'THERE SHALL BE PEACE BETWEEN US'
'Men exist for the sake of one another. Teach them, then, or bear
with them.'
* * * * *
'When a man has done thee any wrong, immediately consider with what
opinion about good or evil he has done wrong; for when thou hast
seen this thou wilt pity him, and wilt neither wonder nor be
angry.'--M. AURELIUS ANTONINUS.
Biddy was hovering about the passage, as usual. She regarded Michael
with marked disfavour when he asked if he could see her mistress. In her
ignorant way, she had arrived at the conclusion that the Captain was at
the bottom of the mischief.
'Why couldn't he leave things to sort themselves?' she grumbled within
herself. 'But men are over-given to meddling; they mar more than they
make.'
'My mistress is too ill to see anyone,' she returned shortly.
'Do you mean that she is in her own room?' he asked.
But even as he put the question, he could answer it for himself. The
door of the adjoining room was wide open, and he was certain that it was
empty.
'Sick folk do not always stop in their beds,' retorted Biddy still more
sourly; 'but for all that, she is not fit to see visitors.'
She squared her skinny elbows as she spoke, as though prepared to bar
his entrance; but he looked at her in his quiet, authoritative way.
'She will see me, Biddy. Will you kindly allow me to pass?' And the old
woman drew back, muttering as she did so.
But he was obliged to confess that Biddy was right as he opened the
door, and for a moment he hesitated on the threshold.
Mrs. Blake was half sitting, half lying on the couch in a curiously
uneasy position, as though she had flung herself back in some sudden
faintness; her eyes were closed, and the contrast between the pale face
and dark dishevelled hair was very striking; her lips, even, were of the
same marble tint. He had always been compelled to admire her, but he had
done so in grudging fashion; but now he was constrained to own that her
beauty was of no mean order. An artist would have raved over her; she
would have made a model for a Judith or a Magdalene.
As he stood there with his hand on the door, she opened her eyes and
looked at him; but she did not change her attitude or address him.
Michael made up his mind that he must speak to her.
'I am sorry to see you look so ill, Mrs. Blake.'
He took her hand as he spoke; it felt weak and nerveless. But she drew
it hastily away, and her forehead contracted.
'Of course I am ill.'
'I hope Biddy has sent for a doctor; I think you should see one without
delay.'
But she shook her head.
'No doctor would do me any good. I would not see him if he came.'
Michael was silent; he hardly knew how he was to treat her. Mollie's
graphic account of the scene last night had greatly alarmed him. Mrs.
Blake was of a strangely excitable nature; he had been told that from
her youth she had been prone to fits of hysterical emotion. She was
perfectly unused to self-control, and only her son had ever exercised
any influence over her. Was there not a danger, then, that, the barriers
once broken down, she might pass beyond her own control? He had heard
and had read that ungovernable passion might lead to insanity; he almost
believed it, as he listened to Mollie's story. This is why he had
insisted on seeing her. He must judge of her condition for himself; he
must do his best to prevent the recurrence of such a scene. And now, as
he saw her terrible exhaustion and the dim languor in her eyes, he told
himself that something must be done for her relief.
'If you send one, I will not see him,' she went on.
'I think you are wrong. For your children's sake you ought to do your
best to throw off this illness that oppresses you.'
But she interrupted him.
'Why are you here this morning? Are you going to him?' she asked
abruptly.
'Yes, certainly; that is, if he will see me.'
'He will see you. He would not refuse anyone who came from Woodcote.
Captain Burnett, will you tell me this one thing: has that girl given
him up?'
Michael hesitated.
'Your son has broken off his engagement with Miss Ross. He felt he could
not do otherwise.'
'You are not answering me straight. I do not want to hear about Cyril;
of course he would offer to release her. But has Miss Ross consented to
this?'
'No,' he returned reluctantly, for it pained him to enter on this
subject with her; 'she has refused to be set free. As far as your son is
concerned, the engagement is broken; but my cousin declares her
intention of remaining faithful to him.'
'I knew it--I knew it as well as though you had told me,' returned Mrs.
Blake with strong emotion; 'Audrey Ross is not the girl to throw a man
over. Oh! I love her for this. She is a darling, a darling,
but'--relapsing into her old melancholy--'they will never let her marry
him--never, never!'
'I am afraid you are right.'
'No, he is doomed; my poor boy is doomed. If you see him, what is there
that you can say to comfort him?'
'I shall not try to comfort him. I shall bid him do his duty. Comfort
will come to him in no other way.'
'Shall you speak to him of me?'
'Yes, certainly. If I have any influence, I shall bring him to you
before an hour is over.'
Then she caught his hand and the blood rushed to her face.
'God bless you for this!' she whispered. 'Go; do not keep me waiting.
Go, for Heaven's sake!'
'You must promise me one thing first: that you will control yourself.
Think of him, of the day and the night he has passed. He will not be fit
for any scene. If you reproach him, you will only send him from you
again.'
'I will promise anything--everything--if you will only bring him.' And
now her eyes were wet; it seemed as though he had given her new life.
She sat erect; she was no longer like a marble image of despair. 'If I
can only see him, if he will let me speak to him! but it is this
emptiness--this blank, this dreadful displeasure--that is shutting me
out from him, that is killing me by inches.'
And here she put her hand to her throat, as though the words suffocated
her.
'Be calm and quiet, and all may yet be well,' he returned in a soothing
voice; 'I will do what I can for you and him too.' And with a reassuring
look he left her.
What had become of his dislike? He felt he no longer disliked her. She
was false--falser than he had thought any woman could be; she had
qualities that he detested, faults that he, of all men, was most ready
to condemn; but the one spark of goodness that redeemed her in his eyes
was her love for her son.
He knocked somewhat lightly at Cyril's door, but there was no answer;
but as he repeated it more loudly, Cyril's voice impatiently demanded
his business.
'It is I--Burnett. Will you let me speak to you a moment, Blake?'
And then the door was unlocked, and Cyril stood aside to let him enter;
but he uttered no greeting, neither did Michael at once offer his hand.
He threw a hasty glance round the room as Cyril relocked the door; the
bed had not been slept in that night--that was plainly evident--but the
crushed pillow and the rug flung across the foot proved clearly that he
had thrown himself down fully dressed when weariness compelled him.
He had evidently only just completed his toilet: the shirt he had thrown
aside was still on the floor, in company with his bath towels; and
something in his appearance made Michael say: 'You were just going out.
I hope I am not keeping you?'
'There is no hurry,' returned Cyril indifferently; 'I was only going out
because I could not stop indoors any longer; but there is plenty of time
between this and night.' And then he offered Michael the only chair, and
sat down on the bed. 'This place is not fit for you,' he continued
apologetically; 'but there is nowhere else where one can be quiet.'
'You are looking ill, Blake. I am afraid you have not slept.'
For there was a sunken look in Cyril's eyes that told its own tale.
'I had some sleep towards morning,' he replied, as though the matter did
not concern him; 'and I dreamt that I was in purgatory. It was not a
pleasant place, but I believe I was rather sorry when I woke. It is very
good of you to look me up, Burnett.' And here he paused, and then said
in a changed voice: 'Will you tell me how she is?'
'You mean my cousin? She is as well as one can expect her to be; but, of
course, all this has been a terrible upset. She is very good and brave.
She knows I have come to you.'
'Did she send you?'
'I suppose I must say yes to that; but I had fully intended to come.
Blake, I want you to look on me as a friend. You need someone to stand
by you, and see you through this; and I think there is no one so
suitable as myself at the present.'
'You are very good; but I can have no possible claim on you, Captain
Burnett.'
Cyril spoke a little stiffly.
'If you put it in that way, perhaps not; in this sense, a shipwrecked
sailor has no claim on the man who holds out a helping hand to him; but
I doubt whether that reason would induce him to refuse it.'
Then a faint smile came to Cyril's dry lips.
'You are right to choose that illustration. I think no man in the world
has ever suffered more complete shipwreck. I have been trying to face my
position all night, and I cannot see a gleam of hope anywhere.'
'You must not lose heart, Blake.'
'Must I not? I think anyone would lose heart and faith, and hope, too,
in my position. Two days ago no future could have been so bright; I had
everything--everything that a man needs for his happiness; and at this
moment no beggar could be poorer. I feel as though I had no bread to
eat, and as though I should never have appetite for bread again.'
'I understand what you mean. I had the same sort of feeling as I lay in
the hospital. I was covered with wounds; health was impossible; my work
was gone. I could not face my life. Would you believe it, Blake?--I was
the veriest coward, and could have trembled at my own shadow. It made a
woman of me. I did not want to live such a crippled, meagre existence;
but somehow I managed to struggle to the light.'
'Did anyone help you?'
'No, not consciously; I helped myself. At least'--in a lower
voice--'the help that came to me was from a higher source. One day I
will tell you about it, Blake; it was an awful crisis in a man's life,
and I should not speak about it unless I thought my experience could
benefit anyone. Now about yourself--have you formed any plans?'
'None; but I must get away from here.'
'I can understand that perfectly; and I must say that I think you are
right. Dr. Ross and I were speaking about you yesterday; he is deeply
grieved at the idea of parting with you so abruptly. He says, under any
other circumstances (he was thinking of his daughter when he spoke) that
it would have been well for you to go on with your work as usual--the
change could have been made after the holidays--but he fears now that
this is hardly possible. I am sure you will not misunderstand him.'
'No; he has decided quite rightly.'
'He will give you a testimonial of which any man may be proud. He told
me with tears in his eyes that he never knew anyone so young with so
great a moral influence; that your work was at all times excellent, and
that he had never had so high a respect for any of his masters. And he
begs me to say that you may command his purse or influence to any
reasonable extent. He will be truly grateful to you if you will not
refuse his help.'
'I fear I must refuse it.' And Cyril threw back his head with his old
proud gesture. 'But do not tell him so, Captain Burnett. Give him my
kindest, my most respectful regards. Say anything you like, but do not
compromise me. I will take nothing but my salary from Dr. Ross.'
'Then we will say no more about it,' returned Michael with ready tact.
'Every man has a right to his own independence. Have you any place to go
to when you leave here, Blake?'
Then Cyril shook his head.
'One can always take lodgings,' he replied. 'I must go up to town and
look out for some situation. I suppose, after all, my testimonials will
help me.'
'Without doubt they will. What do you say to a secretaryship? I have one
in my mind that I think would suit you. It is a friend of my own who is
wanting someone as a sort of general amanuensis and secretary. He is a
literary man and extremely wealthy, an old bachelor and somewhat of an
oddity; but in his own way I don't know a better fellow.'
Cyril listened to this description with languid interest.
'It sounds as though it would do,' he replied, after a moment's
reflection. 'At least, I might try it for a time. Last night I thought
of going to New Zealand. I could get a mastership there.'
'That is not a bad idea; but you might try the secretaryship first, if
Unwin be willing to come to terms. The work would be novel and
interesting, and your mother might not like the New Zealand scheme.'
Then, at the mention of his mother, Cyril's face seemed to harden.
Michael took no apparent notice of this.
'I tell you what we will do, Blake. We will go up to town together. When
would you like to start--to-morrow?' Here Cyril nodded. 'I have diggings
of my own, you know, in South Audley Street. They are very comfortable
rooms, and I can always get a bed for a friend. The people of the house
are most accommodating. Besides, I am a good tenant. I will put you up,
Blake, for any length of time you like to name. I will not promise to
bear you company after the first week or so; but by that time you will
find yourself quite at home. And we will interview the old fellow as
soon as possible.'
'You are too good! I have no right to burden you so;' but a ray of hope
shone in Cyril's sunken eyes: he was not the outcast he had seemed to
be, if this man stood by him.
'Nonsense! How can you burden me?' returned Michael briskly. 'I shall be
delighted to have your company. And the rooms are always there, you
know. They may as well be used.'
'And we can go to-morrow. You see, I am accepting your generous offer;
but how can I help myself? I must find work, or I shall go mad.'
'Just so, and I will help you to find it. There is some good, after all,
in being an idle man: one can do a good turn for a friend. Well, we will
say to-morrow. I shall be quite at your service, then; but there are two
things that must be done first. Blake, do you know how ill your mother
is? I was quite shocked to see her just now.'
'Yes, Mollie told me so last night; she wanted me to come down to her,
but I knew that it was far better for both of us that I should remain
where I was; I was in no mood for a scene;' and Cyril knitted his brows
as he spoke.
'You were the best judge of that, of course; but I should advise you to
see her now.'
His grave tone somewhat startled Cyril.
'Do you mean that she is so very ill?'
'No, I do not mean that. As far as I can tell, I believe her illness is
more mental than bodily; but she is evidently suffering acutely. If you
leave her to herself much longer I would not answer for the
consequences. Her nature is a peculiar one, as you must know for
yourself. If you could say a word to her to soothe her, I think it would
be as well to say it.'
'Very well, I will go to her; but she must not expect me to say much.'
'She will expect nothing; but all the same I hope you will not be too
hard on her. If you cannot extenuate her fault, you can at least
remember her provocations.'
A sigh of great bitterness rose to Cyril's lips.
'I think it is hardest of all to hear you defend my mother to me.'
'I know it--it is bitterly hard. Do you think I don't feel for you? But,
Blake, before we leave Rutherford, there is another duty, and a still
more painful one. Surely you intend to see your father?'
'I do not see the necessity, Captain Burnett; my father is nothing to me
nor I to him.'
'You are wrong,' returned Michael warmly; 'you are altogether wrong.
Will you let me tell you something?'
And then he repeated the substance of his conversation with Mat O'Brien.
He thought Cyril seemed a little touched, but he merely said:
'I think I need hardly see him at present;' and he added in a low voice,
'Am I in a fit state to see anyone?'
'Perhaps not; but you may not soon have another opportunity, my dear
fellow. Will you put aside your feelings and do this thing for my
satisfaction? I have given my word to Mr. O'Brien that I will do my best
to bring you together, and if you refuse I shall accuse myself of
failure.'
'Oh, if you put it in that light, I do not see my way to refuse.'
'Thanks--shall we go together, or would you prefer going alone?'
'I could not bring myself to go alone.'
'Very well, then, I will drive you over in the dogcart. I am no walker,
as you know, and perhaps Kester had better go with us;' and to this
Cyril made no demur. 'Now I have detained you long enough, and Mrs.
Blake will be wearying for you. I will bring the trap round at half-past
two.'
Cyril nodded, and they went downstairs together. Michael paused for an
instant at the drawing-room door:
'Be gentle with her, Blake,' he said, as he grasped his hand. 'What is
done cannot be undone;' and then he went down to Kester.
Mrs. Blake was still in the same position. The tension of that long
waiting had been too much for her, and the old faintness had returned;
but when she saw her son she struggled into a sitting posture and
stretched out her hands to him as he came slowly, and almost
reluctantly, towards her.
'Cyril! my darling Cyril!' Then he took her hand and held it for a
moment. 'My boy,' she said a little piteously, 'have you nothing else
for your mother?'
But he seemed as though he failed to understand her, and when she
pointed mutely to the seat beside her, he did not at once seat himself.
'Mother,' he said, still speaking as though the words were difficult to
him, 'I have come to tell you that there shall be peace between us.'
'Does that mean you have forgiven me, Cyril?'
'It means that I will do my best to forgive you your share in the ruin
of my life--of all our lives.'
Then as he stood before her she threw her arms round him with a faint
cry; but he gently, very gently, repulsed her.
'Do not let there be any scene; I could not bear it;' and the weariness
in his voice made her heart ache still more. 'Mother, I think that we
had better never speak of these things again. As far as I am concerned,
I will willingly blot out the past from my memory. To-day we must begin
afresh--you and I.'
His tone made her shiver, and as she looked up in his dark impassive
face, and saw the deep-seated melancholy in his eyes, a sort of despair
seized her.
'Oh!' she cried passionately, 'can it be my son who speaks? Blot out the
past?--that happy past, when we were all in all to each other--when even
poverty was delicious, because I had my boy to work for me!'
'I shall work for you still.'
'Yes, but will it be the same? What do I care for the gifts you may
bring me when your heart has gone from me? How am I to bear my life when
you treat me with such coldness? Cyril, you do not know what a mother's
love is. If you had sinned, if you had come to me and said, "Will you
take my hand, red as it is with the blood of a fellow-creature?" with
all my horror I would still have taken it, for it is the hand of my
son.'
She spoke with a wild fervour that would have touched any other man; but
he only returned coldly:
'And yet you had no mercy for my father?'
Then a look of repugnance crossed her face.
'That was because I did not love him. Where there is no love there is no
self-sacrifice; but, Cyril, with all my faults, I have been a good
mother to you.'
'I know it,' he replied, 'and I hope I shall always do my duty by you;
but, mother, you must be patient and give me time. Do you not see,' and
here his voice became more agitated, 'that you have yourself destroyed
my faith in my mother: the mother in whom I believed, who was truth
itself to me, is only my own illusion. I know now that she never
existed; that is why I say that you must give me time, that I may become
used to my new mother.'
He spoke with the utmost gentleness; but his words were dreadful to her.
And yet she hardly understood them. How could the pure rectitude, the
scrupulous honour, of such a nature be comprehended by a woman like
Olive O'Brien, a creature of wild impulses, whose notions of morality
were as shifty as the quicksands, whose sense of right and wrong was so
strangely warped? For the first time in her life the strong accusing
light of conscience seemed to penetrate the murky recesses of her nature
with an unearthly radiance that seemed to scorch her into nothingness.
Her son had become her judge, and the penalty he imposed was worse than
death to her. Of what use would her life be to her if the idol of her
heart had turned against her? And yet, with all her remorse and misery,
there was no repentance: if the time had come over again, she would
still have freed herself from the husband she loathed, she would still
have dressed herself in her widows' weeds, and carried out her life's
deception.
Cyril was perfectly aware of this; he knew all her anguish was caused by
his displeasure, and by the bitter consequences that he was reaping. Her
plot had failed; it had only brought disaster on him and his. If he
could have seen one spark of real repentance--if she had owned to him
with tears that her sorrow was for her sin, and that she would fain undo
it--his heart would have been softer to her as she sat and wept before
him.
'I never thought you could have been so hard to me!' she sobbed.
'I do not mean to be hard,' was his answer; 'that is why I said there
should be peace between us, and because I am going away.'
'You are going!--where?'
And then he told her briefly that Captain Burnett had offered him a
temporary home.
'It is better for me to be alone a little,' he went on. 'When I have
settled work, and you can get rid of the house, I will ask you to join
me; but that will not be for some time.'
'And I must stop on here alone? Oh, Cyril, my own boy, let me come with
you! I will slave, I will be content with a crust, if you will only take
me!'
'It is impossible, mother; I shall have no home for you. You must stay
here quietly with Mollie and Kester, until my plans are more settled.'
And then he rose, as though to put an end to the discussion.
'And you go to-morrow?'
'Yes, to-morrow. Will you ask Mollie to look after my things?'
Then, as she gazed at him with troubled eyes, he bent over her and
kissed her forehead. 'We must begin afresh,' he said, half to himself,
as he left the room.