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<h4>CHAPTER XXVII.</h4>
<h3>"WONDERFUL BIRD!"<br/> </h3>
<p>There were but two days between the scenes described in the last
chapter and the day fixed for Mary's departure, and during these two
days Larry Twentyman's name was not mentioned in the house. Mrs.
Masters did not make herself quite pleasant to her stepdaughter,
having still some grudge against her as to the £20. Nor, though she
had submitted to the visit to Cheltenham, did she approve of it. It
wasn't the way, she said, to make such a girl as Mary like her life
at Chowton Farm, going and sitting and doing nothing in old Lady
Ushant's drawing-room. It was cocking her up with gimcrack notions
about ladies till she'd be ashamed to look at her own hands after she
had done a day's work with them. There was no doubt some truth in
this. The woman understood the world and was able to measure Larry
Twentyman and Lady Ushant and the rest of them. Books and pretty
needlework and easy conversation would consume the time at
Cheltenham, whereas at Chowton Farm there would be a dairy and a
poultry yard,—under difficulties on account of the foxes,—with a
prospect of baby linen and children's shoes and stockings. It was all
that question of gentlemen and ladies, and of non-gentlemen and
non-ladies! They ought, Mrs. Masters thought, to be kept distinct.
She had never, she said, wanted to put her finger into a pie that
didn't belong to her. She had never tried to be a grand lady. But
Mary was perilously near the brink on either side, and as it was to
be her lucky fate at last to sit down to a plentiful but work-a-day
life at Chowton Farm she ought to have been kept away from the
maundering idleness of Lady Ushant's lodgings at Cheltenham. But Mary
heard nothing of this during these two days, Mrs. Masters bestowing
the load of her wisdom upon her unfortunate husband.</p>
<p>Reginald Morton had been twice over at Mrs. Masters' house with
reference to the proposed journey. Mrs. Masters was hardly civil to
him, as he was supposed to be among the enemies;—but she had no
suspicion that he himself was the enemy of enemies. Had she
entertained such an idea she might have reconciled herself to it, as
the man was able to support a wife, and by such a marriage she would
have been at once relieved from all further charge. In her own mind
she would have felt very strongly that Mary had chosen the wrong man,
and thrown herself into the inferior mode of life. But her own
difficulties in the matter would have been solved. There was,
however, no dream of such a kind entertained by any of the family.
Reginald Morton was hardly regarded as a young man, and was supposed
to be gloomy, misanthropic, and bookish. Mrs. Masters was not at all
averse to the companionship for the journey, and Mr. Masters was
really grateful to one of the old family for being kind to his girl.</p>
<p>Nor must it be supposed that Mary herself had any expectations or
even any hopes. With juvenile aptness to make much of the little
things which had interested her, and prone to think more than was
reasonable of any intercourse with a man who seemed to her to be so
superior to others as Reginald Morton, she was anxious for an
opportunity to set herself right with him about that scene at the
bridge. She still thought that he was offended and that she had given
him cause for offence. He had condescended to make her a request to
which she had acceded,—and she had then not done as she had
promised. She thought she was sure that this was all she had to say
to him, and yet she was aware that she was unnaturally excited at the
idea of spending three or four hours alone with him. The fly which
was to take him to the railway station called for Mary at the
attorney's door at ten o'clock, and the attorney handed her in. "It
is very good of you indeed, Mr. Morton, to take so much trouble with
my girl," said the attorney, really feeling what he said. "It is very
good of you to trust her to me," said Reginald, also sincerely. Mary
was still to him the girl who had been brought up by his aunt at
Bragton, and not the fit companion for Larry Twentyman.</p>
<p>Reginald Morton had certainly not made up his mind to ask Mary
Masters to be his wife. Thinking of Mary Masters very often as he had
done during the last two months, he was quite sure that he did not
mean to marry at all. He did acknowledge to himself that were he to
allow himself to fall in love with any one it would be with Mary
Masters,—but for not doing so there were many reasons. He had lived
so long alone that a married life would not suit him; as a married
man he would be a poor man; he himself was averse to company, whereas
most women prefer society. And then, as to this special girl, had he
not reason for supposing that she preferred another man to him, and a
man of such a class that the very preference showed her to be unfit
to mate with him? He also cozened himself with an idea that it was
well that he should have the opportunity which the journey would give
him of apologising for his previous rudeness to her.</p>
<p>In the carriage they had the compartment to themselves with the
exception of an old lady at the further end who had a parrot in a
cage for which she had taken a first-class ticket. "I can't offer you
this seat," said the old lady, "because it has been booked and paid
for for my bird." As neither of the new passengers had shown the
slightest wish for the seat the communication was perhaps
unnecessary. Neither of the two had any idea of separating from the
other for the sake of the old lady's company.</p>
<p>They had before them a journey of thirty miles on one railway, then a
stop of half an hour at the Hinxton Junction; and then another
journey of about equal length. In the first hour very little was said
that might not have been said in the presence of Lady Ushant,—or
even of Mrs. Masters. There might be a question whether, upon the
whole, the parrot had not the best of the conversation, as the bird,
which the old lady declared to be the wonder of his species, repeated
the last word of nearly every sentence spoken either by our friends
or by the old lady herself. "Don't you think you'd be less liable to
cold with that window closed?" the old lady said to Mary.
"Cosed,—cosed,—cosed," said the bird, and Morton was of course
constrained to shut the window. "He is a wonderful bird," said the
old lady. "Wonderful bird;—wonderful bird;—wonderful bird," said
the parrot, who was quite at home with this expression. "We shall be
able to get some lunch at Hinxton," said Reginald. "Inxton," screamed
the bird—"Caw,—caw—caw." "He's worth a deal of money," said the
old lady. "Deal o' money, Deal o' money," repeated the bird as he
scrambled round the wire cage with a tremendous noise, to the great
triumph of the old lady.</p>
<p>No doubt the close attention which the bird paid to everything that
passed, and the presence of the old lady as well, did for a time
interfere with their conversation. But, after awhile, the old lady
was asleep, and the bird, having once or twice attempted to imitate
the somnolent sounds which his mistress was making, seemed also to go
to sleep himself. Then Reginald, beginning with Lady Ushant and the
old Morton family generally, gradually got the conversation round to
Bragton and the little bridge. He had been very stern when he had
left her there, and he knew also that at that subsequent interview,
when he had brought Lady Ushant's note to her at her father's house,
he had not been cordially kind to her. Now they were thrown together
for an hour or so in the closest companionship, and he wished to make
her comfortable and happy. "I suppose you remember Bragton?" he said.</p>
<p>"Every path and almost every tree about the place."</p>
<p>"So do I. I called there the other day. Family quarrels are so silly,
you know."</p>
<p>"Did you see Mr. Morton?"</p>
<p>"No;—and he hasn't returned my visit yet. I don't know whether he
will,—and I don't much mind whether he does or not. That old woman
is there, and she is very bitter against me. I don't care about the
people, but I am sorry that I cannot see the place."</p>
<p>"I ought to have walked with you that day," she said in a very low
tone. The parrot opened his eyes and looked at them as though he were
striving to catch his cue.</p>
<p>"Of course you ought." But as he said this he smiled and there was no
offence in his voice. "I dare say you didn't guess how much I thought
of it. And then I was a bear to you. I always am a bear when I am not
pleased."</p>
<p>"Peas, peas, peas," said the parrot.</p>
<p>"I shall be a bear to that brute of a bird before long."</p>
<p>"What a very queer bird he is."</p>
<p>"He is a public nuisance,—and so is the old lady who brought him
here." This was said quite in a whisper. "It is very odd, Miss
Masters, but you are literally the only person in all Dillsborough in
regard to whom I have any genuine feeling of old friendship."</p>
<p>"You must remember a great many."</p>
<p>"But I did not know any well enough. I was too young to have seen
much of your father. But when I came back at that time you and I were
always together."</p>
<p>"Gedder, gedder, gedder," said the parrot.</p>
<p>"If that bird goes on like that I'll speak to the guard," said Mr.
Morton with affected anger.</p>
<p>"Polly mustn't talk," said the old lady waking up.</p>
<p>"Tok, tok, tok, tok," screamed the parrot. Then the old lady threw a
shawl over him and again went to sleep.</p>
<p>"If I behaved badly I beg your pardon," said Mary.</p>
<p>"That's just what I wanted to say to you, Miss Masters,—only a man
never can do those things as well as a lady. I did behave badly, and
I do beg your pardon. Of course I ought to have asked Mr. Twentyman
to come with us. I know that he is a very good fellow."</p>
<p>"Indeed he is," said Mary Masters, with all the emphasis in her
power. "Deedy is, deedy is, deedy is, deedy is," repeated the parrot
in a very angry voice about a dozen times under his shawl, and while
the old lady was remonstrating with her too talkative companion their
tickets were taken and they ran into the Hinxton Station. "If the old
lady is going on to Cheltenham we'll travel third class before we'll
sit in the same carriage again with that bird," said Morton laughing
as he took Mary into the refreshment-room. But the old lady did not
get into the same compartment as they started, and the last that was
heard of the parrot at Hinxton was a quarrel between him and the
guard as to certain railway privileges.</p>
<p>When they had got back into the railway carriage Morton was very
anxious to ask whether she was in truth engaged to marry the young
man as to whose good fellowship she and the parrot had spoken up so
emphatically, but he hardly knew how to put the question. And were
she to declare that she was engaged to him, what should he say then?
Would he not be bound to congratulate her? And yet it would be
impossible that any word of such congratulation should pass his lips.
"You will stay a month at Cheltenham?" he said.</p>
<p>"Your aunt was kind enough to ask me for so long."</p>
<p>"I shall go back on Saturday. If I were to stay longer I should feel
myself to be in her way. And I have come to live a sort of hermit's
life. I hardly know how to sit down and eat my dinner in company, and
have no idea of seeing a human being before two o'clock."</p>
<p>"What do you do with yourself?"</p>
<p>"I rush in and out of the garden and spend my time between my books
and my flowers and my tobacco pipes."</p>
<p>"Do you mean to live always like that?" she asked,—in perfect
innocency.</p>
<p>"I think so. Sometimes I doubt whether it's wise."</p>
<p>"I don't think it wise at all," said Mary.</p>
<p>"Why not?"</p>
<p>"People should live together, I think."</p>
<p>"You mean that I ought to have a wife?"</p>
<p>"No;—I didn't mean that. Of course that must be just as you might
come to like any one well enough. But a person need not shut himself
up and be a hermit because he is not married. Lord Rufford is not
married and he goes everywhere."</p>
<p>"He has money and property and is a man of pleasure."</p>
<p>"And your cousin, Mr. John Morton."</p>
<p>"He is essentially a man of business, which I never could have been.
And they say he is going to be married to that Miss Trefoil who has
been staying there. Unfortunately I have never had anything that I
need do in all my life, and therefore I have shut myself up as you
call it. I wonder what your life will be." Mary blushed and said
nothing. "If there were anything to tell I wish I knew it."</p>
<p>"There is nothing to tell."</p>
<p>"Nothing?"</p>
<p>She thought a moment before she answered him and then she said,
"Nothing. What should I have to tell?" she added trying to laugh.</p>
<p>He remained for a few minutes silent, and then put his head out
towards her as he spoke. "I was afraid that you might have to tell
that you were engaged to marry Mr. Twentyman."</p>
<p>"I am not."</p>
<p>"Oh!—I am so glad to hear it."</p>
<p>"I don't know why you should be glad. If I had said I was, it would
have been very uncivil if you hadn't declared yourself glad to hear
that."</p>
<p>"Then I must have been uncivil for I couldn't have done it. Knowing
how my aunt loves you, knowing what she thinks of you and what she
would think of such a match, remembering myself what I do of you, I
could not have congratulated you on your engagement to a man whom I
think so much inferior to yourself in every respect. Now you know it
all,—why I was angry at the bridge, why I was hardly civil to you at
your father's house; and, to tell the truth, why I have been so
anxious to be alone with you for half an hour. If you think it an
offence that I should take so much interest in you, I will beg your
pardon for that also."</p>
<p>"Oh, no!"</p>
<p>"I have never spoken to my aunt about it, but I do not think that she
would have been contented to hear that you were to become the wife of
Mr. Twentyman."</p>
<p>What answer she was to make to this or whether she was to make any
she had not decided when they were interrupted by the reappearance of
the old lady and the bird. She was declaring to the guard at the
window, that as she had paid for a first-class seat for her parrot
she would get into any carriage she liked in which there were two
empty seats. Her bird had been ill-treated by some scurrilous
ill-conditioned travellers and she had therefore returned to the
comparative kindness of her former companions. "They threatened to
put him out of the window, sir," said the old woman to Morton as she
was forcing her way in.</p>
<p>"Windersir, windersir," said the parrot.</p>
<p>"I hope he'll behave himself here, ma'am," said Morton.</p>
<p>"Heremam, heremam, heremam," said the parrot.</p>
<p>"Now go to bed like a good bird," said the old lady putting her shawl
over the cage,—whereupon the parrot made a more diabolical noise
than ever under the curtain.</p>
<p>Mary felt that there was no more to be said about Mr. Twentyman and
her hopes and prospects, and for the moment she was glad to be left
in peace. The old lady and the parrot continued their conversation
till they had all arrived in Cheltenham;—and Mary as she sat alone
thinking of it afterwards might perhaps feel a soft regret that
Reginald Morton had been interrupted by the talkative animal.</p>
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