"Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein."
_Richard III_.
The days went on, and things at Hathercourt Rectory looked much the same
as usual. But not many had passed before, to Mary's watching eyes, it
seemed that Lilias was flagging. She had kept up, as she said she
would, she had seemed as cheerful, _almost_, as usual, she had not
overacted her part either, there had been no excitement or affectation
about her in any way. But, all the more, it had been hard work, very
hard work, and Mary's heart ached when she saw the first signs of
physical prostration beginning to show themselves.
"She looks so pale and so thin, and her eyes haven't the least of their
old sparkle," said Mary to herself, "if it goes on, she will get really
ill, I know."
And, in truth, Lilias was beginning herself to lose faith in her own
strength and self-control. She had been buoyed up by a hope she had not
liked to allude to to Mary. A hope which, long deferred, has made many
a heart sick besides Lilias Western's--the hope of a letter!
There was no reason, which she knew of, why Arthur should not write to
her.
"He might say in a letter what, perhaps, he would have shrunk from
saying directly," she thought, forgetting that the same strong influence
which had sent Arthur away would have foreseen and guarded against his
writing to her. And as day by day came and went, and every morning the
post-bag was opened without her hopes being fulfilled, Lilias's heart
grew very weary.
"If I had known him anywhere but _here_," she said to Mary one day, "I
don't think it would have been quite so hard. But here, at home, he
seemed to have grown already so associated with everything. And, Mary,"
she went on, with a sort of little sob, "it wasn't all only about myself
I was thinking. He is rich, you know; and I couldn't help fancying
sometimes it might be a good thing for us all--for you and the younger
girls, and for mother. _He_ even encouraged this, for he more than once
made little allusions to the sort of things he would like to do if he
dared. One day, I remember, when mother was tired, he said to me `how
he would like to choose a pony-carriage for her that she could get about
in, and have more variety without fatigue.' We were walking up and down
the terrace--it was late in the afternoon, and there was red in the sky
that shone through the branches of the group of old oaks at the end--do
you remember that afternoon, Mary? The sky looks something the same
to-day, but not so bright--it was that that reminded me of it."
"No," said Mary, "I don't remember that particular afternoon. But I do
know that he was always kind and considerate, especially to mother, and
I cannot believe that it was not sincere."
She gave a little sigh as she spoke; they were standing together at the
window, and as Lilias leaned against the panes, gazing out, her attitude
so languid and hopeless, the sharpened lines of her profile, all struck
Mary with a chill misgiving.
"Lilias," she said, suddenly, "you must go away from home for a while.
What you have said just now about the associations here strengthens my
feeling about it. You must have some change."
"I don't think it is possible, and I would much, very much rather stay
at home," said Lilias.
And till she had some definite scheme to propose, Mary thought it no use
to contradict her.
But morning, noon, and night she was thinking of Lilias, always of
Lilias and her troubles, and revolving in her head over and over again
every possible and impossible means of making her happy again.
Two mornings after the conversation in the window the postboy brought a
note for Lilias from Mrs Greville. It was at breakfast-time that it
came. They were all together at the table.
"A letter for you, Lilias," said her father, as he handed it to her.
Now letters for the Western girls were a rarity. They had few relations
and almost fewer friends, for they had never been at school, and seldom
left home. So when Mr Western's apparently most commonplace
announcement was made, six pair of eyes turned with interest, not to say
curiosity, in Lilias's direction, and even her mother and Mary glanced
towards her with involuntary anxiety.
"A letter for Lily," cried Josey, darting up from her seat. "Do let's
see it. Who's it from?"
"_Josephine_!" exclaimed Mary, severely, "how _can_ you be so
unladylike? Mother, do speak to her," and the little bustle of reproof
of Josey that ensued effectually diverted the general attention.
Mary's little ruse had succeeded, and her mother understood it. But for
this, even little Francie could hardly have failed to notice the deathly
paleness which, at her father's words, overspread poor Lilias's face.
For an instant only; one glance at the envelope, and the intensity
passed out of her eyes.
"A note from Mrs Greville," she said, carelessly, as soon as she felt
able to control the trembling in her voice. "She wants Mary and me to
go to stay there for two nights--she expects one or two young friends
from somewhere or other, and wants us to help to entertain them, I
suppose."
"It is very kind of her to think of the variety for you, _I_ think,"
said Mr Western. "Why should you be so ungracious about it, Lilias?"
The girl's face flushed painfully.
"I don't mean to be ungracious, father dear," she said, gently, "but I
don't care about going."
Mr Western was beginning to look, mystified, when Mary's voice diverted
his attention.
"_I_ shall go," she said, abruptly, "that is to say," she added,
colouring a little in her turn, "I should like to go, if I can."
"Dear me," said her father, "how the tables are turned! It used to be
always Lilias who was eager to go, and Mary to stay at home."
"But there is no objection to Mary's going, if she likes," interposed
Mrs Western, hastily.
"Objection, of course not. There is no objection to their both going
that I can see," said Mr Western.
"Well, we'll talk about it afterwards," said Mrs Western. "Girls, you
had better go to the school-room. We are later than usual this
morning."
They all rose, and Lilias was thankful to get away; but as Mary and she
left the room together, they overheard a remark of their father to the
effect that Lilias was not looking well, had not her mother observed it?
"I dare say she would be the better for a thorough change," replied Mrs
Western. "It is so long since she left home."
"Oh, yes!" said her father, with a sigh. "They would _all_ enjoy a
change, and no one needs it more than yourself, Margaret. It makes me
very anxious when I think about these girls sometimes."
"But, at the worst, they are far better off in every other way than I
was at their age," said Mrs Western, "and see how happy I have been."
"Ideas of happiness differ so," said her husband. "I fear a quiet life
in a country parsonage on limited means would hardly satisfy Lilias. As
to Mary, I somehow feel less anxiety. She takes things so placidly."
"Not always," said Mrs Western, under her breath; but she was glad that
her husband did not catch the words, and that little Brooke's running in
with some inquiry about his lessons interrupted the conversation--for it
was trenching on dangerous ground.
"I am afraid papa thinks there is something vexing me," said Lilias,
when Mary and she were alone together for a little.
"You have yourself to blame for it," said Mary, with some asperity; "why
did you speak so indifferently of Mrs Greville's invitation? Usually
you would have been very pleased to go."
"Oh, Mary, don't scold me," said Lilias, pathetically. "I _couldn't_ go
to Uxley--you forget how near Romary it is--I should be sure to hear
gossip about him--perhaps that he was going to be married, or some
falsehood of the kind. I could not bear it. I almost wondered at your
saying you would like to go."
"It will only be for a couple of days," said Mary.
"But you are not intending to make any plan with Mrs Greville for my
leaving home, I hope, Mary?" said Lilias, anxiously. "It may be better
for me to go away after a while, but not yet. And if you came upon the
subject with Mrs Greville _in the very least_, she would suspect
something. Promise me you will not do anything without telling me."
"Of course not," said Mary. "I would not dream of doing such a thing
without telling you."
But her conscience smote her slightly as she spoke. Why?
A design was slowly but steadily taking shape in her mind, and Mrs
Greville's note this morning had strangely forwarded and confirmed it.
Practically speaking, indeed, it had done more than confirm it--it had
rendered feasible what had before floated in Mary's brain as an act of
devotion scarcely more possible of achievement than poor Prascovia's
journey across Siberia. And though Mary was sensible and reasonable,
there lay below this quiet surface stormy possibilities and an
impressionability little suspected by those who knew her best. Her
mind, too, from dwelling of late so incessantly on her sister's affairs,
had grown morbidly imaginative on the point, though to this she herself
was hardly alive.
"I am not superstitious or fanciful--I know I am not. I never have
been," she argued, "yet it does seem as if this invitation to Uxley had
come on purpose. If I _were_ superstitious I should think it a `sign.'"
And who is not superstitious?--only for no other human weakness have we
so many names, so many or such skilfully contrived disguises!
Two days later, "the day after to-morrow," found Mary on her way to
Uxley Vicarage. Mrs Greville had sent her pony-carriage to fetch her.
The old man who drove it was very deaf and hopelessly irresponsive,
therefore, to the young lady's kindly-meant civilities in the shape of
inquiries about the road and commendation of the fat pony, so before
long she felt herself free to lapse into perfect silence, and as they
jogged along the pretty country lanes--pretty to-day, though only
February, for the sky was clear and the air mild with a faint odour of
coming spring about it--Mary had plenty of time to think over her plan
of action.
But thinking it over, after all, was not much good, till she knew more
of her ground.
"I must to some extent be guided by circumstances," she said to herself,
but with a strong sense of confidence in her own ability to prevent
circumstances being too much for her. She had never before felt so
certain of herself as now, when about, for the first time in her life,
to act entirely on her own responsibility, and the sensation brought
with it a curious excitement and invigoration. She had not felt so
hopeful or light-hearted since the day of the Brocklehurst bail, and she
was thankful to feel so, and to be told by Mrs Greville, when she
jumped out of the pony-carriage and was met by her hospitable hostess at
the gate, that she had never seen her looking so well in her life.
"There is no fear of her suspecting anything about Lilias," thought
Mary, with relief, "if she thinks me in such good spirits."
"And how are you all at home, my dear?" said Mrs Greville, as she led
Mary into her comfortable drawing-room, and bade her "toast" herself a
little before unfastening her wraps. "Your poor dear mother and all?"
"They are all very well, thank you," Mary replied. "Mamma is quite
well, and so pleased at Basil's getting on so well--we have such good
news of him."
She always felt inclined to make the _very_ best of the family chronicle
in answer to Mrs Greville's inquiries, for though unmistakably prompted
by the purest kindness her want of tact often invested them with a
slight tone of patronage which Lilias herself could scarcely have
resented more keenly than her less impulsive sister. The "poor dear
mother," especially grated on Mary's ears. "Mamma," so pretty and
young-looking, was no fit object for the "poor dears" of any one but
themselves, thought Mrs Western's tall sons and daughters.
But of course it would have been no less ungrateful than senseless to
have taken amiss Mrs Greville's well-meant interest and sympathy, even
when they directed themselves to more delicate ground.
"And what about Lilias, Mary dear?" she inquired next. "I had been
longing to hear all about it, and _wishing_ so I had authority to
contradict the absurd rumours that I have heard about Captain Beverley.
I was dreadfully disappointed at Lilias's not coming, but consoled
myself by thinking you would tell me all about it."
"But what are the rumours, and what have they to do with Lilias?" asked
Mary.
"That's just what I want to know," replied Mrs Greville. "Captain
Beverley has left Romary suddenly--of course you know that--and some
people say he has made a vow never to return there because Miss Cheviott
refused him the night of the Brocklehurst ball. That story _I_ don't
believe, of course. Others say it was not Miss Cheviott, but another
young lady, whose name no one about here seems to know, but whom he was
seen to dance with tremendously that night, who refused him."
Mrs Greville stopped and looked curiously at Mary, who smiled quietly,
but said nothing, and felt increasingly thankful that Lilias had not
accompanied her to Uxley.
"And there are stranger stories than these even," pursued Mrs Greville.
"You will think me a terrible gossip, Mary, but in a general way I
really don't listen to idle talk, only I felt so interested in Captain
Beverley after what I saw, and I can't believe any harm of him."
"Who can have said any harm of him?" inquired Mary. "I should have
thought him quite a general favourite; he is so bright, and kindly, and
unaffected."
"Yes, I thought him very nice," said Mrs Greville. "But there are
dreadful stories about, as to the reason of his leaving Romary so
suddenly. One is that he has been gambling so furiously that he is
embarrassed past redemption, and that he will only come into his
property for it to be sold; and another is that Mr Cheviott found out
that he had secretly made some low marriage, and turned him out of the
house on that account, it having been always intended that he should
marry Miss Cheviott." Mary was standing by the fire looking down on it
as Mrs Greville spoke--the reflection of its ruddy glow hid the intense
paleness which came over her face, and explained, too, the burning flush
which almost instantly succeeded it. She felt obliged to speak, for
silence might have seemed suspicious.
"What a shame of people to say such things!" she exclaimed, looking up
indignantly. "No, I certainly don't believe them, but I am glad to know
about it all, for it shows what disagreeable gossip there might have
been about Lilias had her name been mixed up with it."
"Yes, indeed, but my dear child, you are scorching your face to
cinders--you should not play such pranks with your complexion, though
that brawny pink skin of yours is a very good kind to wear, and quite as
pretty in my opinion, as Lilias's lilies and roses--but what was I
saying? Oh, yes, by-the-bye, I do wish you would tell me--I shall be as
discreet as possible--_is_ Lilias engaged to him?"
Mary hesitated a moment, then she said, gently:
"Dear Mrs Greville, I wish you wouldn't ask me, for I _can't_ tell
you."
"Ah, well, never mind," said her hostess, good-naturedly. "You'll tell
me whenever you can, no doubt, and I hope it will all come right in the
end, however it stands at present."
"Thank you," said Mary, with sincerity.
Then they went on to talk of other things. Mrs Greville described to
Mary the "young people" who were staying with her, two girls and their
brother, cousins of Mr Greville's first wife, and counselled her to
make herself as pretty and charming as possible, to fascinate young
Morpeth, who would be a conquest by no means to be despised.
"He is nothing at present," she said; "he has a thousand a year, and his
sisters the same between them. They are orphans and have had no settled
home since their mother's death. Vance Morpeth is talking of going into
the cavalry for a few years, but his elder sister is against it, and he
will be too old if he isn't quick about it. They have been abroad all
the winter. Now remember, Mary, you are to do your best to captivate
him, unless, indeed," she went on, as Mary was turning to her with some
smiling rejoinder--"unless _you_ have some little secret of your own
too, with that haughty-looking Mr Cheviott for its hero."
The smile died out of Mary's face.
"Don't joke about that man, _please_, Mrs Greville," she said,
beseechingly. "You do not know how I dislike him. I have never
regretted anything more in my whole life than dancing with him that
night."
And just then the time-piece striking five, she was glad to make the
excuse that she would be late for dinner unless she hurried up-stairs to
get her things unpacked, for fashionable hours had not yet penetrated to
Uxley.
"Yes, go, my dear," said Mrs Greville. "Fancy, we have been a whole
hour talking over the fire. I hear the Morpeths coming in--they must
have been a very long walk, and it's quite dark outside. I cannot
understand why people can't go walks in the morning instead of putting
off till late in the afternoon, and then catching colds and all sorts of
disagreeables. Run off, Mary. I dare say you would rather not see them
till you are dressed."
Which Mary, who cared very little for seeing "them" at all, rightly
interpreted as meaning, "I don't want Mr Morpeth to see you till you
are nicely dressed, and looking to the best advantage."
Her powers of looking her best depended much more on herself than on her
clothes, for her choice of attire was limited enough. But the
suppressed excitement under which she was labouring had given unusual
brilliance to Mary's at all times beautiful brown eyes, and a certain
vivacity to her manner, in general somewhat too staid and sober for her
age. So she looked more than "pretty" this evening, though her dress
was nothing but a many-times-washed white muslin, brightened up here and
there by a little rose-coloured ribbon.
"I thought you told me that it was not the _pretty_ Miss Western that
you expected?" said Mr Morpeth to Mrs Greville in a low voice, after
the introductions had been accomplished.
Mrs Greville glanced up to the young man as she answered. There was a
puzzled expression in his innocent-looking eyes; she saw that he was
quite in earnest, and, indeed, she felt sure he was too little, of a man
of the world to have intended his inquiry for a compliment.
"Does that mean that you think this one pretty?" she asked.
"Of course it does. I think she's awfully pretty, don't you?" he said,
frankly.
Mrs Greville felt well pleased, but the announcement of dinner
interrupted any more talk between them. Mr Morpeth had to take Mrs
Greville, but _she_ took care that Mary should sit at his other side.
"How would you define `awfully pretty,' Mary?" she said, mischievously,
when they were all seated at table, and the grace had been said, and
nobody seemed to have anything particular to talk about.
"Awfully pretty," repeated Mary. "Awfully pretty what?"
"An `awfully pretty' girl was the `what' in question," said Mr Morpeth,
shielding himself by taking the bull by the horns, with more alertness
than Mrs Greville had given him credit for.
Mary smiled.
"I could easily define, or point out to you rather, what, if I were a
man, _I_ should call an awfully pretty girl in this very neighbourhood,"
she said, turning to Mrs Greville.
"I know whom you mean," replied her hostess. "Miss Cheviott, is it not?
Yes, she is _exceedingly_ pretty. You have not seen her, Frances," she
went on to the eldest Miss Morpeth. "I wish you could."
"Shall we not see her at church on Sunday?" said Miss Morpeth. "Are not
the Cheviotts the principal people here, now?"
"Yes," said Mrs Greville, "but they are a good deal away from home."
Here Mary's heart almost stopped beating--this was what she had been
longing yet dreaded to inquire about--what would become of all her plans
should Mr Cheviott be away? But it was not so. "They are a good deal
away from home," Mrs Greville went on, "and there is another church
nearer Romary than ours, where they go in the morning. But they _very_
often--indeed, almost always the last few weeks, come to Uxley in the
afternoon--Mr Cheviott likes Mr Greville's preaching better than the
old man's at Romary Moor."
"That's not much of a compliment, my dear," said Mr Greville from the
end of the table, "considering that poor old Wells is so asthmatic that
you can hardly catch a word he says now."
A little laugh went round, and under cover of it Mary managed to say
gently to Mr Greville:
"Then Mr Cheviott is at Romary now?"
"Oh, yes; saw him this morning riding past," was the reply.
Mary gave a little sigh of relief, yet her heart beat faster for the
rest of the evening.
"I wonder if I must do it to-morrow," she said to herself, "or not till
the day after. I have only the two days to count upon, and supposing he
is out and I have to go again! I must try for to-morrow, I think."
"Romary is just two miles from here, is it not?" she said, in a
commonplace tone.
"Not so much," replied Mr Greville. "Have you never seen it? It is
quite a show place."
"I was there once--some years ago," said Mary.
"It is very much improved of late. If the family had been away we might
easily have driven you over to see it," said Mr Greville,
good-naturedly. "However, some other time, perhaps, when your sister is
here too. You must come over oftener this summer," he added, utterly
forgetting, if ever he had quite taken in, all his wife's confidences
about the Western girls' wonderful successes at the Brocklehurst ball,
and her more recent misgiving that something had "come between" Lilias
and "that handsome Captain Beverley."
"Thank you," said Mary; and after this no more was said about Romary or
the Cheviotts.