AUNT LYDIA.
‘Let us run to the Cottage for five minutes, and see mamma,’ said Mary,
as they made their way back. ‘Fancy, Ben, she does not know you have
come home!’
‘Shall we have time?’ Ben asked, making for the bank as he spoke. The
path that led to the Cottage struck off from the river-side above The
Willows. And it was always gaining time to make this little diversion.
He had been so silent, saying nothing,--and a sense of disappointment
had crept over Mary after the intense sympathy with which she felt she
had been entering into all his thoughts.
But when he thrust the boat into the flowery bank, and helped her to
jump out, Ben replied to her, though she had said nothing. ‘You are
quite right,’ he said. ‘It is best in every way not to meet them again.’
‘Ben! I did not say a word----’
‘No,’ he answered, ‘you did not, and it was very, very kind of you,
Mary. I am more obliged to you than I can say. There are some things
which it is impossible to talk about. I thank you with all my heart.’
What did this mean? Mary was accustomed to a great deal of talk about
everything,--more talk than meaning, indeed. And she was a little
bewildered by this absence of all explanation. She would have been
comforted had he opened up a little and told her how it all was. But she
submitted, of course, concluding it was his mannish, unsatisfactory way.
And as they went hurriedly up the lane, in the kindness of her heart she
slid her hand through Ben’s arm. It was the softest, kindly touch, such
as his sister’s hand might have given. Was not she his sister, nearer to
him than any one else, and, little as she did understand, yet knowing
more of what was in his heart,--she thought,--than any other creature in
the world?
And Ben was not indifferent to that mute token of sympathy. He drew the
timid hand closely through his arm. ‘My good little Mary!’ he said; but
even then he said no more. No explanation came, whatever she might do or
say, which was hard, but had to be borne.
And this is how it was that Mrs. Westbury, to her very great amazement,
saw her daughter and Ben Renton approaching the Cottage
arm-in-arm,--‘like an engaged couple,’ she said afterwards,--which gave
her a curious thrill of admiration and satisfaction at the first
glance. When her nephew came up to her, however, nature prevailed, and
the recollection of her own agency, which nobody but herself believed
in, in sending all the boys away.
‘Ben!’ she cried, and then kissed him, and held both his hands, and shed
some tears of surprise and joy, ‘I am so glad to see you! I cannot tell
how glad I am to see you! Have you all come home?’
‘Only I,’ said Ben; ‘but the others are coming, and Mary and I have come
to fetch you, Aunt Lydia, to dine with my mother. She does not
understand my noise and uncouthness, after the long spell of quiet she
has had. After dinner Mary and I will bring you back.’
‘Mary and you seem to be--full of business,’ said Mrs. Westbury, more
and more astonished. She had intended to end her sentence differently,
but had met Mary’s eye, and paused, not quite knowing what to make of
it. But she went up-stairs for her best cap, calling her daughter with
her. ‘What is the meaning of all this, Mary?’ she said. ‘What does Ben
mean by it? For my part, I cannot tell what to think.’
‘About what, mamma?’ said Mary; but there was a little flutter in her
heart which belied her composure. ‘Ben has come home, as you see, and he
came to see you, as he ought to do, and he wants you to go to dinner. I
think it is all very visible what he means.’
‘It does not seem to me at all plain,’ said Mrs. Westbury; but then she
put her hand into her wardrobe to get out her cap, and decided that it
was best not to spoil sport by any premature remarks. It was startling
to see Mary leaning so confidentially on her cousin’s arm. And Ben’s
talk of ‘Mary and I’ was very peculiar; and if the will was all right,
such an arrangement would be a most sensible, most admirable one. But if
things were going on so well of their own accord, it might be best to
let them alone, and suffer the affair to take its own course. When she
found herself walking down to the river a quarter of an hour afterwards,
with a maid behind carrying her cap, and Ben and Mary on each side of
her, Mrs. Westbury freely expressed her surprise at the whole business.
‘I was just going to have tea,’ she cried. ‘One can’t dine late when one
is alone, and Laurence has gone over to Cookesley to see some of his
friends. I never thought of seeing any of you, nor of Ben at all, though
I knew he was expected. And now to find myself on my way to Renton!
Laurence will be struck dumb when he comes home.’
‘So Laurence is a parson now,’ said Ben. ‘How droll it will be to see
him so! but pleasant for you. You can keep hold of a parson and keep
him at home.’
‘Yes. I expect you to give him Renton, you know, Ben, when old Mr.
Palliser dies.’
‘Well, I suppose one of us is sure to have Renton to give,’ said Ben;
‘so that Laurence will be safe anyhow. But I have no confidence that it
will be me.’
‘It must be you,’ said Mrs. Westbury, indignantly. And then there came a
pause, and she was helped into the boat. ‘Who are those new people at
The Willows?’ she said, as she settled herself. ‘That is their boat;
they are always on the water. They say she is a young widow; but I don’t
think that is much like a widow. Somebody told me you knew them, Mary.
Was it yourself?’
‘She was at Thorny croft at school for a little,’ said Mary, giving her
mother a look. The look put a stop to the conversation; but it had to be
explained afterwards, which was done somewhat at the expense of truth.
The Willows’ boat had been drawn close to the bank before they passed,
and Mary was less particular in steering wide of it. Millicent stood on
the lawn, having just landed, with her scarlet cloak dropping off her
shoulders, and waved her hand to them. ‘Good-night! How pleasant it has
been!’ she cried, her voice falling softly through the summer air, still
full of the slanting sunshine. ‘Good-night!’ Mary cried across the
water. Ben never said a word; he did not even pause in the slow,
vigorous, regular stroke which made the boat fly down the shining
current. They were yards below The Willows before Millicent had finished
speaking her two or three words. “Was he afraid?--was he indifferent?
And while Mary’s mind was busy about this question, Aunt Lydia was
forming her little theories of a very different kind. When a young man
passes by a very pretty woman without so much as raising his head, it
means,--what does it mean?--that some one else has secured his
attention, and taken up all his thoughts. Mrs. Westbury felt as if
Providence itself was heaping coals of fire on her head. She it was who
had brought about the banishment of the boys, and yet no sooner had the
first of them come home than he set about fulfilling her dearest wish.
But no doubt it was for Mary’s sake. Mary, who had never harmed any one,
who had helped and served everybody from her cradle. How bright she had
become all at once!--how she had learned to chatter like the rest! It
seemed curious to Mrs. Westbury that an important event should be coming
about in her child’s life in which she herself had not been the chief
actor,--especially that Mary should have had the sense to acquire for
herself an eligible lover without any assistance. Ben did not look very
much like a lover it is true, but Aunt Lydia was aware that a man in
such a position is not always possessed with an insane delight, but
often has a great deal to think of. She, too, was silent with the stress
of her own thoughts. It was Mary who entertained them,--talking as she
had never been heard to talk before,--full of wild spirits and fun. Her
mother, who knew nothing of the story, did not perceive that Mary’s
gaiety came on suddenly after they passed The Willows, nor that her eyes
had the humid and dilated look which signifies emotion. One finds things
out so much more readily when one has an inkling of the _fin mot_ of the
enigma. Mrs. Westbury did not even know there was an enigma to solve,
and set down her daughter’s high spirits to what seemed to her the most
natural and the most likely cause.
‘I congratulate you, my dear, upon having Ben back again,’ she said to
Mrs. Renton as she kissed her. They were not very fond of each other,
the two ladies; but yet, by dint of connexion and contiguity, had come
to a certain habit of mutual dependence, though the support was chiefly
on one side.
‘Yes,’ Mrs. Renton said, with an under-tone which was slightly
querulous. ‘He is a very good boy; but a stranger in the house makes
such a difference in one’s life.’
‘You don’t call Ben a stranger, poor fellow! And he is so nice. It is
quite a pleasure to see him back,’ said Mrs. Westbury. ‘I thought you
would have been out of your wits with joy.’
‘And so I am,’ said Ben’s mother, with a little indignation; ‘but there
is nobody that has any real consideration for my weakness except Mary.
She knows just how much I am able to bear. I suppose it is difficult for
people in health to realise how weak I am.’
‘Well, my dear, you know I always said that if you would but make an
effort to exert yourself it would do all the good in the world,’ said
Mrs. Westbury; and then she went up-stairs to put on her cap. ‘I have no
patience with your aunt,’ she said to Mary,--‘thinking of her own little
bits of ailments, half of which are mere indulgence, when her poor boy
has just come home.’
‘Poor godmamma! I don’t think she can help it,’ said Mary.
‘Nonsense, child! I have said to her from the first that she ought to
make an effort. How do you think I should ever have managed had I given
in? And now tell me, please, what you meant by looking at me so, twice
over, when I was speaking to Ben.’
‘I did not want you to talk about Mrs. Rich,’ said Mary, turning away as
the exigencies of her own toilette required. ‘He used to know her, and
I was afraid you might say something----’
‘You might have left that to my own discretion,’ said Mrs. Westbury,
with some offence.
‘But, dear mamma, how could your discretion serve when you did not
know?’ said Mary. ‘And, poor fellow! he is so,--so----’
‘So very devoted to some one else that he could not even take the
trouble to look at Mrs. Rich,--such a pretty woman, too!’ said Mrs.
Westbury. ‘It seems to me, my dear, that you have made the very most of
your time.’
‘Oh, mamma, how dreadful that you should say so!’ cried Mary, turning
round again with flaming, crimson cheeks. ‘Surely, surely, you know me
better! And Ben, poor fellow! has so much to think of. Nothing could be
further from his mind. I have been their sister all their lives; it
would be hard if I could not try to be a little comfort to him now.’
‘My dear, if he needs comfort, I am sure I have no objection,’ said Mrs.
Westbury, with a smile; and just then Mary’s maid came into the room,
and the conversation came to an end. It was this dreadful practical
turn, which was in the old Renton blood, which bewildered the less
energetic members of the family. But it was wonderful to see how Ben and
Aunt Lydia got on at dinner. He told her more about his work, and what
he had been doing, in half-an-hour than the others had extracted from
him in twenty-four. And the Renton spirit sparkled in Mrs. Westbury’s
eyes as she listened. ‘Even if you had not made a penny, Ben,’ she said,
in her energetic way, ‘I should be so much more pleased that you had
been making some use of your talents than just hanging on in the old way
at home.’
‘But I have made a penny,’ Ben said, with a kindred glance;--he was
pleased with the thought, which gave Mary a momentary disgust;--‘though
it has cost more than it is worth in the making,’ he added, in a lower
tone. And then his cousin forgave, and was sorry for poor Ben. It was
dangerous work for Mary, especially as there was still the excitement of
the return expedition across the river, to convey Mrs. Westbury home to
look forward to. But, fortunately, there was no one visible about The
Willows when that moment came;--nothing but serene moonlight, white and
peaceable, unbroken by any shadow or voice but their own, was on the
gleaming river. And the Rev. Laurence Westbury standing on the bank in
his clerical coat,--who had been at school when Ben left Renton,--to
take his mother home, and bid the new-comer welcome; and then the silent
progress back down the stream in the moonlight. It surprised Mary
afterwards to think how little Ben and she had said to each other, and
yet what perfectly good company he had been. And thus they went on,
those curious, rapid days.