_ CHAPTER XVII. AMONG THE BRAIL LANES
'Discreet reserve in a woman, like the distances kept by royal
personages, contributes to maintain the proper reverence. Most
of our pleasures are prized in proportion to the difficulty
with which they are obtained.'--FORDYCE.
'A very slight spark will kindle a flame when
everything lies open to catch it.'--SIR WALTER SCOTT.
While Audrey was talking to her old friend in the jasmine-covered porch of Vineyard Cottage, Cyril Blake was sitting on a stile in one of the Brail lanes, trying to solve a difficult problem.
A domestic matter had come under his notice that very afternoon--a very ordinary occurrence, if he had only known it--and had caused him much vexation. Not being more clear-sighted than other young men of his age, it is extremely doubtful whether he would have noticed it at all but for a few words spoken by Miss Ross.
A week or two ago he had observed casually to her, as they were standing together on the cricket-field, that he thought Mollie was growing very fast.
'I suppose she is strong,' he added doubtfully; 'but she has certainly seemed very tired lately'--this reflection being forced upon him by a remark of Kester's, 'that Mollie had such a lot of headaches now.'
'I am afraid Mollie is very often tired,' returned Audrey rather gravely.
Now, there was nothing in this simple remark to arrest Cyril's attention; but somehow Audrey's tone implied a good deal, and, though no further word passed between them on the subject, Cyril was left with an uncomfortable impression, though it was too vague and intangible to be understood by him.
But on this afternoon in question he was rummaging among his possessions for some studs he had mislaid, and, thinking Mollie would help him in the search, he went in quest of her. He found her in the close little kitchen, ironing a pile of handkerchiefs and starched things. The place felt like an oven that hot summer's afternoon, and poor Mollie's face was sadly flushed; she looked worried and overheated, and it was then that Audrey's words flashed on him with a sort of electrical illumination--'I am afraid Mollie is very often tired.'
'Did you want me, Cyril?' asked Mollie, a little wearily, as she tested another iron and then put it down again.
'Yes--no, it does not matter,' rather absently. 'Mollie, is there no one else who can do that work? This place is like a brick-kiln.'
'Well, there is only Biddy, you know, and she does get up the things so badly. You remember how you grumbled about your handkerchiefs--and no wonder, for they looked as though they were rough-dried--and so mamma said I had better do them for the future, because I could iron so nicely;' and Mollie gave a look of pride at the snowy pile beside her.
But Cyril was not so easily mollified.
'I would rather have my things badly done than see you slave in this fashion,' he returned, with unwonted irritation. 'Mollie, does Miss Ross know you do this sort of thing?'
'Oh yes, of course; I always tell Miss Ross everything.'
'She must have a pretty good opinion of us by this time,' in a vexed voice.
'She knows it cannot be helped,' returned Mollie simply. 'She did say one day that she was very sorry for me, when she saw how tired I was--oh, she was so dear and sweet that day!--and once when I told her how my back ached, and I could not help crying a little, she said she would like to speak to mamma about me, but that she knew it was no business of hers.'
'Anyhow, I shall make it my business,' returned her brother decidedly; and he marched off to the drawing-room.
Mrs. Blake was sitting in the window, marking some of Kester's new socks. She looked very cool and comfortable; the room was sweet with the scent of flowers. The contrast between her and Mollie struck Cyril very forcibly, and when his mother looked up at him with one of her caressing smiles, he did not respond with his customary brightness.
'Mother, I want to talk to you about Mollie,' he said with unusual abruptness, as he threw himself down in a cushioned chair opposite his mother's little work-table.
'Yes, dear,' she returned tranquilly, pausing to admire an exquisitely-worked initial.
'I found her in the kitchen just now, with her face the colour of a peony, ironing out a lot of things. The place was like a furnace; I could not have stood it for a quarter of an hour. Surely, mother, there is no need for Mollie to slave in this way.'
'Do you call ironing a few fine things slavery?' replied Mrs. Blake in an amused voice. 'In our great-grandmothers' time girls did more than that. Mollie is not overworked, I assure you.'
'Then what makes her look so done up?'
'Oh, that is nothing! She is growing so fast, you know; and growing girls have that look. Mollie is as strong as a horse, really--at her age I was far weaker. Mollie is a good child, but she is a little given to grumbling and making a fuss about trifles.'
'Oh, I don't agree with you there.'
'That is because you do not understand girls,' returned his mother composedly. 'But you may safely leave Mollie to me. Am I likely to overwork one of my own children? Should I be worthy of the name of mother?'
'Yes, but you might not see your way to help it--that is, as long as you persist in your ridiculous resolution of keeping Biddy. Why, she ought to have been shelved long ago.'
'That is my affair, Cyril,' replied Mrs. Blake with unusual dignity.
She hardly ever spoke to him in that voice, and he looked up a little surprised.
'I hope we are not going to quarrel, motherling,' his pet name for her.
'Do we ever quarrel, darling? No, you only vex me when you talk of sending poor old Biddy away. I could not do it, Cyril. I am not naturally a hard-hearted woman, and it would be sheer cruelty to turn off my old nurse. Where would she go, poor old thing? And you know yourself we cannot afford another servant.'
'Not at present, certainly.'
'Perhaps we may in the future--who knows?' returned Mrs. Blake with restored gaiety; 'and until then a little work will not hurt Mollie. Do you know, when I was a girl, my mother always insisted on my sister Dora and myself making our own beds--she said it would straighten our backs--and she liked us to run up and down stairs and make ourselves useful, because the exercise would improve our carriage and complexion. Dora had such a pretty figure, poor girl! and I think mine is passable,' drawing herself up to give effect to her words.
'You, mother? You are as slim and as graceful as a girl now!' returned Cyril admiringly. Then, recurring to his subject with a man's persistence, 'I don't believe you did half so much as poor Mollie does.'
'And what does she do?' asked Mrs. Blake, still mildly obstinate. 'She only supplements poor old Biddy. A little dusting, a little bed-making; now and then, perhaps, a trifle of ironing. What is that for a strong, healthy girl like Mollie?'
'Yes; but Mollie has to be educated,' replied Cyril, only half convinced by this plausible statement. 'These things may be only trifles, as you say, but they take up a good deal of time. You know, mother dear, how often I complain of the desultory way Mollie's lessons are carried on.'
'That is because Mollie and I are such wretched managers,' she returned eagerly. 'I am a feckless body, I know; and Mollie takes after me--we both hate running in grooves.'
'Mollie is young enough to learn better ways,' was Cyril's grave answer. 'As for you, mother, you are hopeless,' with a shake of his head.
'Yes, you will never mend or alter me,' she rejoined with a light laugh. 'I am Irish to the backbone. Now, my boy, you really must not keep me any longer with all this nonsense about Mollie. I have to go up to Rosendale, you know; Mrs. Cardell begged me to sit with her a little, and I am late now. Mollie will give you your tea. Come--have you forgiven your mother?' passing her white taper fingers over his dark hair as she spoke.
Cyril's only answer was to draw her face down to his.
Mrs. Blake smiled happily at him as she left the room--what did she care if only everything were right between her and her idolised boy? But Cyril was not so satisfied. With all his love for his mother, he was by no means blind to her many faults. He knew she was far too partial in her treatment of her children--that she was often thoughtless of Kester's comfort, and a little hard in her judgment of him; and she was not always judicious with respect to Mollie. At times she was lax, and left the girl to her own devices; but in certain moods, when Cyril had been speaking to her, perhaps, there would be nothing right. It was then that Mollie was accused of untidiness and feckless ways, when hints of idleness were dropped, and strict rules, never to be carried out, were made. Mollie must do a copy every day; she wrote worse than a child of ten. Her ignorance of geography was disgraceful; she had no idea where the Tigris was, and she could not name half the counties in Scotland, and so on. For four-and-twenty hours Mollie would be drilled, put through her facings, lectured, and made generally miserable; but by the next morning or so the educational cleaning would be over. 'Mother wasn't in a mood for teaching,' Mollie would say in her artless fashion as she carried away her books.
'No; he could not alter his mother's nature,' Cyril thought sadly. He could only do the best he could for them all. He was clever enough to see that his mother was wilfully shutting her eyes to her own mismanagement of Mollie, and that she preferred drifting on in this happy-go-lucky fashion. With all her energy and fits of industry, she was extremely indolent, and never liked taking trouble about anything. No; it was no use talking to her any more about Mollie, unless he had some definite suggestion to make--and then it was that he wondered if Miss Ross would help him; she always helped everyone, and he knew that she was in full possession of the facts.
'I am not a bit ashamed of our poverty,' thought Cyril, as he plunged down the sweet, dewy lanes. 'One day I shall get on, and be any man's equal; but the only thing that troubles me is the idea that she thinks us too hard on Mollie. She has never said so, of course; but somehow it is so easy to read her thoughts--she is more transparent than other people.' And Cyril heaved a deep sigh. 'I wonder what she will think when she sees me. I do not want her to know that I am looking out for her. Everyone has a right to take an evening walk if he likes; and, of course, the roads are open to all. Even without this excuse I meant to do it; for after this evening----' And then Cyril groaned to himself as he thought of the seven long blank weeks that stretched before him, when a certain sweet face would be missing; and at that moment he espied the gleam of a white dress between the hedgerows.
Now, Audrey was right in saying Booty was a spoilt dog. He was as full of whimsies this evening as spoilt children generally are. He had testified extreme delight when Audrey had closed the gate of Vineyard Cottage behind her. By some curious canine train of reasoning he had arrived at the conviction that his master was at Woodcote--had probably arrived there during their absence; and with this pleasing notion he pattered cheerfully after Audrey down the long grass lanes. But Audrey walked fast, and being rather late, she walked all the faster; and Booty, who was used to Michael's leisurely pace, began to lag behind and to hold out signals of distress. 'Oh, Booty, Booty!' exclaimed Audrey, regarding the little animal indulgently; 'and so I am to carry you, just because your legs are so absurdly short that they tire easily.' Evidently this was what Booty wished, for he sat up and waved his paws in an irresistible way. 'Very well, I will carry you, old fellow; but you are dreadfully spoilt, you know.'
'Indeed, you shall do nothing of the kind, Miss Ross;' and Cyril jumped off the stile. 'I will carry him for you;' and Cyril hoisted him up on his arm, being rewarded by an affectionate dab on his nose from Booty's busy tongue.
Audrey had coloured slightly when she first caught sight of Cyril's tall figure; but she suppressed her surprise.
'Is this a favourite walk of yours?' she asked carelessly, as though it were a usual thing to meet Mr. Blake wandering about the Brail lanes.
Cyril was quite equal to the occasion. He hardly knew which was his favourite walk; he was trying them all by turns. He had taken his mother to Brail once, and she had been much pleased with the village. There was one cottage she thought very pretty--indeed, they had both fallen in love with it; it had a quaint old porch, smothered in jasmine.
'That is Vineyard Cottage, where my friends the O'Briens live,' replied Audrey, only half deceived by this smooth account.
It was clear that Mr. Blake wished her to think that only purest accident had guided his feet in the direction of Brail; but Audrey was sharp-witted, and she knew Mollie had a tongue; it would be so natural for her to say, 'Miss Ross is going to see some old friends at Brail--she told me so; but it is so hot that she will not go until after tea.' Once before she had been sure that Mollie's chattering had set Mr. Blake on her track. She must be more careful how she talked to Mollie for the future.
But here Cyril, who was somewhat alarmed at her gravity, and who half guessed at her thoughts, began to speak about Mollie in an anxious, brotherly manner that restored Audrey at once to ease.
'So you see all the difficulty,' he continued after he had briefly stated the facts; 'and I should be so grateful if you could help me to any solution. I ought to apologise for troubling you, but I know you take such an interest in Mollie.'
'I do indeed,' she returned cordially, and in a moment every trace of constraint vanished from her manner; 'and, to tell you the truth, Mr. Blake, I have felt rather anxious about her lately. Even my mother has noticed how far from strong she looks.'
'But that is because she is growing so fast,' he replied, unconsciously repeating Mrs. Blake's words. 'You see, Miss Ross, my mother absolutely refuses to part with Biddy. I have argued with her again and again, but nothing will induce her to send the old woman away. She also declares that she cannot afford another servant, so what is to be done?' and Cyril sighed as though he had all the labours of Hercules before him.
Audrey looked at him very kindly; she was much touched by this confidence. How few young men, she thought, would have been so simple and straightforward! There was no false pride in the way he mentioned their small means and homely contrivances; he spoke to her quite frankly, as though he knew she was their friend, and as though he trusted her. It was the purest flattery, the most delicious homage he could have offered her. Audrey felt her sympathy quicken as she listened.
'I would not trouble about it just now,' she observed cheerfully--'not until the vacation is over. Mollie will have very little to do while you and Kester are away.'
'That is true,' he returned, in a relieved tone; for he had not thought of that.
'When we all come back we might hit upon some plan. Do you think your mother would object to having in a woman two or three times a week to help Biddy? I think I know a person who would just do--Rebecca Armstrong. She does not want to leave home; but she is a strong, capable girl, and could easily do all the rough work--and she is very moderate in her charges. I could inquire about her, if you like.'
'It is an excellent idea,' he replied, inwardly wondering why it had not occurred to his mother. 'I am so grateful to you for suggesting it. I am quite sure my mother will not object; so by all means let us have this Rebecca.'
'Shall I tell your mother about her?'
'Perhaps I had better speak to her first; there is no hurry, as you say. Really, Miss Ross, you have lifted a burden off my mind.'
'I am so glad!' with a smile. 'You see, Mr. Blake, it will be so nice for Mollie to have her mornings to herself. She has told me two or three times that she finds it impossible to work in the afternoon, there are so many interruptions; and by that time she is generally so tired--or stupid, as she calls it--that she cannot even add up her sums.'
'Oh, we will alter all that!' replied Cyril lightly.
He had discharged his duty, and now he did not want to talk about Mollie any more. From the first he had always felt conscious of a feeling of well-being, of utter contentment, when he was in the presence of this girl; it made him happy only to be with her. But this evening they were so utterly alone; the whole world was shut out by those barriers of grassy lanes and still green meadows, with their groups of slowly-feeding cattle.
The evening air was full of dewy freshness, and only the twittering of birds broke the stillness. A subtle sweetness seemed to distil through the young man's veins as he glanced at his companion; involuntarily, his voice softened.
'I wonder where you will be this time to-morrow?' he said, rather abruptly.
'We are to sleep at York, you know. Geraldine wants to see the Minster.'
'Oh yes, I remember; Captain Burnett told me;' and then he began questioning her about Braemar. Could she describe it to him? He had never been in Scotland, and he would like to picture the place to himself. He should ask Kester to send him a photograph or two.
Audrey was quite willing to satisfy him. She had been there already, and had seen their cottage. She could tell him all about their two parlours, and the little garden running down to the beck. But Cyril's curiosity was insatiable; he wanted to know presently how she would employ herself and what books she would read.
'For you will have wet days,' he added--'saft days, I think they call them--and then time will hang heavily on your hands unless you have plenty of books.'
'Oh, Michael has seen to that,' she replied brightly.
Somehow, Michael's name was perpetually cropping up. 'My cousin and I mean to do that,' or 'Michael means to help me with that,' until Cyril's face grew slightly lugubrious.
True, he tried to console himself with the remembrance of Audrey's words that she and Geraldine looked upon Michael as a sort of brother; still, he never did quite approve of this sort of adopted relationship. It was always a mistake, he thought; and in time people found it out for themselves.
Of course he was Miss Ross's cousin--or, rather, her father's cousin--but even that did not explain matters comfortably to his mind; and when a man has a Victoria Cross, and is looked upon in the light of a hero, it is a little difficult for other men not to envy him.
Cyril began to feel less happy. The walk was nearly at an end, too. Some of the light and cheerfulness seemed to fade out of the landscape; a chill breath permeated the summer air.
But Audrey went on talking in her lively, girlish way. She was quite unconscious of the sombre tinge that had stolen over Cyril's thoughts.
'Yes, to-morrow we shall be more than a hundred miles away; and the next day you will be
en route for Cornwall.'
'I suppose so.'
'You will have a very pleasant time, I hope.'
'Oh, I daresay it will be pleasant enough; the house will be full of company--at least, Hackett says so. His people are very hospitable.'
'Are there any daughters?'
'Oh yes; there are three girls--the three Graces, as they were called when they came up to Commemoration.'
'Indeed; were they so handsome?'
'Some of our men thought so,' with a fine air of indifference. 'I know Baker was smitten with one of them; it is going to be a match, I believe. That is Henrietta, the eldest.'
'I suppose she was the handsomest?'
'Oh dear no! Miss Laura is far better looking; and so is the youngest, Miss Frances. In my opinion Miss Frances is far more taking than either of her sisters.'
'Oh, indeed! I think you will have a pleasant time, Mr. Blake.'
'Well, I cannot say I am looking forward to it. I am afraid it will be rather a bore than otherwise. I would much rather go on working.'
'I don't think you would find Rutherford very lively.'
'Oh, I did not mean that!' with a reproachful glance at her that Audrey found rather embarrassing. 'You surely could not have thought I wished to remain here now'--a dangerous emphasis on 'now.' 'Why, it would be the abomination of desolation, a howling wilderness.'
'I thought you were fond of Rutherford.'
Audrey was not particularly brilliant in her remarks just now; she was not good at this sort of fencing. She had a dim idea that she ought to discourage this sort of thing; but she did so hate snubbing anyone, and, in spite of his youth, Mr. Blake was rather formidable.
'So I do--I love Rutherford!' he returned, with such vehemence that Audrey was startled, and Booty tried anxiously to lick him again. 'It was a blessed day that brought us all here--I wonder how often I say that to myself--but all the same----' he paused, seemed to recollect himself, and went on--'it must be very dull in vacation time.'
'Oh yes, of course,' she said quickly. It was rather a tame conclusion to his sentence; but Audrey breathed more freely. She was almost glad they had reached Rutherford, and that in a few minutes Woodcote would be in view.
They were both a little silent after this, and by and by Cyril put Booty down.
'Good-bye,' observed Audrey very gently, as she extended her hand. 'Thank you so much for being so good to Booty; and please give my love to your mother and Mollie.'
'Good-bye,' murmured Cyril; and for a moment he held her hand very tightly. If his eyes said a little too eloquently that he knew he should not see her again for a long time, Audrey did not see it, for her own were downcast. That strong, warm pressure of Cyril's hand had been a revelation, and a quick, sensitive blush rose to her face as she turned silently away.
'That is over,' thought Cyril to himself, as he strode through the silent street in the summer twilight; 'and now for seven long blank weeks. Am I mad to-night? would it ever be possible? It is like the new heaven and the new earth only to think of it!' finished the young man, delirious with this sweet intoxication of possible and impossible dreams. _