Joan.--"... she with the green kirtle too. Ah, but they are bravely
clad!"
Isabel.--"And see, sister, he in the crimson doublet. Save me, but
they are a pretty pair!"
Dame Winnifrith.--"Fie on ye, damsels! Call ye that a saying of your
prayers? Fie on ye!"
Old Play.
She had stopped just in front of him. This time her voice could not
fail to attract his attention, and with a slight start--for his thoughts
had been busied with matters far away from the present--he turned a
little and looked at her. This was what he saw: a girl with a face
still slightly tanned by last summer's sun--or was the brown tinge,
growing rosier on the cheeks, her normal complexion? afterwards he
thought of it, and could not decide--very bright, _very_ wavy
chestnut-coloured hair, ruffled a little about the temples, and growing
low on the forehead; pleasant, hearty eyes, looking up at him with
something of embarrassment, but more of amusement, eyes of no particular
colour, but good, nice eyes all the same--a girl whom it is difficult to
describe, but whose face, nevertheless, once learned, could not easily
be forgotten. There was something about it which softened the
seriousness of the man looking at her; his own face relaxed, and when he
spoke it was with a smile, which, beginning in the grave, dark eyes
before it journeyed down to the mouth, so transformed the whole face
that Mary mentally improved upon her former dictum; there was certainly
something not "rather" only, but "very nice" about the elder of the
strangers "when he smiled." Mary had yet to learn the rarity of these
pleasant gleams of sunshine.
"I beg your pardon," he said--for notwithstanding that Mary's alpaca was
several degrees shabbier than her sister's and that her little white
bonnet was of the plainest "home-make," he felt not an instant's doubt
as to her being that which even in the narrowest conventional sense is
termed "a lady"--"I am so sorry. I had no idea you were speaking to me.
I shall tell my aunt and sister what you say; it is very kind of your--
I beg your pardon again. I did not quite catch what you said."
He had been on the point of turning to speak to his companions, but
stopped for a moment, looking at Mary inquiringly as he did so.
"My message was from my mother, Mrs Western--I should have explained,"
Mary replied. "I am--my father is the clergyman; we live at the Rectory
opposite."
She bent her head in the direction of her home. The stranger's brow
cleared.
"Of course," he said, "I understand. Thank you very much.--Alys," he
called, hastening a step or two in the direction of the two
ladies--"Alys, tell your aunt that this young lady has come to ask if
you would like to wait at the Rectory till the carriage comes."
The girl caught the sound of her own name in a moment; she had quick
ears.
"How kind of you--how very kind of you!" she exclaimed, running up to
where Mary still stood. "Laurence, please ask aunt to say yes. I
_would_ like to go across to the Rectory." She was close beside the
gentleman now. "Laurence," she continued, giving him a little pull to
make him listen to what she went on to say in a whisper, "I want to see
those girls, the clergyman's daughters; I noticed them coming out of
church. One is _so_ pretty. Ah, yes, there she is!" as she descried
Lilias standing a little way off. "Is that your sister?" she went on,
turning again to Mary. "Do you think she would mind if I went to speak
to her? I do so want to see her quite close--she is so very, very
pretty."
The gentleman looked annoyed.
"Alys," he was beginning, "you really should--" But at this juncture up
came the fair-haired man and the elderly lady, and from another
direction Lilias, her curiosity overpowering her misgivings, moved
slowly towards the group. Mary's position was growing a little
uncomfortable; she was glad to take refuge by her sister's side. Again
Mrs Western's message of hospitality was repeated, this time to the
elderly lady, whose name Mary thus discovered to be Winstanley; she,
too, was profuse in her expression of thanks.
"So very kind of you," she said to Lilias, who, feeling extremely
conscious of her grey alpaca, replied by a bow of extra dignity.
"I really do not know what we had best do," continued Miss Winstanley;
"the carriage should have been back by this time."
"If you and Alys like to wait at the Rectory, Cheviott and I can walk on
to see if it is coming," said the fair-haired young man, speaking for
the first time.
At the sound of his voice Lilias looked up, and an expression of
surprise crossed her face.
"Captain Beverley!" she exclaimed, impulsively, instantly, however,
appearing to regret the avowal of recognition, for she grew scarlet and
glanced at Mary in real distress. "I am sure he will not know me
again," she was thinking. "What a horrid, stupid thing of me to have
done!--a man I only met once in my life, and that at a ball nearly two
years ago! What _will_ he think of me?"
Mary felt perplexed. She could not understand her sister's
embarrassment, and was therefore unable to help her. But the
awkwardness lasted for a moment only. With a flush of evident
gratification, Captain Beverley stepped forward.
"Miss West!" he said, eagerly. "I was almost sure it was you, but I
scarcely hoped you would remember me. I had no idea you lived at
Hathercourt. Is it your home?"
"Yes," replied Lilias, though still with a shade of constraint in her
manner, "my father--our father," turning to Mary with a pretty sisterly
air, "Mr Western, is the rector."
"Dear me, how curious I did not know it," said Captain Beverley.
"Cheviott," he continued, turning to his companion, "you remember our
meeting Miss West--Western, I mean--at the ball at Brocklehurst the year
before last?"
Mr Cheviott bowed, somewhat stiffly, it seemed to Mary.
"I fear you are mistaken, Arthur," he said, "I do not think I ever had
the honour of being introduced to Miss Western."
"Arthur" looked annoyed, and as if he hardly knew what to do; Lilias's
face flushed again, and Miss Winstanley began talking to Mr Cheviott in
a hurried, fussy manner, with so palpably evident an anxiety to set
every one at ease that she only succeeded in making them all more
uncomfortable. Mary, animated by a sudden consciousness of antagonism
to Mr Cheviott, came quietly to the rescue.
"I think, Lilias," she said to her sister, speaking distinctly, so that
they all heard her, "I think mamma will be wondering why we are so long.
If these ladies, Miss Winstanley and Miss--"
"Cheviott," put in Captain Beverley, hastily.
"Miss Cheviott, do not think it worth while to rest at the Rectory,
perhaps we had better not interrupt them any longer. Of course," she
went on, turning to Miss Winstanley with a smile that showed she meant
what she said, "if your carriage does not come soon, and we can do
anything to help you, we shall be very glad. One of the boys can go to
the village to see about it, if you like; we have no carriage, otherwise
I am sure--"
"Thank you, thank you," interrupted Miss Winstanley, nervously glancing
at her silent nephew, and, without his permission, not daring to commit
herself to anything but generalities, "you are, really, so very kind,
but I think the carriage is sure to come soon. Don't you think so,
Laurence?"
"It's here now," exclaimed Alys Cheviott, in a disappointed tone; "and
Laurence," she added, in a lower tone, but not low enough to prevent
Mary's hearing the words, "you are very, _very_ cross."
Mary was quite inclined to agree with her, but, looking up at the
moment, she caught a smile on Mr Cheviott's face as he made some little
answer to his sister, a smile which so altered his expression that she
felt puzzled. "I don't like him," she said to herself, "he is haughty
and disagreeable, but still I fancy he could be nice if he liked."
Another minute or two and the strangers were driven away--with smiles
and thanks from pretty Alys and her aunt, and bows of equal deference,
but differing in cordiality, from the two gentlemen. Lilias and Mary
walked slowly homewards across the grass, Lilias unusually silent.
"Well, Lilias," said the younger sister, after waiting a little to see
if Lilias was not going to speak, "well, we have had quite an adventure
for once."
"Yes," said Lilias, absently, "quite an adventure. But, oh, Mary," she
went on, with a sudden change of voice, "don't speak of it; I am _so_
disgusted with myself."
"What for?" said Mary. "I didn't understand. Was it about recognising
that gentleman, Captain Beverley, you called him, I think? And some one
called him Arthur--how curious!" she added to herself.
"Yes," said Lilias, "it is about that. I met him two years ago, and
danced with him twice, I think. I thought he was very nice-looking and
danced well, but, _of course_, that was all I thought about him. I
think I must have told you about him at the time; it was the year you
did not go to the ball--Brooke was ill, don't you remember, with the
measles, and you were nursing him because you had had it--but I had
nearly forgotten him, and then seeing him so unexpectedly again his name
came into my head and I said it! It must have looked as if I had never
seen a gentleman before to have remembered him so distinctly--oh, I am
so ashamed of myself!"
"I don't think you need to be. I think it was perfectly natural," said
Mary.
"Oh, yes, in one way, I know it was. I am not really ashamed of
_myself_, I did nothing wrong. It is what those people must have
thought of me," said Lilias.
"I wish you would not care what people think of you," answered Mary.
"What does it matter? We shall probably never see any of them again.
How pretty the girl was! By-the-bye, Captain Beverley's name is Arthur,
he may be a descendant of `Mawde' in the tablet, Lilias. Her name was
Beverley, and her father's `Arthur.' Very likely one of her sons would
be called after her father. I wonder if that has anything to do with
their coming here," she went on, growing more interested in Captain
Beverley than she had hitherto appeared.
"How do you mean?" asked Lilias.
"Why, supposing he is a great grandson, a great, great, great grandson--
oh, more than that--there has been time for six or seven generations--
supposing he is a descendant of Mawde's, he may have something to do
with this neighbourhood, and that may have brought him here."
"We should have heard of him before this," objected Lilias. "Papa knows
every land-owner of any consequence in the country by name, and I never
heard of any one called Beverley."
"Here is papa," said Mary, looking back just as Mr Western emerged from
the church, where he had been detained later than usual by some little
official discussion, "let us wait for him and ask him. Papa," she
continued, as her father came up to them, "do you know that one of those
gentlemen who came to church is called Beverley?"
"And Mary is making up quite a romance about his being descended from
the old woman on the tablet," said Lilias, laughing, but yet not without
interest. "There are no people of the name hereabouts now?"
"Beverley," repeated Mr Western, "how do you know that is his name?"
The girls explained.
"No, there are no gentle-people of that name hereabouts nowadays," said
Mr Western. "The old Hathercourt Beverleys have quite died out,
except, by-the-bye,--I was told the other day that old John Birley, who
died at Hathercourt Edge last year, was a lineal descendant of theirs."
"That rough old farmer!" exclaimed Mary, her thoughts flying back to
"Mawde."
"Yes, you remember him? It was Greville, I think, that was telling me
about it. The name `Birley' he said was only a corruption of Beverley.
The old man was very proud of his descent. He left the farm and what
money he had saved to a Mr Beverley, whom he believed to be of the same
family--no one in this neighbourhood. By-the-bye, that may be the young
man you are telling me about, Mary, which was he--the fair or the dark
one?"
"The fair one," replied Mary, "the other was a Mr Cheviott."
"Cheviott--ah, indeed," said Mr Western, with a tone of faintly
discernible satisfaction. "I fancy that must be Mr Cheviott of Romary.
You remember Romary, girls, that beautiful old place near Withenden.
We went there picnicking once, several years ago."
"Yes, I remember," said Lilias, "but I thought the people living there
were called Romary, not Cheviott."
"Well, this Mr Cheviott was a nephew or grandson--all the male Romarys
had died out, I suppose," said Mr Western.
They were at the Rectory door by this time. An unmistakable odour of
roast mutton greeted them as it opened.
"It must be dinner-time," said Lilias, going in. "Dear me," she added
to herself, as she slowly made her way up-stairs to the plainly
furnished but neat little bedroom that she shared with her sister, "dear
me, how nice it would be to be rich, and have nice pretty luncheons
instead of these terrible early dinners, so hot and fussy, and all the
children crowding round the table! Dear me--"
But she took off her bonnet and shawl and went down with a cheerful face
to help in the distribution of the roast mutton, bright and merry and
very fair to look upon, as was her wont.
Mary had waited a moment at the hall door with her father. They stood
looking out at the autumn landscape; there came a sudden gleam of
sunshine through the trees, lighting up the grass with a yellow
radiance, and lingering gently on the many-coloured stones of the
venerable church.
"It's a nice old place, after all, child, is it not?" said Mr Western.
"Yes, indeed, father," replied the girl.
"I, for my part, am very content to think that I shall spend my life
here, and rest peacefully over there in the shadow of my old church,
when the time comes," continued the Rector; "but for you young people I
suppose it's different somehow," and he sighed a little.
"How do you mean, father dear?" said Mary, softly, and she came closer
to him and slid her hand into his arm. "What makes you speak that way
to-day?"
"I don't exactly know, my dear," he replied. "Possibly the sight of
those strangers in church set me considering things. I should like you
girls to have a few more--well, advantages I suppose they are in a
sense, after all--I should like to see Lilias and you as nicely dressed
as that pretty girl this morning, eh, Mary?"
"Dear father?" said Mary, affectionately. "But we're very happy, papa.
I am, at least, and Lilias tries to be anyway. But I dare say it's
harder for her than for me--she _might_ get so very much admiration, and
all that sort of thing, you know."
Mr Western smiled--there _were_ people in the world, he thought to
himself, who would see something to admire in the eager face beside him
too; but he said nothing, and just then the dinner-bell rang, and a
hurry of approaching footsteps told that to some at least of the Rectory
party it was not an unwelcome sound. Mary fled up-stairs, her father
followed the hungry flock into the dining-room. And the Sunday meal
that day was considerably enlivened by discussions about the mysterious
strangers. Who were they?--whence had they come, and wherefore?--and,
"Will they come again next Sunday?" said little Frances, a question
which her eldest sister very summarily answered in the negative.
"They have given you all something to talk about, children, anyway,"
said Mrs Western.
"Yes," said Basil, who, on the strength of having left school three
months ago, considered himself a man of the world, "it's ridiculous how
people get excited about nothing at all, when they live such shut-up
lives. I bet you the whole neighbourhood's full of it. All the old
women will be discussing these unfortunate people over their tea-tables
at this very moment."
"Not over their _tea_, Basil," said little Brooke. "They don't have tea
till four o'clock."