And now to think it was all over, and that there remained nothing but the old life to be taken up again and gone on with just as before! If it had been night, when one could have shrouded one’s-self in one’s own room, and cried or slept, and forgotten one’s-self! But it was day,—early morning,—with a whole heap of duties to be performed, and people to look on while she was performing them. And Mary felt sick of it all,—the duties, and the daylight, and the life. Laurie, who thought early rising idiotic, went by a much later train, at what he called a rational hour. And then the house was left in its old quiet, but for the presence of Frank and Alice and the children, which no doubt made a great difference. When Mary went to her godmother with the newspaper she was questioned minutely about Ben’s departure and his looks. ‘Did he eat any breakfast, Mary?’ Mrs. Renton said, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.
‘He ate a very good breakfast,’ said Mary, with a slight sense of humour, but on the whole, a greater sense of something like displeasure. Yes, he had been quite able to eat breakfast, though he was going away!
‘And enjoyed it, poor fellow?’ said his mother. ‘Ah, if one only knew when he would eat his next meal at Renton? And was he cheerful, my dear, or did he feel it very much? Poor Ben! None of you think how hard it is upon me!’
‘You have Frank, godmamma,’ said Mary, ‘and if he settles in the Dovecote it will be very nice for us all. And there is Laurie close at hand whenever you want him, and no one could be more kind than Laurie——’
‘But neither Laurie nor Frank is Ben,’ said Mrs. Renton with decision, drying her eyes—which, alas! as her niece felt to the bottom of her heart, was most true. And then Mary read the papers, all the bits of news, as she had done any day these seven years. Had there been any break in the endless round, or had she only dreamed it? It seemed so hard to know: for the interruption, with all its agitations and pleasures, had vanished, and everything was as it had been before. Except, indeed, that Frank and Alice made the dinner-table cheerful, and took the heavy duty of the drive off Mary’s hands, which was a relief for which she should have been more grateful. But even that showed the difference between her own life and that of Frank’s wife, though Mary, had she not been driven to it, was not given to such comparisons. For her there was but the usual monotonous promenade over the well-known, too well-known country; but Alice was taken to the Dovecote, and even the invalid grew interested about the changes necessary, and the furnishing and decorations of that abode. ‘The Frank Rentons’ had all the pleasant excitement of settling down before them. And Mary felt that it was very wicked and unwomanly of her to desire any excitement, or to feel so wearily conscious of the want of interest in her own existence. Would it be much better in the cottage with her mother, who in all these years had learnt to do without her, and whose whole mind was absorbed in her curate-boy? Perhaps that would not be any better. And, anyhow, it was evident that there was nothing to do in the meantime but to submit.
There was, however, an excitement awaiting Mary much nearer than she had any expectation of. It came to her just two days after Ben’s departure, in the afternoon, when once more Alice and the children had gone to accompany Mrs. Renton in her drive, and she was alone in the drawing-room, with the window open as usual,—that window by which everybody went and came,—everybody, that is to say, belonging to the family. Mary was reading, seated in her favourite chair, half buried in the curtains, when it seemed to her that a shadow fell on her book,—a very familiar accident. It must be Frank, she thought, looking up; but to her great amazement she saw it was Hillyard standing with a deprecating, anxious look before the window. She made a spring from her seat with that one thought which fills the mind of a preoccupied woman to the exclusion of all personal courtesy and consideration. Something must have happened to Ben! ‘What is it? for God’s sake, tell me! tell me!’ she said, rushing out upon him, dropping her book, and holding up her clasped hands.
‘Nothing, Miss Westbury,’ he said, putting out his hand to take hers, with the humblest, softest tone,—a tone amazing in its gentleness from such a big-bearded, unpolished man. ‘I was only waiting to ask you whether I might come in.’
‘But you are sure there is nothing wrong with—my cousin?’ Mary cried; and then recollected herself, and was covered with confusion. ‘I beg your pardon; but seeing you so suddenly it was natural to think of Ben. I felt as if you must have brought bad news, Mr. Hillyard; don’t think me very silly—but godmamma may come in any moment from her drive—you are sure there is nothing the matter with Ben?’
‘Nothing at all. I left him a few hours ago, very well and very busy,’ said Hillyard; and then once more he added in the same soft, subdued, disquieting tones, ‘Will you let me come in?’
‘Yes, surely,’ said Mary, though she was trembling with the sudden fright. ‘But it is so strange to see you. Is there any change in your plans? I thought you were to go to-day.’ And then a wavering of light and colour came over her face suddenly in spite of herself. This man, who had no possible business at Renton, surely could not have come alone!