England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Villages -- Fiction
‘What is the matter?’ she said, following him out. ‘Are you not my
cousin after all? Why, you were very nice last night, and I was
delighted to know somebody that belonged to me on my father’s side. And
they all said we were so like each other. What has gone wrong? Are you
not my cousin after all?’
She went out after him as she spoke into the garden, where a little
while before she had greeted him so heartily, filled with astonishment
and dismay, yet with a sense of absurdity also. And the young man, who
had made so abrupt an exit, was in fact rather sore in heart, feeling
that he had not done himself any credit, and that he had been snubbed
and ‘sat upon,’ as Mab said. Her frank surprise and regret gave him a
little consolation. He turned round when they both came out into the
garden from the narrow doorway. ‘I am just the same,’ he said, still
somewhat sullenly, but melting, ‘as I was last night.’
‘But then,’ cried Mab, ‘why did you call me “this young lady”? and why
did you look at mother so, and let her hand drop as if it had been a
frog, and do like this to me?’ Mab was not a mimic, like her cousin
Florence, but the imitation she made of his stiff and angry bow was so
ludicrous that he could not but laugh--stiffly. And Mab, who did not
know what it was to be stiff, laughed out with all her heart, with a
half childish cordial crow, which sounded into the fresh air with the
most genuine tone of innocent mirth. ‘You had better shake hands with me
after that, Cousin Will,’ she said.
‘You are making peace, Miss Mab,’ said Leo Swinford, who had followed
them out.
‘No, I am not making peace, for we never made war,’ said Mab, who had
given her cousin a warm grasp of the hand. And she stood at the gate
looking after them with some regret. For Lord Will was young, and they
were of the same blood, and he was a great novelty, something far more
new than even Leo Swinford. She was unfeignedly sorry that he was going
away. And she could not understand why, nor how it was that the young
man who was so cordial yesterday should be so cold again now.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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