But Geraldine had looked quite shocked at the idea.

'No, thank you, father; I never kiss soldiers,' she replied discreetly--at which reply there had been a fresh laugh.

'He may be a soldier, but Mike's Mike, and I wanted to kiss him,'

returned Audrey stoutly. 'Why do you laugh, daddy?--little girls may kiss anybody.'

Had he cared for her ever since then, he wondered; and then he pulled himself up with a sort of start.

'Michael, why do you not answer me?'

'Because I was thinking,' he returned quietly. 'Audrey, do you know you are just as much a child as you were a dozen years ago? Does it ever occur to you, my dear, that Blake might not always endorse your opinion?

Stop,' as she was about to speak; 'we all know what a kind-hearted person our Lady Bountiful is, and how she never thinks of herself at all. But I have a sort of fellow-feeling with Blake, and I quite understand his view of the case--that two is company and three are none.'

'But, Michael,' and here Audrey blushed again, most becomingly, 'indeed Cyril is not so ridiculous. I know what people generally think: that engaged couples like to be left to themselves--and I daresay it is pleasant sometimes--but I don't see why they are to be selfish. Cyril has plenty of opportunities for talking to me; but when he comes of an evening there is no need for you to turn hermit.'

'It is a character I prefer. All old bachelors develop this sort of tendency to isolate themselves at times from their fellow-creatures. To be sure, I am naturally gregarious; but, then, I hate to spoil sport.

"Do as you would be done by"--that is the Burnett motto. So, by your favour, I intend Blake to have his own way.'

'Oh, how silly you must think us!' she returned impatiently. 'I wish you would not be so self-opinionative, Michael; for you are wrong--quite wrong. I should be far happier if you would make one of us, as you do on other evenings.'

'And this is the _role_ you have selected for me,' replied Michael mournfully: 'to play gooseberry in my old age, and get myself hated for my pains. No, my dear child; listen to the words of wisdom: leave Mentor to enjoy a surrept.i.tious nap in his arm-chair, and be content with your Blake audience.' And, in spite of all her coaxing and argument, she could not induce him to promise that he would mend his ways.

'You are incorrigible!' she said, as she bade him good-night. 'After all, Cyril gives me my own way far more than you do.'

But Michael seemed quite impervious to this reproach: the smile was still on his face as she left him; but as the door closed his elbow dropped heavily on the mantelpiece, and a sombre look came into the keen blue eyes.

'Shall I have to give it up and go away?' he said to himself. 'Life is not worth living at this price. Oh, my darling! my innocent darling! why do you not leave me in peace? why do you tempt me with your sweet looks and words to be false to my own sense of honour? But I will not yield--I dare not, for all our sakes. If she will not let me take my own way, I must just throw it all up and go abroad. G.o.d bless her! I know she means what she says, and Mike is Mike still.' And then he groaned, and his head dropped on his arms, and the tide of desolation swept over him. He was still young--in the prime of life--and yet what good was his life to him?

Audrey was a healthy-minded young person; she was not given to introspection. She never took herself to pieces, in a morbid way, to examine the inner workings of her own mind, after the manner of some folk, who regulate themselves in a bungling fashion, and wind themselves up afresh daily; and who would even time their own heart-beats if it were possible.

Audrey was not one of these scrupulous self-critics. She would have considered it waste of time to be always weighing herself and her feelings in a nicely-adjusted balance. 'Know thyself,' said an old thinker; but Audrey Ross would have altered the saying: 'Look out of yourself; self-forgetfulness is better than any amount of self-knowledge.'

Nevertheless, Audrey was a little thoughtful after this conversation with Michael, and during the next few weeks she was conscious of feeling vaguely dissatisfied with herself. Now and then she wondered if she were different from other girls, and if her absence of moods, and her constant serenity and gaiety, were not signs of a phlegmatic temperament.

She was perfectly content with her own position. She had never imagined before how pleasant it would be to be engaged, and to have one human being entirely devoted to her. She was very much attached to her _fiance_. He never disappointed her; on the contrary, she discovered every day some new and admirable trait that excited her admiration, and as a lover he was simply perfect. He never made her uneasy by demanding more than she felt inclined to give; at the same time, it deepened her sense of security and restfulness to feel how completely he understood her.

But now and then she would ask herself if her love for Cyril were all that it ought to be. She began to compare herself with others--with Geraldine, for example. She remembered the months of Geraldine's engagement, and how entirely she and Percival had been absorbed in each other. Geraldine had never seemed to have eyes or ears for anyone but her lover, and in his absence she had hardly seemed like herself at all.

She had been obliged to pay a few weeks' visit to some friends in Scotland, and Audrey had accompanied her, and she remembered how, when their visit was half over, she had jestingly observed that she would never be engaged to anyone if she were compelled to lose her own ident.i.ty. 'For you know you are not the same person, Gage,' she had said; 'instead of taking pleasure in our friends' society, you shut yourself up and write endless letters to Percival; and when we drive out or go in the boat, you never seem to see the beautiful scenery, and the mountains and the loch might be in the clouds; and when anyone asks you a question, you seem to answer it from a distance, and everyone knows that your thoughts are at Rutherford.' And though Geraldine had chosen to be offended at this plain speaking, she had not been able to defend herself. And then, had not Audrey once found her crying in her room, and for a long time she had refused to be comforted? Audrey had been much alarmed, for she thought something must be wrong at Woodcote; but it was only that Percival had a headache and seemed so dull without her. 'He says he really cannot bear the place without me, that he thinks he must go to Edith--and, and, I want to go home dreadfully,' finished Geraldine tearfully; 'I don't think engaged people ought to leave each other, and I know Percival thinks so too.'

Audrey remembered this little episode when during the Christmas holidays Cyril was obliged to go up to town for ten days. She missed him excessively, and wrote him charming little letters every day; but, nevertheless, the time did not hang heavily on her hands. But she was glad when the day of his return arrived, and she went down to the Gray Cottage to welcome him. Mrs. Blake had suggested it as a little surprise, and Audrey had agreed at once. Cyril's delight at seeing her almost deprived him of good manners. He knew his _fiancee_ objected to any sort of demonstration before people; and he only just remembered this in time, as Audrey drew back with a heightened colour.

But he made up for it afterwards when Mrs. Blake left them alone, and Audrey was almost overwhelmed by his vehement expressions of joy at finding himself with her again.

'It has been the longest ten days I have ever spent in my life,' he observed; 'I was horribly bored, and as homesick as possible. I am afraid Norton found me very poor company. If it had not been for your letters, I could not have borne it. You shall never send me away again, dearest.'

'But that is nonsense,' she returned, in her sensible way; 'you cannot stop at Rutherford all the year round, and it will not do for you to lose your friends. I shall have to pay visits myself; and I am afraid I shall not always ask your leave if any very tempting invitations come.'

'You will not need to do so,' he answered quietly; 'do you think I should begrudge you any pleasure? I have no wish, even if I had the right, to curtail your freedom. I am not so selfish.'

'You are never selfish,' she returned softly. 'Cyril dear, I suppose I ought to be pleased that you feel like this; but, do you know, I am just a little sorry.'

'Sorry!' and indeed he could hardly believe his ears, for was he not paying her a pretty compliment?

'Yes; it makes me rather uncomfortable. It seems to me as though I ought to feel the same, as though there were something wanting in me. I sometimes fancy I am different from other girls.'

'Do not compare yourself with other people,' he returned quickly, for he could not bear her to look troubled for a moment. This mood was new to him, and he had never seen a shade on her bright face before. 'You have a calm temperament--that is your great charm--you are not subject to the cold and hot fits of ordinary mortals. It is my own fault that I cannot be happy without you; but I do not expect you to share my restlessness.'

'Ah, that is right,' she replied, very much relieved by this. 'You are always so nice at understanding things, Cyril. Do you know, I was blaming myself for feeling so comfortable in your absence. But I was so busy--I had so many things to interest me; and, then, I had Michael.'

The young man flushed slightly, but he had learnt to repress himself: he knew, far better than she did, that his love was infinitely greater than hers. But what of that? She was a woman made to be worshipped. It never troubled him when she talked of Michael--Cyril's nature was too n.o.ble for jealousy--but just for the moment her frankness jarred on him.

'I think I was nearly as happy as usual,' she went on, determined to tell the truth; 'and yet, by your own account, you were perfectly miserable.'

'But that was my own fault,' he returned lightly. 'Men are unreasonable creatures; they are not patient like women. It is true that I have no life apart from you now, and that I always want to be near you; but I do not expect you to feel the same.'

Audrey looked at him thoughtfully; he gave her so much, and yet he seemed to demand so little.

'You are very good to me, Cyril,' she said, in a low voice. 'I never thought you would understand me so thoroughly. You leave me so free, and you make me so happy. I wonder where you have learnt to be so wise.'

'My love for you has taught me many things,' he answered. 'Do I really make you happy, sweetheart?'

But the look in her eyes was sufficient answer. This was his reward--to see her perfect content and trust in him, and to bask in her sweet looks and smiles.

CHAPTER XXIX

TWO FAMILY EVENTS

'A solemn thing it is to me To look upon a babe that sleeps, Wearing in its spirit deeps The undeveloped mystery Of our Adam's taint and woe; Which, when they developed be, Will not let it slumber so.'

MRS. BROWNING.

One morning, as the Ross family were sitting at breakfast, Audrey noticed that Michael seemed very much absorbed by a letter he was reading. He laid it down presently, but made no remark, only he seemed a little grave and absent during the remainder of the meal.

Just as they were rising from table, she heard him ask her father in rather a low tone if he would come into the study for a moment, as he wanted a few words with him; and as they went out together he mentioned the word dogcart--could he have it in time to catch the 11.15 train?

Audrey felt a sudden quickening of curiosity. Michael's manner was so peculiar that she was sure something must have happened. She wondered what this sudden summons to town meant. It was a bitterly cold day, and a light fall of snow had whitened the ground. A three miles' drive in a dogcart was not a very agreeable proceeding, only Michael seemed so strangely callous to weather now. Surely her father would insist on his having a fly from the town? He was always so careful of Michael's comfort.

Audrey could settle to nothing; it was impossible to practise or answer notes until she had had a word with Michael. So she took up the paper and pretended to read it, until the study door opened and she heard her cousin go up to his room. The next moment Dr. Ross walked in, looking as though he were very much pleased.

'Mike's a droll fellow,' he said, addressing his wife, who was looking over the tradesmen's books. 'He has just told me, with a very long face, that his uncle, Mr. Carlisle, is dead, and that he has left him all his money; and he is as lugubrious over it as though he had been made bankrupt.'

Audrey uttered an exclamation, but Mrs. Ross said, in her quiet way:

'Perhaps he is grieved at the loss of his uncle, John. It would hardly be becoming to rejoice openly at the death of a relative, however rich he might be.'