'I am too proud of my present position,' he wrote to Audrey; 'the mere fact that I am of some use in the world, and that one human being feels my advice helpful to him, quite reconciles me to my prolonged absence. Of course I mean to keep Kester with me. He is perfectly happy, and fairly revels in London sights. He and Fred are thick as thieves. Abercrombie saw him the other day—you know who I mean: Donald Abercrombie. He is a consulting physician now, and is making quite a name for himself. He has good-naturedly promised to look into the case. He says, from the little he has seen, he is sure the boy has been neglected, and that care and medical skill could have done much for him in the beginning. Abercrombie is just the fellow to interest himself thoroughly in a case like Kester's, and I have great hopes of the result. I have written to his brother, but perhaps you would be wise to say as little as possible to Mrs. Blake. She is far too sanguine by nature; and it would never do to excite hopes that might never be gratified. Mr. Blake is of a different calibre; he will look at the thing more sensibly.'
Audrey sighed as she laid aside Michael's letter. She seemed to miss him more every day, and yet she was quite willing that his absence should be prolonged. Michael would have noticed her want of spirits in a moment; she would never have been free from his affectionate surveillance. At a distance everything was so much easier; she could write cheerfully; she could fill the sheets with small incidents and matters of local interest, with pleasant inquiries about himself and Kester.
Nevertheless, Michael's face grew graver over each letter. He could not have told himself what was lacking to his entire satisfaction, only some strange subtle chord of sympathy, as delicate as it was unerring, warned him that all was not right with the girl.
'She is not as bright as usual,' he thought. 'Audrey's letters are generally overflowing with fun. There is a grave, almost a forced, tone about this last one. And she so seldom mentions the Blakes.'
Audrey had certainly avoided the Gray Cottage during the last three weeks; even Mollie's lessons were irksome to her. Mollie's tongue was not easily silenced. In spite of all her efforts, her cheeks often burnt at the girl's innocent loquacity. Mollie was for ever making awkward speeches or asking questions that Audrey found difficult to answer; she would chatter incessantly about her mother and Cyril.
'Mamma is so dreadfully worried about Cyril!' she said once. 'She wants him to speak to Dr. Powell; she is quite sure that he is ill. He hardly eats anything—at least, he has no appetite—and mamma says that is so strange in a young man. And he walks about his room half the night; Biddy hears him. You recollect that evening he dined at Woodcote? Well, he never came home that night until past twelve, and Biddy declares that his bed was not slept in at all; he must just have thrown himself down on it for an hour or two. And he had such a bad headache the next morning.'
Audrey walked to the piano and threw it open.
'I am very sorry your brother is not well,' she said in rather a forced voice, as she flecked a little dust off the legs. 'Mollie, I think Caroline has forgotten to dust the piano this morning. Will you hand me that feather-brush, please? I want you to try this duet with me; it is such a pretty one!' And after that Mollie's fingers were kept so hard at work that she found no more opportunity for talking about Cyril.
Another time, as Audrey looked over her French exercise, she heard a deep sigh, and glancing up from the book, found Mollie gazing at her with round sorrowful eyes.
'Well, what now?' she asked a little sharply.