But she was very happy, in spite of all these crude theories—very happy indeed; some fulness of life seemed to enrich her fine, bountiful nature, and to add to her sense of enjoyment. Sometimes, when she was sitting beside some mountain beck, in the hush of the noontide heat, when all was silent and solitary about her except the gauzy wings of insects moving above the grasses, a certain face would start up against the background of her thoughts—a pair of dark, wistful eyes would appeal to her out of the silence. That mute farewell, so suggestive, so full of pain—even the strong warm grasp with which her hand had been held—recurred to her memory. Was he still missing her, she wondered, or had Miss Frances contrived to comfort him?
Miss Frances was very seldom mentioned in Cyril's frequent letters to Kester. The boy used to bring them to Audrey to read with a glow of satisfaction on his face.
'Cyril is awfully good,' he said once; 'he never used to write to me at all; mother always had his letters. But look what a long one I have had to-day—two sheets and a half—and he has asked such a lot of questions. Please, do read it, Miss Ross; there are heaps of messages to everybody.'
Audrey was quite willing to read it. As she took the letter, she again admired the clear, bold handwriting. It was just like the writer, she thought—frank, open, and straightforward. But as she perused it, a glow of amusement passed over her face.
Mr. Blake's letters were very kind and brotherly, but were they only intended for Kester's eyes? Were all those picturesque descriptions, those clever sketches of character, those telling bits of humour, meant solely for the delectation of a boy of sixteen? And, then, the series of questions—what did they do all day when the weather was rainy, for example? did Miss Ross always join the Doctor and Mr. Harcourt on their fishing expeditions? and so on. Mr. Blake seldom mentioned her name, although there were many indirect allusions to her; but Miss Frances was scarcely ever mentioned. She was only classed in an offhand way with 'the Hackett girls' or 'the young ladies.' 'The Hackett girls went with us; the two younger ones are famous walkers,' etcetera.
Sometimes there would be an attempt to moralise.
'I am getting sick of girls,' he wrote on this occasion. 'I will give you a piece of brotherly advice, my boy: never have much to do with them. Do not misunderstand me. By girls, I mean the specimens of young ladies one meets at tennis-parties, garden-parties, and that sort of thing. They are very pretty and amusing, but they are dangerous; they seem to expect that a fellow has nothing else to do but to dangle after them and pay them compliments. Even Miss F—— But, there, I will not mention names. She is a good sort—a lively little soul; but she is always up to mischief.'
Audrey bit her lips to keep from smiling as she read this passage, for she knew Kester was watching her. It was one of the 'saft days' common in the Highlands, and, not being ducks, the two households had remained within doors. Dr. Ross and Michael were classifying butterflies and moths in the den; Mrs. Ross was in her room; and Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt—'cabined, cribbed, confined,' as Mr. Harcourt expressed it—were getting through alarming arrears of correspondence by way of passing the time. Audrey had lighted a fire in the parlour, and sat beside it snugly, and Kester was on the couch opposite her.
'I wonder if it be Miss Frances!' thought Audrey, as she replaced the letter in the envelope. '"A lively little soul, and a good sort." I don't think Mr. Blake's dislike to girls counts for much. Young men seldom write in that way unless they are bitten; and, of course, it could be no one else but Miss Frances. But it is no use arguing out the question.'
'It is a very good letter,' she said aloud. 'You are lucky to have such a correspondent. I suppose'—taking up her embroidery—'that your brother will not mind our seeing his letters?'