But Mary was wrong. Her mother met her at the door, her face bright and interested, her hands filled with some lovely flowers.
“Mr Cheviott has been here,” she said, eagerly, “and it has done your father so much good. He stayed fully half an hour with him, and talked so pleasantly, your father says, and he brought these flowers for you from his sister with a note. What a pity you were out!”
“I dare say it was quite as well,” said Mary, calmly. “Papa has had him all to himself, and he enjoys a quiet talk with one person alone just now. I am really very glad Mr Cheviott called, as it has pleased papa.”
And in her heart she could not deny that this was behaving with “something like” generosity!
Alys’s note was but a few words—she was not yet allowed to write more, she said—but few as they were, the words were full of affection and gratitude. The London doctor had not yet been, but was expected next week. In the mean time she had to lie perfectly still, and it was rather dull, though “poor Laurence” did his best. And she ended by hoping that Mary would think of her while arranging the flowers. Mary certainly did so—and with feelings of increased affection, not unmingled however with the pain of the old vague self-reproach.
For some days Mr Western seemed quite to have recovered his usual strength and spirits, and Mary was glad to be able to write cheerfully to Lilias, who had been threatening a premature return home, had the news thence not improved.
“Papa is better,” she announced to Mrs Greville, two days after their arrival at Hastings, when the afternoon post brought Mary’s letter.
“It seems to me,” she went on, after receiving Mrs Greville’s congratulations on the good accounts,—“it seems to me that it is far more his spirits than anything else that are affected.”
“But at his age that is not a good sign,” said Mrs Greville.
“I suppose not,” said Lilias, thoughtfully. “Mary says he has begun to think and speak so anxiously about our future in case of anything happening to him.”