_ CHAPTER XLIII. MICHAEL'S LETTER
'Be not ashamed to be helped; for it is thy business to do thy
duty, like a soldier in the assault on a town. How then, if being
lame, thou canst not mount up on the battlements alone, but with
the help of another it is possible.'--M. AURELIUS ANTONINUS.
About a week afterwards, Michael was writing in his sitting-room in South Audley Street when Cyril Blake entered the room. He put down his hat and began taking off his gloves as he stood by the table.
'Well,' asked Michael, looking up from his cheque-book; 'have you hit it off, old man?'
'Yes; we have settled it,' returned Cyril, dropping into a chair as though he were tired. 'And I am to enter on my duties next week.'
'Next week! That is uncommonly short notice. Unwin must be in a precious hurry to close with the bargain.'
'He is in a hurry. He says his work is all in arrears, and that his publishers want his book on Cyprus as soon as he can let them have it; and the papers are all in confusion. Of course I let him know that I was in no need of a holiday, and that I would far rather commence work at once. Mr. Unwin was most kind and considerate. My hours are to be from ten to six; so I shall be able to give a lesson or two in the evening.'
'You know my opinion on that subject; but I fancy I have exhausted all my arguments for no purpose.'
'I am afraid so too,' returned Cyril quietly. 'Mr. Unwin thinks he can find me a pupil--a young fellow who is behind-hand with his classics, and has got plucked in his examination. Really, Burnett, I am extremely indebted to you for this introduction to Mr. Unwin. In spite of his peculiarities, he seems to have an excellent heart.'
'Oh yes; he is an out-and-out good fellow. I can tell you some anecdotes that are very much to his credit, only I know he would never forgive me. Unwin likes his kind actions to blush unseen. Shall you think me impertinent, Blake, if I ask what amount of salary he means to give you?'
'Not in the least; you have every right to know. I am to have a hundred and twenty pounds a year--that is only thirty pounds less than I had at Rutherford. I never expected such good pay.'
'Ah! Unwin can afford it.'
'He seemed to say so. One thing--he thought I was older than I am. He seemed quite surprised when I told him I was only three-and-twenty.'
Michael looked up a little sharply. There was no denying that Cyril looked older--even these few days had worked some indefinable change in him. He was not ill, though he could not be said to be well; but there had come to him a certain settled look that one sees on the faces of middle-aged men who have a large amount of care. And there were dark circles round his eyes, as though sleep had to be wooed with some degree of difficulty.
'You are tolerably youthful still, Blake,' he said, not liking to admit that he saw this change in him.
'Am I? I should not have said so from my own feelings. I fancy youth is rather a relative term; but I must acknowledge that Mr. Unwin treated me with a great deal of consideration. I know what you have told him; but he scarcely alluded to it, except in the most distant way: indeed, I am very grateful to him for his delicacy.'
'I told you from the first that he was a good fellow. Unwin is what I call an all-round man. He is a bit fussy over his hobbies, but as long as you keep Charles the First out of your conversation I fancy it will be plain sailing. I hope you are not bursting with the subject, as the immortal Mr. Dick was, when he found himself compelled to fly his kites; but it is a fact that Unwin is a bit cranky about him.'
'Thank you for warning me,' returned Cyril, with a grave smile; 'now, my next business will be to look out for some lodgings within an easy distance of Cromwell Road. I have trespassed on your kind hospitality long enough.'
'Nonsense!' returned Michael bluntly. 'I expected you to stop on here for at least another month. I shall go back to Rutherford in a fortnight or so; but that would not make any difference to you: my old woman would be delighted to cook for you, and make you comfortable. You know, her husband was an old corporal in our regiment; but an amputated leg, and a little bit of money coming to his wife, made him fall out of the ranks. I have lodged with them for about ten years, and I have been in no hurry to change my quarters.'
'No--they are very comfortable; but the fact is, Burnett, my mother gives me no peace. She writes every day to beg me to take her away from Rutherford. She says she will never go outside the gate as long as she remains there. I imagine she has a nervous dread of meeting my father; besides, she says everyone will be talking about her.'
'I do not believe a single person in Rutherford has begun to talk.'
'So I tell her; but she will not believe me. You know my mother; it is not always easy to manage her. She will be quieter when she has once got away; so, with many thanks for all your kindness, Burnett, I will just look out for these lodgings.'
'Well, if your mind is made up, I will not try to change your determination; but, if you will excuse my plainness of speech, I think it would be better for you to be without your mother for another week or two.'
'I daresay you are right,' replied Cyril wearily; 'and my quiet life here has been a great boon. But it does not do to think only of one's self. And, after all, nothing matters much. Perhaps Mrs. Johnson may know of some good rooms; they must be furnished, for of course it would never do to move our furniture under the present unsettled state of things. Besides, ours is too old to bear another journey. My mother can bring away the books, and her bits of china, and any little thing she fancies, and Biddy can mount guard over the rest until we can dispose of it. I daresay I can soon get the house off my hands.'
'There will be no difficulty about that,' returned Michael, inwardly wondering at Cyril's cool, business-like tone; in his heart he admired him all the more for his pluck. 'Paget is looking out for a house--you know he expects to be married shortly--shall I write to him and give him a hint that you want to find a tenant for the Gray Cottage? I daresay the landlord will be glad for him to take it.'
'If you will be so good. I forgot all about Paget. But he would turn up his nose at our old carpets; his bride-elect is rather a grand lady.'
Cyril's tone was a trifle cynical; but Michael would have forgiven him if his speech had been flavoured with the gall of bitterness.
'Very well, then; I will write to him before country post, and we will have up Mrs. Johnson and talk to her.'
And Cyril at once rang the bell.
Two days afterwards Audrey received her first long letter from Michael. A brief note was all that had yet reached her.
'MY DEAR AUDREY,' it began,
'I hope that you will not think that I have forgotten you; but when there is literally nothing to say, I am rather a bad hand at cooking up a letter; and I had not a single fact to go upon, except to tell you that, on the whole, we were pretty fit, and were jogging along somehow. Well, I have a whole budget of facts now, and my pen has become a valuable implement.
'First, then, Blake has come to terms with Unwin; and he is to begin work on Monday. I believe in his heart he would still prefer the New Zealand scheme; and if we could only get rid of his mother--not an easy task that--I should be inclined to give him a helping hand in that direction; but as Blake does not see his way clear to leave her, he may as well take the berth offered to him. Privately, I believe Unwin is hugging himself under the idea that he has got a treasure. He spoke of him to me as a highly intelligent fellow and a first-rate Greek scholar, which we know are facts. His hours are pretty light--from ten to six--so he will have his evenings to himself; but I am sorry to say he means to look out for pupils. I have talked myself hoarse on the subject; but he will not listen to reason. Of course his health will suffer: he has always been accustomed to so much fresh air and exercise. If I could only induce him to join a cricket or tennis club! But it would never do to propose it just now; he has no heart for play.
'One thing, he has given in to me about Kester, though I had some difficulty with him at first. We had a long talk last night, and I employed all my eloquence to bring him to see the thing in its right light; and at last he consented that I should have my way.
'Do you remember my telling you about George Moore--that nice fellow who got into trouble with his rector? Well, he has married lately, and his wife is a very good woman. Moore has taken a capital house at Brighton. He has a curacy at Kemp Town, and he is looking out for a few pupils to prepare for the university.
'I am going to send Kester to him for a year or two, until he is old enough to go to Oxford. Abercrombie tells me the sea air will do him a world of good. I have just written to him to come up at once, as he must have a proper outfit. And now I must tell you that Blake has found some very good rooms, Kensington way. I went down with him yesterday, and I think they will do very well.
'There is a good-sized drawing-room--a sunny, cheerful room, with a smaller one behind, where Blake can work with his pupils--and two good bedrooms. Biddy (how I wish she were not to be of the menage!) will have to content herself with a dull slip of a room on the basement. Of course the furniture is shabby, and there is very little of it; but I mean to introduce a few improvements by degrees. I like the appearance of the woman of the house. She is a widow, and is evidently very respectable. Her daughter, a very tidy sort of person, waits on the lodgers.
'I think I have told you about all now. Blake has thawed lately, and we have long talks together, though perhaps they are not cheerful ones. On the whole, I think he shows a great deal of pluck. I doubt whether any other young man of his age would behave as well. If the Victoria Cross were ever given for moral heroism, I am sure Blake would get it.
'Good-bye until we meet. I suppose I shall be back in another week or ten days. Take care of yourself, my dear, for the sake of your affectionate friend and cousin,
'MICHAEL.'
'There is no one like Michael!' was Audrey's inward comment as she put down the letter.
How simply he had told her his intentions with regard to Kester! as though his generosity were a matter of course. How few men of Michael's age would have cared to saddle themselves with such a responsibility! for one, too, who was not their own kith and kin.
'It will cost him at least two hundred a year,' she thought; 'no wonder my poor Cyril found it difficult to accept such an offer. He would take nothing from Michael for himself, but he could hardly refuse for Kester. Michael has virtually adopted him, just as I should like to adopt Mollie. I suppose he thinks he will have no son of his own, and there is all that money----'
And she sighed a little as she thought of Michael's loneliness.
But if she had only known it, Michael's real generosity was shown in those lines he had written at the end of his letter. His munificence to Kester cost him far less than those few words which he wrote so ungrudgingly of his rival; but he knew how they would gladden her heart. The old beautiful smile would come to her lips, he thought, as she read them.
'They will please her more than all the rest of the letter,' he said to himself.
Two or three evenings after this letter had reached her, Audrey went into her father's study, as usual, to bid him good-night; but when he had kissed her with that special tenderness which he had shown to her ever since her trouble, she looked at him very seriously.
'Father,' she said, as he kept his arm still round her, 'I wish you to know that I am going to the Gray Cottage to-morrow to bid Mrs. Blake good-bye.'
Then Dr. Ross's arm dropped from her waist, and she saw at once that the news was not palatable to him.
'Is that necessary, Audrey?'
'Yes, father; I think I may say that it is necessary. I have kept away from the Gray Cottage all this time because I knew that it was your wish that I should do so, and I have ever been guided by your wishes; but now Mrs. Blake is going away, and it would trouble me greatly if she were to leave without my bidding her good-bye.'
'I think it would be far better, for her sake as well as yours, that there should be no special leave-taking.'
'There I must differ from you, father dear,' returned Audrey gently. 'I could not bring myself to put such an affront on Cyril's mother. You know, I am still engaged to Cyril, and his mother can never be a stranger to me.'
Then Dr. Ross regarded his daughter with a grieved expression.
'My own child, if you would only be guided by me in this!--if you would give up this young man entirely----'
Then she shook her head, and a grave, sweet smile came to her lips.
'Would you have me break my word, father, because Cyril has broken his? But I do not blame him--he was obliged to do it; but no power on earth could compel me. Dear, why should we speak of this thing--you and I? When one's mind is made up, there is nothing more to be said. In everything else I will obey you as a child ought to obey her father. If you tell me that I must not go to the Gray Cottage to-morrow, you shall be obeyed, no matter what it may cost me; but'--pressing her lips to his forehead as she leant against him--'I do not think my father will be such a tyrant.'
'I have no wish to tyrannise, Audrey,' returned Dr. Ross sadly. 'In all I have said, I have only considered your happiness. If you feel that there is this need to bid Mrs. Blake good-bye, I shall certainly not prevent you. I know I can trust my daughter. I have wished that the break should be final and conclusive, but it seems that you think otherwise.'
'After to-morrow the separation will be as complete as you desire it to be.'
'I am thankful to hear it. Of all women, I believe Mrs. Blake to be the most unsatisfactory. Audrey, my child, at the risk of paining you, I must say one word. There must be no written communication between her and you.'
'No, father; I should not wish it. Any such letters would be impossible--at least, to me. Mollie will write to me sometimes, and I suppose I shall answer her letters; but she will not write often.'
'I think I should tell her to write as seldom as possible. Mollie is a nice little girl, and we are all fond of her; but I should be inclined to doubt her discretion.'
Then Audrey smiled faintly, and promised that Mollie's correspondence should be enclosed within strict limits. She knew well what her father meant. Mollie's letters would be overflowing with allusions to her brother; her simplicity would know no reticence.
'I think you may trust me,' she said, after a moment's silence. 'Of course I understand what you mean.'
'Then in that case we will not say any more about it,' replied her father. Trust her!--he knew that he could absolutely rely on her. When had she ever disappointed him? Of all girls, he had never known one so free from guile, so utterly transparent; there could be no shadow of doubt in his mind concerning her. And as he kissed her, and again wished her good-night, he blessed her in his heart for being such a daughter to him.
Audrey had carried her point. Her visit to Mrs. Blake had appeared to her in the light of an imperative duty; but it may be doubted whether she looked forward to it with any feeling of pleasure.
Up to the present time she had spoken as little as possible of Mrs. Blake. She had only said a word or two to Cyril, begging him to make peace with his mother; she had asked him to soften his heart to her. 'With all her faults, I think no mother ever loved her son so well,' she had told him. 'It is not the highest love,' she had continued, 'since she has stooped to deceit and wrong for your sake. But it is not for you to judge her.' And she knew instinctively that her pleading had had weight with him.
But though she had found words to defend her, she knew that Mrs. Blake could never be to her the friend she had been; and the shock of this discovery had been dreadful to her. She might still love and pity Cyril's mother; she might even be desirous of serving her; but the charm was broken, and, as far as Audrey's happiness was concerned, it might be well that the distance was widened between them.
When she rose the next morning, she felt as though some difficult and painful duty lay before her; and as she walked towards the Cottage in the sunshine of an April afternoon, she told herself that her visit must not be a long one.
A rush of bitter-sweet memories came over her as she pushed open the green gate for the last time, and Zack bounded to meet her. As she stooped to caress him, and he rested his glossy head against her with a dog's unreasoning adoration, she said in a low voice: 'Zack, old fellow, you will be glad to be with your master again.' And he whined, as though in joyful assent.
There were no signs of either Mollie or Biddy, so she went up as usual--unannounced. The drawing-room door was open, and as her footsteps sounded in the passage Mrs. Blake came quietly out. She stepped back as she saw Audrey, and a slight colour came to her face.
'It is you--at last!' she said abruptly; but there was no other greeting.
'Yes, it is I,' returned Audrey, kissing her, and speaking in her usual tranquil manner. 'Do you think I should have let you leave Rutherford without bidding you good-bye!'
Then Mrs. Blake's eyes had a dangerous gleam in them.
'How could I know that they would let you come?' she said almost harshly. 'Am I not a pariah, an outcast from all respectable society? Does not Dr. Ross think so, as well as that excellent sister of yours? Do you know what my life has been during the last fortnight, since my boy left me? I have not dared to leave my own gate; if I were stifled for air, I would not venture to stir out, for fear of seeing a face I know.'
'You need not have been afraid; no one in Rutherford has heard your story.'
'But they may have heard it by this time. You forget that Dr. Charrington and Mr. Harcourt have been told. A man would never keep such a secret from his wife. Mrs. Charrington may have told it to half the masters' wives by this time; this is why I have begged Cyril to take me away, because my life is unendurable.'
'You are going to him now,' observed Audrey soothingly, for she saw at once that Mrs. Blake was in one of her unhappy moods.
She was thin and pale, and there was a sharpened look about her features, as though her inward excitement had worn her.
'Yes, I am going to him; but what good will my life be to me? He has forgiven me--at least, he says so--but every hour of the day his sadness will be a reproach to me. When I see his unhappiness, how am I to bear it, when I know it is all my fault? Audrey, tell me one thing: you are still engaged to him?'
'Yes,' returned Audrey very softly, 'I am still engaged to him.'
'Captain Burnett told me so; he said you had refused to give him up. Oh, my darling, how I loved you when he said that! It was brave of you to say such words, but my boy deserves them. If ever a girl was worshipped, he worshipped you.'
'Dear Mrs. Blake, I think we will not speak of that.'
'Why should we not speak of it? It is the only thing that will comfort me, and him too. Ah, if you only loved him as he loves you, there would be no difficulty. Many a girl has given up more for her lover than you will ever be asked to give up, and has found her reward in a happy life.'
'I will not pretend to misunderstand you,' returned Audrey simply; but she felt as she spoke that her father had been right to dread this interview. 'I know what you would insinuate--you would have me marry Cyril without my parents' consent.'
'I would,' was Mrs. Blake's unabashed reply; 'and where would be the harm, Audrey? You are of age; you have your own money. No one has a right to prevent your marriage. Of course, your people would be angry at first, but after a time they would relent. My darling girl, think of it: would it not be a noble act of self-sacrifice? And it would save Cyril!'
'He would not wish to save himself at the risk of my happiness and peace of mind,' she replied calmly. 'Dear Mrs. Blake, how strange that you should not know your own son better than that! Cyril would never marry me without my father's consent, neither would I marry him. Under such circumstances we should both be wretched.'
'And you call that love?' returned Mrs. Blake with a sneer. 'I am different from you, Audrey. I would have given up home, country, everything, for the sake of the man I loved; that is why I hated Mat, because I was bound to him, and the other man was free. It just maddened me! What!' interrupting herself, 'are you going to leave me?'
'It is useless to stay,' returned Audrey, in a pained voice. 'If you talk like this, it is far better for me to go.'
Then Mrs. Blake burst into passionate tears, and clasped her in her arms.
'Going! when I have never thanked you for your goodness to my boy; when I have never told you how dearly I have loved you for it! Audrey, forgive me, and stay with me a little, and I will try not to talk so wildly. It makes me feel better only to look at you--and you used to love me a little.'
Then very reluctantly Audrey suffered herself to be persuaded, and to remain for another half-hour. _