PUT TO THE TOUCH.
Ben rushed up the narrow stairs three steps at a time, while Millicent
sat listening with her heart beating against her breast. If he had known
the flutter it was making, how glad, how hopeful, how proud the poor
young fool would have been! And it was all for him. A sudden hush fell
upon him as he went in at the sacred door. Such a privilege had never
been accorded him before. He had sat with Millicent by her mother’s
side; he had spoken to her even while Mrs. Tracy went about from one
occupation to another, leaving them virtually alone; but to have her all
to himself for,--how long?--a year,--half an hour,--a splendid moment
detached from ordinary calculations of time! His eagerness died into the
stillness of passion as he went in. She did not get up from her seat,
but greeted him with a little touch of her lovely hand, with a subdued
gracious smile. If it could be possible that she was a little moved by
it,--a little breathless, too! He came and sat down opposite the window,
as near her as he dared;--his eyes now shining, poor fellow! and great
waves of colour passing over his face.
‘Your mother said I might come,’ he faltered, with the very imbecility
of blessedness. And Millicent nodded her beautiful head kindly at him
again.
‘Mamma thought I would be lonely,’ she said. ‘Poor dear mamma! she
thinks too much of me.’
‘That is not possible,’ said Ben. ‘And,--how could she think of anything
else? Ah, if you would but let me try to amuse you a little! You are so
young,--so----; I envy your brother,’ said the lover, growing red, ‘when
I see how you give him all your thoughts.’
‘Not all,’ said Millicent, ‘oh, indeed, not all! Poor Fitzgerald! But we
have so many things to think of. There is no more amusement for poor
mamma and me.’
‘Amusement is a poor sort of thing,’ said Ben. ‘You don’t think I meant
balls and operas? I am not such a wretched fellow as that. What I meant
was, if--if you would but try to look round you, and see that there are
others in the world----’ here he made a pause, half out of awe of the
words that were on his lips, half with a lover’s device to fix her
attention upon them, half because of the grasp of passion upon himself
which impeded his breathing and his voice,--‘who love you,’ said Ben at
last, abruptly, ‘as well,--ten thousand times better than any brother in
the world.’
He was not thinking of Hamlet,--but passion is something like genius,
and finds a similar expression now and then in very absence of all
thought.
‘Ah, Mr. Renton,’ said Millicent, ‘you must not say those sort of things
to me. Poor, dear Fitzgerald was not so very fond of me. Some women get
loved like that, but I don’t think I am one of them. Hush now! If you
are going to speak nonsense I must send you away.’
‘It is no nonsense,’ said Ben. ‘If you could but have seen my heart all
the time I have been here! It has had no thought but one. I know I am a
fool to say so,--if I were a prince instead of a disinherited knight----
’
‘Disinherited?’ said Millicent, losing in a moment the soft droop of her
hand, the soft fall of her eyelids,--all those tender indications of a
modest emotion,--sitting bolt upright and looking him straight in the
face. ‘Mr. Renton, what do you mean?’
The suddenness of the change gave him a certain thrill. He did not
understand it, nor had he time at such a moment to pause and ask himself
what it meant. He felt the jar all over him, but went on all the same.
‘Yes, I am disinherited,’ he said, leaning over her, meeting her
startled glance with eyes full of such a real and fiery glow of passion
as struck her dumb. ‘If it had not been so, could I have borne to keep
silent all this time and never say a word to you? I am a wretch to say
anything now. I have been a fool to come here. Now I think of it, I
have no right to any answer. I have nothing--nothing to offer. But,
Millicent, let me tell you,--don’t deny me that,--this once!’
‘Mr. Renton,’ said Millicent, ‘I do not know what you have to tell me.
It is so strange, all this. And I have been thinking all the time you
were---- Never mind speaking to me about myself; that does not interest
me. Tell me about this.’
‘I will tell you everything,’ said Ben, ‘and then you will give me my
sentence,--death or life,--that is what it will be. Don’t take up your
work. Oh, how can you be so calm, you women? Cannot you see what it is
to me;--death or life?’
Millicent looked up at him, dropping her work hesitatingly on her knee.
When he met that glance, the blue eyes looked so wondering, so wistful,
so innocent, that poor Ben in his madness got down on his knees and
kissed the hand that lay in her lap and the muslin that surrounded it,
and cried out, with a kind of sweet heart-break;--‘Yes, it is right you
should be calm; I love you best so. For me, the earth and the passions;
for you, heaven. I agree,--that is what God must have meant.’
With a deeper wonder still,--a real wonder,--that made her face angelic,
Millicent listened, and felt the hot lips touch her hand. What did the
madman mean? What was he agreeing to and approving? Had he found her
out? Was he mocking her? She was so bewildered that she said nothing;
and she was touched, too, at her heart. She had an impulse to lay her
other hand on his head, and smooth down the curls upon it with a touch
of natural kindness and pity. Poor boy! whose head was all running on
wild nonsense, and who could not understand the nature of her thoughts.
‘Mr. Renton,’ she said, with a little tremble in her voice, which was
not affected,--‘I am alone. Whatever you have to say to me it must not
be said in this way.’
He rose up abashed and penitent, poor fellow! feeling the serene, fair
creature worlds above him; and yet taking courage because of that little
shake in her voice. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, with broken words,--‘I did
not know any better. I thought on my knees was the most natural way. But
I see. A man goes on his knees to the woman that loves him; but I----
only love you.’
And then he stood away from her and gazed at her, looking down from his
height on her low seat, her drooping head, with such humility and
splendour of devotion, that poor Millicent was dazzled. Men had told her
this same thing before, but never in this way. Somehow it made her
shrink a little, and feel a certain shame. Not good enough to go on his
knees to her, he thought;--and yet, oh, so much more innocent, so much
purer and better than she! Such an extraordinary scene had never
occurred to her before; and in face of the unknown being standing
before her, all her experience failed, and she could not tell what to
do. ‘Don’t speak like that,’ she said, half peevishly, in her
discomfiture. ‘I am not a queen, nor Una, nor anything of the kind; and
you are not King Arthur, that I know of. Come and sit down by me as you
were before, and tell me about yourself. That is much more interesting.
I do not believe you are disinherited. Come and tell me what you mean.’
After a moment Ben obeyed. He was nearer to her so; and she sat and
gazed up at him, with heartfelt interest, which made him flush all over
with a warm thrill of happiness. She gave all her attention to his
story. He told her everything, watching the fluctuations, the shades of
surprise, of sympathy, of something else which he could not divine, on
her face. Once she put out her hand to him with a momentary
compassionate impulse. She was deeply interested; there was no fiction
in that. She was still more deeply disappointed,--sorry for herself,
sorry for him. And Ben thought it was all for him. When she took her
hand back again, away from him, and sighed, and suffered the cloud to
fall over her face, his heart began to ache for her; for her, not for
himself. He had roused her sympathy too far;--he had given her pain.
‘Don’t be so sorry for me,’ he said, with his lip quivering, ‘or you
will make me too happy. What do I mind if you care? I am young enough
to make a way for myself,--and, Millicent, for you too,--if----’ cried
the young man, drawing closer to her. What could she do with such a
passionate suitor? Perhaps she was not so sensitive to avoid the touch,
the close approach, the almost embrace of the man she could not accept,
as a more innocent girl would have been; though, indeed, there was not a
touch of the wanton in her, poor girl! She was an adventuress and
mercenary;--that was all.
‘Oh, Mr. Renton, don’t speak so!’ she said, ‘you don’t know what you are
saying. Though I am a woman I know the world better than you do. It is
very, very hard to make your way. Look at poor Fitzgerald. And when you
have tied a burden round your neck to begin with! Ah, no; you must not
talk of this any more.’
‘Burden!’ cried Ben, all glowing and brightening. ‘I like that! Divine
cordial, you mean;--elixir of life, to make a man twice as strong, twice
as able. Ah, look here, Millicent--you said round my neck!’
‘I said nonsense,’ she said, withdrawing from him; ‘and so do you.
Double nonsense,--folly! What could we two do together? I did not know
about this, or that your father was dead, or anything. Don’t look so
wondering at me. What had I to do with it? Mr. Renton, I have not been
brought up rich like you. I know what the world is, and bitter, bitter
poverty. Oh, how bitter it is! You are playing at being poor; but if you
should ever be put to such shifts as some people are;--if you should
have to fly and hide yourself for the want of a little money;--if you
had to live hard, and be shabby, and not very honest---- Oh, don’t speak
to me!’ cried Millicent, turning away from him, and bursting into
uncontrollable tears. She was angry, and her heart was sore; she had
seemed so near comfort, and prosperity, and happiness. ‘Even I could
have been fond of him!’ she said to herself, bitterly. And now he could
tell her calmly that he was disinherited! Such a disappointment after
such a delicious sense of security was more than Millicent could bear.
She could govern herself, as a man guides a horse, when she chose; but
when she did not choose, her self-abandonment was absolute. Since he was
to be good for nothing to her, she cared no longer for what Ben Renton
might think. She thrust her pretty shoulders up, and turned from him and
cried. She was sick with disappointment. And it was her way not to care
for appearances except when they were of use, which they could no longer
be here.
As for Ben, he sat looking on with a consternation and amazement not to
be described. He grew sick, too, and faint, and giddy with the great
downfall. But he was no more able to understand her now than she had
been to understand him a little while before. For some minutes he only
gazed at her, his own eyes brimming over with remorse,--for was it not
he who had driven her to tears? And he felt for her the tenderest
longing and pity. He wanted to take her into his arms to comfort her;
and would not, being too reverent to take such advantage of her
distress. But he could not sit still and look on. He got up and went
away to the other end of the room, shaking the whole house with his
agitated steps. Then he came and knelt down before her, and touched
softly the hands that covered her face.
‘Oh, Millicent,’ he cried, ‘don’t break my heart! I would rather have
died than deceived you. Tell me what is the matter. Tell me what I can
do. I will do anything in the world you please. It cannot be you who are
poor. You ought to have everything. Oh, Millicent, say one word to me if
you do not mean to break my heart!’
‘It would do no good if I were to speak,’ sobbed Millicent. ‘I have
nothing to say. Go away, and never mind,--that is the best.’
‘But I will mind; and I cannot go away,’ said Ben; and he drew one of
her hands from her flushed cheek, and held it fast. He ‘made her do it.’
That was what she said to herself years after when the remembrance would
rankle in her mind. He made her do it. He held her hand close in his,
and drew from her the story of all her woes: their debts, their
destitution; her mother’s health, which was failing, the baths in
Germany which she was ordered, but could not get to,--all the miserable
story. She poured it out to Ben as she never would have done had he been
her accepted lover,--mingling the narrative with tears, with broken
sobs, with entreaties to him not to make her say more. And all the time
her hand was in his,--soft, and warm, and trembling;--her eyes now
raised to him with pitiful looks, now sinking in shame and distress. And
there was nobody near to interfere in this humiliating scene. Even the
mother, who was lingering intentionally along the streets to give full
time for the explanation, would have shrunk with a pang of pride and
horror from such a revelation as this. But the two were alone, and had
it all their own way. Ben himself sat by Millicent’s side in a very
ecstasy of tenderness and pity. If he could but have taken her in his
arms, and carried her away,--away from the suffering, the trouble, the
shame! Yes, he felt there was shame in it,--confusedly, painfully, with
a burning red on his cheek,--and yet was intoxicated and overwhelmed by
her touch, by her look, by the love he had for her. They sat together as
in a trance,--passion, tenderness, trickery, mean hopes and great, shame
and pride and dear love, all mingling together. Such a story to be
linked on to a love-tale! such a love, veiling its face with its wings,
loving the deeper to hide the shame!
When Mrs. Tracy returned, with a very audible knock at the door, Ben
rose and tore himself away, his heart, and even his bodily frame, all
thrilling and tingling with the excitement through which he had passed.
She had no sooner ascended the stairs than he seized his hat and tore
out, jumping into the first hansom he encountered, with the instinct of
old times, and dashing down to the far-off City,--blocked up as ever in
all its thoroughfares where men in haste would pass. It was not too late
to find his father’s agent in one of the mean alleys about Cheapside,
who would pay him his allowance. It was just the time for it, by good
luck. And then he rushed off to Christie’s, and had an earnest
conversation about the buhl and the china which were not yet sold. He
took no time to consider anything;--such a state of affairs could not,
must not last a day. This was what he was saying to himself over and
over. It must not last. He had no room for more than that thought.
When Mrs. Tracy entered the drawing-room she found her daughter lying
back in her chair, with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. Millicent
let her approach without uncovering her face, or taking any notice, and
the anxiety of the mother grew into alarm as she drew near. She had said
‘Well?’ with expectation and interest as she came in, feeling very sure
of the tale there must be to tell. But as she came nearer and saw that
Millicent did not move, Mrs. Tracy got very much frightened. ‘Good
heavens, Millicent! do you mean to say it has come to nothing?’ she
cried sharply, with keen anxiety. But Millicent was by no means prepared
to answer. She had been shaken by this totally unexpected, unlikely sort
of interview. It had gone to her heart, though she had not been very
sure whether she had a heart; and she did not know now how to explain,
or what to say.
‘Has it come to nothing?’ Mrs. Tracy repeated, coming up and shaking her
daughter by the shoulder. ‘Millicent! are not you ashamed of yourself?
What have you been doing? I know he has only just left you, for I heard
him rush down-stairs.’
‘It has come to a great deal,’ said Millicent, uncovering her flushed
and tear-stained cheeks. ‘Don’t worry me, mamma. I will tell you
everything if you will but let me alone.’
‘Everything!’ said Mrs. Tracy in an excited tone.
‘Yes, everything; but it is nothing,’ said Millicent, doggedly. ‘You
must not give yourself any hopes. It is all over. It will never come to
more; but you shall not say a word,’ she added, with indignation. ‘I
tell you I am fond of him. I will not have anything said. He is too good
for you or me.’
‘It will never come to more!’ echoed Mrs. Tracy, holding up her hands in
amaze and appeal to heaven. ‘And she dares to look me in the face and
say so! Six months lost,--and rent, and firing, and the bills!’ cried
the injured mother. Then she threw herself down in a chair, and moaned,
and rocked herself. ‘If it is to come to nothing!’ she said. ‘Oh, you
ungrateful, unkind girl! oh, my poor Fitzgerald!--perhaps you’ll tell me
what we are to do.’
A little pause ensued. The disappointment was too sharp and bitter to be
kept within the bounds of politeness, and Millicent was not prepared to
enter into full explanations. While Mrs. Tracy vented her disappointment
in reproaches, her daughter sat flushed, tearful, motionless, dreaming
over the scene that had passed, wondering within herself whether
anything could, anything would come of it after all,--neither hearing
nor listening to her mother,--half ashamed of herself, and yet not come
to an end of expectation still. ‘He will do something, whatever it is,’
she said to herself. ‘It has not ended here.’
‘I never would have stayed on in these dear lodgings,’ Mrs. Tracy went
on: ‘never, but for this; you know I wouldn’t. It was only to have been
for a week or two when we came. Oh, the money you have cost me,--you and
your nonsense! And now nothing is to come of it! Am I never to be the
better of my children,--I that have done so much for them? To waste all
my life and my means, and everything; and nothing to come of it!’ she
cried. ‘Oh, you are a beautiful manager! And six months lost for this!’
‘Mamma, you need not be so violent,’ said Millicent. ‘It is not my
fault. Do you think I am not as disappointed as you can be? And some
good may come of it, though not what we thought. He will make it up to
you somehow. For my part I have no doubt of that.’
‘What is it you have no doubt of?’ said Mrs. Tracy. ‘You are more and
more a mystery to me. Good gracious, Millicent! you make me think you
have fallen in love with him,--or--some folly! But you must leave that
sort of thing to people who can afford it. We must have some prospect
for the future,--or--we must leave this.’
‘Yes, mamma; only just leave me alone,--I can’t talk,’ she said,
fretfully; but then added, with an effort, ‘It is not his fault, poor
fellow! He is disinherited. Could he help that? It was we who were the
fools to think he would come to this poky place all for me.’
Mrs. Tracy swelled to such heights of moral indignation as would have
annihilated Ben had he been present, when she heard this.
‘Disinherited!’ she cried. ‘Millicent, you may say what you like, but it
is nothing less than swindling. Good heavens, to think of such a thing!
Disinherited! Do you mean to tell me it is a man without a penny that
one has been paying such attention to? Oh, what a world this is! He
might just as well have robbed me of fifty pounds,--not that fifty
pounds would pay the expense I have been at. And I don’t believe a word
of it!’ she cried, getting up with sudden passion. If there had been
any one below to hear how her foot thrilled across the echoing floor,
she might even now have restrained herself. But she knew that nobody was
below.
‘I believe it,’ said Millicent, rousing up. ‘He was too much in earnest,
poor boy! He wanted to work for me, and all kinds of nonsense. And it
would be better to have him to work for me,’ she added, half-tenderly,
half-defiant, ‘though he has not a penny, than be worried and bullied
like this every day of one’s life.’
‘Are you mad?’ cried her mother, stopping suddenly, appalled by the
words. ‘You are in love with him, you wicked girl! You are in a plot
with this beggar against me.’
‘He shall not be called a beggar!’ cried Millicent, ‘so long as I am
here to speak for him. It is we who are beggars, not Ben Renton.’
‘You are in love with him!’ cried Mrs. Tracy, almost with a scream of
scorn. The accusation was such that Millicent shrank before it for the
moment, but she did not give way.
‘I wonder if I shall be in love with anybody again?’ she said; and then
a sigh burst from her unawares. ‘Poor fellow! poor boy! He is so good,
and he will never forget me!’
‘If he had really cared a straw for you he would never have come here!’
cried Mrs. Tracy. ‘Love!--call that love! for a man without a penny! I
call it pure selfishness. But he shall never come near you
again,--never. Oh, what am I to do?--where am I to take you? We cannot
stay here.’
‘We are going to Wiesbaden, for your health,’ said Millicent. It came
upon her all at once that she had told him so, making use,
involuntarily, of her mother’s suggestion. ‘Wait, and see what comes of
it,’ she added, with oracular meaning, which she did not herself
understand. And after a while Mrs. Tracy’s passion sank into quiet too.
When people live from day to day without any power of arranging matters
beforehand, and specially when they live upon their wits, trusting to
the scheme of the minute for such comforts as it can secure, they have
to believe in chances good and evil. Something might come of it.
Somehow, at the last moment, matters might mend. She sat down with that
power of abstracting herself from her anxiety which is given to the mind
of the adventurer, and recovered her breath, and took her cup of tea.
She had scarcely finished that refreshment when the maid knocked at the
drawing-room door with Ben’s letter. Mrs. Tracy flew at her daughter as
though she would have torn the meaning out of the paper, which Millicent
opened with the slowness of agitation; but she had to wait all the same
while it was gone over twice, every word; the very enclosures in
it,--and it was very evident that there were enclosures,--were hidden
in Millicent’s clenched hand from her mother’s eyes. She was wilfully
cruel in her self-humiliation. And yet it was Mrs. Tracy, and not
Millicent, who answered the letter which poor Ben had written, as it
were, with his heart’s blood.