“Indeed—indeed,” faltered Virginia, “I do not blame you; it is perhaps my fault, that—that we have so often mistaken each other.”
“It is that to you—as to my father I am a stranger,” said Alvar. “I will go—it is as you wish.”
He took up his hat, paused, made her a formal bow, and went out. Virginia sprang after him; but he did not look back. She felt herself cruel, exacting, selfish, and yet she knew that her causes of complaint were just. She had sent him away from her, and she would never see him again. As he passed out of sight, she ran down the steps, whether after him or away from the house, she hardly knew. The trailing overgrown roses caught in her dress and held her back. She turned, and all the desolation of the untrimmed garden and unpainted house seemed to overwhelm her spirit. The wind came up in long, dismal rustles, the sky was grey and cold. As she paused, she saw her aunt’s still graceful figure in its shabby dress cross the lawn, her face with its fair outline and hard, bitter look turned towards her.
“She lost her lover!” thought Virginia, and her own future flashed upon her like a dreadful vision. She turned and fled up to her own room, where every other thought was destroyed by the sense of loss and misery. It was in the middle of the afternoon that she was startled out of her trance of wretchedness by a call in her aunt’s voice, “Virginia, Virginia! Come here, I want you particularly.”
Virginia obeyed passively. She might as well tell her aunt of the morning’s interview then as put it off longer. As she came into the drawing-room, Miss Seyton left it by another door, and she found herself alone with Cheriton Lester.
“Thank you for coming down,” he said, eagerly. “I want to explain; I think there has been a great mistake.”
“No, I think not,” said Virginia, rather faintly.
“But let me tell you. It is all my fault indeed. Alvar must not be punished for my selfishness. You know, I got a fresh cold somehow, and my cough was bad again, so my father was frightened and sent for the doctors, and they ordered me away for the winter. I must not go to London now, they say—”
“Indeed, Cherry, I am very sorry,” faltered Virginia, as the cough stopped him.
“No, but let me tell you. This was a great shock to me. I want to get to work—and then—my poor father! It seemed to knock me down altogether, and foolishly, I let Jack see it, and said that I hated the notion of any of those regular invalid places, and that going there would do me no good. And then Alvar came and asked me if I should not like to see his friends and Seville, and I said, ‘Yes, if I must go anywhere,’ and he tried in his kind way to make the idea seem pleasant to me, and my father caught at it because he thought I might like it. I shall never forgive myself for making such a fuss! But of course to-day—now I am in my right senses—I should not think of such a thing. If Alvar goes with me, even to Seville, and stays for a few weeks, then, if I am better, he can come home, and I shall not mind staying there alone, and at Christmas Jack might come to me, or my father—it can easily be managed. In short, Virginia,” he added, with an attempt at his usual playfulness, “I want you to understand that I made a complete fool of myself yesterday, and that that’s the whole of it.”