'HOW CAN I BEAR IT?'
'Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing,
Perceive but a voice as I come to his side;
But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing,
Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.'
MATTHEW ARNOLD.
Michael was trying to frame a suitable reply to this speech, that was at
once so tragic and hopeless, when Mat suddenly turned to him and said,
in a strangely altered voice:
'I want you to tell me one thing, sir. Why does she call herself Blake?'
'I am afraid I cannot enlighten you on that point,' returned Michael,
after a moment's consideration; 'probably it was the first name that
occurred to her. You will allow that it is short and handy, and that it
is by no means conspicuous.' But this answer did not seem to satisfy
Matthew O'Brien. An uneasy, almost suspicious look came into his eyes.
'I suppose it does not mean,' he continued, hesitating over his words,
'that she--Olive--has put herself under another man's protection?'
'Good heavens, O'Brien!' exclaimed Michael, in a shocked voice. 'How can
you wrong your wife so? With all her sins, I do not believe she is that
sort of woman.'
'You mistake me, sir,' returned Mat doggedly. 'And, in a way, you
mistake Olive too. She has not got the notions of other women. She would
not think things wrong that would horrify other folk. When she gave me
up, she said that she should consider herself free, and she might even
make it straight with her conscience to marry another man, who would be
a better protector to her and the children. I do not say Olive has done
this. But if it be so, by the powers above, Captain Burnett, I will
have the law of her there! So let her and the other fellow look out for
themselves!'
'There is no need to excite yourself so, O'Brien. Your wife is too much
a woman of the world to get herself into that sort of trouble. Her love
for her eldest son is her master passion. And I do not suppose she has
even given a thought to another man.'
'I am glad to hear it, Captain. But Olive has fooled me once, and I
doubted but she might have done it again. Perhaps you may not have heard
it, but she would never have married me if Darrell--Major Darrell, he
was--had not jilted her. She told me once, to spite me, that she
worshipped the ground the fellow trod on. And he was a cad--confound
him!--one of those light-hearted gentry who dance with girls and make
love to them, and then boast of their conquests. But he had a way with
him, and she never cared for anyone again. She has told me so again and
again in her tantrums.'
'My poor fellow,' returned Michael pityingly, 'you may at least be easy
on one point. Mrs. Blake--or Mrs. O'Brien, as I suppose we must call
her--has certainly led an exemplary life since she left you, devoting
herself to her children, and especially to her eldest son.'
Mat made no answer. His brief excitement had faded, and he now resumed
his old dejection of manner. He leant his head on his hand again and
looked into the fire; but by and by he roused himself from his
abstraction.
'Cyril has grown up a fine, handsome fellow, I hear. I suppose he has
Olive's good looks?'
'He is very like her, certainly. He is a good-looking man, and
exceedingly clever. Any father might feel proud of such a son.'
'And he is to marry the young lady I saw here the other day. I forget
her name, but she is the daughter of the chief boss down here.'
Michael gave a faint shudder.
'Her name is Miss Ross.'
'Oh yes, I remember now. Tom says the marriage will be broken off; but
we will talk of that presently. I want to hear something about the other
little chap--Kester.'
'He has not got his brother's good health, I am sorry to say.' And here
Michael gave a short sketch of Kester's boyish accident, and the results
that followed. 'He can walk very fairly now,' he continued, 'and will
soon lay aside his crutch; but I fear he will never make a strong man.'
'Dear, dear!' returned Mat in a sorrowful tone. 'And to think of the
active little monkey he used to be! Why, I can see him now, mounted
aloft on my shoulder and holding me round the neck till I was fairly
choked, and the other lad clasping me round the knee, and hallooing out
that he wanted to ride dada, too, though Olive never seemed to care to
see me play with them--we made so much noise, she said. Dear, dear! and
to think of the poor chap on crutches! And there is Mollie, too; she was
only a baby when I saw her last--such a fat, rosy little thing!'
'Mollie is a fine-grown girl, and as nice a child as you would wish to
see. We are all very fond of her.'
'Well, she has kept her word, and done her duty to them. And now look
here, sir. You just bring me somewhere where I can see the youngsters,
and hear them talk, and I will promise you to keep dark, and not let out
to them that I am their father. I will just have a look at them, and
then I will never trouble them again.'
'What on earth do you mean, O'Brien?'
'I mean that Olive is right, and that they are better without me,'
returned Mat dejectedly. 'Do you suppose they would have any love in
their hearts for a father who could only bring disgrace on them? No,
sir; I am not going to stand in their light and spoil their lives for
them. I have given them up to Olive, and she seems to have done her best
for them. Let the youngster have his sweetheart, and I will just bide
here quietly with Tom; or, if you think that Brail is too near, I will
put the seas between us again; and you can tell Olive so, if you like.'
'I shall tell her nothing of the kind, O'Brien,' returned Michael, much
touched at this generosity on the part of the poor prodigal. 'I will not
deny that this is the very thing she suggested; she even begged me to
propose this to you, but I refused. Do you suppose that either I or my
cousin, Dr. Ross, would connive at such deceit and falsehood? It is
quite true that Mrs. Blake and her children may refuse to have anything
to do with you, but that is solely their affair. In a few hours, Mr.
O'Brien, your eldest son will be made aware of his father's existence.'
'I am sorry to hear it, sir,' returned Mat, in a weak, hopeless voice.
'You will make a great mistake, and nothing good will come of it. She
will teach the youngsters to loathe my very name, and as for the
lad'--here he spoke with strong emotion--'he will be ready to curse me
for spoiling his life. No, no, sir; let sleeping dogs lie. Better let me
keep dark, and bring trouble to no one.'
But Michael shook his head. Such double-dealing and deceit could only
deepen the mischief.
'Dr. Ross will never give his sanction to his daughter's marriage; he
has assured me so most solemnly. Whatever trouble comes will be of your
wife's causing.'
But Mat would not agree to this.
'She meant no harm, sir. Olive always had curious ideas of right and
wrong, and she did her best for the youngsters. According to your
account, she has brought them up well, and sent the lad to Oxford. Fancy
a son of mine being such a swell, and engaged to that young lady, too!
Lord! when I think of it, I am ready to wish I had never left the bush.'
'It is no use wishing that now, Mr. O'Brien.'
'No, sir; and it is no use talking over what can't be mended. If you
have made up your mind to tell the lad, it is pretty plain that I can't
hinder you; but I will not lift a finger to help you. I will just stop
where I am.'
'I think perhaps that will be best under the circumstances.'
'But, all the same, it makes me uncommon restless to feel that Olive and
the youngsters are only three miles off, and I can't get at them. Put
yourself in my place, sir, and you would not find it very pleasant. And
there's Tom, too--with all his fine-hearted Christianity--vowing
vengeance on Olive, and threatening to turn her away from the door if
she ever dares to show her face here.'
'I do not think that she will ever molest you or your brother.'
'I am quite of your opinion, Captain. Olive will give me a pretty wide
berth, unless it is her interest to see me; and then all Tom's rough
speeches wouldn't turn her from her purpose. For tenacity and getting
her own way, I'd back her against any woman.'
'Well, as you say, there is nothing to be gained by talking.' returned
Michael, rising from his chair; but at this moment Mr. O'Brien entered.
'I hope I am not interrupting you, Captain; but it is getting late, and
I was thinking you would take a snack with us. The women are dishing up
the dinner--just a baked shoulder of mutton and potatoes under it. We
are plain folk, but Prissy and I will be glad and proud if you will join
us, sir;' and, after a moment's hesitation, Michael consented.
He had had no idea how late it was; they would already be sitting down
to luncheon at Woodcote. It would be better for him to take some food
before he set out on his cold drive home.
'If you will allow me to leave you directly afterwards,' he observed;
and, as Mat left the room that moment, he took the opportunity to give
Mr. O'Brien a brief _resume_ of the conversation.
'He begged me to keep it all dark,' he finished; 'he is thinking more of
his children than himself. But I told him that such a course would be
impossible.'
'And you spoke the truth, sir; and no good would come of such
crookedness. But Mat meant well; the lad has a good heart, and I do not
doubt he has a sore conscience when he thinks of all the evil he has
wrought. Leave him with me, sir; I can manage him best. There, I hear
Prissy calling to us, and we will just take our places.'
Michael felt faint and weary, and the homely viands seemed very
palatable to him; but he noticed how Matthew O'Brien's want of appetite
seemed to distress his brother.
'You are eating nought, lad,' he kept saying at intervals, and once he
bade Prissy fetch the remains of a meat pie that Mat had enjoyed the
previous days; 'maybe he will find it more toothsome,' he said in his
hearty way; but Mat would have nothing to say to it.
'You let me be, Tom,' he said at last; 'a man has not always got stomach
for his food. The Captain has taken away my appetite with his talk, and
the sight of the meat makes me sick;' and then he got up from the table,
and they saw him pacing up and down the garden with his pipe.
Michael got away as soon as possible, and Mr. O'Brien walked with him to
the inn. When the dogcart was brought out, he shook his hand very
heartily.
'Let me know how things go on, Captain, and God bless you!' and then, as
though by an afterthought: 'If the girl gives you trouble, send her to
me, and I will just talk the sense into her.' And then he stood in the
road and watched until the dogcart and driver were out of sight.
Afternoon work had begun as Michael entered Woodcote, but he found Dr.
Ross alone in the study.
'I have only a few minutes to give you, Michael,' he said, looking up
from the letter he was writing; 'I expected you back at least two hours
ago.' Then Michael gave him a concise account of his interview with the
brothers.
'Thomas O'Brien is a grand old fellow,' he said enthusiastically; 'you
should have heard him talk, Dr. Ross; and as for poor Mat, he has the
makings of a good fellow about him, too, only the devil somehow spoilt
the batch. Would you believe it?--the poor beggar wanted to efface
himself--to clear out altogether for the sake of the youngsters, as he
called them. He was not very polished in his language, but what can you
expect? Still, he meant well.'
'I daresay he did,' returned the Doctor with a sigh; 'you had better
keep that paper to show Cyril. I must send you away now, as Carter and
the other boys are coming to me. I will see you later on.'
And then Michael took himself off. He could hear Audrey's voice as he
passed the door of her sitting-room; Mollie was with her. A few minutes
later, as he stood at his window wondering what he should do with
himself, he saw her walk down the terrace towards the gate with Mollie
hanging on her arm; they seemed laughing and talking. 'How long will she
wear that bright face?' he said to himself as he threw himself into his
easy-chair and took up the paper.
He had just fallen into a doze, with Booty stretched on the softest of
rugs at his feet, when there was a light tap at his door, and to his
surprise and discomposure Cyril Blake entered the room.
The visit was so wholly unexpected that Michael stared at him for a
moment without speaking. Cyril had never come to his private
sitting-room before without a special invitation.
'I must apologise for this intrusion, Captain Burnett,' began Cyril
quickly; 'but I wanted to speak to you particularly. Were you asleep? I
am so sorry if I have disturbed you.'
'No, nonsense. I only felt drowsy because I have been out in this cold
wind and the room is so warm. Take a chair, Blake. I shall be wide awake
in a moment. Have you seen the paper to-day? There is nothing in it,
only a remarkably stupid article on Bismarck.'
'I will look at it by and by; but to tell you the truth, I have come to
speak to you about my mother. I am seriously uneasy about her: either
she is ill, or there is something grievously wrong. I understood from
Mollie that you were with her for more than an hour yesterday; in fact,
that she sent for you.'
The fire had burnt hollow during Michael's brief nap, and he seized this
opportunity to stir it vigorously into a blaze; it afforded him a
momentary respite. A few seconds' reflection convinced him, however,
that it was no use beating about the bush with a man of Cyril's calibre.
The truth had to be told, and no amount of preparation would render it
palatable.
'You are right,' he returned quietly; 'Mrs. Blake sent for me. She
thought that I should be able to help her in a difficulty.'
Cyril looked intensely surprised. 'I thought Mollie must have made a
mistake. It seems very strange that my mother----'
He stopped as though civility did not permit him to finish his sentence.
But Michael perfectly understood him.
'It seems strange to you; of course it does. My acquaintance with Mrs.
Blake is so slight that it certainly gives me no right to her
confidence; but she was in trouble--in great trouble, I may say--and
chance threw me in her way, and so----'
But here Cyril interrupted him.
'My mother in trouble!' he returned incredulously, but Michael thought
he looked a little pale; 'excuse me, Captain Burnett, if I seem rude,
but from a boy I have been my mother's friend. She has never kept
anything from me. I find it almost impossible to believe that she would
give that confidence to a comparative stranger which she would refuse to
her son. May I beg you to speak plainly? I abhor mysteries.'
Cyril spoke impatiently and curtly; his tone was almost displeased. But
Michael took no offence; he regarded the young man very kindly.
'I abhor them too,' he replied gravely; 'but I want you to understand
one thing: it was a mere chance that brought me in Mrs. Blake's way at a
moment when she needed assistance; I was only like any other stranger
who sees a lady in difficulty. Now I have told you this I can speak more
plainly.'
'I wish to heavens you would!' returned Cyril with growing excitement.
'Do you know the impression you are giving me?--that there is some
mysterious confidence between you and my mother. Is it too much to ask
if I may know what this difficulty and trouble mean?'
'No, Blake; you shall know all in good time,' replied Michael, with
disarming gentleness. 'If I do not speak out at once, it is because I
fear to give you too great a shock.'
'Too great a shock?'
'Yes. Your mother, out of mistaken kindness, has kept her children in
ignorance all these years that they have a father living. He was not a
father of whom they could be proud, and she tried to keep the fact of
his existence from them.'
'Wait a moment!' exclaimed Cyril. The poor fellow had turned very white.
'I must take this in. What are you telling me, Burnett? That my
mother--my widowed mother--has a husband living?'
'I am telling you the truth. Are you ready to hear me say more? I will
wait any time you like; but it is a long story, and a sad one. Your
mother has left me to tell it.'
'Go on! Let me hear every word! Hide nothing--nothing!'
Cyril spoke in a dull, stifled voice, as though he felt choking. When
Michael began to speak, very slowly and quietly, he almost turned his
back to him; and as the story proceeded, Michael noticed how he clutched
the carved arms of his chair; but he did not once see his face. Michael
afterwards owned that telling that miserable story to Olive O'Brien's
son was one of the toughest jobs he had ever done in his life. But he
had no idea how well he did it: there was not an unnecessary word. With
the utmost care he strove to shield the woman, and to show her conduct
in the best light. 'It was for her children's sake she did it,' he said
again and again; but there was no answering word from Cyril; if he had
been turned to stone, his position could not have been more rigid.
'Have you understood me, Blake? My poor, dear fellow, if you knew how
sorry Dr. Ross and I are for you----'
Then, as Michael mentioned Dr. Ross's name, Cyril seemed galvanised into
sudden life.
'He knows! he knows! For God's sake give me air!' But before Michael
could cross the room, Cyril had stumbled to the window and flung it up,
and stood there, with the bitter east wind blowing on his face, as
though it were a refreshing summer breeze.
The chill air made Michael shiver; but he knew by experience how
intolerable was that sense of suffocation, and he stood by patiently
until that deadly feeling had passed.
'Are you better now, Blake? My poor fellow, can you sit down and speak
to me?'
Then Cyril turned his face towards him, and Michael was shocked to see
how strained and haggard it looked.
'Does she know, too?'
'Not yet; her father will tell her.'
Then the poor boy shuddered from head to foot.
'They will make her give me up! O my God! how can I bear it? Burnett, I
think I shall go mad! Tell me it is not true--that my mother has not
lied to me all these years!'
'At least, she has lied for her son's sake.' But he knew how futile were
his words, as he saw the bitter contempt in Cyril's honest eyes.
'I will never forgive her! She has ruined my life! she has made me wish
that I were dead! I will never, never----'
But Michael interrupted him somewhat sternly:
'Hush! hush! You do not know what you are saying. She is your mother,
Blake--nothing can alter that fact.'
'She has deceived us all! No, I will not speak; nothing can make it
better or worse. If I lose Audrey, I do not care what becomes of me!'
Michael looked at him pityingly.
'Do you think you ought to marry her, Blake!'
Then Cyril flung away from him with a groan; even in his misery he
understood that appeal to his generosity. But he put it from him: he was
too much stunned, too dazed altogether, to follow out any train of
reasoning. In a vague sort of way he understood two facts: that he and
Kester and Mollie were disgraced, and that his mother--the mother whom
he adored--had deceived him. Beyond this he could not go. The human mind
has limits.
Afterwards, in the chill hour of darkness and solitude, Michael's words
would come back to him: 'Do you think you ought to marry her, Blake? Do
you think you ought to marry her?'