When Mollie's letter arrived the next day she left it unopened until she was in her own room. Michael was up in town, as usual. He rarely spent more than a few days together at Woodcote now. Audrey did not regret his absence as she would otherwise have done, because she knew he would be with Cyril.

When her father glanced at her letter she said quietly that it was from Mollie, and then he made no further observation.

But when she was in her own room she opened it somewhat eagerly. 'Dear little Mollie! I never thought I should miss her quite so much,' she thought.

Evidently Mollie had taken a long time to write that letter; it had been commenced two days after her arrival in London, and it had not been completed until now.

The first two or three pages, written in Mollie's girlish angular handwriting, were filled with plaintive lamentations over her enforced exile and separation from her dear Miss Ross; and here and there a bleared word showed touchingly where a great tear had rolled down and blotted the page; but the next entry, written a few days afterwards, showed some signs that the prospect had brightened a little. One pa.s.sage gave great pleasure to Audrey:

'Mamma likes our lodgings excessively, and though I shall never love any place like our dear Gray Cottage, they are really very nice; indeed, they are better than any lodgings we have been in yet. Mamma says she never saw rooms so well furnished; the carpets and papers are rather ugly, and I cannot say much for the curtains; but there is a delicious couch--one of those soft, springy ones that are so comfortable, rather like the one in the Woodcote drawing-room, and two delightfully easy chairs.

'Then, in the little room we call Cyril's study, there is really a very handsome writing-table, with one of those green reading-lamps that Dr.

Ross always uses, and a nice little secretaire for papers. Mamma was so charmed when she saw that; she told Cyril that he only wanted a few stained shelves to hold his books, and that then he would be as snug as possible. I thought Cyril looked a little queer when she said that, and when she exclaimed at the softness of the couch I saw such an odd smile on his face. I fancy he must have bought it himself, and that he does not wish mamma to know it.' ('Oh, you little goose!' observed Audrey, when she came to this; but her eyes were very bright as she went on with the letter.)

'There were such quant.i.ties of flowers and plants about the room when we arrived, and the most beautiful tea set out on the big round table.

Mamma laughed, and said Cyril was very extravagant to provide such luxuries; but he told her he had had nothing to do with it, and he did not seem to enjoy anything.

'I am afraid he works too hard. Mamma is beginning to say that she might as well have remained in Rutherford, for all she sees of him; but I know she does not mean it, for she is as happy as possible.

'Cyril never gets home until half-past six, and then we have tea. His pupil comes to him at eight for two hours. I think Zack has the best of it. Cyril always takes him out for a long walk before breakfast. I should like to go with them, but I think Cyril prefers going alone. He only walks with mamma on Sunday afternoon, and then he comes in looking so tired. He often falls asleep when he sits down. I never remember his ever doing such a thing before; but mamma says she is sure that he sleeps badly, though he will never own to it. Cyril never did like to be questioned about himself.

'We see Captain Burnett sometimes, and Cyril says he often meets him on his way home. One day Captain Burnett asked me if I should like to see some pictures, and of course I said yes. We drove such a long way in a hansom, and I did so enjoy seeing all those beautiful pictures. Captain Burnett was kind; he explained everything to me, and when he thought I was tired he took me to a grand place, where we had ices and coffee.

'He asked me a great many questions, and when I told him that I had no one to teach me now I had left my dear Miss Ross, he looked very grave.

He wanted to know if mamma did not help me at all, and I was obliged to confess that the French books were still unopened; and then he looked grave again and said, "Poor little thing!" as though he were sorry for me.

'Well, was it not strange?--the very next night Cyril began talking to mamma about it. He told her that now Kester was away they ought to be able to afford to give me a good education, that they were not poorer than they had been at Rutherford, and that something must be done at once.

'Cyril spoke as though he thought mamma was to blame, and then mamma cried, as she always does if Cyril finds fault with her; but the very next day she went out alone, and in the evening she told Cyril that she had found a very good school close by our lodgings, where they had excellent masters, and that she had arranged that I was to go there four times a week to take French, German, and music lessons. I could see Cyril was pleased, though he said very little, but by and by he asked me what I should do about a piano, and mamma suggested that we should hire one. Is this not nice, my dear Miss Ross, and is not Cyril a darling for thinking of everything so nicely?'

'Ah, Mollie, I am afraid you are a sad goose!' was Audrey's inward e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n at this point, and there was a smile on her lips as she finished the letter.

Michael was fulfilling his promise n.o.bly. Audrey knew him well enough to be sure that those meetings with Cyril were by no means accidental.

'Whatsoever thou doest, do it with thy might,' was a precept literally obeyed by Michael Burnett. When he held out that right hand of fellowship to his rival, there was no sense of grudging in his mind. If a cheery word or two would brighten Cyril's day, and make his hard life a little less unendurable, Michael would speak that word at the cost of any inconvenience to himself. Audrey may be forgiven if she cherished the notion that Michael's frequent visits to London were undertaken more for Cyril's benefit than his own; and if Michael could have given a somewhat different version of his motives, he kept all such interpretation to himself.

CHAPTER XLV

AUDREY RECEIVES A TELEGRAM

'One fourth of life is intelligible, the other three-fourths is unintelligible darkness; and our earliest duty is to cultivate the habit of not looking round the corner.'--MARK RUTHERFORD.

'Thou shalt lose thy life, and find it; thou shalt boldly cast it forth; And then back again receiving, know it in its endless worth.'

ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.

Audrey thought it was the longest summer term that she had ever known; never in her life had weeks or months pa.s.sed so slowly.

To all outward appearance she was well and cheerful, and spent her time much as usual--helping her mother and visiting her poor people in the morning, and in the afternoon attending cricket matches or playing tennis at the various garden-parties of the season. The nine days'

wonder about the Blakes' sudden disappearance was over, and the Rutherford ladies no longer whispered strange tales into each other's ears--each more marvellous than the last. It was said and believed by more than one person that Audrey's engagement had been broken off because Dr. Ross had discovered that there was hereditary insanity in the Blake family; indeed, one lady--a notorious gossip, and who was somewhat deaf--was understood to say that she had heard Mrs. Blake was at that moment in a private lunatic asylum.

That Audrey Ross did not take her broken engagement much to heart was the general opinion in Rutherford. Would a girl play tennis, dance, or organise picnics, they said, if she were languishing in heart-sickness?--and there was certainly no appearance of effort in the readiness with which Audrey responded to any plan that her young friends proposed. As they remarked, 'Audrey Ross was always up to fun.' But Michael Burnett could have told them a different story if they had asked him. Audrey's sweet, sound disposition made her peculiarly alive to a sense of duty.

'One must think of other people, always and under all circ.u.mstances,'

she had said to him when her trouble was fresh upon her, and he knew that she was only acting up to her words.

She would play because other people wished to play, not because her heart was in it. During his brief visits to Woodcote they were always together, and more than once he told himself that he could see a great change in her. She had at times a tired, burdened look, as though weary thoughts were habitual to her. But she never spoke to him of Cyril, or questioned him in any way. He would tell her unasked about Mollie, and now and then he would drop a word casually about Cyril.

'I met Blake the other day,' he would say. 'I think he looks better, though he says the hot weather tries him; he is getting on with his work, and appears to like it.' Or another time: 'I dined with Unwin last week; he and Blake seem to hit it off famously. Unwin says he has far more discrimination and intelligence than other young men of his age, and that for steadiness and application he might be fifty. But he thinks he ought to take more exercise; his hard work and the heat together are making him thin.'

Audrey remembered this speech of Michael's, as, a month later on, she sat on the Whitby sands. She had yielded to Geraldine's persuasion to accompany them to the seaside. Dr. Ross and his wife were paying visits in c.u.mberland, Michael was in North Wales with an artist friend, and Audrey had accepted her sister's invitation very willingly.

Both Percival and Geraldine were very kind to her, she thought. They let her wander about alone and do as she liked, and they were always ready to plan something for her enjoyment--a drive or a sail, or a day on the moors. Audrey liked being with them, and baby Leonard was more fascinating than ever; yet it may be doubted if she would not have been happier at Rutherford. The absence of all duties, of any settled employment, tried her. A holiday, to be thoroughly enjoyed, must be attended with a disengaged mind, and with a certain freedom from worry; and this was not possible with Audrey. She would talk to her sister cheerfully, or play with Leonard, and she was an intelligent companion for Mr. Harcourt when they took long walks together; but in her moments of solitude, when she roamed alone over the yellow sands with the fresh salt wind blowing in her face, her thoughts would be sad enough as she thought of Cyril in his hot London lodgings.

'Oh, my darling, if you could only be with me and feel this wind!' she would think, with a great rush of pity and tenderness; 'if I could only take your place a little and bear things for you!' and the sense that she could do nothing for him would lie like a load on her heart.

'I think Audrey is getting over her trouble,' Geraldine said one day to her husband. 'Baby is doing her good; and really, when she is playing with him she seems just like her dear old self.'

'Of course she will get over it,' returned Mr. Harcourt impatiently; 'all girls do. I tell you what, Jerry: when we get back to Hillside we will have Graham down to stop with us.'

'Oh, did you mean Lionel Graham all the time?' returned Geraldine, opening her eyes very widely. 'Is he the man you always wanted for Audrey? He is nice, of course--all the Grahams are nice--but he is dreadfully ugly.'

'Nonsense, my love! Graham ugly, with that fine head of his! I tell you the girl is lucky who gets such a clever fellow. I recollect he was rather struck with her last spring. We will have him down and see if they can take to each other.'

'But, Percy dear, you forget Audrey declares she is still engaged to Cyril Blake.'

'Stuff and nonsense!' replied her husband, waxing exceedingly irate at this remark. 'I wonder at you--I do indeed!--repeating anything so ridiculous! Has not Blake given her up?--and very proper of him, too--and has not your father forbidden her to have anything more to do with him? My love, with all my respect for your judgment, I must differ from you. Audrey is not the girl to propose anything so indelicate--so altogether wanting in propriety--as to thrust herself upon a man who very properly declines to marry her. No, no; we will have Graham down.

He is a first-rate fellow, and when he makes up his mind to a thing, he sticks at nothing. That's the way to win a girl--eh, Jerry?' And Geraldine blushed beautifully as she recalled Percival's bold wooing.

'Well, do as you like,' she said tranquilly; 'but I don't believe Audrey will look at him.' And then she made signs to the nurse to bring her the baby; and Mr. Harcourt forgot his match-making schemes as he played with his son and heir.

Audrey was the only one who was glad when the time came for them to return to Rutherford: her mother's face was a delicious sight to her; and as she presided again at her little tea-table she gave vent to a fervent 'Oh, how glad I am to be at home again!'

'That sounds as though you have not enjoyed your holiday, Audrey; and yet Geraldine was so pleased to have you.'

'But I have enjoyed myself, mother dear. Whitby is beautiful, and I did just what I liked, and Gage and Percival could not have been kinder or more thoughtful; and then Leonard is such a darling!'

'You look all the better for your change; but you are still a little thin, love,' returned her mother, scrutinising her daughter rather narrowly. But Audrey disclaimed this charge: if she were thin, it was because Percival had taken her such long walks, she declared. But she was not thin--she was very well; only she was tired of her idleness, and meant to work hard.

'I wish Michael were at home,' she went on. 'He has returned from Wales, but he means to stay for a week or two in South Audley Street. Kester is with him. Home is never quite the same without Michael,' she finished, looking round her as though she missed something.

Michael had really stayed up in London for Kester's sake; but he was glad of any excuse that kept him away from Woodcote. When Kester's visit was over, he went with him to Victoria, and saw him off. He had some business in Aldersgate Street, and he thought he might as well take a Circle train, and go on. Michael always hated business in the City--the noise of the crowded thoroughfares jarred on him--and he thought he might as well get it over. He had finished his business, and was walking down Cheapside, when, to his surprise, he saw Cyril Blake coming out of a shop. Cyril seemed equally surprised at this unexpected _rencontre_.

'I know you haunt Cromwell and Exhibition Roads,' he said, in rather an amused tone; 'but I always understood you shunned the City.'

'So I do; but one may have business there sometimes,' returned Michael, linking his arm in Cyril's; for the two had grown fast friends, in spite of the disparity in their ages. 'I suppose it would be inquisitive on my part to ask what brings you here at this time in the afternoon?'