Knowing that he would, of course, come to say good-by to her, and dreading an interview with him when no one was present, Mrs. Walter Scott had made a “great effort” to dress herself, and come down to breakfast. But she panted hard, and seemed too weak to talk, and kept her hand a good deal on her left side, where she said she experienced great pain since her illness, and sometimes feared her lungs were affected. With all her languor and weakness, she could not quite conceal her elation at the near prospect of being entirely alone in her glory, and it showed itself in her face and in her eyes, which, nevertheless, tried to look so sorry and pitiful when, at last, Roger turned to her to say good-by.
She had nothing to fear from him now. He had given up quietly. Success was hers, with riches and luxury. It could matter little what Roger thought of her. His opinion could not change her position at Millbank. Still, in her heart she respected him more than any man living, and would rather he thought well of her than ill. So, with that look in her eyes which they always wore when she wanted to be particularly interesting, she held his hand between her own and said,—
“I can’t let you go without hearing you say that you forgive me for any wrong you imagine me to have done, and that you will not cherish hard feelings toward me. Tell me this, can’t you, dear brother?”
He dropped her hand then, as if a viper had stung him, and a gleam of fire leaped to his eyes as he replied:
“Don’t call me brother, now, Helen. That time is past. You have wronged me fearfully, and but for you I should never have met this hour of darkness. If God can forgive me for all my sins against Him, I surely ought to try and forgive you, too. But human flesh is weak, and I cannot say that I feel very kindly towards you, for I do not.”
He had never said so much to her before, and the proud woman winced a little, but tried to appear natural, and, for appearance sake, went with him to the door, and stood watching the carriage until it left the avenue and turned into the highway.
In perfect silence Roger passed through the grounds, so beautiful now in their summer glory, but as the carriage left the park behind, he leaned from the window for a last look at his old home. The sun was just rising and the dew-drops were glittering on the grass and flowers, while the thousands of roses with which the place was adorned filled the air with perfume. It seemed a second Paradise to the heart-broken man, whose thoughts went back to the dream he once had of just such a day as this when he was leaving Millbank. In the dream, however, there was this difference: Magdalen was with him; her hand lay in his, her eyes shone upon him, and turned the midnight into noonday. Now he was alone, so far as she was concerned. Magda was not there; she would never be with him again, unless she came the wife of Frank, who sat opposite, with an expression of genuine sympathy on his boyish face. Frank was sorry that morning, so sorry that he could not talk; but when, as they lost sight of Millbank, Roger groaned aloud and leaned his head against the side of the carriage, he went over to him, and sitting down beside him took his hand in his own and pressed it nervously.
There was a crowd of people at the station; the whole village, Frank thought, when he saw the moving multitude which pressed around Roger to say good-by and assure him of their willingness to serve him. There were mills in Schodick, they had heard, and shoe shops, too; and a few were already talking of following their late master thither.
“It would be worth something to see him round even if they did not work for him,” they said.
And Roger heard all and saw all, and said good-by to all, and took in his arms the little baby boy named for him ten months before, and said playfully to the mother, “He shall have the first cow I raise on my farm.”