“Thinking of me as her brother does,” said Mary to herself, “it is not possible that she and I can have much intercourse. It was insane of me to hope for it.”
When Mrs Greville’s pony-carriage drove up to the house, Mary asked leave to stay outside.
“I shall be quite happy wandering about by myself,” she said, “and Mrs Golding will prefer seeing you without a stranger. How long shall you be—an hour?”
“Possibly two,” replied Mrs Greville, laughing, “there is no getting away from the old body sometimes. And as I shall not see her many more times I should like to pay her a good long visit.”
“Don’t hurry, then,” said Mary. “I shall be all right.”
It was a very lovely day. Romary looked to much greater advantage than the last time Mary had been there. It had then been mid-winter to all intents and purposes, at least as far as the trees and the grass were concerned. Now it was the most suggestively beautiful season of the year—spring-time far enough advanced to have much perfection of loveliness of its own, besides the rich promise of greater things yet to come. Mary had not before realised how pretty Romary was.
“I wonder they can think of leaving it,” she said to herself, half sadly. She had sauntered round the west front of the house, along a terrace overlooking a sort of Italian garden, when, turning suddenly another corner, she came upon a well-remembered scene—the thick-growing shrubbery through which ran the foot-path leading to the private entrance near the haunted room. With a curious mixture of feelings Mary stood still for a moment, recalling with a strange fascination the sensations with which she had last hurried along the little path. Then she slowly walked on.
Bright as the day was, it seemed dusk in the shrubbery.
“It is really a rather creepy place,” thought Mary, “one might expect to meet any kind of ghost hereabouts.”
And as if the thought had conjured up some corroboration of her words, at that moment in the narrow vista of the path before her there appeared a figure approaching in her direction. For one instant Mary started with a half-thrill of nervous apprehension—was she really the victim of some delusion of her own fancy?—then she looked again to feel but increased bewilderment as she more clearly recognised the figure. How could it be Mr Cheviott? Was he not most certainly still at Hyères? Had not Mrs Greville told her so that very morning?