Not that Audrey was a strong-minded person or a stickler for woman's rights. She had no advanced notions, no crude theories, on the subject of emancipation; it was only, to borrow Captain Burnett's words, that her headlong sympathies carried her away; a passionate instinct of pity always made her range herself on the losing side. Her virtues were unequally balanced, and her generosity threatened to degenerate into weakness. Most women love to feel the support of a stronger nature; Audrey loved to support others; any form of suffering, mental or physical, appealed to her irresistibly. Her sympathy was often misplaced and excessive, and her power of self-effacement, under some circumstances, was even more remarkable, the word 'self-effacement' being rightly used here, as 'self-sacrifice' presupposes some consciousness of action. It was this last trait that caused genuine anxiety to those who knew and loved Audrey best; for who can tell to what lengths a generous nature may go, to whom any form of pain is intolerable, and every beggar, worthy or unworthy, a human brother or sister, with claims to consideration?
If Audrey were not as clever as her elder sister, she had more originality; she was also far more independent in her modes of action and thought, and went on her own way without reference to others.
'It is not that I think myself wiser than other people,' she said once to her cousin, who had just been delivering her a lecture on this subject. 'Of course I am always making mistakes—everyone does; but you see, Michael, I have lived so long with myself—exactly two-and-twenty years—and so I must know most about myself, and what is best for this young person,' tapping herself playfully.
Audrey was certainly not so handsome as her sister. She had neither Geraldine's perfection of feature nor her exquisite colouring; but she had her good points, like other people.
Her hair was soft and brown, and there was a golden tinge in it that was greatly admired. There was also a depth and expression in her gray eyes that Geraldine lacked. But the charm of Audrey's face was her smile. It was no facial contortion, no mere lip service; it was a heart illumination—a sudden radiance that seemed to light up every feature, and which brought a certain lovely dimple into play.
And there was one other thing noticeable in Audrey, and which brought the sisters into still sharper contrast. She was lamentably deficient in taste, and, though personally neat, was rather careless on the subject of dress. She liked an old gown better than a new one, was never quite sure which colour suited her best, and felt just as happy paying a round of calls in an old cambric as in the best tailor-made gown. It was on this subject that she and Geraldine differed most. No amount of spoken wisdom could make Audrey see that she was neglecting her opportunities to a culpable degree; that while other forms of eccentricity might be forgiven, the one unpardonable sin in Geraldine's code was Audrey's refusal to make the best of herself.
'And you do look so nice when you are well dressed,' she observed with mournful affection on one occasion when Audrey had specially disappointed her. 'You have a beautiful figure—Madame Latouche said so herself—and yet you would wear that hideous gown Miss Sewell has made, and at Mrs. Charrington's "at home," too.'
'How many people were affected by this sad occurrence?' asked Audrey scornfully. 'My dear Gage, your tone is truly tragical. Was it my clothes or me—poor little me!—that Mrs. Charrington invited and wanted to see? Do you know, Michael,' for that young man was present, 'I have such a grand idea for the future; a fashion to come in with Wagner's music, and æsthetics, and female lawyers—in fact, an advanced theory worthy of the nineteenth century. You know how people hate "at homes," and how bored they are, and how they grumble at the crush and the crowd.'
'Well, I do believe they are hideous products of civilisation,' he returned with an air of candour.
'Just so; well, now for my idea. Oh, I must send it to Punch, I really must. My proposition is that people should send their card by their lady's-maid, and also the toilette intended for that afternoon, to be inspected by the hostess. Can you not imagine the scene? First comes the announcement by the butler: "Lady Fitzmaurice's clothes." Enter smiling lady's-maid, bearing a wondrously braided skirt with plush mantle and bonnet with pheasant's wing. Hostess bows, smiles, and inspects garments through her eyeglasses. "Charming! everything Lady Fitzmaurice wears is in such perfect taste. My dear Cecilia, that bonnet would just suit me—make a note of it, please. My compliments to her ladyship." Now then for Mrs. Grenville, and so on. Crowds still, you see, but no hand-shaking, no confusion of voices; and then, the wonderful economy: no tea and coffee, no ices, no professional artistes, only a little refreshment perhaps in the servants' hall.'
'Audrey, how can you talk such nonsense?' returned her sister severely.
But Captain Burnett gave his low laugh of amusement. He revelled in the girl's odd speeches; he thought Audrey's nonsense worth more than all Geraldine's sense, he even enjoyed with a man's insouciance her daring disregard of conventionality.
How difficult it is for a person thoroughly to know him or her self, unless he or she be morbidly addicted to incessant self-examination! Audrey thought that it was mere neighbourliness that induced her to call on the Blakes that afternoon; she had no idea that a strong curiosity made her wish to interview the new-comers.
Rutherford was far too confined an area for a liberal mind like Audrey's. Her large and intense nature demanded fuller scope for its energies. With the exception of boys—who certainly preponderated in Rutherford—there were far too few human beings to satisfy Audrey. Every fresh face was therefore hailed by her with joy, and though perhaps she hardly went to Dr. Johnson's length when he complained that he considered that day lost on which he had not made a new acquaintance, still, her social instincts were not sufficiently nourished. The few people were busy people; they had a tiresome habit, too, of forming cliques, and in many ways they disappointed her. With her richer neighbours, especially among the Hill houses, Geraldine was the reigning favourite; Mrs. Charrington was devoted to her. Only little Mrs. Stanfield, of Rosendale, thought there was no one in the world like dear Audrey Ross.
Audrey would not have mentioned her little scheme to her mother for worlds. Her mother was not a safe agent. She had long ago made Geraldine her conscience-keeper, but she had no objection to tell her father when she met him walking down the hill with his hands behind him, and evidently revolving his next Sunday's sermon.
Dr. Ross was rather a fine-looking man. He had grown gray early, and his near-sight obliged him to wear spectacles; but his keen, clever face, and the benevolent and kindly air that distinguished him, always attracted people to him. At times he was a little absent and whimsical; and those who knew them both well declared that Audrey had got all her original ideas and unconventional ways from the Doctor.
'Father, I am going to call on the Blakes,' she observed, as he was about to pass her as he would a stranger.
'Dear me, Audrey, how you startled me! I was deep in original sin, I believe. The Blakes? Oh, I told young Blake to come up to dinner to-night; I want Michael to see him. Very well. Give my respects to Mrs. Blake; and if there be any service we can render her, be sure you offer it;' and Dr. Ross walked on, quite unconscious that his daughter had retraced her steps, and was following him towards the town. 'For I won't disturb him with my chatter,' she thought, 'and I may as well go to Gage to-morrow; she is sure to keep me, and then it would be rather awkward if she should take it into her head to talk about the Blakes. She might want to go with me, or perhaps, which is more likely, she would make a fuss about my going so soon. If you want to do a thing, do it quickly, and without telling anyone, is my motto. Father is no one. If I were going to run away from home, or do anything equally ridiculous, I should be sure to tell father first; he would only recommend me to go first class, and be sure to take a cab at the other end, bless him!'
Dr. Ross walked on in a leisurely, thoughtful fashion, not too abstracted, however, to wave his hand slightly as knots of boys saluted him in passing. Audrey had a nod and smile for them all. At the Hill houses and at the school-house Geraldine might be the acknowledged favourite; but every boy in the upper and the lower school was Audrey's sworn adherent. She was their liege lady, for whom they were proud to do service; and more than one of the prefects cherished a tremulous passion for the Doctor's daughter together with his budding