Hathercourt

“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 Hyères? 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 naïveté, “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.