If he were rich, if he had sufficient to offer a comfortable home and some of the luxuries of life to the woman he wished to make his wife, would it be right for him to speak? For years his poverty and ill-health had kept him silent; he had made no sign: he had been her faithful friend and cousin--that was all!

But now, if the pressure of narrow means were removed, if, after all, he were his uncle's heir--as he verily believed himself to be--might he not venture to plead his cause at last? His health was better, and his doctor had often told him, half seriously and half in joke, that all he needed was a good wife to take care of him.

'I shall never be as strong as other men,' he said to himself; 'some women might object to me on that score. But she is not that sort: she loves to take care of people, to feel herself necessary to them.' And here a smile came to his lips. 'I have never spoken to her, never dropped a hint of my feelings; but, somehow, I do not think she would be surprised if I ever told them--we have been so much to each other. I think I could teach her to love me in time--at least, I would try, my sweet.' And here there was a sudden gleam and fire in his eyes, and then he took up Audrey's letter, and began to read it.

But when he had finished the first sentence, a curious dull feeling came over him, and he found that he could not understand what he was reading; he must go over the pa.s.sage again. But as he re-read it the same numbness and impossibility of comprehension came over him; and yet the words were very clearly written:

'Shall you be very much surprised, my dear Michael, to hear some news I have to tell you? I am engaged to Mr. Blake. I will tell you all about it presently, just as though you were my father-confessor; I will not hide one little thing from you. But I was never one to beat about the bush, and I hope my abruptness has not made you jump; but oh, Michael dear, I am so happy!' etc.

He read this sentence half a dozen times, until something of its meaning had taken hold of his dense brain; and then he read the letter straight through to the very end, slowly, and often pausing over a sentence that seemed to him a little involved. And as he read there was a pinched gray look upon his face, as though some sudden illness had seized him; but he was not conscious of any active pain, though the whole plan and purpose of his life lay crushed in the dust before him, like the chrysanthemum that Booty was tearing, petal by petal, until his master's coat-sleeve was covered with golden-brown shreds. On the contrary, as he sat there, holding the letter between his limp hands, his mind wandered off to a story he had once read.

Was it the wreck of the _Royal George_, he wondered? The name of the vessel had escaped him, but he knew the story was a true one; it had really happened. He had read how the vessel was doomed. She was a troop-ship, and there were hundreds of brave English soldiers on board; and when they knew there was no hope, the officers drew up their men on the deck, just as though they were on parade; and the gallant fellows stood there, in rank and file, as they went down to their watery grave.

'And not a man of them flinched, you may depend on that,' he said, half aloud; 'for they were Englishmen, and Englishmen know how to die.'

And it seemed to him that he was still ruminating over this old story that had happened so many, many years ago, when Kester returned, and he must needs tell him the story again, and he told it very well, too.

'And not a man of them flinched,' he repeated, rising a little feebly from his chair, 'for they were Englishmen, and Englishmen know how to die. Why are you staring at me, boy? It is a good story, is it not?'

'Very good indeed, but I was only afraid you were not quite well, Captain Burnett; you look so queer, somehow, and your hand is shaking.'

'I have sat too long. I think I must walk off my stiffness. Don't wait lunch for me, Kester. I may go to my club.'

And then he took down his hat, and went out in the streets, with Booty ambling along at his heels.

But he did not go far; he strolled into the Park and sat down on a bench. The air refreshed him, and the miserable numb feelings left him, and he had power to think.

But there were deep lines in his face as he sat there, and a great sadness in his eyes, and just before he rose to go home a few words escaped him. 'Oh, my darling, what a mistake, when you belong to me!

Will you ever find it out for yourself? Will you ever recognise that it is a mistake?' And then he set his teeth hard, like a man who knows his strength and refuses to be beaten.

And the next morning, as they sat at breakfast, Michael looked up from his newspaper and asked Kester if he had heard the Rutherford news.

'Perhaps your mother or Mollie has written to you?' he observed, as he carelessly scanned the columns.

Kester looked up a little anxiously.

'No one has told me anything,' he said, rather nervously. 'I hope it is not bad news.'

'Most people would call it good news. Your brother and Miss Ross are engaged. Well'--as Kester jumped from his seat flushing scarlet--'aren't you delighted? I think you ought to write a pretty note to Miss Ross to go with my letter.'

'Have you written to her? Will you give her a message from me? I would rather write to Cyril. I don't take it in, somehow; you are quite sure it is true, Captain Burnett? Of course, I am glad that Cyril should be happy, but I always thought----'

And here Kester stammered and got confused; but Michael did not help him. He took up his paper again, and left him to finish his breakfast in silence, and after that he remarked that he was going down to his club.

Kester curled himself up on the window-seat as soon as he was left alone, and fell into a brown study. Somehow he could not make it out at all. He was sharp-witted by nature, and years of suffering and forced inaction had made him more thoughtful than most boys of his age. He had long ago grasped the idea that his idolised hero was not happy, and during their stay in Scotland some dim surmise of the truth had occurred to him.

'Dear old Cyril!' he observed, half aloud; 'I am awfully glad for his sake; but it always seemed to me as though Miss Ross were a cut above us. If only I were sure that he was glad, too.'

And here a troubled look crossed the boy's face; he was thinking of the story Captain Burnett had told him yesterday, and of the strange dazed look in Michael's eyes: 'And not a man of them flinched; for they were Englishmen, and Englishmen know how to die.' 'Ah, and to live, too!'

thought Kester, as he roused himself at last and sat down to his Greek.

When Audrey heard that Michael was really coming home, she felt as though she had nothing more to wish. She had read his letter at least a dozen times; its brotherly tenderness and anxiety for her welfare had touched her to the heart.

'I am very grateful for your confidence,' he wrote, after a few earnest wishes for her happiness. 'I would like, if it were possible, to keep my old place as Mentor--we have always been such friends, dear, such true and trusty comrades; and I do not think that Mr. Blake will object to my cousinly surveillance. I could not afford to lose you out of my life, Audrey; so let me subscribe myself, now and for ever, your faithful friend and brother--MICHAEL.'

Audrey sighed gently as she put down the letter; it touched, but it did not completely satisfy her. Michael had not said he was glad to hear of her engagement. He was truthful almost to a fault. The conventional falsehoods that other men uttered were never on his lips. If he could not approve, he would take refuge in silence. 'Silence never damages a man's character,' he was fond of saying; but many people found this oppressive. Audrey had secretly longed for some such word of approval.

If Michael had only told her that he applauded her courage in marrying a poor man, if he had praised her unworldliness, she would have been utterly content; but the letter that Michael had written with a breaking heart held no such comfort for her. He had accepted her decision without a word, and though his message of congratulation to Cyril was all that could be wished, there was no further allusion to him.

'Michael thinks I have been rash,' she said to herself a little sorrowfully. 'I suppose he, too, considers that Cyril is rather too young. If Michael were only on our side, I should not care what the rest of the world thinks;' and then she folded up the letter.

But on the day Michael was expected her face was so radiant that Cyril pretended to be jealous. 'You are very fond of your cousin,' he observed as he followed her to the window, where she was watching the clouds a little anxiously.

Audrey heard him rather absently. She was thinking that the dampness might bring on Michael's neuralgia, and that, if he had only named his train, the carriage might have been sent for him--indeed, she would have driven out herself to meet him and Kester. 'Oh yes,' she rejoined; 'I have missed him terribly all this time. Nothing is right without Michael----' and as Cyril looked a little surprised at this, she added quickly: 'He is like my own brother, Cyril, so it is perfectly natural, you see; ever since his illness he has been one of us.' And as Cyril professed himself satisfied with this explanation, there was nothing more said, and Audrey went up to put the finishing touches to Michael's rooms, and to arrange the chrysanthemums and coloured leaves in the big Indian jars. If she had only known how Michael would shudder at the sight of these chrysanthemums! He had taken a dislike to the flowers ever since Booty had covered his coat-sleeve with golden-brown petals.

After all, Michael came before he was expected. Audrey was sitting chatting to her mother in the twilight, when they heard the hall door open and close, and the next moment they saw Michael standing on the threshold looking at them.

'My dear Michael!' exclaimed Mrs. Ross; but Audrey had already crossed the room: both her hands were in Michael's, and he was looking at her with his old kind smile, though he did not say a word; but Audrey did not seem to notice his silence.

'Have you walked from the Gray Cottage? We did not hear any wheels. Why did you not let us know your train, and I would have driven in to meet you? Mother, I am going to ring for the lamp and tea; Michael will be tired!' And Audrey did as she said, and then picked up Booty and lavished all sorts of caresses on the little animal, while she listened to the quiet explanations that Michael was giving to Mrs. Ross.

'You are looking very well, Audrey,' he said at last; 'you have not lost your moorland colour yet.' And though he said this in his usual tone, he thought that never in his life had he seen her look so sweet.

'I wish I could return the compliment,' was her answer; 'you are looking thin and pale, Michael. You have been giving us such a good account of yourself, but London never suits you.'

'I think it suits me better than it did,' he returned quietly; but he could not quite meet her affectionate look. 'I shall have to run up there pretty frequently now; one must look up one's friends more: out of sight is out of mind in many cases.'

Audrey gave an incredulous smile. She thought Michael would not act up to this resolution; but he fully meant what he said. Woodcote, dearly as he loved it, would never be his home now. Of course, he would do things by degrees: his brief absences should grow longer and more frequent, until they had become used to them; and perhaps in time he might break with his old life altogether. But he put away these thoughts, and talked to them in his usual easy fashion, asking questions about Geraldine and her husband; and presently Dr. Ross came in and monopolised him entirely.

Audrey felt as though she had not had a word with him when she went upstairs to dress for dinner. True, he had asked after Cyril, and inquired if he were coming in that evening; but on Audrey's replying in the negative he had made no observation.

'When father is in the room he never will let Michael talk to anyone else,' she said to herself rather discontentedly; 'if I could only get him alone!'

She had her wish presently, for on her return to the drawing-room she found him lying back in an easy-chair, looking at the fire. He was evidently thinking intently, for he did not hear her entrance until she was close beside him; but at the touch of her hand on his shoulder he started violently.

'A penny for your thoughts, Michael,' she said gaily, as he jumped up and stood beside her on the rug.

'They are too valuable to be saleable,' he returned lightly; 'suppose you let me hear yours instead.'

'You shall have them and welcome. Oh, Michael, how delicious it is to be talking to you again; letters are so stupid and unsatisfactory!'

'Do you mean my letters in particular?'

'Oh no! They were as nice as possible; but, all the same, they did not quite satisfy me. Do you know,' and here her tone was a little wistful, 'you have not told me that you are glad about my engagement? You said so many nice things; but somehow I was longing for just one word of approval from my old Mentor.'

An uneasy flush crossed Michael's face; but the firelight was flickering just then, and Audrey could not see him distinctly. For one moment he was silent; then he put her gently in a seat and placed himself beside her. It would be easier to talk to her so, and perhaps he was conscious of some sudden weakness.

'How cold your hands are!' she observed anxiously; 'if you will break the big coal the fire will burn more brightly.' And as he obeyed her she continued: 'Ah, now we can see each other! I do dislike a flickering, uncertain light. Now, will you tell me frankly if you were glad or sorry when you got my letter?'

He was more prepared now, and his voice was quite steady as he answered her.