He murmured something drowsily, and then again more clearly:

'Tell Olive that she was not to blame so much, after all. I have been too hard on her, poor girl! but she could not help her nature. Isn't there something about "To whoever little is forgiven, the same loveth little"? I seem to remember Susie reading it.'

And Thomas...o...b..ien, bending over the gray face, repeated the words slowly:

'"Wherefore I say unto you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loveth much."'

But Mat interrupted him:

'He has forgiven me plenty, lad, and you too, and I love Him for it.'

And those were Matthew O'Brien's last words.

Mat O'Brien did not go unwept to his grave, in spite of his unsatisfactory life. His brother mourned for him long and sincerely, and in their way Kester and Mollie grieved, too. At Audrey's wish, Mollie wrote the full particulars of her father's death to the convent. Sister Monica's answer was, in Audrey's opinion, singularly suggestive of the ci-devant Mrs. Blake. It was a strange medley of mysticism and motherly yearnings, but at the end was a touch of real honest feeling.

'Tell Audrey that when I pray for my boy I pray for her, too; and, Mollie, do not think that your mother forgets you, for perhaps she may do you better service now than ever she did when we were together. Think of me sometimes, my child. I am glad that your father spoke of me so kindly. I can pray for him now, as I never could when he was living. Poor man! It was an ill world to him, but he is out of it now.

Your loving and repentant mother,

'SISTER MONICA MARY.'

Audrey went over to Brail constantly during the autumn and winter months that followed Mat's death. Sometimes Mollie accompanied her, but oftener she was alone. Nothing cheered Thomas...o...b..ien more than the society of his favourite. He loved to talk to her of the dear ones who had pa.s.sed within the veil, and to Audrey herself the visits were very soothing.

She liked those solitary walks under the gray November skies, or when the December sun hung redly behind the distant hedgerows. How often she had walked there when Cyril had met her half-way, or she had come upon him lingering in the lanes, with Zack bounding beside him. It was in the Brail lanes that he first told her of his love, when she had sent him sorrowfully away from her; but somehow, as she walked there now, between hedgerows white with h.o.a.r frost, she thought less of him than of Michael; but as yet no message had been sent to recall the wanderer home.

CHAPTER L

BOOTY'S MASTER

'And she to him will reach her hand, And gazing in his eyes will stand, And know her friend and weep for glee, And cry, "Long, long, I've looked for thee."'

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

Kester had spent his Christmas holidays at Woodcote; Audrey loved to have him with her. Somehow he seemed to belong to Michael, and the boy warmly returned her affection.

'Do you know that Mr. Abercrombie is coming home in March?' he said to her the day before he went back to Brighton; 'he is quite well now, and Captain Burnett says he is in a fever to get back to England. Do you think Captain Burnett will come, too?' and Kester looked anxiously in her face.

Audrey could not satisfy Kester on this point; nevertheless, she felt a secret hope stirring in her heart that Michael would not stay away much longer. After all, was it likely that he would wait for the message when he must know how impossible it would be for her to send it? He had been away seven months, and by this time he must be growing homesick.

Almost the same thought occurred to Michael as, early in March, he sat in the loggia of an old Florentine palace, where he and his friend had a suite of rooms.

How long had he been away, he wondered, as he looked out on the sunset--seven, nay, eight months; and as yet there had been no recall.

Had he really expected it? Would it not be as well to go back and plead his own cause, and see what these months of absence had done for him, or should he wait a little longer?

Michael's self-imposed exile had not been unhappy. His companion was congenial to him; the varied scenes through which he had pa.s.sed, the historic interest of the cities, had engrossed and interested him; and, perhaps for the first time, he tasted the delights of a well-filled purse, as he acc.u.mulated art treasures and pictures; but, above all, a latent hope, to which he gave no voice or t.i.tle, kept him patient and cheerful.

'It was too soon; but by and by she will find it out for herself,' he would say, as he strolled through the galleries, or stood by some moss-grown fountain to buy flowers from a dark-eyed Florentine girl.

Should he go back with Abercrombie next week, or should he push on towards Greece and the Holy Land? It was a little difficult to decide, but somehow Michael never answered that question. Fate took the matter into her own hands, as she often does when the knot becomes too intricate for the bungling fingers of poor mortals.

Somehow Audrey became convinced in her own mind that Michael would certainly accompany his friend back to England. They had started together; was it likely that Michael would allow him to return alone?

and when March came she began to look anxiously for a letter announcing this intention.

She was thinking of this one afternoon as she sat talking to her mother.

It was a cold, dreary day, and Audrey had just remarked that no one in Rutherford would think of leaving their fireside on such an afternoon, when Geraldine entered, glowing from the cold wind, and looking cosy and comfortable in her warm furs.

'My dear, what a day to venture out,' remonstrated her mother; 'even Audrey says the wind is cruel.'

'I am not such a foe to the east wind as Michael is,' returned Geraldine cheerfully, as she seated herself out of the range of the fire; 'and Percival never likes me to cosset myself--that is why I never take cold.

By the bye, I heard something about Michael a little while ago. Just as I was talking to Mrs. Charrington, who should come in but Dora Abercrombie! You know Dora, Audrey. She is the second one; but she is not half so good-looking as Gwendoline.'

'She is related to Mrs. Charrington, is she not, Gage?'

'Yes; a step-niece, or something of that sort; not a very near relationship, but they are very intimate. She says her brother is expected in Portland Place to-morrow or the day after.' Here Audrey gave a start. 'Take care, my dear: the urn is running over; you are filling the teapot too full. Shall I ring for Crauford? No? Well, as I was saying'--rather absently, for her eyes were still following the thin stream on the tea-tray that Audrey was hurriedly wiping up--'Master d.i.c.k is expected back--and here Dora was a trifle mysterious; and then it came out that he was engaged--had been engaged for the last eight months; only the mother of his lady-love had turned restive. But now things were smoother, and she hoped that they would soon be married.

Poor Michael! I am afraid he has not had a very cheerful companion all these months.'

'Did Miss Abercrombie mention Michael?' asked Audrey, speaking with manifest effort. How tiresome Gage was! as though anyone wanted to hear about d.i.c.k Abercrombie's love affairs!

'Oh dear yes! and that is the worst part of all,' returned Geraldine, with the zest that is always shown by the bearer of bad news, even by a superior person like young Mrs. Harcourt. 'I had no idea Michael would play truant for so long: actually she says her brother is coming home without him! and he is going to spend the summer and autumn in Greece and the Holy Land, and perhaps winter in Algiers. In fact, d.i.c.k Abercrombie says he does not know when he means to come back.'

'What is that you say, my dear?' asked Dr. Ross, who entered the room in time to hear the last clause. 'Were you speaking of Michael?'

'Yes, father dear.' And Geraldine willingly recapitulated the whole of her speech for his benefit. 'And I do wish someone would write and give him a good scolding for staying away so long, as though no one wanted him! And we have all been missing him so badly!'

'By the bye, that reminds me that I was called away just now to speak to Fergusson, and I have actually left my letter to Michael open on my study-table; and I meant it to go by this post. Do you mind just slipping it into its envelope, Audrey?--it is already directed. Thank you, my dear,' as Audrey silently left the room.

Was Dr. Ross really anxious about his letter, or had he noticed the white look on his daughter's face, and feared that others might notice it too?

Audrey never knew how long she sat before her father's study-table, neither could she have recalled a single thought that pa.s.sed through her mind. A dull throbbing pain was at her heart; the cold numbness that had crept over her as Michael had bidden her good-bye, and which kept her dumb before him, was over her now--some strange pulse seemed beating in her head. He was going still farther away from her. He was not coming back. He would never come back. Something would happen to him. She would never see his kind face again--never, never!

Perhaps this long silence had angered him--Michael, who had always been so gentle to her, on whose face she had never seen a frown! Michael had grown weary of endurance, and had given up all hope of winning her. Oh, if he had only trusted her! if he would only have believed that she would have done her very best to make him happy! How could he be so cruel to himself and to her? How could he have the heart to punish her so bitterly, as though she were to blame? Could she help her nature any more than she could help this separation from her dearest friend?

And then there came over her the deadly feeling of possible loss, and a desolation too terrible to contemplate. She had mourned very tenderly for Cyril; but if Michael died--if any ill should befall him in those distant lands--'Oh, I could not bear it!' was her inward cry. 'Life without Michael would be impossible,' and as this thought flashed through her mind her eyes suddenly fell on an empty s.p.a.ce at the end of her father's letter. With a sudden impulse she took up the pen and wrote three words across the page in her clear, legible writing--'Michael, come. Audrey.' She was almost breathless with her haste as she thrust it into the envelope, and carried it to the boy who was waiting for the letters. Then she went back to the drawing-room, for she dare not trust herself to be alone another moment. What had she done? What would Michael think of her? What must she think of herself? No wonder Geraldine looked at her in surprise as she crossed the room and took up her work.

'What a time you have been, Audrey!' she said, a little reproachfully.

'I have been waiting to bid you good-bye. Father is going to walk with me to Hillside, so Percival will not mind my being so late. How cold your face and hands are, and I am as warm as possible! You have been running about those draughty pa.s.sages, and have taken a chill. She looks pale, doesn't she, mother?'

'Come, come,' interrupted her father impatiently, 'you must not keep me waiting any longer, Geraldine. Sit down by the fire and warm yourself, my dear.'

And for one moment Dr. Ross's hand lay lightly on Audrey's brown hair.

Did he guess the real meaning of the girl's downcast and sorrowful looks? And why was there a pleased smile on his face as he followed his eldest daughter out of the room?

'I shall write to Michael and tell him to come home,' he said to himself, as he b.u.t.toned up his great-coat. 'I promised him that I would watch over his interests, and I shall tell him that in my opinion there is some hope for him now.'