AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.
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 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 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 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 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 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?’
‘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.’ 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 forget 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
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!
‘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 more kind than
Laurie----’
‘But neither Laurie nor Frank is Ben,’ said Mrs. Renton with decision,
drying her eyes--which, alas! as her niece felt to the bottom of her
heart, was most true. And then Mary read the papers, all the bits of
news, as she had done any day these seven years. Had there been any
break in the endless round, or had she only dreamed it? It seemed so
hard to know: for the interruption, with all its agitations and
pleasures, had vanished, and everything was as it had been before.
Except, indeed, that Frank and Alice made the dinner-table cheerful, and
took the heavy duty of the drive off Mary’s hands, which was a relief
for which she should have been more grateful. But even that showed the
difference between her own life and that of Frank’s wife, though Mary,
had she not been driven to it, was not given to such comparisons. For
her there was but the usual monotonous promenade over the well-known,
too well-known country; but Alice was taken to the Dovecote, and even
the invalid grew interested about the changes necessary, and the
furnishing and decorations of that abode. ‘The Frank Rentons’ had all
the pleasant excitement of settling down before them. And Mary felt that
it was very wicked and unwomanly of her to desire any excitement, or to
feel so wearily conscious of the want of interest in her own existence.
Would it be much better in the cottage with her mother, who in all these
years had learnt to do without her, and whose whole mind was absorbed in
her curate-boy? Perhaps that would not be any better. And, anyhow, it
was evident that there was nothing to do in the meantime but to submit.
There was, however, an excitement awaiting Mary much nearer than she had
any expectation of. It came to her just two days after Ben’s departure,
in the afternoon, when once more Alice and the children had gone to
accompany Mrs. Renton in her drive, and she was alone in the
drawing-room, with the window open as usual,--that window by which
everybody went and came,--everybody, that is to say, belonging to the
family. Mary was reading, seated in her favourite chair, half buried in
the curtains, when it seemed to her that a shadow fell on her book,--a
very familiar accident. It must be Frank, she thought, looking up; but
to her great amazement she saw it was Hillyard standing with a
deprecating, anxious look before the window. She made a spring from her
seat with that one thought which fills the mind of a preoccupied woman
to the exclusion of all personal courtesy and consideration. Something
must have happened to Ben! ‘What is it? for God’s sake, tell me! tell
me!’ she said, rushing out upon him, dropping her book, and holding up
her clasped hands.
‘Nothing, Miss Westbury,’ he said, putting out his hand to take hers,
with the humblest, softest tone,--a tone amazing in its gentleness from
such a big-bearded, unpolished man. ‘I was only waiting to ask you
whether I might come in.’
‘But you are sure there is nothing wrong with--my cousin?’ Mary cried;
and then recollected herself, and was covered with confusion. ‘I beg
your pardon; but seeing you so suddenly it was natural to think of Ben.
I felt as if you must have brought bad news, Mr. Hillyard; don’t think
me very silly--but godmamma may come in any moment from her drive--you
are sure there is nothing the matter with Ben?’
‘Nothing at all. I left him a few hours ago, very well and very busy,’
said Hillyard; and then once more he added in the same soft, subdued,
disquieting tones, ‘Will you let me come in?’
‘Yes, surely,’ said Mary, though she was trembling with the sudden
fright. ‘But it is so strange to see you. Is there any change in your
plans? I thought you were to go to-day.’ And then a wavering of light
and colour came over her face suddenly in spite of herself. This man,
who had no possible business at Renton, surely could not have come
alone!
‘I begged for another day,’ said Hillyard, following her into the room.
‘I daresay I was a fool for my pains. It may be years before I return
again. I asked for another day.’
‘I am sure godmamma will be very glad,’ said Mary, courteously; ‘but
somehow it was very startling to see you, and not Ben.’
And she gave a momentary glance out, as if still she expected the other
to appear. Such a reception to a man who had come on Hillyard’s errand
was like frost to a brook. It bound him, shrank him up within himself.
He stood looking at her with a half-stupefied, wistful gaze, saying
nothing. Ben; always Ben! Was that the only thought in her mind? Was it
possible she could see him thus, and meet his eye, and not see his
errand was altogether apart from Ben?
Mary, however, was so much occupied with her tremor and start, and
curious little flutter of expectation, that it did not occur to her as
strange for some minutes that her present companion said no more. She
took his silence with the composure of perfect indifference. She was not
even curious about him, further than concerned her cousin. Why should
she be curious about Mr. Hillyard? But at last it did strike her that
politeness required that she should speak to him. And, looking up, she
caught the expression of his face and of his attitude all in a moment,
and the ardent light in his eyes. Such a look is not to be mistaken.
With a sudden rallying of all her blood to her heart, and steadying of
her nerves for an utterly unforeseen but unmistakable emergency, Mary
faltered and stopped in her intended speech, waiting for what was to
come.
‘Miss Westbury,’ he said, ‘I might as well tell you at once that I see
what a fool I am. I have my answer before I have spoken. You think no
more of me than if I were Ben Renton’s horse, or his dog, or anything
that belonged to him. I see it quite plain, and I might have seen it
before I went away on Wednesday; but there are things in which a man
cannot be anything but a fool.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Hillyard?’ said Mary. ‘I hope I have
not been rude. You are a stranger to us all. It is only through Ben we
have known you; and it was natural when I saw you that I should think of
my cousin. If I have hurt your feelings I am sure I beg your pardon.’
In all this she was talking against time, hoping that Frank or somebody
would come in.
‘No,’ he said; ‘I know I had no right to think of anything else. Of
course I am a stranger. Ben’s dog,--that is about it! I am not sneering,
Miss Westbury. I should not have minded your calling me so when I
came.’
And there he stood, turning his eyes away from her, a big strong man of
the woods as he looked, abashed and disconcerted, like a chidden child.
He gazed out blankly, pulling his beard, with a flush of such quick
mortification and downfall as a boy might feel when he sees his hasty
projects fall to nought, and yet a deeper pang underneath than any boy
could bear. Altogether the man looked so humbled and sore and sad,
silenced in the very moment of effusion, that Mary’s heart was moved.
She was sorry for him, and remorseful for her own indifference. It
seemed almost needful to let him say out his say by way of consolation.
‘We all called you Ben’s friend,’ she said; ‘his best friend, whom we
have heard of for years. Nobody else could have come among us at such a
time. You must not think I mean anything disrespectful or unkind.’
Then there came a great burst of words from him. ‘That was what I
thought,’ he said; ‘that you had been used to hearing of me; that I
might have been to you as an old friend. I too have heard of you for
years. And look here, Miss Westbury; you may scorn me, but I must say
it, I have been in love with you for years. I used to see your letters,
and think there was a woman, if one could ever hope to get within speech
of her! And then I came here. I ought never to have come. My heart was
full of you before, and you may think what it was when I saw you. Don’t
stop me, please; it is better now that it should all come out. You were
kind to me, as you would have been to any stranger; but you did not know
what was in my mind, and I did, and went on fire like a fool. There now,
I see how it is. I won’t grieve you by asking anything. Only give me
your hand and say you forgive a rough fellow for taking it upon him to
love you, before he ever saw you; and behaving himself like an ass when
he did.’
‘Mr. Hillyard, I am so sorry,’ said Mary, with tears in her eyes. ‘I did
not mean,--I never thought,--It is me whom you must forgive,--if you
can.’
‘You!’ said the strange man. ‘God bless you! that’s what I say. You and
forgiving have nothing to do with each other.’ And then he took her hand
between both his, and gazed down upon her with a fond, lingering,
sorrowful look, as if he were getting her face by heart. ‘I don’t know
why I came,’ he said, muttering to himself; ‘I knew it would be exactly
so,--just so. And yet I wanted you to know----’
And then the man seemed suddenly to forget her presence altogether.
Standing there, holding her hand, he might have fallen into a dream so
perfectly still was he. But her hand was lost, buried between both his,
held fast, while she stood perforce by him. And yet there was no force
in it, no rudeness, but only a profound melancholy silence,--a sacrifice
of the hidden sweetness he had been cherishing in his life.
‘Mr. Hillyard,’ she said, softly, ‘you must say good-bye to me and let
me go.’ And then he woke up and came to life.
‘The other hand too,’ he said, ‘for this once. Good-bye, and God bless
you! It’s all I’ll ever have for my love. God bless you! Good-bye!’
He did not even kiss her hands, but held them fast; and then let them
drop, and turned, stooping his tall head through the white curtains, and
went out as he came in. Mary stood looking after him with an
indescribable sensation. Was he really gone, this man who had been
nothing to her barely an hour since, and now was part of her life? or
was it a dream altogether, an invention of her fancy? His heavy foot
ground upon the gravel for two or three steps while she stood in her
amazement looking after him; and then he stopped, and turned round, and
came back. But he did not attempt to come in. She on the one side of the
white curtains, and he on the other; stood for another moment and looked
at each other, and then he cleared his throat, which was husky. ‘I am
not coming back,’ he said, ‘I have just one word to say. If there should
ever be a time when you might think,--not of me, I don’t mean of me,
for I’m a stranger as you say,--but that a man’s love and support might
be of use to you,--they say women feel that sometimes, if things don’t
go altogether as they wish,--then let me but know, hold up only your
little finger, Mary,--there! I’ve said it for once,--and I’ll come if it
were from the ends of the earth!’
And then, without another word or look, he went away.
Was this the excitement she had been wishing for, and blaming herself
for wishing? Mary ran up to her room in terror of meeting any one, with
her heart beating wildly in her breast. Here was an incident indeed, to
diversify a dull afternoon, a dull life with! She was so touched and
excited, and moved by compassion and surprise and regret, that the
effort upon her was not much less than if Hillyard’s extraordinary suit
had been that of a man to whom her heart could have responded. She sat
down and hid her face in her hands, and got rid of some of her
excitement in tears, and went over the strange scene. How strange a
scene! For all these seven years,--her best and brightest,--Mary had
never heard the voice of love. Now and then a tone of that admiration
and interest which might have come to love had just caught her ear from
the outside world, but she had been drawn back into her retirement and
the deeper tone had never followed. And now, all at once, here was
passion of such a kind as seldom startles a woman’s ears in these days.
An utter stranger an hour ago, and now,--happen what might, should she
never see the man again,--a bit of her life! Mary’s head swam, and the
world went round with her. ‘They say women feel that sometimes, if
things don’t go altogether as they wish.’ What did he mean? Had he read
in her heart more than others could? Was she one to fall into a longing
for some love and support, some awakening and current of activity in her
life, after all youthful dreams were gone? The suggestion moved Mary
with a humbling sense of her own weariness and languor, and senseless
disappointment, and longing for she knew not what. She was not one of
those women to whom somebody’s love is indispensable,--if not one, then
another. With a cheek burning with shame, and eyes hot with tears, she
rose up and went down again to her duties, such as they were.
Henceforward she was determined she should suffice to herself. This,
after the first shock of emotion, was all the effect poor Hillyard’s
sacrifice upon her altar had on Mary. That he should have seen that all
was not going altogether as she wished! After all, what better had most
women to do with their lives, than to tend a real or imaginary invalid,
to order dinners, to read newspapers, to go out every afternoon for a
drive? And she had perfect health, and a beautiful country, and plenty
of books, and all the poor people in Renton parish, to occupy her. To
think with all that, there might come a time when she would want a
man’s,--any man’s,--love and comfort! The counter-proposition, that a
man should some time in his life long to have a woman by him, does in no
way shock the delicacy of the stronger creature. But what woman is there
who would not rather die than acknowledge personally for herself that a
man is necessary to the comfort of her existence? In the abstract, it is
a different matter. Poor Hillyard! the immediate result of his
pilgrimage of love, and hopeless declaration, was to move Mary Westbury,
in a wild flame of indignation at her own unwomanliness, to the task of
contenting herself, energetically and of set purposes, with all the
monotonies of her life.