BOOTY'S MASTER
'And she to him will reach her hand,
And gazing in his eyes will stand,
And know her friend and weep for glee,
And cry, "Long, long, I've looked for thee."'
MATTHEW ARNOLD.
Kester had spent his Christmas holidays at Woodcote; Audrey loved to
have him with her. Somehow he seemed to belong to Michael, and the boy
warmly returned her affection.
'Do you know that Mr. Abercrombie is coming home in March?' he said to
her the day before he went back to Brighton; 'he is quite well now, and
Captain Burnett says he is in a fever to get back to England. Do you
think Captain Burnett will come, too?' and Kester looked anxiously in
her face.
Audrey could not satisfy Kester on this point; nevertheless, she felt a
secret hope stirring in her heart that Michael would not stay away much
longer. After all, was it likely that he would wait for the message when
he must know how impossible it would be for her to send it? He had been
away seven months, and by this time he must be growing homesick.
Almost the same thought occurred to Michael as, early in March, he sat
in the loggia of an old Florentine palace, where he and his friend had a
suite of rooms.
How long had he been away, he wondered, as he looked out on the
sunset--seven, nay, eight months; and as yet there had been no recall.
Had he really expected it? Would it not be as well to go back and plead
his own cause, and see what these months of absence had done for him, or
should he wait a little longer?
Michael's self-imposed exile had not been unhappy. His companion was
congenial to him; the varied scenes through which he had passed, the
historic interest of the cities, had engrossed and interested him; and,
perhaps for the first time, he tasted the delights of a well-filled
purse, as he accumulated art treasures and pictures; but, above all, a
latent hope, to which he gave no voice or title, kept him patient and
cheerful.
'It was too soon; but by and by she will find it out for herself,' he
would say, as he strolled through the galleries, or stood by some
moss-grown fountain to buy flowers from a dark-eyed Florentine girl.
Should he go back with Abercrombie next week, or should he push on
towards Greece and the Holy Land? It was a little difficult to decide,
but somehow Michael never answered that question. Fate took the matter
into her own hands, as she often does when the knot becomes too
intricate for the bungling fingers of poor mortals.
Somehow Audrey became convinced in her own mind that Michael would
certainly accompany his friend back to England. They had started
together; was it likely that Michael would allow him to return alone?
and when March came she began to look anxiously for a letter announcing
this intention.
She was thinking of this one afternoon as she sat talking to her mother.
It was a cold, dreary day, and Audrey had just remarked that no one in
Rutherford would think of leaving their fireside on such an afternoon,
when Geraldine entered, glowing from the cold wind, and looking cosy and
comfortable in her warm furs.
'My dear, what a day to venture out,' remonstrated her mother; 'even
Audrey says the wind is cruel.'
'I am not such a foe to the east wind as Michael is,' returned Geraldine
cheerfully, as she seated herself out of the range of the fire; 'and
Percival never likes me to cosset myself--that is why I never take cold.
By the bye, I heard something about Michael a little while ago. Just as
I was talking to Mrs. Charrington, who should come in but Dora
Abercrombie! You know Dora, Audrey. She is the second one; but she is
not half so good-looking as Gwendoline.'
'She is related to Mrs. Charrington, is she not, Gage?'
'Yes; a step-niece, or something of that sort; not a very near
relationship, but they are very intimate. She says her brother is
expected in Portland Place to-morrow or the day after.' Here Audrey gave
a start. 'Take care, my dear: the urn is running over; you are filling
the teapot too full. Shall I ring for Crauford? No? Well, as I was
saying'--rather absently, for her eyes were still following the thin
stream on the tea-tray that Audrey was hurriedly wiping up--'Master Dick
is expected back--and here Dora was a trifle mysterious; and then it
came out that he was engaged--had been engaged for the last eight
months; only the mother of his lady-love had turned restive. But now
things were smoother, and she hoped that they would soon be married.
Poor Michael! I am afraid he has not had a very cheerful companion all
these months.'
'Did Miss Abercrombie mention Michael?' asked Audrey, speaking with
manifest effort. How tiresome Gage was! as though anyone wanted to hear
about Dick Abercrombie's love affairs!
'Oh dear yes! and that is the worst part of all,' returned Geraldine,
with the zest that is always shown by the bearer of bad news, even by a
superior person like young Mrs. Harcourt. 'I had no idea Michael would
play truant for so long: actually she says her brother is coming home
without him! and he is going to spend the summer and autumn in Greece
and the Holy Land, and perhaps winter in Algiers. In fact, Dick
Abercrombie says he does not know when he means to come back.'
'What is that you say, my dear?' asked Dr. Ross, who entered the room in
time to hear the last clause. 'Were you speaking of Michael?'
'Yes, father dear.' And Geraldine willingly recapitulated the whole of
her speech for his benefit. 'And I do wish someone would write and give
him a good scolding for staying away so long, as though no one wanted
him! And we have all been missing him so badly!'
'By the bye, that reminds me that I was called away just now to speak to
Fergusson, and I have actually left my letter to Michael open on my
study-table; and I meant it to go by this post. Do you mind just
slipping it into its envelope, Audrey?--it is already directed. Thank
you, my dear,' as Audrey silently left the room.
Was Dr. Ross really anxious about his letter, or had he noticed the
white look on his daughter's face, and feared that others might notice
it too?
Audrey never knew how long she sat before her father's study-table,
neither could she have recalled a single thought that passed through her
mind. A dull throbbing pain was at her heart; the cold numbness that had
crept over her as Michael had bidden her good-bye, and which kept her
dumb before him, was over her now--some strange pulse seemed beating in
her head. He was going still farther away from her. He was not coming
back. He would never come back. Something would happen to him. She would
never see his kind face again--never, never!
Perhaps this long silence had angered him--Michael, who had always been
so gentle to her, on whose face she had never seen a frown! Michael had
grown weary of endurance, and had given up all hope of winning her. Oh,
if he had only trusted her! if he would only have believed that she
would have done her very best to make him happy! How could he be so
cruel to himself and to her? How could he have the heart to punish her
so bitterly, as though she were to blame? Could she help her nature any
more than she could help this separation from her dearest friend?
And then there came over her the deadly feeling of possible loss, and a
desolation too terrible to contemplate. She had mourned very tenderly
for Cyril; but if Michael died--if any ill should befall him in those
distant lands--'Oh, I could not bear it!' was her inward cry. 'Life
without Michael would be impossible,' and as this thought flashed
through her mind her eyes suddenly fell on an empty space at the end of
her father's letter. With a sudden impulse she took up the pen and wrote
three words across the page in her clear, legible writing--'Michael,
come. Audrey.' She was almost breathless with her haste as she thrust it
into the envelope, and carried it to the boy who was waiting for the
letters. Then she went back to the drawing-room, for she dare not trust
herself to be alone another moment. What had she done? What would
Michael think of her? What must she think of herself? No wonder
Geraldine looked at her in surprise as she crossed the room and took up
her work.
'What a time you have been, Audrey!' she said, a little reproachfully.
'I have been waiting to bid you good-bye. Father is going to walk with
me to Hillside, so Percival will not mind my being so late. How cold
your face and hands are, and I am as warm as possible! You have been
running about those draughty passages, and have taken a chill. She looks
pale, doesn't she, mother?'
'Come, come,' interrupted her father impatiently, 'you must not keep me
waiting any longer, Geraldine. Sit down by the fire and warm yourself,
my dear.'
And for one moment Dr. Ross's hand lay lightly on Audrey's brown hair.
Did he guess the real meaning of the girl's downcast and sorrowful
looks? And why was there a pleased smile on his face as he followed his
eldest daughter out of the room?
'I shall write to Michael and tell him to come home,' he said to
himself, as he buttoned up his great-coat. 'I promised him that I would
watch over his interests, and I shall tell him that in my opinion there
is some hope for him now.'
The next few days were terrible to Audrey. More than once she feared she
would be ill. She could not sleep properly. The mornings, the
afternoons, the evenings, were endless to her. Mollie's merry chatter
seemed to jar on her. Her mother's kindly commonplace remarks seemed
devoid of interest, and yet above all things she dreaded to be alone.
Was she growing nervous? for any sudden sound, an unaccustomed footstep,
even the clanging of the door-bell, made her start, and drove the blood
from her heart. Would he write or would he telegraph? Should she hear
one day that he was on his way home? Audrey was asking herself these
questions morning, noon, and night. She felt as though the suspense
would wear her out in time. If anyone had told Audrey that for the
first time in her life she had all the symptoms that belong to a
certain well-known disease--that these cold and hot fits, this
self-distrustfulness and new timidity that were transforming her into a
different Audrey, were only its salient features--she would have scouted
the idea very fiercely. That she was in love with Michael, and that her
love for Cyril was a very dim, shadowy sort of affection compared with
her love for Michael,--such a thought would have utterly shocked her;
and yet it was the truth. Michael had always been more to her than ever
she had guessed, and this long absence had taught her the unmistakable
fact that she could not do without him.
Audrey struggled on as well as she could through those restless,
miserable days. She would not give in; she had never given in in her
life to any passing tide of emotion, and she would not be weak now.
Every morning, after a wakeful, unrefreshing night, she braced herself
to meet the day's duties. She read French and German with Mollie; she
superintended her practising, and only wandered off in a dream when
Mollie's scales and exercises became too monotonous. She went up to
Hillside and played with Leonard in the nursery, and though Geraldine's
sharp eyes discovered that something was amiss, and that Audrey was not
in her usual spirits, she had the tact and wisdom not to press for an
immediate confidence; and Audrey was very grateful for this forbearance.
Audrey's sturdy nature could brook no self-indulgence, and though the
March winds were cold, and the Brail lanes deep in miry clay, she
persisted in paying her accustomed weekly visit to Thomas O'Brien.
Mollie had a cold, and so had established a claim to remain by the
fireside; but Audrey would listen to no weak persuasion to ensconce
herself comfortably in the opposite easy-chair. On the contrary, she put
on her thickest boots, and, tucking up her skirts, braved wind and mud,
and even a cold mizzle of rain, on her way back, and had her reward, for
the walk freshened her, and in cheering her old friend she felt her own
spirits revive.
She was in a happier mood as she let herself in, and shook out her wet
cloak. She was in far too disreputable a state to present herself in the
drawing-room; besides, she was late, and she must get ready for dinner.
She ran upstairs lightly, but at the top of the staircase she suddenly
stopped as though she had been turned to stone. And yet there was
nothing very astonishing in the fact that a small brown dog, with very
short legs, should be pattering in a cheerful manner down the corridor,
or that he should utter a whine of friendly and delighted recognition
when he saw Audrey; and if she stared at him as though he were some
ghostly apparition, that was not Booty's fault. But the next moment she
had caught him up, and had darted with him into her own room.
'Oh, Booty, Booty!' she gasped, as the little animal licked her pale
face in a most feeling manner; 'to think he has come, Booty!' And if the
application of a warm tongue could have given comfort and assurance,
Audrey could have had plenty of both.
For a little while she could do nothing but sit there hugging the dog,
and making little plaintive speeches to him, until she heard Mollie's
step at the door, and then she put him down hastily.
'Oh, Audrey dear!' exclaimed Mollie, breathless with excitement. 'Have
you really got back at last? They are all asking for you. Dinner is
nearly ready, and you have not begun to dress yet. And who do you think
is in the drawing-room?'
For Booty, who always knew when he was not wanted, had pattered softly
out of the room, thinking it high time to rejoin his master.
'Is it Michael?' asked Audrey, with her face well hidden in her
wardrobe.
'To think of your guessing like that!' returned Mollie in a vexed tone.
'Whatever put Captain Burnett in your head, Audrey? Everyone else is so
surprised. Mrs. Ross nearly jumped off her chair when she heard his
voice. He has been here two hours, and we have all been so busy getting
his room ready.'
'I am very glad he has come,' returned Audrey, trying to speak as usual;
'but now will you go down, Mollie dear? for I shall dress more quickly
if you do not talk to me. You may give me my dress if you like. There,
that will do.' For Mollie's chatter was unendurable.
'How was she to go down and meet him before them all?' she thought, as
her trembling fingers bungled with the fastening. Her cheeks were
burning, and yet her hands were cold as ice. Would he see how nervous
she was, and how she dreaded to meet him? And yet the thought that he
was there--in the house--and that in a few minutes she should hear his
beloved voice, made her almost dizzy with happiness. And as she clasped
the brilliant cross on her neck she hardly dare look at herself, for
fear she should read her own secret in her eyes.
The gong sounded before she was ready, and she dared not linger, for
fear Mollie should come again in search of her. Without giving herself
time for thought, she hurried down, and stood panting a little before
the drawing-room door. Yes, they were all there: her father and mother
and Mollie; and someone else--imperfectly seen through a sort of
haze--was there too! Audrey never knew what word of greeting came to her
lips as Michael took her hand. Her eyes were never lifted, as she felt
that strong, warm pressure. His low-toned 'I have come, Audrey,' might
mean anything or nothing, and was met by absolute silence on her part.
Perhaps Michael felt this meeting embarrassing, for he dropped her hand
in another moment and spoke to Mollie, and Audrey took refuge with her
father.
But dinner was on the table, and she must take her seat opposite to him.
It was Mollie who was beside him. Happily, no one spoke to her for the
first few minutes. Dr. Ross was questioning Michael about his route, and
Michael seemed to have a great deal to say about his journey.
Audrey recovered herself, and breathed a little more freely. He was
talking to her father, and she could venture one glance at him. How well
he looked! He was not so pale, and his moustache seemed darker--she had
never thought him handsome before. But at this point, and as though
aware of her scrutiny, Michael turned his face full on her, and a flash
from the keen blue eyes made her head droop over her plate. During the
rest of dinner she scarcely spoke, and more than once Mrs. Ross looked
at her in some perplexity. Audrey was very strange, she thought. Had she
and Michael quarrelled, that they had met so coldly, with not even a
cousinly kiss after his long absence. And now they did not speak to each
other!
Dinner was later than usual that night, and the prayer-bell sounded
before they left the table. Audrey whispered to Mollie to play the hymn;
but she was almost sorry she had done so when she found that Michael had
no hymn-book, and she must offer him hers. He took it from her, perhaps
because he noticed that her hand was not steady; and she could hear his
clear, full bass, though she could not utter a note.
He was still beside her as they left the schoolroom; but as she was
about to follow her mother and Mollie, she felt his hand on hers.
'Come with me a moment,' he said. 'I want to show you something.'
And there was no resisting the firm grasp that compelled her to obey. He
was taking her to her father's study; and there he shut the door, as
though to exclude the outer world. She was trembling with the fear of
what he would say to her, and how she was to answer him, when he came up
to her and said, in his old familiar voice:
'Are you never going to look at me again, Audrey?'
Something amused, and yet caressing, in his tone made her raise her
eyes, and the look that met hers said so plainly that he understood
everything, that her embarrassment and shyness passed away for ever; and
as he took her in his arms, with a word or two that told her of his deep
inward gladness, a sense of well-being and utter content seemed to
assure her that she had found her true rest at last.