Lover or Friend Part 64

'Too great a shock?'

'Yes. Your mother, out of mistaken kindness, has kept her children in ignorance all these years that they have a father living. He was not a father of whom they could be proud, and she tried to keep the fact of his existence from them.'

'Wait a moment!' exclaimed Cyril. The poor fellow had turned very white.

'I must take this in. What are you telling me, Burnett? That my mother--my widowed mother--has a husband living?'

'I am telling you the truth. Are you ready to hear me say more? I will wait any time you like; but it is a long story, and a sad one. Your mother has left me to tell it.'

'Go on! Let me hear every word! Hide nothing--nothing!'

Cyril spoke in a dull, stifled voice, as though he felt choking. When Michael began to speak, very slowly and quietly, he almost turned his back to him; and as the story proceeded, Michael noticed how he clutched the carved arms of his chair; but he did not once see his face. Michael afterwards owned that telling that miserable story to Olive O'Brien's son was one of the toughest jobs he had ever done in his life. But he had no idea how well he did it: there was not an unnecessary word. With the utmost care he strove to shield the woman, and to show her conduct in the best light. 'It was for her children's sake she did it,' he said again and again; but there was no answering word from Cyril; if he had been turned to stone, his position could not have been more rigid.

'Have you understood me, Blake? My poor, dear fellow, if you knew how sorry Dr. Ross and I are for you----'

Then, as Michael mentioned Dr. Ross's name, Cyril seemed galvanised into sudden life.

'He knows! he knows! For G.o.d's sake give me air!' But before Michael could cross the room, Cyril had stumbled to the window and flung it up, and stood there, with the bitter east wind blowing on his face, as though it were a refreshing summer breeze.

The chill air made Michael shiver; but he knew by experience how intolerable was that sense of suffocation, and he stood by patiently until that deadly feeling had pa.s.sed.

'Are you better now, Blake? My poor fellow, can you sit down and speak to me?'

Then Cyril turned his face towards him, and Michael was shocked to see how strained and haggard it looked.

'Does she know, too?'

'Not yet; her father will tell her.'

Then the poor boy shuddered from head to foot.

'They will make her give me up! O my G.o.d! how can I bear it? Burnett, I think I shall go mad! Tell me it is not true--that my mother has not lied to me all these years!'

'At least, she has lied for her son's sake.' But he knew how futile were his words, as he saw the bitter contempt in Cyril's honest eyes.

'I will never forgive her! She has ruined my life! she has made me wish that I were dead! I will never, never----'

But Michael interrupted him somewhat sternly:

'Hush! hush! You do not know what you are saying. She is your mother, Blake--nothing can alter that fact.'

'She has deceived us all! No, I will not speak; nothing can make it better or worse. If I lose Audrey, I do not care what becomes of me!'

Michael looked at him pityingly.

'Do you think you ought to marry her, Blake!'

Then Cyril flung away from him with a groan; even in his misery he understood that appeal to his generosity. But he put it from him: he was too much stunned, too dazed altogether, to follow out any train of reasoning. In a vague sort of way he understood two facts: that he and Kester and Mollie were disgraced, and that his mother--the mother whom he adored--had deceived him. Beyond this he could not go. The human mind has limits.

Afterwards, in the chill hour of darkness and solitude, Michael's words would come back to him: 'Do you think you ought to marry her, Blake? Do you think you ought to marry her?'

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

'I SHALL NEVER BE FREE'

'But there are true hearts which the sight Of sorrow summons forth; Though known in days of past delight, We know not half their worth.'

BAYLY.

The words escaped from Michael almost unconsciously; he hardly knew that he spoke them aloud; but in his inner consciousness he had no doubt at all of the course that ought to be pursued. If he had been in Cyril's place he would not have hesitated for a moment. Dearly as he loved Audrey--and what that love was only he himself knew--he would have refused to marry her. He would have separated himself from her utterly, and at once.

Michael's strong, long-suffering nature would have carried him n.o.bly through such an ordeal. He was a man who would have acted up to the spirit of the Gospel command 'to pluck out the offending eye, or to cut off the right hand;' there would have been no parleying, no weak dalliance with temptation.

'I love you, but it is my duty to leave you, so farewell for ever!'--that is what he would have said to her, knowing all the time that life would be utterly joyless to him. Would Cyril, in his hot, untried youth, be capable of a like generosity, or would he cleave to his betrothed with pa.s.sionate, one-sided fealty, vowing that nothing on earth should separate them as long as they two loved each other?

'They will make her give me up!'--that was all he had said. That seemed to be the one deadly terror that a.s.sailed him.

Cyril had turned away with a groan when Michael spoke, but he made no audible answer, and the next moment his hand was on the door.

'Where are you going, Blake?' inquired Michael anxiously.

It was impossible to keep him, and yet, how could he let him leave him in such a condition?

'I must get away from here!' returned Cyril hoa.r.s.ely. 'I must be alone somewhere.'

And Michael understood him.

'Let me at least walk with you,' he returned quickly. 'You might meet someone, and perhaps I may be of use. Do not refuse; I will not speak to you.' And, as Cyril made no objection--indeed, it was doubtful whether he even heard what Michael said--he followed him downstairs.

Just as they reached the hall the drawing-room door opened, and, before he could warn Cyril, Audrey came out. She had some music in her hand.

She uttered an exclamation of surprise and pleasure when she saw them.

'Michael, I thought you were lost. What have you been doing with yourself all day? Were you going out with Cyril? Please don't go just yet; it is just beginning to rain, and I want him to practise this duet with me. Will you?' looking up in Cyril's face with one of her bright smiles.

'I cannot; another time. Please do not keep me!'

Cyril hardly knew what he said. He pushed by her as she stood there smiling, with the music in her hand, and went out bareheaded into the rain and darkness.

Audrey looked bewildered.

'What does he mean? Is he ill? has anything happened? He is so white, and he has forgotten his hat! He has never left me like this before. Oh, Michael, do call him back; I must speak to him!'

'I cannot. I think something is troubling him. Let me go, Audrey; he will tell you everything by and by.' And Michael s.n.a.t.c.hed up his hat and Cyril's, and hurried after him as fast as his halting gait permitted.

Cyril had not gone far; he was standing by the gate quite motionless, and his hair and face were wet with the heavy rain. Michael took him by the arm and walked on with him; he must see him safely to his room, and charge Mrs. Blake not to go near him.