And Mary's forebodings came true. Though it was so unlikely, and indeed
seemed so unreasonable to everybody who knew about such expeditions,
instead of bringing back his men victorious, it was the men, all
drooping and discouraged, who carried back the brave and tender Major,
covered over with the flag he had died for. The whole station was
overcast with mourning when that melancholy procession came back. Mr.
Churchill, who met them coming in, hurried back with his heart swelling
up into his throat to prepare Mrs. Ochterlony for what was coming; but
Mary was the only creature at the station who did not need to be
prepared. She knew it was going to be so when she saw him go away. She
felt in her heart that this was to be the end of it from the moment when
he first told her of the expedition on which he was ordered. And when
she saw poor Mr. Churchill's face, from which he had vainly tried to
banish the traces of the horrible shock he had just received, she saw
that the blow had fallen. She came up to him and took hold of his hands,
and said, "I know what it is;" and almost felt, in the strange and
terrible excitement of the moment, as if she were sorry for him who felt
it so much.
This was how it was, and all the station was struck with mourning. A
chance bullet, which most likely had been fired without any purpose at
all, had done its appointed office in Major Ochterlony's brave, tender,
honest bosom. Though he had been foolish enough by times, nobody now
thought of that to his disadvantage. Rather, if anything, it surrounded
him with a more affectionate regret. A dozen wise men might have
perished and not left such a gap behind them as the Major did, who had
been good to everybody in his restless way, and given a great deal of
trouble, and made up for it, as only a man with a good heart and natural
gift of friendliness could do. He had worried his men many a time as the
Colonel never did, for example; but then, to Major Ochterlony they were
men and fine fellows, while they were only machines, like himself, to
Colonel Kirkman; and more than one critic in regimentals was known to
say with a sigh, "If it had only been the Colonel." But it was only the
fated man who had been so over-careful about his wife's fate in case
anything happened to him. Young Askell came by stealth like a robber to
take his little wife out of the house where Mary was not capable any
longer of her society; and Captain Hesketh too had come back all
safe--all of them except the one: and the women in their minds stood
round Mary in a kind of hushed circle, looking with an awful
fellow-feeling and almost self-reproach at the widowhood which might
have, but had not, fallen upon themselves. It was no fault of theirs
that she had to bear the cross for all of them as it were; and yet their
hearts ached over her, as if somehow they had purchased their own
exemption at her expense. When the first dark moment, during which
nobody saw Madonna Mary--a sweet title which had come back to all their
lips in the hour of trouble--was over, they took turns to be with her,
those grieved and compunctious women--compunctious not so much because
at one time in thought they had done her wrong, as because now they were
happy and she was sorrowful. And thus passed over a time that cannot be
described in a book, or at least in such a book as this. Mary had to
separate herself, with still the bloom of her life unimpaired, from all
the fair company of matrons round her; to put the widow's veil over the
golden reflections in her hair, and the faint colour that came faintly
back to her cheek by imprescriptible right of her health and comparative
youth, and to go away out of the high-road of life where she had been
wayfaring in trouble and in happiness, to one of those humble by-ways
where the feeble and broken take shelter. Heaven knows she did not think
of that. All that she thought of was her dead soldier who had gone away
in the bloom of _his_ days to the unknown darkness which God alone knows
the secrets of, who had left all his comrades uninjured and at peace
behind him, and had himself been the only one to answer for that
enterprise with his life. It is strange to see this wonderful selection
going on in the world, even when one has no immediate part in it; but
stranger, far stranger, to wake up from one's musings and feel all at
once that it is one's self whom God has laid his hand upon for this
stern purpose. The wounded creature may writhe upon the sword, but it is
of no use; and again as ever, those who are not wounded--those perhaps
for whose instruction the spectacle is made--draw round in a hushed
circle and look on. Mary Ochterlony was a dutiful woman, obedient and
submissive to God's will; and she gave no occasion to that circle of
spectators to break up the hush and awe of natural sympathy and
criticise her how she bore it. But after a while she came to perceive,
what everybody comes to perceive who has been in such a position, that
the sympathy had changed its character. That was natural too. How a man
bears death and suffering of body, has long been one of the favourite
objects of primitive human curiosity; and to see how anguish and sorrow
affect the mind is a study as exciting and still more interesting. It
was this that roused Mrs. Ochterlony out of her first stupor, and made
her decide so soon as she did upon her journey home.
All these events had passed in so short a time, that there were many
people who on waking up in the morning, and recollecting that Mary and
her children were going next day, could scarcely realize that the fact
was possible, or that it could be true about the Major, who had so fully
intended sending his little boys home by that same mail. But it is, on
the whole, astonishing how soon and how calmly a death is accepted by
the general community; and even the people who asked themselves could
this change really have happened in so short a time, took pains an hour
or two after to make up little parcels for friends at home, which Mary
was to carry; bits of Oriental embroidery and filagree ornaments, and
little portraits of the children, and other trifles that were not
important enough to warrant an Overland parcel, or big enough to go by
the Cape. Mary was very kind in that way, they all said. She accepted
all kinds of commissions, perhaps without knowing very well what she was
doing, and promised to go and see people whom she had no likelihood of
ever going to see; the truth was, that she heard and saw and understood
only partially, sometimes rousing up for a moment and catching one word
or one little incident with the intensest distinctness, and then
relapsing back again into herself. She did not quite make out what Emma
Askell was saying the last time her little friend came to see her. Mary
was packing her boys' things at the moment, and much occupied with a
host of cares, and what she heard was only a stream of talk, broken with
the occasional burden which came in like a chorus "when you see mamma."
"When I see mamma?" said Mary, with a little surprise.
"Dear Mrs. Ochterlony, you said you would perhaps go to see her--in St.
John's Wood," said Emma, with tears of vexation in her eyes; "you know I
told you all about it. The Laburnums, Acacia-road. And she will be so
glad to see you. I explained it all, and you said you would go. I told
her how kind you had been to me, and how you let me stay with you when I
was so anxious about Charlie. Oh, dear Mrs. Ochterlony, forgive me! I
did not mean to bring it back to your mind."
"No," said Mary, with a kind of forlorn amusement. It seemed so strange,
almost droll, that they should think any of their poor little passing
words would bring that back to her which was never once out of her mind,
nor other than the centre of all her thoughts. "I must have been
dreaming when I said so, Emma: but if I have promised, I will try to
go--I have nothing to do in London, you know--I am going to the
North-country, among my own people," which was an easier form of
expression than to say, as they all did, that she was going home.
"But everybody goes to London," insisted Emma; and it was only when Mr.
Churchill came in, also with a little packet, that the ensign's wife was
silenced. Mr. Churchill's parcel was for his mother who lived in
Yorkshire, naturally, as Mrs. Ochterlony was going to the North, quite
in her way. But the clergyman, for his part, had something more
important to say. When Mrs. Askell was gone, he stopped Mary in her
packing to speak to her seriously as he said, "You will forgive me and
feel for me, I know," he said. "It is about your second marriage, Mrs.
Ochterlony."
"Don't speak of it--oh, don't speak of it," Mary said, with an imploring
tone that went to his heart.
"But I ought to speak of it--if you can bear it," said Mr. Churchill,
"and I know for the boys' sake that you can bear everything. I have
brought an extract from the register, if you would like to have it; and
I have added below----"
"Mr. Churchill, you are very kind, but I don't want ever to think of
that," said Mrs. Ochterlony. "I don't want to recollect now that such a
thing ever took place--I wish all record of it would disappear from the
face of the earth. Afterwards he thought the same," she said, hurriedly.
Meanwhile Mr. Churchill stood with the paper half drawn from his
pocket-book, watching the changes of her face.
"It shall be as you like," he said, slowly, "but only as I have written
below---- If you change your mind, you have only to write to me, my dear
Mrs. Ochterlony--if I stay here--and I am sure I don't know if I shall
stay here; but in case I don't, you can always learn where I am, from my
mother at that address."
"Do you think you will not stay here?" said Mary, whose heart was not so
much absorbed in her own sorrows that she could not feel for the
dismayed, desponding mind that made itself apparent in the poor
clergyman's voice.
"I don't know," he said, in the dreary tones of a man who has little
choice, "with our large family, and my wife's poor health. I shall miss
you dreadfully--both of you: you can't think how cheery and hearty he
always was--and that to a down-hearted man like me----"
And then Mary sat down and cried. It went to her heart and dispersed all
her heaviness and stupor, and opened the great sealed fountains. And Mr.
Churchill once more felt the climbing sorrow in his throat, and said in
broken words, "Don't cry--God will take care of you. He knows why He has
done it, though we don't; and He has given his own word to be a father
to the boys."
That was all the poor priest could find it in his heart to say--but it
was better than a sermon--and he went away with the extract from the
register still in his pocket-book and tears in his eyes; while for her
part Mary finished her packing with a heart relieved by her tears. Ah,
how cheery and hearty he had been, how kind to the down-hearted man; how
different the stagnant quietness now from that cheerful commotion he
used to make, and all the restless life about him; and then his
favourite words seemed to come up about and surround her, flitting in
the air with a sensation between acute torture and a dull happiness. His
bonnie Mary! It was not any vanity on Mary's part that made her think
above all of that name. Thus she did her packing and got ready for her
voyage, and took the good people's commissions without knowing very well
to what it was that she pledged herself; and it was the same mail--"the
mail after next"--by which she had written to Aunt Agatha that Hugh was
to be sent home.
They would all have come to see her off if they could have ventured to
do it that last morning; but the men prevented it, who are good for
something now and then in such cases. As it was, however, Mrs. Kirkman
and Mrs. Hesketh and Emma Askell were there, and poor sick Mrs.
Churchill, who had stolen from her bed in her dressing-gown to kiss Mary
for the last time.
"Oh, my dear, if it had been me--oh, if it had only been me!--and you
would all have been so good to the poor children," sobbed the poor
clergyman's ailing wife. Yet it was not her, but the strong, brave,
cheery Major, the prop and pillar of a house. As for Mrs. Kirkman, there
never was a better proof that she was, as we have so often said, in
spite of her talk, a good woman, than the fact that she could only cry
helplessly over Mary, and had not a word to say. She had thought and
prayed that God would not leave her friend alone, but she had not meant
Him to go so far as this; and her heart ached and fluttered at the
terrible notion that perhaps _she_ had something to do with the striking
of this blow. Mrs. Hesketh for her part packed every sort of dainties
for the children in a basket, and strapped on a bundle of portable toys
to amuse them on the journey, to one of Mrs. Ochterlony's boxes. "You
will be glad of them before you get there," said the experienced woman,
who had once made the journey with half-a-dozen, as she said, and knew
what it was. And then one or two of the men were walking about outside
in an accidental sort of way, to have a last look of Mary. It was
considered a very great thing among them all when the doctor, who hated
to see people in trouble, and disapproved of crying on principle, made
up his mind to go in and shake hands with Mrs. Ochterlony; but it was
not _that_ he went for, but to look at the baby, and give Mary a little
case "with some sal volatile and so forth, and the quantities marked,"
he said, "not that you are one to want sal volatile. The little shaver
there will be all right as soon as you get to England. Good-bye. Take
care of yourself." And he wrung her hand and bolted out again like a
flash of lightning. He said afterwards that the only sensible thing he
knew of his sister, was that she did not go; and that the sight of all
those women crying was enough to give a man a sunstroke, not to speak of
the servants and the soldiers' wives who were howling at the back of the
house.
Oh, what a change it was in so short a time, to go out of the Indian
home, which had been a true home, with Mr. Churchill to take care of her
and her poor babies, and set her face to the cold far-away world of her
youth which she had forgotten, and which everybody called home by a kind
of mockery; and where was Hugh, who had always taken such care of his
own? Mary did not cry as people call crying, but now and then, two great
big hot tears rolled out of the bitter fountain that was full to
overflowing, and fell scalding on her hands, and gave her a momentary
sense of physical relief. Almost all the ladies of the station were ill
after it all the day; but Mary could not afford to be ill; and Mr.
Churchill was very kind, and went with her through all the first part of
her journey over the cross roads, until she had come into the trunk
road, where there was no more difficulty. He was very, very kind, and
she was very grateful; but yet perhaps when you have had some one of
your very own to do everything for you, who was not kind but did it by
nature, it is better to take to doing it yourself _after_, than have
even the best of friends to do it for kindness' sake. This was what Mary
felt when the good man had gone sadly back to his sick wife and his
uncertain lot. It was a kind of relief to her to be all alone, entirely
alone with her children, for the ayah, to be sure, did not count--and to
have everything to do; and this was how they came down mournfully to the
sea-board, and to the big town which filled Hugh and Islay with childish
excitement, and Mary bade an everlasting farewell to her life, to all
that she had actually known as life--and got to sea, to go, as they
said, home.
It would be quite useless for our purpose to go over the details of the
voyage, which was like other voyages, bad and good by turns. When she
was at sea, Mrs. Ochterlony had a little leisure, and felt ill and weak
and overworn, and was the better for it after. It took her mind for the
moment off that unmeasured contemplation of her sorrow which is the soul
of grief, and her spirit got a little strength in the interval of
repose. She had been twelve years in India, and from eighteen to thirty
is a wonderful leap in a life. She did not know how she was to find the
things and the people of whom she had a girl's innocent recollection;
nor how they, who had not changed, would appear to her changed eyes. Her
own people were very kind, like everybody. Mary found a letter at
Gibraltar from her brother-in-law, Francis, full of sympathy and
friendly offers. He asked her to come to Earlston with her boys to see
if they could not get on together. "Perhaps it might not do, but it
would be worth a trial," Mr. Ochterlony sensibly said; and there was
even a chance that Aunt Agatha, who was to have met with Hugh at
Southampton, would come to meet her widowed niece, who might be supposed
to stand still more in need of her good offices. Though indeed this was
rather an addition to Mary's cares; for she thought the moment of
landing would be bitter enough of itself, without the pain of meeting
with some one who belonged to her, and yet did not belong to her, and
who had doubtless grown as much out of the Aunt Agatha of old as she had
grown out of the little Mary. When Mrs. Ochterlony left the
North-country, Aunt Agatha had been a middle-aged maiden lady, still
pretty, though a little faded, with light hair growing grey, which makes
a woman's countenance, already on the decline, more faded still, and
does not bring out the tints as dark hair in the same powdery condition
sometimes does. And at that time she was still occupied by a thought of
possibilities which people who knew Agatha Seton from the time she was
sixteen, had decided at that early period to be impossible. No doubt
twelve years had changed this--and it must have made a still greater
change upon the little sister whom Mary had known only at six years old,
and who was now eighteen, the age she had herself been when she married;
a grown-up young woman, and of a character more decided than Mary's had
ever been.
A little stir of reviving life awoke in her and moved her, when the
weary journey was over, and the steam-boat at length had reached
Southampton, to go up to the deck and look from beneath the heavy
pent-house of her widow's veil at the strangers who were coming--to see,
as she said to herself, with a throb at her heart, if there was anybody
she knew. Aunt Agatha was not rich, and it was a long journey, and
perhaps she had not come. Mary stood on the crowded deck, a little
apart, with Hugh and Islay on each side of her, and the baby in his
nurse's arms--a group such as is often seen on these decks--all clad
with loss and mourning, coming "home" to a country in which perhaps they
have no longer any home. Nobody came to claim Mrs. Ochterlony as she
stood among her little children. She thought she would have been glad of
that, but when it came to the moment--when she saw the cold unknown
shore and the strange country, and not a Christian soul to say welcome,
poor Mary's heart sank. She sat down, for her strength was failing her,
and drew Hugh and Islay close to her, to keep her from breaking down
altogether. And it was just at that moment that the brightest of young
faces peered down under her veil and looked doubtfully, anxiously at
her, and called out impatiently, "Aunt Agatha!" to some one at the other
side, without speaking to Mary. Mrs. Ochterlony did not hear this
new-comer's equally impatient demand: "Is it Mary? Are those the
children?" for she had dropped her sick head upon a soft old breast, and
had an old fresh sweet faded face bent down upon her, lovely with love
and age, and a pure heart. "Cry, my dear love, cry, it will do you
good," was all that Aunt Agatha said. And she cried, too, with good
will, and yet did not know whether it was for sorrow or joy. This was
how Mary, coming back to a fashion of existence which she knew not, was
taken home.