On the next morning Ben went away without a word, no repentance of his intention or lingering desire to postpone it having apparently crossed his mind. He took leave of his mother the night before, for he was going away early. ‘It will not be for seven years this time,’ he said, as he kissed her, and was going to kiss Mary, too,—a formula which his cousin, with a pang of mortification in her heart, felt might be better dispensed with. ‘Nay; I shall see you in the morning,’ she said, half terrified lest the blood which she felt to be scorching her cheek might ‘make him think anything.’ What should it make him think? She puzzled him a little, it must be allowed; but he was not the kind of man who can think of many different things at one time. His mind had been absorbed with the business which brought him to Renton. It was absorbed now with thoughts of what he had to do in the winding-up of his own affairs. Now and then it flitted vaguely across his perception that Mary had something on her mind{v.3-263} which, one time or other, it would be his business to see into. Dear little Mary! Ben was very fond of his cousin. If she had wanted a hair from the beard of the Cham of Tartary, or a golden apple from the Tree of Bliss in the gardens of the Enchanted Isles, he would have done all a man could do to get it for her. But he did not know now what she wanted, or if she wanted anything,—and that was one of the matters which could wait till he came home.
Laurie, too, was going away with Ben, though only to town; and the night before they left was a night of talk and recollections more than the separated family had yet permitted themselves. It was true that Hillyard put himself singularly in their way. Perhaps he had not had all the advantages of the Rentons; but still he was a gentleman, though much knocking about the world had taken some of the outside polish off him, and he had never shown any inclination to intrude upon their private talk, or make himself a sharer in the family communings,—never till now. Perhaps it was because they were just setting off again, and Ben’s family came in for the attendrissement, which might have been more justly bestowed upon his own. But it was ridiculous that he should plant himself by Mary, occupying her attention, and pouring forth his confidences upon her, as it seemed to him good to do. They were all gathered together in the drawing-room as they had been so many times before, after Mrs. Renton went{v.3-264} to bed, with the windows open as usual, the lights shaded, the languor of the night and its wistfulness and soft content and melancholy stealing in; the half-darkness and the soft breathing of the night air, and the fluttering moths about the lamp, were all accessories of the picture which nobody could forget. And there was a mysterious gloom about the walls and the roof, owing to the shades on the lamps, which gave a more distinct character to the half-visible faces, each in its corner, and to the brilliant circles of illumination round every light. They had begun to talk of their father, and this last event in the story of his will, which was so strange, and so unlike all his previous life.
‘One would like to know what he meant by it,’ said Laurie. ‘Poor, dear old father! If there had been something dependent on the issue of our probation; if there had been a reward for the man that had used his talent best, like you, Ben; or for the man who had given him an heir, like Frank; but all to end in this aimless way! We have always thought ourselves very sound in the brain, we Rentons, or I know what one might be tempted to think.’
‘That is what I have thought all along,’ said Frank.
‘It is not for us to say so, at least,’ said the elder brother. ‘I believe illness coming on had confused his mind. They say it does. I don’t think he can have been quite clear what he was doing. And then{v.3-265} he remembered at last, and was sorry,—don’t you recollect?’
‘My poor father!’ said Laurie. And then there was a pause; and in this pause, through the dimness and the stillness, came the sound of Hillyard’s voice, too low to be distinguishable, coming from Mary’s corner, addressed to her with a volubility and eagerness which struck them all with amazement. He had not meant to be so audible; and when, after the first silence, a little laugh burst from Alice at the one voice thus brought into prominence, he faltered and stopped too, as people do under such circumstances. What could he be finding to say to Mary? and what could Mary be thinking of to listen to him? were the half-angry thoughts that flashed over Ben’s mind. Of course he was a guest here, and everybody’s equal. Yet still, it seemed to Ben as if, on the whole, this was bad taste, to say the least, on Hillyard’s part.
But Alice, though she had laughed at the sound of the solitary voice which continued when they all dropped, was eager to let loose her opinions, too, on the other subject. ‘I cannot see what other will could have been just, now,’ she said. ‘If he had told you something to do, it would have been different. But he gave you nothing to do; and how were you to know what he wanted? It was not Laurie’s three princes, after all.’
‘And, now I come to think of it, I don’t believe in my three princes,’ said Laurie. ‘I have not a{v.3-266} doubt they fought it out when papa was out of the way. Fancy two elder brothers giving in to a fellow because he had the marvellousest little dog that ever was seen! It came to natural justice, you may be sure, at the end, and the strongest had it. And it has come to a kind of natural justice with us, so far as law allows. Poor old father! One used to feel as if he must be so much wiser than we were. And it proves he was as confused as the rest, and saw just as short a way before him, and stultified himself, half-knowingly, like one of his own sons.’
‘Don’t!’ said Ben, with a voice of pain. He was more angry with his father than soft-hearted Laurie ever could have been, and consequently was less able to talk of it. ‘Thank heaven!’ he cried, suddenly, ‘I don’t suppose it has done any of us any lasting harm.’
‘No,’ said Laurie, out of the silence, after a pause, ‘no more harm than we should have done ourselves, anyhow, for our own hand.’
And somehow, in the room, there was the sound of a sigh; whom it proceeded from it would be hard to tell—six people all gathered together of a soft autumn evening, and not too much light to betray them, it would be strange if there was not more than one who sighed. But Alice, in the shade, slid her hand through her husband’s arm, and said joyously, ‘It has done us no harm, Frank!’ ‘Because we would not let it,’ he whispered back again, brushing{v.3-267} her soft cheek with his moustache. Yes, that was the secret. Have your will, anyhow, whether fortune permits or no; and in the long run the chances are you will come out just as well as your neighbour, who allowed fortune to constrain him, and will have had your will and your happiness into the bargain; bad social morality, perhaps, but just as good fact as any other. The young soldier and his wife had their little triumph unsuspected by the others, who heard but a momentary whisper in that corner, which was drowned by Hillyard’s more forcible whisper, always conversing with Mary. What did the fellow mean by it? Ben was so disgusted by this ‘bad taste’ of his friend, that he got up and stepped out on the lawn, with some murmur about a cigar. And the other men all rose and joined him, though not with any enthusiasm. When they had all trooped out, he stepped back for a moment, and held out his hand to his cousin.
‘Is it really the case, Mary, that I am not to bid you good-bye to-night?’
‘No,’ Mary said, drawing back, with a shy hesitation which he did not understand; ‘do you think I would let you go away,—so far,—and not make your breakfast for you the last morning? This is only good-night.’
‘Good-night, then,’ he said, but held her hand still. ‘What was that fellow, Hillyard, so voluble about?{v.3-268}’
‘That fellow!’ said Mary. ‘I thought he was your great friend. Indeed, it was mostly you he was talking about.’
‘A poor subject,’ Ben said, only half satisfied; and then she drew her hand away from him, and he went off with a half-suspicious glance at her, and a certain sense of uneasiness, to join the men outside.
A parting in the morning is of all things in the world the most detestable. He who would have a tender farewell, and leave a soft recollection behind him, let him depart by the night train,—the later the better,—when there is no inquisitive light to spy out, not only the tear, but even that humidity of eye which tells when tears are coming. Mary’s eyes were in this condition when Ben rose from his hurried breakfast, and came up to her in the full light of day, and of Mr. Hillyard, who lingered, though nobody wanted him. She had kept behind the urn, feeling that, after all, had she stayed up-stairs and watched him going away from her window, it would have been less unsatisfactory. ‘You’ll write and let me know how things are going on,’ Ben had said, not feeling particularly cheerful himself, but yet approaching the best part of the wing of a partridge to his mouth. ‘Oh, yes, of course I will write, as usual,’ Mary said, and he gave a nod of satisfaction as he ate. To be sure, he had to eat before he started. And then she added, ‘You’ll let us know as soon as you arrive.{v.3-269}’ And he nodded again over his coffee-cup. It was to give him his breakfast she had got up,—and what else was there to be expected? And when the dog-cart was at the door, Ben wiped the crumbs carefully from his moustache, and went up to his cousin, and took her hand, and bent over her. ‘Good-bye, Mary,’ he said, kissing her cheek, ‘take care of yourself. I’ll write a line from town before we start. I’m very sorry, now it has come to the last. Good-bye!’
‘Good-bye, Ben!’ she said, unable to articulate another word. The blood seemed all to stagnate about her heart. Up to this moment there had always been a possibility of something happening,—something being done or said. But now it was all over. A certain haze came over her eyes, and yet she could see him looking back at her as he went to the door, with an indefinable expression. She stood and held by the back of the chair, looking out of the window before which the dog-cart was standing, forgetting for the moment that there was any one else in the world.
‘Good-bye, Miss Westbury,’ said a voice at her ear.
Mary turned round with an impatience it was scarcely possible to disguise. ‘Oh, Mr. Hillyard, I beg your pardon! I thought you were gone. Good-bye!’ she said. He was standing holding out his hand with his eyes bent on her, and a glow in them such as even a woman agitated with feelings of her own could scarcely mistake.
‘Good-bye, Miss Westbury. I shall never for{v.3-270}get the days I have spent here,’ he said, and stooped over her hand, as if——
‘Hillyard! do you mean to stay all day?’ cried Ben from the dog-cart, in a tone which was not sweet.
‘Indeed, you will be late for the train; you have not a moment to lose,’ cried Mary, withdrawing her hand.
He muttered something, she could not tell what,—nor, indeed, did she care. ‘Not farewell yet,’ was it he said? But what did it matter? The interruption had so far roused her that she felt able to go to the window and smile and wave her hand to Ben. Hillyard was still holding his hat in his hand, trying to attract her attention, when the dog-cart disappeared down the avenue. Then Mary sat down and gazed straight before her, with that poignant sense of unreality which such a moment gives. Five minutes ago he was there; and now here was vacancy, silence,—a blank in which life lost itself. Five minutes, and all the world changed! Her brow was burning and heavy with tears unshed,—an ache which seemed physical, so hard the strain and pain it produced in her, went through her heart. And a whole long day to go through, and the birds singing merrily, and the sun shining, and old Willis on his way to remove the remains of Ben’s breakfast, and to spread the table for the family that remained! ‘It don’t seem no good, do it, Miss Mary, to have{v.3-271} master home so short, and he been so long away?’ Mary started to her feet at the words. No good indeed?—perhaps harm, if one dared say so!—deeper blank and silence after the momentary movement and the light!
And now to think it was all over, and that there remained nothing but the old life to be taken up again and gone on with just as before! If it had been night, when one could have shrouded one’s-self in one’s own room, and cried or slept, and forgotten one’s-self! But it was day,—early morning,—with a whole heap of duties to be performed, and people to look on while she was performing them. And Mary felt sick of it all,—the duties, and the daylight, and the life. Laurie, who thought early rising idiotic, went by a much later train, at what he called a rational hour. And then the house was left in its old quiet, but for the presence of Frank and Alice and the children, which no doubt made a great difference. When Mary went to her godmother with the newspaper she was questioned minutely about Ben’s departure and his looks. ‘Did he eat any breakfast, Mary?’ Mrs. Renton said, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.
‘He ate a very good breakfast,’ said Mary, with a slight sense of humour, but on the whole, a greater sense of something like displeasure. Yes, he had been quite able to eat breakfast, though he was going away!{v.3-272}
‘And enjoyed it, poor fellow?’ said his mother. ‘Ah, if one only knew when he would eat his next meal at Renton? And was he cheerful, my dear, or did he feel it very much? Poor Ben! None of you think how hard it is upon me!’
‘You have Frank, godmamma,’ said Mary, ‘and if he settles in the Dovecote it will be very nice for us all. And there is Laurie close at hand whenever you want him, and no one could be ............