“I don’t like him,” said Mary, simply; and then she added, after a pause, “I have no confidence in him. I should be very sorry to see any of my boys attracted by the society of such a man.”
And it was at this moment that his new knowledge rushed upon Wilfrid’s mind and embittered it; any of her boys, of whom he was the youngest and least important; and yet she must know what his real position was, and that he ought to be the chief of all.
“I don’t care a straw for him,” said Will, hastily; “but he knows a great many things, and I was interested in his talk.”
“What was he saying to you?” said Mrs. Ochterlony.
He looked into her face, and he saw that there was uneasiness in it, just as she, looking at him, saw signs of a change which he was himself unaware of; and in his impetuosity he was very near saying it all out and betraying himself. But then his uncertainty of all the details stood him in good stead.
“He was saying lots of things,” said Will. “I am sure I can’t tell you all that he was saying. If I were Hugh I would not let Nelly make a mess of herself with those roses. I am going in-doors.”
“A lovely evening like this is better than the best book in the world,” said Mary. “Stay with me, and talk to me, Will. You see I am the only one who is left alone.”
“I don’t care about lovely evenings,” said Will; “I think you should all come in. It is getting dreadfully cold. And as for being alone, I don’t see how that can be, when they are all there. Good night, mother. I think I shall go to bed.”
“Why should you go to bed so early?” said Mary; but he was already gone, and did not hear her. And as he went, he turned right round and looked at Hugh and Nelly, who were still together. When Mrs. Ochterlony remarked that look, she was at once troubled and comforted. She thought her boy was jealous of the way in which his brother engrossed the young visitor, and she was sorry, but yet knew that it was not very serious—while, at the same time, it was a comfort to her to attribute his pre-occupation to anything but Percival’s conversation. So she lingered about the lawn a little, and looked wistfully at the soft twilight country, and the wistful moon. She was the only one who was alone. The two young creatures were together, and they were happy; and poor Winnie, though she was far from happy, was buoyed up by the absorbing passion and hostility which had to-day reached one of its climaxes, and had Aunt Agatha for her slave, ready to receive all the burning outburst of grievance and misery. This fiery passion which absorbed her whole being was almost as good as being happy, and gave her mind full occupation. But as for Mary, she was by herself, and all was twilight with her; and the desertion of her boy gave her a little chill at her heart. So she, too, went in presently, and had the lamp lighted, and sat alone in the room, which was bright and yet dim—with a clear circle of light round the table, yet shadowy as all the corners are of a summer evening, when there is no fire to aid the lamp. But she did not find her son there. His discontent had gone further than to be content with a book, as she had expected; and he had really disappeared for the night.
“I can’t have you take possession of Nelly like this,” she said to Hugh, when, after a long interval, they came in. “We all want a share of her. Poor Will has gone to bed quite discontented. You must not keep her all to yourself.”