Michael was silent; he hardly knew how he was to treat her. Mollie's graphic account of the scene last night had greatly alarmed him. Mrs.

Blake was of a strangely excitable nature; he had been told that from her youth she had been p.r.o.ne to fits of hysterical emotion. She was perfectly unused to self-control, and only her son had ever exercised any influence over her. Was there not a danger, then, that, the barriers once broken down, she might pa.s.s beyond her own control? He had heard and had read that ungovernable pa.s.sion might lead to insanity; he almost believed it, as he listened to Mollie's story. This is why he had insisted on seeing her. He must judge of her condition for himself; he must do his best to prevent the recurrence of such a scene. And now, as he saw her terrible exhaustion and the dim languor in her eyes, he told himself that something must be done for her relief.

'If you send one, I will not see him,' she went on.

'I think you are wrong. For your children's sake you ought to do your best to throw off this illness that oppresses you.'

But she interrupted him.

'Why are you here this morning? Are you going to him?' she asked abruptly.

'Yes, certainly; that is, if he will see me.'

'He will see you. He would not refuse anyone who came from Woodcote.

Captain Burnett, will you tell me this one thing: has that girl given him up?'

Michael hesitated.

'Your son has broken off his engagement with Miss Ross. He felt he could not do otherwise.'

'You are not answering me straight. I do not want to hear about Cyril; of course he would offer to release her. But has Miss Ross consented to this?'

'No,' he returned reluctantly, for it pained him to enter on this subject with her; 'she has refused to be set free. As far as your son is concerned, the engagement is broken; but my cousin declares her intention of remaining faithful to him.'

'I knew it--I knew it as well as though you had told me,' returned Mrs.

Blake with strong emotion; 'Audrey Ross is not the girl to throw a man over. Oh! I love her for this. She is a darling, a darling, but'--relapsing into her old melancholy--'they will never let her marry him--never, never!'

'I am afraid you are right.'

'No, he is doomed; my poor boy is doomed. If you see him, what is there that you can say to comfort him?'

'I shall not try to comfort him. I shall bid him do his duty. Comfort will come to him in no other way.'

'Shall you speak to him of me?'

'Yes, certainly. If I have any influence, I shall bring him to you before an hour is over.'

Then she caught his hand and the blood rushed to her face.

'G.o.d bless you for this!' she whispered. 'Go; do not keep me waiting.

Go, for Heaven's sake!'

'You must promise me one thing first: that you will control yourself.

Think of him, of the day and the night he has pa.s.sed. He will not be fit for any scene. If you reproach him, you will only send him from you again.'

'I will promise anything--everything--if you will only bring him.' And now her eyes were wet; it seemed as though he had given her new life.

She sat erect; she was no longer like a marble image of despair. 'If I can only see him, if he will let me speak to him! but it is this emptiness--this blank, this dreadful displeasure--that is shutting me out from him, that is killing me by inches.'

And here she put her hand to her throat, as though the words suffocated her.

'Be calm and quiet, and all may yet be well,' he returned in a soothing voice; 'I will do what I can for you and him too.' And with a rea.s.suring look he left her.

What had become of his dislike? He felt he no longer disliked her. She was false--falser than he had thought any woman could be; she had qualities that he detested, faults that he, of all men, was most ready to condemn; but the one spark of goodness that redeemed her in his eyes was her love for her son.

He knocked somewhat lightly at Cyril's door, but there was no answer; but as he repeated it more loudly, Cyril's voice impatiently demanded his business.

'It is I--Burnett. Will you let me speak to you a moment, Blake?'

And then the door was unlocked, and Cyril stood aside to let him enter; but he uttered no greeting, neither did Michael at once offer his hand.

He threw a hasty glance round the room as Cyril relocked the door; the bed had not been slept in that night--that was plainly evident--but the crushed pillow and the rug flung across the foot proved clearly that he had thrown himself down fully dressed when weariness compelled him.

He had evidently only just completed his toilet: the shirt he had thrown aside was still on the floor, in company with his bath towels; and something in his appearance made Michael say: 'You were just going out.

I hope I am not keeping you?'

'There is no hurry,' returned Cyril indifferently; 'I was only going out because I could not stop indoors any longer; but there is plenty of time between this and night.' And then he offered Michael the only chair, and sat down on the bed. 'This place is not fit for you,' he continued apologetically; 'but there is nowhere else where one can be quiet.'

'You are looking ill, Blake. I am afraid you have not slept.'

For there was a sunken look in Cyril's eyes that told its own tale.

'I had some sleep towards morning,' he replied, as though the matter did not concern him; 'and I dreamt that I was in purgatory. It was not a pleasant place, but I believe I was rather sorry when I woke. It is very good of you to look me up, Burnett.' And here he paused, and then said in a changed voice: 'Will you tell me how she is?'

'You mean my cousin? She is as well as one can expect her to be; but, of course, all this has been a terrible upset. She is very good and brave.

She knows I have come to you.'

'Did she send you?'

'I suppose I must say yes to that; but I had fully intended to come.

Blake, I want you to look on me as a friend. You need someone to stand by you, and see you through this; and I think there is no one so suitable as myself at the present.'

'You are very good; but I can have no possible claim on you, Captain Burnett.'

Cyril spoke a little stiffly.

'If you put it in that way, perhaps not; in this sense, a shipwrecked sailor has no claim on the man who holds out a helping hand to him; but I doubt whether that reason would induce him to refuse it.'

Then a faint smile came to Cyril's dry lips.

'You are right to choose that ill.u.s.tration. I think no man in the world has ever suffered more complete shipwreck. I have been trying to face my position all night, and I cannot see a gleam of hope anywhere.'

'You must not lose heart, Blake.'

'Must I not? I think anyone would lose heart and faith, and hope, too, in my position. Two days ago no future could have been so bright; I had everything--everything that a man needs for his happiness; and at this moment no beggar could be poorer. I feel as though I had no bread to eat, and as though I should never have appet.i.te for bread again.'

'I understand what you mean. I had the same sort of feeling as I lay in the hospital. I was covered with wounds; health was impossible; my work was gone. I could not face my life. Would you believe it, Blake?--I was the veriest coward, and could have trembled at my own shadow. It made a woman of me. I did not want to live such a crippled, meagre existence; but somehow I managed to struggle to the light.'

'Did anyone help you?'

'No, not consciously; I helped myself. At least'--in a lower voice--'the help that came to me was from a higher source. One day I will tell you about it, Blake; it was an awful crisis in a man's life, and I should not speak about it unless I thought my experience could benefit anyone. Now about yourself--have you formed any plans?'