“Why, we can all find mercy, I suppose, if we go the right way to the right place for it,” answered Ben, seriously.
“Yes—but I don’t mean that kind. I mean, she wouldn’t deserve—Ben, if you were in Mr. Easton’s place, and the girl you were engaged to had allowed some one else—just for the excitement, you know; not because she wanted him to, or was so wicked and heartless, but just foolish—to think she might let him like her, you never would speak to her again, would you, Ben? You never would forgive her?”
“No, I don’t know as I could overlook a thing like that.”
“Of course you couldn’t! You always see things in the right light, Ben; you are so good—oh! how cruel, how perfectly unrelenting you are! That is—I don’t mean that—I mean— Oh, Ben, if you felt toward her—I oughtn’t to say it, I know; but just for instance—as you feel, as you used to feel, toward me, Ben”—she implored, while her tearful eyes dwelt on his—“could you forgive me—her, I mean?”
“I—I don’t know,” faltered Ben.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, Ben! But you oughtn’t, you oughtn’t!” she cried. “I mustn’t keep you, Ben. Good-by. And now you’ll let me give you the pencil, won’t you? It isn’t for you. It’s for some nice girl you’ll be sure to find, out there. Tell her I sent it to her; and, oh, tell her the best thing she can do is to be good! I hope you’ll have a pleasant time and get back safely; I sha’n’t be here when you come home.”
She did not shake hands with him at parting, and they went their several ways. At the turn of the road she looked back and saw him watching her. She took out her handkerchief and waved it to him; then, rounding the corner, she pressed it to her eyes, and stooped and made a little hasty toilet at the brook that ran along the roadside. When she rose she saw Easton at the head of the avenue, coming slowly down toward her. She went courageously to meet him. “Are my eyes red?” she asked. “I have just been shedding the parting tear over poor Ben. He’s a good boy, and I felt sorry for him. I’ve been his first love for several years, you know.”
“Yes,” said Easton, with the superiority that men feel toward much younger men’s passions. “That was plain enough from the beginning.”
Mrs. Farrell looked at him. He was pale and thin from his long lying in bed, but his old tone and manner were coming back, and he was growing better, though he was still far from strong. They were lingering at the farm while the fair weather lasted, that he might profit by the air as long as it could do him good, though he had meant to go before this time.
“I’ve brought you about all the letters there were in the office, this morning,” she said. “Do you want them now?”