Lover or Friend Part 88

'Then in that case there will be no difficulty at all. I know my father too well to fear a refusal from him. I will go back to South Audley Street and speak to him and my mother, and to-morrow you shall know their answer; but you must promise me one thing before I go--that, if they consent, you will let me have Mollie.'

'She will be happier with you than in the convent,' replied Mrs. Blake, in a musing tone. 'After all, it would have been a dull existence for her, poor child!' There was a touch of motherliness in her voice as she spoke. 'Yes, you shall have her. I think my boy would have wished it.'

And Audrey's grateful kiss sealed the compact.

'But there is something else I must say,' continued Mrs. Blake, when they had talked a little more about Mollie--at least, Audrey had talked.

'I want you to give Mat a message from me.'

'Mr. O'Brien!'

'Yes, my husband. Have I not told you that I have humbled myself to the dust? Before I leave the world I would make my peace even with him. Will you give him my message?'

'a.s.suredly I will.'

'Tell him that I have repented at last, and that I would fain have his forgiveness--that I know now that I had no right to rob him of his children. If the time came over again--but no; how can I tell whether things would have been different? Mat would always have been Mat, and I could not alter my own nature. Oh, if I had only been good like you, Audrey!' she sighed bitterly.

'You must not talk any more,' observed Audrey, alarmed by the look of utter exhaustion on the wan face. 'Shall I leave you now to rest a little?'

'Rest?' Audrey never forgot the tone in which the unhappy woman uttered the word. 'How can one rest on such a pillow of thorns? No; the time is too short. I must be up and about my work. Will you bid me good-bye, now? After to-day we shall not meet again. You shall write to me about Mollie; but this interview has exhausted me, and I must husband my strength.'

'If I could only comfort you!'

The sad yearning in Audrey's voice seemed to touch Mrs. Blake, and as the girl clung to her she pressed her to her bosom.

'G.o.d bless you for all your goodness to him and to me! Every day I live I shall pray for you.' Her voice broke; with a sudden impulse she kissed her again and again, then pushed her gently from her. 'Go, go!' she said faintly, 'and send Biddy to me.' And Audrey dared not linger.

But she looked quite white and shaken when she rejoined Michael; she could scarcely speak to Mollie, and she seemed relieved when her cousin told her that his hansom was at the door. The soft autumnal breeze seemed to refresh her, and after a little while she was able to tell Michael all that had pa.s.sed between her and Mrs. Blake. Michael took it very coolly; he seemed to have fully expected something of the kind.

'Poor soul! she will always be true to herself,' he observed. 'It is singular how these unbalanced, pleasure-loving natures lean towards asceticism--how rapidly they pa.s.s from one extreme to another. Even her repentance is not free from selfishness. She would free herself from her maternal responsibilities, as she freed herself from her marriage vows, under the mistaken notion of expiating a sinful past; and she will labour under the delusion that such an ill-conceived sacrifice will be pleasing to the Almighty.'

'Yes; it is a great mistake,' she returned.

'A very great mistake. The longer I live, Audrey, the more I marvel at the way people deceive themselves. The name of religion cloaks hidden selfishness to an extent you could hardly credit; the majority are too much engrossed in trying to save their own souls to care what becomes of other people. One would think it was "Save yourself, and the devil take the hindmost!" when one sees so-called Christians scurrying along the narrow way, as they call it, without a thought to the brother or sister who has fallen beside them.'

'It is very grievous,' returned Audrey sadly. 'What would my poor Cyril have said to such an expiation? Michael, this interview with his mother has tried me more than anything. I think the hardest thing in life is when we see those we love turn down a wrong path, and when no entreaty will induce them to retrace their steps.'

'It is a sight one sees every day,' was Michael's reply; and then, as he saw how jaded and weary she was, he began to tell her about Kester, and after that they talked of Mollie. And when Audrey found that Michael approved of her plan, and was as anxious as she was herself that Mollie should accompany them to Woodcote, she began to discuss the subject with her old animation, and by the time the drive was over the hara.s.sed look had pa.s.sed away from her face.

CHAPTER XLVIII

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 guardians.h.i.+p.'

'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 pa.s.sion 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 a.s.sented 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.'