Lover or Friend Part 90

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 pa.s.sionately; '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 circ.u.mstances 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 n.o.ble 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 subst.i.tuted '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 pa.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER XLIX

'LET YOUR HEART PLEAD FOR ME'

'We were apart; yet day by day I bade my heart more constant be.

I bade it keep the world away, And grow a home for only thee; Nor fear'd but thy love likewise grew, Like mine, each day, more tried, more true.'

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

Audrey never knew how she got through the rest of the day. During the remainder of Michael's visit she seemed in an uneasy dream. Never before in her life had she been oppressed by such painful self-consciousness; all freedom of speech was impossible to her; she spoke with reluctance, and felt as though every word were weighed in some inward balance.

More than once her mother asked her if she were well; but, happily, Michael was not present to see how the blood rushed to her face as she framed an evasive answer. She could not have told her mother whether she were ill or well: she only knew some moral earthquake had shattered her old illusions, and that she was looking out at a changed world.

But she was conscious through it all that Michael's watchfulness and care s.h.i.+elded her from observation, that he was for ever throwing himself into the breach when any unusual effort was required. Once when her sister and Mr. Harcourt were present, he challenged them to a game of whist, that Audrey might leave her place at the piano. Very likely he had heard the slight quaver in her voice that told him the song tried her.

Audrey longed to thank him as she stole out into the summer dusk, and wandered down the paths between the tall sentinel lilies, that gleamed so ghostly white in the darkness. But with all his thought for her, he was never alone with her for a moment until the last day came, and he went to the morning-room to wish her good-bye. She was tending her ferns, but she took off her gardening-gloves at once as he came up to her.

'You are going, Michael; but we shall see you again before you really start?' she said, with an attempt at cheerfulness. But he shook his head.

'I think not. Abercrombie has just written to say that d.i.c.k wants to get away a week earlier. I shall not be down here again.'

Something choking seemed to rise in Audrey's throat, and if her life had depended on it she could not have got out another word. But Michael saw the troubled look in her eyes; they seemed to ask him again that question, 'Must you go?'

'Yes, dear; I must go,' he replied gently. 'It is better for us both--better for you, and far, far better for me.' And as she still looked at him without speaking, he drew her towards him and kissed her cheek. 'G.o.d be with you, my dearest!' he said very tenderly. 'Think of me as kindly as you can, and let your heart plead for me.'