When they were left alone, Mary and Alice went out together to stray about the lawn and down the favourite haunt of the Rentons,—the path to the river. And they had a great deal of talk and consultation, confidential and serious, which was comforting to both. ‘Don’t you know in the very least how things are to be?’ Alice asked, with a certain wistfulness. ‘I don’t care about money, indeed; but, oh, it would be so nice to stay at home!’
‘Nobody knows,’ said Mary; ‘not even Mr. Ponsonby, I believe. It makes one very anxious when one thinks of it. If poor, dear uncle’s mind was touched, as some people think, he may have made some other stipulation. I don’t know,—but Renton ought to come to Ben.’
‘I have heard Frank say often that if the will did not do that, Laurie and he had both agreed to settle it so,’ said Alice. ‘Of course they could not take it. But if it is not wrong to say so,—and as poor Mr. Renton is dead I don’t think it can be wrong,—I should like if there was some money for us.’
‘There must be some money for you,’ said Mary; and thus speaking they moved down the bank, and, coming to the beech-tree at the corner, which was associated in Mary’s mind with so many tangles of the tale, stopped short to contemplate the view. A little to one side from that famous point of vision a peep could be obtained, through some branches, of a house close by the water’s edge,—a little house, with its trees dipping into the stream, lying under the shadow of a high, wooded bank. Mary’s mind was full of her special griefs and apprehensions, and she could not keep her eyes from that peaceful little place, which lay full in the afternoon sunshine. ‘That is The Willows,’ she said, pointing it out.
‘It looks very nice, but what is The Willows?’ said Alice. ‘I never heard Frank speak of it,’ which was her standard of interest for everything within her vision.
‘I dare say Frank never remembered it,’ said Mary; ‘it is not a place of any consequence; at least, it never was before. But two ladies have come to it now. They are a mother and a daughter, and they are both widows.’
‘Poor things! but that does not sound very important still. Are they nice?’ said Alice, in her ignorance. And Mary began to regret the suddenness of her confidence.
‘The daughter is very beautiful. She was a schoolfellow of mine once,’ said Mary; ‘and I’m afraid they are not very nice. If I tell you something, will you never, never say a word to any one,—not even Frank? Oh, it is nothing wrong. I think Ben met her once, and was fond of her. Beauty goes so far, you know, with men. I think he was very fond of her, and she must have deceived him. And think what it will be to him, poor fellow, if he finds her there when he comes home!’
‘But how did she deceive him?’ cried Alice. ‘Oh, tell me! It must be quite a romance.’
‘I don’t care for such romances,’ said Mary. ‘He loved her, I am sure, and she went away abroad, and must have married somebody else, for she is a widow I told you; and fancy what he will feel when he finds her here!’