'Do you think it is only that? Oh, I won't say another word if you will only not be cross with me;' and Mollie relieved her feelings by one of her strangling hugs.

Mollie was quite used to people finding fault with her and telling her she was a goose. When Audrey kissed her, she sat down and copied her exercise in a humble and contrite spirit; it was Audrey who felt sad and spiritless the rest of the day. 'It has gone deeper than I thought; it has gone very deep,' she said with a sort of shiver, as she walked up to Hillside that afternoon.

But a far worse ordeal was before Audrey--one that threw all Mollie's girlish chatter into the shade. A few days afterwards she received a little note from Mrs. Blake.

'MY DEAR MISS ROSS,' it began,

'I am nearly desperate. What have Mollie or I done that we should be sent to Coventry after this fashion? At least, not Mollie--I am wrong there: Mollie still basks in the light of your smiles, is still allowed to converse with you; it is only I who seem to be debarred from such privileges. Now, my dear creature, what can you mean by keeping away from us like this? I was at Woodcote yesterday, but you had flown. I had to sit and chat with Mrs. Ross instead; she is delightful, but she is not her daughter; no one but yourself can ever fill your place; no one can be Miss Ross. Now will you make us amends for all this unfriendliness? If you will only come to tea with me to-morrow I will promise you full forgiveness and the warmest of welcomes.

'Yours affectionately but resentfully, M. BLAKE.'

Audrey wrote a pretty playful little answer to this. She was sorry to be accused of unfriendliness, but nothing was farther from her thoughts; she was very busy, very much engaged. Relays of parents had been interviewing them at Woodcote; her sister had not been well, and all her afternoons had been spent at Hillside. Mrs. Blake must be lenient; she would come soon, very soon, and so on. Mrs. Blake was more formidable than Mollie, and Audrey was determined to delay her visit as long as possible. Just now she had a good excuse. Geraldine was a little delicate and ailing, and either she or her mother went daily to Hillside.

Audrey breathed more freely when she had sent off her note; she had given it into Cyril's hand at luncheon--a sudden impulse made her choose that mode of delivery.

'I wish you would give this to your mother,' she said, addressing him suddenly as he sat beside her. 'She wants me to have tea with her to-morrow; but it is impossible, I have so much to do just now.'

'I could have told her; there was no need for you to write or to trouble yourself in any way. I am afraid my mother is rather exacting; it is a Blake foible.' He smiled as he spoke, and there was no special meaning in his tone; he seemed to take it as a matter of course that Audrey's visits to the Cottage had ceased. 'It will be all right,' he said, as he put the letter in his breast-pocket; and then he stopped and called some boy to order. 'You will stay in after luncheon, Roberts,' he said severely, and after that he did not speak again to Audrey.

But that letter, strange to say, brought things to a climax. The very next morning Mollie gave Audrey a note.

'It is from mamma,' she said, rather timidly. 'Would you like me to begin my piece, Miss Ross, while you read it?'

'Yes, certainly; but it does not seem a long letter.' And, indeed, it only contained a few words:

'DEAR MISS ROSS,

'I must see you. If you will not come to me, will you tell Mollie when I may call? But I must and will speak to you alone.'

Audrey twisted up the paper in her hand; then she stood behind Mollie and beat time for a moment.

'Mollie,' she said hurriedly, as she turned over the page, 'will you tell your mother that I will come to her this afternoon a little before three? I shall not be able to stay, but just for half an hour;' and then she sat down and quietly and patiently pointed out how an erring pa.s.sage ought to be played. But there was a tired look on her face long before the lesson ended.

All her life long Audrey never forgot the strange chill sensation that came over her as she read that note; it was as though some dim, overmastering force were impelling her against her own will. As she crushed the letter in her hand, she told herself that circ.u.mstances were becoming too strong for her.

Her face was very grave that afternoon as she pushed open the green gate and walked up to the open door. It seemed to her as though she were someone else, as she crossed the threshold and stood for a moment in the little hall. Biddy came out of the kitchen. The mistress was in the drawing-room, she said, and Miss Mollie was out; and Audrey, still with that strange weight at her heart, went upstairs slowly. Mrs. Blake was sitting in her usual seat by the window. She rose without speaking and took Audrey's hands, but there was no smile upon her face. She looked very pale, and Audrey could see at once that she had been weeping.

'You have come,' she said quietly; 'I thought my letter would bring you.

Perhaps it was wrong of me to write; I ought to have come to you instead. But how was I to speak to you alone? Last night I was almost desperate, and then I was obliged to send for you.'

'If you wanted me so much, of course you were right to send for me.'

Audrey was conscious that her manner was cold, and that her voice was hardly as sympathetic as usual. She was sure Mrs. Blake noticed it, for her eyes filled with tears.

'Oh, how coldly you speak! My poor boy has indeed offended you deeply.

Oh, I know everything; he was too unhappy last night to hide it any longer from his mother. Do you know what he said to me?--that with all his strength he could not bear it, and that he must go away.'

'Go away--leave Rutherford?'

'Yes;' and now the tears were streaming down her face, and her voice was almost choked with sobs. 'He said he must give it up, and that we must all go away--that the effort is killing him, and that no man could bear such an ordeal. Oh, Miss Ross'--as Audrey averted her face--'I know you are sorry for him; but think what it was for his mother to stand by and hear him say such things. My boy--my brave, n.o.ble-hearted boy, who has never given me an hour's pain in his life!'

'And you have sent for me to tell me this?'

There was something proud, almost resentful, in Audrey's tone.

'Yes; but you must not be angry with me. I think that, if Cyril knew that I was betraying him, he would never give me his confidence again.

Last night I heard him walking about his room, and I went up to him. He wanted to send me away, but I would not go. I knelt down beside him and put my arms round his neck, and told him that I had found out his secret. It had come to me with a sudden flash as I sat beside him in chapel last Sunday. You pa.s.sed up the aisle, and I saw his face, and then I knew what ailed him. And in the darkness I whispered in his ear, "My poor boy, you love Audrey Ross!"'

Audrey put up one hand to shield her face, but she made no remark. She must hear it all; she had brought this misery upon them, and she must not refuse to share it.

'He owned it then. I will not tell you what he said; it must be sacred between my boy and me. Oh, you do not know him! His nature is intense, like mine; he takes nothing easily. When he says that it is killing him by inches, and that we must go away, I know he is speaking the truth.

How is he to live here, seeing you every day, and knowing that there is no love for him in your heart? How could any man drag out such a hopeless existence?'

'Such things are done every day.' Audrey hardly knew what she was saying. A dull pain seemed to contract her heart; he was going away.

Somehow, this thought had never occurred to her.

'Yes, but not by men of Cyril's nature. He is strong, but his very strength seems to make him suffer more keenly. If he stayed here, people would begin to talk; he would not always be able to hide what he felt.

He thinks he ought to go away for your sake. "I am giving her pain now, and by and by it will be worse"--those were his very words.'

'I think it would be braver to stay on here. Will you tell him so, Mrs.

Blake?'

'No, Miss Ross, I will not tell him so; I will not consent to see him slowly tortured. If he tells us we must go, I will not say a dissenting word. What is my own comfort compared to his? I have had a hard life, G.o.d knows! and now it will be harder still.'

'But you have other children to consider,' remonstrated Audrey faintly.

'If you leave here, Mollie and Kester will be sacrificed. Surely, you have put this before him.'

'No, indeed, I have not; he has always been my first consideration. Of course, I know how bad it will be for the poor children; but if it comes to that--to choose between them and Cyril----' And a strange, pa.s.sionate look came into her eyes.

'Hush, hush! I do not like to hear you talk so,' replied Audrey. 'It is wrong; no mother ought to make such a difference. You are not yourself, or you would not say such things. It is all this trouble.'

'Perhaps you are right,' she returned drearily. 'I think it has half crazed me to know we must go away. Oh, if you knew what my life has been, and what a haven of rest this has seemed!' She looked round the room, and a sort of spasm crossed her face. 'It is all so sweet and homelike, and he has loved it so; and now to begin all afresh, and to go amongst strangers--and then the loss----' She stopped as though something seemed to choke her.

Audrey felt as though she could hear no more. 'It is all my fault,' she burst out; 'how you must hate me!' But Mrs. Blake shook her head with a sad smile.

'I don't seem to have the power of hating you,' she said, so gently that Audrey's lip quivered. 'How can I hate what my boy loves?' and then she paused and looked at Audrey, as though the sight of her suppressed emotion stirred some dim hope within her: 'If I thought it would help him, I would kneel at your feet like a beggar and pray you to have compa.s.sion upon him; but I know what such pity would be worth--do you think Cyril would accept any woman's pity?'

'No, no,' and then Audrey rose and put out her hands in a beseeching way. 'Will you let me go? Indeed, indeed, I can bear no more----'

'Yes, you shall go,' returned Mrs. Blake in a stifled tone. 'I have not been generous, I have spared you nothing, and yet it is not your fault.

You have not played with my boy's heart; you never tried to win his heart. Cyril said so himself.'

'No, you have not spared me,' was Audrey's answer, and then the two women parted without kissing each other--Audrey was too sore, too bewildered, for any such caress. They stood holding each other's hands for a moment, and then Mrs. Blake walked to the other end of the room and threw herself down upon a couch. Audrey looked at her for an instant, then she turned and went slowly down the stairs. But as she closed the green gate after her, she told herself that she must be alone for a little, and with a sudden impulse she turned into the courtyard that led to the school-house and chapel. There was one spot where she would be in perfect seclusion, and that was the school library; even if some stray boy were to make his appearance in search of a book--a very unlikely thing at this time in the afternoon--her presence there would attract no notice: she had several times chosen it as a cool, quiet retreat on a hot summer's afternoon. The sight of the big shabby room, with its pillars and book recesses and sloping desks, gave her a momentary sense of relief. The stillness soothed her, and the tumultuous singing in her head and ears seemed to lull. She sat down in one of the inner recesses and looked out on the row of ivy-covered studies and the little gate that led down to the town. A tame jackdaw was hopping among the stones, and a couple of fan-tail pigeons were strutting near him.

The mellow brightness of the October sunshine seemed to flood the whole court. Oh, how peaceful it looked, how calm and still! and then Audrey suddenly put down her face on her hands and cried like a baby. 'Oh, if it were only not my fault!' she sobbed; 'but I cannot, cannot bear it,'

and for a time she could do nothing but weep.