'Cyril has behaved very well. Father seems very much impressed with his behaviour; he says that he offered at once to release you from your engagement.'

'Yes.'

'Percy will say he has acted like a gentleman; that is the highest praise from him. Dear--dearest Audrey, you will not think that I am not sorry for you both when I say that this is a great relief to me?'

'A relief to you that Cyril is free?'

'Yes, and that you are free too.'

'Ah, but I am not,' moving restlessly on her pillow. 'There you are making a mistake, Gage. I thought father would have told you. I am still engaged to Cyril; I shall always be engaged to him, although perhaps we shall never be married.'

'But, Audrey----'

'Now, Gage, we are not going to argue about it, I hope; I am far, far too tired, and my mind is made up, as I told father. I shall never give my poor boy up--never, never!--as long as he is in the world and needs me.' Then, as she saw the distress on her sister's face, she put her hand again into hers. 'You won't love me less for being so wilful, Gage?

If anyone had asked you to give up Percival when you were engaged to him, do you think you would have listened?'

'Is that not very different, darling?'

'No; not so very different. Perhaps I do not love Cyril quite in the same way you loved Percival, our natures are so dissimilar; but, at least, he is very dear to me.'

'Do you mean that you will break your heart because of this? Oh, Audrey!' and Geraldine's face was very sad.

'No, dear; hearts are not so easily broken, and I do not think that mine would be so weak and brittle. But the thought of his sorrow will always be present with me, and, in some sense, I fear my life will be clouded.'

Then her sister caressed her again with tears.

'But it will not be as bad for me as for him; for I shall have you all to comfort me, and I know how good you will all be. You will be ready to share even your child with me, Gage, if you think that will console me.'

'Yes; and Percival will be good to you, too.'

'I am sure of that; only you must ask him not to speak to me. Now I am very tired, and I must ask you to leave me. Go down to mother, dear Gage.'

But it seemed as though Geraldine could hardly tear herself away.

'I will do anything, if only you will promise to be happy again,' she said, kissing her with the utmost affection. 'Remember how necessary you are to us. What would any of us do without you? To-morrow I shall bring your G.o.dson to see you.'

Then, at the thought of her baby-nephew, a faint smile crossed Audrey's face.

CHAPTER XL

MICHAEL ACCEPTS HIS CHARGE

'Try how the life of the good man suits thee: the life of him who is satisfied with his portion out of the whole, and satisfied with his own just acts and benevolent disposition.'--M. AURELIUS ANTONINUS.

Michael's morning in the schoolroom had been truly purgatorial; fortunately for him, it was a half-holiday, and the luncheon-hour set him free from his self-imposed duties. On his way to his own room, he had overheard Geraldine's voice speaking to her father, and he at once guessed the reason why Dr. Ross had invited her into the study.

He had never been less enamoured of solitude and of his own society; nevertheless, he told himself that any amount of isolation would be preferable to the penalty of hearing Geraldine discuss the matter. He could hear in imagination her clear sensible premises and sound, logical conclusion, annotated by womanly lamentations over such a family disaster. The probable opinions of Mrs. Bryce and Mrs. Charrington would be cited and commented on, and, in spite of her very real sympathy with her sister, Michael shrewdly surmised that the knowledge that the Blake influence was waning would give her a large amount of comfort in the future.

When Crauford announced that the ladies were having tea in the drawing-room, he begged that a cup might be sent up to him.

'Will you tell Mrs. Harcourt that I have a headache?' he said; and, as Crauford delivered the message, Geraldine looked meaningly at her mother.

'I expect Michael has taken all this to heart,' she said, as soon as Crauford had left the room; 'he is very feeling, and then he is so fond of Audrey.' And as Mrs. Ross sighed in a.s.sent, she went on with the topic that was engrossing them at that moment--how Audrey was to be induced to leave home for a while.

Michael's table was strewn with books, and one lay open on his knee, but he had not once turned the page. How was he to read when the very atmosphere seemed charged with heaviness and oppression?

'She thinks that she loves him, and therefore she will suffer,' he said to himself over and over again; 'and it will be for the first time in her life; for she has often told me that she has never known trouble.

But her suffering will be like a grain of sand in comparison with his.

Oh, I know what he is feeling now! To have had her, and then to have lost her! Poor fellow! it is a cruel fate.'

Michael pondered drearily over the future that lay before them all. How was he to bear himself, he wondered, under circ.u.mstances so exasperating? She was free, and he knew her to be free--for Cyril would never claim her--and yet she would regard herself as altogether bound.

He must go away, he thought; not at once--not while she needed him--but by and by, when things were a little better. Life at Rutherford was no longer endurable to him; for months past, ever since her engagement, he had chafed under a sense of insupportable restlessness. A sort of fever oppressed him--a longing to be free from the influence that dominated him.

'If I stay here I must tell her how it is with me, and that will only make her more miserable,' he thought. 'She is not like other women--I never saw one like her. There is something unreasonable in her generosity. Girls sometimes say things they do not mean, and then repent of their impulsiveness; but she will never repent, whether she loves him or not. She believes that it is her mission to comfort him. Perhaps, if I had appealed to her, I might have made her believe that she had a different mission. Oh, my dear, if it only could have been so!'

And he sighed in the bitterness of his spirit; for he knew that in his unselfishness he had never wooed her.

At that moment there was a light tap at his door, and he started to his feet with a quick exclamation of surprise as Audrey entered. He had been thinking of her at that moment, and he almost felt as though the intensity of his thoughts had attracted her by some unconscious magnetism; but a glance at her dispelled this illusion.

She was dressed for dinner, and he noticed that there was an air of unusual sombreness about her attire, as though she felt that any gaiety of apparel would be incongruous. And as she came closer to him, he was struck with her paleness and the sadness in her large gray eyes.

'Michael,' she said, in a low voice, 'I want to speak to you. I hope I am not interrupting you.'

'You never interrupt me,' he returned quickly. 'Besides, I am doing nothing. Sit down, dear, and then we shall talk more comfortably.' For he noticed that she spoke with an air of la.s.situde that was unusual to her, and her strong lithe figure swayed a little, as though with weakness.

'Do you think you should be here?' he asked, with grave concern. 'You look ill, Audrey, as though you ought to be resting in your own room.'

'I have been resting,' she replied gently. 'And then Gage came to me, and after that I thought I had been idle long enough. Michael,'--and here her lips quivered as though she found it difficult to maintain her self-control--'you know all that has happened. Cyril has gone away--he has said good-bye to me--and he looks as though his heart were broken. I have done what I could to comfort him. I have told him that I shall always be true to him; but it is not in my power to help him more.'

'Dear Audrey,' he said--for he understood her meaning well, and there was no need for her to speak more plainly--'it was not for me to go to him after such a parting as that. The presence of one's dearest friend would be intolerable.'

'I did not mean to-day,' she returned sadly; 'but there is to-morrow, and there is the future. And he has no friend who is worthy of the name.

Michael, there is no one in the whole world who could help him as you could. This is the favour I have come to ask you.'

'It is granted, Audrey.'

Then her eyes were full of tears as he said this.

'Oh, I knew you would not refuse! When have you ever refused to do a kindness for anyone? Michael, I told my poor boy to-day that if he valued my peace of mind he would consent to be guided by your advice. He is so young; he does not know the world as you do, and he is so terribly unhappy; but if you would only help him----'

'My dear,' he said very quietly, 'there is no need to distress yourself, or to say any more; we have always understood each other without words.

You are giving me this charge because you are unable to fulfil it yourself. You wish me to be a good friend to poor Blake, to watch over him and interest myself in his welfare--that is, as far as one man will permit another to do so. Well, I can promise you that without a moment's hesitation. I will be as solicitous for him as though he were my brother. Will that content you?'