‘It is not for us to say so, at least,’ said the elder brother. ‘I believe illness coming on had confused his mind. They say it does. I don’t think he can have been quite clear what he was doing. And then he remembered at last, and was sorry,—don’t you recollect?’
‘My poor father!’ said Laurie. And then there was a pause; and in this pause, through the dimness and the stillness, came the sound of Hillyard’s voice, too low to be distinguishable, coming from Mary’s corner, addressed to her with a volubility and eagerness which struck them all with amazement. He had not meant to be so audible; and when, after the first silence, a little laugh burst from Alice at the one voice thus brought into prominence, he faltered and stopped too, as people do under such circumstances. What could he be finding to say to Mary? and what could Mary be thinking of to listen to him? were the half-angry thoughts that flashed over Ben’s mind. Of course he was a guest here, and everybody’s equal. Yet still, it seemed to Ben as if, on the whole, this was bad taste, to say the least, on Hillyard’s part.
But Alice, though she had laughed at the sound of the solitary voice which continued when they all dropped, was eager to let loose her opinions, too, on the other subject. ‘I cannot see what other will could have been just, now,’ she said. ‘If he had told you something to do, it would have been different. But he gave you nothing to do; and how were you to know what he wanted? It was not Laurie’s three princes, after all.’
‘And, now I come to think of it, I don’t believe in my three princes,’ said Laurie. ‘I have not a doubt they fought it out when papa was out of the way. Fancy two elder brothers giving in to a fellow because he had the marvellousest little dog that ever was seen! It came to natural justice, you may be sure, at the end, and the strongest had it. And it has come to a kind of natural justice with us, so far as law allows. Poor old father! One used to feel as if he must be so much wiser than we were. And it proves he was as confused as the rest, and saw just as short a way before him, and stultified himself, half-knowingly, like one of his own sons.’
‘Don’t!’ said Ben, with a voice of pain. He was more angry with his father than soft-hearted Laurie ever could have been, and consequently was less able to talk of it. ‘Thank heaven!’ he cried, suddenly, ‘I don’t suppose it has done any of us any lasting harm.’
‘No,’ said Laurie, out of the silence, after a pause, ‘no more harm than we should have done ourselves, anyhow, for our own hand.’
And somehow, in the room, there was the sound of a sigh; whom it proceeded from it would be hard to tell—six people all gathered together of a soft autumn evening, and not too much light to betray them, it would be strange if there was not more than one who sighed. But Alice, in the shade, slid her hand through her husband’s arm, and said joyously, ‘It has done us no harm, Frank!’ ‘Because we would not let it,’ he whispered back again, brushing her soft cheek with his moustache. Yes, that was the secret. Have your will, anyhow, whether fortune permits or no; and in the long run the chances are you will come out just as well as your neighbour, who allowed fortune to constrain him, and will have had your will and your happiness into the bargain; bad social morality, perhaps, but just as good fact as any other. The young soldier and his wife had their little triumph unsuspected by the others, who heard but a momentary whisper in that corner, which was drowned by Hillyard’s more forcible whisper, always conversing with Mary. What did the fellow mean by it? Ben was so disgusted by this ‘bad taste’ of his friend, that he got up and stepped out on the lawn, with some murmur about a cigar. And the other men all rose and joined him, though not with any enthusiasm. When they had all trooped out, he stepped back for a moment, and held out his hand to his cousin.
‘Is it really the case, Mary, that I am not to bid you good-bye to-night?’
‘No,’ Mary said, drawing back, with a shy hesitation which he did not understand; ‘do you think I would let you go away,—so far,—and not make your breakfast for you the last morning? This is only good-night.’
‘Good-night, then,’ he said, but held her hand still. ‘What was that fellow, Hillyard, so voluble about?’