Audrey never knew how she got through the rest of the day. During the remainder of Michael's visit she seemed in an uneasy dream. Never before in her life had she been oppressed by such painful self-consciousness; all freedom of speech was impossible to her; she spoke with reluctance, and felt as though every word were weighed in some inward balance.
More than once her mother asked her if she were well; but, happily, Michael was not present to see how the blood rushed to her face as she framed an evasive answer. She could not have told her mother whether she were ill or well: she only knew some moral earthquake had shattered her old illusions, and that she was looking out at a changed world.
But she was conscious through it all that Michael's watchfulness and care shielded her from observation, that he was for ever throwing himself into the breach when any unusual effort was required. Once when her sister and Mr. Harcourt were present, he challenged them to a game of whist, that Audrey might leave her place at the piano. Very likely he had heard the slight quaver in her voice that told him the song tried her.
Audrey longed to thank him as she stole out into the summer dusk, and wandered down the paths between the tall sentinel lilies, that gleamed so ghostly white in the darkness. But with all his thought for her, he was never alone with her for a moment until the last day came, and he went to the morning-room to wish her good-bye. She was tending her ferns, but she took off her gardening-gloves at once as he came up to her.
'You are going, Michael; but we shall see you again before you really start?' she said, with an attempt at cheerfulness. But he shook his head.
'I think not. Abercrombie has just written to say that Dick wants to get away a week earlier. I shall not be down here again.'
Something choking seemed to rise in Audrey's throat, and if her life had depended on it she could not have got out another word. But Michael saw the troubled look in her eyes; they seemed to ask him again that question, 'Must you go?'
'Yes, dear; I must go,' he replied gently. 'It is better for us both—better for you, and far, far better for me.' And as she still looked at him without speaking, he drew her towards him and kissed her cheek. 'God be with you, my dearest!' he said very tenderly. 'Think of me as kindly as you can, and let your heart plead for me.'
And the next moment he was gone.
Audrey stood rooted to the spot; she felt as though some nightmare oppression were on her. She heard her father's voice calling to her. 'Where is Audrey?' he said. 'She must bid Michael good-bye.' And then someone—Michael, perhaps—answered him.