Was he talking for talking’s sake, or with the intention of setting her at her ease by showing her how completely so he was himself? Mary felt a little puzzled. Thoroughly at ease he certainly was, and, more than this, he seemed to her to be in remarkably good spirits, yet his next observation showed her how far from indifferent he was feeling to the anxiety that she was suffering.
“I fancy we shall just catch Brandreth,” he said, “and you will find no time has been lost. This is his whist club night, and it was to be at old Admiral Maxton’s. They break up at nine, I know—the Admiral is so very old—so the doctor will be just about getting home.”
“Are you going to take me all the way to Withenden?” said Mary, half timidly.
“Certainly,” replied Mr Cheviott, decidedly. “Now, Andrew, let her go. All right.”
But just at first it seemed to Mary more like “all wrong.” With a plunge and a dash that nearly took her breath away, the impatient animal darted forward. How Andrew managed to scramble into his seat was a mystery to Mary. It was all she could do to keep hers; the same giddy feeling came over her, her head reeled, and, with a vague remembrance of Mr Cheviott’s injunction, she caught hold of his arm to steady herself. He was prepared for the movement, and by no means discomposed by it. In a minute or two the mare settled down into a steady pace, and Mary’s head grew steady.
She quietly withdrew her hand.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, somewhat stiffly.
“Not at all,” replied Mr Cheviott, “it’s what I told you to do. But don’t be frightened of Madge—it’s only a little show-off; we quite understand each other.”
“Thank you,” said Mary, imagining a patronising shade in his tone. “I was not the least frightened; I am not nervous.”
“No, you are not, but you are human, Miss Western, and what you have gone through to-night has been enough to try any one’s nerves,” said Mr Cheviott, gravely.