"He desired in a wife an intellect that, if not equal to his own,
could become so by sympathy--a union of high culture and noble
aspiration, and yet of loving womanly sweetness which a man seldom
finds out of books; and when he does find it perhaps it does not wear
the sort of face that he fancies."
_The Parisians_.
The Westerns were not to spend this winter at Marshover. It was too
cold for Mr Western, and so was Hathercourt. A house, therefore, for
the worst of the season had been taken at Bournemouth, and there old Mr
Brooke had promised to spend with them his otherwise solitary Christmas.
"I'm so glad you are going to Bournemouth," said Mrs Greville one day,
a few weeks after Lilias's marriage, when she had driven over to say
good-bye to her old friends before they left; "it is such a nice
cheerful place, and plenty going on there. Quite a pleasant little
society. It will be an advantage for the girls if, as Mrs Brabazon
tells me, they are to be in town next year."
"But Alexa and Josephine will not be at Bournemouth except for a week at
Christmas," said Mary. "They will be at school."
"And Alexa is too young to go out at least for another year," said Mrs
Western.
"But there is Mary. _You_ are not going to school again, are you,
Mary?" said Mrs Greville, laughingly, turning to her.
"I almost wish I were!" she replied, "excepting that I should not like
to leave mother. But I shall not go out at all, dear Mrs Greville,
either at Bournemouth or in town. I don't care for society."
"How can you tell till you have tried?" said her friend.
"That's just it. I don't know anything at all about it, and I feel too
old to get into the way of it."
"Mary!" exclaimed Mrs Greville; "what an idea! At one-and-twenty," and
even Mrs Western looked slightly surprised.
"I can understand your thinking you will never care for things of the
kind _much_, and I dare say you never will," Mary's mother observed.
"But if not for your own, it _may_ for others' sakes--for your younger
sisters'--be necessary for you to go a little into society."
"Ah, well--not at present, any way, and possibly never," said Mary.
"Alexa would make a much better Miss Western than I."
Mrs Greville smiled.
"Are you tired of your honours already, Mary?" she said. "Well, who
knows!"
"I didn't mea--" began Mary, flushing slightly, "besides, it has
_always_ been settled that I was the old maid of the family."
"Nonsense," said Mrs Greville. "That reminds me, you will find some
old friends at Bournemouth--the Morpeths; you don't know, Mary, what an
impression you made on Vance Morpeth."
Mary looked annoyed. "That boy!" she exclaimed, hastily, "my dear Mrs
Greville--"
"He isn't a boy--he is five-and-twenty," interrupted Mrs Greville,
slightly ruffled. "Of course I don't mean to say that _now_, with your
present prospects you might not be justified in--well, to use a common
phrase, though not a very refined one, in `looking higher'."
"Dear Mrs Greville!" exclaimed both Mary and her mother together.
"_Don't_ say things like that, _please_," Mary went on. "You don't
really think that I would be influenced by that kind of consideration?--
you don't think so poorly of me?"
"No, my dear, I do not. I think you and all of you a great deal too
unworldly; I wish, for your own sakes, you _were_ a little more
influenced by considerations of that kind," said Mrs Greville, nodding
her head sagaciously, and just then, some one calling Mrs Western from
the room, she went on in a lower voice, "Why are you so desperately cold
to Mr Cheviott, my dear? Do you really dislike him so hopelessly?"
"Who said I disliked him?" exclaimed Mary, sharply, and the slight extra
colour on her cheeks deepened now into hot, angry crimson.
"My dear! Don't be so fierce. Surely you can't have forgotten all the
things you _yourself_ said against him. Why, you would not even go to
see through Romary till I coaxed you into it--just because it was _his_
house. I assure you your aversion to him became quite a joke among us--
Vance Morpeth always speaks of him as your _bete noire_."
Mary was silent. What else could she be?
"I only wish you had _not_ expressed your dislike to or before me,"
continued Mrs Greville. "I should have been only too glad to have been
able to say that _I_ had never heard of it when Alys Cheviott told me
how it had distressed and disappointed her."
"Did _Alys_ speak of it?" said Mary, surprised and a little annoyed.
"Yes, to me--not to any one else. You need not be indignant at it,
Mary. It came about quite naturally. You know I have seen a good deal
of her this summer while you were all at Marshover. She seemed to like
my going over there, and she has been very lonely, poor girl. That aunt
of hers is such a goose! And one day she was asking me all about you,
and she added quite naturally how much she wished you would sometimes go
to see her."
"But I was away," pleaded Mary, not quite honestly.
"Yes, just then; but you had been at home quite long enough to go if you
had wished, and that was Alys's disappointment. She told me that almost
her first thought, when everything was cleared up between Lilias and
Captain Beverley, was, `And now I shall be able to see Mary,' thinking,
of course, that when you understood that Mr Cheviott's dread had been
altogether unselfish--fear of Arthur's ruining himself by disobeying the
will--you would at once lose your dislike to him."
"And what does she now think?" asked Mary.
"She doesn't know what to think. She fears that in some way Mr
Cheviott has so deeply offended you that your dislike--prejudice--
whatever it is--to him, is incurable."
Again, for a moment, Mary was silent. Then she said, hesitatingly.
"Has she--do you think, Mrs Greville--said anything of this to Mr
Cheviott?"
"I don't know," said Mrs Greville. "But of course, my dear Mary, you
cannot pretend to be so modest as to fancy that your staying away from
them--from Alys, at least--in this marked way, cannot have attracted
attention. After the service you did them--the great obligation you put
them under to you, and Alys's constantly expressed affection and
gratitude--your refusing to go to her, when she _couldn't_ come to you,
was a very strong measure. And, to speak plainly, unless you had the
very strongest reasons for it, I think it was very unkind to that poor
girl."
Mary, for some little time past, had been believing her punishment
complete. Now, as Mrs Greville spoke, she realised that it had not
been so. She _had_ been cruel to Alys; she had allowed her own
feelings--her mortification at the past, her proud terror of possible
misapprehension in the future--to override what was the clearest and
plainest of duties. "I am not worthy to be called a friend," she said
to herself, and tears filled her eyes as she turned to Mrs Greville.
"Thank you," she said, gently, "for what you have said. It will not
have been in vain."
And Mrs Greville kissed and told her if she were proud and prejudiced,
she was also honest and magnanimous. And then the good lady drove
herself home in her pony-carriage with a comfortable feeling of
self-satisfaction, and a vague, not unpleasing suspicion that she
_might_ turn out to have been a sort of "_Deus ex machina_," or
"benevolent fairy god-mother, we'll say," she added to herself, not
feeling quite sure of the Latin of the first phrase, or that it did not
savour a little of profanity, "just to give a little shove to affairs at
the right moment."
All day Mary thought and thought over what she should do. Could she get
to see Alys, now at the eleventh hour, for the Cheviotts, if they had
not already done so, must be on the eve of quitting Romary for the
winter? Should she write to Mrs Greville and ask her to convey some
message? Should she--so many months had passed since she had seen Alys
that a little further delay could be of small consequence--should she
wait for an opportunity of seeing Lilias, and asking _her_ to explain?
To explain what, and how? Ah! no. Explanation of any kind was
impossible, and the necessity for it she had nothing but her own foolish
conduct to thank for. At last--"I will attempt no explanation, no
excuse, or palliation," she decided, "Alys is generosity itself. I will
trust her by asking her to trust me." And that same evening she wrote
to her a few simple words, which she felt to be all she _could_ say.
"My dear Alys," she said, "will you forgive me? I see now that I have
made a grievous mistake, done a wrong and cruel thing in never going
to see you all this time. This knowledge has come to me suddenly and
startlingly, and I cannot rest till I write to you. I cannot explain
to you what has distorted my way of seeing things, but I ask you to
forgive me, and to believe that, selfishly and unkindly as I have
acted, there has not been a day, scarcely an hour, since we were
together in which I have not thought of you.
"Yours affectionately,--
"Mary Western."
And when this letter was written and sent, Mary felt happier than she
had done for a long time. Was it all "the reward of a good conscience?"
Was there not deep down, unrecognised, in a corner of her "inner
consciousness," wherever that debatable land may be, a hope, a
possibility of a hope rather, that Mrs Greville's statement, to some
extent, explained the change in Mr Cheviott's manner? What if Alys,
after all, had been the innocent marplot--suggesting to her brother in
her disappointment that the "all coming right" of Lilias's affairs had
not resulted in a complete change of attitude on Mary's part; that her
dislike to him must be even deeper founded than could be explained by
her misjudgment of his conduct towards her sister? What if they had
both been at cross-purposes--each attributing to the other a prejudice
that no longer existed--which, indeed, Mary had done nothing to remove
his belief in on her part--which, as existing on his side towards her,
she had imagined to have yielded temporarily to what he himself had
described as an "infatuation," but to return with tenfold strength?
All this she did not say to herself in distinct words, but the
suggestion had taken root in her heart, and was not to be dislodged.
And though days grew into weeks before there came from Alys an answer to
her letter, Mary went about through those weeks with lightened steps and
hopeful eyes. She could not distrust Alys, she told herself; and her
mother, seeing her so cheerful, congratulated herself that Mary was
"getting over" the loss of Lilias, which she had been beginning to fear
had greatly depressed her.
Alys's letter, when it did come, was all that Mary had expected and
more, much more than she felt herself to have deserved.
"I will not ask you to explain anything," wrote Alys, "I am more than
satisfied. I cannot tell you what a change it makes in my life to be
able to look forward to seeing you as much and as often as you can be
spared to me. It will help me to be patient, and to try to get strong
again. I am likely to be much alone when we return to England, for
Laurence is thinking of letting Romary and taking a house for me
somewhere not very far from town. He seems to have taken a dislike to a
country life, and says he thinks he would be better if he had `more to
do.' I cannot agree with him that such a thing is possible, for I have
never known him idle for half an hour."
Mary gave a little sigh as she folded up the letter--that was all. And
soon after came on the time for the family move to Bournemouth, and with
a strange feeling of regret she again said good-bye to Hathercourt.
The winter passed, uneventfully enough on the whole. There was a flying
visit from Lilias and her husband on their way back from Italy to the
small country-house that was to be their home for the next two years;
there were old Mr Brooke and Mrs Brabazon and the two schoolgirls,
Alexa and Josey, for Christmas; there were, for Mary, very occasional
glimpses of Bournemouth society; but with these exceptions her daily
life was what many girls of her age would have considered very
monotonous. She did not seem to find it so, however; she appeared,
indeed, what Lilias called so "aggravatingly contented" that she owned
to Arthur, with a sigh, that, after all, she greatly feared that the
family prophecy about Mary was going to turn out true.
"At one-and-twenty," she said, lugubriously, "she really seems to be
steadily developing into an old maid."
"Wait a little," said Arthur. "Mrs Brabazon is determined to have her
in town for some weeks. There is still hope of Mary's proving to be not
altogether superior to youthful vanities and frivolities."
"Very little, I fear," said Lilias, half smiling, half provoked.
Mrs Brabazon had her way--Mary did go to town, and, after her own
fashion, enjoyed herself. She was generally liked, in some cases
specially admired, but that was all. She gently repulsed all approach
to anything more, and, though grateful to Mrs Brabazon, perplexed her
by her calm equability in the midst of a life novel and exciting enough
to have turned a less philosophical young head. If, indeed, it were
"all philosophy," thought Mary's shrewd cousin, and not, to some extent,
preoccupation?
One day towards the end of April--Mary had been six weeks in town--there
came a letter from Bournemouth, asking her, if possible, to go to
Hathercourt for a day or two, to make some arrangements preparatory to
Mr and Mrs Western's return there, "which," wrote her mother, "no one
but you, dear Mary, can see to satisfactorily, sorry as I am to
interrupt your pleasant visit."
Mrs Brabazon was somewhat put out. She had two or three specially
desirable engagements for the next few days; but, though Mary heartily
expressed her regret at the summons being, from her hostess's point of
view, thus ill-timed, she owned to herself rather enjoying the prospect
than otherwise.
"I am an incurable _country_ cousin, dear Mrs Brabazon," she said; "you
will have more satisfaction in every way with Alexa, if you are kind
enough to take charge of her next year."
"And where do _you_ intend to be then?" said Mrs Brabazon, amused, in
spite of herself, at Mary's tone.
"I shall have retired to my own corner. I have always been told I
should be an old maid," said Mary, laughingly.
And two days later found her at Uxley. She was not to stay at
Hathercourt, the Rectory being just released from the hands of painters
and decorators, and unfit for habitation, and Mrs Greville delighted to
seize the chance of a visit from one of her old favourites.
The day before that fixed for Mary's return to town Mrs Greville came
into the drawing-room with a note in her hand.
"You have quite finished at Hathercourt, you are sure?" she said, "you
don't need to go over again?"
"Oh, no, thank you," said Mary, "there is nothing more for me to do. I
am _quite_ at your disposal for the rest of my time. Is there anything
you want to do this afternoon?"
"Nothing much--only to drive over to Romary," said Mrs Greville. "I
have a note from poor old Mrs Golding, saying that she would be so
thankful to see me. She is really ill, and quite upset with the idea of
leaving Romary. She has only just heard definitely from Mr Cheviott
about it, as she kept hoping he would change his mind."
"Shall I not be in the way if I come with you? I don't in the least
mind staying alone," said Mary, diplomatically.
"Oh dear, no!" replied Mrs Greville, who had not perceived the slight
shadow that had stolen across Mary's face at the mention of Romary, "the
fact is I _want_ you, for the boy cannot come this afternoon, and I
don't like driving quite so far alone."
Mary resigned herself with outside cheerfulness, but some inward
misgiving.
"I would rather never have gone near Romary again," she said to herself;
"however, I need not go into the house, and it will be a sort of
good-bye to the place, and with it a great deal besides."
For of late she had grown less hopeful. Alys had written once again,
and to this second letter Mary had replied. But that was months ago,
and she had heard no more; and, though nothing could make her distrust
Alys's affection, she was beginning to fear that their gradually
drifting apart was unavoidable.
"Thinking of me as her brother does," said Mary to herself, "it is not
possible that she and I can have much intercourse. It was insane of me
to hope for it."
When Mrs Greville's pony-carriage drove up to the house, Mary asked
leave to stay outside.
"I shall be quite happy wandering about by myself," she said, "and Mrs
Golding will prefer seeing you without a stranger. How long shall you
be--an hour?"
"Possibly two," replied Mrs Greville, laughing, "there is no getting
away from the old body sometimes. And as I shall not see her many more
times I should like to pay her a good long visit."
"Don't hurry, then," said Mary. "I shall be all right."
It was a very lovely day. Romary looked to much greater advantage than
the last time Mary had been there. It had then been mid-winter to all
intents and purposes, at least as far as the trees and the grass were
concerned. Now it was the most suggestively beautiful season of the
year--spring-time far enough advanced to have much perfection of
loveliness of its own, besides the rich promise of greater things yet to
come. Mary had not before realised how pretty Romary was.
"I wonder they can think of leaving it," she said to herself, half
sadly. She had sauntered round the west front of the house, along a
terrace overlooking a sort of Italian garden, when, turning suddenly
another corner, she came upon a well-remembered scene--the thick-growing
shrubbery through which ran the foot-path leading to the private
entrance near the haunted room. With a curious mixture of feelings Mary
stood still for a moment, recalling with a strange fascination the
sensations with which she had last hurried along the little path. Then
she slowly walked on.
Bright as the day was, it seemed dusk in the shrubbery.
"It is really a rather creepy place," thought Mary, "one might expect to
meet any kind of ghost hereabouts."
And as if the thought had conjured up some corroboration of her words,
at that moment in the narrow vista of the path before her there appeared
a figure approaching in her direction. For one instant Mary started
with a half-thrill of nervous apprehension--was she really the victim of
some delusion of her own fancy?--then she looked again to feel but
increased bewilderment as she more clearly recognised the figure. How
_could_ it be Mr Cheviott? Was he not most certainly still at Hyeres?
Had not Mrs Greville told her so that very morning?
There was just this one flaw in her argument--the person now rapidly
nearing her _was_ Mr Cheviott! And when Mary became convinced of this
her first sensation of amazement gave way to scarcely less perplexing
annoyance and vexation at being again met by him as an uninvited
intruder on his own domain.
"_Was_ there _ever_ anything so awkward?" thought Mary, "was ever any
one so unlucky as I?" she repeated, proudly stifling the quick flash of
gladness at meeting him again anywhere, under any circumstances. And so
overwhelmed was she by her own exaggerated self-consciousness that when
in another moment with outstretched hand he stood before her, she did
not even notice the bright look of pleasure that lighted up his face, or
hear the one word, "_Mary_!" with which he met her.
Whether she shook hands or not she did not know. She felt only that her
heart was beating to suffocation, and her face crimson as she exclaimed
confusedly:
"Mr Cheviott! I had not the least idea you were here--in England even.
I only came over with Mrs Greville--I am so vexed--so ashamed--If I
had had any idea--" Then she stopped, feeling as if she had only made
bad worse. Mr Cheviott looked at her.
"If you had had any idea I was anywhere near here you would have flown
to the Land's End or John o' Groat's House to avoid me--is that it?" he
said, and whether he spoke bitterly or in half jest to cover some
underlying feeling, Mary really could not tell. She turned away her
head and did not speak.
"If he takes that tone," she said to herself, "I shall--I don't know
what I shall do."
"Won't you answer me? Mary you _must_," he said, passionately, facing
round upon her--half unconsciously she had walked on, and he had kept
abreast of her--and taking both her hands in his--"do you hate me, Mary,
or do you not?" he said. "I am not a proud man, you see, or else my
love for you has cast out my pride; perhaps you will despise me for it,
for a _second_ time daring to--but I made up my mind to it. I came back
to England on purpose to be _sure_. At least, you must see that my love
is no light matter, and--oh! child, tell me--_do_ you hate me? Look up
and tell me."
He had changed his tone to one of such earnest appeal that Mary trembled
as he spoke. But when she tried to look up her eyes filled with tears,
and the words she wanted would not come.
"_Hate_ you?" was all she could say.
But it was enough. He looked at her as if he could hardly believe his
eyes.
"Do you mean to say--_Mary_--do you mean that you _love_ me? And all
this time--"
A smile broke through her tears.
"Can't you believe it?" she said. "At least, you may absolve me from
having ever told you anything but the plain truth as to my feelings
towards you," she added. Then he, too, smiled.
"But," she added, "the last time we met, you yourself called it an
`infatuation.' I thought you had grown ashamed of it."
"Ashamed of it," he repeated, "ashamed of loving you? My darling!
Ashamed of my reckless inconsideration for your feelings?--yes, I had
reason to be _that_. And an infatuation it certainly did seem, to
believe that there was any possibility of your ever learning to care for
me, for there were all those months of disappointment after my conduct
in that wretched complication had been cleared up, and day by day Alys
hoped, and I hoped, for some sign from you. And then what you said to
me the day of the marriage I looked upon as merely wrung from you by
your brave conscientiousness--that made you feel your acknowledgment of
mistake was due even to me. Do you see?"
"Yes," said Mary; "but," she added, shyly, "what made you change?"
"Your letter to Alys partly; by-the-bye, you have to tell me how _you_
came to change so as to write it? And then--I don't know how it was--I
felt my case so desperate; I had nothing to lose, and oh, Mary, what an
inestimable possibility to gain! I made up my mind to try once more,
and as soon as I could leave Alys I came home, never hoping, however, to
see you here--in the very lion's den!"
"Does Alys know why you came?"
"No, I would never have told her, or any one, had I failed. But to
think that I have won!--Mary, I never before in all my life dreamed of
such happiness. I have everything that makes life worth having given to
me in you. And, do you know," he added, with a sort of boyish
_naivete_, "I don't think I ever realised how wonderfully pretty you
are? What have you been doing to yourself?"
Mary laughed--a happy, heartful laugh that fully vindicated the
youthfulness she had begun to believe a thing of the past. She was not
above feeling delight at _his_ thinking her pretty.
"It is your eyes, I think," he said. "They were always nice, sweet,
honest eyes, but now something else has come into them. What is it?"
"Guess," whispered Mary. "I don't think it was there this morning."
"It wasn't your beauty I ever thought the most of," he said. "It
reminds me of something I read the other day, that when a man _does_ And
his ideal it is sure `not to wear the face he fancies.' But I have got
it _all_, face too!"
"And now," said Mary, "please go away. I am sure Mrs Greville is
ready, and I don't want to keep her waiting."
Mr Cheviott's countenance fell.
"Mayn't I come with you to meet her? Won't you tell her?" he said.
"Not before _you_!" said Mary, laughing. "But I will tell her--I should
like to tell some one," she added, girlishly.
"And when can I see you?"
"To-morrow morning. Come to Uxley early if you can. I am not leaving
till the afternoon. And then we can fix about--about your going to see
them at Bournemouth, and all that."
"But _I_ would like to tell some one, too, this very minute, at once,
and I have no one. What shall I do?" he said, ruefully.
"Tell Mrs Golding," said Mary, mischievously, and before he could stop
her, she had turned and was running at full speed along the shrubbery
path, back to the front of the house, where, sure enough, Mrs Greville
and the pony-carriage were waiting.
Ten minutes after, Mr Cheviott entered the old housekeeper's room.
"Mrs Golding," he said, "I am not so sure that I _shall_ let Romary
after all!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.