that you would be my wife, if you were to tell me that you would try to love me as I wish to be loved, I would not marry you! No--though you are dearer to me than anything in life--I would not marry you!'

'Do you not wish me to try, then?' she asked, rather bewildered by this strange wooing.

Was it because Cyril was young that she had never feared him as she feared Michael? There was a quiet power about him that, in spite of his gentleness, seemed to subdue her, and though he was very pale, there was a fire in his eyes that made her unwilling to look at him. Yes, it was indeed a new Michael--one she could hardly understand.

'Certainly I do not wish it,' he replied quickly. 'Can love come by trying?' But she could not answer him this. 'Any such love would not content me,' he went on; 'I must have all your heart or none. Forgive me if I say one thing, Audrey. I believe that poor Blake had not all that you have to give. I have thought this more than once; his love for you was so great that yours could hardly equal it. Nay, dear, I did not mean to hurt you by saying this,' for she was weeping now. 'You were goodness itself to him.'

'I loved him; I am sure I loved him,' she said a little piteously, for Michael's words seemed to touch a sore spot.

How often since Cyril's death had she blamed herself for not loving him more! More than once his excessive tenderness had wearied her, and she would have been content with less. She had been in no hurry to shorten her engagement, and the thought of resigning her maidenly freedom had always been distasteful to her. Could it be possible that Michael was right, and that there was something defective in her love?

'Yes, you loved him. Blake has often told me that you were an angel of goodness to him. He missed nothing, you may be sure of that; but, Audrey, I cannot help my nature. I should ask more than ever he did.'

Then her head drooped, and he knew that no answer was possible.

'So you know why I am going away.' And now he rose and again stood before her. 'Because under these circumstances it would no longer be possible for us to be together--at least, it would not be possible for me. I shall leave you to question your own heart. Let it speak truly. Perhaps--I do not say it will be so, but perhaps you may find that I am more to you than you think. If that time ever comes, will you send for me?'

'Send for you?'

'Yes; be true to your own noble self, your own honest nature, and be true to me. You need not say many words. Just "Michael, come," will be enough to bring me from the very ends of the earth.'

'But you will come before that; you will not wait for any such words?'

But though he gave no special answer to this, she saw by his face that he would wait.

'But you will write, Michael? you will not leave me'--and then she hastily substituted 'us'--'in complete silence? You may be away six months--a whole year--it may even be longer.'

'Yes, it may be longer,' he returned; and now it was he who was the calmer of the two. 'It is impossible for either of us to tell now how long my exile may last; but I will write--not often, and perhaps I may not even speak of this that has passed between us; but I shall write, and you will find no difficulty in answering my letters.'

And when he had said this he looked at her very kindly and then without another word walked to the house.