_ CHAPTER XXXIII. 'SHALL YOU TELL HIM TO-NIGHT?'
'Wouldst thou do harm, and still unharmed thyself abide?
None struck another yet, except through his own side.
* * * * *
From our ill-ordered hearts we oft are fain to roam,
As men go forth who find unquietness at home.'
TRENCH.
Michael raised his eyes and looked attentively at the woman before him; but she did not seem to notice him--she was too much absorbed in her miserable recital.
'I had made up my mind to say this to him from the moment I heard he was in prison--he should have nothing more to do with me and the children. It was for their sake I said it.
'He shrank back as though I had stabbed him, and then he began reproaching me in the old way: "I had never loved him; from the first I had helped to ruin him by my coldness; he was the most wretched man on earth, for his own wife had deserted him;" but after a time I stopped him.
'"It is too late to say all this now, Mat; you are quite right--I never loved you. I was mad to marry you; we have never been suited to each other."
'"But I was fond of you. I was always fond of you, Olive."
'But I answered him sternly:
'"Then prove your affection, Mat, by setting me free. Let me go my way and you go yours, for as truly as I stand here I will never live with you again."
'"But what will you do?" he asked; "oh, Olive, do not be so cruelly hard! There is Tom; he will take you and the children, and care for you all."
'But at the mention of his brother I lost all control over myself. Oh, I know I said some hard things then--I am not defending myself--and he begged me at last very piteously not to excite myself, and he would never mention Tom again; only he must know what I meant to do with myself and the children while he was working out his sentence.
'"Then I will tell you," I replied; "for at least you have a right to know that, although from this day I will never acknowledge you as my husband. I will not go near your beggarly relations; but I have a little money of my own, as you know, though you have never been able to touch it. I will manage to keep the children on that."
'Well, we talked--at least I talked--and at last I got him to promise that he would never molest me or the children again. Mat was always weak, and I managed to frighten him. I threatened to make away with myself and the children sooner than have this shame brought home to them, not that I meant it; but I was in one of my passionate moods, when anything seemed possible.
'I told him what I meant to do, for I had planned it all in my head already. I would sell out all my money and change my investments, so that all clue should be lost; and I would take another name, and after a time the children should be told their father was dead. I would give myself out to be a widow, and in this way no disgrace would ever touch them. Would you believe it? Mat was so broken and penitent that he began to think that, after all, this would be best--that it would be kinder to me and the children to cut himself adrift from us.
'I saw him again, and he gave me his promise. "You are a clever woman, Olive," he said; "you will do better for the youngsters than ever I could have done. I have brought disgrace on everyone belonging to me. If you would only have trusted to Tom!--but you will go your own gait. I dare not cross you; I never have dared, lest evil should come of it; but I think no woman ever had a colder heart."
'"You have killed it, Mat," was my answer; and then I said good-bye to him, and we parted.
'Well, I took Biddy into my confidence; she was a faithful creature, and had been devoted to me since my childhood. She had accompanied me to England on my marriage, and had been my one comfort before the children were born. Strange to say, she had always disliked Mat, and if I had only listened to her, his wooing would have been unsuccessful.
'I found a lawyer who would do my business, and then I took a lodging at Richmond and called myself Mrs. Blake, and for a few years we lived quietly and comfortably.'
'The investments had prospered, one especially was yielding a handsome dividend, so I was better off than I expected. I had got rid of some house property, and I put aside this money for my boy's education. I need not tell you that he was my one thought. Sometimes, when I saw him growing so fast, and looking so noble and handsome, my heart would quite swell with pride and happiness to think he was my son; and I forgot Mat and the past wretchedness, and only lived in and for him. My other children were nothing to me compared to him.'
'And you heard nothing of your husband?'
'I tell you I had no husband; he was dead to me. Do you think I would allow a man like Mat to blight my boy's career--a poor creature, weak as water, and never able to keep straight; a man who could be cowed into giving up his own wife and children? I would have died a hundred times over before I would have let Cyril know that his father was a convict.'
Michael held his peace, but he shuddered slightly as he thought of Audrey. 'They will make her give him up,' he said to himself.
'Yes, I was happy then,' she went on. 'I always had an elastic temperament. I did not mind the poverty and shifts as long as Cyril was well and contented. I used to glory in giving up one little comfort after another, and stinting myself that he might have the books he needed when he was at Oxford. I used to live on his letters, and the day when he came home was a red-letter day.'
'And you never trembled at the idea that one day you might come face to face with your husband?'
'Oh no; such a thought never crossed my mind. I knew Mat too well to fear that he would hunt me out and make a scene. Another man would, in his place, but not Mat: he had always been afraid of me, and he dared not try it on. It was accident--mere accident--that made him cross my path yesterday. But I know I can manage him still, and you--you will not betray me, Captain Burnett?'
'I do not understand you,' he returned, almost unable to believe his ears. Could she really think that he would make himself a party to her duplicity?
'I think my meaning is sufficiently clear,' she replied, as though impatient at his denseness. 'Now you have heard my story, you cannot blame me; under the circumstances, you must own that my conduct was perfectly justifiable.'
'I am not your judge, Mrs. Blake,' he answered quietly; 'but in my opinion nothing could justify such an act of deception. None of us have any right to say, "Evil, be thou my good." When you deceived the world and your own children, by wearing widow's weeds, when all the time you knew you had a living husband, you were distinctly living a lie.'
'And I glory in that lie!' she answered passionately.
'Do not--do not!' he returned with some emotion; 'for it will bring you bitter sorrow. Do you think the son for whom you have sacrificed your integrity will thank you for it----' But before he could finish his sentence a low cry, almost of agony, stopped him. Ah, he had touched her there.
'You will kill me,' she gasped, 'if you only hint at such a thing! Captain Burnett, I will say I am sorry--I will say anything--if you will only help me to keep this thing from my boy. Will you go to Mat? Will you ask him, for all our sakes, to go away? He is not a bad man. When he hears about Cyril's prospects he will not spoil them by coming here and making a scene. I will see him if he likes--but I think it would be better not. Tell him if he wants money he shall have it: there is a sum I can lay my hands on, and Cyril will never know.'
'You want me to bribe your husband to go away?'
'Yes. You have promised to help me; and this is the only way.'
'Pardon me! There are limits to anything--an honest man cannot soil his hands with any such acts of deception. When I said I would help you, it was real help I meant--for good, and not for evil. I will not attempt to bribe your husband; neither will I stand by and see you blindfold your son.'
Then she threw herself on her knees before him, with a faint cry for mercy. But he put her back in her seat, and then took her hands in his and held them firmly.
'Hush! you must not do that. I will be as kind to you as I can. Do you think that my heart is not full of pity for you, in spite of your wrong-doing? Try to be reasonable and listen to me. I have only one piece of advice to give you. Tell your son everything, as you have told me.'
'Never, never! I would die first.'
'You do not know what you are saying,' he returned soothingly. 'Do you think a son is likely to judge his own mother harshly? If I can find it in my heart to pity you, will your own flesh and blood be more hard than a stranger?'
'Oh, you do not know Cyril!' she replied with a shudder. 'He is so perfectly truthful. I have heard him say once that nothing can justify a deception. In spite of his goodness, he can be hard--very hard. When Kester was a little boy, he once, told a lie to shield Mollie, and Cyril would not speak to him for days.'
'I do not say that he will not be shocked at first, and that you may not have to bear his displeasure. But it will be better--a hundred times better--for him to hear it from your own lips.'
'He will never hear it,' she returned; and now she was weeping wildly. 'The story will never be told by me. How could I bear to hear him tell me that I had ruined him--that his prospects were blasted? Oh, have mercy upon a miserable woman, Captain Burnett! For the sake of my boy--for Kester's and Mollie's sake--help me to send Mat away!'
He made no answer, only looked at her with the same steady gentleness. That look, so calm, yet so inexorable, left her no vestige of hope. A rock would have yielded sooner than Michael Burnett, and she knew it.
'I was wrong to trust you,' she sobbed. 'You are a hard man--I always knew that; you will stand by and see us all ruined, and my boy breaking his heart with shame and misery, and you will not stretch out your hand to save us.'
But he let this pass. Her very despair was making her reckless of her words.
'Mrs. Blake,' he said quietly, 'will you tell your son that he has a father living?'
'No; I will not tell him!'
Then Michael got up from his chair as though the interview were at an end. His movement seemed to alarm Mrs. Blake excessively.
'You are not going? Do you mean that you are actually leaving me in this misery? Captain Burnett, I would not have believed you could be so cruel!'
'There is no use in my staying. I cannot convince you that your best hope for the future is to throw yourself on your son's generosity. I regret that you will not listen to me--you are giving me a very painful task.'
Then she started up and caught him by the arm.
'Do you mean that you will tell him?'
'I suppose so--somebody must do it; but I would rather cut off my right hand than do it.'
'Shall you tell him to-night?'
'No, certainly not to-night.'
'To-morrow?'
'Yes, to-morrow or the next day; but I must speak to Mr. O'Brien and Dr. Ross first.'
Then she left him without saying another word; but it went to his heart to see her cowering over the fire in her old miserable attitude.
'Mrs. Blake,' he said, following her, 'if you think better of this, will you write to me? Two or three words will be enough: "I will tell him myself" just that----' but she made no reply. 'I shall wait in the hope that I may receive such a note; a few hours' delay will not matter, and perhaps a little consideration may induce you to be brave. Remember, there is no wrong-doing except that of heinous and deadly sin that we may not strive to set right. It needs courage to confess to a fellow-creature, but love should give you this courage.'
But still she did not move or speak, and he was forced to leave her. He found Biddy hovering about the dark passage, and he guessed at once that she had been a listener. A moment's consideration induced him to take the old woman by the shoulder and draw her into an empty room close by.
She looked somewhat scared at his action. She had a candle in her hand, and he could see how furtively her wild, hawk-like eyes glanced at him.
'Biddy, I know you are your mistress's trusted friend--that she confides in you.'
'Ay.'
'Use every argument in your power, then, to induce her to tell her son about his father.'
'I dare not, sir; she would fly into one of her mad passions and strike me.'
'Good heavens!'
'I have work enough with her sometimes; she has always had her tantrums from a child; but I'm used to them, and I know how to humour her. She will never tell Mr. Cyril; I know them both too well for that.'
'You heard all I said, Biddy. You need not deny it. You have been listening at the door.'
'It is not me who would deny it,' she returned boldly; but there was a flush on her withered cheek. 'There is nothing that my mistress could say that she would wish to keep from me. I have been with her all her life. As a baby she slept in my bosom, and I loved her as my own child. Ah, it was an ill day for Miss Olive when she took up with that good-for-nothing Matthew O'Brien; bad luck to him and his!'
'Nevertheless, he is her husband, Biddy.'
'I don't know about that, sir. I was never married myself, and fourteen years is a long absence. Aren't they more her children than his, when she has slaved and sacrificed herself for them? You meant it well, sir, what you said to the mistress; but I take the liberty of differing from you, and I would sooner bite my tongue out than speak the word that will bring them all to shame.'
'Then I must not look to you for help?'
'I am afraid not, sir. I am on my mistress's side.'
'You are an obstinate old woman, Biddy, and I looked for better sense at your age.'
Nevertheless, he shook her by the hand very kindly, and then she lighted him downstairs.
Mollie came out of the dining-room and looked at him wistfully.
'Is mamma better now, Captain Burnett?'
'Well, no, I am afraid not: but I think you need not trouble. Biddy will look after her.'
'Biddy is dreadfully mysterious, and will hardly let any of us speak to mamma; but I think it is my place, not Biddy's, to wait on her. She has no right to tell me to go downstairs, and to treat me like a child. I am fifteen.'
'Yes; indeed, you are growing quite a woman, Mollie.'
And Michael looked very kindly at Audrey's
protegee. He and Mollie were great friends.
'Cyril came in some time ago. He had to dress for the party, you know, and Biddy would not let him go into the drawing-room and interrupt you; she was mounting guard all the time. Cyril was quite cross at last, and asked me what on earth was the matter, and why you and mamma were having a private interview; but of course I could not tell him.'
'I suppose not, my dear.'
'He says he shall ask mamma to-morrow, and that he shall bring Miss Ross to see her, because he is sure she is ill. Will you come in and see Kester, Captain Burnett?--he is busy with his Greek.'
But Michael declined; it was late, and he must hurry home and dress for dinner.
He had forgotten all about the Charringtons' dinner-party and dance, and he was a little startled, as he entered the hall, to see Audrey standing before the fire talking to Cyril. Both of them were in evening dress.
Audrey looked very pretty; she wore a white silk dress. He had seen her in it once before, and he had thought then how wonderfully well it became her; and the sparkling cross rested against her soft throat. Cyril's roses, with their pale pinky tint, gave her just the colour that was needed, and her eyes were very bright; and perhaps her lover's praise had brought that lovely glow to her face.
'You will be late, Michael; the dressing-bell sounded an age ago, and father is in the drawing-room. What have you been doing with yourself all these hours?'
'I had forgotten you were going out,' he returned, parrying her question. 'How nice you look, Audrey! I thought white silk was bridal finery. Cinderella turned into a princess was nothing to you.'
'I feel like a princess with my roses and diamonds;' but she looked at Cyril, not at Michael, as she spoke. Cyril was standing beside her with one arm against the carved mantelpiece; he was looking handsomer than ever. Just then there was the sound of carriage-wheels, and he took up the furred cloak that lay on the settee beside him, and put it gently round her shoulders.
'You must not take cold,' Michael heard him say. There was nothing in the words, but the glance that accompanied this simple remark spoke volumes. Michael drew a deep heavy sigh as he went upstairs. 'Poor fellow! how he worships her!' he thought;' what will be the end of this tangle?' And then he dressed himself hastily and took his place at the table to eat his dinner with what appetite he might, while Mrs. Ross discoursed to him placidly on the baby's beauty and on dear Geraldine's merits as a mother and hostess. _