Lover or Friend

by Rosa Nouchette Carey

'Yes. It is so sweet to think that he will never suffer any more. Oh, Michael, it has been such a burden! I never seemed to have a moment's peace or comfort. Every night I used to think, "How has he passed to-day? Has it been very bad with him?" And sometimes the thought of all he was bearing seemed to weigh me to the earth.'

'And you never spoke of this to anyone—you bore all this by yourself?'

'It was no use to speak. No one could help me. It was his pain, not mine. Now it will be different. He is safe and happy, and as for me, I must try to live now for other people.'

And then, with a smile that touched him to the heart, she stepped back from the grave and told him that she was ready.

Somehow, Michael felt comforted by those few words. His intuition and knowledge of Audrey's character gave him hope that after a time she would recover her old elasticity. 'Until now,' he said to himself, 'she has so fully identified herself with him, that she has simply had no life of her own. Her sympathetic nature has reflected only his thoughts and feelings. I doubt whether she has ever questioned herself as to her love for him; she has taken everything for granted. And now she has lost him, the thought of his happiness seems to swallow up all thought of her own grief. Such unselfishness will bring its own healing.' And in this way Michael comforted himself about her.

That evening Audrey received a message that surprised her greatly. Kester brought it. His mother would see her the next day; someone had told her that Audrey was going back to Woodcote, and she had at once expressed a wish that she should not leave without bidding her good-bye.

'Tell her that I can speak now, and that I have much to say to her.' And the strangeness of this message filled Audrey with perplexity.

Michael took her to Kensington the next day. He had to fetch Kester; the boy was going back to Brighton: there was no good in his lingering in London. His mother took no pleasure in his society; his overtures to his father had made a breach between them, and she had treated him with silent displeasure.

But he told Michael, as they drove to the station, that she had been kinder in her manner to him that morning than she had been for months.

'She kissed me more than once, and held my hand as though she did not like bidding me good bye. She looks awfully ill,' continued the boy, with a choke in his voice; 'and when I asked her to be good to Mollie, she said quite gently that she had been a bad mother to us both; that she had not considered us enough, and that God was punishing her for it. I begged her not to say it, but she repeated it again. "You and Mollie will be better without me," she went on. Oh, Captain Burnett! do you think she will die? I never saw anyone look quite so bad,' persisted Kester sadly.