‘She was at Thorny croft at school for a little,’ said Mary, giving her mother a look. The look put a stop to the conversation; but it had to be explained afterwards, which was done somewhat at the expense of truth. The Willows’ boat had been drawn close to the bank before they passed, and Mary was less particular in steering wide of it. Millicent stood on the lawn, having just landed, with her scarlet cloak dropping off her shoulders, and waved her hand to them. ‘Good-night! How pleasant it has been!’ she cried, her voice falling softly through the summer air, still full of the slanting sunshine. ‘Good-night!’ Mary cried across the water. Ben never said a word; he did not even pause in the slow, vigorous, regular stroke which made the boat fly down the shining current. They were yards below The Willows before Millicent had finished speaking her two or three words. “Was he afraid?—was he indifferent? And while Mary’s mind was busy about this question, Aunt Lydia was forming her little theories of a very different kind. When a young man passes by a very pretty woman without so much as raising his head, it means,—what does it mean?—that some one else has secured his attention, and taken up all his thoughts. Mrs. Westbury felt as if Providence itself was heaping coals of fire on her head. She it was who had brought about the banishment of the boys, and yet no sooner had the first of them come home than he set about fulfilling her dearest wish. But no doubt it was for Mary’s sake. Mary, who had never harmed any one, who had helped and served everybody from her cradle. How bright she had become all at once!—how she had learned to chatter like the rest! It seemed curious to Mrs. Westbury that an important event should be coming about in her child’s life in which she herself had not been the chief actor,—especially that Mary should have had the sense to acquire for herself an eligible lover without any assistance. Ben did not look very much like a lover it is true, but Aunt Lydia was aware that a man in such a position is not always possessed with an insane delight, but often has a great deal to think of. She, too, was silent with the stress of her own thoughts. It was Mary who entertained them,—talking as she had never been heard to talk before,—full of wild spirits and fun. Her mother, who knew nothing of the story, did not perceive that Mary’s gaiety came on suddenly after they passed The Willows, nor that her eyes had the humid and dilated look which signifies emotion. One finds things out so much more readily when one has an inkling of the fin mot of the enigma. Mrs. Westbury did not even know there was an enigma to solve, and set down her daughter’s high spirits to what seemed to her the most natural and the most likely cause.
‘I congratulate you, my dear, upon having Ben back again,’ she said to Mrs. Renton as she kissed her. They were not very fond of each other, the two ladies; but yet, by dint of connexion and contiguity, had come to a certain habit of mutual dependence, though the support was chiefly on one side.
‘Yes,’ Mrs. Renton said, with an under-tone which was slightly querulous. ‘He is a very good boy; but a stranger in the house makes such a difference in one’s life.’
‘You don’t call Ben a stranger, poor fellow! And he is so nice. It is quite a pleasure to see him back,’ said Mrs. Westbury. ‘I thought you would have been out of your wits with joy.’
‘And so I am,’ said Ben’s mother, with a little indignation; ‘but there is nobody that has any real consideration for my weakness except Mary. She knows just how much I am able to bear. I suppose it is difficult for people in health to realise how weak I am.’
‘Well, my dear, you know I always said that if you would but make an effort to exert yourself it would do all the good in the world,’ said Mrs. Westbury; and then she went up-stairs to put on her cap. ‘I have no patience with your aunt,’ she said to Mary,—‘thinking of her own little bits of ailments, half of which are mere indulgence, when her poor boy has just come home.’
‘Poor godmamma! I don’t think she can help it,’ said Mary.
‘Nonsense, child! I have said to her from the first that she ought to make an effort. How do you think I should ever have managed had I given in? And now tell me, please, what you meant by looking at me so, twice over, when I was speaking to Ben.’
‘I did not want you to talk about Mrs. Rich,’ said Mary, turning away as the exigencies of her own toilette required. ‘He used to know her, and I was afraid you might say something——’
‘You might have left that to my own discretion,’ said Mrs. Westbury, with some offence.