There was just this one flaw in her argument—the person now rapidly nearing her was Mr Cheviott! And when Mary became convinced of this her first sensation of amazement gave way to scarcely less perplexing annoyance and vexation at being again met by him as an uninvited intruder on his own domain.
“Was there ever anything so awkward?” thought Mary, “was ever any one so unlucky as I?” she repeated, proudly stifling the quick flash of gladness at meeting him again anywhere, under any circumstances. And so overwhelmed was she by her own exaggerated self-consciousness that when in another moment with outstretched hand he stood before her, she did not even notice the bright look of pleasure that lighted up his face, or hear the one word, “Mary!” with which he met her.
Whether she shook hands or not she did not know. She felt only that her heart was beating to suffocation, and her face crimson as she exclaimed confusedly:
“Mr Cheviott! I had not the least idea you were here—in England even. I only came over with Mrs Greville—I am so vexed—so ashamed—If I had had any idea—” Then she stopped, feeling as if she had only made bad worse. Mr Cheviott looked at her.
“If you had had any idea I was anywhere near here you would have flown to the Land’s End or John o’ Groat’s House to avoid me—is that it?” he said, and whether he spoke bitterly or in half jest to cover some underlying feeling, Mary really could not tell. She turned away her head and did not speak.
“If he takes that tone,” she said to herself, “I shall—I don’t know what I shall do.”
“Won’t you answer me? Mary you must,” he said, passionately, facing round upon her—half unconsciously she had walked on, and he had kept abreast of her—and taking both her hands in his—“do you hate me, Mary, or do you not?” he said. “I am not a proud man, you see, or else my love for you has cast out my pride; perhaps you will despise me for it, for a second time daring to—but I made up my mind to it. I came back to England on purpose to be sure. At least, you must see that my love is no light matter, and—oh! child, tell me—do you hate me? Look up and tell me.”
He had changed his tone to one of such earnest appeal that Mary trembled as he spoke. But when she tried to look up her eyes filled with tears, and the words she wanted would not come.
“Hate you?” was all she could say.
But it was enough. He looked at her as if he could hardly believe his eyes.