'DADDY, I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU'
'To his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And _that_ was shining on him.'
CHAPMAN.
Audrey never knew how long she sat there, shedding those healing tears,
every one of which seemed to relieve her overcharged heart; it was a
luxury to sit there in that cool shadowed stillness. Presently she would
rouse herself and go back to her world again; presently, but not just
now! By and by she would think it all out, she would question her own
heart more closely. Hitherto she had feared any such scrutiny--now it
would be selfish, cowardly, to avoid it any longer; but at the present
minute she was only conscious that she and everyone else were miserable.
At this moment she heard footsteps crossing the courtyard. Then, to her
dismay, they entered the lobby. She had only just time to drag down a
book from the shelves and open it haphazard; it was a volume on natural
history. Anyone would have thought her absorbed, she pored so
attentively over that plate of gaudy butterflies, never raising her head
to look at the new-comer, who stood a few yards off regarding her with
unqualified astonishment. Cyril Blake--for it was he, and no other, who
had entered the library--would willingly have withdrawn without
attracting her notice; but one of the boys in the sanatorium wanted a
certain fascinating book of adventures, and he had promised to fetch it.
He knew the volume was in this very recess, and he saw with some
annoyance that it would be necessary to disturb her.
'Miss Ross,' he said, in that quiet, guarded tone in which he always
addressed her now, 'may I trouble you to move just for one moment? I am
so sorry to disturb you, but Willie Taylor--' and then he stopped as
though he were suddenly petrified.
Audrey had risen quickly, but as she moved aside he had a full view of
her face--the flushed cheeks and swollen eyelids told their own tale.
'Good heavens!' he exclaimed, forgetting his errand and speaking in
excessive agitation, 'you are unhappy--something is the matter!' and
Cyril turned quite pale.
Poor Audrey! her feelings were not very enviable at that moment. That
she should be discovered by the very person whom she was most anxious to
avoid! If he would only go away and leave her, and not stand there
asking her questions! But nothing was farther from Cyril's intentions.
For the minute he had forgotten everything, except that she was unhappy.
'You are not well, or else something has been troubling you,' he
continued, and his voice softened with involuntary tenderness. 'Miss
Ross, you promised that we should be friends--will you not treat me as
one now? There is nothing I would not do to help you, if you would only
tell me what is troubling you.'
'It is impossible,' she returned with a little sob. Oh, if he would only
go away, and not speak to her so kindly! 'One must be troubled
sometimes, and no one can help me--if you will only leave me to myself.'
'Leave you like this?'
'Yes, indeed--indeed. I cannot talk;' and Audrey wiped away the tears
that seemed to blind her. She so seldom gave way--she so seldom
permitted herself this feminine luxury of tears--but when once she set
them flowing they were simply uncontrollable. She could not help what
Cyril thought of her. 'If you would only go away,' she repeated, turning
from him as he stood there as though rooted to the spot.
'I cannot go;' and here Cyril's lips became quite white under his
moustache.
Some sudden intuition of the truth had come to him. Why had he not
thought of that before? It had never even occurred to him. An hour ago
he had met Mollie wandering about the town disconsolately. Miss Ross was
at the Cottage, she had said; it was only a call, and she had taken the
message herself; and then her mother had given her some errands to do,
and had charged her strictly not to return for at least an hour.
'Mamma never likes me to be at home when Miss Ross comes,' Mollie had
observed in an aggrieved tone. But Cyril had taken no notice of the
speech--he knew his mother's little ways, and no suspicion of the truth
had come to him. It was only the sight of Audrey's emotion that
quickened it into life now.
'You have seen my mother,' he exclaimed; and here his face grew dark and
stern. 'She has been talking to you--making you unhappy. Miss Ross,' as
she remained silent, 'you must answer me. This concerns me very closely.
I have a right to know if my mother has betrayed me!'
His tone frightened Audrey.
'You must not be vexed with her,' she said, rousing herself to defend
the absent. 'She is very unhappy, and of course it troubled me.' Audrey
spoke with her usual simplicity--what was the use of trying to hide it
any longer? Cyril's impetuous pertinacity gave her no chance of escape.
'And she told you that I was going away?'
Audrey bowed her head.
'It was very wrong,' he returned, still sternly. 'Whom is a man to
trust, if he cannot trust his own mother? She has betrayed my
confidence. It was cruel to me, but it was far more cruel to you--it is
that I cannot forgive.'
'No, no! You must not say that--she did not mean to be cruel, Mr. Blake.
Of course I ought not to have known this, and of course it has made me
very unhappy. But now I must ask you something. Will you not wait a
little? Things may be better--easier----' And here she looked at him
timidly, and her expression was very sweet.
But Cyril was not looking at her; he was having a hard fight with
himself. He was angry--justly angry, as he thought; nay, more, he was
humiliated that his mother should have appealed to this girl--that,
knowing her kind heart, she should have inflicted this pain on her. The
sight of her grief, her gentleness, almost maddened him, and he averted
his eyes as he answered her.
'They cannot be easier. But do not mistake my meaning--perhaps my mother
has misled you--let me put it right. No pain or difficulty is driving me
away; do not think that for a moment. However hard it might be to go on
living here, I think I could have endured it, if it were only right to
do so. But I have made up my mind that it is not right, and to-morrow
morning I shall speak to Dr. Ross.'
'Oh no, no!' and here Audrey clasped her hands involuntarily. But
Cyril's eyes were fixed on some carrier-pigeons fluttering across the
courtyard.
'It is my duty to do it, and it must be done. If Dr. Ross questions me,
I shall tell him the truth: "I must go away because I have dared to love
your daughter; and if I stayed here I should never cease from my efforts
to win her." That is what I should tell him, Miss Ross. I think he will
not press me to remain under these circumstances.' And Cyril gave a
bitter little laugh.
'Perhaps not;' and here Audrey sank down upon her chair, for she felt
weak and giddy.
'I am glad, at least, that you think I am doing right.'
'I did not say so.'
'Pardon me;' and here Cyril did try to get a glimpse of her face, for
something in her tone baffled him. 'You, who know all, must of course
approve my conduct. If I stayed here I could not answer for myself; it
is better--safer--that I should go; though wherever I am,' here his
voice trembled with exquisite tenderness, 'I must always love you.'
'Then in that case you had better remain.'
Audrey tried to shield her face as she spoke, but he had seen a little
tremulous smile flit over her features, and she could not hide her
dimple. What could she mean? Was he fooling himself--dreaming? The next
moment he had dropped on one knee beside her, and was begging her, with
tears in his eyes, to look at him.
'This is a matter of life and death to me,' he implored, compelling her
by the very strength of his will to turn her blushing face to him. 'Miss
Ross--Audrey'--his tone almost amounting to awe--'you cannot mean that
you really care for me?'
'I am afraid I do care too much to let you go,' she half whispered. But
as he grasped her hands, and looked at her almost incredulously: 'Why is
it so impossible? I think in a way I have long cared.'
But even then he did not seem satisfied.
'It is not pity--you are sure of that? It is nothing that my mother has
said? Audrey, if I thought that, I would rather die than take advantage
of you. Tell me, dear'--and the pleading of his eyes was almost more
than she could bear--'you would not so humiliate me?'
'No, Cyril, I would not.'
His name came so naturally to her, she hardly knew she said it; but a
gleam of joy passed over the young man's face as he heard it, and the
next moment he drew her towards him.
Audrey took it all quite simply; she listened to her young lover's
passionate protestation of gratitude, half shyly, half happily. The
reverence with which he treated her touched her profoundly; he did not
overpower her with the force of his affection. After the first few
moments of agitated feeling he had quieted himself and her.
'I must not try you too much,' he said. 'If I were to talk for an hour I
could never make you understand how happy I am. It is a new existence;
it is wonderful. Yesterday I was so tired of my life, and
to-day--to-day, Audrey----'
'I am happy, too,' she said, in a soft, contented voice. 'All these
weeks have been so miserable; I seemed to miss you so--but you would
have nothing to say to me. Do you remember that evening when you took my
queen? Oh, how unhappy I was that night! And you saw it, and went away.'
'I did not go far,' he returned, taking possession of one hand--the soft
white hand that lay so quietly in his. 'It was the only thing I could do
for you--to keep out of your sight as much as possible. I walked up and
down the road like a sentinel for hours; it did not seem possible to go
home and sleep. I felt as though I never wanted to sleep again. I could
only think of you in your white gown as you sat opposite to me, and how
your hand trembled, and how cold it felt when I said good-night. I
thought it was all your goodness, and because you were sorry for me.
Were you beginning to care for me a little even then, my darling?'
'I do not know,' she answered gently. 'You must not question me too
closely. I hardly understand myself how it has all come about.'
'No,' he returned, looking at her with a sort of worship in his
eyes--the worship with which a good, true woman will sometimes inspire a
man, and which makes their love a higher education; 'it is all a
miracle. I am not worthy of you; but you shall see--you shall see how
dearly I shall prize this precious gift.'
And then for a moment they were both silent.
'You will not now forbid me to speak to your father?' he said presently;
and a shade of anxiety crept into his voice in spite of his intense
happiness.
The thought of that interview somewhat daunted him. It was surely a
daring thing for a junior classical master to tell his chief that he
had won his daughter's affections; it was an ordeal that most men would
have dreaded.
Audrey seemed to read his thoughts.
'I hope I shall never hinder you from doing your duty,' she said
quietly, 'and, of course, you will have to speak to him; but'--looking
at him with one of her radiant smiles--'you will find him quite
prepared.'
'Do you mean that you will speak to him first? Oh no; it is surely my
prerogative to spare you this.'
'But I do not wish to be spared,' she returned happily. 'Cyril, I do not
think you have any idea of what my father is to me, and I to him. Do you
suppose I should sleep until I have told him? There has never been any
secret between us. Even when I was a little child, I would take him all
my broken toys to mend, and if I fell down or cut my finger--and I was
always in mischief--it was always father who must bind it up, and kiss
and comfort me; and, with all his hard work, he was never too busy to
attend to me.'
'I think in your place I would have gone to your mother. You must not be
jealous, darling, if I tell you that I fell in love with her first.'
'I am so glad. Dear mother! everyone loves her. But when Gage and I were
children, I was always the one most with father. I think there is no one
in the world like him, and Michael says the same. I must write and tell
Michael about this.'
'Oh yes; he is like your brother. I remember you told me so. But,
dearest, I must confess I am a little anxious about Dr. Ross. I am only
a poor man, you know; he may refuse his consent.'
Audrey shook her head.
'Father is not like that,' she said tranquilly. 'We think the same on
these matters; we are both of us very impulsive. I have some money of my
own, you know--not much'--as Cyril's brow contracted a little--'but
enough to be a real help. But do not let us talk about that; I have
never cared for such things. If you had not a penny in the world you
would be still yourself--Cyril Blake.'
Audrey looked so charming as she said this, that the cloud on Cyril's
brow cleared like magic.
'And you do not think your father will be angry?'
'Angry! Why should he be angry?' opening her eyes widely. 'He may be
disappointed--very probably he will be so; he may think I might have
done better for myself. He may even argue the point a little. The great
blessing is that one is not obliged to consult one's sister in such
cases; for'--looking at him with her old fun--'I am afraid Gage would
refuse her consent.'
'Yes; I am afraid both Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt will send me to Coventry.'
'To be sure they will; but I suppose even Coventry will be bearable
under some circumstances. Oh dear!' interrupting herself, 'do you see
how dark it is growing? We have actually forgotten the time. I must
really be going.'
'I ought not to have kept you so long,' he returned remorsefully.
'There, you shall go! I will not detain you another moment. I think it
will be better for you to go alone. I will stay here another half-hour;
I could not speak to anyone just now. I must be alone and think over
this wonderful thing that has happened.'
'Very well,' she replied. But some minutes elapsed before the last
good-bye was said. There were things he had forgotten to say. More than
once, as she turned away, he detained her with some parting request.
When she had really gone, and the last sound of her footsteps died away,
he went back into the dusky room, and threw himself down on the chair
where she had sat, and abandoned himself to a delicious retrospect.
'And it is true--it is not a dream!' he said to himself when, an hour
later, he roused himself to go back to the Gray Cottage. 'Oh, thank God
that He has given me this priceless gift! If I could only be worthy of
her!' finished the young man with tender reverence, as he crossed the
courtyard and let himself in at the green door.
Mrs. Ross looked at her daughter rather anxiously that evening; she
thought Audrey was rather quiet and a trifle subdued. Geraldine and her
husband were dining at Woodcote. Audrey, who had forgotten they were
expected, was rather taken aback when she saw her sister, and made her
excuses a little hurriedly. She had been detained--all sorts of things
had detained her. She had been to the Gray Cottage and the library. She
had not walked far enough to tire herself--this being the literal fact,
as not a quarter of a mile lay between Woodcote and the Cottage. Oh no,
she was not the least tired, and she hoped Geraldine felt better.
'Much better, thank you,' returned Geraldine, with one of her keen
glances; and then she somewhat elaborately changed the subject. Audrey
was not subjected to any cross-examination; indeed, there was something
significant in Mrs. Harcourt's entire dearth of curiosity; but all the
time she was saying to herself: 'Audrey has been crying; her eyes are
quite swollen, and yet she looks cheerful. What can it mean? What has
she been doing? She has hardly had time to smooth her hair, it looks so
rough. I wonder if Percival notices anything! I am sure father does, for
he keeps looking at her,' and so on.
It was Mr. Harcourt who was Audrey's _bete noir_ that evening. He was in
one of his argumentative moods, and could not be made to understand that
his sister-in-law would have preferred silence. He was perpetually
urging her to single combat, touching her up on some supposed tender
point in the hope of getting a rally. 'I suppose Audrey, who goes in for
women's rights so warmly, will differ from me if I say so and so?' or
'We must ask Audrey what she thinks of that, my dear; she is a great
stickler for feminine prerogative;' and then he would point his chin,
and a sort of sarcastic light would come into his eyes. It was positive
enjoyment to him when Audrey rose to the bait and floundered hopelessly
into an argument. But, on the whole, she acquitted herself ill. 'You are
too clever for me to-night, Percival,' she said a little wearily, as he
stood talking to her with his coffee cup in his hand; 'I cannot think
what makes men so fond of debating and argument. If they can only
persuade a person that black is white, they go home and sleep quite
happily.'
'It is such a triumph to make people see with one's own eyes,' he
returned, as though accepting a compliment. 'Have you ever read the
_Republic_ of Plato? No! I should recommend it for your perusal: it is
an acknowledged masterpiece; the reasoning is superb, and it is rich in
illustrations. The want of women is that, with all their intelligence,
they are so illogical. Now, if women only had the education of men----'
'Harcourt, I think Geraldine is tired, and would like you to take her
home,' observed Dr. Ross, interrupting the stream of eloquence; and Mr.
Harcourt, without finishing his sentence, went at once in search of his
wife. Women might be illogical, but they were to be considered, for all
that. With all his satire and love of argument, Mr. Harcourt valued his
wife's comfort before his own. 'I am quite ready, dear,' he said, as
she looked up at him with a deprecating smile; 'and I know your mother
will excuse us.'
Dr. Ross had walked with his daughter to the gate. Young Mrs. Harcourt
was a woman who always exacted these little attentions from the menkind
around her; without demanding them, she took them naturally as her right
and prerogative. It would have seemed strange to her if her father had
not offered her his arm. 'Good-bye, father dear,' she said, giving him
her firm cool cheek to kiss; 'Percy and I have had such a nice evening.'
Dr. Ross walked back to the house; then he went to his study and lighted
his reading-lamp. There was a certain interesting debate in the _Times_
which he wished much to read--a Ministerial crisis was at hand, and Dr.
Ross, who was Conservative to the backbone, was aware that his party was
menaced. He had just taken the paper in his hand when Audrey came into
the room. 'Good-night, my dear,' he said, without looking up; but Audrey
did not take the hint.
'Daddy, I want to speak to you,' she said very quietly; 'will you please
put that paper down for a moment?' And then she added, 'I want to speak
to you very particularly.'
Dr. Ross heaved a sigh and lowered his paper somewhat reluctantly.
'Would not another time have done as well?' he grumbled good-humouredly;
'Harcourt has taken up all the evening. That is the worst of having an
elderly son-in-law; one is bound to be civil to him; one could not tell
him to hold his tongue, for example.'
'I think Percival would resent such a hint,' returned Audrey rather
absently. She had drawn a low chair close to her father's knee, so that
she could touch him, and now she looked up in his face a little
pleadingly.
'Well, what is it, child?' he went on, still fingering his paper; 'I
suppose you want help for some _protegee_ or other--moderation in all
things. I warn you that I have not got Fortunatus's purse.'
'It is not money I want,' she returned, so gravely that he began to feel
uncomfortable. 'Daddy, it is something very, very different. This
afternoon Cyril Blake spoke to me, and I--that is, we--are engaged.'
Dr. Ross gave a great start and dropped the _Times_ as though it burnt
him. For a moment he did not speak. With all his mildness and
benevolence, he was a man of strong passions, though no one would have
guessed it from his habitual self-control.
'We are engaged,' she repeated softly, and then she stroked her father's
hand; but he drew it rather quickly away.
'Audrey,' he said, in a voice that she did not recognise, it was so
stern, so full of displeasure; 'I would rather have heard anything than
this, that a child of mine should so far forget herself as to engage
herself to any man without her parents' consent.'
'Oh, daddy----' she began caressingly, but he stopped her.
'It was wrong; it was what I would not have believed of you, Audrey; but
with regard to Mr. Blake, it was altogether dishonourable. How dared
he,' here the Doctor's eyes flashed through his spectacles, 'how dared
he win my daughter's affections in this clandestine way?'
'Father, you must not speak so of Cyril!' returned Audrey calmly, though
she was a little pale--a little disturbed at this unexpected severity;
'it is not what you think: there was nothing clandestine or
dishonourable. He did not mean to speak to me; it was more my fault than
his. You shall hear all, every word from the beginning. Do you think I
would hide anything from my father?' And here two large tears welled
slowly from Audrey's eyes, but she wiped them away. Perhaps her
gentleness and the sight of those tears mollified Dr. Ross, for when
Audrey laid her clasped hands upon his knee he did not again repulse
her. Nay, more, when she faltered once in telling her story, he put his
hand on her head reassuringly.
'Is that all you have to tell me, my dear?' and now Dr. Ross spoke in
his old kind voice.
'Yes, father dear; you have heard everything now, and--and--'
beseechingly, 'you will not be hard on us!'
'Hard on him, I suppose you mean,' returned Dr. Ross, with rather a sad
smile; 'a man is not likely to be hard to his own flesh and blood. I
still think he has acted rather badly, but I can make allowance for him
better now--he was sorely tempted. But now I want you to tell me
something: are you sure that your happiness is involved in this--that it
would really cost you too much to give him up?'
Audrey looked at her father with some astonishment--that wide,
clear-eyed glance conveyed reproach.
'Do you think it necessary to ask me such a question?' she said, with a
little dignity; 'should I have engaged myself to any man without loving
him?'
'But he may have talked you into it; you may have mistaken your
feelings,' suggested Dr. Ross; but Audrey shook her head.
'I am not a child,' she said, rather proudly. 'Father, you have always
liked Mr. Blake. You can surely have no objection to him personally?'
'Yes, but my liking did not go to the extent of wishing him to be my
son-in-law,' he replied, with a touch of grim humour; 'in my opinion,
Audrey, Mr. Blake is far too young.'
'He is three-and-twenty,' she pleaded; 'he is two months older than I
am. What does age matter, father? He will grow older every day. I know
some men are boyish at that age; but I think Cyril's life has matured
him.'
'Still, I would rather have entrusted you to an older man, and one who
had in some measure made his position. Mr. Blake is only at the
beginning of his career; it will be years before he achieves any sort of
position. Audrey, you know me well enough by this time: I am not
speaking of his poverty, though that alone should have deterred him from
aspiring to my daughter. We think alike on these points, and I care
nothing about a rich son-in-law; but Mr. Blake has only his talents and
good character to recommend him. He is far too young; he is poor, and
his family has no social standing.'
'But, father, surely a good character is everything. How often I have
heard you say what a high opinion his Dean had of him, and what an
excellent character he had borne at school and college; and then think
what a son and a brother he is--how unselfish, how hard-working! How
could any girl be afraid of entrusting her future to him?'
Dr. Ross sighed. Audrey's mind was evidently made up. Why had he brought
this misfortune on them all by engaging this fascinating young
master--for he certainly looked upon it as a misfortune. After all, was
it any wonder that Cyril Blake, with his perfect face and lovable
disposition, had found his way to his daughter's heart? 'Why could he
not have fallen in love with someone else?' he groaned to himself; for
Audrey was the very apple of his eye, and there was no one he thought
good enough for her, unless it were Michael. Not that such an idea ever
really occurred to him. Michael's ill-health put such a thing out of the
question; but Michael was his adopted son, and far above the average of
men, in his opinion.
'Father, you will remember that my happiness is involved in this,'
Audrey said, after a little more talk had passed between them. 'You will
be good to Cyril when he speaks to you to-morrow.'
'Oh yes; I will be good to him.'
And then Audrey laid her hot cheek against him, and thanked him as she
bid him good-night; but when she had gone there were no debates read
that night--Dr. Ross had too many thoughts to occupy him as he sat alone
in his empty study.