THE RAVEN.
Some days after Mr. Ponsonby’s visit, Mary Westbury saw from her room,
where she happened to be sitting, a carriage drive up the avenue. It was
only about twelve o’clock, an unusual hour for visitors; and the
carriage was of the order known as a fly, with just such a white horse,
and coachman in white cotton gloves, as had made an important feature in
the landscape to Ben Renton seven years before in Guildford Street,
Manchester Square; but there was not, of course, any connexion in Mary’s
mind between such a vehicle and her cousin’s brief romance. She watched
it, with a little surprise, as it came up. Who could it be? There was
somehow, a greater than ordinary attempt to look like a private carriage
about this particular vehicle, with, as might have been expected, a
failure still more marked. And flys of any description were not well
known at Renton. The lodge-keeper had looked at it disdainfully when she
opened the gate; and the butler, who was standing at the door, received
the card of the visitors with a certain mixture of condescension and
contempt. ‘For Miss Westbury,’ he said, giving it to a passing maid to
carry up-stairs, and only deigning, after an interval, to show the
visitors into the drawing-room. The card which was brought to Mary had a
very deep black border, and the name of Mrs. Henry Rich printed in the
little square of white. Who was Mrs. Henry Rich? There had been very
little intercourse between the Riches and the Rentons since Frank’s
marriage; but Mary recollected with an effort, when she turned her mind
that way, that one of the sons had died some time before, and that he
turned out to have been married, and to have left an unknown widow to be
provided for after he died. These facts came quite dimly to her mind as
she pondered the name. But she had never heard who the widow was, and
could not think what a stranger in such circumstances could want with
her. ‘I don’t know them well enough to do her any good,’ Mary said to
herself. The border was so black, and the fly had impressed her with
such a feeling of poverty,--wrongly, to be sure, for of course had Mrs.
Henry Rich possessed a dozen carriages she could scarcely have brought
them with her to Cookesley,--that the idea of a weeping widow seeking
something very like charity, was suggested to Mary by the name, and the
deep mourning, and the hour of the visit. Civility demanded of her that
she should see this unexpected visitor. ‘But I must tell her we see
very little of them, and that I can do nothing,’ Mary said to herself as
she went down-stairs. She was dressed in one of her fresh, pretty
muslins, pink and white, with all the pretty, crisp bits of lace and
bows of ribbon that makes up that toilette _fraîche et simple_, which is
one of the greatest triumphs of millinery, and next to impossible to any
but the rich. And a pleasant figure to behold was Mary amid the
sunshine, in the calm of the stately, silent house which was so familiar
to her, and in which her movements were never without a certain grace.
The most awkward being in the world has an advantage in her own house
over any new-comer. And Mary was never awkward. The worst that could be
said of her was that she was in no way remarkable. You could not
specially distinguish her among a crowd as ‘that girl with the bright
eyes,’ or ‘with that lovely complexion,’ or ‘with the fine figure.’ Her
eyes were very nice, and so was her colour, and so was her form; but, as
she herself said, her hair was the same colour as everybody else’s; she
was just the same height as other people; her hands and feet the same
size; her waist the same measure round. ‘I have never any difficulty
about my things,’ Mary would say, half laughing, half annoyed;
‘everybody’s things fit me;’ and though she had preserved a great deal
of the first fresh bloom of youth, still it was a fact quite known and
acknowledged by her that the early morning and the dews were over with
her. Such was the pleasant household figure, full of everything that
makes a woman sweet to her own people, and yet not beautiful, which went
softly into the great Renton drawing-room, in the morning sunshine, to
see her visitor, not having the least fear of the stranger, or anything
but pity, and a regretful certainty that her own ministrations, which
she supposed were going to be appealed to, could be of no use.
Mary went in so softly that she surprised the ladies,--for there were
two of them,--in an investigation into some handsome cabinets which were
in the room, and which, indeed, were perfectly legitimate objects of
curiosity. But to be discovered in the midst of their researches
discomposed the strangers. They stood still for a moment between her and
the window,--two tall, sombre, black figures,--draped from head to foot
in the heaviest mourning. They had their backs to the light, and Mary
could not for the moment distinguish their faces. She went forward with
her soft smile and bow; and then she made a bewildered, involuntary
pause. It was many, many years since she had seen that face, and she
could not remember whose it was; but yet it struck her, even in her
ignorance, a curious paralysing blow. It was the kind of blow said to be
given by that mysterious monster of the seas, which the great French
novelist has introduced into literature. It jarred her all over, and
yet seemed to numb and take all power from her. ‘Mrs. Rich?’ she
faltered, with a wonderful mingling of recollection and ignorance; and
then stood still, too much startled to say more.
‘Dearest Mary, have you forgotten me altogether?’ said the youngest of
the two ladies, coming up to her with both hands outstretched. Still
Mary did not remember whose face it was, and yet she grew faint and
sick. The tall figure towered over her middle-sized head; the lovely
blue eyes looked appealing into her heart. ‘Don’t you remember
Millicent?’ said the sweet voice; and then her reluctant hand was taken,
and those softest rose-lips touched her cheek. Mary was glad to point to
a chair, and shelter her own weakness upon one beside it. ‘It is so
unexpected,’ she said, making a feeble apology for her consternation;
and then Mrs. Tracy came and shook hands with her, and they all sat down
in a little circle, poor Mary feeling the room go round and round with
her, and all her courage fail.
‘You did not know me under my changed name,’ said Millicent; ‘and I am
so changed, dear Mary, and you are exactly as you were,--you are not a
day older;--that is the difference between living such a quiet life and
being out in the world.’
‘I should have known you anywhere, my dear,’ said Mrs. Tracy, coming a
little closer to Mary’s chair.
‘That is very strange,’ said Mary, recovering herself, ‘for I think I
only saw you once. But I am very much surprised. Millicent, was it you
that married Mr. Henry Rich?’
‘Who else could it be?’ said Millicent, slowly shaking her head with a
soft pity for herself, and then she pressed her handkerchief lightly to
her eyes. She was dressed in profound black, in what it is common to
call the most hideous of garbs--a widow’s mourning dress. Her bonnet was
of crape, with a veil attached to it, which was thrown back, showing the
lovely face, just surrounded by a single rim of white. Though it goes
against all ordinary canons of taste to say so, I am obliged to add that
her melancholy robes were very becoming to Millicent, as indeed they are
to most women. Her dazzling whiteness of complexion, the soft rose-flush
that went and came, the heavenly blue of her eyes, came forth with
double force from the sombre background. Poor Mary was overwhelmed by
her beauty, her quiet consciousness of it, her patronage, and tone of
kindness. And to come here now, at such a moment, when the world was
about to begin again! It was so much her natural instinct to be
courteous, that she could not make any demonstration to the contrary,
but her manner, in spite of herself, grew colder and colder. The only
comfort in the whole matter was that Mrs. Renton had not yet come
down-stairs.
‘Her happiness lasted but a very short time,’ said Mrs. Tracy, taking
up her parable; ‘such a young man, too! But my poor dear child has been
very badly used. It was not only that; he died just when he ought to
have been making some provision for her.’
‘Oh, mamma dear, that was not poor Harry’s fault!’
‘But we found out afterwards,’ continued Mrs. Tracy, ‘that he had not
anything like what he had given himself out to have. He had squandered
his money in speculation,--that was the truth; and now his family,
instead of appreciating the position of a poor young creature thus
deprived of her natural protector----’
‘Oh, please,’ said Mary, interrupting her; ‘I know the Riches a little,
and I’d rather not hear anything about their affairs.’
‘I am speaking of our affairs, my dear,’ said Mrs. Tracy, solemnly; ‘of
Millicent’s affairs; for, alas! I can scarcely say I have any of my own.
Since my poor boy died, seven years ago, I have not cared much what
happened,--to myself.’
‘Poor mamma worries about me more than she ought,’ said Millicent. ‘But
we do not come to trouble you about that, dear Mary. How nice you look
in your pretty muslin! I wonder if I shall ever wear anything pretty
again. I feel such an old woman in those hideous caps. Don’t I look like
a perfect ghost?’
‘I think you look more beautiful than usual,’ said Mary, with a certain
spitefulness. She intended no compliment. It was rather a reproach she
meant, as if she had said, ‘You have no right to be beautiful. Why
shouldn’t you look a perfect ghost like other people?’ It was sharply
said, not without a touch of bitterness, though it sounded pleasantly
enough; and Millicent shook back her veil a little further, and laid her
fingers caressingly upon Mary’s hand.
‘Ah, it is you who are partial!’ she said, while Mary boiled with secret
wrath. ‘But tell me about Thornycroft, and if it is still kept up; and
our old Gorgon, you know, and all the people. There was that poor Mr.
Thorny, too,’ said Millicent, with a little laugh; ‘tell me about them
all.’
‘Mr. Thorny died,--as you must have heard,’ said Mary; ‘and it was your
doing, everybody said; and then poor Miss Thorny gave up. I wonder you
like to think of it. It might have been going on like old times but for
you----’
‘Could I help it?’ said Millicent, with a little shrug of her shoulders.
‘If a man is a fool, is it my fault? You must know by this time, Mary,
as well as I do, what fools they will make of themselves; but it is too
bad to call it our fault.’
‘I don’t know anything about it,’ said Mary, fiercely, and then there
was a pause.
‘This is such a lovely place,’ said Mrs. Tracy; ‘we have heard so much
about it. We used to know your cousin, Mr. Benedict Renton, Miss
Westbury,--at one time. I suppose he is still abroad?’
‘Yes, he is still abroad.’
‘What a sad thing for him, with his prospects! It must have upset all
your calculations. But the time is up now, is it not?’ Mrs. Tracy said,
with her most ingratiating smile.
Mary perceived in a moment what was their object, and hoping it might be
but a voyage of inquiry, shut up all avenues of intelligence in her, and
faced the inquisitor with a countenance blank of all meaning--or so at
least she thought. ‘What time is up?’ she said.
‘Oh, the time,’ cried Millicent, breaking in impatiently,--‘the time,
you know, for the will. As if you did not know all about it! Oh, you
need not be afraid to trust us. Ben Renton was not so careful; he told
me everything about it. I must tell you that we saw a great deal of Ben
at one time,’ Millicent added, with one of her vain looks. Mary says it
might have been called an arch look by a more favourable critic. ‘He
was, in short, you know, a little mad--but you will say that was my
fault.’
‘I have no more to do with my cousin’s private affairs than I have with
Mr. Rich’s,’ said Mary; ‘indeed, I wish you would not tell me. My
cousin is not a man to like to have his affairs talked about. I would
rather not hear any more.’
‘Miss Westbury is quite right, Millicent,’ said Mrs. Tracy, ‘and shows a
great deal of delicacy. She is always such a thoughtless child, my dear.
She never stops to think what she is going to say. The harm it has done
her, too, if she could only see it! Millicent, my darling, if you would
but learn some of Miss Westbury’s discretion! But it will be pleasant
for you to have your cousins home again, I am sure.’
To this artful question Mary gave no answer at all. Indignation began to
strengthen her. She sat still, with an air which any well-bred woman
knows how to assume when necessary,--an air of polite submission to
whatever an unwelcome visitor may choose to say. It neither implies
assent nor approbation, but,--it is not worth while to contradict you.
Such was the expression on Mary’s face.
‘Ah, mamma, Mary has not such a warm heart for old friends as I have,’
said Millicent at last. ‘I have been raving about coming to see her for
weeks back, but she does not care to see me. She is indifferent to her
old friends.’
‘Were we ever old friends?’ said Mary. ‘I don’t remember. You were older
than I was. I thought you were very pretty, as everybody did, but----’
‘But you did not like me. Oh, I am used to that from women,’ said
Millicent, with a mocking laugh; and she actually rose to her feet to go
away.
And the colour rushed into Mary’s face. Used to that from women! because
of her beauty, which transcended theirs! The ordinary reader will think
it was a self-evident proposition, but Mary was of a different opinion,
being thus directly and personally accused.
‘I don’t know about women,’ she said, indignantly; ‘but I have never had
any occasion,--to be jealous of you.’ This was said with a fierceness
which Mary never could have attained to had it been simply true. ‘I
admire you very much,’ she added, with a little vehemence. ‘I did so at
school; but that does not alter the truth. We were never great friends.’
‘Well, it is kind of you to put me in mind of that,’ said Millicent.
‘Mamma, come. You see it is as I told you. We shall find no nice
neighbours at Renton. It is best to go away.’
The word ‘neighbours’ made Mary start, and she had not time to realise
that she was about to get rid of them, when the door was suddenly pushed
open, and Mrs. Renton’s maid appeared with her shawls, and her cushions,
and her knitting. ‘Mrs. Renton is coming down immediately,’ said the
woman; and on this, to Mary’s bewilderment, her visitors sat down again.
She was driven to her wits’ end. To leave them to encounter poor Mrs.
Renton was like bringing the lamb to an interview with the wolf.
‘May I ask you to come to the library?’ she said, hurriedly. ‘My aunt is
a great invalid, and sees no visitors. Pray forgive me for asking
you;--this way,’ and rushed to the door before them. But the fates were
against poor Mary on that unfortunate day.
‘We have made quite a visitation already,’ said Mrs. Tracy, and got up
again to shake hands. As for Millicent, though she had been so angry,
she took Mary’s two hands again; and, stooping over her, gave her
another kiss. And all these operations took time, and, before they had
made any progress towards their departure, Mrs. Renton came in, and
received with some astonishment the curtsies and salutations of the
unknown guests.
‘Pray don’t hurry away because I have come. I am always so glad when
Mary has her friends to see her,’ Mrs. Renton said, with the sweetest
amiability; ‘do sit down, pray.’ The mother and daughter waited for no
second invitation. They put themselves on either side of Mrs. Renton, as
they had done off Mary; and thus a kind of introduction had to be
performed most unwillingly by the victim, who felt that her cause was
lost.
‘Mrs. Rich!’ said the lady of the house, gathering up her wools,--‘that
must be a relation of the Riches of Richmont. Oh, yes; we know them
very well,--that is, they are very good sort of people, I am sure. When
my son Frank was at Royalborough, he used to go to see them. All the
officers do, I believe; and he made me call. Oh, yes, of course, I
understand,--the son who died. Poor thing! your daughter is a very young
widow.’ This was aside to Mrs. Tracy, who had already volunteered to
arrange the cushions in Mrs. Renton’s chair.
‘Not much more than a child,’ said that astute mother; ‘and left so
poorly off, after all! You may suppose, Mrs. Renton, if I had not
thought it would be a very good marriage in point of money, I should
never have sacrificed my child to the son of a man in the City. I would
rather have starved. And then it turned out he had not half what he was
supposed to have. People that do those sort of things should be
punished,’ Mrs. Tracy said, with fire in her eye.
‘Indeed, that is my opinion,’ said Mrs. Renton; ‘but I always thought
the Riches were rolling in money.’ And then she made a little internal
reflection that, perhaps, on the whole, Frank had not done so very much
amiss.
‘So we thought,’ said Mrs. Tracy, confidentially; ‘or rather, so I
thought, for my poor child is as innocent as a baby. But poor Harry had
speculated, I believe, or done something with his money; and his father
is as hard,--oh, as hard---- If I could but see justice done to my
Millicent, I care for nothing more.’
‘And, dear me, we had thought they were such liberal kind of people!’
said Mrs. Renton, thinking more and more that Frank, on the whole----
‘And your daughter is so very prepossessing,’ she added, in a lower
tone. ‘Of course they knew all about it,--before----’
‘That is just it,’ said Mrs. Tracy; ‘the marriage took place abroad, and
we were both so ignorant of business, and I fear the settlements were
not quite _en règle_; I am so foolish about business; all I trust to is
the heart.’
‘Dear, dear, what a sad thing! But I should always have looked over the
settlements,’ said Mrs. Renton, who knew as much about it as her
lap-dog, shaking her head and looking very wise. Millicent had pretended
to talk to Mary while this was going on, but principally had employed
herself in gazing round the room, noting all its special features.
Furnished all anew, in amber satin, it would look very well, she
thought; and, oh, what a comfort to have such a home, after all the
wanderings of her life! And then she wondered what the house was like in
Berkeley Square. Poor, dear Ben! what a surprise it would be to him to
find that she was established at the Willows! She wondered whether he
would be very angry about her marriage, or whether he would think, as a
great many men did, that a young widow was very interesting; and how
long a time it would be before they had made up their quarrels and he
was at her feet again! These questions were so full of interest that
Mary’s taciturn manner did not trouble her. ‘I daresay she would like to
have him herself,’ Millicent said; and the desire seemed so natural that
her respect for Mary rather increased than otherwise. If she had let
such a prize slip through her hands without so much as an attempt to
secure it, then Millicent would have thought her contemptible indeed.
At length there came a moment when it seemed expedient that she too
should strike in to the conversation with Mrs. Renton. There was an
audible pause. Millicent was not so clever as her mother; but in such a
crisis as the present she was put upon her mettle. So long as there were
only men to deal with there was no need for much exertion. Nature had
provided her with the necessary weapons to use against such
simpletons,--her eyes, the turn of her head, her smile, a soft
modulation of her voice; but with a feminine audience it was a different
matter. There, wit was more needful to her than beauty,--mother
wit,--adroitness,--the faculty of adapting herself to her part and her
listeners. Mrs. Tracy looked at her with an anxiety which she could not
disguise. A statesman looking on while his son made his first speech in
Parliament, could scarcely have experienced a graver solicitude. As it
was, Millicent addressed herself to her mother with the softest of
voices. ‘Mamma,’ she said, ‘does it not seem strange to find yourself
here, after all Mr. Ben Renton used to tell us? How fond he was of his
beautiful home!’
And then came the expected question from his mother,--‘Ben? my son Ben?
Did you meet him abroad? Is it long since you saw him? Dear, dear, why I
am looking for my boy home every day. They are all coming home
about,--about----’ Here Mrs. Renton caught Mary’s warning eye, and
paused, but immediately resumed again. ‘Why, of course, everybody knows!
Why should not I say what it is about? It was an arrangement of my poor
dear husband’s. They are coming to read the will. We don’t know how we
are left, none of us, for it was a very odd arrangement; but I am sure
he meant it for the best. We shall be together next month, and I am sure
Ben will be charmed to resume his acquaintance with you. What a nice
thing you should be in the neighbourhood! The only thing is, that I am
afraid you will find The Willows damp.’
‘But what a pleasure for you to have all your family with you!’ said
Millicent; ‘and oh! what a delight to your sons to return to you!’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Renton. ‘Of course I shall be very glad to see them.
And then, to be sure, shooting will have begun, and they will be able
to amuse themselves. I am such an invalid, I tremble at the thought of
any exertion.’
And when Mrs. Renton said this, Millicent rose, and declared she knew
that she could put one of those cushions more comfortably in the chair.
It was quite late in the afternoon when they left the Manor at last, for
Mrs. Renton insisted that they should stay to luncheon. She was
distressed beyond measure when she heard of the fly which had been
waiting for so long. ‘It will cost you a fortune,’ she cried; ‘and we
could have set you down when we went for our drive.’
‘We are not very rich,’ Mrs. Tracy said in reply; ‘but to have made
acquaintance with you is such a pleasure. And it is not often we indulge
ourselves.’
Mrs. Renton declared, when they were gone, that it was years since she
had seen any one who pleased her so much. ‘As for the daughter, she is
perfectly beautiful!’ she cried, in rapture; ‘and to think that such a
lovely creature should have married Harry Rich!’
‘But we don’t know anything about Harry Rich,’ said Mary, who was
disposed to be misanthropical; ‘perhaps he was a lovely creature too.’
‘I don’t understand what has come to you, Mary,’ said her aunt. ‘Why
should you be so disagreeable? Such a nice, pretty creature; one would
have thought she was just the very companion you want. And your own old
schoolfellow, too! I never like to give in to what people say of girls
being jealous of each other, but it really looks more like that than
anything else.’
‘Yes; I suppose I must be jealous of her,’ said Mary; and Mrs. Renton
took the admission for irony, and read her a long lecture when they went
for their drive. It is hard upon a young woman to be lectured when she
is out driving, and can neither run away nor occupy herself with
anything that may make a diversion. Poor Mary had to listen to a great
many remarks about the evils of envy and self-estimation, and the
curious want of sympathy she showed.
‘Poor thing!--a widow at such an early age, and badly left, and with
such very sweet manners. And the mother such a very judicious person,’
said Mrs. Renton. ‘I am so glad they are at The Willows. It will be
quite a resource to the boys.’
Then indeed something very like bitterness rankled in Mary Westbury’s
heart. Envy, and hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness. Yes, very
likely it would be a resource for the boys. In all her own long and
tedious fulfilment of their duties, Mary had never once proposed to
herself any reward ‘when the boys came home,’ and yet, perhaps, there
had been in her heart some hope of appreciation,--some idea that they
would understand what abnegation of herself it had been. They would
know that this long, monotonous stretch of duty,--which was not, after
all, her first natural duty,--was not less, but perhaps more hard, than
their own wanderings and labour. And now all at once a cloud had fallen
over this prospect. One soweth and another reapeth. Mary had laboured
and denied herself for their sakes; but it was this stranger who would
be the great resource for the boys. And Ben! Mary’s heart contracted
with a secret, silent pang as she thought of Ben coming defenceless,
unprepared, to find the syren who had,--she did not doubt,--bewitched
and betrayed him, seated at his very gates. Her last conversation with
him rose up before her as clear as if it had but just occurred. Ben,
too, had ventured to suggest that she,--that all women,--would be
envious of Millicent. Her heart rose with an indignant swell and throb.
Was there nothing then in the world better than blue eyes and lips like
rose-leaves, and the syren’s voice and smile? If that was all a man
cared for, was he worth thinking of? She had gone and married Henry Rich
when Ben was poor. And now that the man whose name she bore had
opportunely vanished from her path, she had returned now Ben was about
to regain his fortune, to lie in wait for him, with a miserable pretence
of old friendship and tender regard for his cousin, who was to be the
victim, and scapegoat, and sacrifice for all! Perhaps it was not much
wonder that Mary was bitter. And she had all a woman’s natural distrust
in the man’s powers of resistance. It never occurred to her that the
syren of his youth might now have no attraction for him. ‘They are like
that,’ she said to herself, with a true woman’s feeling of
half-impatient tolerance, and pity, and something like contempt,--not
blame, as if he were a free agent. It was not he, but she, upon whom it
was natural to lay the blame.