AUDREY RECEIVES A TELEGRAM
'One fourth of life is intelligible, the other three-fourths is
unintelligible darkness; and our earliest duty is to cultivate the
habit of not looking round the corner.'--MARK RUTHERFORD.
'Thou shalt lose thy life, and find it; thou shalt boldly cast it
forth;
And then back again receiving, know it in its endless worth.'
ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.
Audrey thought it was the longest summer term that she had ever known;
never in her life had weeks or months passed so slowly.
To all outward appearance she was well and cheerful, and spent her time
much as usual--helping her mother and visiting her poor people in the
morning, and in the afternoon attending cricket matches or playing
tennis at the various garden-parties of the season. The nine days'
wonder about the Blakes' sudden disappearance was over, and the
Rutherford ladies no longer whispered strange tales into each other's
ears--each more marvellous than the last. It was said and believed by
more than one person that Audrey's engagement had been broken off
because Dr. Ross had discovered that there was hereditary insanity in
the Blake family; indeed, one lady--a notorious gossip, and who was
somewhat deaf--was understood to say that she had heard Mrs. Blake was
at that moment in a private lunatic asylum.
That Audrey Ross did not take her broken engagement much to heart was
the general opinion in Rutherford. Would a girl play tennis, dance, or
organise picnics, they said, if she were languishing in
heart-sickness?--and there was certainly no appearance of effort in the
readiness with which Audrey responded to any plan that her young friends
proposed. As they remarked, 'Audrey Ross was always up to fun.' But
Michael Burnett could have told them a different story if they had asked
him. Audrey's sweet, sound disposition made her peculiarly alive to a
sense of duty.
'One must think of other people, always and under all circumstances,'
she had said to him when her trouble was fresh upon her, and he knew
that she was only acting up to her words.
She would play because other people wished to play, not because her
heart was in it. During his brief visits to Woodcote they were always
together, and more than once he told himself that he could see a great
change in her. She had at times a tired, burdened look, as though weary
thoughts were habitual to her. But she never spoke to him of Cyril, or
questioned him in any way. He would tell her unasked about Mollie, and
now and then he would drop a word casually about Cyril.
'I met Blake the other day,' he would say. 'I think he looks better,
though he says the hot weather tries him; he is getting on with his
work, and appears to like it.' Or another time: 'I dined with Unwin last
week; he and Blake seem to hit it off famously. Unwin says he has far
more discrimination and intelligence than other young men of his age,
and that for steadiness and application he might be fifty. But he thinks
he ought to take more exercise; his hard work and the heat together are
making him thin.'
Audrey remembered this speech of Michael's, as, a month later on, she
sat on the Whitby sands. She had yielded to Geraldine's persuasion to
accompany them to the seaside. Dr. Ross and his wife were paying visits
in Cumberland, Michael was in North Wales with an artist friend, and
Audrey had accepted her sister's invitation very willingly.
Both Percival and Geraldine were very kind to her, she thought. They let
her wander about alone and do as she liked, and they were always ready
to plan something for her enjoyment--a drive or a sail, or a day on the
moors. Audrey liked being with them, and baby Leonard was more
fascinating than ever; yet it may be doubted if she would not have been
happier at Rutherford. The absence of all duties, of any settled
employment, tried her. A holiday, to be thoroughly enjoyed, must be
attended with a disengaged mind, and with a certain freedom from worry;
and this was not possible with Audrey. She would talk to her sister
cheerfully, or play with Leonard, and she was an intelligent companion
for Mr. Harcourt when they took long walks together; but in her moments
of solitude, when she roamed alone over the yellow sands with the fresh
salt wind blowing in her face, her thoughts would be sad enough as she
thought of Cyril in his hot London lodgings.
'Oh, my darling, if you could only be with me and feel this wind!' she
would think, with a great rush of pity and tenderness; 'if I could only
take your place a little and bear things for you!' and the sense that
she could do nothing for him would lie like a load on her heart.
'I think Audrey is getting over her trouble,' Geraldine said one day to
her husband. 'Baby is doing her good; and really, when she is playing
with him she seems just like her dear old self.'
'Of course she will get over it,' returned Mr. Harcourt impatiently;
'all girls do. I tell you what, Jerry: when we get back to Hillside we
will have Graham down to stop with us.'
'Oh, did you mean Lionel Graham all the time?' returned Geraldine,
opening her eyes very widely. 'Is he the man you always wanted for
Audrey? He is nice, of course--all the Grahams are nice--but he is
dreadfully ugly.'
'Nonsense, my love! Graham ugly, with that fine head of his! I tell you
the girl is lucky who gets such a clever fellow. I recollect he was
rather struck with her last spring. We will have him down and see if
they can take to each other.'
'But, Percy dear, you forget Audrey declares she is still engaged to
Cyril Blake.'
'Stuff and nonsense!' replied her husband, waxing exceedingly irate at
this remark. 'I wonder at you--I do indeed!--repeating anything so
ridiculous! Has not Blake given her up?--and very proper of him,
too--and has not your father forbidden her to have anything more to do
with him? My love, with all my respect for your judgment, I must differ
from you. Audrey is not the girl to propose anything so indelicate--so
altogether wanting in propriety--as to thrust herself upon a man who
very properly declines to marry her. No, no; we will have Graham down.
He is a first-rate fellow, and when he makes up his mind to a thing, he
sticks at nothing. That's the way to win a girl--eh, Jerry?' And
Geraldine blushed beautifully as she recalled Percival's bold wooing.
'Well, do as you like,' she said tranquilly; 'but I don't believe Audrey
will look at him.' And then she made signs to the nurse to bring her the
baby; and Mr. Harcourt forgot his match-making schemes as he played with
his son and heir.
Audrey was the only one who was glad when the time came for them to
return to Rutherford: her mother's face was a delicious sight to her;
and as she presided again at her little tea-table she gave vent to a
fervent 'Oh, how glad I am to be at home again!'
'That sounds as though you have not enjoyed your holiday, Audrey; and
yet Geraldine was so pleased to have you.'
'But I have enjoyed myself, mother dear. Whitby is beautiful, and I did
just what I liked, and Gage and Percival could not have been kinder or
more thoughtful; and then Leonard is such a darling!'
'You look all the better for your change; but you are still a little
thin, love,' returned her mother, scrutinising her daughter rather
narrowly. But Audrey disclaimed this charge: if she were thin, it was
because Percival had taken her such long walks, she declared. But she
was not thin--she was very well; only she was tired of her idleness, and
meant to work hard.
'I wish Michael were at home,' she went on. 'He has returned from Wales,
but he means to stay for a week or two in South Audley Street. Kester is
with him. Home is never quite the same without Michael,' she finished,
looking round her as though she missed something.
Michael had really stayed up in London for Kester's sake; but he was
glad of any excuse that kept him away from Woodcote. When Kester's visit
was over, he went with him to Victoria, and saw him off. He had some
business in Aldersgate Street, and he thought he might as well take a
Circle train, and go on. Michael always hated business in the City--the
noise of the crowded thoroughfares jarred on him--and he thought he
might as well get it over. He had finished his business, and was walking
down Cheapside, when, to his surprise, he saw Cyril Blake coming out of
a shop. Cyril seemed equally surprised at this unexpected _rencontre_.
'I know you haunt Cromwell and Exhibition Roads,' he said, in rather an
amused tone; 'but I always understood you shunned the City.'
'So I do; but one may have business there sometimes,' returned Michael,
linking his arm in Cyril's; for the two had grown fast friends, in spite
of the disparity in their ages. 'I suppose it would be inquisitive on my
part to ask what brings you here at this time in the afternoon?'
'Not at all. I have only been to my tailor's,' replied Cyril, smiling.
'I am not a swell like you, and City prices suit my pocket better than
West-End ones. I was feeling rather dilapidated, so, as Unwin dismissed
me early this afternoon, I thought I would attend to my outer man.'
'You would have been wiser to have run down to Teddington and had a pull
up the river. You look as though you want fresh air, Blake. I don't know
about your outer man, as you call it; but I must say you look uncommonly
seedy.'
'Do I? Oh, I am all right,' he added hastily. 'I have not been used to
spend a summer in town. How did you get on in Worth Wales, Burnett? I
was never there, but I hear the scenery is beautiful.'
'So it is. You should see some of Jack Cooper's sketches; they would
give an idea of the place;' and Michael launched into an enthusiastic
description of a thunderstorm he had witnessed under Snowdon. 'I took
Booty to pay his devoirs at the tomb of Bethgelert. On the whole, I
think Booty enjoyed his trip as much as we did.'
Michael had so much to say about his trip, that they found themselves on
the platform before he had half finished. It was half-past five by this
time, and a good many business men were returning home. The station was
somewhat crowded, but as they piloted their way through the knots of
passengers Michael still talked on. Cyril had listened at first with
interest; he was becoming much attached to his new friend, and though
his masculine undemonstrativeness forbade him to say much about his
feelings, his gratitude to Michael was deep and intense, and amid his
own troubles he had an unselfish satisfaction in thinking that, whatever
his own future might be, Kester's was safe. By and by his attention
began to flag; he was watching an old man who stood at a little distance
from them at the edge of the platform. He was a very dirty old man, and
at any other time his appearance would certainly not have inspired Cyril
with the wish to look at him a second time; but he was attracted by his
swaying, lurching movements, which would have conveyed to any practised
eye that the old reprobate was in an advanced stage of intoxication.
What if he were to lose his balance and fall over the edge of the
platform? The down train was momentarily expected. Cyril could bear it
no longer.
'Excuse me, Burnett,' he said hastily; 'that old fellow looks as though
he might topple over any minute;' and before Michael could understand
what he meant, he had dived across the platform.
The whistle of the advancing train sounded at that moment, and almost
simultaneously there was a shriek of terror from some woman standing at
the farther end.
'Poor wretch! he has done for himself,' Michael heard someone say. 'He
went clean over.'
Michael was slightly short-sighted, and a crowd of people intercepted
his view, and he could not at once make his way through them. He could
not see Cyril, but the surging, excited throng all veering towards the
end of the platform told him that some serious accident had occurred.
Blake must have been an eyewitness of the whole thing, he thought, as he
tried to elbow his way through horrified men and hysterical women. If he
could only find him! And then a very stout man in a navvy's garb blocked
up his passage.
'Is the poor old man killed?' Michael asked; but he feared what the
answer would be. Was the gray-headed sinner summoned in this terrible
manner to the bar of his offended Judge?
'Lord bless you, sir!' returned the man, 'he is as right as possible;
the train did not touch him. It is the other poor fellow that is done
for, I expect. Me and my mate have just got him out.'
A sudden horrible, almost sickening sensation of fear came to Michael.
'Oh, my God! not that, not that!' burst from his lips as he literally
fought his way down the platform. 'Let me pass, sir! I believe I know
him!' he cried hoarsely, and the man in pity to his white face drew
back.
There was a motionless figure lying on the bench at the other end,
surrounded by porters and strangers. Michael darted towards it, but when
he caught sight of the face he uttered a groan. Alas, alas! he knew it
too well.
'Give me place,' he said, almost fiercely; 'that dead man is my friend.'
'He is not dead, Burnett,' observed a gentleman, who was supporting
Cyril's head; 'but he is badly hurt, poor fellow! We must get him away
at once.'
'Thank Heaven it is you, Abercrombie!' returned Michael excitedly; 'he
is safer with you than with any man alive.'
But Dr. Abercrombie shook his head gravely.
'My carriage is outside, and is at your service,' he said; 'and for the
matter of that, so am I. Let me give these men directions how to move
him.'
Then Michael stood aside while the doctor issued his commands.
Cyril had not regained full consciousness, but as Dr. Abercrombie placed
himself beside him and applied remedies from time to time, a low moan
now and then escaped from his lips.
Michael, who had to sit with the coachman, thought that long drive would
never end, and yet Dr. Abercrombie drove good horses. It seemed hours
before they reached Mortimer Street, and the strain on his nerves made
him look so ghastly as he went into the house to prepare Mrs. Blake,
that she uttered a shriek as soon as she saw his face.
'You have come to tell me my boy is dead!' she exclaimed, catching hold
of him.
'No, he is not dead; but he is badly hurt, Abercrombie says. Let me go,
Mrs. Blake; they want my help to carry him in. Is there a room ready?
Mollie, look after your mother;' and Michael sped on his sad errand.
'Do not let anyone in, Burnett, while I examine him. Lock the door;' and
Michael obeyed the doctor's orders, though an agonised voice outside
entreated admittance.
Michael thought the doctor's examination would never end; but by and by
he came up to Michael and drew him aside.
'Do you wish another opinion, Burnett?' he asked abruptly; 'but it is
kinder to tell you that the thing is hopeless.'
'Good heavens, Abercrombie! Do you mean he will not live?'
'Only a few hours--he is hurt internally. They were both down on the
rails, you know: I saw the whole thing; and he flung up the old man with
one hand--I never saw anything so splendidly done--but the wheel of the
engine caught him, and before they could stop the train the mischief was
done.'
'Will he suffer? Can nothing be done for him? Abercrombie, I would give
half my fortune to save the life of that man.'
'He will not suffer long,' returned Dr. Abercrombie kindly. He was a
rough, hard-featured Scotchman, but no man had a better heart, as
Michael knew. 'I will do all I can for him, Burnett, for his own sake as
well as yours. I think he wants to speak to you, but he cannot talk
much; it is agony to him.'
And Michael stepped up to the bed. In the emergency he had regained his
old calmness of manner, and as Cyril's eyes were fixed on his face, he
bent over him and said gently:
'Do not speak, my dear fellow; I know what you wish to say. I will
telegraph for her at once.'
Cyril's damp, cold hand closed over his.
'Thanks, thanks! that is what I wanted. She would like it, and it will
do no harm.'
The last few words seemed intended for a question, and Michael answered
without hesitation.
'Harm! she would never forgive us if we did not send for her.'
Then a faint light came into Cyril's eyes.
'I hope for her sake I shall not suffer; but it will soon be over: I
heard him say so.' He seemed to speak with difficulty. 'Don't look so
sorry about it, Burnett; it is much better so, and the poor old man was
saved. Oh!'
That expression of pain wrung unwillingly from his lips drew the doctor
to him, and he made a sign to Michael to leave them.
An hour later Audrey received the following telegram:
'An accident. Cyril Blake badly hurt. Condition critical. Come at
once. Will meet the last train at King's Cross.'