Her words, to herself even, sounded stilted and almost absurd, but, had she tried to speak easily and naturally, she felt that in some way she would have broken down. And Mr Cheviott did not notice the stiltedness of her tone and speech; cool as he looked he was feeling intensely uncomfortable, and little inclined to see any humorous side to the situation.
“I would rather not say why,” he replied, “and, besides, it’s unnecessary. You would, afterwards, regret asking me to say more than I have done.”
“But having said so much, supposing I insist on your saying more,” said Mary, unwisely. “Supposing I tell my father, and that he asks you to explain why you have spoken to me this way—supposing—” she stopped, for her voice failed her. Anger inclines some women to tears more readily than grief!
Mr Cheviott smiled; it was, in reality, a nervous, uneasy smile, but Mary thought it insulting and insufferable.
“Miss Western,” he said, “you are really exciting yourself about nothing at all. I do not think that any reasonable person would see cause of offence in the two or three remarks I have made about my cousin, and, fortunate as he is in possessing so eager an advocate as yourself, it is impossible you can know him as well as I do. But I think we have discussed him quite sufficiently, and, in my opinion at least, the less said the better.”
He looked at her with a sort of veiled inquiry. Mary stood perfectly silent. It was true; she had been very foolish, very undignified to have expressed herself as vehemently as she had done; she had no right to resent Mr Cheviott’s hinted warnings, for Arthur Beverley had not committed himself in such a way as to give her any. “Oh,” she thought, “if I could but look up in his face and say, ‘Your cousin is engaged to my sister, and I decline to hear anything you have to say about him; your opinion has not, and never will be asked,’ oh, how different it all would be! How different it will be when it is all settled, and no one can interfere!” But in the mean time; yes, certainly, the less said the better.
She felt that she trusted Captain Beverley, even now; already she felt that Mr Cheviott’s opinion was of no real consequence, and she could afford to despise it, much as, for Lilias’s sake she regretted that the connection was not likely to find favour in the eyes of Arthur’s proud relations.
“But that will not really matter,” she repeated to herself, and, fortified with this reflection, she turned quietly to reply to Mr Cheviott’s last speech.
“Yes,” she said, “I was very foolish to take up your remarks about your cousin so hotly. For, though I have known him such a short time, I think, in some ways, I already know him far better than you do. And now I shall be obliged if you will take me back to my friends.”
She looked up in Mr Cheviott’s face with fearless eyes, and no trace of agitation, but a somewhat deeper colour than usual in her cheeks, and the shadow of a quiver on her lips. But Mr Cheviott read her rightly; the gauntlet of defiance was thrown down, and her resolution staggered him.