There was no one in the library, and one of Mary’s but half-acknowledged wild hopes faded away as she entered the empty room. She had had a dream of perhaps meeting with Alys in the first place—the girl with the beautiful face and bewitching smile—of her guessing her errand, and pleading on her side.
“She looked so sympathisingly at me that night at Brocklehurst,” thought Mary—“almost as if she suspected my anxiety. Oh! if only I could talk to her, instead of that proud, cold brother of hers!”
But there was no Alys in the library, and an instant’s thought reminded Mary that of course she, a stranger calling on “business,” would not have been ushered except by mistake into Miss Cheviott’s presence, and she gave a little sigh as she mechanically crossed the room and stood gazing out of the window.
The servant’s voice recalled her thoughts.
“Your name, if you please, ma’am?” he was asking.
Mary was prepared for this.
“It would be no use giving my name,” she said quietly. “If you will be so good as to say to Mr Cheviott that I am only in this neighbourhood for a day or two, and have called to see him purely on a matter of business, I shall be much obliged to you.”
The man left the room. He went into Mr Cheviott’s Study by another door than the one by which it communicated with the library, but through this last, firmly closed though it was, in a moment or two the murmur of voices caught Mary’s quick ears, then some words, spoken loudly enough for her to distinguish their Sense.
“Where, do you say—in the library? A lady! Nonsense, it must be some mistake.”
Then the servant’s voice again in explanation. Mary moved away from the vicinity of the treacherous door.