"AMENDES HONOURABLES."
"... But what avails it now
To speak more words? We're parting,
Let it be in kindness, give me good-bye,
Tell me you understand, or else forgive."
"I've nothing to forgive; you love me not,
And that you cannot help, I fancy."
Hon. Mrs Willoughby.--_Euphemia_.
But, as not unfrequently happens, Mr Cheviott found the anticipation
worse than the reality. Alys was up-stairs in her own room when they
got to the house, and she begged her brother not to ask her to come down
that evening.
"I am not ill," she said, "only tired and nervous, somehow. Come up to
me after dinner, Laurence, and let us have a good talk--that will do me
more good than anything."
She looked up at him with a curious questioning in her eyes that struck
him as strangely pathetic.
"Yes," he said to himself, "she _must_ be told all."
So the way was paved for his revelations. And Alys was sufficiently
prepared for them to manifest no very overwhelming surprise. She
listened in silence till Laurence had told her all. Then she just said
quietly:
"Laurence, it was a _cruel_ will."
"Yes," said her brother, "however intended, so it has indeed proved."
"Going near," pursued Alys, softly, almost as if speaking to herself,
"going near to spoil two, four, nay, I may say _five_ lives," she
whispered. "Oh, thank God, Laurence, it is at an end!"
She clasped her thin little hands nervously. How changed she was--Alys,
poor Alys, who used to ignore the very existence of nerves!
Her next remark struck Mr Cheviott unexpectedly.
"Laurence," she said, "I wonder if Mary Western will ever know all
this!"
He had it on his lips to answer, "The sooner so, the better," but he
_could_ not. Instead thereof his reply sounded cool and unconcerned in
the extreme.
"Possibly she may, some time or other. Arthur is sure to tell Lilias
Western whom it _does_ concern. But why should you care about her
sister's knowing it?"
"Because I _do_," Alys replied, oracularly.
There was a large allowance of letters in the Romary post-bag the next
morning. Several for Captain Beverley--all of which, but one, he put
hastily aside. And his heightened colour and evident anxiety could not
but have betrayed to his companions whence came that one, had not both
Mr Cheviott and Miss Winstanley been absorbed by news of unusual
interest in their respective letters.
"Laurence," said Arthur, at last, when for the time letters were put
down, and breakfast began to receive some attention, "is that
yesterday's _Times_? Have you looked at it? I wonder if there is a
death in it of some one I know--you know who I mean--the last of those
poor Brookes, Basil's brother, I mean Anselm, a boy of eighteen. I hear
he died at Hastings, two days ago."
"I don't know about its being in the _Times_," replied Mr Cheviott,
"but, curiously enough, I have just heard of it in a letter from an old
friend of mine, Mrs Brabazon, an aunt of the poor fellow's, and--"
"And?" said Arthur, eagerly.
Mr Cheviott glanced at Miss Winstanley. "Afterwards," he formed with
his lips, rather than by pronouncing the word, in reply to his cousin.
But Miss Winstanley had caught something of what they were saying.
"The Brookes," she exclaimed, "are you talking of the Brookes of
Marshover?" and when both her companions answered affirmatively, "How
very odd!" she went on, growing quite excited. "My letter is all about
them too. It is from my old friend, Miss Mashiter, who has been staying
at the same hotel at Hastings as the Brookes are at, and she is quite
upset about the poor young fellow's death--it was so sudden at the last,
and there is such a romantic story about. It appears that a cousin of
the young man's came to Hastings lately, a most exquisitely beautiful
creature, with whom he had been in love since early boyhood, though
somewhat older than himself, and she has been devoting herself to him,
and now the report is that, just before he died, he got his poor father
to promise to leave everything to her--he has no child left, and the
Brookes are enormously rich. What a catch the young lady will be!"
"Aunt Winstanley, I am ashamed of you!" said Mr Cheviott. "I had no
idea you were so worldly-minded. You don't mean to say you ever heard
of such a thing as a girl's losing a lover and consoling herself with
another--especially when the first had, as you say in this case, left
her a fortune?"
"It _is_ very sad," agreed Miss Winstanley, quite deceived by Mr
Cheviott's tone--"very sad, but such is the way of the world, Laurence.
Of course, I would not say such a thing before Alys."
"_Of course_ not," said her nephew, approvingly.
Arthur looked up with relief; for the instant, Miss Winstanley's story
had startled him a little--for to whom could the episode of the
beautiful cousin refer but to Lilias, still, as her mother's letter
informed him, at Hastings, "doing what she can for our poor friends
there." But there must be great nonsense mixed up with Miss Mashiter's
gossip, Arthur decided, seeing that Laurence, who had the correct
version of the whole in his hands, could afford to tease Miss Winstanley
about it. The poor boy--Anselm Brooke--was dead, but still--the idea of
Lilias's name being coupled with that of any man, or boy even, was not
altogether palatable, and still less that of her being an heiress!
"What a mercy I yielded to my inspiration and wrote to Mrs Western
yesterday!" he replied. "To-day, after hearing that report, nonsensical
though it probably is, I should hardly have liked to write."
He was thankful when Miss Winstanley at length got up from her seat--her
breakfast seemed to have been an interminable affair that morning--and
saying that she must go and ask what sort of a night Alys had had, left
the cousins to themselves.
"What is your news? What does Mrs Brabazon write about?" exclaimed
Arthur, eagerly, almost before the door had closed on Miss Winstanley.
"Rather," said Laurence, "What is _yours_? Mine will keep, but you, I
see, have a letter from Hathercourt which, I am sure, you are dying to
tell me all about."
"To show you, if you like," said Arthur, holding it out to his cousin.
"You have guessed, I see, that it is all I could wish."
It was a thoroughly kind and sensible reply from Mrs Western. She made
no pretence of astonishment at the nature of Captain Beverley's letter
to her; she said that she and her husband would be glad to see him
again, and to talk over what he had wished to say to them.
Lilias was at Hastings, but expected home in a few days. Mr Western
was continuing better. Any afternoon of the present week would find
them both at home and disengaged, and she ended by thanking Arthur for
his consideration in writing to her instead of Lilias's father, as he
was still far from able to meet any sudden agitation without risk of
injury.
"Should I go over this afternoon, do you think?" said Arthur.
"Yes, I should say so," replied Mr Cheviott. "And what will you tell
them?"
"Everything. I have no choice," said Arthur. "That is to say, I shall
tell them all about my father's will and the present state of the case,
and what Maudsley thinks and what _you_ think. Of course I need not go
into particulars as to what passed between Alys and me the other day,
but I will just tell them that anything of the kind, as regards both her
and myself, never has been, never _could_ have been possible--that we
are, and always have been, and always shall be, I trust, brother and
sister to each other."
Mr Cheviott had been listening attentively.
"Yes," he said, when his cousin left off speaking, and looked up for his
approval, "I don't think you can do better."
"And now for your news--Mrs Brabazon's, I mean," said Arthur, eagerly.
But Mr Cheviott showed no corresponding eagerness to reply.
"She says," he answered, quietly, "that Miss Western is with them and
quite well. Of course they are all sadly depressed by young Brooke's
death, though they knew it must come before long--she writes as if poor
old Brooke had got his death-blow, but she says that `Lilias' has been
the greatest comfort to them."
"And what more?" asked Arthur, "there is something more, I know. There
is nothing in all that to have been a reason for Mrs Brabazon's writing
to you."
"I didn't say there was. Women constantly write letters without any
reason," observed Mr Cheviott.
Arthur got up from his seat and walked impatiently up and down the room.
"Laurence," he said at length, "I think that sort of chaffing of yours
is ill-timed."
"I don't mean to chaff you--upon my word, I don't," said Mr Cheviott,
looking up innocently. "All I mean is that, whatever my news is, I am
not going to tell you any more of it at present. It is much better not,
and you will see so yourself afterwards."
"You meant to tell me all when you first got the letter?" said Arthur.
"Well, yes, I don't know but that I did. But I have changed my mind."
"Is it--no, it cannot be--that there is any truth in that absurd
nonsense that Miss Winstanley was telling us?"
"Why should you ask? It bore on the face of it that it _was_ absurd
nonsense," replied Mr Cheviott. "Do, Arthur, trust me. You have done
so in important things. Can't you leave me to tell you about Mrs
Brabazon's letter after you have been at Hathercourt?"
"Very well. Needs must, I suppose," said Arthur, lightly.
But he was not without misgivings during his long ride to the Rectory.
"I wish that idiotic old maid had kept her gossip to herself instead of
writing it off to Miss Winstanley," he said to himself more than once,
and when he got close to Hathercourt he felt so nervously apprehensive
of what he might be going to hear, that the relief of meeting, or rather
overtaking Mary within a few yards of the house was very great.
Mary had no hat or bonnet on--she had just run out to gather some fresh
green for the simple nosegays her father liked to see from his sofa.
She was already in mourning for her young cousin, and as she looked up
with a bright flush of pleasure to return Captain Beverley's greeting,
he could not help thinking that, though "not Lilias," she was certainly
very pretty.
"That black dress surely shows her off to advantage," he said to
himself, "or else she has grown prettier than she used to be. What a
queer fellow Laurence is--fancy being shut up at the Edge for three
weeks with a girl like that, and emerging as great a misogynist as
before!"
Her mother was at home and disengaged, or would, no doubt, speedily be
so, when she heard of his visit, Mary told him. Then he got off his
horse, and she led him into the drawing-room.
"Mamma is in the study, I think," she said, lingering a little. Then
with some hesitation and rising colour, "I had a letter from Lilias this
morning. She is coming home the day after to-morrow."
"So soon?" exclaimed Captain Beverley, delightedly. "That is better
than I hoped for. Mary," he went on, impulsively, holding out both his
hands and taking hers into their clasp, "Mary--you will forgive my
calling you so?--you know what I have come about, don't you? You will
wish me joy--you have always been our friend, I fancy, somehow."
"_Our_ friend," repeated Mary, inquiringly. "You are sure, then," she
went on, "that--that it will be all right with Lilias? Yes, mamma told
me of your letter--you don't mind?--it is quite safe with me."
"Mind, of course not. But how do you mean about Lilias?" he asked, with
a quick return of his misgiving. "Nothing has happened that I have not
been told of?"
His bright face grew pale. Mary, with quick sympathy, hastened to
re-assure him.
"Oh, no, no," she said, "I don't know what you have heard--but it isn't
that. Nothing of _that_ kind could make Lilias change _of course_. I
only mean--it is a long time since you have seen her, and--and--you went
away so suddenly, you know. Lilias has never said anything to me, but I
have been at a loss what to think about her."
"As to what she has been thinking about me, do you mean?"
"Yes," said Mary, bluntly.
Arthur's face cleared.
"If that is all, I am not afraid," he said, gently. "You are sure that
is all, Mary?"
"Quite sure," she replied. Then after a moment's pause, "How is Miss
Cheviott?"
"Pretty well--at least, so I am told," he replied; "but to me she seems
terribly changed. Laurence, her brother, I mean, won't say much about
her. He can't bear to own it, I fancy. And it is so dull for her. I
think that keeps her back--she should have some companionship." Mary's
face grew very grave. She gave a little sigh. "I wish--" she was
beginning to say, when the door opened and her mother came in.
Alys was alone in her room that afternoon, when a tap and the request,
"May I come in?" announced her cousin's return. She knew where he had
been, for Laurence had told her everything; but she had not been alone
with Arthur since their strange interview two days ago, and the
remembrance of it set her heart beating as she called out, "Come in by
all means."
To her surprise, Arthur came quickly up to her sofa, bent down and
kissed her on the forehead before he spoke.
"Dear Alys," he said, "I have come straight to you. It is all thanks to
you, and I wanted to tell you, before any one, that everything's going
to be all right."
For half a second there seemed a catch in Alys's breath. Then she
looked up with a smile, though there were tears in her eyes too.
"I am so glad, so very glad," she said, softly. "Then has Lilias come
back?" she asked.
"No, she is coming the day after to-morrow," he replied, "and that
reminds me--I have a great deal to tell you, Alys, and I am sure it will
interest you--on Mary's account as well as on Lilias's."
"I think I know--part of it anyway," said Alys. "Laurence has been
telling me of his letter from Mrs Brabazon--he would not tell you
because he thought it would be so much pleasanter for you to know
nothing about it till the Westerns told you themselves."
"Yes," said Arthur, "I see."
"How strange it all seems!" said Alys. "How well I remember meeting
Mrs Brabazon in Paris last year, and how she cross-questioned me about
the Westerns, at the time, you know, that Laurence was so prejudiced
against them."
"And you spoke up for them?"
"A little," said Alys, blushing slightly, "I mean, as much as I could."
"Good girl!" said Arthur, approvingly.
"And since then, you know, Laurence has quite changed. How could he
help it? You have no idea of Mary's goodness to me that time at your
farm, Arthur, and knowing _her_ showed what they all were, so
single-minded and refined, and so well brought up though they have been
so poor. You mustn't mind, Arthur,--it is no disparagement to Lilias
when I say I cannot help counting Mary my special friend."
"And now I hope you will see her often," said Arthur. "She would do you
good."
Alys shook her head.
"I know she would," she said, "but she won't come here."
"_Now_ she will," said Arthur. "She can have no more of that
exaggerated terror of being patronised, if that has been her motive.
The county will all find out the Westerns' delightful qualities now,
you'll see, Alys. By-the-bye, I wonder what made Mrs Brabazon write to
Laurence."
"Just that some one in the neighbourhood might know the real facts of
the case," Alys replied. "There is sure to be so much gossip and
exaggeration. I fancy, too, she wrote with a sort of wish to disabuse
Laurence of his prejudice against her cousins--I am sure she noticed it
that day in Paris--Did the Westerns tell you all about their affairs,
Arthur?"
"A great deal, they are so frank and, as you say, single-minded, Alys.
They have known something about it for some time, ever since Lilias met
the Brookes at Hastings."
"And has it been all owing to that?"
"Oh, no--a great part of the property _must_ have come to Mrs Western;
no, to the eldest son, Basil, I should say, at Mr Brooke's death. But
the Westerns might not have _known_ this, and as the father said to me,
in his invalid state, the release from anxiety is a priceless boon."
"But it isn't only Basil that is to benefit," said Alys, eagerly. "Mrs
Brabazon said--"
"Of course not," her cousin interrupted. "Everything is to go to him
eventually--old Brooke not having any one to provide for, and not
wishing to cut up the property--but Mrs Western will, for life, be very
well off indeed, and so will the whole family. Each daughter and
younger son will have what is really a comfortable little fortune. The
Marshover Brookes are _very_ rich, you know."
"And to think _how_ poor the Westerns have been!" said Alys,
regretfully.
"Yes; but a few years ago nothing could have seemed more remote than
their chance of succession. And, after all, even very rich people can't
look after all their poor relations."
"No, I suppose not," said Alys, with a sigh. "Will they leave
Hathercourt?"
"Sure to, I should think. Mr Brooke wants them to go to Marshover,
Mrs Western says, and keep it up for him, as he will be most of the
year abroad. He is not obliged to do anything for them during his life,
you see, but he has already settled an ample income on Mrs Western, and
Basil is to go into the army, and George to college."
"I shall never see Mary again, all the same."
"Why not?"
"I don't know, but I am certain she will never come here. Arthur, I
think she dislikes Laurence too much ever to come here."
Arthur opened his eyes.
"Dislikes Laurence!" he repeated. "Why should she?"
"She does," persisted Alys, "and Laurence knows it."
"Well, we'll see. Perhaps Lilias may help us to overcome Mary's
prejudice," said Arthur, with a smile. "And failing Mary, Alys, you
won't be sorry to have Lilias for--for a _sister_--will you, Alys?"
Alys smiled, and her smile was enough.
All this happened in spring. Early in the autumn of that same year
Lilias and Arthur were married. They were married at Hathercourt--in
the old church which had seen the bride grow up from a child into a
woman, and had been associated with all the joys and sorrows of her
life--the old church beneath whose walls had lain for many long years
the mortal remains of Arthur Beverley's far-back ancestress, the "Mawde"
who had once been a fair young bride herself.
"As fair perhaps, as happy and hopeful as Lilias," thought Mary, as her
eyes once more wandered to the well-known tablet on the wall, with a
vague wonder as to what "Mawde" would think of it all could she see the
group now standing before the altar. Then there came before her memory,
like a dream, the thought of the Sunday morning, not, after all, so very
long ago, when the little party of strangers had invaded the quiet
church, and so disturbed her own and her sister's devotions. And again
she seemed to see herself looking up into Mr Cheviott's face in the
porch, while she asked him to come into the Rectory to rest.
"He smiled so kindly, I remember," thought Mary, "and there was
something in his face that made me feel as if I could trust him. And so
I might have done--ah! how hasty and prejudiced I have been--thank
Heaven, I have injured no one else by my folly, however!"
And then she repeated to herself a determination she had come to--there
was one thing, be the cost to her pride what it might, that she would
do, and to-day, she said to herself should, if possible, see it done.
It was a very quiet marriage--for every reason it had seemed best to
have it so. There were the considerations of Mr Western's still
uncertain health, of the mourning in the Brooke family with which that
of Lilias was now identified, of Alys Cheviott's invalid condition, and
even of Captain Beverley's own anomalous position, as still, by his
father's will, a minor, and at present, therefore, far from a wealthy
man, though every hope was now entertained that before long he would be
in legal possession of his own. There were no strangers present--only
the Grevilles and Mrs Brabazon, besides the large group of brothers and
sisters, and Mr Cheviott as "best man," and Lilias and her husband
drove off in no coach and four, but in the quiet little brougham now
added to the Rectory establishment, for Mr Western's benefit
principally, when he was at Hathercourt. For Hathercourt was not to be
deserted, though only a part of the year was now spent there by the
Rector's family, and to the curate, whose services he now could well
afford, was deputed the more active part of the work. They had all been
at Marshover for some months past, and had only returned to Hathercourt
a few weeks before the marriage.
"I could hardly believe in any family event of great importance
happening to us anywhere else--we seem so identified with our old home.
I like to think I shall end my days here, after all," Mr Western was
saying, with inoffensive egotism, to Mr Cheviott, as they stood
together in the window after the hero and heroine of the day had gone,
when Mary came up and joined them.
"Yes, father," she said, gently. "I remember your saying so, ever so
long ago. I think," she added, turning to Mr Cheviott, "it was the
afternoon of that Sunday you all drove over to church here--do you
remember?"
Mr Cheviott smiled slightly.
"I remember," he said, quietly. "I have never been inside the church
since, till to-day. If it is still open I would like to look round it,
if I may?" turning to Mr Western for permission.
"It is not open," said Mary, answering for her father, "but I can get
the key in an instant, and, if you like," she went on, considerably to
Mr Cheviott's surprise, "I will go with you."
He thanked her, and they went. But, before fitting the great key into
the old lock, as they stood once again by themselves in the church
porch, Mary turned to her companion.
"Mr Cheviott," she said, "I offered to come with you because I wanted
an opportunity for saying something to you that I did not wish any one
else to hear. I have never seen you alone since--since a day several
months ago, when Lilias, by Arthur's wish, explained _everything_ to me,
and I want just to tell you simply, once for all, that I am honestly
ashamed of having misjudged you as I did, and--and--I hope you will
forgive me."
Mr Cheviott looked at her for a moment without speaking--her face was
slightly flushed, her eyes bright and with a touch of appeal in them--
half shy, half confident, which carried his thoughts, too, back to the
last time they had stood there together. She looked not unlike what she
had done then, but he--There was no smile in his face as he replied.
"Thank you," he said. "It is kind and brave of you to say this, but I
cannot say I forgive you. I have nothing to forgive. If I were not
afraid of reviving what to you must be a most unpleasant memory, I would
rather ask if _you_ can forgive _me_ for my much graver offences against
you?"
"How? What do you mean?" said Mary, startled and chilled a little by
his tone.
"My inconsideration and presumption are what I refer to," he said. "I
cannot now imagine what came over me to make me say what I did--but you
will forgive and forget, will you not, Miss Western? We are connections
now, you see--it would never do for us to quarrel. I once said--you
remember--that speech is the one which I think I must have been mad to
utter--that in other circumstances, had I had fair play, I _could_ have
succeeded in what I was then insane enough to dream of. _Now_ my
aspirations are surely reasonable enough to deserve success--all I ask
is that you will forget all that passed at that time, and believe that,
in a general way, I am not an infatuated fool."
Mary had grown deadly pale. She drew herself back against the wall, as
if for support.
"No," she said, in a hard, constrained tone, "no, that I cannot do. You
ask too much. I can never _forget_."
Mr Cheviott gazed at her in astonishment. For one instant, for the
shadow of an instant, a gleam darted across his face--_could_ it
be?--_could_ she mean?--he asked himself, but, before his thought had
taken form, Mary dashed it to the ground.
"I am ashamed of myself for being so easily upset," she said, almost in
her ordinary tone, "but I have had a good deal to tire me lately. We
needn't say any more, Mr Cheviott, about forgiving and forgetting, and
all such sentimental matters. I have made my _amende_, and you have
made yours, and it's all right."
Mr Cheviott's voice was at its coldest and hardest when he spoke again.
"As you please," was all he said, and Mary, foolish Mary, turned from
him to hide the scorching tears that were beginning to come, and fumbled
with the key till she succeeded in opening the door.
"There now," she said, lightly. "I must run home. I don't think you
will require a cicerone for this church, Mr Cheviott," and before he
could reply, she was gone. Gone--to try to smile when she thought her
heart was breaking, to seem cheerful and merry when over and over again
there rang through her brain the cruel words--"He never cared for me, he
says himself it was an infatuation. He is ashamed to remember it; oh
no, he never really cared for me, or else my own words turned his love
into contempt and dislike--and what wonder!"
Two or three days after Lilias's marriage Mary heard from Alys Cheviott.
She and her brother were leaving England almost immediately, she said,
for several months. The letter was kind and affectionate, but it did
not even allude to the possibility of her seeing Mary before they left.
"Good-bye, Alys," said Mary, as she folded it up and one or two hot
tears fell in the envelope. "Good-bye, dear Alys; and good-bye to the
prize I threw from me, when it might have been mine--surely the best
chance of happiness that ever woman was offered!"