Hathercourt

Chapter Ten.

Throwing Down the Gauntlet.

“The marvel dies, and leaves me fool’d and trick’d.
And only wondering wherefore play’d upon!
And doubtful whether I and mine be scorn’d.”

Gareth and Lynette.

Major Throckmorton took Mary back to Mrs Greville, and after engaging her for another dance, later in the evening, strolled away again, considerably to her satisfaction, for she was now as anxious to see Lilias, and hear the explanation of Captain Beverley’s inconsistent behaviour, as she had before been to avoid her.

“Have you seen Lilias?” she asked Mrs Greville, eagerly, for no Lilias was as yet at the rendezvous. “She was near us in that last quadrille, but then, somehow, I lost sight of her in the crowd.”

“She is very content, wherever she is, I can assure you,” said Mrs Greville, significantly. “I don’t fancy either you or I will see much more of her for the rest of the evening. It is as clear as daylight,” she went on. “Why didn’t you tell me, Mary?”

“Tell you what, dear Mrs Greville?” said Mary, opening her eyes, and rather taken aback.

“Of course you know. Don’t pretend you do not,” said Mrs Greville, good-humouredly. “Of course I mean about Captain Beverley’s unmistakable admiration for Lilias. No one could have doubted it who saw the way he came up after that dance with Frank Bury. She looked cold and haughty enough at first, but he whispered something that put it all right, I could see. And only fancy Mr Knox telling me he was engaged to Miss Cheviott!”

“But,” said Mary, hesitatingly, and blushing a little as she spoke, “Lilias isn’t—there is nothing settled; they are not engaged.”

“Oh! I dare say not publicly, at present, but of course such attention as he is paying her to-night will soon make it public. I am so delighted—such a capital thing it will be for you all—I cannot tell you how pleased—but, hush! here they come,” said Mrs Greville, stopping abruptly.

And Mary, looking round, saw Lilias close at hand, and what a Lilias! Sunshine seemed to be playing about her, so bright and sweet and happy did she look—flushed not merely with her own inner consciousness of happiness, but with an innocent sense of triumph that her lover had been tested, and not found wanting; that in the eyes of all the assembled “somebodies” of Meadshire he was eager to do her homage; she felt that she had reason to be proud of him!

He only stayed to shake hands with Mary, and then hurried off, with a parting reminder to Lilias of her promise for the next dance but one. For the very next she was already engaged to a brother in arms of Major Throckmorton, and there was little time for any conversation between the sisters. Only Lilias whispered it was “all right.” “He” had explained why he was so late, and she was engaged to him for two more dances. Mary might feel quite happy about her. But was Mary enjoying herself too? she inquired, anxiously, as her partner appeared to carry her off. And in the sight of that radiant young face Mary could indeed with all honesty reply that she was. She would have thought and believed it the most charming ball in the world, even if she had spent the whole evening on the bench in the corner of the room beside Mrs Greville; and this would have been far more amusing than having to dance with Mr Bury, which she was now obliged to do. For the poor young man’s high spirits had suddenly deserted him; he was extremely depressed, not to say cross, and Mary, knowing the cause of the change, could not but find it in her heart to pity him, though her relief was great when her penance was over. She danced next with Frank’s elder brother, an occasional visitor only to the Brocklehurst part of the world, and a fairly amusing partner, and as Lilias and Captain Beverley were their vis-à-vis, Mary enjoyed the quadrille exceedingly.

A little further down the room a set composed entirely of the Cleavelands party attracted her attention. There stood the “three beauties” in close proximity. Mary glanced at them again and again, and once or twice it seemed to her that she and her sister were the objects of attention to some members of the party. That Miss Cheviott gazed admiringly at Lilias, and made some remark about her to her partner, Mary felt sure, and thought it not surprising; but, besides this, she two or three times caught Mr Cheviott’s observant eyes fixed on her sister and herself with a curious expression, which half annoyed her. And once, in turning suddenly, she fancied that Captain Beverley, too, noticed this peculiar expression with which his cousin was regarding them, and, Mary felt by instinct, resented it.

“You should by rights be dancing over there, should you not?” a sudden impulse urged her to say to her sister’s partner, when one of the figures in the dance brought them for an instant into juxtaposition.

“Over where?” he asked, the next time they met.

Mary bent her head slightly in the direction of the Cleavelands “set,” but she had not time to see how Captain Beverley liked her explanation. His answer was reserved for the next round.—It was quite ready.

“What could have put such an idea into your head?” he said, not without a touch of haughtiness in his tone. “I am perfectly free to dance where and with whom I choose.”

Mary smiled, but in her heart she felt a slight uneasiness. The bloom seemed by this little incident to have been rubbed off her satisfaction.

“It will be disagreeable for Lilias,” she said to herself, “if his friends are in any way prejudiced against her. She is so proud, too; she would never go out of her way to win them.”

Thus thought Mary when she again found herself in her corner by Mrs Greville. Her dances, so far as she knew, were over for the evening, but Lilias had not yet returned to her chaperon’s wing. Mrs Greville was beginning to wonder what o’clock it was.

“Not that I am in the least tired,” she said. “As long as Lilias is enjoying herself I am quite pleased to stay, and you, too, my dear. Are you not going to dance any more?”

“I think not,” Mary was replying when a voice behind her made her start.

“Miss Western,” it said, “if you are not engaged for this dance, may I have the honour of it?”

The voice was not altogether unfamiliar, when had she heard it before? It was not an unpleasing voice, though its tone was cold and very formal. Mary looked up; there, before her, stood Mr Cheviott.

In utter amazement, Mary partially lost her head. She rose mechanically, and, murmuring something in the shape of an assent, took Mr Cheviott’s arm, and had passed some little way down the room before she quite realised what she was doing. Then it all flashed upon her; the extreme oddness of the whole proceeding, and she grew confused and uneasy in trying to think how otherwise she should have done. Mr Cheviott had never been introduced to her! Those two or three words in the church porch two months ago were all that had ever passed between them. Yet his manner had been perfectly, even formally respectful, and the glow of indignation that had mounted to Mary’s cheeks at the mere notion of anything but respect being shown to her father’s daughter, faded as quickly away. One glance at Mr Cheviott’s grave, preoccupied face was enough completely to dispel it, and she, thereupon, solved the enigma in another manner. It was all on Lilias’s account! Mr Cheviott, doubtless in his cousin’s confidence, wished, naturally enough, to know something of her relations, and had, with almost unconscious disregard of conventionality, chosen this way of making friends. On second thoughts, Mary quite decided that she liked him all the better for it, and congratulated herself that her instincts had been in the right, that she had not, with misplaced prudery, chilled and repelled his first overtures of kindliness and interest.

It was a round dance, but Mr Cheviott marched on down the room as if perfectly oblivious that dancing of any kind was in question. Suddenly he stopped.

“Do you like balls?” he asked, abruptly.

“I don’t dislike them,” answered Mary, quietly.

Mr Cheviott, in spite of himself, smiled, and Mary, looking up, was again struck, as she had been the first time she saw him, by the effect of a smile on his somewhat sombre countenance.

“That is, and isn’t, an answer to my question,” he said. “Perhaps I should have worded it differently, and said, ‘do you like dancing?’”

“Sometimes,” said Mary, quietly still.

Mr Cheviott smiled again.

“One thing, I see, you do not like,” he said, “and that is, being catechised. I asked you if you liked dancing because, I fear, I do not dance well, and if you were fanatica on the subject I should be afraid of displeasing you. However, suppose we try?”

He did not dance badly, but with a certain indifference which Mary found provoking. This, and a suspicion of patronising in his last words, inspirited her to take a different tone.

“I do not think you dance ill,” she said, when they stopped, “but any one could tell that you do not care about it.”

“How?” he said, if truth be told, ever so slightly nettled—for what man likes to be “damned with faint praise,” by a girl in her teens, whoever she may be?

“Oh I can’t tell you. It would be quite different if you liked it. There is no verve in your dancing,” she replied.

She could see he was annoyed, and somehow she was not sorry for it. He took refuge again in a patronising tone.

“Do you speak French?” he inquired, with a slight air of surprise.

“Do you speak Italian?” she retorted.

“Why do you ask?” he said, coolly. “Are you offended by my inferring a possibility of your not speaking French?”

“No,” she replied; “but I thought it an uncalled-for question. You used an Italian word just now for the same reason, probably, that I used a French one—that we could not find an English word to express our meaning equally well—”

“The only reason,” interrupted Mr Cheviott, eagerly, “that can ever excuse one’s doing so.”

“But,” continued Mary, “you did not give me the credit of this good reason, as I did you. I did not suppose you used an Italian word for the sake of showing off that you knew Italian.”

“And I said nothing to lead you to suppose that I thought you were wanting to show off your French,” retorted Mr Cheviott, laughing a little in spite of himself, and yet manifestly annoyed. “I was only—a little—surprised, perhaps.”

“Why?” asked Mary. “Is it so unusual nowadays to find people who have learned French?”

“Oh dear, no, of course not; but I understood you had been brought up very quietly, and had always lived in the country, and all that sort of thing. I don’t want to offend you, but very probably you would be more offended if I did not answer you plainly.”

“Very probably,” said Mary, smiling. “But don’t you see that just because we have lived so quietly as you say, we have had the more time for ‘lessons’? And there were grave reasons why, in our case, we should learn all we could—practical reasons, I mean.”

Mr Cheviott did not at once reply; he seemed as if reflecting over what she had said.

“I wonder what he is thinking about,” thought Mary. “He must know we are poor. We have made no secret of it to Captain Beverley.”

“Shall we try again?” said Mr Cheviott, suddenly. “If I do my best, there is no saying but that, in time, I may catch a little of your verve, Miss Western.”

“You think I have a superabundance of it,” said Mary, good-humouredly; and, “Yes,” she added, when they stopped again, “that is better, decidedly.”

But again the look of preoccupation had come over Mr Cheviott’s face; he did not seem elated by her praise.

“Your sister likes dancing too, I suppose?” he said, after a little pause.

“Yes,” replied Mary, “she is very fond of it, and she dances very well.”

“I dare say she does,” said Mr Cheviott, “but she is too tall to dance with most men. I see,” he added, slowly, as if he had some little difficulty in going on with what he had to say—“I see she has been dancing a good deal with my cousin, Captain Beverley. He dances very well, in fact, better than he does anything else, I was going to say.”

Something in the words and tone roused Mary’s ire.

“I don’t see that dancing well need prevent a man’s doing other things well too,” she observed, coldly.

Mr Cheviott raised his eyebrows; he was quite his usual self again now, cool and collected, and satisfied that he was going to have the best of it.

“I quite agree with you,” he replied, dryly.

“Then,” said Mary, getting more angry, “why should you praise Captain Beverley’s dancing in that sort of way, as if you were dispraising everything else he does? I think he has it in him to do many things well—more, probably, than have as yet come in his way.”

“I dare say you are quite right,” said Mr Cheviott. “For a man,” pursued Mary, somewhat mollified, “he is still very young.”

“Peculiarly so,” said Mr Cheviott; “he is very young for his actual years. You must have seen a good deal of him, Miss Western, to judge him so correctly.”

“I have said very little about him,” said Mary, bluntly, looking up in her companion’s face with a questioning expression in her eyes, before which Mr Cheviott quailed a little—yet what pretty, gentle, brown eyes they were!—“but I have seen a good deal of him,” she went on, frankly. “He has been a great deal with us lately, while he was staying at the Edge Farm, you know.”

Almost as she pronounced the words, she became conscious of the annoyance they were causing her companion, and she felt that her worst misgivings were realised. “Why did I dance with him?” was the first form in which her hot indignation expressed itself in her thoughts.

“Yes,” replied Mr Cheviott, coldly, “I heard that Mr and Mrs Western had been very hospitable to my cousin, and no doubt he is very grateful to them. He is an extremely sociable person—cannot bear being alone. As you have seen so much of him, Miss Western, I dare say you have discovered that he is very impulsive and impressionable, very ready to amuse himself, without the least thought of the after consequences.”

Mary remained perfectly silent.

“You agree with me?” said Mr Cheviott. “I am very glad of it, for I see you will not misunderstand me. There are some kinds of knowledge not so easily acquired as French,” he added, with an attempt at carrying off what he had been saying lightly, “but I see your good sense stands you in lieu of what is commonly called knowledge of the world, and—and, for your sister’s sake especially, I am very glad indeed that you have so much perception.” He did not look at Mary as he spoke, but now she suddenly turned towards him, and he was obliged to face her. Every ray of their usually pretty colour had faded out of her cheeks; she looked so very pale that for an instant he thought she was going to faint, and a quick rush of pity for the poor child momentarily obliterated all other considerations. But Mary saw the softening expression that came over his face, and smiled slightly, but bitterly. And then Mr Cheviott saw that her paleness was not that of timidity or ordinary agitation, but of intense, wrathful indignation, and he thereupon hardened his heart.

“Why,” said Mary, after a little pause, and her voice, though low, was distinct and clear—“why, may I ask, do you say that it is especially on my sister’s account that you are glad to find that I possess what you so kindly call so much power of perception?”

Her words, to herself even, sounded stilted and almost absurd, but, had she tried to speak easily and naturally, she felt that in some way she would have broken down. And Mr Cheviott did not notice the stiltedness of her tone and speech; cool as he looked he was feeling intensely uncomfortable, and little inclined to see any humorous side to the situation.

“I would rather not say why,” he replied, “and, besides, it’s unnecessary. You would, afterwards, regret asking me to say more than I have done.”

“But having said so much, supposing I insist on your saying more,” said Mary, unwisely. “Supposing I tell my father, and that he asks you to explain why you have spoken to me this way—supposing—” she stopped, for her voice failed her. Anger inclines some women to tears more readily than grief!

Mr Cheviott smiled; it was, in reality, a nervous, uneasy smile, but Mary thought it insulting and insufferable.

“Miss Western,” he said, “you are really exciting yourself about nothing at all. I do not think that any reasonable person would see cause of offence in the two or three remarks I have made about my cousin, and, fortunate as he is in possessing so eager an advocate as yourself, it is impossible you can know him as well as I do. But I think we have discussed him quite sufficiently, and, in my opinion at least, the less said the better.”

He looked at her with a sort of veiled inquiry. Mary stood perfectly silent. It was true; she had been very foolish, very undignified to have expressed herself as vehemently as she had done; she had no right to resent Mr Cheviott’s hinted warnings, for Arthur Beverley had not committed himself in such a way as to give her any. “Oh,” she thought, “if I could but look up in his face and say, ‘Your cousin is engaged to my sister, and I decline to hear anything you have to say about him; your opinion has not, and never will be asked,’ oh, how different it all would be! How different it will be when it is all settled, and no one can interfere!” But in the mean time; yes, certainly, the less said the better.

She felt that she trusted Captain Beverley, even now; already she felt that Mr Cheviott’s opinion was of no real consequence, and she could afford to despise it, much as, for Lilias’s sake she regretted that the connection was not likely to find favour in the eyes of Arthur’s proud relations.

“But that will not really matter,” she repeated to herself, and, fortified with this reflection, she turned quietly to reply to Mr Cheviott’s last speech.

“Yes,” she said, “I was very foolish to take up your remarks about your cousin so hotly. For, though I have known him such a short time, I think, in some ways, I already know him far better than you do. And now I shall be obliged if you will take me back to my friends.”

She looked up in Mr Cheviott’s face with fearless eyes, and no trace of agitation, but a somewhat deeper colour than usual in her cheeks, and the shadow of a quiver on her lips. But Mr Cheviott read her rightly; the gauntlet of defiance was thrown down, and her resolution staggered him.

“Can they be already really engaged?” he said to himself. “I could almost find it in my heart to wish they were, to get rid of all this! How unbearable it is—how horribly I am, and must be, misunderstood, even by this girl!”

And as he escorted Mary across the room, and, with a formal bow, deposited her in her old corner beside Mrs Greville, he made no effort to hide his gloom and annoyance. For the moment a species of recklessness seemed to have taken possession of him; he felt as if he cared little what was said or thought of him.

“Even Alys,” he thought to himself, “when, or if, she comes to hear of my attempt at interference, will find no words hard enough for me. Why can’t a man start clear in life, I wonder, without being weighted with the follies of those before him?”

Mrs Greville was all excitement and curiosity.

“My goodness, Mary,” she exclaimed, “wonders will never cease! Lilias’s conquest is nothing to yours. Mr Cheviott of Romary himself! You are very cunning, you naughty child; you never even told me you knew him.”

“I hardly do know him. I would not have danced with him if he had not asked me so suddenly that I had not presence of mind enough to refuse,” explained Mary.

“And why should you have refused? Of course, as I say, you have made a conquest. Why should you be ashamed of it?” said Mrs Greville.

“It is not that, it is nothing of the kind, I assure you, Mrs Greville,” said Mary, deeply annoyed. “Dear Mrs Greville,” she went on, beseechingly, “I do beg you not to say any more about it. There is Lilias coming, please don’t say anything about it.”

Mrs Greville saw she was in earnest, and gave in. “But you are the strangest girl I ever came across,” she added, with a tone of good-natured annoyance.

Then Lilias came up, on Captain Beverley’s arm, and Mrs Greville’s attention was distracted.

“I am not going to dance any more,” she said, smiling. “I am quite ready to go home now, Mrs Greville, if you like, and poor Mary looks tired to death.”

“And poor Mrs Greville must be tireder still, as Francie says,” said Mary, trying to laugh, and look as usual. “Yes, I think we should be going.”

“Good-night, Captain Beverley,” said Lilias, disengaging her hand from his arm.

But he would not allow it.

“You will let me see you to your carriage,” he said, in a low voice. “You have no other gentleman with you.” And Lilias made no further objection.

And Mary, as they crossed the room, thus escorted, said to herself that she hoped Mr Cheviott’s eyes were edified by the spectacle. Yet she was conscious of a sudden tremor when, close to the door, hemmed in for a moment or two by the stream of departing guests, which had already begun to flow, they came upon the object of her thoughts. He was standing looking the other way, with a lady on his arm, and as she approached them nearly, Mary saw that the lady was his sister. She happened to turn at this moment, and her glance fell on the advancing group. Instantly a smile lit up her beautiful face, a smile, there could be no manner of doubt, of hearty, pleased recognition. Mary happened to be the nearest to her, and Miss Cheviott leaned slightly forward.

“How do you do, Miss Western?” she said, brightly. “I have been seeing you and your sister in the distance all the evening, but never near enough to speak to you. Have you enjoyed the ball? I think it has been such a nice one.”

Mary murmured something in the way of answer, but her words were all but inaudible. The grateful glance of her brown eyes, however, was not lost upon Alys.

“What nice good eyes that second Miss Western has?” she observed to her brother, when they were out of hearing. “But she does not look as well as she did; she was quite pale, and her eyes had a troubled look.”

“What did you speak to her for?” said Mr Cheviott, gruffly, “there was no reason for it, and—you cannot have forgotten what I said about the Westerns, Alys?”

“Forgotten; no. Of course, I remember your saying I was not to call on them and make friends with them, but as for not speaking to them when we were jammed up close together in a door-way no, I certainly had forgotten that you wished me to be unkind and uncivil, Laurence,” replied Alys, with considerable indignation.

And Mr Cheviott thought it wisest to hold his peace. His sister was evidently in ignorance of the apparently glaring inconsistency of which he himself had been guilty in not only speaking to, but actually dancing with the younger Miss Western, and devoutly he hoped that in this desirable ignorance she might remain. But there was no saying how she might come to hear of it, and, therefore, the less said on the disputed subject the better.

There was silence for some time in the fly containing Mrs Greville and her two young friends, as it wended its slow way back to Hathercourt. Mrs Greville was tired, and a little anxious about the effects of the cold night air on her husband; Lilias was absorbed in a content which asked not for words; Mary—poor Mary, was suffering from a strange complication of discomfort. Indignation, mortification, fear, hope, defiance, and intense anxiety chased each other round, her brain. It was a relief when Lilias spoke.

“We are very selfish, dear Mrs Greville,” she said, suddenly—“at least, I am; Mary is never selfish. I have never thanked you for taking us to-night and being so kind; I have enjoyed it so much, and I do thank you so sincerely.”

Notwithstanding the heartiness and cordiality, there was an indefinable something in the tones of the pretty voice which effectually stifled any expression of curiosity on Mrs Greville’s part. Whether or not Lilias had anything to tell, there and then it was evident she had no intention of telling it, so Mrs Greville just answered, kindly:

“I am very glad you have had a pleasant evening. It is always a pleasure to me to take you.”

And in a few minutes more the fly stopped at the Rectory gate.

There was no one sitting up for them. That had been a proviso of Lilias’s, and, in spite of Alexa’s entreaties and “mother’s” misgivings, Lilias had carried the day.

“We are sure to come home sleepy, and cross, and dilapidated-looking after a seven miles’ drive. Do all go to bed comfortably and wait to hear our adventures till the morning,” she said; and Mary, as they let themselves quietly in with a latch-key, felt what a comfort it was that there were no anxious questioning eyes to meet.

Since Basil’s departure, Mary had taken possession of his little room, leaving Lilias sole mistress of what had formerly been their joint quarters. But to-night she lingered long beside her sister, making one excuse after another for not leaving her room.

“But Mary, dear, you must really go to bed now,” said Lilias, at last; “don’t trouble about putting away anything till the morning.”

“Yes,” agreed Mary, “I’m going now. Good-night, Lilias. You said you had enjoyed the ball very much—I’m so glad you did. But, Lilias,” she added, wistfully, “I wish you would tell me—you don’t mind my asking, do you?—is—is anything settled—explained, I mean?” Lilias’s cheeks flushed.

“It is all right,” she said, hastily—“I am sure it is all right. There is nothing to explain; I trust him thoroughly, and—and I don’t mind its not being what you call ‘settled’ just yet. It is nice keeping it just to ourselves.”

“Only,” said Mary, with some reluctance, “it isn’t being kept to yourselves. Every one must have noticed him to-night, and that was why I was so anxious to hear if it was all understood and settled.”

“Then don’t be anxious any more,” said Lilias, reassuringly, as she kissed her—“I am not; I could not be happier than I am. But I understand your feeling—I would have it for you, I dare say. Just set your mind at rest; you may ask me about it again—let me see—yes, this time to-morrow, if you like, and I think I shall be able to satisfy you.”

”‘In to-day already walks to-morrow,’” said Mary, laughing. “My ‘spirit’ is ‘striding on before the event,’ anyway, and the best thing I can do is to let you go to sleep. Kiss me again, Lilias; it’s to-morrow already, you know.”

“I wish Lilias hadn’t said that about this time tomorrow,” she thought to herself. “I wish she were not so confident, and yet how can she be less so if she trusts him? How could I bear to see her trust broken?”