"I am afraid many men would if they were in Mike"s shoes. Why, they say Mr. Carlisle was worth six or seven thousand a year--most of it solid capital, and locked up in safe securities and investments. He was always a canny Scotsman, and liked to take care of his money. And here is Mike pretending not to care a jot about it, and looking as though he had the cares of all the world on his shoulders."
"I think he shows very good feeling. Michael was never mercenary, and the loss of his only near relative would make him dull for a time."
"My dear Emmie, that is very pretty sentiment; but, unfortunately, it does not hold good in this case. Mike has never seen his uncle since he was a lad of eighteen--that is about seventeen years ago--and he has often owned to me that Mr. Carlisle was very close in his money dealings. "It is a pity there is no sympathy between us," he said once.
"Uncle Andrew does not seem to have a thought beyond his money-grubbing.
He is a decent sort of old fellow, I believe, and I daresay he will end by marrying some pretty girl or other, and then he will be properly miserable all the rest of his life." That does not sound much like an affectionate nephew."
"Oh, he never cared for him!" interposed Audrey; "Michael and I have often talked about him. It seems so strange that he should leave him his money, when he took so little notice of him all these years."
"Well, he was not a demonstrative man," returned her father; "but in his way he seemed both fond and proud of Mike. I remember when he got the Victoria Cross, and was lying between life and death, poor lad! that Mr.
Carlisle wrote very kindly and enclosed a cheque for two hundred pounds.
I had to answer the letter for him, and I remember when he got better, and first came down here, that I recommended him to keep up a friendly intercourse with his uncle, though I do not believe he took my advice.
Mike was always such a lazy beggar!"
"And he has to go up to town to see his lawyer, I suppose?"
"Yes, and he thinks he may be away a week or two; but, there, I must not stand here talking. I have told Reynolds to order a fly from the town; but he need not start for three-quarters of an hour."
Audrey waited impatiently for another twenty minutes before Michael made his appearance. He looked very cold, and at once proceeded to wheel an easy-chair in front of the fire.
"I may as well get warm," he observed. "I expect we shall have a regular snowstorm before night. Look at that leaden sky! Well, what now?"
For Audrey was kneeling on the rug, and she was looking at him with her brightest and most bewitching smile.
"Michael, I am so glad, so very, very glad. I think I am as pleased as though the fortune were mine."
"Do you think that is a decent remark to make to a fellow who has just lost his uncle? Really, Audrey, you may well look ashamed of yourself; I quite blush for you. "Avarice, thy name is woman!""
"Now, Michael, don"t be absurd. I am not a bit ashamed of myself. Of course, I am sorry the poor man is dead; but as I never saw him, I cannot be excessively grieved; but I am delighted that he has done the right thing and left you all his money, and I am sure in your heart that you are glad, too."
"It does not strike you that I may regard it in the light of an unmitigated bore. What does an old bachelor like myself want with this heap of money? I should like to know how I am to spend six or seven thousand a year--why, the very idea is oppressive!"
"You are very good at pretence, Michael; as though I am not clever enough to see through that flimsy attempt at philosophy! You think it would be _infra dig._ to look too delighted."
"Oh, you think I am going in for a stoic?" he returned blandly.
"Yes, but you are not really one; you were never cut out for a poor man, Michael; the _role_ did not suit you at all. It is a pain and a grief to you to travel second cla.s.s, and it is only the best of everything that is good enough for you; and you like to put up at first-cla.s.s hotels, and to have all the waiters and railway officials crowding round you.
Even when we were in Scotland the gillie took you for some t.i.tled aristocrat, you were so lavish with your money. It is a way you have, Michael, to open your purse for everyone. No wonder the poor widow living down by the fir-plantation called you the n.o.ble English gentleman."
"Why, what nonsense you talk!" he replied.
But all the same it pleased him to think that she had remembered these things. Oh, those happy days that would never come back!
"And now you will be able to gratify all your tastes. You have always been so fond of old oak, and you can have a beautiful house, and furnish it just as you like; and you can buy pictures, and old china, and books.
Why, you can have quite a famous library, and if you want our a.s.sistance, Gage and I will be proud to help you; and if you will only consult us, it will be the loveliest house you ever saw."
"What do I want with a house?" he returned a little morosely. "I should think rooms would be far better for a bachelor."
"Ah, but you need not be a bachelor any longer," she replied gaily. "You have always told us that you could not afford to marry; but now you can have the house and wife too." But here she stopped for a moment, for somehow the words sounded oddly as she said them. Michael"s wife! What a curious idea! And would she be quite willing for Michael to marry? His wife must be very nice--nicer than most girls, she said to herself; and here she looked at him a little wistfully; but Michael did not make any response. He had the poker in his hand, and when she left off speaking he broke up a huge coal into a dozen glowing splinters.
"And, then, do you remember," she went on, "how you used to long for a mail phaeton, and a pair of bay horses? "When my ship comes I will drive a pair!" How often you have said that to me! Will you drive me in the Park sometimes, Michael, until you have someone else whom you want to take?--for, of course, when you have a wife----"
But here he interrupted her with marked impatience:
"I shall never have a wife. I wish you would not talk such nonsense, Audrey;" and there was such bitterness in his tone that she looked quite frightened. But the next moment he spoke more gently. "Do you not see, dear, that I am a little upset about all this money coming to me? It is a great responsibility, as well as a pleasure."
Then as she looked a little downcast at his rebuke, he put his hand lightly upon her brown hair and turned her face towards him.
"Why, there are tears in your eyes, you foolish child!" he said quickly.
"Did you really mind what I said, my dear Audrey?" in a more agitated tone--for, to his surprise, a large bright tear fell on his other hand.
"Oh, it was not that!" she returned, in rather a choked voice. "Please don"t look so concerned, Michael. You know I never mind your scolding me."
"Then what is it?" he asked anxiously. "What can have troubled you? Was it my want of sympathy with your little plans? The old oak, and the carvings and the books, and even the mail phaeton, may come by and by, when I have had time to realise my position as Croesus. Did my apathy vex you, Audrey?"
"No; for of course I understood you, and I liked you all the better for not caring about things just now. It was only--you will think me very foolish, Michael"--and here she did look ashamed of herself--"but I felt, somehow, as though all this money would separate us. You will not go on living at Woodcote, and you will have a home of your own and other interests; and perhaps--don"t be vexed--but if ever you do marry, I hope--I hope--your wife will be good to me."
"I think I can promise you that," he returned quietly. "Thank you, dear, for telling me the truth."
"Yes; but, Michael, are you not shocked at my selfishness?"
"Not in the least. I understand you far better than you understand yourself;" and here he looked at her rather strangely as he rose.
"Must you go now?"
"Yes, it is quite time; I can hear wheels coming up the terrace." And then he took her hands, and his old smile was on his face. "Don"t have any more mistaken fancies, Audrey; all the gold of the Indies would not separate us. If I furnish my house, I will promise you that Gage and you shall ransack Wardour Street with me; and when you are married, my dear, you shall choose what I shall give you;" and as he said this he stooped over her, for she was still kneeling before the fire, and kissed her very gently just above her eyes. It was done so quietly, almost solemnly, that she was not even startled. "I don"t suppose Blake would object to that from Cousin Michael," he said gravely. "Good-bye for a few days;" and then he was gone.
"I am glad he did that," thought Audrey; "he has never done it before.
As though Cyril would mind! I was so afraid I had really vexed him with all my foolish talking. But he looked so sad, so unlike himself, that I wanted to rouse him. I will not tease him any more about a possible wife; it seems to hurt him somehow--and yet why should he be different from other men? If he does not go on living here with father and mother, he will want some one to take care of him." And here she fell into a brown study, and the work she had taken up lay in her lap. After all, it was she who was leaving him--when she was Cyril"s wife, how could she look after Michael?
Audrey could think of nothing else for the remainder of the day. She told Cyril about her cousin"s good fortune when he took her out for a walk that afternoon. Neither of them minded the hard roads and gray wintry sky; when a few snowflakes pelted them they only walked on faster.
Cyril showed a proper interest in the news.
"I am delighted to hear it," he said heartily. "Captain Burnett is one of the best fellows I know, and he deserves all he has got."
And then, as it was growing dark, and they could hardly see each other"s face, he coaxed her to go back with him to the Gray Cottage to tell Kester the wonderful news. Now, it so happened that Mrs. Blake and Mollie had gone to a neighbour"s, and were not expected back for an hour; but Cyril begged her to stay and make tea for them: and a very cosy hour they spent, sitting round the fire and making all kinds of possible and impossible plans for their hero.
But the next day Audrey"s thoughts were diverted into a different channel, for Geraldine"s boy was born, and great was the family rejoicing. Dr. Ross himself telegraphed to Michael. Audrey never liked her brother-in-law so well as on the morning when he came down to Woodcote to receive their congratulations.
Mrs. Ross was at Hillside, and only Audrey and her father were sitting at breakfast. Mr. Harcourt looked pale and f.a.gged, but there was marvellous content in his whole mien. The slight pomposity that had always jarred on Audrey had wholly vanished, and he wrung her hand with a warmth of feeling that did him credit.
Once, indeed, she could hardly forbear a smile, when he said, with a touch of his old solemnity, "Nurse says that he is the finest child that she has seen for a long time--and Mrs. Ross perfectly agrees with her;"
but she commanded herself with difficulty.
"I wonder if he is like you or Gage, Percival?"
"It is impossible to say at present--one cannot get to see his eyes, and he is a little red. Mrs. Lockhart says they are all red at first. But he is astonishingly heavy--in fact, he is as fine a boy as you could see anywhere."