MICHAEL'S LETTER
'Be not ashamed to be helped; for it is thy business to do thy
duty, like a soldier in the assault on a town. How then, if being
lame, thou canst not mount up on the battlements alone, but with
the help of another it is possible.'--M. AURELIUS ANTONINUS.
About a week afterwards, Michael was writing in his sitting-room in
South Audley Street when Cyril Blake entered the room. He put down his
hat and began taking off his gloves as he stood by the table.
'Well,' asked Michael, looking up from his cheque-book; 'have you hit it
off, old man?'
'Yes; we have settled it,' returned Cyril, dropping into a chair as
though he were tired. 'And I am to enter on my duties next week.'
'Next week! That is uncommonly short notice. Unwin must be in a precious
hurry to close with the bargain.'
'He is in a hurry. He says his work is all in arrears, and that his
publishers want his book on Cyprus as soon as he can let them have it;
and the papers are all in confusion. Of course I let him know that I was
in no need of a holiday, and that I would far rather commence work at
once. Mr. Unwin was most kind and considerate. My hours are to be from
ten to six; so I shall be able to give a lesson or two in the evening.'
'You know my opinion on that subject; but I fancy I have exhausted all
my arguments for no purpose.'
'I am afraid so too,' returned Cyril quietly. 'Mr. Unwin thinks he can
find me a pupil--a young fellow who is behind-hand with his classics,
and has got plucked in his examination. Really, Burnett, I am extremely
indebted to you for this introduction to Mr. Unwin. In spite of his
peculiarities, he seems to have an excellent heart.'
'Oh yes; he is an out-and-out good fellow. I can tell you some anecdotes
that are very much to his credit, only I know he would never forgive me.
Unwin likes his kind actions to blush unseen. Shall you think me
impertinent, Blake, if I ask what amount of salary he means to give
you?'
'Not in the least; you have every right to know. I am to have a hundred
and twenty pounds a year--that is only thirty pounds less than I had at
Rutherford. I never expected such good pay.'
'Ah! Unwin can afford it.'
'He seemed to say so. One thing--he thought I was older than I am. He
seemed quite surprised when I told him I was only three-and-twenty.'
Michael looked up a little sharply. There was no denying that Cyril
looked older--even these few days had worked some indefinable change in
him. He was not ill, though he could not be said to be well; but there
had come to him a certain settled look that one sees on the faces of
middle-aged men who have a large amount of care. And there were dark
circles round his eyes, as though sleep had to be wooed with some degree
of difficulty.
'You are tolerably youthful still, Blake,' he said, not liking to admit
that he saw this change in him.
'Am I? I should not have said so from my own feelings. I fancy youth is
rather a relative term; but I must acknowledge that Mr. Unwin treated me
with a great deal of consideration. I know what you have told him; but
he scarcely alluded to it, except in the most distant way: indeed, I am
very grateful to him for his delicacy.'
'I told you from the first that he was a good fellow. Unwin is what I
call an all-round man. He is a bit fussy over his hobbies, but as long
as you keep Charles the First out of your conversation I fancy it will
be plain sailing. I hope you are not bursting with the subject, as the
immortal Mr. Dick was, when he found himself compelled to fly his kites;
but it is a fact that Unwin is a bit cranky about him.'
'Thank you for warning me,' returned Cyril, with a grave smile; 'now, my
next business will be to look out for some lodgings within an easy
distance of Cromwell Road. I have trespassed on your kind hospitality
long enough.'
'Nonsense!' returned Michael bluntly. 'I expected you to stop on here
for at least another month. I shall go back to Rutherford in a fortnight
or so; but that would not make any difference to you: my old woman
would be delighted to cook for you, and make you comfortable. You know,
her husband was an old corporal in our regiment; but an amputated leg,
and a little bit of money coming to his wife, made him fall out of the
ranks. I have lodged with them for about ten years, and I have been in
no hurry to change my quarters.'
'No--they are very comfortable; but the fact is, Burnett, my mother
gives me no peace. She writes every day to beg me to take her away from
Rutherford. She says she will never go outside the gate as long as she
remains there. I imagine she has a nervous dread of meeting my father;
besides, she says everyone will be talking about her.'
'I do not believe a single person in Rutherford has begun to talk.'
'So I tell her; but she will not believe me. You know my mother; it is
not always easy to manage her. She will be quieter when she has once got
away; so, with many thanks for all your kindness, Burnett, I will just
look out for these lodgings.'
'Well, if your mind is made up, I will not try to change your
determination; but, if you will excuse my plainness of speech, I think
it would be better for you to be without your mother for another week or
two.'
'I daresay you are right,' replied Cyril wearily; 'and my quiet life
here has been a great boon. But it does not do to think only of one's
self. And, after all, nothing matters much. Perhaps Mrs. Johnson may
know of some good rooms; they must be furnished, for of course it would
never do to move our furniture under the present unsettled state of
things. Besides, ours is too old to bear another journey. My mother can
bring away the books, and her bits of china, and any little thing she
fancies, and Biddy can mount guard over the rest until we can dispose of
it. I daresay I can soon get the house off my hands.'
'There will be no difficulty about that,' returned Michael, inwardly
wondering at Cyril's cool, business-like tone; in his heart he admired
him all the more for his pluck. 'Paget is looking out for a house--you
know he expects to be married shortly--shall I write to him and give him
a hint that you want to find a tenant for the Gray Cottage? I daresay
the landlord will be glad for him to take it.'
'If you will be so good. I forgot all about Paget. But he would turn up
his nose at our old carpets; his bride-elect is rather a grand lady.'
Cyril's tone was a trifle cynical; but Michael would have forgiven him
if his speech had been flavoured with the gall of bitterness.
'Very well, then; I will write to him before country post, and we will
have up Mrs. Johnson and talk to her.'
And Cyril at once rang the bell.
Two days afterwards Audrey received her first long letter from Michael.
A brief note was all that had yet reached her.
'MY DEAR AUDREY,' it began,
'I hope that you will not think that I have forgotten you; but when
there is literally nothing to say, I am rather a bad hand at
cooking up a letter; and I had not a single fact to go upon, except
to tell you that, on the whole, we were pretty fit, and were
jogging along somehow. Well, I have a whole budget of facts now,
and my pen has become a valuable implement.
'First, then, Blake has come to terms with Unwin; and he is to
begin work on Monday. I believe in his heart he would still prefer
the New Zealand scheme; and if we could only get rid of his
mother--not an easy task that--I should be inclined to give him a
helping hand in that direction; but as Blake does not see his way
clear to leave her, he may as well take the berth offered to him.
Privately, I believe Unwin is hugging himself under the idea that
he has got a treasure. He spoke of him to me as a highly
intelligent fellow and a first-rate Greek scholar, which we know
are facts. His hours are pretty light--from ten to six--so he will
have his evenings to himself; but I am sorry to say he means to
look out for pupils. I have talked myself hoarse on the subject;
but he will not listen to reason. Of course his health will suffer:
he has always been accustomed to so much fresh air and exercise. If
I could only induce him to join a cricket or tennis club! But it
would never do to propose it just now; he has no heart for play.
'One thing, he has given in to me about Kester, though I had some
difficulty with him at first. We had a long talk last night, and I
employed all my eloquence to bring him to see the thing in its
right light; and at last he consented that I should have my way.
'Do you remember my telling you about George Moore--that nice
fellow who got into trouble with his rector? Well, he has married
lately, and his wife is a very good woman. Moore has taken a
capital house at Brighton. He has a curacy at Kemp Town, and he is
looking out for a few pupils to prepare for the university.
'I am going to send Kester to him for a year or two, until he is
old enough to go to Oxford. Abercrombie tells me the sea air will
do him a world of good. I have just written to him to come up at
once, as he must have a proper outfit. And now I must tell you that
Blake has found some very good rooms, Kensington way. I went down
with him yesterday, and I think they will do very well.
'There is a good-sized drawing-room--a sunny, cheerful room, with a
smaller one behind, where Blake can work with his pupils--and two
good bedrooms. Biddy (how I wish she were not to be of the menage!)
will have to content herself with a dull slip of a room on the
basement. Of course the furniture is shabby, and there is very
little of it; but I mean to introduce a few improvements by
degrees. I like the appearance of the woman of the house. She is a
widow, and is evidently very respectable. Her daughter, a very tidy
sort of person, waits on the lodgers.
'I think I have told you about all now. Blake has thawed lately,
and we have long talks together, though perhaps they are not
cheerful ones. On the whole, I think he shows a great deal of
pluck. I doubt whether any other young man of his age would behave
as well. If the Victoria Cross were ever given for moral heroism, I
am sure Blake would get it.
'Good-bye until we meet. I suppose I shall be back in another week
or ten days. Take care of yourself, my dear, for the sake of your
affectionate friend and cousin,
'MICHAEL.'
'There is no one like Michael!' was Audrey's inward comment as she put
down the letter.
How simply he had told her his intentions with regard to Kester! as
though his generosity were a matter of course. How few men of Michael's
age would have cared to saddle themselves with such a responsibility!
for one, too, who was not their own kith and kin.
'It will cost him at least two hundred a year,' she thought; 'no wonder
my poor Cyril found it difficult to accept such an offer. He would take
nothing from Michael for himself, but he could hardly refuse for Kester.
Michael has virtually adopted him, just as I should like to adopt
Mollie. I suppose he thinks he will have no son of his own, and there
is all that money----'
And she sighed a little as she thought of Michael's loneliness.
But if she had only known it, Michael's real generosity was shown in
those lines he had written at the end of his letter. His munificence to
Kester cost him far less than those few words which he wrote so
ungrudgingly of his rival; but he knew how they would gladden her heart.
The old beautiful smile would come to her lips, he thought, as she read
them.
'They will please her more than all the rest of the letter,' he said to
himself.
Two or three evenings after this letter had reached her, Audrey went
into her father's study, as usual, to bid him good-night; but when he
had kissed her with that special tenderness which he had shown to her
ever since her trouble, she looked at him very seriously.
'Father,' she said, as he kept his arm still round her, 'I wish you to
know that I am going to the Gray Cottage to-morrow to bid Mrs. Blake
good-bye.'
Then Dr. Ross's arm dropped from her waist, and she saw at once that the
news was not palatable to him.
'Is that necessary, Audrey?'
'Yes, father; I think I may say that it is necessary. I have kept away
from the Gray Cottage all this time because I knew that it was your wish
that I should do so, and I have ever been guided by your wishes; but now
Mrs. Blake is going away, and it would trouble me greatly if she were to
leave without my bidding her good-bye.'
'I think it would be far better, for her sake as well as yours, that
there should be no special leave-taking.'
'There I must differ from you, father dear,' returned Audrey gently. 'I
could not bring myself to put such an affront on Cyril's mother. You
know, I am still engaged to Cyril, and his mother can never be a
stranger to me.'
Then Dr. Ross regarded his daughter with a grieved expression.
'My own child, if you would only be guided by me in this!--if you would
give up this young man entirely----'
Then she shook her head, and a grave, sweet smile came to her lips.
'Would you have me break my word, father, because Cyril has broken his?
But I do not blame him--he was obliged to do it; but no power on earth
could compel me. Dear, why should we speak of this thing--you and I?
When one's mind is made up, there is nothing more to be said. In
everything else I will obey you as a child ought to obey her father. If
you tell me that I must not go to the Gray Cottage to-morrow, you shall
be obeyed, no matter what it may cost me; but'--pressing her lips to his
forehead as she leant against him--'I do not think my father will be
such a tyrant.'
'I have no wish to tyrannise, Audrey,' returned Dr. Ross sadly. 'In all
I have said, I have only considered your happiness. If you feel that
there is this need to bid Mrs. Blake good-bye, I shall certainly not
prevent you. I know I can trust my daughter. I have wished that the
break should be final and conclusive, but it seems that you think
otherwise.'
'After to-morrow the separation will be as complete as you desire it to
be.'
'I am thankful to hear it. Of all women, I believe Mrs. Blake to be the
most unsatisfactory. Audrey, my child, at the risk of paining you, I
must say one word. There must be no written communication between her
and you.'
'No, father; I should not wish it. Any such letters would be
impossible--at least, to me. Mollie will write to me sometimes, and I
suppose I shall answer her letters; but she will not write often.'
'I think I should tell her to write as seldom as possible. Mollie is a
nice little girl, and we are all fond of her; but I should be inclined
to doubt her discretion.'
Then Audrey smiled faintly, and promised that Mollie's correspondence
should be enclosed within strict limits. She knew well what her father
meant. Mollie's letters would be overflowing with allusions to her
brother; her simplicity would know no reticence.
'I think you may trust me,' she said, after a moment's silence. 'Of
course I understand what you mean.'
'Then in that case we will not say any more about it,' replied her
father. Trust her!--he knew that he could absolutely rely on her. When
had she ever disappointed him? Of all girls, he had never known one so
free from guile, so utterly transparent; there could be no shadow of
doubt in his mind concerning her. And as he kissed her, and again wished
her good-night, he blessed her in his heart for being such a daughter to
him.
Audrey had carried her point. Her visit to Mrs. Blake had appeared to
her in the light of an imperative duty; but it may be doubted whether
she looked forward to it with any feeling of pleasure.
Up to the present time she had spoken as little as possible of Mrs.
Blake. She had only said a word or two to Cyril, begging him to make
peace with his mother; she had asked him to soften his heart to her.
'With all her faults, I think no mother ever loved her son so well,' she
had told him. 'It is not the highest love,' she had continued, 'since
she has stooped to deceit and wrong for your sake. But it is not for you
to judge her.' And she knew instinctively that her pleading had had
weight with him.
But though she had found words to defend her, she knew that Mrs. Blake
could never be to her the friend she had been; and the shock of this
discovery had been dreadful to her. She might still love and pity
Cyril's mother; she might even be desirous of serving her; but the charm
was broken, and, as far as Audrey's happiness was concerned, it might be
well that the distance was widened between them.
When she rose the next morning, she felt as though some difficult and
painful duty lay before her; and as she walked towards the Cottage in
the sunshine of an April afternoon, she told herself that her visit must
not be a long one.
A rush of bitter-sweet memories came over her as she pushed open the
green gate for the last time, and Zack bounded to meet her. As she
stooped to caress him, and he rested his glossy head against her with a
dog's unreasoning adoration, she said in a low voice: 'Zack, old fellow,
you will be glad to be with your master again.' And he whined, as though
in joyful assent.
There were no signs of either Mollie or Biddy, so she went up as
usual--unannounced. The drawing-room door was open, and as her footsteps
sounded in the passage Mrs. Blake came quietly out. She stepped back as
she saw Audrey, and a slight colour came to her face.
'It is you--at last!' she said abruptly; but there was no other
greeting.
'Yes, it is I,' returned Audrey, kissing her, and speaking in her usual
tranquil manner. 'Do you think I should have let you leave Rutherford
without bidding you good-bye!'
Then Mrs. Blake's eyes had a dangerous gleam in them.
'How could I know that they would let you come?' she said almost
harshly. 'Am I not a pariah, an outcast from all respectable society?
Does not Dr. Ross think so, as well as that excellent sister of yours?
Do you know what my life has been during the last fortnight, since my
boy left me? I have not dared to leave my own gate; if I were stifled
for air, I would not venture to stir out, for fear of seeing a face I
know.'
'You need not have been afraid; no one in Rutherford has heard your
story.'
'But they may have heard it by this time. You forget that Dr.
Charrington and Mr. Harcourt have been told. A man would never keep such
a secret from his wife. Mrs. Charrington may have told it to half the
masters' wives by this time; this is why I have begged Cyril to take me
away, because my life is unendurable.'
'You are going to him now,' observed Audrey soothingly, for she saw at
once that Mrs. Blake was in one of her unhappy moods.
She was thin and pale, and there was a sharpened look about her
features, as though her inward excitement had worn her.
'Yes, I am going to him; but what good will my life be to me? He has
forgiven me--at least, he says so--but every hour of the day his sadness
will be a reproach to me. When I see his unhappiness, how am I to bear
it, when I know it is all my fault? Audrey, tell me one thing: you are
still engaged to him?'
'Yes,' returned Audrey very softly, 'I am still engaged to him.'
'Captain Burnett told me so; he said you had refused to give him up. Oh,
my darling, how I loved you when he said that! It was brave of you to
say such words, but my boy deserves them. If ever a girl was worshipped,
he worshipped you.'
'Dear Mrs. Blake, I think we will not speak of that.'
'Why should we not speak of it? It is the only thing that will comfort
me, and him too. Ah, if you only loved him as he loves you, there would
be no difficulty. Many a girl has given up more for her lover than you
will ever be asked to give up, and has found her reward in a happy
life.'
'I will not pretend to misunderstand you,' returned Audrey simply; but
she felt as she spoke that her father had been right to dread this
interview. 'I know what you would insinuate--you would have me marry
Cyril without my parents' consent.'
'I would,' was Mrs. Blake's unabashed reply; 'and where would be the
harm, Audrey? You are of age; you have your own money. No one has a
right to prevent your marriage. Of course, your people would be angry at
first, but after a time they would relent. My darling girl, think of it:
would it not be a noble act of self-sacrifice? And it would save Cyril!'
'He would not wish to save himself at the risk of my happiness and peace
of mind,' she replied calmly. 'Dear Mrs. Blake, how strange that you
should not know your own son better than that! Cyril would never marry
me without my father's consent, neither would I marry him. Under such
circumstances we should both be wretched.'
'And you call that love?' returned Mrs. Blake with a sneer. 'I am
different from you, Audrey. I would have given up home, country,
everything, for the sake of the man I loved; that is why I hated Mat,
because I was bound to him, and the other man was free. It just maddened
me! What!' interrupting herself, 'are you going to leave me?'
'It is useless to stay,' returned Audrey, in a pained voice. 'If you
talk like this, it is far better for me to go.'
Then Mrs. Blake burst into passionate tears, and clasped her in her
arms.
'Going! when I have never thanked you for your goodness to my boy; when
I have never told you how dearly I have loved you for it! Audrey,
forgive me, and stay with me a little, and I will try not to talk so
wildly. It makes me feel better only to look at you--and you used to
love me a little.'
Then very reluctantly Audrey suffered herself to be persuaded, and to
remain for another half-hour.