He held out his hand to her, standing still; and she turned and looked at him steadily, gravely, the flutter utterly stilled in her heart.
“No, Richard, thank you,” she said. “It is too late for that sort of thing now.”
He shrugged his shoulders as he looked at her. “Well—if you think so,” he said; and they walked together once more to the end of the terrace. I suppose he could have gone on quite steadily, as if nothing had happened; but Mary was not capable of this. When they turned again, she broke away from him, saying something incoherent about my lady calling her—which was not the case, of course. Mary found it unpleasant to be near him all day after this; and in the languor of the waning afternoon, when all the guests were gone, she escaped to the woods, where Dick followed her, anxious too to escape from his own thoughts. But yet what kind thoughts these were!—what an exquisite, gentle melancholy it was that moved poor Dick, infinitely sad, yet sweeter than being happy! He had a feeling for Violet which he had never had for any woman—which he believed he never would have again for any woman—and she was his brother’s wife, God bless her! Dick was right in that last thought. He would never think of any other again as he had thought of Vi; but for all that his wound was not a deadly wound, and his love was of the imagination rather than the heart. He did not mean to tell Miss Percival about it in so many words; but she was an understanding woman, and could make a great deal out of a very little. She read him as clearly as if she had seen into his heart. And so, I think, she did; and Dick’s heart was so soft that a great deal came out of it which he had never known to be there. Once only she startled him greatly by an abrupt exclamation. In the very midst of something he was saying she broke out, interrupting him, in words of which he could not tell what they meant, or to whom they referred.
“This is the one I used to think I knew!” cried Mary to herself. “I was not deceived, only too early for him. This is the one I knew!”
Was she going out of her wits, the kind woman? But years after Dick had a glimmering of understanding as to what she meant.
Before Richard went away he told his mother what had happened. He was too much a man of the world to believe for a moment that such a secret could be kept or that Mary would not tell; and it was one of his principles, when anything unpleasant could be said about you, to take care to say it yourself. Just before he bade her good-bye, he told Lady Eskside: “Don’t say I never try to please you, mother,” he said; “I asked Mary to have me on Val’s wedding-day——”
“Richard! Lord bless us! and Mary said——”
“No, thank you,” said Richard, with a laugh: and kissed his mother, and went away.
Lady Eskside, very full of this strange intimation, walked down the avenue to meet the old lord on his return from the station whither he had accompanied his son. She took his arm and they walked up together. “The train was in time, for a wonder, and he’s off, Catherine,” said the old lord. “So now you and me must settle down, as it’s all over; and be thankful we have Dick to ‘stand by the old folks,’ as he says.”
“Yes,” said my lady, a little distraite; “but I’ve something to tell you. Richard asked Mary before he went away——”