“That is as my wife pleases,” said Ronald. “In that respect I can have no will but hers.”
And then they all stood for a moment, in the natural awkwardness of such a breaking up. No will read; nothing to make a natural point of conclusion. The ladies came to the rescue, as was their part. One of them, touched by pity, took Lily into her arms, and spoke tenderly in her ear.
“My dear, you must not blame yourself beyond measure,” she said. “You were very good to the old man. I have thought for a long time you had something on your mind. But if you had been his daughter ten times over, and had a conscience void of offence, you could not have been a better bairn to the old man.”
“Thank you for saying so,” said Lily. “I will remember you said it as long as I live.”
“Hoot!” said the kind woman, “you will soon be thinking of other things. I will come back soon to see you, and you must just try to forgive yourself, my dear.” She paused a moment, and Lily divined that she would have said, “and him,” but these words did not come.
“We will all come back—and bring our good wishes—another day,” said this lady’s husband, and then they all shook hands with her, with at least a show of cordiality, the half-dozen men feeling to Lily like a crowd, the other lady saying nothing to her but a half-whispered good-by. Ronald elaborately shook hands with them all, with a little demonstration again as of the master of the house. He went to the door with them, seeing them off, enquiring about their carriages. He was perfectly good-mannered, courteous, friendly, but showing a familiarity with the place, warning the strangers of the dark corners, and especially of that worn step at the top of the stairs, which was positively dangerous, Ronald said, and must be seen to at once, and with an assumption of the position of the man of the house which did not please the country neighbors. He was too well acquainted with every thing, too pat with all their names, overdoing his part.
“Oh, Miss Lily, Miss Lily,” cried old Wallace, who had not called her by that name since she was a child, “how could you deceive him? a man that trusted in you with all his heart!”
“Nobody can blame me,” said Lily drearily, “as I blame myself.”
“You would never have had his money had he known. The will’s all right, and nobody can contest it, but that siller would burn my fingers if it were me. I would have no enjoyment in it. I would think it a fortune dearly bought.”
“The money—was I thinking about the money?” Lily cried, with a touch of scorn which brought back its natural tone to her voice.