Lover or Friend Part 39

'You will not now forbid me to speak to your father?' he said presently; and a shade of anxiety crept into his voice in spite of his intense happiness.

The thought of that interview somewhat daunted him. It was surely a daring thing for a junior cla.s.sical master to tell his chief that he had won his daughter's affections; it was an ordeal that most men would have dreaded.

Audrey seemed to read his thoughts.

'I hope I shall never hinder you from doing your duty,' she said quietly, 'and, of course, you will have to speak to him; but'--looking at him with one of her radiant smiles--'you will find him quite prepared.'

'Do you mean that you will speak to him first? Oh no; it is surely my prerogative to spare you this.'

'But I do not wish to be spared,' she returned happily. 'Cyril, I do not think you have any idea of what my father is to me, and I to him. Do you suppose I should sleep until I have told him? There has never been any secret between us. Even when I was a little child, I would take him all my broken toys to mend, and if I fell down or cut my finger--and I was always in mischief--it was always father who must bind it up, and kiss and comfort me; and, with all his hard work, he was never too busy to attend to me.'

'I think in your place I would have gone to your mother. You must not be jealous, darling, if I tell you that I fell in love with her first.'

'I am so glad. Dear mother! everyone loves her. But when Gage and I were children, I was always the one most with father. I think there is no one in the world like him, and Michael says the same. I must write and tell Michael about this.'

'Oh yes; he is like your brother. I remember you told me so. But, dearest, I must confess I am a little anxious about Dr. Ross. I am only a poor man, you know; he may refuse his consent.'

Audrey shook her head.

'Father is not like that,' she said tranquilly. 'We think the same on these matters; we are both of us very impulsive. I have some money of my own, you know--not much'--as Cyril's brow contracted a little--'but enough to be a real help. But do not let us talk about that; I have never cared for such things. If you had not a penny in the world you would be still yourself--Cyril Blake.'

Audrey looked so charming as she said this, that the cloud on Cyril's brow cleared like magic.

'And you do not think your father will be angry?'

'Angry! Why should he be angry?' opening her eyes widely. 'He may be disappointed--very probably he will be so; he may think I might have done better for myself. He may even argue the point a little. The great blessing is that one is not obliged to consult one's sister in such cases; for'--looking at him with her old fun--'I am afraid Gage would refuse her consent.'

'Yes; I am afraid both Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt will send me to Coventry.'

'To be sure they will; but I suppose even Coventry will be bearable under some circ.u.mstances. Oh dear!' interrupting herself, 'do you see how dark it is growing? We have actually forgotten the time. I must really be going.'

'I ought not to have kept you so long,' he returned remorsefully.

'There, you shall go! I will not detain you another moment. I think it will be better for you to go alone. I will stay here another half-hour; I could not speak to anyone just now. I must be alone and think over this wonderful thing that has happened.'

'Very well,' she replied. But some minutes elapsed before the last good-bye was said. There were things he had forgotten to say. More than once, as she turned away, he detained her with some parting request.

When she had really gone, and the last sound of her footsteps died away, he went back into the dusky room, and threw himself down on the chair where she had sat, and abandoned himself to a delicious retrospect.

'And it is true--it is not a dream!' he said to himself when, an hour later, he roused himself to go back to the Gray Cottage. 'Oh, thank G.o.d that He has given me this priceless gift! If I could only be worthy of her!' finished the young man with tender reverence, as he crossed the courtyard and let himself in at the green door.

Mrs. Ross looked at her daughter rather anxiously that evening; she thought Audrey was rather quiet and a trifle subdued. Geraldine and her husband were dining at Woodcote. Audrey, who had forgotten they were expected, was rather taken aback when she saw her sister, and made her excuses a little hurriedly. She had been detained--all sorts of things had detained her. She had been to the Gray Cottage and the library. She had not walked far enough to tire herself--this being the literal fact, as not a quarter of a mile lay between Woodcote and the Cottage. Oh no, she was not the least tired, and she hoped Geraldine felt better.

'Much better, thank you,' returned Geraldine, with one of her keen glances; and then she somewhat elaborately changed the subject. Audrey was not subjected to any cross-examination; indeed, there was something significant in Mrs. Harcourt's entire dearth of curiosity; but all the time she was saying to herself: 'Audrey has been crying; her eyes are quite swollen, and yet she looks cheerful. What can it mean? What has she been doing? She has hardly had time to smooth her hair, it looks so rough. I wonder if Percival notices anything! I am sure father does, for he keeps looking at her,' and so on.

It was Mr. Harcourt who was Audrey's _bete noir_ that evening. He was in one of his argumentative moods, and could not be made to understand that his sister-in-law would have preferred silence. He was perpetually urging her to single combat, touching her up on some supposed tender point in the hope of getting a rally. 'I suppose Audrey, who goes in for women's rights so warmly, will differ from me if I say so and so?' or 'We must ask Audrey what she thinks of that, my dear; she is a great stickler for feminine prerogative;' and then he would point his chin, and a sort of sarcastic light would come into his eyes. It was positive enjoyment to him when Audrey rose to the bait and floundered hopelessly into an argument. But, on the whole, she acquitted herself ill. 'You are too clever for me to-night, Percival,' she said a little wearily, as he stood talking to her with his coffee cup in his hand; 'I cannot think what makes men so fond of debating and argument. If they can only persuade a person that black is white, they go home and sleep quite happily.'

'It is such a triumph to make people see with one's own eyes,' he returned, as though accepting a compliment. 'Have you ever read the _Republic_ of Plato? No! I should recommend it for your perusal: it is an acknowledged masterpiece; the reasoning is superb, and it is rich in ill.u.s.trations. The want of women is that, with all their intelligence, they are so illogical. Now, if women only had the education of men----'

'Harcourt, I think Geraldine is tired, and would like you to take her home,' observed Dr. Ross, interrupting the stream of eloquence; and Mr.

Harcourt, without finis.h.i.+ng his sentence, went at once in search of his wife. Women might be illogical, but they were to be considered, for all that. With all his satire and love of argument, Mr. Harcourt valued his wife's comfort before his own. 'I am quite ready, dear,' he said, as she looked up at him with a deprecating smile; 'and I know your mother will excuse us.'

Dr. Ross had walked with his daughter to the gate. Young Mrs. Harcourt was a woman who always exacted these little attentions from the menkind around her; without demanding them, she took them naturally as her right and prerogative. It would have seemed strange to her if her father had not offered her his arm. 'Good-bye, father dear,' she said, giving him her firm cool cheek to kiss; 'Percy and I have had such a nice evening.'

Dr. Ross walked back to the house; then he went to his study and lighted his reading-lamp. There was a certain interesting debate in the _Times_ which he wished much to read--a Ministerial crisis was at hand, and Dr.

Ross, who was Conservative to the backbone, was aware that his party was menaced. He had just taken the paper in his hand when Audrey came into the room. 'Good-night, my dear,' he said, without looking up; but Audrey did not take the hint.

'Daddy, I want to speak to you,' she said very quietly; 'will you please put that paper down for a moment?' And then she added, 'I want to speak to you very particularly.'

Dr. Ross heaved a sigh and lowered his paper somewhat reluctantly.

'Would not another time have done as well?' he grumbled good-humouredly; 'Harcourt has taken up all the evening. That is the worst of having an elderly son-in-law; one is bound to be civil to him; one could not tell him to hold his tongue, for example.'

'I think Percival would resent such a hint,' returned Audrey rather absently. She had drawn a low chair close to her father's knee, so that she could touch him, and now she looked up in his face a little pleadingly.

'Well, what is it, child?' he went on, still fingering his paper; 'I suppose you want help for some _protegee_ or other--moderation in all things. I warn you that I have not got Fortunatus's purse.'

'It is not money I want,' she returned, so gravely that he began to feel uncomfortable. 'Daddy, it is something very, very different. This afternoon Cyril Blake spoke to me, and I--that is, we--are engaged.'

Dr. Ross gave a great start and dropped the _Times_ as though it burnt him. For a moment he did not speak. With all his mildness and benevolence, he was a man of strong pa.s.sions, though no one would have guessed it from his habitual self-control.

'We are engaged,' she repeated softly, and then she stroked her father's hand; but he drew it rather quickly away.

'Audrey,' he said, in a voice that she did not recognise, it was so stern, so full of displeasure; 'I would rather have heard anything than this, that a child of mine should so far forget herself as to engage herself to any man without her parents' consent.'

'Oh, daddy----' she began caressingly, but he stopped her.

'It was wrong; it was what I would not have believed of you, Audrey; but with regard to Mr. Blake, it was altogether dishonourable. How dared he,' here the Doctor's eyes flashed through his spectacles, 'how dared he win my daughter's affections in this clandestine way?'

'Father, you must not speak so of Cyril!' returned Audrey calmly, though she was a little pale--a little disturbed at this unexpected severity; 'it is not what you think: there was nothing clandestine or dishonourable. He did not mean to speak to me; it was more my fault than his. You shall hear all, every word from the beginning. Do you think I would hide anything from my father?' And here two large tears welled slowly from Audrey's eyes, but she wiped them away. Perhaps her gentleness and the sight of those tears mollified Dr. Ross, for when Audrey laid her clasped hands upon his knee he did not again repulse her. Nay, more, when she faltered once in telling her story, he put his hand on her head rea.s.suringly.

'Is that all you have to tell me, my dear?' and now Dr. Ross spoke in his old kind voice.

'Yes, father dear; you have heard everything now, and--and--'

beseechingly, 'you will not be hard on us!'

'Hard on him, I suppose you mean,' returned Dr. Ross, with rather a sad smile; 'a man is not likely to be hard to his own flesh and blood. I still think he has acted rather badly, but I can make allowance for him better now--he was sorely tempted. But now I want you to tell me something: are you sure that your happiness is involved in this--that it would really cost you too much to give him up?'

Audrey looked at her father with some astonishment--that wide, clear-eyed glance conveyed reproach.

'Do you think it necessary to ask me such a question?' she said, with a little dignity; 'should I have engaged myself to any man without loving him?'

'But he may have talked you into it; you may have mistaken your feelings,' suggested Dr. Ross; but Audrey shook her head.

'I am not a child,' she said, rather proudly. 'Father, you have always liked Mr. Blake. You can surely have no objection to him personally?'

'Yes, but my liking did not go to the extent of wis.h.i.+ng him to be my son-in-law,' he replied, with a touch of grim humour; 'in my opinion, Audrey, Mr. Blake is far too young.'

'He is three-and-twenty,' she pleaded; 'he is two months older than I am. What does age matter, father? He will grow older every day. I know some men are boyish at that age; but I think Cyril's life has matured him.'

'Still, I would rather have entrusted you to an older man, and one who had in some measure made his position. Mr. Blake is only at the beginning of his career; it will be years before he achieves any sort of position. Audrey, you know me well enough by this time: I am not speaking of his poverty, though that alone should have deterred him from aspiring to my daughter. We think alike on these points, and I care nothing about a rich son-in-law; but Mr. Blake has only his talents and good character to recommend him. He is far too young; he is poor, and his family has no social standing.'