"In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind."
_Wordsworth_.
Days passed--a week, ten days of Mr Brandreth's fortnight were over,
but still he would say nothing definite as to the possibility of moving
Alys to Romary. And Alys herself seemed marvellously contented--the
reason of which she made no secret of to Mary.
"You see I have never had a really close friend of near my own age--and
you are only two years older," she said one day. "And I never could
have got to know you so well in any other circumstances--could I? You
do understand me so well, Mary. It is perfectly wonderful. If I were
never to see you again, I could not regret my accident since it has made
me know you."
Mary was silent.
"Why don't you answer?" said Alys, anxiously. "Am I horribly selfish to
speak so, when this time you have given up to me has kept you away from
your dear home and all of them, and interfered with your regular
duties?"
"No, dear," said Mary, "it isn't that at all. My being away from home
has not mattered in the least; besides, I am near enough to hear at once
if they really needed me. No, I was only thinking I could not say I did
not regret your accident, because, though I am thankful you are so far
better, I feel so anxious about you afterwards. Even though Mr
Brandreth does not anticipate seriously-lasting injury, you may have a
good deal of weariness and endurance before you. He told you?"
"Yes," said Alys, composedly. "I know I shall not feel strong and well,
as I used, for a long time, if ever. I shall have to rest a great deal,
hanging about sofas, and all that--just what I hate. But I don't mind.
I am still glad it happened. It has done me good, and it has done some
one else good too. Was that all you hesitated about, Mary?"
"Not quite."
"Well, say the rest--_do_!"
"I was only thinking that I could not respond as heartily as I would
like to your affection, Alys, because I hardly see that my friendship
_can_ be much good to you in the future."
"Why?"
"Our lives are so differently placed--we are in such totally different
spheres--"
"Oh! Mary," exclaimed Alys, reproachfully, "you are not going to be
proud, and refuse to know us because we are rich and you are--"
"Poor," added Mary, smiling. "No, not on that account exactly."
"Why, then? Is it because you suspect that at one time Laurence
discouraged my knowing you? You can afford to forgive that, surely,
_now_. And it was his duty, I suppose, to be very careful about whom I
knew, having no mother or sister, you know; and at that time he did not
know you."
"No, he did not; and it _was_ his duty, as you say, to be very careful.
He did not know us, true, but at least he knew no harm of us, except
that we were out of the charmed circle. And did _that_ justify him in--
Oh! Alys, dear, don't make me speak about it. Let us be happy this
little while we are together."
"Mary, do you dislike Laurence?"
"I do not like unfounded prejudices," replied Mary, evasively.
"That means Laurence, I suppose. But, Mary, people can outgrow their
prejudices. I am not sure that you yourself are not at present partly
affected by prejudice."
"No," said Mary, in a firm but somewhat low voice. "I am not, indeed.
I cannot defend myself from the appearance of being so, but it is not
the case, truly."
Alys sighed.
"Don't make yourself unhappy about it, dear," said Mary.
"I can't help it," said Alys, dejectedly. "There is something I don't
understand. I don't ask you to tell me anything you would rather not,
but I am so disappointed. I wanted you to get to like Laurence. I
know--I can see he likes you, and that was why I thought it had all
happened so well. I did not mind the idea of being a sort of invalid
for some time when I thought of your coming to see me often at Romary,
and staying with us there. Mary, won't you come? I was speaking to
Laurence about it last night, and he said, if I could persuade you to
come, he would be most grateful to you."
"I don't want him to be grateful to me," said Mary, lightly.
"How can he help being so? What he meant was, of course, that if you
came it would be out of goodness to me. You _must_ know that he would
consider it a favour."
"Yes, I do. Mr Cheviott is not the least inclined to patronise people,
I will say that for him," said Mary, laughing.
"Then you _will_ come to Romary?" said Alys, coaxingly.
Mary shook her head.
"I must be honest, Alys dear," she said, "and to tell you the truth, I
can't imagine myself going to Romary ag--ever going to Romary, I mean,
under any circumstances whatever."
"How you must dislike Laurence!" said Alys. "Has he displeased you
since you have been here?"
"Oh dear, no," said Mary, eagerly. "He has been as kind and considerate
as possible. I wish I could help hurting you, Alys. I can say one
thing, I do like Mr Cheviott _as your brother_, more than I could have
believed it possible I could ever like him."
"Faint praise," said Alys.
"But not of the `damning' kind. I mean what I say," persisted Mary.
"And--perhaps you will think this worse than `faint praise'--since I
have seen him in this way--as your brother--I cannot help thinking that
circumstances, the way he has been brought up, have a good deal to
answer for in his case."
Alys's face flushed a little, yet she was not offended.
"And why not in mine?" she said. "I have had more reason to be spoiled
than poor Laurence. His youth was anything but a very smooth or happy
one. My father was not rich always, you know."
"Was he not? Still `rich' is a comparative word. Mr Cheviott has
always `moved in a certain sphere,' as newspapers say, and he cannot
have had much chance of seeing outside that sphere," said Mary, with the
calm philosophy of her twenty years' thorough knowledge of the world in
all its phases. "As for you, Alys, you are not spoiled, just because
you are not. You are a duck--at least you have a duck's back--it has
run off you."
And both girls were laughing at this when Mr Cheviott, just returned
from his daily expedition to Romary, entered the room.
"You are very merry," he said, questioningly. "By-the-bye, Miss
Western," he went on, with some constraint but, nevertheless, resolution
in his voice, "I hope you have good news of your sister?"
"Excellent, thank you," replied Mary, looking up bravely into his face.
"She is as happy and well as possible."
There was a ring of truth in her voice, and, indeed, Mr Cheviott would
have found it hard to doubt the truth of anything that voice of hers
said.
"There is no bravado in that statement," he said to himself. "I cannot
understand it."
"And what were you laughing at when I came in?" he said, turning to
Alys, as if to change the subject.
Alys looked at Mary.
"Mary," she said, mischievously, "shall I tell?"
"If you like," said Mary, quietly.
"Oh, Mary, was just giving me her opinion of us--of you and me,
Laurence--the result of her observations during the last ten days," said
Alys.
Mary looked up quickly.
"Alys," was all she said; but Alys understood her. Mr Cheviott was
listening attentively.
"Well," Alys went on, "perhaps that is not putting it quite fairly. I
must confess, Laurence, I forced the opinion out of her, and it took a
good deal of forcing, too."
"And what was the opinion--favourable or the reverse? May I not hear
that?" asked Mr Cheviott.
"It was _pretty_ favourable," Alys replied. "On the whole, taking
everything into consideration, the enormous disadvantages of our
up-bringing, etc, etc, Miss Western is disposed to think that, on the
whole, mind you, Laurence, _only_ `on the whole,' we are neither of us
quite so bad as might have been expected. But then we must remember,
for fear of this verdict making us too conceited, you see, Laurence--
upsetting our ill-balanced minds, or anything of that sort--we must
remember that it is not every day we can hope to meet with a judge so
wide-minded, and philosophical, and unprejudiced, _absolutely_
unprejudiced, as Miss Western."
During this long tirade Mary remained perfectly silent, only towards its
close her face flushed a little.
"Alys," she said, when Alys at last left off speaking, the colour
deepening in her face--"Alys, I don't think that is quite fair."
"Nor do I," said Mr Cheviott, suddenly, for he too had been sitting
silent, in apparent consideration. "But, Miss Western, I know Alys's
style pretty well. I can pick out with great precision the grains of
fact from amongst her bewildering flowers of rhetoric, so, on the whole,
mind you, Miss Western, _only_ `on the whole,' I feel rather gratified
than the reverse by what she rails your verdict."
"I am sorry for it," said Mary, dryly.
"Why so?"
"I should think poorly of myself were I to feel any gratification at
being told that, on the whole, I was not as bad as I might have been.
There is no one hardly, I suppose, so bad but that it might be possible
to conceive him worse."
"That was not quite Alys's wording of your opinion," said Mr Cheviott.
"Nor, I venture to say, quite the sentiment of the opinion itself. But
in another sense I agree with you; there is hardly any one--no one, in
fact--of whom we might not say, if we knew all the circumstances of his
or her history--of his or her existence, in fact--that it was a wonder
he or she was so good--not so bad."
"That is taking the purely--I don't know what to call it--the purely
human view of it all," said Mary, growing interested and losing her
feeling of discomfort. "My father would say we are forgetting what
should be and may be the most powerful influences of all, in whatever
guise they come, on every life--the spiritual influences, I mean. And
these can never be reduced to calculation and estimate, however wise men
become."
"Yes, but think of the terrible forest of ill-growing weeds, the awful
barrier of evil, individual and inherited, these influences have to make
their way through!"
He rose from his chair and went across the room to the fire-place, where
he stood contemplating the two girls. Mary, in her plain grey tweed,
unrelieved by any colour, except a blue knot at the throat, but fitting
her tall figure to perfection. Her "browny-pink" complexion, hazel
eyes, and bright chestnut hair, all speaking of youth and strength and
healthfulness, contrasting with Alys, who lay loosely wrapped in the
invalid shawls and mantles Mary had carefully arranged about her--
prettier, more really lovely, perhaps, than her brother had ever seen
her, her dark hair and eyes seeming darker than their wont, from the
unusual whiteness of her face. She looked too lovely, thought Mr
Cheviott, with a sigh, her fragility striking him sharply, in comparison
with the firmness and yet elasticity of Mary's movements, as she leaned
over Alys to raise her a little. How natural, how strangely natural it
all seemed! Mr Cheviott sighed.
"Laurence," exclaimed Alys, "what in the world is the matter?"
Her brother smiled.
"Nothing--that is to say, I can't say what makes me sigh. I was
thinking just then what a strange power of adaptation we human beings
have. It seems to me so natural to be living here in this queer sort of
way. You ill, Alys, and Miss Western nursing you. I could fancy it had
always been so--in a dreamy, vague sort of way."
"I know how you mean," said Mary.
"Shall you be sorry when it is over, Laurence," said Alys, "and we are
back again at Romary, without our guardian angel?"
"One is always sorry, in a sense, when anything is over, at least, I am.
I suppose I have the power of settling myself in a groove to an unusual
degree," said Mr Cheviott, evasively.
"You certainly have not the power of making pretty speeches," said Alys.
"_I_ called Mary `our guardian angel,' and _you_ call her a `groove'."
Just then Mrs Wills put her head in at the door with an inquiry for
Miss Western, and Mary went out of the room.
"I wanted you to say something about Mary's perhaps coming to Romary,"
said Alys.
"Why? Do you think she would come?" asked Mr Cheviott, doubtfully.
"No, I do not think she would," Alys replied, "but I wanted her to see
that _you_ would like her to come."
"Did she _say_ that she would never come to see you at Romary?" Mr
Cheviott said.
"Yes, decidedly. Her words were, `I cannot fancy myself, under _any_
circumstances whatever, going to Romary,' and I thought I heard her half
say `again'--`going to Romary again.' But she has never been there?"
Mr Cheviott did not reply; he turned to the fire and began poking it
vigorously.
"Laurence," said Alys, feebly.
"What, dear?"
"Please don't poke the fire so. It seems to hurt me."
"I am so sorry," said her brother, penitently. "It's the same with
everything," he added to himself. "I seem fated to make a mess of
everything I have to do with.--I wish I were not so clumsy," he went on
aloud to his sister. "What shall I do with you at Romary? How shall we
ever get on without Miss Western?"
"I shall have to make the best of Mrs Golding, I suppose," said Alys,
in a melancholy voice. "But she fusses so! Oh, Laurence, isn't it a
pity? Just as I have found a girl who could be to me the friend I have
wished for and needed all my life, a friend whom even you, now that you
know her, approve of for me, that she should have this prejudice against
knowing us. Indeed, it must be more than prejudice. She is too
sensible and right-minded to be influenced by that."
"Does she know that I, at one time, objected to your knowing her?" said
Mr Cheviott.
"She knows something of it--not, of course, that I ever said so to her--
but she is very quick, and gathered the impression somehow. But it is
not that. She said you were quite right to be careful whom I knew, and
that, of course, she and her people were strangers to you. I don't
think Mary would resent anything that she felt any one had a _right_ to
do. No, it is not that," said Alys.
"What can it be, then? Is it her horror of putting herself under any
obligation?"
"Obligation, Laurence! As if all the obligation were not on our side!"
"Well, yes. I don't think I meant that exactly. I mean that, perhaps,
she may feel that, owing her so much, we could not do less than invite
her to Romary. She may have an exaggerated horror of any approach to
being patronised."
"No, she is not so silly. She knows we should be _grateful_ to her for
coming. She is neither so silly, nor, I must say, so vulgar-minded, as
you imagine. Laurence, even though you own to liking and admiring her
now, it seems as if you could not throw off that inveterate prejudice of
yours," said Alys, rather hotly.
Mr Cheviott, under his breath, gave vent to a slight exclamation.
"Good Heavens, Alys," he said, aloud, "I think the prejudice is on your
side. You cannot believe that I _can_ act or feel unprejudicedly."
"I do not know what to believe," said Alys, dejectedly. "I am
bewildered and disappointed. There is something that has been concealed
from me, that much I am sure of. And I do think you might trust me,
Laurence."
It sounded to Laurence as if there were tears in her voice. He went
over to her bed-side, and kissed her tenderly.
"My poor little Alys," he said, "indeed I do trust you, and, indeed, I
would gladly tell you anything you want to know, if I could. But there
are times in one's life when one cannot do what one would like. Can't
_you_ trust _me_, Alys?"
Alys stroked his hand.
"Could I ever leave off trusting you, Laurence?" she said, fondly. "I
do not mind so much when you tell me there is something you can't tell--
that is treating me like a sensible person, and not like a baby."