Lover or Friend Part 32

Draper! Of course Mollie cries: "The garden, mamma!" and "The garden so be it," say I. And presently it comes--such a tea! such fruit, such cream, such cakes! No wonder Mollie is growing fat. And how am I to thank you and dear Mrs. Ross? I must give it up; words will not express my sense of your goodness. But before I finish this rigmarole I must tell you that Mollie practises every day for an hour, and keeps up her French, and the Roman history progresses well. I am carrying Mollie so fast over the ground that we shall soon be dragged at Pompey's chariot-wheels; and as she complains that she forgets what we have read, I make her take notes and copy them neatly in a book. I know you will be glad to hear this.'

'Humph!' was Michael's sole observation, when Audrey had finished.

'It is a very interesting letter--very droll and amusing,' remarked Mrs.

Ross, in her kindly way. 'Mrs. Blake is a clever woman; don't you think so, Michael?'

But Michael could not be induced to hazard an opinion; indeed, his behaviour was so unsatisfactory that Audrey threatened to keep the next letter to herself.

But the last week was nearly at an end, and, though everyone loudly lamented over this fact, it was observed that Mrs. Ross's countenance grew brighter every day. She never willingly left her beautiful home, and she always hailed her return to it with joy. Not even her Highland home, with its heather and long festoons of stag-horn moss, could divert her affections from her beloved Woodcote; and the young mistress of Hillside fully echoed these sentiments.

'It has been a lovely time, and has done Percy a world of good,' she said to her mother, as they were packing up some curiosities together; 'but I can see he is growing a little tired of idleness; and, after all, there is no place like home.'

'I am sure your father and I feel the same; and really, Geraldine, on a wet day these rooms are terribly small. I used to take my work upstairs; one seemed to breathe freer than in that stuffy parlour that Audrey and Michael think so charming.'

'So our last evening has come,' observed Audrey, in a curious tone, as she and Michael wandered down to the little bridge they called their trysting-place. A tiny rivulet of water trickled over the stones, and two or three ducks were dibbling with yellow bills among the miniature boulders. Audrey sat down on the low wall, and Michael stooped to pick up a pebble, an action that excited frantic joy in Booty's breast.

'Ah, to be sure!' he replied, as he sent it skimming along the water, while Booty pattered after it, barking with glee. 'Don't you remember De Quincey's observation?' And as Audrey shook her head, for she never remembered quotations, he went on: 'He declares that it is a true and feeling remark of Dr. Johnson's, that we never do anything consciously for the last time (of things, that is to say, which we have long been in the habit of doing) without sadness of heart.'

'I think he is right;' and Audrey bent over the low parapet to watch a sudden scrimmage below.

Booty was frisking among the boulders, and the ducks, evidently ruffled in their feelings, were swimming under the bridge, quacking a loud, indignant protest. Even ducks lose their tempers sometimes, and the angry flourish of their tails and the pouting of their soft necks and their open bills showed keen remonstrance and utter vexation of spirit.

'Booty, come here, and leave those ducks in peace;' and then, while Michael threw another pebble or two, she sat asking herself if she felt this sadness. Was she glad or sorry to know that to-morrow they would be on their way to Rutherford?--would it not be a matter of regret if their return were to be suddenly postponed? She had been very happy here; she had seen so much of her father and Michael; but----Here Audrey brought her inward questioning to an abrupt end.

'It has been a nice time, Michael,' she said gently--'a very nice time indeed.'

'Look here! I wish you would subst.i.tute another adjective,' he remonstrated, quite seriously. '"Nice" is such an insipid, sugary sort of word: it has no sort of character about it. Now, if you had said "a good old time----"'

'And have drawn down a reproof on myself for talking slang.'

'Well, "a glorious time,"' he corrected--'shall we say that instead? You have enjoyed it, have you not?' with one of his searching looks.

'Oh yes; I have never enjoyed myself more. And, Michael'--her love of mischief predominating--'I do believe we have not quarrelled once.'

'You have been such a brick, you know, and have given in to me in everything. Somehow,' continued Michael, throwing up a pebble and catching it again, 'if people give in to me, I am remarkably sweet-tempered. We were very near a quarrel once, I remember, but it never came to anything. It was a hot afternoon, I think, and we were both sleepy.'

'I cannot say I remember it.'

'Well, let it pa.s.s. I am in that sort of magnanimous mood that I am ready to p.r.o.nounce absolution on all offences--past, present, and to come. By the bye, Audrey, I forgot to tell you something. Kester has had the letter he wanted, and Widow Blake graciously signifies her a.s.sent.'

'Michael, let me give you a timely warning. We shall quarrel if you call my friend by that ridiculous name.'

'A quarrel cannot be carried on by one party alone,' he returned lazily; 'and I absolutely refuse to consider a mere statement of facts in the light of a grievance. Still, if your feelings are wounded, and you object to my allusion to your fair friend's bereaved condition----'

'Michael!' with a little stamp, 'will you leave off talking about Mrs.

Blake and tell me what you mean?'

'It is perfectly simple, I a.s.sure you. Kester wrote to his mother to ask if he might go up to town with me, and she said "Yes."'

'Must you really go?' rather regretfully. 'It would be so much nicer if you came to Rutherford with us. You know,' she continued affectionately, 'I always miss you so much when you are away.'

Michael gave her one of his quick looks, and then he picked up a smooth white stone that had attracted his attention.

'I shall follow you in ten days--at least, that is my present intention, unless Stedman's business keeps me.'

'But will not Kester be in your way?'

'Not a bit; he will be a famous companion. He will have the run of my rooms, and when I am at the club or with the other fellows he will find a hundred ways of amusing himself.'

'It will be such a treat to him.'

'I want it to be a treat; he has not had much pleasure in his life, poor fellow! Do you know, Audrey, he has never really seen London. Won't he enjoy bowling along the Embankment in a hansom, and what do you suppose he will say to Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament? I mean to take him to the theatre. Actually he has never seen a play! We will have dinner at the Criterion, and I will get Fred Somers to join us.

Well, what now?' regarding her with astonishment; for Audrey was looking at him, and her beautiful gray eyes were full of tears.

'Because you are so kind,' she said a little huskily; 'because no one else ever did such kind, thoughtful things, and because you never think of yourself at all.'

'Oh, come, you must not begin praising me after this fas.h.i.+on!' he said lightly; for he would not show her how much he was touched that there were actually tears in her eyes for him.

'And I think it no wonder at all that Kester is so devoted to you.'

'Booty!' exclaimed Michael sadly; and as the little creature jumped on his knee, he continued in a melancholy tone: 'Do you know, Booty, you have a rival? Someone else beside yourself dares to be devoted to your master. Ah, no wonder you wag your tail so feebly! "The moon loves many brooks, but the brooks love one moon"--it is an affecting image.'

'Michael, I do wish you would be a little serious this last evening. I really mean it. Kester thinks more of you than he does of his own brother.'

'Oh, he will be wiser some day,' returned Michael, with the utmost cheerfulness. 'You must make allowance for his youth and inexperience.

He is an odd boy, rather precocious for his age, and his weak health has fostered his little peculiarities.'

'You speak as though some apology were needed. You are very dense this evening, Michael. I believe I said I was not at all surprised at Kester's devotion, you have been so good to him.'

'I think the air of this place is enervating,' replied Michael, jumping up from the parapet. 'I know people do not generally consider moorland air enervating; but mine is a peculiar const.i.tution, and needs more bracing than other men's. Shall we walk back, my dear?' But as he gave her his hand to rise, the gentle melancholy of his smile smote her with a sudden sense of sadness, for it spoke of some hidden pain that even her sympathy could not reach; and she knew that his whimsical words only cloaked some vague uneasiness. 'Come, dear, come,' he continued; 'these Scotch twilights are somewhat damp and chilly. We will burn that pine log this evening, and we will sit round it and tell stories--eh, Audrey?'

But, in spite of these cheerful words, Michael was the quietest of the group that evening, as he watched from his dusky corner, unperceived himself, the play of the firelight on one bright, earnest face. Audrey sat on the rug at her father's feet, with her head against his knee. It was a favourite position of hers.

'Now, Daddy Gla.s.s-Eyes, it is your turn,' she said, using the old baby-name. 'Michael has turned disagreeable and has gone to sleep, so we will miss him. Kester, are you thinking of your story? It must be a nice creepy one, please.'

'I think we ought all to go to bed early, John,' interrupted Mrs. Ross.

'Audrey is in one of her sociable moods; but she forgets we have a long journey before us. Kester is looking as sleepy as possible.' And as Dr.

Ross always acted on his wife's quiet hints, the fireside circle soon broke up.

It had been arranged that the whole party should sleep two nights in town. Geraldine and Audrey had shopping to do, and both Dr. Ross and his son-in-law had business appointments to detain them. Audrey and her mother had tea with Michael one evening, and then they bade him and Kester good-bye.

'You will tell Mollie all about me, will you not, Miss Ross?' Kester exclaimed excitedly. 'Tell her I am going to St. Paul's, and the National Gallery, and the British Museum. Fred Somers is going to pilot me about, as Captain Burnett has so much to do. Do you know Fred Somers, Miss Ross? He seems a nice sort of fellow.'

Oh yes, Audrey knew all about Fred Somers. He was another _protege_ of Michael's; indeed, the whole Somers family considered themselves indebted to Captain Burnett.

Fred's father was only a City clerk, and at one time his head had been very much below water. He was a good, weak sort of man; but he had not sufficient backbone, and when the tide sat dead against him he lost courage.

'The man will die,' said the doctor. 'He has no stamina; he simply offers no resistance to the disease that is carrying him off. You should cheer him up a bit, Mrs. Somers--crying never mended a sick man yet.'

For he was the parish doctor, and a little rough in his ways.