_ CHAPTER XX. 'THE LITTLE RIFT'
'And sigh that one thing only has been lent
To youth and age in common--discontent.'
MATTHEW ARNOLD.
Audrey was very busy the next morning unpacking and settling a hundred things with her mother and Mrs. Draper. She had fully expected that Mollie would have made her appearance at her usual time; but when the luncheon-hour arrived, and still no Mollie, she felt a little perplexed. Kester had entrusted her with numerous messages, and she had now no resource but to go herself to the Gray Cottage and deliver them. Audrey was never touchy, never stood on her dignity as most people do; but the thought did cross her that for once Mollie had been a little remiss.
'I would so much rather have seen her at Woodcote,' she said to herself, as she walked quickly down the High Street. Mrs. Ross was going up to Hillside to look after Geraldine, and Audrey had promised to join her there in an hour's time. 'I never can talk comfortably to Mollie at the Gray Cottage; Mrs. Blake always monopolises me so.'
But Audrey carefully refrained from hinting, even to herself, the real reason for her reluctance. She had a curious dread of seeing Mr. Blake, an unaccountable wish to keep out of his way as much as possible; but not for worlds would she have acknowledged this.
She opened the green gate, and Zack bounded out to meet her with his usual bark of welcome; but no Mollie followed him, only Biddy, looking more like a witch than ever, with a red silk handkerchief tied over her gray hair, hobbled across the passage.
'The mistress and Miss Mollie are in the drawing-room,' she said, fixing her bright hawk-like eyes on Audrey. 'And how is it with yourself, Miss Ross?--you look as blooming as a rose before it is gathered. It is a purty compliment,' as Audrey laughed; 'but it is true, and others will be telling you so, Miss Ross, avick.'
Audrey blushed a little, for there was a meaning look in the old woman's eyes. Then she ran lightly upstairs; the drawing-room door was half open, and she could hear Mollie's voice reading aloud; 'Pompey and Pharsalia' caught her ear; then she gave the door a little push, and Mollie's book dropped on the floor.
'Miss Ross! oh, Miss Ross!' she exclaimed half hysterically, but she did not move from her place.
It was Mrs. Blake who took Audrey's hands and kissed her airily on either cheek.
'My dear Miss Ross!' she exclaimed, in her soft, impressive voice, 'this is almost too good of you. I told Mollie that I knew you would come. "Do you think she will have the heart to stay away when she knows that we are perfectly famished for a sight of her?" that was what I said when Mollie was plaguing me to let her go to Woodcote this morning.'
'But I was expecting her, Mrs. Blake,' returned Audrey, drawing the girl to her side as she stood apart rather awkwardly. 'I thought it was unkind of Mollie to desert me the first morning. Every time the door opened I said to myself, "That is Mollie." I half made up my mind to be offended at last.'
'There, mamma, I told you so!' observed Mollie rather piteously; 'I knew Miss Ross would be hurt; that is why I begged so hard to go.'
'Poor mamma! she is always in the wrong,' returned Mrs. Blake, with a touch of petulance. 'I put it to you, Miss Ross: would it not have been utter want of consideration on my part to allow Mollie to hinder you with her chattering just when you were unpacking and so dreadfully busy? "Take my advice, and stop away until you are wanted," that is what I said to Mollie, and actually the foolish child got into a regular pet about it; yes, you may look ashamed of yourself, Mollie, but you know I said I should tell Miss Ross. You can see by her eyes how she has been crying, and all because I insisted you were not to be worried.'
'Mollie never worries me,' returned Audrey, with a kind look at her favourite's flushed face.
But she did not dare pursue the subject; she knew poor Mollie was often thwarted in her little plans. If her mother had a sudden caprice or whim to be gratified, Mollie was the one who must always set her own wishes aside--for whom any little disappointment was judged salutary. Perhaps the discipline did not really harm Mollie; her humility and unselfishness guarded her against any rankling bitterness.
'Mamma never likes me to do things without her,' she said later on that afternoon. 'I think she is a little jealous of my going to you so much, Miss Ross; she was so angry when I asked to run across this morning, because she said I wanted you all to myself. I know I was silly to cry about it, but I was so sure you would be expecting me; and last night mamma made me come out with her, and I wanted to stay at home and watch for you: we went all the way to Brail; that is quite mamma's favourite walk now--and, oh, I was so tired.'
'But you must not fret, Mollie; and of course you must do as your mother wishes: you know I shall always understand.'
'Mamma says that you are her friend, and not mine,' returned Mollie, with big melancholy eyes; 'and that I ought not to put myself so forward: but you are my friend, too, are you not, Miss Ross?'
'Of course I am, my dear little girl, just as Michael is Kester's friend; and now I must tell you some more about him.'
But this was when she and Mollie were walking towards Hillside.
Audrey had deftly changed the subject after Mrs. Blake's remonstrance; but as she talked she still held Mollie's hand. She felt very happy to be sitting in that pretty shady drawing-room again, watching the pigeons fluttering among the old arches. There was a bowl of dark crimson carnations on the little work-table, and a cluster of the same fragrant flowers relieved the sombreness of Mrs. Blake's black gown. She was looking handsomer than ever this afternoon; she wore a little lace kerchief over her dark glossy hair, and the delicate covering seemed to enhance her picturesque, Mary Queen of Scots beauty, and to heighten the brilliancy of her large dark eyes. Audrey had never seen her look so charming, and her soft playful manners completed the list of her fascinations. As usual, Audrey forgave her petulance and want of consideration for Mollie. It was difficult to find fault with Mrs. Blake; she was so gay and good-humoured, she so soon forgot anything that had ruffled her, she was so childlike and irresponsible, that one seemed to judge her by a separate code.
'I must go!' exclaimed Audrey, starting up, when it had chimed the hour. She was in the midst of a description of one of their walking expeditions--an attempt to reach a lovely tarn in the heart of the hills. 'I must not wait any longer, as my mother will be expecting me. Mollie, put on your hat; you can walk with me to Hillside;' and then she hesitated.
It was very strange that all this time Mr. Blake's name had not been mentioned. They had talked about Kester and Michael, but for once Cyril's name had not been on his mother's lips.
'I hope your son enjoyed his holiday?' she asked, as she picked a little sprig of scented geranium.
'I am afraid Cyril is not quite in the mood for enjoying himself,' returned Mrs. Blake in rather a peculiar tone. 'Mollie, run and put on your hat, as Miss Ross told you; and for goodness' sake do brush your hair. My boy is not looking like himself,' she continued when they were alone. 'I am rather uneasy about him; he has grown thin, and does not seem in his usual spirits.'
'He wrote very cheerfully to Kester,' returned Audrey, taken aback at this.
'Oh, letters never tell one anything,' replied Mrs. Blake impatiently. 'I daresay you thought I was as happy as possible from mine, just because I must have my little jokes. We Blakes are all like that. I daresay, if Cyril were here, you would see nothing amiss with him; but you cannot blind a mother's eyes, Miss Ross.'
'I am very sorry,' returned Audrey gravely; 'perhaps Cornwall did not agree with him; but he seemed very gay.'
'Oh, as to that, he was gay enough; people always make so much of him--he has been a favourite all his life. I never knew any young man with so many friends. He has gone up to London now to bid good-bye to one of them who is going to India. We do not expect him back until quite late to-morrow.'
'Indeed,' was Audrey's brief reply; but as she walked up the hill with Mollie she was sensible of a feeling of relief. She liked Mr. Blake, she had always liked him; but she had begun to find his quiet, persistent watchfulness a little embarrassing--she felt that it invaded the perfect freedom in which she delighted. Nevertheless, she was sensible of a vague curiosity to know why Mr. Blake was not in his usual spirits--could it be Miss Frances, after all?
'Mamma sent me away because she wanted to talk about Cyril,' observed Mollie, with girlish shrewdness; 'she is worrying about him, because he looks grave, and does not talk quite so much as usual; but I am sure he is not ill. He was terribly vexed when Mr. Plumpton telegraphed for him. I don't think I ever saw Cyril so put out before. He was quite cross with mamma when she wanted to pack his big portmanteau. He declared he did not mean to stay away longer than one night; but mamma said she knew he could not be back until to-morrow evening. Just before he went away he asked what time you were expected, and----'
'Never mind about that,' interrupted Audrey; 'we shall be at Hillside directly, and I have heard nothing about yourself. Were you very dull without Kester, Mollie? and were our letters long enough to satisfy you?'
'Oh, they were just lovely!' returned Mollie enthusiastically; 'only mamma complained that everyone had forgotten her, for even Cyril did not write half so often. I used to read them over in the evening, and try and imagine what you were doing; and I was not always dull, because I had so much to do: but that Roman history--oh, Miss Ross!'
'You have worked hard at that, have you not, Mollie?'
'You would say so if you had heard us,' returned Mollie with a shrug; 'we used to grind away at it until I was quite stupid. Sometimes I wanted to practise or to go on with my French. But no: mamma had promised Cyril, and there was no help for it. I have filled one note-book, but I am not sure I remember half. Mamma reads so fast, and she is always vexed if I do not understand; but,' with a look of relief, 'I don't think we shall do so much now. Mamma has got her walking mood again.'
Audrey tried not to smile. 'Next week we shall resume our lessons, Mollie.'
'Oh, that will be delightful,'--standing still, for they were now entering the shrubberies of Hillside; 'somehow, no one teaches like you, Miss Ross: you never seem to grow impatient or to mind telling things over again; but mother is always in such a hurry, and she is so clever herself that she has no patience with a dunce like me.'
'My dear Mollie, please do not call yourself names--you are certainly no dunce.'
'I don't mean to be one any longer,' replied Mollie, brightening up. 'Oh, Miss Ross, what do you think Cyril says! that I am not to help Biddy any more, and that we are to have a woman in to do the rough work. I don't think mamma was quite pleased when he talked about it. She said it was uncalled-for extravagance, and that we really could not afford it; that a little work did not hurt me, and that I ought to be glad to make myself useful. Mamma was almost annoyed with Cyril, but he always knows how to soothe her down. Of course it will be as he wishes, and mamma has promised to speak to you about a woman; and so I shall have plenty of time to do my lessons; and it will be my own fault if I am a dunce now,' finished Mollie, with a close hug, as the thick shrubs screened them from any prying eyes.
'Poor little soul! I must help her all I can,' thought Audrey, as she walked on to the house. 'I am glad her brother takes her part;' and then her brother-in-law met her in the porch and took her into the morning-room, where the two ladies were sitting, and where Geraldine welcomed her as though months, and not hours, had separated them.
Audrey's first visit had always been paid to the O'Briens; so the following afternoon she started off for Brail as a matter of course.
'Perhaps you will come and have tea with mother, Gage,' she had said on bidding her sister good-bye; 'my Brail afternoons always keep me out until dinner-time;' and Geraldine had generously assented to this. She admired Audrey's benevolence in walking all those miles to see her old friend; the whole family took a lively interest in honest Tom O'Brien, though it must be allowed that Mrs. Baxter was by no means a favourite.
Audrey would have enjoyed her walk more if she could have kept her thoughts free from Mr. Blake; but, unfortunately, the long grassy lanes she was just entering only recalled the time when he had carried Booty and had walked with her to the gate of Woodcote; and she found herself wondering, in a vexed manner, as to the cause of the gravity that had excited his mother's uneasiness.
But she grew impatient with herself presently.
'After all, what does it matter to me?' she thought, as she stopped to gather some red leaves. 'I daresay it was only Miss Frances, after all.'
And then she recoiled with a sort of shock, for actually within a few feet of her was a tall figure in a brown tweed coat. She had been so busy with her thoughts and the red and yellow leaves that she had not seen Mr. Blake leaning against the gate that led into the ploughed field. She might even have passed him, if he had not started up and confronted her.
'Miss Ross,' grasping her hand, 'please let me gather those for you; they are too difficult for you to reach--the ditch is so wide. How many do you want? Do you care for that bit of barberry?'
'Thank you; I think I have enough now,' returned Audrey very gravely.
She was quite unprepared for this meeting. She had seen the flash of joy in his eyes as he sprang forward to meet her, and she was annoyed to feel that her own cheeks were burning. And she was clear-sighted enough to notice something else--that Mr. Blake was talking eagerly and gathering the coloured leaves at random, as though he hardly knew what he was doing, and that, after that first look, he was avoiding her eye, as though he were afraid that he had betrayed himself. Audrey's maidenly consciousness was up in arms in a moment. The gleam in Cyril's eyes had opened hers. Some instinct of self-defence made her suddenly entrench herself in stiffness; the soft graciousness that was Audrey's chief charm seemed to desert her, and for once in her life she was a little abrupt.
'There is no need to gather any more, thank you. I have all I want, and I am in a great hurry;' and she held out her hand for the leaves.
But Cyril withheld them.
'Let me carry them for you,' he returned, evidently trying to speak as usual; but his voice was not quite in order. 'I know where you are going--to that pretty, old-fashioned cottage with the jasmine-covered porch; it is not far, and I have not seen you for so long.' Then he stopped suddenly, as though something in Audrey's manner arrested him. 'That is, if you do not object,' he finished, with a pleading look.
But for once Audrey was obdurate.
'Thank you, I would rather carry them myself. There is no need to take you out of your way.'
Audrey felt that her tone was cold--that she was utterly unlike herself; but her one thought was to get rid of him. But she need not have feared Cyril's importunity. He drew back at once, and put the leaves in her hand without speaking; but he turned very pale, and there was a hurt look in his eyes. Audrey put out her hand to him, but he did not seem to see it; he only muttered something that sounded like 'Good-morning,' as he lifted his cap and went back to the gate. Audrey walked on very fast, but her cheeks would not cool, and a miserable feeling of discomfort harassed her. She was vexed with him, but still more with herself. Why need she have taken alarm so quickly? It was not like her to be so missish and disagreeable. Why had she been so cold, so unfriendly, just because he seemed a little too pleased to see her?
And now she had hurt him terribly--she was quite sure of that--she who never willingly offended anyone. He had been too proud, too gentlemanly, to obtrude himself where he was evidently not wanted; but his pained, reproachful look as he drew back would haunt her for the rest of the day. And, then, how splendidly handsome he had looked! She had once likened him to a Greek god, but it may be doubted whether even the youthful Apollo had seemed more absolutely perfect when he revealed himself in human form to some Athenian votary, than Cyril Blake in the glory of his young manhood. Audrey had not recognised this so keenly before.
'I must make it up to him somehow. I cannot bear to quarrel with anyone. I would rather do anything than hurt his feelings,' she thought; and it needed all her excellent common-sense to prevent her from running back to say a kind word to him.
'I was in a hurry--I was too abrupt; I did not mean to be unkind'--this was what she longed to say to him. 'Please come with me as far as the cottage, and tell me all you have been doing.' Well, and what withheld her from such a natural course--from making her amends in this graceful and generous fashion? Simply that same maidenly instinct of self-preservation. She did not go back; she dare not trust herself with Cyril Blake, because she was afraid of him, and perhaps--though this was not quite so clear to her--she was afraid of herself. But, all the same, she was very miserable--for doing one's duty does not always make one happy--and she felt the joy of her home-coming was already marred; for, with a person of Audrey's temperament, there is no complete enjoyment if she were not in thorough harmony with everyone. One false note, one 'little rift within the lute,' and the whole melody is spoiled. So Audrey's gaiety seemed all quenched that afternoon, and though her old friend testified the liveliest satisfaction at the sight of her, and Priscilla could not make enough of her, she was conscious that, as far as her own pleasure was concerned, the visit was a failure.
But she was aware that no one but herself was conscious of this fact. Certainly not honest Tom O'Brien, as he sat smoking his pipe in the porch, and listening to her descriptions of Highland scenery with a beaming face; neither was Mrs. Baxter a keen observer, as she testified by her parting speech.
'You have done father a world of good, Miss Ross,' she said, as she walked down to the little gate with Audrey. 'I think there is no one he so loves to see, or who cheers him up in the same way as you do. You are young, you see, and young people take more cheerful views of life; and it is easy to see you have not a care on you. Not that I begrudge you your happiness, for no one deserves it more; and long may it continue, Miss Ross,' finished Mrs. Baxter, with her usual mournfulness. _