_ CHAPTER XLII. 'WILL YOU SHAKE HANDS WITH YOUR FATHER?'
'It is peculiar to man to love even those who do wrong. And this happens if, when they do wrong, it occurs to thee that they are kinsmen, and that they do wrong through ignorance and unintentionally, and that soon both of you will die; and above all, that the wrongdoer hath done thee no harm, for he hath not made thy ruling faculty worse than it was before.'--M. AURELIUS ANTONINUS.
'To err is human; to forgive, divine.'
The drive to Brail that afternoon was a silent one; grim care sat on the two young faces, and Michael, with his usual tact, devoted himself to his mare. Now and then her skittishness gave him an opportunity of saying a word or two, to which Cyril replied in monosyllables.
When they had left the inn, and were almost in sight of the cottage, Michael suddenly asked Cyril if he had ever seen Mr. O'Brien. 'Thomas O'Brien,' he added quickly.
'You mean my uncle?' returned Cyril curtly. 'No; I have never seen him.'
'Then I should like to tell you something about him. Of all the men I have ever known, Thomas O'Brien is the one I have most honoured. I have always had the greatest respect for him--for his honesty, integrity, and child-like simplicity. In spite of his want of culture, he is the gentleman his Creator intended him to be. Let me tell you, Blake, that you may be proud to call such a man your uncle.' And with these words Michael unlatched the little gate, and waited for them to follow him.
They were not unperceived. Long before they reached the porch the cottage door was open, and Thomas O'Brien's genial face and strong, thick-set figure blocked up the doorway.
Michael was about to speak, when, to his surprise, Cyril lifted his hat, and then extended his hand to the old man.
'I believe you are my uncle, sir,' he said quietly. 'There can be no need of an introduction: I am Cyril, and this is my brother Kester.'
A soft, misty look came into Thomas O'Brien's honest eyes.
'Ay, my lad, I am thinking I know you both, though I have never set eyes on you before. You are kindly welcome, young gentlemen, for your own and for your father's sake.' And here he gave them a hearty grasp of the hand. 'The Captain is always welcome, as he knows. He and me have been friends for half a score of years--eh, Captain?'
'Good God! are those my boys, Tom?'
The interruption was so sudden and unexpected that they all started, and Cyril turned pale. Something familiar in the voice seemed to thrill him, like an echo from a far-off time. He turned round quickly. A tall man, with closely-cropped hair and a gray moustache, was standing behind him, and regarding him with dark, melancholy eyes.
'Those two can never be my boys, Tom!' he repeated, in the same incredulous, awestruck voice.
'Ay, lad, they are your own, surely; and you had better be thanking God for His mercy in giving you such sons than be taking the holy name on your lips.'
But Mat did not seem to hear this mild rebuke.
'Will you shake hands with your father, Cyril?' he said, with an air of deep dejection. 'I wish it were a cleaner hand, for your sake; but I can give you no other.'
'Do you think I would refuse it, sir?' returned the young man, touched, in spite of himself.
And then it was Kester's turn. But as Mat's eyes fell on the boy's worn, sickly face his manner changed.
'Is that my little chap--the young monkey who used to ride on my shoulder and hold on by my hair? Dear! dear! who would have believed it?'
Kester's pale face flushed a little.
'You are looking at my crutch, sir,' he said nervously; 'but I shall soon throw it away. I am ever so much better now, am I not, Cyril?'
'And where's my little Mollie?' continued Mat--'"the baby," as we used to call her?'
'Let us come away,' whispered Michael in Mr. O'Brien's ear. 'They will get on better without us.'
The tears were running down the old man's face as they turned into the little parlour.
'It beats me, sir, it beats me utterly, to see my poor lad trying to make friends with his own children, and looking so shamed before them. That is a fine-looking chap, that eldest one,' he went on--'Miss Ross's sweetheart, as I used to call him. He is the sort any girl could fancy. And he has a look of Mat about him, too, only he is handsomer and better set up than Mat ever was. "I believe you are my uncle, sir." Few young chaps would have said that. A fine fellow, and she has lost him. Well, the Almighty sends trouble to the young as well as the old. May I light my pipe, Captain? For I am a bit shaky, and all this has overset me.'
Meanwhile Cyril was saying:
'We have not brought Mollie. If you wish to see her, she shall come another time.'
'Thank you, my lad; that is kindly spoken. And I have a sort of longing to set eyes on her again. But you need not think that I am going to trouble her, or you either. A man like me has no right to trouble anyone.'
How could they answer him? But Mat did not seem to notice their silence. His eyes were bent on the ground, and he twirled his gray moustache fiercely.
'My children belong to their mother, and not to me. I made you over to her years ago. She said I was not fit to have the charge of my own children; and maybe she was right. It was not a wifely speech, but I can't blame her. When you go home, tell her I'll keep my word--that I'll lay no sort of claim to any of you.'
He spoke in the slow, brooding tone that was natural to him, and the tears came into Kester's eyes as he listened.
Boy as he was, he understood the deep degradation of such words. This tall, hungry-eyed man, who stood aloof and talked so strangely, was his own father, who was voluntarily denuding himself of a father's rights--an outcast thrown over by his wife and children--an erring, and yet a deeply repentant man. Could anything be more unnatural and horrible? Kester's boyish sense of justice revolted against this painful condition of things; he longed to start up and take his father's hand.
'Do not be so miserable; whatever you have done, you are our father, and we will be good to you.' This is what he would have said; but he only looked at Cyril and held his peace.
Cyril had felt himself strangely attracted from the first. This was not the father whom he had dreaded to see, and on whose countenance he had feared to behold the stamp of the felon. Mat's worn, gentle face and deep-set, sorrowful eyes only inspired him with pity; the haggard weariness, the utter despondency of the man before him told their own story. True, there was weakness, moral weakness; but, at least, there was no glorying in his wrong-doing. The prodigal had come home weary of his husks, and craving for more wholesome food.
'If I have done wrong, I have suffered for it,' his looks seemed to say; and Cyril's generosity responded to the appeal.
'We are all in a difficult position,' he said; 'but there is no need to make things worse than they are. It is not for us to judge our parents, neither is it our fault that all these years we have believed that we had but one. Now I know all, I feel you have not been treated fairly.'
'I thought you would have taken your mother's part, my boy,' replied Mat humbly.
Cyril's words brought him some amount of consolation, only he could not quite bring himself to believe them.
'I hope that I shall always be on the side where the right lies,' was Cyril's answer. 'I do not wish to blame my mother. I think it is best and wisest to be silent. You are a stranger to us, and we have not even your memory to aid us. My own childish reminiscences are very vague: I can just remember a big man who used to play with us, and whom we called daddy; but I have no special recollection of him.'
'I hardly expected you to say as much as that,' and Mat's eyes brightened; 'but, after all, I doubt if I am better off in that respect than you. How am I to find my little chaps again when I look at you both--a fine grown man, and that poor sickly lad beside you? Why,' he continued in a tender, musing tone, 'the little chaps I remember had rosy cheeks and curly heads. I can feel their bare legs swarming up me now. "Give us a ride, dad!" It was always Kester who said that. He was never still a moment unless he was asleep, and then he used to look so pretty; but where shall I find him?--there is not a trace of the little rogue left in him; and when I see my girl Mollie, it will be the same.'
Kester could stand no more; he started up so hastily that his crutch slipped from under his arm, and he would have lost his balance if his father had not caught him and held him fast.
'Why did you do that, boy? You have given me quite a fright? There! there! I will pick up your stick for you, while you stop quietly in your chair.'
But, to his surprise, Kester held him tightly by the wrist.
'Never mind the crutch, father; I am not afraid of a tumble. Somehow, my leg gets stiff, but I don't mind it. I only wanted to say that, if you like, I will come and see you sometimes, when I can get a lift; and I will bring Mollie with me. I can't help what mother says,' continued the boy, his face working, 'and I don't mean to let her hinder us from coming. Cyril is going away, so he will not count; but I'll bring Mollie: and though she is not your baby now, she will take to you and cheer you up.'
Kester was quite out of breath with this long speech that he blurted out, but he was hardly prepared for the result; for before he had finished a low sob broke from Mat's lips, and he sat down shaking with emotion, and covered his face with his hands. Kester looked at him wistfully.
'Have I said anything to hurt him?' he whispered; but Mat's ears caught the words.
'No, no,' he returned vehemently; 'you have put fresh life into me by speaking so kindly. It was only the word "father" that I never thought to hear. God bless you, my boy, for saying that! I thought that she would have taught you to hate me--as she did herself.'
'I shall never hate you, father; I would not be so wicked. If you will let me come and see you sometimes I will try to be good to you, and I know Mollie will, too. I suppose,' continued Kester doubtfully, 'that I must not ask you to come and see us in return. It is mother's house, and----'
But Mat finished the speech:
'No, my lad, you are right. Your mother and I have parted for this life.' And now he spoke with a sort of mournful dignity. 'The time was when I worshipped the ground she walked upon; but there are limits to a man's love. When she forsook me in my shame and trouble, when she stood there taunting me in my prison cell, my heart seemed to die to her. Olive is nought to me now but a bitter memory, and if she prayed to me on her bended knees I would not enter her house.'
It was Cyril's turn to speak now.
'Yes, you are better apart,' he said in a low voice; 'and my mother has always been my charge. I shall tell her that she must not hinder Mollie or Kester from coming to see you. Shall you still remain here, father?'
He said the word with some little effort, but the same brightness came into Mat's eyes.
'I think so, my lad; I would as lief stay with Tom. All these years he has stuck to me, and I'll not forsake him now.'
'And you will be comfortable?'
Cyril asked the question with some degree of interest, and again Mat's eyes glistened with pleasure.
'I doubt if I was ever so comfortable in my life,' he returned, without any hesitation. 'You are young, my boy, and trouble is new to you, and Heaven forbid that you should ever be able to put yourself in my place. But if you only knew what it is to me to bid good-night to someone again!
'It is not much of a life, perhaps,' went on Mat, with his gentle, melancholy drawl; 'but to me it is heavenly in its peace and quiet. Prissy is sometimes a bit harassing: but, then, most women are; but she keeps things comfortable and ship-shape, and when she has gone off to bed there is Tom and his pipe in the chimney-corner, and it is "Come and have a chat, my lad, until it is time to turn in." Yes, yes, I'll bide with Tom and be thankful.'
'Then we will come and see you here sometimes,' returned Cyril, rising; 'for myself I cannot answer at present----' He paused, and then continued hurriedly: 'I shall not see you again for some time. I am leaving Rutherford.'
'Yes, lad, I know,' and Mat sighed heavily; 'and it is all through me that you are going. I wanted the Captain to hush it all up; but he would not hear of it. When I think of all I have brought on you, I wonder you can bring yourself to speak a kind word to me.'
'It is not all your fault; but I cannot talk of myself. Good-bye, father. If we do not meet again for some time, it will be because things are going badly with me; but I shall always be ready to help you, if you need my assistance.'
'Thank you, my boy,' returned Mat huskily.
And then it was Kester's turn.
'I shall come soon, very soon, and Mollie shall come with me.'
'Mollie!' Mat repeated the name in fond, lingering fashion as he moved to the window. 'My little girl! I wonder if she is like Olive? Cyril is; he has all her good looks, but he has something in his face that Olive never had. I almost felt shamed when he called me father; but the other one--he is not my little chap, and yet he is--but somehow when he spoke my whole heart seemed to go out to him.' And then Mat tried to light his pipe, only his hand trembled too much to do it. 'If I could only have my life back again!' he said to himself with a groan.
Cyril hardly broke the silence once during the drive back. It was not until several days had passed that Michael heard how that interview with his father had affected him. Cyril said very little even then, but Michael was relieved to find that, on the whole, he had been more attracted than repelled.
'Kester likes him, and in a way I like him too,' he remarked; 'we both think he has been hardly used. My mother could have kept him straight--there is no doubt of that--but she never tried to do so. One is sorry for that sort of weakness, even if one cannot understand it,' finished Cyril, with the feeling that there was nothing more to say.
Michael left them at the Cottage and drove on to Woodcote. His day's work had been somewhat arduous, and he felt fagged and weary. It was long past tea-time, he knew, but he wondered if he could ask Crauford to bring him some. Michael's long years of ill-health made him depend on this feminine panacea for all ills more than most men. That Michael hated to miss his tea was a well-known fact in the Ross household.
Another time Audrey would have cared for his comforts, he thought, as he dragged himself up the stairs in a spiritless manner. Tired Nature was avenging herself in her usual fashion, and Michael's head and limbs were aching. Perhaps something else ached too.
But his mood changed when he entered his room. After all, he had not been forgotten. A cheery little fire burnt and spluttered as though newly lighted, and a tiny kettle sang merrily on its trivet; the tea-tray was on the table, and, as Michael regarded these preparations with an expression of satisfaction, he heard Audrey's well-known knock at the door.
'Shall I make your tea, Michael,' she asked, 'or would you rather be alone? Gage and Percival are downstairs, and, as I was sure you would be tired, I told Crauford to bring up the kettle. Shall I stay or not?' she continued, a little surprised by his silence.
'Stay, by all means!' was his only reply, as he threw himself into his easy-chair.
He would have thanked her--and she evidently expected to be thanked--but he was afraid he should say too much. She had thought of him and his comfort in her own unhappiness, though her face was still pale with her inward trouble.
'You have had a trying day,' she continued, as she knelt down on the rug a moment to coax the fire to burn more brightly; 'and of course it has taken it out of you. I was quite sure that you would not be in the mood for Gage and Percival. Percival is very kind, but somehow he is not restful; he is so very bracing.' And she sighed as though she had found him so.
'People are not always in a condition for a tonic, are they, Audrey?'
'No,' she replied quietly; 'and then it is no use forcing it on them. But I must not be hard on Percival; he was very kind, only somehow his conversation was a little too bracing. He and Gage were full of plans; they meant it all for my good: but it was a little tiring.'
'Poor child!' and Michael's sympathising tone was very healing.
'But we will not talk about my silly self,' rousing herself; 'there is something else I want to know. I guess where you have been this afternoon. You have taken Cyril to see his father.'
'Yes; and Kester too.'
'I am very glad,' forcing a smile. 'It was right--quite right. He will be the happier for not shirking his duty.'
Then she looked at Michael a little pleadingly, as though to beg for some account of the interview.
'I am afraid I cannot tell you much,' he returned, feeling sorry that he had so little to communicate. 'As far as I could see, Blake behaved uncommonly well; he shook hands with O'Brien at once. But, of course, after that I only thought it right to efface myself.'
'But surely Cyril has spoken of his father?'
'No, he has not said a word; but I daresay he will open out more by and by, I am going up to town with him to-morrow, and we shall have plenty of opportunity if he feels disposed to talk.'
'Are you going to stay?'
'Well, yes--he is hardly fit to be left just now. I shall put him up at South Audley Street, and then he can look about him for a bit. I daresay I shall be back in a week or two.'
'Oh, Michael, I never thought of this. Are you sure it will not trouble you?'
'Not a bit,' he returned cheerfully. 'I want to see my lawyer, and do one or two things; so it comes quite handy.'
But this plausible pretext did not in the least deceive her.
'It is no use saying what I think,' she said hurriedly, and he saw the gleam of a tear on her eyelash. 'No one but yourself would ever do such things. I shall miss you--I think I shall miss you more than ever--but it will be such a comfort to feel you are with him.'
'Oh, as to that, he will not need me long. When I see him fairly settled I shall come home. I want to speak to Unwin about him. You have often heard me speak of Unwin: he is nearly old enough to be my father; but we are great chums, and I mean to tell him the whole story about Blake. If I could only get Unwin to stand his friend, there will be some hope for him.'
'Yes, I understand; but it is you who will be his benefactor. Don't frown, Michael, I am not going to thank you; I cannot. Now please tell me one other thing before I go: will you write to me?'
'If you wish it,' he replied without hesitation. 'Oh yes, I will certainly write and let you know how we are getting on; but I think it might be as well for you not to answer my letters.'
A flush came to Audrey's face, but she perfectly understood the delicacy that induced Michael to make this stipulation; he would deprive himself of one of his greatest pleasures rather than Cyril should be pained by the sight of her handwriting.
'I will not write,' she said in a low voice. 'Now I must go down to Gage.'
But he detained her.
'Wait a moment; there is no hurry, is there? And it is my turn to ask questions. I want to know what you are going to do with yourself during my absence?'
And there was no mistaking his anxiety, though he strove to hide it.
'I shall do as usual,' she returned tranquilly. 'Mollie will come to me every morning, and we shall work hard at our lessons, and----'
But he interrupted her.
'Are you sure that your father will approve of Mollie's visits?' he asked.
'There is no reason why he should disapprove,' she replied quickly; 'but of course I shall speak to him. There can be no possible reason why my poor Mollie should be punished. Father would not wish me to go to the Gray Cottage, and, indeed, I should not wish it myself; but there can be no objection to Mollie coming here.'
'Perhaps not; and, after all, it will not be for long.'
'No, it will not be for long; so I must do my best for her. Do not trouble about me, Michael; I shall be as busy as possible. I am not going away with Gage, as she wishes. I tell her I would rather stay quietly with father and mother--perhaps next holidays--but we need not talk of that.'
'But you will be very dull.'
'No, indeed, I shall have too much to do--at least, I do not mean to think whether I am dull or not; but, Michael, I shall depend for a great deal of my comfort on your letters.'
Then he knew that the burden of her lover's unhappiness was very heavy upon her, but that she would not willingly speak of it even to him.
'I will tell you all that there is to tell. If you do not hear from me, it will be because there is nothing to say;' and with these words he let her go.
He did not speak to her again that evening; for though Mr. Harcourt had taken his departure, Geraldine had remained, with the amiable intention of cheering her sister. If she did not quite succeed in her mission, it was for no want of effort on Audrey's part, who, as usual, did her best for everyone. But more than once Michael detected a weary look in her eyes, that told him that she would fain have been left alone. 'But that is the last thing that Gage and Harcourt would ever do,' he said to himself, with a shade of bitterness, as he saw the gentleness and patience with which Audrey received her sister's attentions. _