"... Yet he talks well
But what care I for words? yet words do well
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
... But for my part
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him."
_As You Like It_.
There was not, however, much appearance of enmity by the following
morning between these two thus strangely thrown together. All other
feelings were for the time merged in increasing anxiety about poor Alys.
For the night that followed her accident was a sadly restless and
suffering one, and on the doctor's early visit the next day he detected
feverish symptoms which clouded his usually cheery face.
"I can say no more as to what lasting--or, comparatively speaking,
lasting--injuries she may have received," he said, in reply to Mr
Cheviott's anxious inquiries. "What we have to do at present is to try
to get her over the immediate effects of the shock. An attack of fever
would certainly only complicate matters, and I cannot see that she
_need_ have it if only we can keep her perfectly quiet."
"Then there is no chance of moving her at present?" said her brother.
"It would be most unwise--bringing on the very risk I speak of," replied
Mr Brandreth, decidedly. "She is comfortable enough--thanks to Miss
Western."
"Yes," said Mr Cheviott, "thanks to Miss Western--but that is just the
point."
"What?"
"I cannot expect Miss Western to turn into a sick-nurse to oblige
absolute strangers--people who have no sort of claim upon her," replied
Mr Cheviott, haughtily.
Mr Brandreth glanced at him with some curiosity.
("I wonder how much truth there was in those reports about Captain
Beverley and Lilias Western," he said to himself.)
"She must be required at home--her time must be valuable--I cannot offer
to _pay_ her," continued Mr Cheviott, with increasing annoyance in his
tone.
"They _might_ be able to spare her. I believe they do keep a servant,"
said Mr Brandreth, dryly.
"Nonsense, Brandreth, don't joke about it," said Mr Cheviott,
irritably. "You must understand what I mean--the extreme annoyance of
having to put one's self under such an obligation to--to--"
"To people you know exceedingly little about, it is clear," said Mr
Brandreth, severely. "If it be a right and Christian thing to do, Mr
and Mrs Western will spare their daughter to nurse your sister, Mr
Cheviott, just as readily as they spared her to nurse Jessie Bevan when
she broke her leg."
"So Miss Western herself told me," observed Mr Cheviott.
"Ah, then you have come upon the subject?" said the doctor. "And
evidently Miss Mary has rubbed his high mightiness the wrong way," he
added to himself, with an inward chuckle.
"Not exactly. I never thought of having to ask her to stay longer than
to-day. All that was said was when I was thanking, or trying to thank,
her last night for what she had done, and I suppose I made a mess of
it," said Mr Cheviott, with a shrug of his shoulders.
"Well, I must be going," said Mr Brandreth, rising as he spoke.
"And what is to be done?" asked Mr Cheviott, helplessly. "Am _I_ to
ask her to stay?"
"You are certainly not to send her away," replied Mr Brandreth, greatly
enjoying the situation; till, pitying Mr Cheviott's discomfort, he
added, "I'll tell you what I'll do for you. I will tell Mary she is not
to leave Miss Cheviott on any account till I see her again in the
afternoon, and in the mean time I will see Mrs Western and explain it
all to her, and let you know the result. I'll take it all on myself, if
that will comfort you."
"You are very good," said Mr Cheviott, fervently.
"I am sure they will spare her for a fortnight or so--"
"A fortnight!" ejaculated Alys's brother, ruefully.
"_At least_," said Mr Brandreth, pitilessly, "and be thankful if the
fortnight sees you out of the wood. Lilias Western is going away
to-morrow, or the day after, but the mother's quite capable of managing
without her daughters for once, and it will do Miss Alexa, the only fine
lady of the family, no harm to have to exert herself a little more than
usual."
"_Another_ daughter," exclaimed Mr Cheviott. "Good Heavens! how many
are there?"
"Five--and three sons. I've known them all ever since they were born."
"And the eldest one--Miss Western--the one here is the second, is she
not?--the eldest is going away, you say?" inquired Mr Cheviott,
indifferently, imagining he had quite succeeded in concealing the real
curiosity he felt as to this new move in the enemy's camp.
"Yes," said Mr Brandreth, mischievously, "she is certainly going away,
but where to I don't know. She is a beautiful girl--you have seen
her?--I should not be surprised to hear of her marriage any day. There
has been some amount of mystery about her of late--they are rather
reserved people at all times--and I could not help wondering if there
could be anything on the tapis. She seems in very good spirits,
anyway."
"Ah, indeed!" said Mr Cheviott, carelessly. He hated gossip so
devoutly that not even to satisfy the very great misgivings Mr
Brandreth's chatter had aroused, would he encourage it further. "Then
we shall see you again in the afternoon, and till then I am to do
nothing about these arrangements?" he added, and Mr Brandreth felt
himself dismissed.
It was not afternoon, however, but very decidedly evening before the
doctor paid his second visit to the farm. In the mean time he had seen
Mrs Western and explained to her the whole situation, and the result
had been a note to Mary from her mother desiring her not to think of
coming home that afternoon, as she had intended, and promising a visit
from Lilias the following morning, when all should be discussed and
settled. Concerning this note, however, Mary, not feeling it incumbent
on her to do so, had made no communication to Mr Cheviott.
"It will be time enough to tell him what my mother says if he mentions
the subject," she thought. "There is not much fear of his thinking I am
staying here for the pleasure of his society."
And in her absorbing care of poor Alys, and anxious watching for
abatement in the unfavourable symptoms of the morning, she really
forgot, feeling satisfied that she was acting in accordance with her
parents' wishes, any personal association of annoyance in her present
surroundings.
Mr Cheviott marvelled somewhat at her calm taking-for-granted that she
was to stay where she was; but, true to his agreement with Mr
Brandreth, he said nothing. And the long, dull, rainy day passed, with
no conversation between the two watchers but the matter-of-fact remarks
or inquiries called forth by their occupation. By evening Alys's
feverishness and excitability decreased, yielding evidently to Mary's
scrupulous, fulfillment of the directions left with her.
"She has fallen asleep beautifully--she is as calm and comfortable as
possible," the young nurse announced triumphantly to Mr Cheviott, as
she came into the kitchen where he, manlike, sat smoking by way of
soothing his anxiety.
He looked up. Mary stood in the door-way, her eyes sparkling, a bright
smile on her face. Just then there could not have been two opinions
about her beauty. Mr Cheviott rose quickly.
"You are a born sick-nurse, Miss Western," he said, heartily, speaking
to her for almost the first time without a shadow of constraint in his
voice. But, as he uttered the words, the smile faded out of Mary's face
and a white, wearied look crept over it. She half made a step forward,
and then caught at a chair standing close by, as if to save herself from
falling.
"It's nothing," she exclaimed, recovering herself instantaneously.
"Don't think I was going to faint. I _never_ do such a thing. I was
only giddy for an instant. I had been stooping over Al--Miss Cheviott's
bed to see if she was really asleep."
"You have been doing a great deal too much, and I can never thank you
enough--the truth is, I don't know how to thank you without annoying you
by my clumsiness," said Mr Cheviott, remorsefully. But so genuinely
cordial--almost boyish--was his way of speaking that Mary, even had she
felt equal to warfare, could have found no cause of offence in his
words.
"_Don't_ thank me, then," she said with a smile, as she sat down in the
old wooden arm-chair--the most comfortable the kitchen contained--which
Mr Cheviott had drawn round for her to the side of the fire.
"I am too tired to discuss whether your `clumsiness' or my
`touchiness'"--a slight cloud overspread her face at the word, but only
for an instant--"is to blame for my ungraciousness yesterday. If Mr
Brandreth pronounces your sister decidedly better when he comes
to-morrow I shall be well thanked."
Mr Cheviott sat down without speaking, and looked at her. He could do
so for the moment without risk of offence, for Mary's eyes were fixed on
the fire, which danced and crackled up the chimney with fascinating
loveliness. Her face, seen now in profile and without the distracting
light of her brown eyes, whiter too than its wont, struck him newly by
its unusual refinement of lines and features.
"Where have those girls got their looks from?" he said to himself.
"Alys was right that day that I was so cross to her in Paris, poor
child; these Western girls might, as far as looks go, be _anybody_, to
speak like a dressmaker! And where, too, have they learned such perfect
self-possession and power of expressing themselves, brought up in the
wilds of Hathercourt?"
"The fire looks as if it were bewitched," said Mary, glancing up at
last. "When we were children we always believed when it darted and
crackled and _laughed_, as it were--just as it is now--we always thought
fairies were playing at hide and seek in the flames."
"Was it your own idea?" said Mr Cheviott.
"Not mine," said Mary. "_My_ fairies were all out-of-doors ones. Wood
fairies were my favourites. Oh, dear! how dreadful it would be to live
in a town?"
"Alys doesn't think so," observed her brother. "She often complains of
the country being dreadfully dull."
"Ah, yes--in _her_ case I could fancy so," said Mary, complacently. "No
brothers or sisters, and a huge empty house. To enjoy the country
thoroughly, it seems to me one must be one of a good large family."
A faint remembrance flitted across Mr Cheviott's mind of the
half-contemptuous pity with which he had alluded to Mrs Brabazon to the
overflowing numbers in Hathercourt Rectory. _Now_, Mary's allusion
slightly nettled him.
"Alys is not quite alone in the world," he said, stiffly, hardly
realising the fact that Miss Cheviott of Romary could be an object of
commiseration to one of the poor clergyman's numerous daughters. "She
has a brother."
"Oh, yes, of course," allowed Mary. "But so much older than herself,
you see. I can fancy her being dull sometimes."
Mr Cheviott gave a slight sigh. Mary's quick conscience pricked her.
"I should not have said that," she thought. "Poor man, it would be
dreadful for him just now, when she is lying ill, to think he has not
made her life as happy as possible."
She leaned her head on her hand and tried to think of some safe topic of
conversation. These enforced _tete-a-tetes_ she felt to be far the most
trying part of her life at the farm. Mr Cheviott, looking up, observed
her attitude.
"You are _very_ tired, I fear, Miss Western," he said, with the
unconstrained kindliness in his voice which so softened and mellowed its
tones.
Mary roused herself at once.
"Oh, no," she said, "I am really not _very_ tired. I am waiting rather
anxiously for Mr Brandreth. I thought he would have been here before
this. I must get something to do," she went on, looking round. "I wish
I had asked Lilias to send a few books."
"Please don't get anything to do," said Mr Cheviott, eagerly. "You
don't know what a satisfaction it is to me to see you resting, and how
glad I should be to do anything for you. Would you like--might I," he
went on, with a sort of timidity which made Mary smile inwardly at the
idea of the unapproachable Mr Cheviott feeling any want of assurance in
addressing _her_! "might I read aloud to you? I sent home for some
books to-day. Alys is rather fond of my reading aloud," he added, with
a smile.
"I should like it very much indeed, thank you," said Mary. "And if--
just _supposing_ the sound of your voice sent me sleep, you would not be
very much offended, would you?"
Mr Cheviott laughed--he was already looking over some magazines which
Mary had not before observed on the dresser.
"What will you have?" he said. "Poetry, science, fiction? Stay, here
is a good review of H.'s last novel that I wanted to see. The German
author, you know. Have you read it?"
He made the inquiry rather gingerly, being not without remembrance of
the snub he had received _a propos_ of the Misses Western's knowledge of
French.
"No," said Mary, "I have not. But I have heard a good deal about it,
and should like to hear more, so please read that review."
It was a well written notice, and the subject of it one worthy of such
writing. Mr Cheviott grew interested, and so did Mary. He read well,
and she listened well; till some remark of the writer's drawing forth
from Mr Cheviott an expression of disagreement, Mary took up the
argument, and they were both in the midst of an amicably eager
discussion when the door opened and Mr Brandreth appeared on the
threshold.
An amused smile stole over his face.
"Good news awaits me, I see," he said, with some pomposity. "Miss
Cheviott must be better, or her faithful nurse would not be chattering
so merrily--eh, Miss Western?"
Mary looked up with a glimmer of fun in her eyes. "Yes," she said, "she
_is_ better. That is to say, she is fast asleep, and has been for two
hours. She is sleeping as quietly as a baby, quite differently from
last night, and, as far as I could judge before she fell asleep, the
feverish symptoms had subsided wonderfully."
Mr Brandreth rubbed his hands and came nearer the fire, where Mr
Cheviott, having risen from his chair, was standing in an attitude of
some slight constraint.
"I expected you earlier," he said, in a low voice _not_ intended for
Mary's quick ears, which, as might naturally be expected, it reached
with marvellous celerity.
"Ah, yes--sorry to have disappointed you," said Mr Brandreth, still
rubbing his hands, but by this time with less energy and more enjoyment,
as they gradually thawed in front of the blazing fire. "I could not
help it, however, and my mind felt more at ease about things here after
I had seen Mrs Western. But I am sorry to have kept you here waiting
for me all day, Mr Cheviott. It must be very tiresome for you."
"I did not intend returning to Romary to-day," said Mr Cheviott,
speaking now in his ordinary voice. "Of course it would have been
impossible."
"I don't know that," replied Mr Brandreth. "There is not much that you
can do for your sister, and it must be dreadfully wearisome work for you
hanging about here all day, particularly in the evenings," he added, in
a tone of special commiseration, "when you cannot even get out for a
stroll."
Mary glanced up quickly.
"How I wish he would go back to Romary?" she had been thinking to
herself while Mr Brandreth was speaking. "I would not mind staying
here at all, in that case."
But something indefinable in Mr Brandreth's voice just now roused her
suspicions. Was he laughing at Mr Cheviott? If so, he was, in a
sense, laughing at her too. Mary began to feel rather indignant.
Lilias was right; there was a touch of coarseness about Mr Brandreth
notwithstanding his real goodness and kindness, which hitherto had
always prevailed with Mary to take his friendly bantering in good part.
Something, she knew not what, she was on the verge of replying, when Mr
Cheviott anticipated her.
"The _evenings_?" he said, simply, yet with a sort of dignity not lost
upon either of his hearers--"this evening, at least, has been anything
but wearisome, as Miss Western has kindly allowed me to read to her, and
I fortunately lighted upon an article which interested us both. I may
ride over to Romary to-morrow to see if I am wanted for anything; but I
could not feel content to leave this, with Alys still in so critical a
state. I have not been _very_ troublesome, I hope, have I, Miss
Western?" he added, turning to Mary with a smile. There was not a shade
of constraint in his manner now, yet no "Clara Vere de Vere" could have
desired to be addressed with more absolute deference and respect.
For the first time Mary experienced a sensation of real friendliness
towards her host for the time being. Hitherto her most cordial feeling
with regard to him had been a sort of pity--a slightly pleasurable
consciousness of meriting his gratitude; and in such one-sided
sentiments, no root of actual _friendliness_--of which the "give and
take" element is the very essence--could exist. Now, for the first
time, a flash of something like gratitude to him, of quick appreciation
of his instinctive chivalry, lent a softness to her voice and a light to
her eyes which Mr Cheviott, without taking credit to himself for the
change, was agreeably conscious of, as she replied, gravely:
"You have been very considerate indeed, Mr Cheviott. And it seems to
me that till your sister is decidedly better, it would not be well for
you to go away."
"Thank you," said Mr Cheviott, simply, while in his own mind Mr
Brandreth whistled. How the wind lay was beginning to puzzle him.
"You saw mamma?" said Mary, interrogatively, turning to Mr Brandreth.
"I had a note from her this afternoon, telling me not to go home to-day,
and that you would see me again."
Mr Cheviott heard her with some surprise. This, then, supplied the key
of her quietly remaining at the farm all day with no talk of quitting
her post. What a more and more interestingly unusual study this girl's
character was becoming to him! So brave, yet so shrinkingly sensitive,
so wise, yet so unsophisticated, so self-reliant and coolly determined,
yet yielding in an instant to the slightest expression of parental
authority!
"Yes," said Mr Brandreth, oracularly, "I saw your mamma, Miss Mary, and
explained the whole to her. Her views of the situation, as I felt sure
would be the case, entirely coincide with mine. She will not hear of
your leaving Miss Cheviott at any risk to her, for I fully explained
that your remaining might do what we doctors seldom are called in time
enough for--it may _save_ your patient an illness instead of curing her
of one. The greatest triumph of the two, in my opinion! Furthermore,
your mother desires you not to worry about things at home. Miss Alexa
and Master Josephine," (reverting to a very threadbare joke on poor
Josey's hobbledehoyism) "are developing undreamed-of capabilities--Josey
was very nearly packing herself into your sister's box in her anxiety to
take your place as her assistant--yes, you are not to worry about things
at home, and--let me see--oh, yes, you are to take good care of yourself
and not get knocked up, and--and--Miss Lilias will be here in the
morning and tell you all that has happened since you left home--let me
see, how many hours ago?"
Mary laughed cordially. This kind of banter she could take in the best
part. And she really was glad to hear all about home. How well she
could fancy poor Josey's ineffectual attempts at helping Lilias to pack,
and Lilias's good-humoured despair at the results!--it seemed ages since
she had seen them all.
"Then I am to wait here till further orders," said Mary, "and those
orders, in the first place, I suppose, will be yours, Mr Brandreth?"
"Probably," the doctor replied.
"And I? Whose orders am I to be under?" inquired Mr Cheviott.
"Miss Western's," said Mr Brandreth. "In my absence Miss Western is
commander-in-chief."
But his little pleasantry fell harmless this time. Mr Cheviott and
Mary only smiled. And then Mary took the doctor into the next room to
see unconscious Alys sleeping, as her friend had said, as sweetly as a
baby.