Lover or Friend

by Rosa Nouchette Carey

But Cyril withheld them.

'Let me carry them for you,' he returned, evidently trying to speak as usual; but his voice was not quite in order. 'I know where you are going—to that pretty, old-fashioned cottage with the jasmine-covered porch; it is not far, and I have not seen you for so long.' Then he stopped suddenly, as though something in Audrey's manner arrested him. 'That is, if you do not object,' he finished, with a pleading look.

But for once Audrey was obdurate.

'Thank you, I would rather carry them myself. There is no need to take you out of your way.'

Audrey felt that her tone was cold—that she was utterly unlike herself; but her one thought was to get rid of him. But she need not have feared Cyril's importunity. He drew back at once, and put the leaves in her hand without speaking; but he turned very pale, and there was a hurt look in his eyes. Audrey put out her hand to him, but he did not seem to see it; he only muttered something that sounded like 'Good-morning,' as he lifted his cap and went back to the gate. Audrey walked on very fast, but her cheeks would not cool, and a miserable feeling of discomfort harassed her. She was vexed with him, but still more with herself. Why need she have taken alarm so quickly? It was not like her to be so missish and disagreeable. Why had she been so cold, so unfriendly, just because he seemed a little too pleased to see her?

And now she had hurt him terribly—she was quite sure of that—she who never willingly offended anyone. He had been too proud, too gentlemanly, to obtrude himself where he was evidently not wanted; but his pained, reproachful look as he drew back would haunt her for the rest of the day. And, then, how splendidly handsome he had looked! She had once likened him to a Greek god, but it may be doubted whether even the youthful Apollo had seemed more absolutely perfect when he revealed himself in human form to some Athenian votary, than Cyril Blake in the glory of his young manhood. Audrey had not recognised this so keenly before.

'I must make it up to him somehow. I cannot bear to quarrel with anyone. I would rather do anything than hurt his feelings,' she thought; and it needed all her excellent common-sense to prevent her from running back to say a kind word to him.

'I was in a hurry—I was too abrupt; I did not mean to be unkind'—this was what she longed to say to him. 'Please come with me as far as the cottage, and tell me all you have been doing.' Well, and what withheld her from such a natural course—from making her amends in this graceful and generous fashion? Simply that same maidenly instinct of self-preservation. She did not go back; she dare not trust herself with Cyril Blake, because she was afraid of him, and perhaps—though this was not quite so clear to her—she was afraid of herself. But, all the same, she was very miserable—for doing one's duty does not always make one happy—and she felt the joy of her home-coming was already marred; for, with a person of Audrey's temperament, there is no complete enjoyment if she were not in thorough harmony with everyone. One false note, one 'little rift within the lute,' and the whole melody is spoiled. So Audrey's gaiety seemed all quenched that afternoon, and though her old friend testified the liveliest satisfaction at the sight of her, and Priscilla could not make enough of her, she was conscious that, as far as her own pleasure was concerned, the visit was a failure.

But she was aware that no one but herself was conscious of this fact. Certainly not honest Tom O'Brien, as he sat smoking his pipe in the porch, and listening to her descriptions of Highland scenery with a beaming face; neither was Mrs. Baxter a keen observer, as she testified by her parting speech.

'You have done father a world of good, Miss Ross,' she said, as she walked down to the little gate with Audrey. 'I think there is no one he so loves to see, or who cheers him up in the same way as you do. You are young, you see, and young people take more cheerful views of life; and it is easy to see you have not a care on you. Not that I begrudge you your happiness, for no one deserves it more; and long may it continue, Miss Ross,' finished Mrs. Baxter, with her usual mournfulness.