Guy's instinct of flight was, his mother felt, wisest, safest, best.
"My boy, you shall have your desire; you shall go."
I had not expected it of her—at least, not so immediately. I had thought, bound up in him as she was, accustomed to his daily sight, his daily fondness—for he was more with her, and "petted" her more than any other of the children—I had thought to have seen some reluctance, some grieved entreaty—but no! Not even when, gaining her consent, the boy looked up as if her allowing him to quit her was the greatest kindness she had ever in his life bestowed.
"And when shall I go?"
"Whenever you choose."
"To-day; perhaps I might get away to-day?"
"You can, if you wish, my dear boy."
But no sooner had she said it, than the full force and meaning of the renunciation seemed to burst upon her. Her fingers, which had been smoothing Guy's hand as it lay on her lap, tightly closed round it; with the other hand she put back his hair, gazing—gazing, as if it were impossible to part with him.
"Guy—oh, Guy, my heart is breaking! Promise that you will try to be yourself again—that you will never be anything other than my own good boy, if I agree to let you go?" What he answered, or what further passed between them, was not for me either to hear or to know. I left the room immediately.
When, some time after John's hour for returning from the mills, I also returned to the house, I found that everything was settled for Guy's immediate departure.