'YOU WILL LIVE IT DOWN'
'Sweet the thought, our lives, my love.
Parted ne'er may be,
Though between thy heart and mine
Leagues of land and sea.
* * * * *
Of this twofold life and love,
Twofold running fate,
Sad and lone we may be oft,
Never desolate.'
BRITTON.
Cyril knew where he should find Audrey; she was generally in her own
little sitting-room until luncheon. Sometimes her mother or Mollie would
be with her, but this morning he felt instinctively that she would be
alone.
She was sitting by the window, and there was some work on her lap, but
she did not seem to be employing herself. She had bidden Cyril enter,
and directly she saw him she rose from her seat and crossed the room
somewhat quickly to meet him; but he did not at once speak to her,
neither did he offer his usual greeting.
She waited for a moment to see what he would do; then she put up her
face to him.
'Why do you not kiss me, Cyril?' she said, a little reproachfully; and
then he did take her in his arms.
'It is for the last time!' he murmured, as he pressed her almost
convulsively to him.
But she made no answer to this; when he had set her free, she took his
hand very quietly, and led him to a seat that stood beside her chair.
His hand was cold, and she kept it in both her own as though to warm it.
'I knew you would come to me,' she said very softly. 'How ill you look,
my poor Cyril! You have not slept. Oh yes, I know all about it. And you
have been to father, and you have both made yourselves very miserable.
Do you think I do not know that? Poor father! and he is so
tender-hearted.'
'I tried to spare him,' he returned wearily. 'I did not wish to put him
to any trouble. I must dree my own weird, Audrey.'
'But I shall have to dree it too. Cyril, my darling, you shall not bear
your trouble alone; it is far too heavy for you. As far as we can--as
far as our duty permits, we will bear it together.' And then, as though
the haggardness of his young face was too much for her, she came closer
to him, and laid her head on his shoulder. 'We will bear it together,
Cyril.'
'But, Audrey, my one blessing, that cannot be. Do you know what I have
come to say to you this morning? That our engagement must be at an
end--that you are free, quite free.'
'But I do not wish for freedom.'
'My darling, you ought to wish for it. Under the circumstances, it is
quite impossible that we should ever be married. I am a ruined man,
Audrey; I have lost my good name, my work, my worldly credit; my
connections are disreputable. By this time you must know that I have a
father living, and that his name----'
But she gently checked him.
'Yes, dear, I know all.'
'And yet you can tell me that you do not desire freedom? But that is all
your goodness, and because you do not wish to pain me. Audrey, when I
tell you that I must give up the idea of ever calling you my wife, it
seems to me as though the bitterness of death were on me.'
'My poor Cyril!'
'Yes, I am poor indeed; I never dreamt of such poverty. They might have
taken from me everything, and I would not have murmured, if they had
only left me my faith in my mother, and if they had not robbed me of my
love!'
'She is yours still, Cyril. No, do not turn from me; I mean it--I mean
it! If you give me up, if you say to yourself that our engagement is
broken, it must be as you choose, and I must let you go. No woman can
compel a man to remain bound to her. But the freedom is on your side
alone; I neither ask nor desire to be free.'
'Darling, darling, what can you mean?'
'If you say that you will never marry me,' she continued, with an air of
deep sadness, 'I suppose you will keep your word; perhaps you are right
in saying so. I would not marry you without my father's consent, and he
tells me he will never give it; but, Cyril, you may rest assured of
this, that in your lifetime I will never marry another man.'
Then he threw himself at her feet, and, taking her hands in his, begged
her for very pity's sake to stop.
'I love you, Audrey! I think I never loved you before as I do now! but
do you think I would permit such a sacrifice?'
'How are you to help it?' she returned, with a faint smile that was very
near tears; 'and it would be no sacrifice, as far as I know my own
heart. I think my one wish is to comfort you, and to make your life a
little less dreary, Cyril,' looking at him earnestly; and it seemed to
him as though her face were like an angel's. 'You will be brave and bear
this for my sake. When you are tempted to lose faith, and hope seems
farthest from you, you must say to yourself: "Audrey has not deserted
me; she is mine still--mine always and for ever!"'
Then he bowed his head on her hands and wept like a child. She passed
her hand over his hair caressingly, and her own tears flowed; but after
a little while she spoke again:
'I have told father so, and I have told mother; I said to both of them
that I would never give you up. We may live apart. Oh yes, I know that
it is all very sad and miserable; but you will let me keep your ring,
Cyril, because I still belong to you.'
He tried to steady his voice, and failed; all his manhood could not give
him fortitude at such a moment. He could only clasp her in his arms, and
beg her for her own sweet sake to listen to him.
And presently, when he was a little stronger, he put it all before her.
He explained to her as well as he could the future that lay before him;
the yoke of his father's sin was on his neck, and it was useless to try
and break it off. He might call himself Blake, and look for new work in
a new place, and the miserable fact would leak out.
There is a fatality in such cases, he went on. 'One may try to hush it
up, to live quietly, to attract no notice; but sooner or later the
secret will ooze out. I think I am prouder than most men--perhaps I am
morbid; but I feel I shall never live down this shame.'
'You will live it down one day.'
'Yes, the day they put me in my coffin; but not before, Audrey.' Then,
as she turned pale at the thought, he accused himself bitterly for his
selfishness. 'I am making you wretched, and you are an angel of
goodness!' he cried remorsefully. 'But you must forgive me, darling;
indeed, I am not myself.'
'Do you think I do not know that?'
'A braver man than I might shrink from such a future. What have I done
that such a thing should happen to me? I loved my work, and now it is
taken from me; as far as I know, I may have to dig for my bread.'
'No, no!' she returned, holding him fast; for this was more than she
could bear to hear--that the bright promise of his youth was blasted and
destroyed. 'Cyril, if you love me, as you say you do, will you promise
me two things?'
He looked at her a little doubtfully.
'If I love you!' he said reproachfully.
'Then I will alter my sentence, I will say, because of your love for me,
will you grant me these two things? Cyril, you must forgive your mother.
However greatly she has erred, you must remember that it was for your
sake.'
'I do remember it.'
'And you will be good to her?'
Then, his face became very stern.
'I will do my duty to her. I think I may promise you that.'
'Dearest, I do not doubt it. When have you ever failed in your duty? But
I want more than that: you must try so that your heart may be softer to
her; you are her one thought; with all her faults, I think no mother
ever loved her son so well. It is not the highest love, perhaps, since
she has stooped to deceit and wrong for your sake; but, Cyril, it is not
for you to judge her.'
'Perhaps not; but how am I to refrain from judging her? To me truth is
the one absolute virtue--the very crown and chief of virtues. That is
why I first loved you, Audrey--because of your trustworthiness. But now
I have lost my mother--nay, worse, she has never existed!'
'I do not quite understand you.'
'Do you think my mother--the mother I believed in--could have acted this
life-long lie? Would she have worn widows' weeds, and utterly forsworn
herself? No; with all her faults, such crooked ways would have been
impossible. Audrey, you must give me time to become acquainted with this
new mother. I will not be hard to her, if I can possibly help it;
but'--here the bitterness of his tone betrayed his deep agony--'she can
never be to me again what she has been.'
'Then I will not press you any more, Cyril. I have such faith in you,
that I believe you will come through even this ordeal; but there is
something more I must ask you: Will you let Michael be your friend?'
'We are friends, are we not?' he said, a little bewildered at this.
'Ah! but I would have you close friends. Dear, you must think of me--how
unhappy I shall be unless I know you have someone to stand by you in
your trouble. If you would let my father help you!' But a shake of the
head negatived this. 'Well, then, it must be Michael, our good, generous
Michael, who will be like a brother to you.'
'I do not feel as though any man could help me.'
'No one but Michael. Dear Cyril, give me my way in this. We are going to
part, remember, and it may be for a long term of years; but if you value
my peace of mind, promise me that you will not turn from Michael.'
'Very well; I will promise you that. Have you any more commands to lay
upon me, Audrey?'
'No,' she returned wistfully; 'be yourself, your true, brave, honest
self, and all may yet be well. Now go! We have said all that needs to be
said, and I must not keep you. You are free, my dear one; but it is I
who am bound, who am still yours as much as ever. When we shall meet
again, God knows; but in heart and in thought I shall be with you
wherever you may go. Now kiss me, but you need not tell me again it is
for the last time.'
Then she put her arms round his neck, and for a minute or two they held
each other silently.
'My blessing, my one blessing!' murmured Cyril hoarsely.
Then she gently pushed him from her.
'Yes, your blessing. You may call me that always, if you will.' And
then, still holding his hand, she walked with him to the door; and as he
stood looking at her with that despair in his eyes, she motioned to him
to leave her. 'Go, dearest; I cannot bear any more.' And then he obeyed
her.
* * * * *
A few hours afterwards her mother found her lying on her bed, looking
very white and spent.
'Are you ill, Audrey? My dear, your father is so anxious about you, and
so is Michael. When you did not appear at luncheon, they wanted me to go
to you at once. Crauford says you have eaten nothing.'
'Dear mother, what does that matter? I am quite well, only so very
tired. My strength seemed to desert me all at once, so I thought I would
lie down and keep quiet. But you must tell father that I am not ill.'
'I shall tell him how good and brave you are,' returned her mother,
caressing her; 'Audrey, did Crauford tell you that Geraldine is here?'
Then a shadow passed over Audrey's pale face.
'No, mother.'
'She came up the moment luncheon was over to ask if you could go with
her to Beverley, and of course she saw at once that something was amiss.
Your father took her into the study and told her himself. She is very
much upset. That is why I have left you so long.'
'I did not know it was long,' returned Audrey, speaking in the same
tired voice; 'it seems to me only a few minutes since Crauford took away
the tray.'
'It is nearly four o'clock,' replied Mrs. Ross, looking at her
anxiously--could it be her bright, strong girl who was lying there so
prostrate? 'Geraldine has been here nearly two hours. She sent her love
to you, darling, and wanted so much to know if she could see you; but I
shall tell her you are not fit to see anyone.'
'I do not know that,' returned Audrey in a hesitating manner; 'I was
just wishing that I could speak to Michael. If you had not come up, I
think I should have put myself straight and gone downstairs. I think I
may as well see Gage for a moment; it is better to get things over.'
'But, Audrey, I am quite sure it would be wiser for you to keep quiet
to-day; you have had such a terrible strain. Everyone ought to do their
best to spare you.'
'But I do not want to be spared,' returned Audrey, echoing her mother's
sigh; 'so please send Gage to me, and tell her not to stop too long.
Crauford can tell her when tea is ready.' And then Mrs. Ross left her
very reluctantly.
Geraldine's face was suffused with tears as she sat down beside the bed
and took her sister's hand. Audrey shook her head at her.
'Gage, I don't mean to allow this; you and mother are not to make
yourselves miserable on my account.'
'How are we to help it, Audrey?' replied Geraldine with a sob; 'I have
never seen you look so ill in your life, and no wonder--this unhappy
engagement! Oh, what will Percy say when I tell him?'
'He will be very shocked, of course. Everyone will be shocked. Perhaps
both he and you will say it serves me right, because I would not take
your advice and have nothing to do with the Blakes. Gage, I want you to
do me one favour: tell Percival not to talk to me. Give him my love--say
anything you think best--only do not let him speak to me.'
'He shall not, dearest; I will not let him. But all the same, he will
grieve bitterly. He knows how bad it will be for you, and how people
will talk. I have been telling mother that you ought to go away until
things have blown over a little.'
Audrey was silent. This was not the sympathy her sore heart needed.
Geraldine's tact was at fault here; but the next moment Geraldine said,
with manifest effort:
'Cyril has behaved very well. Father seems very much impressed with his
behaviour; he says that he offered at once to release you from your
engagement.'
'Yes.'
'Percy will say he has acted like a gentleman; that is the highest
praise from him. Dear--dearest Audrey, you will not think that I am not
sorry for you both when I say that this is a great relief to me?'
'A relief to you that Cyril is free?'
'Yes, and that you are free too.'
'Ah, but I am not,' moving restlessly on her pillow. 'There you are
making a mistake, Gage. I thought father would have told you. I am still
engaged to Cyril; I shall always be engaged to him, although perhaps we
shall never be married.'
'But, Audrey----'
'Now, Gage, we are not going to argue about it, I hope; I am far, far
too tired, and my mind is made up, as I told father. I shall never give
my poor boy up--never, never!--as long as he is in the world and needs
me.' Then, as she saw the distress on her sister's face, she put her
hand again into hers. 'You won't love me less for being so wilful, Gage?
If anyone had asked you to give up Percival when you were engaged to
him, do you think you would have listened?'
'Is that not very different, darling?'
'No; not so very different. Perhaps I do not love Cyril quite in the
same way you loved Percival, our natures are so dissimilar; but, at
least, he is very dear to me.'
'Do you mean that you will break your heart because of this? Oh,
Audrey!' and Geraldine's face was very sad.
'No, dear; hearts are not so easily broken, and I do not think that mine
would be so weak and brittle. But the thought of his sorrow will always
be present with me, and, in some sense, I fear my life will be clouded.'
Then her sister caressed her again with tears.
'But it will not be as bad for me as for him; for I shall have you all
to comfort me, and I know how good you will all be. You will be ready to
share even your child with me, Gage, if you think that will console me.'
'Yes; and Percival will be good to you, too.'
'I am sure of that; only you must ask him not to speak to me. Now I am
very tired, and I must ask you to leave me. Go down to mother, dear
Gage.'
But it seemed as though Geraldine could hardly tear herself away.
'I will do anything, if only you will promise to be happy again,' she
said, kissing her with the utmost affection. 'Remember how necessary you
are to us. What would any of us do without you? To-morrow I shall bring
your godson to see you.'
Then, at the thought of her baby-nephew, a faint smile crossed Audrey's
face.