Now, it is all very well, but there are two sides to every question, and I do think old maids have a great many privileges. No one seems to think of the delights of freedom.'

'I believe we have heard these sentiments before. Kester, my son, go on with your book; this sort of conversation is not intended for good little boys.'

'Michael, don't be absurd! I really mean what I say; it is perfectly glorious to say and do just what one likes. I mean to write a paper about it one day, and send it up to one of our leading periodicals.'

'"On the Old Maids of England," by "A Young Maid." I should like to read it; the result of three-and-twenty years' experience must be singularly beneficial to the world at large. Write it, my child, by all means; and I will correct the proof-sheets.'

'But why should not one be happy in one's own way?' persisted Audrey.

'You are older than I, Michael--I suppose a man of your age must have some experience--is it not something to be your own master, to go where you like and do what you like without being cross-questioned on your actions?'

'Oh, I will agree with you there!'

'People talk such nonsense about loneliness and all that sort of thing, as though one need be lonely in a whole world full of human creatures--as though an old maid cannot find plenty to love, and who will love her.'

'I don't know; I never tried. If I had a maiden aunt, perhaps----'

murmured Michael.

'If you had, and she were a nice, kind-hearted woman, you would love her. I know it is the fashion to laugh at old maids, and make remarks on their funny little ways; but I never will find fault with them. Why, I shall be an old maid myself one day; but, all the same, I mean people to love me all my life long. What are you doing now?' rather sharply; for Michael had taken out his pocket-book and was writing the date.

'I thought I might like to remind you of this conversation one day. Is it the sixteenth or the seventeenth? Thank you, Kester--the seventeenth?

There! it is written down.'

'You are very disagreeable, and I will not talk any more to you. I shall go and look for some stag's-horn moss instead;' and Audrey sprang up from her couch of heather and marched away, while Michael lay face downward, with his peaked cap drawn over his eyes, and watched her roaming over the moor.

Now, why was Audrey declaiming after this fashion? and why did she take it into her head to air all sorts of independent notions that quite shocked her mother? and why was she for ever drawing plans to herself of a life that should be solitary, and yet crowded with interests--whose keynote should be sympathy for her fellow-creatures and large-hearted work among them? and, above all, why did she want to persuade herself and Michael that this was the sort of life best fitted for her? But no one could answer these questions; so complex is the machinery of feminine nature, that perhaps Audrey herself would have been the last to be able to answer them.

But she was very happy, in spite of all these crude theories--very happy indeed; some fulness of life seemed to enrich her fine, bountiful nature, and to add to her sense of enjoyment. Sometimes, when she was sitting beside some mountain beck, in the hush of the noontide heat, when all was silent and solitary about her except the gauzy wings of insects moving above the gra.s.ses, a certain face would start up against the background of her thoughts--a pair of dark, wistful eyes would appeal to her out of the silence. That mute farewell, so suggestive, so full of pain--even the strong warm grasp with which her hand had been held--recurred to her memory. Was he still missing her, she wondered, or had Miss Frances contrived to comfort him?

Miss Frances was very seldom mentioned in Cyril's frequent letters to Kester. The boy used to bring them to Audrey to read with a glow of satisfaction on his face.

'Cyril is awfully good,' he said once; 'he never used to write to me at all; mother always had his letters. But look what a long one I have had to-day--two sheets and a half--and he has asked such a lot of questions.

Please, do read it, Miss Ross; there are heaps of messages to everybody.'

Audrey was quite willing to read it. As she took the letter, she again admired the clear, bold handwriting. It was just like the writer, she thought--frank, open, and straightforward. But as she perused it, a glow of amus.e.m.e.nt pa.s.sed over her face.

Mr. Blake's letters were very kind and brotherly, but were they only intended for Kester's eyes? Were all those picturesque descriptions, those clever sketches of character, those telling bits of humour, meant solely for the delectation of a boy of sixteen? And, then, the series of questions--what did they do all day when the weather was rainy, for example? did Miss Ross always join the Doctor and Mr. Harcourt on their fishing expeditions? and so on. Mr. Blake seldom mentioned her name, although there were many indirect allusions to her; but Miss Frances was scarcely ever mentioned. She was only cla.s.sed in an offhand way with 'the Hackett girls' or 'the young ladies.' 'The Hackett girls went with us; the two younger ones are famous walkers,' etcetera.

Sometimes there would be an attempt to moralise.

'I am getting sick of girls,' he wrote on this occasion. 'I will give you a piece of brotherly advice, my boy: never have much to do with them. Do not misunderstand me. By girls, I mean the specimens of young ladies one meets at tennis-parties, garden-parties, and that sort of thing. They are very pretty and amusing, but they are dangerous; they seem to expect that a fellow has nothing else to do but to dangle after them and pay them compliments. Even Miss F----. But, there, I will not mention names. She is a good sort--a lively little soul; but she is always up to mischief.'

Audrey bit her lips to keep from smiling as she read this pa.s.sage, for she knew Kester was watching her. It was one of the 'saft days' common in the Highlands, and, not being ducks, the two households had remained within doors. Dr. Ross and Michael were cla.s.sifying b.u.t.terflies and moths in the den; Mrs. Ross was in her room; and Mr. and Mrs.

Harcourt--'cabined, cribbed, confined,' as Mr. Harcourt expressed it--were getting through alarming arrears of correspondence by way of pa.s.sing the time. Audrey had lighted a fire in the parlour, and sat beside it snugly, and Kester was on the couch opposite her.

'I wonder if it be Miss Frances!' thought Audrey, as she replaced the letter in the envelope. '"A lively little soul, and a good sort." I don't think Mr. Blake's dislike to girls counts for much. Young men seldom write in that way unless they are bitten; and, of course, it could be no one else but Miss Frances. But it is no use arguing out the question.'

'It is a very good letter,' she said aloud. 'You are lucky to have such a correspondent. I suppose'--taking up her embroidery--'that your brother will not mind our seeing his letters?'

'Oh dear no!' returned Kester, falling innocently into the snare. 'I have told him that you always read them; and, you see, he writes just as often. Do you think Cyril is enjoying himself as much as we are, Miss Ross? Now and then it seems to me that he is a little dull. When Cyril says he is bored, I think he means it.'

Audrey evaded this question. She also had detected a vein of melancholy running through the letters. If he were so very happy in Miss Frances'

society, would he wish quite so earnestly that the vacation were over, and that he was amongst his boys in the big schoolroom? Would he drop those hints that no air suited him like Rutherford air?

'I think he ought to be enjoying himself,' she said, a little severely.

'He is amongst very kind people, who evidently try to make him happy, and who treat him like one of themselves; and, then, the girls seem so good-natured. Young men do not know when they are well off. You had better tell him so, Kester.'

'Shall I say it as a message from you?'

'By no means;' and Audrey spoke very decidedly. 'I never send messages to gentlemen.' And as the boy looked rather abashed at this rebuke, she continued more gently: 'Of course you will give him our kind regards, and I daresay mother will send a message--Mr. Blake is a great favourite of hers. But it is not my business if your brother chooses to be discontented and to quarrel with his loaves and fishes.'

'I think Cyril would like to be in my place,' observed Kester, quite unaware that he was saying the wrong thing; but Audrey took no notice of this speech. 'Well, he need not envy me now,' he went on, in a dolorous voice. 'It has been a grand time--I have never been so happy in my life; but it will soon be over now. Only a fortnight more.'

'I am so glad you have been happy, Kester; and you do seem so much better,' looking at him critically.

And indeed a great change had pa.s.sed over the boy. His face was less thin and sharp, and there was a tinge of healthy colour in his cheeks; his eyes, too, were less sunken and hollow, and had lost their melancholy expression. When Audrey had first seen him on that June afternoon, there had been a subdued air about him that contrasted painfully with his extreme youth; but now there was renewed life and energy in his aspect, as though some heavy pressure had been suddenly removed.

'I am ever so much better,' he returned gratefully; and it was then that Audrey noticed for the first time his likeness to his brother. He was really a nice-looking boy, and but for his want of health would have been handsome. 'When I go home'--and here a cloud pa.s.sed over his face--'these weeks will seem like a dream. Fancy having to do nothing all day but enjoy one's self from morning to night!'

'Why, I am sure you and Michael work hard enough.'

'Oh, but that is the best pleasure of all!' he replied eagerly. 'I should not care for idleness. I like to feel I am making progress; and Captain Burnett says I am getting on first-rate. And then think of our study, Miss Ross!' and here Kester's face kindled with enthusiasm. 'How I shall dream of those moors, and of those great patches of purple heather, and the bees humming over the thyme, and the golden gorse, and the bracken! No wonder Cyril wants to be in my place!'

'You and Michael are great friends, are you not, Kester?'

'Oh yes!' But though Kester turned on her a beaming look of a.s.sent, he said no more. He had a boy's dislike to speak of his feelings; and Audrey respected this shy reticence, for she asked no further questions.

But she knew Kester almost worshipped Michael, that a word from him influenced him more than a dozen words from any other person; even Cyril's opinion must defer to this new friend. For was not Captain Burnett a hero? did he not wear the Victoria Cross? and were not those scars the remains of glorious wounds, when he shed his blood freely for those poor sick soldiers? And this hero, this king of men, this grave, clear-eyed soldier, had thrown the aegis of his protection round him--Kester--had stooped to teach and befriend him! No wonder Kester prayed 'G.o.d bless him!' every night in his brief boyish prayers; that he grew to track his footsteps much as Booty did, and to read him--as Audrey failed to do--by the light of his honest, youthful love.

For Kester's hero was Kester's friend; and in time friends grow to understand each other.

CHAPTER XIX

YELLOW STOCKINGS ON THE TAPIS

'We school our manners, act our parts, But He who sees us through and through Knows that the bent of both our hearts Was to be gentle, tranquil, true.'

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

Audrey had not forgotten Mollie all this time. She kept her promise, and wrote to her frequently; and she had long letters from her in return.

Mollie's girlish effusions were very innocent and loving. One day Michael asked to read one of them. He smiled as he handed it back.

'She is a dear little girl!' he said heartily; 'I do not wonder that you are so fond of her. She is only an undeveloped child now, but there is plenty of good raw material. Mollie will make a fine large-hearted woman one day--like someone else I know,' he finished to himself. 'If I do not mistake, Mollie is cut after Audrey's pattern.'

Now and then Mrs. Blake wrote also. Her letters were airy and picturesque, like her talk. Audrey would read them aloud to her mother and Michael.

'I really feel as though our Richmond dreams had come true,' she wrote once--'as though our favourite castle in the air were built. "Not really, mother? you don't think this beautiful house and garden belong to us really?" asks Mollie, in her stupid way. You know what a literal little soul she is. "Oh, go away, Mollie!" I exclaim quite crossly. "How can I help it if you have no imagination?" For all I know, the place is ours: no one interferes with us; we come and go as we like; the birds sing to us; the flowers bloom for our pleasure. Sometimes we sit by the lake, or Mollie paddles me to Deep-water Chine, or we read our history on that delicious circular seat overlooking the terraces. Then the silence is invaded: a neat-handed Phyllis--isn't that poetically expressed?--comes up with a message from that good Mrs. Draper: "Where would Mrs. Blake and Miss Mollie have their tea?" Oh, you dear, thoughtful creature, as though I do not know who has prompted Mrs.