Comedies of Courtship. Anthony Hope
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read it; Mary followed his eyes, and the moment they reached the end, without giving him time to speak, she exclaimed, “There, you see I spoke the truth. I had sent him away. What does he say to you, John?”
“I never heard of him in my life before.”
“John! Then who is your letter from?”
He hesitated. He felt an impulse to imitate her candor, but prudence suggested that he should be sure of his ground first.
“Tell me all,” he said, sitting down. “Who is this man, and what has he to do with you?”
“Why don’t you show me his letter? I don’t know what he’s said about me.”
“What could he say about you?”
“Well he—he might say that—that I cared for him, John.”
“And do you?” demanded John, and his voice was anxious.
Duty demanded a falsehood; Mary did her very best to satisfy its imperious commands. It was no use.
“Oh, John,” she murmured, and then began to cry.
For a moment wounded pride struggled with John’s relief; but then a glorious vision of what this admission of Mary’s might mean to him swept away his pique.
“Read this,” he said, giving her Dora Bellairs’s letter, “and then we’ll have an explanation.”
Half an hour later Miss Bussey was roused from a pleasant snooze. John and Mary stood beside her, hand in hand. They wore brother and sister now—that was an integral part of the arrangement—and so they stood hand in hand. Their faces were radiant.
“We came to tell you, Auntie dear, that we have decided that we’re not suited to one another,” began Mary.
“Not at all,” said John decisively.
Miss Bussey stared helplessly from one to the other.
“It’s all right, Miss Bussey,” remarked John cheerfully. “We’ve had an explanation; we part by mutual consent.”
“John,” said Mary, “is to be just my brother and I his sister. Oh, and Auntie, I want to go with him to Cannes.”
This last suggestion, which naturally did not appear to any well-regulated mind to harmonize with what had gone before, restored voice to Miss Bussey.
“What’s the matter with you? Are you mad?” she demanded.
John sat down beside her. His friends anticipated a distinguished Parliamentary career for John; he could make anything sound reasonable. Miss Bussey was fascinated by his suave and fluent narrative of what had befallen Mary and himself; she could not but admire his just remarks on the providential disclosure of the true state of the case before it was too late, and sympathized with the picture of suffering nobly suppressed which grew under his skilful hand; she was inflamed when he ardently declared his purpose of seeking out Dora; she was touched when he kissed Mary’s hand and declared that the world held no nobler woman. Before John’s eloquence even the stern facts of a public engagement, of invited guests, of dresses ordered and presents received, lost their force, and the romantic spirit, rekindled, held undivided sway in Miss Bussey’s heart.
“But,” she said, “why does Mary talk of going to Cannes with you?”
“Mr. Ellerton is at Cannes, Aunt,” murmured Mary, shyly.
“But you can’t travel with John.”
“Oh, but you must come too.”
“It looks as if you were running after him.”
“I’ll chance Charlie thinking that,” cried Mary, clasping her hands in glee.
Miss Bussey pretended to be reluctant to undertake the journey, but she was really quite ready to yield, and soon everything was settled on the new basis.
“And now to write and tell people,” said Miss Bussey. “That’s the worst part of it.”
“Poor dear! We’ll help,” cried Mary. “But I must write to Cannes.”
“Wire!” cried John.
“Of course, wire!” echoed Mary.
“The first thing tomorrow.”
“Before breakfast.”
“Mary, I shall never forget——.”
“No, John, it’s you who——.” and they went off in a torrent of mutual laudation.
Miss Bussey shook her head.
“If they think all that of one another why don’t they marry?” she said.
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