"I am going with you, Mary," said Mrs. Kirkman, coming suddenly in upon
the morning of the day which was to give peace to Major Ochterlony's
mind, and cloud over with something like a shadow of shame (or at least
she thought so) his wife's fair matron fame. The Colonel's wife had put
on her last white bonnet, which was not so fresh as it had been at the
beginning of the season, and white gloves which were also a little the
worse for wear. To be sure the marriage was not like a real marriage,
and nobody knew how the unwilling bride would think proper to dress.
Mrs. Kirkman came in at a quicker pace than ordinary, with her hair
hanging half out of curl on either side of her face, as was always the
case. She was fair, but of a greyish complexion, with light blue eyes _à
fleur de la tête_, which generally she kept half veiled within their
lids--a habit which was particularly aggravating to some of the livelier
spirits. She came in hastily (for her), and found Mary seated
disconsolate, and doing nothing, which is, in such a woman, one of the
saddest signs of a mind disturbed. Mrs. Ochterlony sat, dropped down
upon a chair, with her hands listlessly clasped in her lap, and a hot
flush upon her cheek. She was lost in a dreary contemplation of the
sacrifice which was about to be exacted from her, and of the possible
harm it might do. She was thinking of her children, what effect it
might have on them--and she was thinking bitterly, that for good or evil
she could not help it; that again, as on many a previous occasion, her
husband's restless mind had carried the day over her calmer judgment,
and that there was no way of changing it. To say that she consented with
personal pain of the most acute kind, would not be to say all. She gave
in, at the same time, with a foreboding utterly indistinct, and which
she would not have given utterance to, yet which was strong enough to
heighten into actual misery the pain and shame of her position. When
Mrs. Kirkman came in, with her eyes full of observation, and making the
keenest scrutiny from beneath the downcast lids, Mrs. Ochterlony was not
in a position to hide her emotions. She was not crying, it is true, for
the circumstances were too serious for crying; but it was not difficult
to form an idea of her state of mind from her strangely listless
attitude, and the expression of her face.
"I have come to go with you," said Mrs. Kirkman. "I thought you would
like to have somebody to countenance you. It will make no difference to
me, I assure you, Mary; and both the Colonel and I think if there is
_any_ doubt, you know, that it is by far the wisest thing you could do.
And I only hope----"
"Doubt!" said Mary, lighting up for the moment. "There is no more doubt
than there is of all the marriages made in Scotland. The people who go
there to be married are not married again afterwards that I ever heard
of. There is no doubt whatever--none in the world. I beg your pardon. I
am terribly vexed and annoyed, and I don't know what I am saying. To
hear any one talk of doubt!"
"My dear Mary, we _know_ nothing but what the Major has told us," said
Mrs. Kirkman. "You may depend upon it he has reason for what he is
doing; and I do hope you will see a higher hand in it all, and feel that
you are being humbled for your good."
"I wish you would tell me how it can be for my good," said Mrs.
Ochterlony, "when even you, who ought to know better, talk of doubt--you
who have known us all along from the very first. Hugh has taken it into
his head--that is the whole matter; and you, all of you know, when he
takes a thing into his head----"
She had been hurried on to say this by the rush of her disturbed
thoughts; but Mary was not a woman to complain of her husband. She came
to a sudden standstill, and rose up, and looked at her watch.
"It is about time to go," she said, "and I am sorry to give you the
trouble of going with me. It is not worth while for so short a
distance; but, at least, don't say anything more about it, please."
Mrs. Kirkman had already made the remark that Mary was not at all
"dressed." She had on her brown muslin, which was the plainest morning
dress in her possession, as everybody knew; and instead of going to her
room, to make herself a little nice, she took up her bonnet, which was
on the table, and tied it on without even so much as looking in the
glass. "I am quite ready," she said, when she had made this simple
addition to her dress, and stood there, looking everything that was most
unlike the Madonna of former days--flushed and clouded over, with lines
in her forehead, and the corners of her mouth dropped, and her fair
large serene beauty hidden beneath the thunder-cloud. And the Colonel's
wife was very sorry to see her friend in such a state of mind, as may be
supposed.
"My dear Mary," Mrs. Kirkman said, taking her arm as they went out, and
holding it fast. "I should much wish to see you in a better frame of
mind. Man is only the instrument in our troubles. It must have been that
Providence saw you stood in need of it, my dear. He knows best. It would
not have been sent if it had not been for your good."
"In that way, if I were to stand in the sun till I got a sunstroke, it
would be for my good," said Mary, in anger. "You would say, it was God's
fault, and not mine. But I know it is _my_ fault; I ought to have stood
out and resisted, and I have not had the strength; and it is not for
good, but evil. It is not God's fault, but ours. It can be for nobody's
good."
But after this, she would not say any more. Not though Mrs. Kirkman was
shocked at her way of speaking, and took great pains to impress upon her
that she must have been doing or thinking something God punished by this
means. "Your pride must have wanted bringing down, my dear; as we all
do, Mary, both you and I," said the Colonel's wife; but then Mrs.
Kirkman's humility was well known.
Thus they walked together to the chapel, whither various wondering
people, who could not understand what it meant, were straying. Major
Ochterlony had meant to come for his wife, but he was late, as he so
often was, and met them only near the chapel-door; and then he did
something which sent the last pang of which it was capable to Mary's
heart, though it was only at a later period that she found it out. He
found his boy with the Hindoo nurse, and brought little Hugh in,
'wildered and wondering. Mr. Churchill by this time had put his
surplice on, and all was ready. Colonel Kirkman had joined his wife, and
stood by her side behind the "couple," furtively grasping his grey
moustache, and looking out of a corner of his eyes at the strange scene.
Mrs. Kirkman, for her part, dropt her eyelids as usual, and looked down
upon Mary kneeling at her feet, with a certain compassionate
uncertainty, sorry that Mrs. Ochterlony did not see this trial to be for
her good, and at the same time wondering within herself whether it _had_
all been perfectly right, or was not more than a notion of the Major's.
Farther back Miss Sorbette, who was with Annie Hesketh, was giving vent
in a whisper to the same sentiments.
"I am very sorry for poor Mary: but _could_ it be all quite right
before?" Miss Sorbette was saying. "A man does not take fright like that
for nothing. We women are silly, and take fancies; but when a _man_ does
it, you know----"
And it was with such an accompaniment that Mary knelt down, not looking
like a Madonna, at her husband's side. As for the Major, an air of
serenity had diffused itself over his handsome features. He knelt in
quite an easy attitude, pleased with himself, and not displeased to be
the centre of so interesting a group. Mary's face was slightly averted
from him, and was burning with the same flush of indignation as when
Mrs. Kirkman found her in her own house. She had taken off her bonnet
and thrown it down by her side; and her hair was shining as if in anger
and resistance to this fate, which, with closed mouth, and clasped
hands, and steady front, she was submitting to, though it was almost as
terrible as death. Such was the curious scene upon which various
subaltern members of society at the station looked on with wondering
eyes. And little Hugh Ochterlony stood near his mother with childish
astonishment, and laid up the singular group in his memory, without
knowing very well what it meant; but that was a sentiment shared by many
persons much more enlightened than the poor little boy, who did not know
how much influence this mysterious transaction might have upon his own
fate.
The only other special feature was that Mary, with the corners of her
mouth turned down, and her whole soul wound up to obstinacy, would not
call herself by any name but Mary Ochterlony. They persuaded her,
painfully, to put her long disused maiden name upon the register, and
kind Mr. Churchill shut his ears to it in the service; but yet it was a
thing that everybody remarked. When all was over, nobody knew how they
were expected to behave, whether to congratulate the pair, or whether to
disappear and hold their tongues, which seemed in fact the wisest way.
But no popular assembly ever takes the wisest way of working. Mr.
Churchill was the first to decide the action of the party. He descended
the altar steps, and shook hands with Mary, who stood tying her bonnet,
with still the corners of her mouth turned down, and that feverish flush
on her cheeks. He was a good man, though not spiritually-minded in Mrs.
Kirkman's opinion; and he felt the duty of softening and soothing his
flock as much as of teaching them, which is sometimes a great deal less
difficult. He came and shook hands with her, gravely and kindly.
"I don't see that I need congratulate you, Mrs. Ochterlony," he said, "I
don't suppose it makes much difference; but you know you always have all
our best wishes." And he cast a glance over his audience, and reproved
by that glance the question that was circulating among them. But to tell
the truth, Mrs. Kirkman and Miss Sorbette paid very little attention to
Mr. Churchill's looks.
"My dear Mary, you have kept up very well, though I am sure it must have
been trying," Mrs. Kirkman said. "Once is bad enough; but I am sure you
will see a good end in it at the last."
And while she spoke she allowed a kind of silent interrogation, from her
half-veiled eyes, to steal over Mary, and investigate her from head to
foot. _Had_ it been all right before? Might not this perhaps be in
reality the first time, the once which was bad enough? The question
crept over Mrs. Ochterlony, from the roots of her hair down to her feet,
and examined her curiously to find a response. The answer was plain
enough, and yet it was not plain to the Colonel's wife; for she knew
that the heart is deceitful above all things, and that where human
nature is considered it is always safest to believe the worst.
Miss Sorbette came forward too in her turn, with a grave face. "I am
sure you must feel more comfortable after it, and I am so glad you have
had the moral courage," the doctor's sister said, with a certain
solemnity. But perhaps it was Annie Hesketh, in her innocence, who was
the worst of all. She advanced timidly, with her face in a blaze, like
Mary's own, not knowing where to look, and lost in ingenuous
embarrassment.
"Oh, dear Mrs. Ochterlony, I don't know what to say," said Annie. "I am
so sorry, and I hope you will always be very, very happy; and mamma
couldn't come----" Here she stopped short, and looked up with candid
eyes, that asked a hundred questions. And Mary's reply was addressed to
her alone.
"Tell your mamma, Annie, that I am glad she could not come," said the
injured wife. "It was very kind of her." When she had said so much, Mrs.
Ochterlony turned round, and saw her boy standing by, looking at her. It
was only then that she turned to the husband to whom she had just
renewed her troth. She looked full at him, with a look of indignation
and dismay. It was the last drop that made the cup run over; but then,
what was the good of saying anything? That final prick however, brought
her to herself. She shook hands with all the people afterwards, as if
they were dispersing after an ordinary service, and took little Hugh's
hand and went home as if nothing had happened. She left the Major behind
her, and took no notice of him, and did not even, as young Askell
remarked, offer a glass of wine to the assistants at the ceremony, but
went home with her little boy, talking to him, as she did on Sundays
going home from church; and everybody stood and looked after her, as
might have been expected. She knew they were looking after her, and
saying "Poor Mary!" and wondering after all if there must not have been
a very serious cause for this re-marriage. Mary thought to herself that
she knew as well what they were saying as if she had been among them,
and yet she was not entirely so correct in her ideas of what was going
on as she thought.
In the first place, she could not have imagined how a moment could undo
all the fair years of unblemished life which she had passed among them.
She did not really believe that they would doubt her honour, although
she herself felt it clouded; and at the same time she did not know the
curious compromise between cruelty and kindness, which is all that their
Christian feelings can effect in many commonplace minds, yet which is a
great deal when one comes to think of it. Mrs. Kirkman, arguing from the
foundation of the desperate wickedness of the human heart, had gradually
reasoned herself into the belief that Mary had deceived her, and had
never been truly an honourable wife; but notwithstanding this
conclusion, which in the abstract would have made her cast off the
culprit with utter disdain, the Colonel's wife paused, and was moved,
almost in spite of herself, by the spirit of that faith which she so
often wrapped up and smothered in disguising talk. She did not believe
in Mary; but she did, in a wordy, defective way, in Him who was the son
of a woman, and who came not to condemn; and she could not find it in
her heart to cast off the sinner. Perhaps if Mrs. Ochterlony had known
this divine reason for her friend's charity, it would have struck a
deeper blow than any other indignity to which she had been subjected.
In all her bitter thoughts, it never occurred to her that her neighbour
stood by her as thinking of those Marys who once wept at the Saviour's
feet. Heaven help the poor Madonna, whom all the world had heretofore
honoured! In all her thoughts she never went so far as that.
The ladies waited a little, and sent away Annie Hesketh, who was too
young for scenes of this sort, though her mamma was so imprudent, and
themselves laid hold of Mr. Churchill, when the other gentlemen had
dispersed. Mr. Churchill was one of those mild missionaries who turn
one's thoughts involuntarily to that much-abused, yet not altogether
despicable institution of a celibate clergy. He was far from being
celibate, poor man! He, or at least his wife, had such a succession of
babies as no man could number. They had children at "home" in genteel
asylums for the sons and daughters of the clergy, and they had children
in the airiest costume at the station, whom people were kind to, and who
were waiting their chance of being sent "home" too; and withal, there
were always more arriving, whom their poor papa received with mild
despair. For his part, he was not one of the happy men who held
appointments under the beneficent rule of the Company, nor was he a
regimental chaplain. He was one of that hapless band who are always
"doing duty" for other and better-off people. He was almost too old now
(though he was not old), and too much hampered and overlaid by children,
to have much hope of anything better than "doing duty" all the rest of
his life; and the condition of Mrs. Churchill, who had generally need of
neighbourly help, and of the children, who were chiefly clothed--such
clothing as it was--by the bounty of the Colonel's and Major's and
Captain's wives, somehow seemed to give these ladies the upper hand of
their temporary pastor. He managed well enough among the men, who
respected his goodness, and recognised him to be a gentleman,
notwithstanding his poverty; but he stood in terror of the women, who
were more disposed to interfere, and who were kind to his family and
patronised himself. He tried hard on this occasion, as on many others,
to escape, but he was hemmed in, and no outlet was left him. If he had
been a celibate brother, there can be little doubt it would have been he
who would have had the upper hand; but with all his family burdens and
social obligations, the despotism of the ladies of his flock came hard
upon the poor clergyman; all the more that, poor though he was, and
accustomed to humiliations, he had not learned yet to dispense with the
luxury of feelings and delicacies of his own.
"Mr. Churchill, do give us your advice," said Miss Sorbette, who was
first. "Do tell us what all this means? They surely must have told _you_
at least the rights of it. Do you think they have really never been
married all this time? Goodness gracious me! to think of us all
receiving her, and calling her Madonna, and all that, if this be true!
Do you think----"
"I don't think anything but what Major Ochterlony told me," said Mr.
Churchill, with a little emphasis. "I have not the least doubt he told
me the truth. The witnesses of their marriage are dead, and that
wretched place at Gretna was burnt down, and he is afraid that his wife
would have no means of proving her marriage in case of anything
happening to him. I don't know what reason there can be to suppose that
Major Ochterlony, who is a Christian and a gentleman, said anything that
was not true."
"My dear Mr. Churchill," said Mrs. Kirkman, with a sigh, "you are so
charitable. If one could but hope that the poor dear Major was a true
Christian, as you say. But one has no evidence of any vital change in
his case. And, dear Mary!--I have made up my mind for one thing, that it
shall make no difference to me. Other people can do as they like, but so
far as I am concerned, I can but think of our Divine Example," said the
Colonel's wife. It was a real sentiment, and she meant well, and was
actually thinking as well as talking of that Divine Example; but still
somehow the words made the blood run cold in the poor priest's veins.
"What can you mean, Mrs. Kirkman?" he said. "Mrs. Ochterlony is as she
always was, a person whom we all may be proud to know."
"Yes, yes," said Miss Sorbette, who interrupted them both without any
ceremony; "but that is not what I am asking. As for his speaking the
truth as a Christian and a gentleman, I don't give much weight to that.
If he has been deceiving us for all these years, you may be sure he
would not stick at a fib to end off with. What is one to do? I don't
believe it could ever have been a good marriage, for my part!"
This was the issue to which she had come by dint of thinking it over and
discussing it; although the doctor's sister, like the Colonel's wife,
had got up that morning with the impression that Major Ochterlony's
fidgets had finally driven him out of his senses, and that Mary was the
most ill-used woman in the world.
"And I believe exactly the contrary," said the clergyman, with some
heat. "I believe in an honourable man and a pure-minded woman. I had
rather give up work altogether than reject such an obvious truth."
"Ah, Mr. Churchill," Mrs. Kirkman said again, "we must not rest in these
vain appearances. We are all vile creatures, and the heart is deceitful
above all things. I do fear that you are taking too charitable a view."
"Yes," said Mr. Churchill, but perhaps he made a different application
of the words; "I believe that about the heart; but then it shows its
wickedness generally in a sort of appropriate, individual way. I daresay
_they_ have their thorns in the flesh, like the rest; but it is not
falsehood and wantonness that are their besetting sins," said the poor
man, with a plainness of speech which put his hearers to the blush.
"Goodness gracious! remember that you are talking to ladies, Mr.
Churchill," Miss Sorbette said, and put down her veil. It was not a fact
he was very likely to forget; and then he put on his hat as they left
the chapel, and hoped he was now free to go upon his way.
"Stop a minute, please," said Miss Sorbette. "I should like to know what
course of action is going to be decided on. I am very sorry for Mary,
but so long as her character remains under this doubt----"
"It shall make no difference to me," said Mrs. Kirkman. "I don't pretend
to regulate anybody's actions, Sabina; but when one thinks of Mary of
Bethany! She may have done wrong, but I hope this occurrence will be
blessed to her soul. I felt sure she wanted something to bring her low,
and make her feel her need," the Colonel's wife added, with solemnity;
"and it is such a lesson for us all. In other circumstances, the same
thing might have happened to you or me."
"It could never have happened to me," said Miss Sorbette, with sudden
wrath; which was a fortunate diversion for Mr. Churchill. This was how
her friends discussed her after Mary had gone away from her second
wedding; and perhaps they were harder upon her than she had supposed
even in her secret thoughts.