'May I write and tell him?' pleaded Mollie. 'Oh, dear Miss Ross, do let me!'

But Audrey was not inclined to give permission; she explained to Mollie that she meant to write herself to Captain Burnett, and that she thought Cyril would send Kester a note.

'Better leave it to him,' she suggested; 'you can write to him afterwards;' and as usual Mollie was docile.

They went upstairs after this, Mollie picking up the kitten on the way.

Cyril sprang to the door as he heard their footsteps.

'Have we been long?' Audrey asked, turning to him with a smile.

Cyril hardly knew what he answered. For a moment a sense of giddiness came over him, as though he were suddenly dazzled. 'Could it be really true?' he asked himself more than once. Audrey did not seem to guess his feelings: she was perfectly tranquil and at her ease; she had laid aside her hat and jacket to please Mrs. Blake, and as she sat there sipping her tea and talking softly to them all, she looked so fair and girlish in her lover's sight, that the infatuated young man could not remove his eyes from her.

And yet Audrey was only in the old dark-red cashmere that was Geraldine's pet aversion; but her brown hair had golden gleams in it, and the gray eyes were very bright and soft, and perhaps with that changing colour Audrey did look pretty; for youth and love are great beautifiers even of homely features. Audrey was sorry when Cyril reminded her that it was time to go. She was loath to leave that little drawing-room, so bright with lamplight and firelight. She went home and dressed for dinner in her white gown, feeling as though she were in some placid dream.

The rest of the evening pa.s.sed very tranquilly. Dr. Ross asked for some music; he was not in the mood for conversation, so Audrey sang to them all her favourite songs, while Cyril stood beside her and turned over the leaves. Now and then they could exchange a word or two.

And just at the last she must needs sing 'Widow Miller,' and as usual Dr. Ross softly beat time and crooned an accompaniment:

'The sang o' the lark finds the widow asteer, The birr o' her wheel starts the night's dreamy ear, The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain, Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.'

'What a sad song, my darling! I should like to hear something more cheerful,' whispered Cyril, as she finished.

But she did not seem to hear him; she rose from her seat and crossed the room to the corner where Dr. Ross was sitting.

'That is your favourite song, daddy,' she said, leaning over him.

And as he smiled and nodded, she sat down on the low chair beside him and looked thoughtfully into the fire.

She roused herself presently to bid Cyril good-bye, and to linger a moment with him at the door in the starlight.

'I shall not see you until luncheon to-morrow, unless you pa.s.s the window,' he said, with the egotism common to lovers. 'You will think of me until then, will you not, dear?'

'Of course I shall think of you,' returned Audrey, with her usual gentleness.

But she seemed to wonder a little at the sudden pa.s.sion with which Cyril clasped her to him.

'Good-night, Cyril dear. I shall be very busy all the morning writing letters; but we can have the walk you propose after four.'

And then she went back to her seat and leant her cheek against her father's arm, as she looked into the fire again.

'A penny for your thoughts, my child,' observed Dr. Ross, when they had both been silent for a long time; 'though I suppose I need not ask.'

'I was thinking of Michael,' she returned guiltily. 'Dear old Michael!

how I wish he could be happy, too!' And then she bade them both good-night and went up to her room, and, strange to say, her last thought before she fell asleep was to wonder what Michael would say.

The boys marvelled more than once the following morning at their master's evident abstraction. In spite of his efforts to fix his attention on Greek verbs and exercises, Cyril's eyes would turn perpetually to the window; but no slight girlish figure in dark-red cashmere appeared on the terrace to gather the yellow and white and violet chrysanthemums that bloomed in the borders.

Audrey was in her own private sanctum, and had given orders that no one should disturb her. Even Mollie was to be sent away. She had very important business on her hands. There was her letter to Geraldine, and a very difficult one it was to write--so difficult, that more than once Audrey thought that she would put on her hat and go up to Hillside instead; but she remembered that Gage was expecting visitors to luncheon. They would probably come early, and drive away before dusk; her letter must not be delivered before then. So she addressed herself again to her task.

After all, it was a very sweet, womanly letter, and might have touched any sister's heart.

'If you cannot conscientiously approve, you can at least wish me joy in the life I have chosen for myself,' she wrote. 'I have accepted Mr.

Blake of my own free will, because I think he is worthy of my affection.

You do not know him yet; but he is so good--so good: sometimes I think even Michael is not more to be trusted.' And so on.

But, after all, it was far easier to write to Michael. Audrey had no need to pick her words or arrange her ideas with him. She could tell him everything as frankly as though he were her brother. There need be no limit to her confidence; Michael would never misunderstand her.

'The one drawback is that you are still away,' she finished affectionately. 'I shall not feel things are perfect until we have had one of our long talks on "Michael's bench." When are you coming home? It will soon be November, and the trees will be stripped of their leaves.

Why do you trouble yourself about another man's business? No one wants you more than your devoted cousin and friend--AUDREY ROSS.'

And when this letter was in the post, and the note for Geraldine lying on the marble slab in the hall, she felt a sense of relief, and had leisure to think of Cyril.

They had their walk together after afternoon school, but it soon grew dusk, and Audrey suggested that, as her mother was alone, they should go back to Woodcote to tea. There was no invitation to dinner that night, but Cyril did not expect it--he had his dormitory work; and as Audrey promised to see him before he went away for the night, he was quite content.

'You must not think that I mean to bore Mrs. Ross with intruding myself on all occasions,' he said. 'I know you will tell me when I may come. I mean to be guided entirely by you. Under these circ.u.mstances a man is tempted to be selfish.'

'You will never be selfish,' she said, with one of her charming smiles.

'I could never have promised to marry a selfish man. But, Cyril, you will be guided by me in that other thing?' changing her tone, and looking at him very seriously; for they had had rather a hot argument.

Cyril was going to Peterborough the next day to buy the betrothal ring, and Audrey had pet.i.tioned for a gold one.

'But it will only look like a wedding-guard,' he had remonstrated; for he would rather have denied himself everything for six months, if only he could buy something fit for her acceptance--a pearl or sapphire ring, for example. Diamonds were beyond his means.

But Audrey could not be induced to say that she liked pearls; on the contrary, she manifested an extraordinary preference for the idea of a broad chased gold band, with her own and Cyril's initials inside.

'I am going to marry a poor man,' she said decidedly, 'and he must not waste his money on me. What does it matter if it look like a guard? It can serve that purpose afterwards. Please do not look so disappointed, Cyril. When you can afford it, you shall give me any ring you like--pearl or diamond; but I like diamonds best.' And she was so evidently in earnest that he had to yield to her; and Audrey wore her gold ring with immense satisfaction.

Audrey spent her evening quietly with her parents. She and Dr. Ross played chess together, and when he went off to his study she stayed and talked to her mother.

Mrs. Ross was not a lively companion that evening. The fear of Geraldine's disapproval was quickening her latent feelings of uneasiness into activity, and she could not keep these feelings to herself.

'I wonder if Geraldine will answer your letter this evening, Audrey?'

'I don't think so, mother dear. I am to go there to-morrow, you see, so there will be no need for her to write.'

'I am afraid that she will be hurt because you have not gone to her to-day; she will think it rather odd for you to write.'

'Why, mother,' opening her eyes rather widely at this, 'don't you remember Mr. and Mrs. Bland were to lunch there? How could Gage have given me her attention? And then, with guests to entertain, it would never have done to run the risk of upsetting her. Percival would have glared at us all through luncheon if he had noticed her eyes were red.

You know how easily Gage cries.'

'Did you tell her this in your letter?'

'I think I implied it, but I am not sure.'

'Ah, well, we must wait until to-morrow,' with a sigh; 'but I cannot deny I am very anxious. You will go up to Hillside directly after breakfast, will you not, my dear? And do beg Geraldine to come back with you. I feel I shall not have a moment's peace until I have seen her.'

'Poor dear mother!' observed Audrey caressingly; for there was a look of care on Mrs. Ross's brow.

But though Audrey cheered up her mother, and made her little jokes, she was quite aware of the ordeal that was before her, and it was with some undefined idea of propitiating her sister that she laid aside the red cashmere the next morning and put on a certain gray gown which Gage especially admired. It had a hat to match, with a gray wing, and Geraldine always looked at her approvingly when she came to Hillside in the gray gown. She was on the terrace, picking two or three yellow chrysanthemums, when she saw her brother-in-law coming towards her. A visit from him at this hour was a most unusual proceeding, and Audrey at once guessed that his business was with her. The idea of any interference from her brother-in-law was decidedly unpalatable; nevertheless, she awaited him smilingly. Mr. Harcourt was a man who walked well. He had a fine carriage of the head, though some people said he held himself a little too erect, and too much with the air of a man who recognises his own superiority; but, as Audrey watched him as he walked up the terrace, she thought he had never held his head so proudly before.