'It was no use to speak. No one could help me. It was his pain, not mine. Now it will be different. He is safe and happy, and as for me, I must try to live now for other people.'

And then, with a smile that touched him to the heart, she stepped back from the grave and told him that she was ready.

Somehow, Michael felt comforted by those few words. His intuition and knowledge of Audrey's character gave him hope that after a time she would recover her old elasticity. 'Until now,' he said to himself, 'she has so fully identified herself with him, that she has simply had no life of her own. Her sympathetic nature has reflected only his thoughts and feelings. I doubt whether she has ever questioned herself as to her love for him; she has taken everything for granted. And now she has lost him, the thought of his happiness seems to swallow up all thought of her own grief. Such unselfishness will bring its own healing.' And in this way Michael comforted himself about her.

That evening Audrey received a message that surprised her greatly.

Kester brought it. His mother would see her the next day; someone had told her that Audrey was going back to Woodcote, and she had at once expressed a wish that she should not leave without bidding her good-bye.

'Tell her that I can speak now, and that I have much to say to her.' And the strangeness of this message filled Audrey with perplexity.

Michael took her to Kensington the next day. He had to fetch Kester; the boy was going back to Brighton: there was no good in his lingering in London. His mother took no pleasure in his society; his overtures to his father had made a breach between them, and she had treated him with silent displeasure.

But he told Michael, as they drove to the station, that she had been kinder in her manner to him that morning than she had been for months.

'She kissed me more than once, and held my hand as though she did not like bidding me good bye. She looks awfully ill,' continued the boy, with a choke in his voice; 'and when I asked her to be good to Mollie, she said quite gently that she had been a bad mother to us both; that she had not considered us enough, and that G.o.d was punishing her for it.

I begged her not to say it, but she repeated it again. "You and Mollie will be better without me," she went on. Oh, Captain Burnett! do you think she will die? I never saw anyone look quite so bad,' persisted Kester sadly.

Biddy took Audrey up at once to her mistress's room.

'You will find her better,' she said shortly; 'the dumb spirit is cast out of her. That is the blessed saints' doing. I knew my mistress would come to her senses--Heaven be praised for it!'

The room was somewhat dark, and it was not until Audrey was quite close to Mrs. Blake that she noticed the change in her that had so shocked Kester.

The blackness of the plain stuff gown, unrelieved by any whiteness, may have made the contrast of her pale face more striking; but Audrey noticed that her dark hair was now streaked with gray. She had drawn it back from her face and coiled it tightly behind, as though her own appearance had ceased to interest her, and the sunken eyes and a certain sharp look about the cheekbones made her seem at least ten years older.

With a pity amounting to tenderness, Audrey would have put her arms round her; but Mrs. Blake drew back, and only suffered her to kiss her cheek.

'Dear Mrs. Blake----'

But she interrupted her.

'Do not call me that again,' she said hastily. 'There has been enough of deception and lies; my name is Olive O'Brien. As long as I remain in the world I wish to be called by that name.'

Then Audrey gazed at her in speechless consternation. What could this strange speech portend?

'Will you sit down?' she continued, at the same time seating herself in a high-backed chair that stood beside her bed.

A crucifix lay on a little table beside her, with a framed photograph of Cyril that she always carried about with her. From time to time she looked at them as she spoke.

'Biddy told me that you were going back to Rutherford, and I could not let you go without bidding you good-bye.'

'It would have made me very unhappy if you had not allowed me to see you.'

'I cannot believe that; but of course you mean it for the truth: that is why my boy loved you, because you are so absolutely true.' Her voice sank into a whisper, and a gloomy light came into her eyes. 'That is why his mother disappointed him, why he lost all trust in her, because falsehood was easier to her than truth.'

'But not now, dear Mrs. Blake; nay, I must call you by the old name. And what does it matter between us two if you have sinned? If your wrong-doing seems a heavy burden, you can at least repent.'

'I have repented,' she said, in a voice so strange and thrilling that Audrey felt inwardly troubled. 'In the hours of darkness by my boy's coffin I have humbled myself before my Maker, I have craved to expiate my sin. Audrey, listen to me,' she continued; 'I have sent for you because you loved my Cyril, because for a few months you made him happy.

He was my idol, and that is why he has been taken from me--because I forgot G.o.d and truth, and sinned for his sake.'

'Yes; but you are sorry now.'

'What does such sorrow avail, except for my own purging? In a little while the world--this cruel, hard, outer world--will know me no more. I am going back to Ireland with Mollie and Biddy, and when I have made my peace with the Church I shall enter a convent.'

'Good heavens! what can you mean?'

'I have always been at heart a Catholic,' she returned in a mechanical tone; 'but while my boy lived I was content that his Church should be mine. All my life I have had a leaning to the older faith; now in my desolation I mean to shelter in the bosom of our Holy Mother the Church.

She receives all penitents; she will not refuse me.'

'But your children--Mollie: would you forsake Mollie?' pleaded Audrey, with tears in her eyes. 'Would you neglect your sacred responsibilities for duties no one would demand of a mother?'

'Am I fit to discharge my responsibilities?' she returned in a cold, hard voice. 'Has anyone but Cyril ever kept me straight? Do you think Mollie and I could go on living the same old life without him? Audrey, you do not know what you say; such an existence would rob me of my reason.'

'But what will become of Mollie?' asked Audrey, concealing her alarm at this wild speech. 'You must not only think of yourself.'

'Mollie will go with me,' she returned. 'I shall not forsake her. The convent that I propose to enter has a home attached to it, where they educate girls belonging to the upper cla.s.ses. Mollie will have plenty of companions. The nuns are kind women, and they will not coerce her in any way, and there will be sufficient for her maintenance.'

'But when she grows up--when her education is finished: what will become of her then?'

But Mrs. Blake did not seem clear on this point. The convent had its boarders, she remarked; with the superior's permission, Mollie might still remain there, and lead a tolerably happy life.

'There will be other young ladies; she will not be dull,' she went on.

'The rule is a strict one--that is why I chose it--but I should be allowed to see her sometimes; perhaps she too may turn Catholic, and then all will be well.'

But Audrey's honest nature revolted against this merciless arrangement.

She saw clearly that Mrs. Blake's weak, excitable nature had been under some strong influence, though it was not until later that she heard that during the last few months she had secretly attended a Roman Catholic chapel near them. Doubtless Biddy, who was a stanch Romanist, had connived at this.

And now she had planned this strange expiation for herself, and poor Mollie must be sacrificed. What would Cyril have thought of such an unnatural arrangement? For Cyril's sake, for Mollie's, Audrey felt she must combat this notion.

'Mrs. Blake,' she said very earnestly, 'it is not for me to question your actions with regard to yourself. If you are at heart a Roman Catholic--if all these years you have been an unprofessed member of that Church--it may be as well for you to acknowledge it openly. I do not believe myself that a convent life is free from its trials and temptations. Human nature is the same everywhere, and even sanctified human nature is liable to error. Wiser people than myself would tell you that peace of mind would be more surely attained by remaining in the path of duty. Dear Mrs. Blake, forgive me if I pain you, but would'--she hesitated a moment--'would not Cyril have disapproved of his mother taking such a step?'

'I think not,' was the response. 'My boy's eyes are purified now; he would judge differently. I shall devote the remainder of my life to praying for the repose of his soul, and in repentance for my miserable past; and it may be'--here she lifted her clasped hands, and a faint light came into her eyes--'that Heaven may release me from my misery before many years are over, and my purified soul may be allowed to find rest.'

'G.o.d grant you may find it, poor, misguided woman!' was Audrey's secret prayer; but she merely said aloud:

'We must live out our life as long as the Divine will ordains; but, Mrs.

Blake, I must speak of Mollie. If you will sacrifice yourself, you have no right to sacrifice her. For Cyril's sake, let me have her!'

'You, Audrey!'

'Yes, I. Have we not been like sisters all these months? I think Cyril would love to know she was with me; he was so fond of Mollie. He liked to see us together. It will make me happier to have her; when Michael is away I have no companion.'

'Do you really mean it?' asked Mrs. Blake, in an astonished voice. 'You are very good, Audrey, but you are not your own mistress. Dr. Ross would never consent to such an arrangement.'

'I have my own money. No one would be put to any expense for Mollie, unless you wished to provide for her yourself.'

'I should certainly wish that.'