TWO FAMILY EVENTS
'A solemn thing it is to me
To look upon a babe that sleeps,
Wearing in its spirit deeps
The undeveloped mystery
Of our Adam's taint and woe;
Which, when they developed be,
Will not let it slumber so.'
MRS. BROWNING.
One morning, as the Ross family were sitting at breakfast, Audrey
noticed that Michael seemed very much absorbed by a letter he was
reading. He laid it down presently, but made no remark, only he seemed a
little grave and absent during the remainder of the meal.
Just as they were rising from table, she heard him ask her father in
rather a low tone if he would come into the study for a moment, as he
wanted a few words with him; and as they went out together he mentioned
the word dogcart--could he have it in time to catch the 11.15 train?
Audrey felt a sudden quickening of curiosity. Michael's manner was so
peculiar that she was sure something must have happened. She wondered
what this sudden summons to town meant. It was a bitterly cold day, and
a light fall of snow had whitened the ground. A three miles' drive in a
dogcart was not a very agreeable proceeding, only Michael seemed so
strangely callous to weather now. Surely her father would insist on his
having a fly from the town? He was always so careful of Michael's
comfort.
Audrey could settle to nothing; it was impossible to practise or answer
notes until she had had a word with Michael. So she took up the paper
and pretended to read it, until the study door opened and she heard her
cousin go up to his room. The next moment Dr. Ross walked in, looking
as though he were very much pleased.
'Mike's a droll fellow,' he said, addressing his wife, who was looking
over the tradesmen's books. 'He has just told me, with a very long face,
that his uncle, Mr. Carlisle, is dead, and that he has left him all his
money; and he is as lugubrious over it as though he had been made
bankrupt.'
Audrey uttered an exclamation, but Mrs. Ross said, in her quiet way:
'Perhaps he is grieved at the loss of his uncle, John. It would hardly
be becoming to rejoice openly at the death of a relative, however rich
he might be.'
'I am afraid many men would if they were in Mike's shoes. Why, they say
Mr. Carlisle was worth six or seven thousand a year--most of it solid
capital, and locked up in safe securities and investments. He was always
a canny Scotsman, and liked to take care of his money. And here is Mike
pretending not to care a jot about it, and looking as though he had the
cares of all the world on his shoulders.'
'I think he shows very good feeling. Michael was never mercenary, and
the loss of his only near relative would make him dull for a time.'
'My dear Emmie, that is very pretty sentiment; but, unfortunately, it
does not hold good in this case. Mike has never seen his uncle since he
was a lad of eighteen--that is about seventeen years ago--and he has
often owned to me that Mr. Carlisle was very close in his money
dealings. "It is a pity there is no sympathy between us," he said once.
"Uncle Andrew does not seem to have a thought beyond his money-grubbing.
He is a decent sort of old fellow, I believe, and I daresay he will end
by marrying some pretty girl or other, and then he will be properly
miserable all the rest of his life." That does not sound much like an
affectionate nephew.'
'Oh, he never cared for him!' interposed Audrey; 'Michael and I have
often talked about him. It seems so strange that he should leave him his
money, when he took so little notice of him all these years.'
'Well, he was not a demonstrative man,' returned her father; 'but in his
way he seemed both fond and proud of Mike. I remember when he got the
Victoria Cross, and was lying between life and death, poor lad! that Mr.
Carlisle wrote very kindly and enclosed a cheque for two hundred pounds.
I had to answer the letter for him, and I remember when he got better,
and first came down here, that I recommended him to keep up a friendly
intercourse with his uncle, though I do not believe he took my advice.
Mike was always such a lazy beggar!'
'And he has to go up to town to see his lawyer, I suppose?'
'Yes, and he thinks he may be away a week or two; but, there, I must not
stand here talking. I have told Reynolds to order a fly from the town;
but he need not start for three-quarters of an hour.'
Audrey waited impatiently for another twenty minutes before Michael made
his appearance. He looked very cold, and at once proceeded to wheel an
easy-chair in front of the fire.
'I may as well get warm,' he observed. 'I expect we shall have a regular
snowstorm before night. Look at that leaden sky! Well, what now?'
For Audrey was kneeling on the rug, and she was looking at him with her
brightest and most bewitching smile.
'Michael, I am so glad, so very, very glad. I think I am as pleased as
though the fortune were mine.'
'Do you think that is a decent remark to make to a fellow who has just
lost his uncle? Really, Audrey, you may well look ashamed of yourself; I
quite blush for you. "Avarice, thy name is woman!"'
'Now, Michael, don't be absurd. I am not a bit ashamed of myself. Of
course, I am sorry the poor man is dead; but as I never saw him, I
cannot be excessively grieved; but I am delighted that he has done the
right thing and left you all his money, and I am sure in your heart that
you are glad, too.'
'It does not strike you that I may regard it in the light of an
unmitigated bore. What does an old bachelor like myself want with this
heap of money? I should like to know how I am to spend six or seven
thousand a year--why, the very idea is oppressive!'
'You are very good at pretence, Michael; as though I am not clever
enough to see through that flimsy attempt at philosophy! You think it
would be _infra dig._ to look too delighted.'
'Oh, you think I am going in for a stoic?' he returned blandly.
'Yes, but you are not really one; you were never cut out for a poor man,
Michael; the _role_ did not suit you at all. It is a pain and a grief to
you to travel second class, and it is only the best of everything that
is good enough for you; and you like to put up at first-class hotels,
and to have all the waiters and railway officials crowding round you.
Even when we were in Scotland the gillie took you for some titled
aristocrat, you were so lavish with your money. It is a way you have,
Michael, to open your purse for everyone. No wonder the poor widow
living down by the fir-plantation called you the noble English
gentleman.'
'Why, what nonsense you talk!' he replied.
But all the same it pleased him to think that she had remembered these
things. Oh, those happy days that would never come back!
'And now you will be able to gratify all your tastes. You have always
been so fond of old oak, and you can have a beautiful house, and furnish
it just as you like; and you can buy pictures, and old china, and books.
Why, you can have quite a famous library, and if you want our
assistance, Gage and I will be proud to help you; and if you will only
consult us, it will be the loveliest house you ever saw.'
'What do I want with a house?' he returned a little morosely. 'I should
think rooms would be far better for a bachelor.'
'Ah, but you need not be a bachelor any longer,' she replied gaily. 'You
have always told us that you could not afford to marry; but now you can
have the house and wife too.' But here she stopped for a moment, for
somehow the words sounded oddly as she said them. Michael's wife! What a
curious idea! And would she be quite willing for Michael to marry? His
wife must be very nice--nicer than most girls, she said to herself; and
here she looked at him a little wistfully; but Michael did not make any
response. He had the poker in his hand, and when she left off speaking
he broke up a huge coal into a dozen glowing splinters.
'And, then, do you remember,' she went on, 'how you used to long for a
mail phaeton, and a pair of bay horses? "When my ship comes I will drive
a pair!" How often you have said that to me! Will you drive me in the
Park sometimes, Michael, until you have someone else whom you want to
take?--for, of course, when you have a wife----'
But here he interrupted her with marked impatience:
'I shall never have a wife. I wish you would not talk such nonsense,
Audrey;' and there was such bitterness in his tone that she looked quite
frightened. But the next moment he spoke more gently. 'Do you not see,
dear, that I am a little upset about all this money coming to me? It is
a great responsibility, as well as a pleasure.'
Then as she looked a little downcast at his rebuke, he put his hand
lightly upon her brown hair and turned her face towards him.
'Why, there are tears in your eyes, you foolish child!' he said quickly.
'Did you really mind what I said, my dear Audrey?' in a more agitated
tone--for, to his surprise, a large bright tear fell on his other hand.
'Oh, it was not that!' she returned, in rather a choked voice. 'Please
don't look so concerned, Michael. You know I never mind your scolding
me.'
'Then what is it?' he asked anxiously. 'What can have troubled you? Was
it my want of sympathy with your little plans? The old oak, and the
carvings and the books, and even the mail phaeton, may come by and by,
when I have had time to realise my position as Croesus. Did my apathy
vex you, Audrey?'
'No; for of course I understood you, and I liked you all the better for
not caring about things just now. It was only--you will think me very
foolish, Michael'--and here she did look ashamed of herself--'but I
felt, somehow, as though all this money would separate us. You will not
go on living at Woodcote, and you will have a home of your own and other
interests; and perhaps--don't be vexed--but if ever you do marry, I
hope--I hope--your wife will be good to me.'
'I think I can promise you that,' he returned quietly. 'Thank you, dear,
for telling me the truth.'
'Yes; but, Michael, are you not shocked at my selfishness?'
'Not in the least. I understand you far better than you understand
yourself;' and here he looked at her rather strangely as he rose.
'Must you go now?'
'Yes, it is quite time; I can hear wheels coming up the terrace.' And
then he took her hands, and his old smile was on his face. 'Don't have
any more mistaken fancies, Audrey; all the gold of the Indies would not
separate us. If I furnish my house, I will promise you that Gage and you
shall ransack Wardour Street with me; and when you are married, my dear,
you shall choose what I shall give you;' and as he said this he stooped
over her, for she was still kneeling before the fire, and kissed her
very gently just above her eyes. It was done so quietly, almost
solemnly, that she was not even startled. 'I don't suppose Blake would
object to that from Cousin Michael,' he said gravely. 'Good-bye for a
few days;' and then he was gone.
'I am glad he did that,' thought Audrey; 'he has never done it before.
As though Cyril would mind! I was so afraid I had really vexed him with
all my foolish talking. But he looked so sad, so unlike himself, that I
wanted to rouse him. I will not tease him any more about a possible
wife; it seems to hurt him somehow--and yet why should he be different
from other men? If he does not go on living here with father and mother,
he will want some one to take care of him.' And here she fell into a
brown study, and the work she had taken up lay in her lap. After all, it
was she who was leaving him--when she was Cyril's wife, how could she
look after Michael?
Audrey could think of nothing else for the remainder of the day. She
told Cyril about her cousin's good fortune when he took her out for a
walk that afternoon. Neither of them minded the hard roads and gray
wintry sky; when a few snowflakes pelted them they only walked on
faster.
Cyril showed a proper interest in the news.
'I am delighted to hear it,' he said heartily. 'Captain Burnett is one
of the best fellows I know, and he deserves all he has got.'
And then, as it was growing dark, and they could hardly see each other's
face, he coaxed her to go back with him to the Gray Cottage to tell
Kester the wonderful news. Now, it so happened that Mrs. Blake and
Mollie had gone to a neighbour's, and were not expected back for an
hour; but Cyril begged her to stay and make tea for them: and a very
cosy hour they spent, sitting round the fire and making all kinds of
possible and impossible plans for their hero.
But the next day Audrey's thoughts were diverted into a different
channel, for Geraldine's boy was born, and great was the family
rejoicing. Dr. Ross himself telegraphed to Michael. Audrey never liked
her brother-in-law so well as on the morning when he came down to
Woodcote to receive their congratulations.
Mrs. Ross was at Hillside, and only Audrey and her father were sitting
at breakfast. Mr. Harcourt looked pale and fagged, but there was
marvellous content in his whole mien. The slight pomposity that had
always jarred on Audrey had wholly vanished, and he wrung her hand with
a warmth of feeling that did him credit.
Once, indeed, she could hardly forbear a smile, when he said, with a
touch of his old solemnity, 'Nurse says that he is the finest child that
she has seen for a long time--and Mrs. Ross perfectly agrees with her;'
but she commanded herself with difficulty.
'I wonder if he is like you or Gage, Percival?'
'It is impossible to say at present--one cannot get to see his eyes, and
he is a little red. Mrs. Lockhart says they are all red at first. But he
is astonishingly heavy--in fact, he is as fine a boy as you could see
anywhere.'
Audrey went on with her breakfast. It was so inexpressibly droll to see
Percival in the character of the proud father, but Dr. Ross seemed
perfectly to understand his son-in-law. Audrey's pleasure was a little
damped when she found that she must not see Geraldine. She went about
with her head in the air, calling herself an aggrieved aunt; and she
pretended to be jealous of her mother, who had taken up her residence at
Hillside during the first week.
But when the day came for Audrey to be admitted to that quiet room, and
she saw Geraldine looking lovelier than ever in her weakness, with a
dark, downy head nestled against her arm, a great rush of tenderness
filled her heart, and she felt as though she had never loved her sister
so dearly.
'Will you take him, Aunt Audrey?' and Geraldine smiled at her.
'No, no! do not move him--let me see mother and son together for a
moment. Oh, you two darlings, how comfortable you look!' but Audrey's
tone was a trifle husky, and then she gave a little laugh: 'Actually,
boy is a week old to-day, and this is the first time I have been allowed
to see my nephew.'
'It did seem hard,' returned Geraldine, taking her hand; 'but mother and
nurse were such tyrants--and Percival was just as bad; we were not
allowed to have a will of our own, were we, baby? It was such nonsense
keeping my own sister from me, as I told them.'
'Percival is very pleased with his boy, Gage;' and then a soft,
satisfied look came into the young mother's eyes.
'I think it is more to him than to most men,' she whispered. 'He is not
young, and he did so long for a son. Do you know, mother tells me that
he nearly cried when she put baby into his arms--at least, there were
tears in his eyes, and he could scarcely speak when he saw me first.
Father loves his little boy already,' she continued, addressing the
unconscious infant, and after that Audrey did consent to take her
nephew.
'What do you mean to call him, Gage?'
'Mother and I would have liked him to be called John, after father; but
Percival wishes him so much to have his own father's name, Leonard; and
of course he ought to have his way. You must be my boy's godmother,
Audrey--I will have no one else; and Michael must be one
godfather--Percival told me this morning that Mr. Bryce must be the
other.'
'I am glad you thought of Michael,' responded Audrey rather dreamily:
baby had got one of her fingers grasped in his tiny fists, and was
holding it tightly; and then nurse came forward and suggested that Mrs.
Harcourt had talked enough: and, though Audrey grumbled a little, she
was obliged to obey.
Audrey took advantage of the first fine afternoon to walk over to Brail.
It was more than three miles by the road, but she was a famous walker.
The lanes were still impassable on account of the thaw; February had set
in with unusual mildness: the snow had melted, the little lake at
Woodcote was no longer a sheet of blue ice, and Eiderdown and Snowflake
were dabbling joyously with their yellow bills in the water and their
soft plumes tremulous with excitement.
Audrey had set out early, and Cyril had promised to meet her half-way on
her return; the days were lengthening, but he was sure the dusk would
overtake her long before she got home.
Audrey was inclined to dispute this point: she liked to be independent,
and to regulate her own movements. But Cyril was not to be coerced.
'I shall meet you, probably by the windmill,' he observed quietly. 'If
you are not inclined for my companionship, I will promise to keep on the
other side of the road.'
And of course, after this remark, Audrey was obliged to give in; and in
her heart she knew she should be glad of his company.
She had not seen Mr. O'Brien for some weeks. During the winter her
visits to Vineyard Cottage were always few and far between. Michael had
driven her over a few days before Christmas, but she had not been there
since. She had heard that Mrs. Baxter had been ailing for some weeks,
and her conscience pricked her that she had not made an effort to see
her. She would have plenty of news to tell them, she thought: there was
Michael's fortune, and Gage's baby. Last time she had told them of her
engagement, and had promised to bring Cyril with her one afternoon. She
had tried to arrange this more than once, but Cyril had proposed that
they should wait for the spring.
Audrey enjoyed her walk, and it was still early in the afternoon when
she unlatched the little gate and walked up the narrow path to the
cottage. As she passed the window she could see the ruddy gleams of
firelight, and the broad back of Mr. O'Brien as he sat in his great
elbow-chair in front of the fire.
Mrs. Baxter opened the door. She had a crimson handkerchief tied over
her hair, and her face looked longer and paler than ever.
'Why, it is never you, Miss Ross?' she cried in a subdued crescendo.
'Whatever will father say when he knows it is you? There's a deal
happened, Miss Ross, and I am in a shake still when I think of the turn
he gave me only the other night. I heard the knock, and opened the door,
as it might be to you, and when I saw who it was--at least----Why,
father! father! what are you shoving me away for?' For Mr. O'Brien had
come out of the parlour, and had taken his daughter rather
unceremoniously by both shoulders, and had moved her out of his way.
'You leave that to me, Priscilla,' he said in rather a peculiar voice;
and here his great hand grasped Audrey's. 'You have done a good deed,
Miss Ross, in coming here this afternoon, for I am glad and proud to see
you;' and then, in a voice he tried in vain to steady: 'Susan was
right--she always was, bless her!--and Mat has come home!'