rather – it is better for me than for you.”
“But why?” said Lilias, doubtfully, though visibly relaxing her speed.
Mary laughed.
“I can’t say exactly, but somehow it’s not dignified for you to go hurrying back in that sort of way, and for me – well, I don’t think it matters.”
Lilias still hesitated.
“It isn’t that,” she said; “I wouldn’t have you do anything I would not do myself, only – Mary, you will laugh at me – I do feel so shabbily dressed.”
Mary did not laugh. She looked at her sister with real sympathy and concern. There are some of the trials of poverty whose stings are even more acutely felt at three-and-twenty than at seventeen, and Mary pitied Lilias where she might have laughed at Alexa.
“Let me speak to them, then,” she repeated. “Do, Lilias; I will hurry on, and you may follow slowly and see how I comport myself,” and Lilias made no further objection.
“How Lilias under-estimates herself,” she thought. “Who, with eyes in their heads, would think of her dress when they see her face?”
She was close to the little group of strangers by this time. They were standing just outside the porch, “staring about them,” George had said – rather, it seemed to Mary, examining with some interest the outside appearance of the ancient church. Three of them did not see her approach, the two ladies and the handsome, fair-haired man were at a little distance and looking the other way; only the elder of the two gentlemen was standing so as to face her, and he appeared sublimely unconscious of her errand having anything to do with himself or his friends. He moved aside a little as she drew near, evidently with the idea that she was going into the church again. Mary’s heart beat a little faster; this was by no means what she had bargained for, but there was no retreat possible now. There was Lilias slowly advancing in the background, her grey alpaca skirt trailing behind her on the grass with all the elegance of silk or cashmere – somehow Lilias never looked shabbily dressed! – her very observant blue eyes doubtless taking in the situation fully. Mary felt that the credit of the family was in her hands; she must prove herself equal to the occasion.
“I – I beg your pardon – excuse me,” she began, but the gentleman did not seem to understand that she was speaking to him; half mechanically he raised his hat, under the impression that the young woman, or lady, he had scarcely observed which, was about to pass by him into the porch, when again she spoke, and this time more distinctly. “Excuse me,” she said again; “mamma – my mother, I mean – thinks perhaps the ladies will be tired. Do you think they would like to come over to the Rectory and rest a little?”
Chapter Two
Who – Whence and Why?
Joan. – ”… she with the green kirtle too. Ah, but they are bravely clad!”
Isabel. – “And see, sister, he in the crimson doublet. Save me, but they are a pretty pair!”
Dame Winnifrith. – “Fie on ye, damsels! Call ye that a saying of your prayers? Fie on ye!”
Old Play.
She had stopped just in front of him. This time her voice could not fail to attract his attention, and with a slight start – for his thoughts had been busied with matters far away from the present – he turned a little and looked at her. This was what he saw: a girl with a face still slightly tanned by last summer’s sun – or was the brown tinge, growing rosier on the cheeks, her normal complexion? afterwards he thought of it, and could not decide – very bright, very wavy chestnut-coloured hair, ruffled a little about the temples, and growing low on the forehead; pleasant, hearty eyes, looking up at him with something of embarrassment, but more of amusement, eyes of no particular colour, but good, nice eyes all the same – a girl whom it is difficult to describe, but whose face, nevertheless, once learned, could not easily be forgotten. There was something about it which softened the seriousness of the man looking at her; his own face relaxed, and when he spoke it was with a smile, which, beginning in the grave, dark eyes before it journeyed down to the mouth, so transformed the whole face that Mary mentally improved upon her former dictum; there was certainly something not “rather” only, but “very nice” about the elder of the strangers “when he smiled.” Mary had yet to learn the rarity of these pleasant gleams of sunshine.
“I beg your pardon,” he said – for notwithstanding that Mary’s alpaca was several degrees shabbier than her sister’s and that her little white bonnet was of the plainest “home-make,” he felt not an instant’s doubt as to her being that which even in the narrowest conventional sense is termed “a lady” – “I am so sorry. I had no idea you were speaking to me. I shall tell my aunt and sister what you say; it is very kind of your – I beg your pardon again. I did not quite catch what you said.”
He had been on the point of turning to speak to his companions, but stopped for a moment, looking at Mary inquiringly as he did so.
“My message was from my mother, Mrs Western – I should have explained,” Mary replied. “I am – my father is the clergyman; we live at the Rectory opposite.”
She bent her head in the direction of her home. The stranger’s brow cleared.
“Of course,” he said, “I understand. Thank you very much. – Alys,” he called, hastening a step or two in the direction of the two ladies – “Alys, tell your aunt that this young lady has come to ask if you would like to wait at the Rectory till the carriage comes.”
The girl caught the sound of her own name in a moment; she had quick ears.
“How kind of you – how very kind of you!” she exclaimed, running up to where Mary still stood. “Laurence, please ask aunt to say yes. I would like to go across to the Rectory.” She was close beside the gentleman now. “Laurence,” she continued, giving him a little pull to make him listen to what she went on to say in a whisper, “I want to see those girls, the clergyman’s daughters; I noticed them coming out of church. One is so pretty. Ah, yes, there she is!” as she descried Lilias standing a little way off. “Is that your sister?” she went on, turning again to Mary. “Do you think she would mind if I went to speak to her? I do so want to see her quite close – she is so very, very pretty.”
The gentleman looked annoyed.
“Alys,” he was beginning, “you really should – ” But at this juncture up came the fair-haired man and the elderly lady, and from another direction Lilias, her curiosity overpowering her misgivings, moved slowly towards the group. Mary’s position was growing a little uncomfortable; she was glad to take refuge by her sister’s side. Again Mrs Western’s message of hospitality was repeated, this time to the elderly lady, whose name Mary thus discovered to be Winstanley; she, too, was profuse in her expression of thanks.
“So very kind of you,” she said to Lilias, who, feeling extremely conscious of her grey alpaca, replied by a bow of extra dignity.
“I really do not know what we had best do,” continued Miss Winstanley; “the carriage should have been back by this time.”
“If you and Alys like to wait at the Rectory, Cheviott and I can walk on to see if it is coming,” said the fair-haired young man, speaking for the first time.
At the sound of his voice Lilias looked up, and an expression of surprise crossed her face.
“Captain Beverley!” she exclaimed, impulsively, instantly,
