ON MICHAEL'S BENCH
'What can I give thee back, O liberal
And princely giver, who has brought the gold
And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,
And laid them out the outside of the wall,
For such as I to take or leave withal,
In unexpected largesse?'
MRS. BROWNING.
Dr. Ross and his wife listened very kindly to their daughter's project.
Indeed, if Audrey had expressed a wish to establish a small colony of
street Arabs at the end of the Woodcote garden, Mrs. Ross would have
offered no objection to the scheme. Audrey could have ruled her mother
as well as ever Geraldine had ruled her; but she was too generous to
exert her influence. Her mother could have refused her nothing; from
morning to night her one thought was how she might console her child.
'Mollie will be such a companion for Audrey, John!' she suggested, when
for one moment her husband had hesitated.
'I was thinking about Matthew O'Brien,' he replied. 'Brail is rather too
near, and people will talk; it will leak out in time that O'Brien is
Mollie's father.'
'Will that matter?' interposed Michael; 'talk will not hurt anyone. I
think I can answer for O'Brien: he is the last man to lay claim to his
own child. His brother tells me that he is perfectly content if he sees
her from time to time. Kester often writes to him, and he is never tired
of reading his letters. Both Mollie and Kester have grown quite fond of
him.'
'I think it should be kept quiet, for Mollie's sake,' returned Dr. Ross.
'In my judgment, Matthew O'Brien is a very unfit person to take care of
a girl approaching womanhood. His brother is old, and he may outlive
him. I do not wish to be hard on him, but he seems to me a very
irresponsible sort of person. When Mollie is of age she will, of course,
judge for herself; but until then her friends will be wise not to give
her up to her father's guardianship.'
'He will never claim her,' replied Michael dryly. 'I will quote your own
words: an irresponsible person is only too glad to evade responsibility.
Mollie may live at Woodcote quite safely, and her visits to Brail will
be taken as a matter of course. Of all people I know, the O'Briens are
the least likely to chatter about their private concerns. Matthew
O'Brien will be too thankful that his daughter should enjoy such
privileges to wish to rob her of them.'
'Father, it will make me so happy to have her!' whispered Audrey in her
father's ear.
Then the Doctor's eyes glistened with tenderness.
'It shall be as you wish, my dear,' he said very gently: 'Mollie shall
come. Your mother is very fond of her, and so am I. You will have
another daughter, Emmie,' he continued, looking at his wife with a kind
smile. And so the matter was settled.
Poor Mollie was horrified when she heard what she had escaped. The idea
of the convent was terrible to her.
'Oh, dear Miss Ross,' she exclaimed, 'how can mamma do anything so
dreadful? She will be miserable--quite miserable. Of course she would
not like living with only Biddy and me--she would have fretted herself
ill. But to be a nun and say prayers all day long! Poor, poor mamma!'
And Mollie's eyes grew round with misery.
'Dear Mollie, your mother thinks she knows best, and no one can control
her. Perhaps, if she does not like it--if the life be too hard--she will
come out at the end of her novitiate.'
And this view of the case seemed to comfort Mollie a little.
'And I am really to live at Woodcote--at that dear, beautiful place?'
she continued. 'Oh, Miss Ross, it seems too good to be true!'
'Yes; you are to be my little sister,' returned Audrey tranquilly. 'But,
Mollie, I will not be called Miss Ross any longer. If you live with me,
you must call me Audrey.'
And Mollie promised that she would.
Mollie said very little about her parting interview with her mother; but
she cried bitterly for hours afterwards. 'Poor, poor mamma! Oh, what
would Cyril say!' she exclaimed over and over again. And it was a long
time before anyone could comfort her.
Michael went down with them to Woodcote, and remained with them for the
next month or two. Cyril's sudden death had occurred the first week in
October, and the trees in the Woodcote gardens were glorious in their
autumnal livery of red and golden-brown, while every day careful hands
swept up the fallen leaves from the shrubberies and paths. Michael
resumed his old habits. When Audrey wanted him he was always ready to
walk or drive with her. No one knew the effort it cost him to appear as
usual, when every day his passion gained a stronger mastery over him.
Dearly as he had loved her in her youthful brightness, he had never
loved her as he did now, when he saw her in uncomplaining sadness
fulfilling her daily duties and devoting herself to Mollie. Geraldine
used to look at her with tears in her eyes. 'She is sweeter than ever. I
never knew anyone so good,' she said to her husband; and Mr. Harcourt
had assented to this very cordially. As for Mrs. Ross, before many weeks
were over she had drawn down on her maternal head more than one reproof
from her daughter.
'Mother,' Audrey said to her one day, 'have you forgotten what I once
told you--that you are not to be so kind to me? You are spoiling me
dreadfully. You give me my way in everything; and when I say anything
that I ought not to say, you do not contradict me. I am growing
demoralised, and it is all your and Michael's fault if I get more
selfish every day.'
'You selfish, my darling?'
'Yes, selfish and stupid, and as idle as possible; and yet you never
scold me or ask me to do anything for you.'
'You are always doing something, Audrey; you are busy from morning till
night. Michael says you work far too hard.'
'But I must work; it is my duty to work,' she returned, a little
restlessly; 'and, mother, you must help, and not spoil me. When I see
you and Gage looking at me with tears in your eyes, it troubles me to
see them. I want you to be happy. I want everything to go on as usual,
and I mean to be happy, too.'
And then she went away and gave Mollie her music-lesson, and when it was
over she went in search of Michael.
Michael knew he was necessary to her--that in certain restless moods he
was able to soothe her; so he stayed manfully at his post until after
Christmas.
But with the new year he resumed his Bohemian life, spending two or
three weeks at South Audley Street, and then running down to Woodcote
for a few days. He felt it was wiser to do so, and he could leave her
more comfortably now. She was better in every way: she drooped less
visibly, her smile became more frequent, and the constant society of
Mollie and intercourse with her fresh girlish mind were evidently
beneficial.
She would do now without him, he told himself as he went back to his
lodgings, and he need no longer put such a force on himself. 'Until I
can speak, until the time has come for me to open my heart to her, it is
better that we should be apart.'
That Audrey held a different opinion was evident, and she could not
always conceal her disappointment when Michael's brief visits became
briefer and more infrequent.
'It is all that troublesome money,' she said once, when one spring
morning he stood waiting for the dog-cart to take him to the station.
'Of course, Woodcote does not content you now. You want a house of your
own, and to be your own master. Well, it is perfectly natural,' she
added quickly.
'I have always been my own master,' he returned quietly; 'and as for the
house you are so fond of talking about, it seems still in the clouds as
far as I am concerned. Neither have I once visited Wardour Street.'
'No; you have been very slow about it,' she replied, smiling; 'you were
never in a hurry to possess your good things, Michael. I have often
envied you your patience.'
And then the mare trotted round the corner.
'There is an old saying, that "all comes round to him who waits." Do you
think that is true, Audrey?'
He did not wait for her answer, as he climbed up into the driving-seat
and took the reins; then he lifted his hat to her with rather a sad
smile.
'Yes, I have waited a long time, and it will not come yet.' And then he
touched the mare a little smartly, and the next moment she was trotting
briskly towards the gate.
'Why had he looked so sad?' she wondered, as she went back to Mollie. He
had not seemed like himself all the week, and now he had gone. 'If he
only knew how much I want him, I think he would not go away so often,'
she said to herself as she sat down to correct Mollie's French exercise.
It was in the early days of June that Michael paid one of these flying
visits to Rutherford, and as he drove through the green lanes, with the
sweet summer breeze just stirring the leaves, he suddenly remembered
that Cyril had lain in his quiet grave just eight months. He hardly knew
why the thought had occurred to him, for he had been pondering a far
different subject. 'Eight months! I had no idea that it had been so
long,' he said to himself; 'time passes more quickly as one grows older.
If I live to the end of the year I shall be nine-and-thirty. No wonder I
feel a sober middle-aged man!'
These reflections were hardly exhilarating, and he was glad when
Woodcote was in sight.
'You need not drive in, Fenton,' he said to the groom; 'take the mare
round to the stables, and I will walk up to the house.'
The gardens of Woodcote looked lovelier than ever this afternoon, he
thought, as he walked slowly up the terrace: the tender green of the
foliage, the gay tints of lilacs and laburnums and pink and white horse
chestnuts, made a gorgeous background. Here a guelder rose thrust its
soft puffy balls almost in his face, while the white shimmering leaves
of the maple contrasted superbly with the dark-veined leaves of the
copper beech. Dr. Ross had always prided himself on his rare trees and
shrubs, and, indeed, no other garden in Rutherford could compete with
the grounds of Woodcote; the long lawn that stretched below the terrace
was kept free from daisies, and was as smooth as velvet.
Some lads were playing tennis there now, and a young lady in a gray
dress was sitting under a clump of lilacs, watching them. For a moment
Michael hesitated, thinking it was a stranger; but as she beckoned to
him, a sudden gleam came into his eyes, and he hastily crossed the lawn.
'I have been waiting for you; you are a little late, Michael,' she said,
as he shook hands with her. 'Mollie has gone out with mother; I asked
her to take my place.'
But he stood looking at her, and there was a strangely pleased
expression on his face.
'I did not know you,' he said, in a low voice; 'I thought it was a
strange young lady sitting on the bench. It was this, I suppose;' and he
touched her gown as he spoke.
Audrey coloured. The remark evidently pained her.
'I left off my black gown yesterday,' she replied hurriedly. 'I found
out that it troubled father, though he was too kind to tell me so. It
was Gage who spoke to me; she said that it was a pity to wear it so
long.'
'I don't see that Gage had any right to speak to you. It was your
affair, not hers.'
There was a trace of sharpness in Michael's tone, and the light had
faded out of his eyes. After all, there was no cause for him to rejoice;
she had not left off her mourning of her own accord. What a fool he had
been! Of course, she had only done it to please her father.
'No; it was kind of her to speak; and, after all, what does it matter?
Father seemed so relieved when I put on this, and I can remember Cyril
without the help of a black gown. It is better to please other people
than to please one's self, and after the first moment I did not mind.
Those boys are so noisy,' she continued in her ordinary manner, as
though she were not willing to discuss the subject more fully. 'Shall we
go to "Michael's bench"? Booty is making for that direction, as usual,
and the pond is so pretty this afternoon.'
'As you like,' he returned, a little moodily.
Strange to say, this little episode of the dress had upset his
equanimity, and he could not at once regain his old calmness. Had ever
any gown become her so well? he wondered, with the exaggeration natural
to a lover. She had a spray of laburnum in her hand, and the sunshine
seemed to thread her brown hair with gold. It seemed to him as though
there was a softer look in her gray eyes, as though his return were very
welcome to her.
'Michael,' she said suddenly, as they stood watching Eiderdown and
Snowflake as they came sailing proudly up the pond in all the majesty of
unruffled feathers, and Booty, as usual, pattered to the water's edge to
bark at them until he was hoarse, 'what is this that I hear about your
going away? Father tells me that you have made all sorts of plans for
yourself.'
'My money is burning a hole in my purse, you see,' he returned, picking
up a dry twig from the ground, a proceeding that seemed to drive Booty
frantic with excitement. 'I am beginning to realise my responsibility as
a man of property; and as, of course, my first duty is to look after
number one----'
But she would not allow him to finish.
'Michael, will you come and sit down? How can we talk properly while you
are picking up sticks for Booty?'
Then he followed her to the bench, but, instead of seating himself, he
leaned lazily against a baby-willow.
'I am going abroad with Dick Abercrombie,' he said, as though he were
mentioning an everyday occurrence. 'You know how often I have planned a
tour in Switzerland and Italy, but I have never been able to carry it
out; and now I can combine duty and pleasure.'
'Where does the duty lie, Michael?'
But she did not smile as she put the question, and it struck him that
she looked a little dull.
'Why, with Dick, of course,' he returned quickly. 'Don't you know, the
poor fellow is terribly out of health; his father is very anxious about
him. He has been over-working, and I fancy there is some sort of
love-affair as well; at least, the Doctor hinted as much. Anyhow, he is
to strike work for six months; and as he wanted a travelling companion,
I offered my humble services.'
'But you will not be away all that time?' she asked, with visible
anxiety.
'Six months is not so very long, is it?' he returned coolly; 'and I do
not see how we shall work out our plans even in that time. We are to do
Switzerland thoroughly and to spend at least a month in the Engadine;
then there are the Swiss Tyrol and the Italian lakes, and afterwards
Rome, Florence, Venice, and Naples. If Dick tires of it and throws it
up, I can still keep on alone. I want to do the thing properly for once
in my life, and I have even thought of Greece and the Holy Land the
following spring.'
But again she interrupted him, and this time he saw the pained look in
her eyes.
'You will leave us for all that time--you will let him come back alone,
and go on by yourself? Oh, Michael! what shall I do without you? You are
more necessary to me than ever now.'
She so seldom thought of herself that this speech took him by surprise.
There was a tone of reproach in her voice, as though she thought him
unkind for leaving her. Michael was not his ordinary calm self that
afternoon. For months he had dreaded to find himself alone with her; but
now the very sweetness of that loving reproach seemed too much for him.
'A man is not always master of himself,' Cyril had once said; and at
that moment Michael felt that it was no longer possible for him to be
silent. He could bear it no more.
'I shall stay away,' he said in a strangely-suppressed voice, 'because
it is only right for me to do so--because it is my duty to leave you.'
'Your duty to leave me,' she faltered. 'Oh, Michael, why?'
'Do you wish me to tell you?' he said, looking at her fully as he stood
opposite to her; and there was a gleam in the keen blue eyes that made
her suddenly avert her face. 'Is it possible that all these years you
have not known what you have been to me--that you have not guessed my
love?'
Then for the first time in her life she shrank from him.
'What do you mean?' she said helplessly. 'We have always loved each
other; you have been like my own brother, Michael.'
'Then I can be your brother no longer,' he returned passionately; 'from
a child you have been far dearer to me. I never remember the time since
I was a subaltern that I did not love you, and my love has grown every
year.'
'Do you mean that you cared for me as Cyril cared?'
But even as she asked the question he saw that her face was suffused
with a burning blush.
'I do mean it! From a child you have been the one woman in the world to
me--the only one I wished to make my wife.'
Then she covered her face with her hands, and he could see that she was
trembling from head to foot.
'It is too soon,' he heard her say; 'it is terribly soon;' and he knew
the shock of this discovery was very great.
'It is not too soon,' he said, sitting down beside her and trying to
draw away her hands. 'Audrey, my dearest, I cannot bear this. You must
not shrink from me so. Do not misunderstand me; I am asking you for
nothing. Surely you are not afraid of me--of Michael?'
'I think I am afraid of you,' she whispered. 'Oh, Michael, if this be
true! But I cannot--cannot believe it! Why have you never told me this
before? Why have you let me----'
And then she stopped, as though a sob impeded her utterance.
'I was never in a position to tell you so,' he returned, with his old
gentleness. 'For years I doubted whether I should ever be well enough to
marry. Do you think I would have condemned my wife, even if I could have
won her, to a life of nursing? I was far too proud to demand such a
sacrifice of any woman. And then I was a poor man, Audrey.'
'What did that matter?' she replied, with a touch of scorn in her voice;
'Cyril was poor too.'
'You must not think I blame him, if I say we were very different men. I
was prouder than he, and I knew your generous nature too well to take
advantage of it. When the money came it was too late: you were engaged
to him. I had only to hide my pain, so that you should not be made
unhappy by it. I thought I was a bad actor; but you never guessed my
secret--you would not have guessed it now.'
'How could I?' she returned simply; 'I was only thinking of Cyril.'
'Yes, and you are thinking of him now; he is as much my rival now he is
dead as when he was living. That is why I am going away, because I can
bear it no longer.'
'Must you go?'
Audrey's voice sank so that he could hardly hear the faint words.
Perhaps she herself did not know what they implied; she was too shaken
and miserable. That Michael, her own dear Michael, should have suffered
all these years, and that she had never known it! Cyril was in his
grave--he no longer needed her--what did it matter if the idea of
another man wooing her so soon gave her pain, if she could only comfort
Michael? But happily for them both, Michael guessed at that secret
thought, and as he caught the words the flush mounted to his brow.'
'Yes, I must go,' he said firmly; 'it is my best, my only chance. In my
absence you will think of me more kindly. The old Michael--who was your
friend, your faithful, devoted friend--will unconsciously blend with the
new Michael, who you know is your lover. There,' he continued in a
pained voice, 'as I speak the word you shrink again from me; and yet I
am asking you nothing. Dear, if you were to promise me this moment that
you would be my wife, if you were to tell me that you would try to love
me as I wish to be loved, I would not marry you! No--though you are
dearer to me than anything in life--I would not marry you!'
'Do you not wish me to try, then?' she asked, rather bewildered by this
strange wooing.
Was it because Cyril was young that she had never feared him as she
feared Michael? There was a quiet power about him that, in spite of his
gentleness, seemed to subdue her, and though he was very pale, there was
a fire in his eyes that made her unwilling to look at him. Yes, it was
indeed a new Michael--one she could hardly understand.
'Certainly I do not wish it,' he replied quickly. 'Can love come by
trying?' But she could not answer him this. 'Any such love would not
content me,' he went on; 'I must have all your heart or none. Forgive me
if I say one thing, Audrey. I believe that poor Blake had not all that
you have to give. I have thought this more than once; his love for you
was so great that yours could hardly equal it. Nay, dear, I did not
mean to hurt you by saying this,' for she was weeping now. 'You were
goodness itself to him.'
'I loved him; I am sure I loved him,' she said a little piteously, for
Michael's words seemed to touch a sore spot.
How often since Cyril's death had she blamed herself for not loving him
more! More than once his excessive tenderness had wearied her, and she
would have been content with less. She had been in no hurry to shorten
her engagement, and the thought of resigning her maidenly freedom had
always been distasteful to her. Could it be possible that Michael was
right, and that there was something defective in her love?
'Yes, you loved him. Blake has often told me that you were an angel of
goodness to him. He missed nothing, you may be sure of that; but,
Audrey, I cannot help my nature. I should ask more than ever he did.'
Then her head drooped, and he knew that no answer was possible.
'So you know why I am going away.' And now he rose and again stood
before her. 'Because under these circumstances it would no longer be
possible for us to be together--at least, it would not be possible for
me. I shall leave you to question your own heart. Let it speak truly.
Perhaps--I do not say it will be so, but perhaps you may find that I am
more to you than you think. If that time ever comes, will you send for
me?'
'Send for you?'
'Yes; be true to your own noble self, your own honest nature, and be
true to me. You need not say many words. Just "Michael, come," will be
enough to bring me from the very ends of the earth.'
'But you will come before that; you will not wait for any such words?'
But though he gave no special answer to this, she saw by his face that
he would wait.
'But you will write, Michael? you will not leave me'--and then she
hastily substituted 'us'--'in complete silence? You may be away six
months--a whole year--it may even be longer.'
'Yes, it may be longer,' he returned; and now it was he who was the
calmer of the two. 'It is impossible for either of us to tell now how
long my exile may last; but I will write--not often, and perhaps I may
not even speak of this that has passed between us; but I shall write,
and you will find no difficulty in answering my letters.'
And when he had said this he looked at her very kindly and then without
another word walked to the house.