'THE LITTLE RIFT'
'And sigh that one thing only has been lent
To youth and age in common--discontent.'
MATTHEW ARNOLD.
Audrey was very busy the next morning unpacking and settling a hundred
things with her mother and Mrs. Draper. She had fully expected that
Mollie would have made her appearance at her usual time; but when the
luncheon-hour arrived, and still no Mollie, she felt a little perplexed.
Kester had entrusted her with numerous messages, and she had now no
resource but to go herself to the Gray Cottage and deliver them. Audrey
was never touchy, never stood on her dignity as most people do; but the
thought did cross her that for once Mollie had been a little remiss.
'I would so much rather have seen her at Woodcote,' she said to herself,
as she walked quickly down the High Street. Mrs. Ross was going up to
Hillside to look after Geraldine, and Audrey had promised to join her
there in an hour's time. 'I never can talk comfortably to Mollie at the
Gray Cottage; Mrs. Blake always monopolises me so.'
But Audrey carefully refrained from hinting, even to herself, the real
reason for her reluctance. She had a curious dread of seeing Mr. Blake,
an unaccountable wish to keep out of his way as much as possible; but
not for worlds would she have acknowledged this.
She opened the green gate, and Zack bounded out to meet her with his
usual bark of welcome; but no Mollie followed him, only Biddy, looking
more like a witch than ever, with a red silk handkerchief tied over her
gray hair, hobbled across the passage.
'The mistress and Miss Mollie are in the drawing-room,' she said,
fixing her bright hawk-like eyes on Audrey. 'And how is it with
yourself, Miss Ross?--you look as blooming as a rose before it is
gathered. It is a purty compliment,' as Audrey laughed; 'but it is true,
and others will be telling you so, Miss Ross, avick.'
Audrey blushed a little, for there was a meaning look in the old woman's
eyes. Then she ran lightly upstairs; the drawing-room door was half
open, and she could hear Mollie's voice reading aloud; 'Pompey and
Pharsalia' caught her ear; then she gave the door a little push, and
Mollie's book dropped on the floor.
'Miss Ross! oh, Miss Ross!' she exclaimed half hysterically, but she did
not move from her place.
It was Mrs. Blake who took Audrey's hands and kissed her airily on
either cheek.
'My dear Miss Ross!' she exclaimed, in her soft, impressive voice, 'this
is almost too good of you. I told Mollie that I knew you would come. "Do
you think she will have the heart to stay away when she knows that we
are perfectly famished for a sight of her?" that was what I said when
Mollie was plaguing me to let her go to Woodcote this morning.'
'But I was expecting her, Mrs. Blake,' returned Audrey, drawing the girl
to her side as she stood apart rather awkwardly. 'I thought it was
unkind of Mollie to desert me the first morning. Every time the door
opened I said to myself, "That is Mollie." I half made up my mind to be
offended at last.'
'There, mamma, I told you so!' observed Mollie rather piteously; 'I knew
Miss Ross would be hurt; that is why I begged so hard to go.'
'Poor mamma! she is always in the wrong,' returned Mrs. Blake, with a
touch of petulance. 'I put it to you, Miss Ross: would it not have been
utter want of consideration on my part to allow Mollie to hinder you
with her chattering just when you were unpacking and so dreadfully busy?
"Take my advice, and stop away until you are wanted," that is what I
said to Mollie, and actually the foolish child got into a regular pet
about it; yes, you may look ashamed of yourself, Mollie, but you know I
said I should tell Miss Ross. You can see by her eyes how she has been
crying, and all because I insisted you were not to be worried.'
'Mollie never worries me,' returned Audrey, with a kind look at her
favourite's flushed face.
But she did not dare pursue the subject; she knew poor Mollie was often
thwarted in her little plans. If her mother had a sudden caprice or whim
to be gratified, Mollie was the one who must always set her own wishes
aside--for whom any little disappointment was judged salutary. Perhaps
the discipline did not really harm Mollie; her humility and
unselfishness guarded her against any rankling bitterness.
'Mamma never likes me to do things without her,' she said later on that
afternoon. 'I think she is a little jealous of my going to you so much,
Miss Ross; she was so angry when I asked to run across this morning,
because she said I wanted you all to myself. I know I was silly to cry
about it, but I was so sure you would be expecting me; and last night
mamma made me come out with her, and I wanted to stay at home and watch
for you: we went all the way to Brail; that is quite mamma's favourite
walk now--and, oh, I was so tired.'
'But you must not fret, Mollie; and of course you must do as your mother
wishes: you know I shall always understand.'
'Mamma says that you are her friend, and not mine,' returned Mollie,
with big melancholy eyes; 'and that I ought not to put myself so
forward: but you are my friend, too, are you not, Miss Ross?'
'Of course I am, my dear little girl, just as Michael is Kester's
friend; and now I must tell you some more about him.'
But this was when she and Mollie were walking towards Hillside.
Audrey had deftly changed the subject after Mrs. Blake's remonstrance;
but as she talked she still held Mollie's hand. She felt very happy to
be sitting in that pretty shady drawing-room again, watching the pigeons
fluttering among the old arches. There was a bowl of dark crimson
carnations on the little work-table, and a cluster of the same fragrant
flowers relieved the sombreness of Mrs. Blake's black gown. She was
looking handsomer than ever this afternoon; she wore a little lace
kerchief over her dark glossy hair, and the delicate covering seemed to
enhance her picturesque, Mary Queen of Scots beauty, and to heighten the
brilliancy of her large dark eyes. Audrey had never seen her look so
charming, and her soft playful manners completed the list of her
fascinations. As usual, Audrey forgave her petulance and want of
consideration for Mollie. It was difficult to find fault with Mrs.
Blake; she was so gay and good-humoured, she so soon forgot anything
that had ruffled her, she was so childlike and irresponsible, that one
seemed to judge her by a separate code.
'I must go!' exclaimed Audrey, starting up, when it had chimed the hour.
She was in the midst of a description of one of their walking
expeditions--an attempt to reach a lovely tarn in the heart of the
hills. 'I must not wait any longer, as my mother will be expecting me.
Mollie, put on your hat; you can walk with me to Hillside;' and then she
hesitated.
It was very strange that all this time Mr. Blake's name had not been
mentioned. They had talked about Kester and Michael, but for once
Cyril's name had not been on his mother's lips.
'I hope your son enjoyed his holiday?' she asked, as she picked a little
sprig of scented geranium.
'I am afraid Cyril is not quite in the mood for enjoying himself,'
returned Mrs. Blake in rather a peculiar tone. 'Mollie, run and put on
your hat, as Miss Ross told you; and for goodness' sake do brush your
hair. My boy is not looking like himself,' she continued when they were
alone. 'I am rather uneasy about him; he has grown thin, and does not
seem in his usual spirits.'
'He wrote very cheerfully to Kester,' returned Audrey, taken aback at
this.
'Oh, letters never tell one anything,' replied Mrs. Blake impatiently.
'I daresay you thought I was as happy as possible from mine, just
because I must have my little jokes. We Blakes are all like that. I
daresay, if Cyril were here, you would see nothing amiss with him; but
you cannot blind a mother's eyes, Miss Ross.'
'I am very sorry,' returned Audrey gravely; 'perhaps Cornwall did not
agree with him; but he seemed very gay.'
'Oh, as to that, he was gay enough; people always make so much of
him--he has been a favourite all his life. I never knew any young man
with so many friends. He has gone up to London now to bid good-bye to
one of them who is going to India. We do not expect him back until quite
late to-morrow.'
'Indeed,' was Audrey's brief reply; but as she walked up the hill with
Mollie she was sensible of a feeling of relief. She liked Mr. Blake, she
had always liked him; but she had begun to find his quiet, persistent
watchfulness a little embarrassing--she felt that it invaded the perfect
freedom in which she delighted. Nevertheless, she was sensible of a
vague curiosity to know why Mr. Blake was not in his usual
spirits--could it be Miss Frances, after all?
'Mamma sent me away because she wanted to talk about Cyril,' observed
Mollie, with girlish shrewdness; 'she is worrying about him, because he
looks grave, and does not talk quite so much as usual; but I am sure he
is not ill. He was terribly vexed when Mr. Plumpton telegraphed for him.
I don't think I ever saw Cyril so put out before. He was quite cross
with mamma when she wanted to pack his big portmanteau. He declared he
did not mean to stay away longer than one night; but mamma said she knew
he could not be back until to-morrow evening. Just before he went away
he asked what time you were expected, and----'
'Never mind about that,' interrupted Audrey; 'we shall be at Hillside
directly, and I have heard nothing about yourself. Were you very dull
without Kester, Mollie? and were our letters long enough to satisfy
you?'
'Oh, they were just lovely!' returned Mollie enthusiastically; 'only
mamma complained that everyone had forgotten her, for even Cyril did not
write half so often. I used to read them over in the evening, and try
and imagine what you were doing; and I was not always dull, because I
had so much to do: but that Roman history--oh, Miss Ross!'
'You have worked hard at that, have you not, Mollie?'
'You would say so if you had heard us,' returned Mollie with a shrug;
'we used to grind away at it until I was quite stupid. Sometimes I
wanted to practise or to go on with my French. But no: mamma had
promised Cyril, and there was no help for it. I have filled one
note-book, but I am not sure I remember half. Mamma reads so fast, and
she is always vexed if I do not understand; but,' with a look of relief,
'I don't think we shall do so much now. Mamma has got her walking mood
again.'
Audrey tried not to smile. 'Next week we shall resume our lessons,
Mollie.'
'Oh, that will be delightful,'--standing still, for they were now
entering the shrubberies of Hillside; 'somehow, no one teaches like you,
Miss Ross: you never seem to grow impatient or to mind telling things
over again; but mother is always in such a hurry, and she is so clever
herself that she has no patience with a dunce like me.'
'My dear Mollie, please do not call yourself names--you are certainly no
dunce.'
'I don't mean to be one any longer,' replied Mollie, brightening up.
'Oh, Miss Ross, what do you think Cyril says! that I am not to help
Biddy any more, and that we are to have a woman in to do the rough work.
I don't think mamma was quite pleased when he talked about it. She said
it was uncalled-for extravagance, and that we really could not afford
it; that a little work did not hurt me, and that I ought to be glad to
make myself useful. Mamma was almost annoyed with Cyril, but he always
knows how to soothe her down. Of course it will be as he wishes, and
mamma has promised to speak to you about a woman; and so I shall have
plenty of time to do my lessons; and it will be my own fault if I am a
dunce now,' finished Mollie, with a close hug, as the thick shrubs
screened them from any prying eyes.
'Poor little soul! I must help her all I can,' thought Audrey, as she
walked on to the house. 'I am glad her brother takes her part;' and then
her brother-in-law met her in the porch and took her into the
morning-room, where the two ladies were sitting, and where Geraldine
welcomed her as though months, and not hours, had separated them.
Audrey's first visit had always been paid to the O'Briens; so the
following afternoon she started off for Brail as a matter of course.
'Perhaps you will come and have tea with mother, Gage,' she had said on
bidding her sister good-bye; 'my Brail afternoons always keep me out
until dinner-time;' and Geraldine had generously assented to this. She
admired Audrey's benevolence in walking all those miles to see her old
friend; the whole family took a lively interest in honest Tom O'Brien,
though it must be allowed that Mrs. Baxter was by no means a favourite.
Audrey would have enjoyed her walk more if she could have kept her
thoughts free from Mr. Blake; but, unfortunately, the long grassy lanes
she was just entering only recalled the time when he had carried Booty
and had walked with her to the gate of Woodcote; and she found herself
wondering, in a vexed manner, as to the cause of the gravity that had
excited his mother's uneasiness.
But she grew impatient with herself presently.
'After all, what does it matter to me?' she thought, as she stopped to
gather some red leaves. 'I daresay it was only Miss Frances, after
all.'
And then she recoiled with a sort of shock, for actually within a few
feet of her was a tall figure in a brown tweed coat. She had been so
busy with her thoughts and the red and yellow leaves that she had not
seen Mr. Blake leaning against the gate that led into the ploughed
field. She might even have passed him, if he had not started up and
confronted her.
'Miss Ross,' grasping her hand, 'please let me gather those for you;
they are too difficult for you to reach--the ditch is so wide. How many
do you want? Do you care for that bit of barberry?'
'Thank you; I think I have enough now,' returned Audrey very gravely.
She was quite unprepared for this meeting. She had seen the flash of joy
in his eyes as he sprang forward to meet her, and she was annoyed to
feel that her own cheeks were burning. And she was clear-sighted enough
to notice something else--that Mr. Blake was talking eagerly and
gathering the coloured leaves at random, as though he hardly knew what
he was doing, and that, after that first look, he was avoiding her eye,
as though he were afraid that he had betrayed himself. Audrey's maidenly
consciousness was up in arms in a moment. The gleam in Cyril's eyes had
opened hers. Some instinct of self-defence made her suddenly entrench
herself in stiffness; the soft graciousness that was Audrey's chief
charm seemed to desert her, and for once in her life she was a little
abrupt.
'There is no need to gather any more, thank you. I have all I want, and
I am in a great hurry;' and she held out her hand for the leaves.
But Cyril withheld them.
'Let me carry them for you,' he returned, evidently trying to speak as
usual; but his voice was not quite in order. 'I know where you are
going--to that pretty, old-fashioned cottage with the jasmine-covered
porch; it is not far, and I have not seen you for so long.' Then he
stopped suddenly, as though something in Audrey's manner arrested him.
'That is, if you do not object,' he finished, with a pleading look.
But for once Audrey was obdurate.
'Thank you, I would rather carry them myself. There is no need to take
you out of your way.'
Audrey felt that her tone was cold--that she was utterly unlike herself;
but her one thought was to get rid of him. But she need not have feared
Cyril's importunity. He drew back at once, and put the leaves in her
hand without speaking; but he turned very pale, and there was a hurt
look in his eyes. Audrey put out her hand to him, but he did not seem to
see it; he only muttered something that sounded like 'Good-morning,' as
he lifted his cap and went back to the gate. Audrey walked on very fast,
but her cheeks would not cool, and a miserable feeling of discomfort
harassed her. She was vexed with him, but still more with herself. Why
need she have taken alarm so quickly? It was not like her to be so
missish and disagreeable. Why had she been so cold, so unfriendly, just
because he seemed a little too pleased to see her?
And now she had hurt him terribly--she was quite sure of that--she who
never willingly offended anyone. He had been too proud, too gentlemanly,
to obtrude himself where he was evidently not wanted; but his pained,
reproachful look as he drew back would haunt her for the rest of the
day. And, then, how splendidly handsome he had looked! She had once
likened him to a Greek god, but it may be doubted whether even the
youthful Apollo had seemed more absolutely perfect when he revealed
himself in human form to some Athenian votary, than Cyril Blake in the
glory of his young manhood. Audrey had not recognised this so keenly
before.
'I must make it up to him somehow. I cannot bear to quarrel with anyone.
I would rather do anything than hurt his feelings,' she thought; and it
needed all her excellent common-sense to prevent her from running back
to say a kind word to him.
'I was in a hurry--I was too abrupt; I did not mean to be unkind'--this
was what she longed to say to him. 'Please come with me as far as the
cottage, and tell me all you have been doing.' Well, and what withheld
her from such a natural course--from making her amends in this graceful
and generous fashion? Simply that same maidenly instinct of
self-preservation. She did not go back; she dare not trust herself with
Cyril Blake, because she was afraid of him, and perhaps--though this was
not quite so clear to her--she was afraid of herself. But, all the same,
she was very miserable--for doing one's duty does not always make one
happy--and she felt the joy of her home-coming was already marred; for,
with a person of Audrey's temperament, there is no complete enjoyment if
she were not in thorough harmony with everyone. One false note, one
'little rift within the lute,' and the whole melody is spoiled. So
Audrey's gaiety seemed all quenched that afternoon, and though her old
friend testified the liveliest satisfaction at the sight of her, and
Priscilla could not make enough of her, she was conscious that, as far
as her own pleasure was concerned, the visit was a failure.
But she was aware that no one but herself was conscious of this fact.
Certainly not honest Tom O'Brien, as he sat smoking his pipe in the
porch, and listening to her descriptions of Highland scenery with a
beaming face; neither was Mrs. Baxter a keen observer, as she testified
by her parting speech.
'You have done father a world of good, Miss Ross,' she said, as she
walked down to the little gate with Audrey. 'I think there is no one he
so loves to see, or who cheers him up in the same way as you do. You are
young, you see, and young people take more cheerful views of life; and
it is easy to see you have not a care on you. Not that I begrudge you
your happiness, for no one deserves it more; and long may it continue,
Miss Ross,' finished Mrs. Baxter, with her usual mournfulness.