It had need to be a mind which has reached the last stage of human
sentiment which can altogether resist the influence of a lovely summer
morning, all made of warmth, and light, and softened sounds, and far-off
odours. Mrs. Ochterlony had not reached this last stage; she was still
young, and she was only at the beginning of her loneliness, and her
heart had not sickened at life, as hearts do sometimes which have made a
great many repeated efforts to live, and have to give in again and
again. When she saw the sunshine lying in a supreme peacefulness upon
those grey hills, and all the pale sky and blue depths of air beaming
softly with that daylight which comes from God, her courage came back to
her in spite of herself. She began the morning by the shedding of those
silent tears which are all the apology one can make to one's dead, for
having the heart to begin another day without them; and when that moment
was over, and the children had lifted all their daylight faces in a
flutter of curiosity and excitement about this new "home" they had come
to, after so long talking of it and looking forward to it, things did
not seem so dark to Mary as on the previous evening. For one thing, the
sun was warm and shone in at her windows, which made a great difference;
and with her children's voices in her ears, and their faces fresh in the
morning light, what woman could be altogether without courage? "So long
as they are well," she said to herself--and went down stairs a little
consoled, to pour out Mr. Ochterlony's coffee for him, thanking heaven
in her heart that her boys were to have a meal which had nothing calm
nor classical about it, in the old nursery where their father had once
eaten his breakfasts, and which had been hurriedly prepared for them.
"The little dears must go down after dinner; but master, ma'am--well,
he's an old bachelor, you know," said Mrs. Gilsland, while explaining
this arrangement. "Oh, thank you; I hope you will help me to keep them
from disturbing him," Mary had said; and thus it was with a lighter
heart that she went down stairs.
Mr. Ochterlony came down too at the same time in an amiable frame of
mind. Notwithstanding that he had to put himself into a morning coat,
and abjured his dressing-gown, which was somewhat of a trial for a man
of fixed habits, nothing could exceed the graciousness of his looks. A
certain horrible notion common to his class, that children scream all
night long, and hold an entire household liable to be called up at any
moment, had taken possession of his mind. But his tired little guests
had been swallowed up in the silence of the house, and had neither
screamed, nor shouted, nor done anything to disturb its habitual quiet;
and the wonderful satisfaction of having done his duty, and not having
suffered for it, had entered Mr. Ochterlony's mind. It is in such
circumstances that the sweet sense of well-doing, which is generally
supposed the best reward of virtue, settles upon a good man's spirits.
The Squire might be premature in his self-congratulations, but then his
sense of relief was exquisite. If nothing worse was to come of it than
the presence of a fair woman, whose figure was always in drawing, and
who never put herself into an awkward attitude--whose voice was soft,
and her movements tranquil, Mr. Ochterlony felt that self-sacrifice
after all was practicable. The boys could be sent to school as all boys
were, and at intervals might be endured when there was nothing else for
it. Thus he came down in a benign condition, willing to be pleased. As
for Mary, the first thing that disturbed her calm, was the fact that she
was herself of no use at her brother-in-law's breakfast-table. He made
his coffee himself, and then he went into general conversation in the
kindest way, to put her at her ease.
"That is the Farnese Hercules," he said; "I saw it caught your eye last
night. It is from a cast I had made for the purpose, and is considered
very perfect; and that you know is the new Pallas, the Pallas that was
found in the Sestina Villa; you recollect, perhaps?"
"I am afraid not," said Mary, faltering; and she looked at them, poor
soul, with wistful eyes, and tried to feel a little interest. "I have
been so long out of the way of everything----"
"To be sure," said the Squire, encouragingly, "and my poor brother Hugh,
I remember, knew very little about it. He went early to India, and had
few advantages, poor fellow." All this Mr. Ochterlony said while he was
concocting his coffee; and Mary had nothing to do but to sit and listen
to him with her face fully open to his inspection if he liked, and no
kindly urn before her to hide the sudden rush of tears and indignation.
A man who spent his life having casts made, and collecting what Mary in
her heart with secret rage called "pretty things!"--that he should make
a complacent contrast between himself and his brother! The suggestion
filled Mrs. Ochterlony with a certain speechless fury which was born of
her grief.
"He knew well how to do his duty," she said, as soon as she could speak;
and she would not let her tears fall, but opened her burning eyes wide,
and absorbed them somehow out of pride for Hugh.
"Poor fellow!" said his brother, daintily pouring out the fragrant
coffee. "I don't know if he ever could have had much appreciation of
Art; but I am sure he made a good soldier, as you say. I was very much
moved and shocked when I heard--but do not let us talk of such painful
subjects; another time, perhaps----"
And Mary sat still with her heart beating, and said no more--thinking
through all the gentle flow of conversation that followed of the
inconceivable conceit that could for a moment class Francis Ochterlony's
dilettante life with that of her dead Hugh, who had played a man's part
in the world, and had the heart to die for his duty's sake. And this
useless Squire could speak of the few advantages he had! It was
unreasonable, for, to tell the truth, the Squire was much more
accomplished, much better instructed than the Major. The Numismatic
Society and the Society of Antiquaries, and even, on certain subjects,
the British Association, would have listened to Francis Ochterlony as if
he had been a messenger from heaven. Whereas Hugh the soldier would
never have got a hearing nor dared to open his lips in any learned
presence. But then that did not matter to his wife, who, notwithstanding
her many high qualities, was not a perfectly reasonable woman. Those
"few advantages" stood terribly in Mary's way for that first morning.
They irritated her far more than Mr. Ochterlony could have had the least
conception or understanding of. If anybody had given him a glass to look
into her heart with, the Squire would have been utterly confounded by
what he saw there. What had he done? And indeed he had done nothing that
anybody (in his senses) could have found fault with; he had but turned
Mary's thoughts once more with a violent longing to the roadside
cottage, where at least, if she and her children were but safely housed,
her soldier's memory would be shrined, and his sword hung up upon the
homely wall, and his name turned into a holy thing. Whereas he was only
a younger brother who had gone away to India, and had few advantages, in
the Earlston way of thinking. This was the uppermost thought in Mrs.
Ochterlony's mind as her brother-in-law exhibited all his collections to
her. The drawing-room, which she had but imperfectly seen in her
weariness and preoccupation the previous night, was a perfect museum of
things rich and rare. There were delicate marbles, tiny but priceless,
standing out white and ethereal against the soft, carefully chosen,
toned crimson of the curtains; and bronzes that were worth half a year's
income of the lands of Earlston; and Etruscan vases and Pompeian relics;
and hideous dishes with lizards on them, besides plaques of dainty
porcelain with Raphael's designs; the very chairs were fantastic with
inlaying and gilding--curious articles, some of them worth their weight
in gold; and if you but innocently looked at an old cup and saucer on a
dainty table wondering what it did there, it turned out to be the ware
of Henri II., and priceless. To see Mary going over all this with her
attention preoccupied and wandering, and yet a wistful interest in her
eyes, was a strange sight. All that she had in the world was her
children, and the tiny little income of a soldier's widow--and you may
suppose perhaps that she was thinking what a help to her and the still
more valuable little human souls she had to care for, would have been
the money's-worth of some of these fragile beauties. But that was not
what was in Mrs. Ochterlony's mind. What occupied her, on the contrary,
was an indignant wonder within herself how a man who spent his existence
upon such trifles (they looked trifles to her, from her point of view,
and in this of course she was still unreasonable) could venture to look
down with complacency upon the real life, so honestly lived and so
bravely ended, of his brother Hugh--poor Hugh, as he ventured to call
him. Mr. Ochterlony might die a dozen times over, and what would his
marble Venus care, that he was so proud of? But it was Hugh who had
died; and it was a kind of comfort to feel that _he_ at least, though
they said he had few advantages, had left one faithful woman behind him
to keep his grave green for ever.
The morning passed, however, though it was a long morning; and Mary
looked into all the cabinets of coins and precious engraved gems, and
rare things of all sorts, with a most divided attention and wandering
mind--thinking where were the children? were they out-of-doors? were
they in any trouble? for the unearthly quietness in the house seemed to
her experienced mother's ear to bode harm of some kind--either illness
or mischief, and most likely the last. As for Mr. Ochterlony, it never
occurred to him that his sister-in-law, while he was showing her his
collections, should not be as indifferent as he was to any vulgar
outside influence. "We shall not be disturbed," he said, with a calm
reassuring smile, when he saw her glance at the door; "Mrs. Gilsland
knows better," and he drew out another drawer of coins as he spoke. Poor
Mary began to tremble, but the same sense of duty which made her husband
stand to be shot at, kept her at her post. She went through with it like
a martyr, without flinching, though longing, yearning, dying to get
free. If she were but in that cottage, looking after her little boys'
dinner, and hearing their voices as they played at the door--their
servant and her own mistress, instead of the helpless slave of courtesy,
and interest, and her position, looking at Francis Ochterlony's
curiosities! When she escaped at last, Mary found that indeed her fears
had not been without foundation. There had been some small breakages,
and some small quarrels in the nursery, where Hugh and Islay had been
engaged in single combat, and where baby Wilfrid had joined in with
impartial kicks and scratches, to the confusion of both combatants: all
which alarming events the frightened ayah had been too weak-minded and
helpless to prevent. And, by way of keeping them quiet, that bewildered
woman had taken down a beautiful Indian canoe, which stood on a bracket
in the corridor, and the boys, as was natural, with true scientific
inquisitiveness had made researches into its constitution, such as
horrified their mother. Mary was so cowardly as to put the boat together
again with her own hands, and put it back on its bracket, and say
nothing about it, with devout hopes that nobody would find it
out--which, to be sure, was a terrible example to set before children.
She breathed freely for the first time when she got them out--out of
Earlston--out of Earlston grounds--to the hill-side, where, though
everything was grey, the turf had a certain greenness, and the sky a
certain blueness, and the sun shone warm, and nameless little English
wild flowers were to be found among the grass; nameless things, too
insignificant for anything but a botanist to classify, and Mrs.
Ochterlony was no botanist. She put down Wilfrid on the grass, and sat
by him, and watched for a little the three joyful unthinking creatures,
harmonized without knowing it by their mother's presence, rolling about
in an unaccustomed ecstacy upon the English grass; and then Mary went
back, without being quite aware of it, into the darker world of her own
mind, and leant her head upon her hands and began to think.
She had a great deal to think about. She had come home obeying the first
impulse, which suggested that a woman left alone in the world should put
herself under the guidance and protection of "her friends:" and, in the
first stupor of grief, it was a kind of consolation to think that she
had still somebody belonging to her, and could put off those final
arrangements for herself and by herself which one time or other must be
made. When she decided upon this, Mary did not realize the idea of
giving offence to Aunt Agatha by accepting Francis Ochterlony's
invitation, nor of finding herself at Earlston in the strange
nondescript position--something less than a member of the family,
something more than a visitor--which she at present occupied. Her
brother-in-law was very kind, but he did not know what to do with her;
and her brother-in-law's household was very doubtful and uneasy, with a
certain alarmed and suspicious sense that it might be a new and
permanent mistress who had thus come in upon them--an idea which it was
not to be expected that Mrs. Gilsland, who had been in authority so
long, should take kindly to. And then it was hard for Mary to live in a
house where her children were simply tolerated, and in constant danger
of doing inestimable mischief. She sat upon the grey hill-side, and
thought over it till her head ached. Oh, for that wayside cottage with
the blazing fire! but Mrs. Ochterlony had no such refuge. She had come
to Earlston of her own will, and she could not fly away again at once to
affront and offend the only relation who might be of service to her
boys--which was, no doubt, a sadly mercenary view to take of the
subject. She stayed beside her children all day, feeling like a
prisoner, afraid to move or to do anything, afraid to let the boys play
or give scope to their limbs and voice. And then Hugh, though he was not
old enough to sympathize with her, was old enough to put terrible
questions. "Why shouldn't we make a noise?" the child said; "is my uncle
a king, mamma, that we must not disturb him? Papa never used to mind."
Mary sent her boy back to his play when he said this, with a sharp
impatience which he could not understand. Ah, how different it was! and
how stinging the pain that went to her heart at that suggestion. But
then little Hugh, thank heaven, knew no better. Even the Hindoo woman,
who had been a faithful woman in her way, but who was going back again
with another family bound for India, began to make preparations for her
departure; and, after that, Mrs. Ochterlony's position would be still
more difficult. This was how the first day at Earlston--the first day at
home as the children said--passed over Mary. It was, perhaps, of all
other trials, the one most calculated to take from her any strength she
might have left. And after all this she had to dress at seven o'clock,
and leave her little boys in the big dark nursery, to go down to keep
her brother-in-law company at dinner, to hear him talk of the Farnese
Hercules, and of his collections, and travels, and, perhaps, of the "few
advantages" his poor brother had had: which for a woman of high spirit
and independent character, and profound loyal love for the dead, was a
very hard ordeal to bear.
The dinner, however, went over very fairly. Mr. Ochterlony was the soul
of politeness, and, besides, he was pleased with his sister-in-law. She
knew nothing about Art; but then, she had been long in India, and was a
woman, and it was not to be wondered at. He meant no harm when he spoke
about poor Hugh's few advantages. He knew that he had a sensible woman
to deal with, and of course grief and that sort of thing cannot last for
ever; and, on the whole, Mr. Ochterlony saw no reason why he should not
speak quite freely of his brother Hugh; and lament his want of proper
training. _She_ must have known that as well as he did. And, to tell the
truth, he had forgotten about the children. He made himself very
agreeable, and even went so far as to say that it was very pleasant to
be able to talk over these matters with somebody who understood him.
Mary sat waiting with a mixture of fright and expectation for the
appearance of the children, who the housekeeper said were to come down
to dessert; but they did not come, and nothing was said about them; and
Mr. Ochterlony was fond of foreign habits, and took very little wine,
and accompanied his sister-in-law upstairs when she left the table. He
came with her in that troublesome French way with which Mary was not
even acquainted, and made it impossible for her to hurry through the
long passages to the nursery, and see what her forlorn little boys were
about. What could they be doing all this time, lost at the other end of
the great house where she could not even hear their voices, nor that
soft habitual nursery hum which was a necessary accompaniment to her
life? She had to sit down in a kind of despair and talk to Mr.
Ochterlony, who took a seat beside her, and was very friendly. The
summer evening had begun to decline, and it was at this meditative
moment that the master of Earlston liked to sit and contemplate his
Psyche and his Venus, and call a stranger's attention to their beauties,
and tell pleasant anecdotes about how he picked them up. Mrs. Ochterlony
sat by her brother-in-law's side, and listened to his talk about Art
with her ear strained to the most intense attention, prepared at any
moment to hear a shriek from the outraged housekeeper, or a howl of
unanimous woe from three culpable and terrified voices. There was
something comic in the situation, but Mary's attention was not
sufficiently disengaged to be amused.
"I have long wished to have some information about Indian Art," said Mr.
Ochterlony. "I should be glad to know what an intelligent observer like
yourself, with some practical knowledge, thought of my theory. My idea
is---- But I am afraid you have a headache? I hope you have all the
attention you require, and are comfortable? It would give me great pain
to think that you were not perfectly comfortable. You must not feel the
least hesitation in telling me----"
"Oh no, we have everything," said Mary. She thought she heard something
outside like little steps and distant voices, and her heart began to
beat. But as for her companion, he was not thinking about such
extraneous things.
"I hope so," said Mr. Ochterlony; and then he looked at his Psyche with
the lingering look of a connoisseur, dwelling lovingly upon her marble
beauty. "You must have that practical acquaintance which, after all, is
the only thing of any use," he continued. "My idea is----"
And it was at this moment that the door was thrown open, and they all
rushed in--all, beginning with little Wilfrid, who had just commenced to
walk, and who came with a tottering dash, striking against a pedestal in
his way, and making its precious burden tremble. Outside at the open
door appeared for an instant the ayah as she had set down her charge,
and Mrs. Gilsland, gracious but formidable, in her rustling gown, who
had headed the procession. Poor woman, she meant no harm, but it was not
in the heart of woman to believe that in the genial hour after dinner,
when all the inner and the outer man was mollified and comforted, the
sight of three such "bonnie boys," all curled, brushed, and shining for
the occasion, could disturb Mr. Ochterlony. Baby Wilfrid dashed across
the room in a straight line with "flicherin' noise and glee" to get to
his mother, and the others followed, not, however, without stoppages on
the way. They were bonnie boys--brave, little, erect, clear-eyed
creatures, who had never known anything but love in their lives, and
feared not the face of man; and to Mary, though she quaked and trembled,
their sudden appearance changed the face of everything, and made the
Earlston drawing-room glorious. But the effect was different upon Mr.
Ochterlony, as might be supposed.
"How do you do, my little man," said the discomfited uncle. "Oh, this is
Hugh, is it? I think he is like his father. I suppose you intend to send
them to school. Good heavens! my little fellow, take care!" cried Mr.
Ochterlony. The cause of this sudden animation was, that Hugh, naturally
facing his uncle when he was addressed by him, had leant upon the pillar
on which Psyche stood with her immortal lover. He had put his arm round
it with a vague sense of admiration, and as he stood was, as Mary
thought, a prettier sight than even the group above; but Mr. Ochterlony
could not be expected to be of Mary's mind.
"Come here, Hugh," said his mother, anxiously. "You must not touch
anything; your uncle will kindly let you look at them, but you must not
touch. It was so different, you know, in our Indian house--and then on
board ship," said Mary, faltering. Islay, with his big head thrown back
a little, and his hands in his little trousers pockets, was roving about
all the while in a manly way, inspecting everything, looking, as his
mother thought, for the most favourable opening for mischief. What was
she to do? They might do more damage in ten minutes than ten years of
her little income could set right. As for Mr. Ochterlony, though he
groaned in spirit, nothing could overcome his politeness; he turned his
back upon little Hugh, so that at least he might not see what was going
on, and resumed the conversation with all the composure that he could
assume.
"You will send them to school of course," he said; "we must inquire for
a good school for them. I don't myself think that children can begin
their education too soon. I don't speak of the baby," said Mr.
Ochterlony, with a sigh. The baby evidently was inevitable. Mary had set
him down at her feet, and he sat there in a peaceable way, making no
assault upon anything, which was consolatory at least.
"They are so young," said Mary, tremulously.
"Yes, they are young, and it is all the better," said the uncle. His eye
was upon Islay, who had sprung upon a chair, and was riding and spurring
it with delightful energy. Naturally, it was a unique rococo chair of
the daintiest and most fantastic workmanship, and the unhappy owner
expected to see it fall into sudden destruction before his eyes; but he
was benumbed by politeness and despair, and took no notice. "There is
nothing," said the poor man with distracted attention, his eye upon
Islay, his face turned to his sister-in-law, and horror in his heart,
"like good training begun early. For my part----"
"Oh, mamma, look here. How funny this is!" cried little Hugh. When Mary
turned sharply round in despair, she found her boy standing behind her
with a priceless Etruscan vase in his hand. He had just taken it from
the top of a low, carved bookcase, where the companion vase still stood,
and held it tilted up as he might have held a drinking mug in the
nursery. "It's a fight," cried Hugh; "look, mamma, how that fellow is
putting his lance into him. Isn't it jolly? Why don't _we_ have some
brown sort of jugs with battles on them, like this?"
"What is it? Let _me_ see," cried Islay, and he gave a flying leap, and
brought the rococo chair down on its back, where he remounted leisurely
after he had cast a glance at the brown sort of jug. "I don't think it's
worth looking at," said the four-year-old hero. Mrs. Ochterlony heard
her brother-in-law say, "Good heavens!" again, and heard him groan as he
turned away his head. He could not forget that they were his guests and
his dead brother's children, and he could not turn them out of the room
or the house, as he was tempted to do; but at the same time he turned
away that at least he might not see the full extent of the ruin. As for
Mary, she felt her own hand tremble as she took the vase out of Hugh's
careless grasp. She was terrified to touch its brittle beauty, though
she was not so enthusiastic about it as, perhaps, she ought to have
been. And it was with a sudden impulse of desperation that she caught up
her baby, and lifted Islay off the prostrate chair.
"I hope you will excuse them," she said, all flushed and trembling.
"They are so little, and they know no better. But they must not stay
here," and with that poor Mary swept them out with her, making her way
painfully over the dangerous path, where snares and perils lay on every
side. She gave the astonished Islay an involuntary "shake" as she
dropped him in the sombre corridor outside, and hurried along towards
the darkling nursery. The little flock of wicked black sheep trotted by
her side full of questions and surprise. "Why are we coming away? What
have we done?" said Hugh. "Mamma! mamma! tell me!" and Islay pulled at
her dress, and made more demonstratively the same demand. What had they
done? If Mr. Ochterlony, left by himself in the drawing-room, could but
have answered the question! He was on his knees beside his injured
chair, examining its wounds, and as full of tribulation as if those
fantastic bits of tortured wood had been flesh and blood. And to tell
the truth, the misfortune was greater than if it had been flesh and
blood. If Islay Ochterlony's sturdy little legs had been broken, there
was a doctor in the parish qualified to a certain extent to mend them.
But who was there among the Shap Fells, or within a hundred miles of
Earlston, who was qualified to touch the delicate members of a rococo
chair? He groaned over it as it lay prostrate, and would not be
comforted. Children! imps! come to be the torture of his life, as, no
doubt, they had been of poor Hugh's. What could Providence be thinking
of to send such reckless, heedless, irresponsible creatures into the
world? A vague notion that their mother would whip them all round as
soon as she got them into the shelter of the nursery, gave Mr.
Ochterlony a certain consolation; but even that judicial act, though a
relief to injured feeling, would do nothing for the fractured chair.
Mary, we regret to say, did not whip the boys when she got into her own
apartments. They deserved it, no doubt, but she was only a weak woman.
Instead of that, she put her arms round the three, who were much excited
and full of wonder, and very restless in her clasp, and cried--not much,
but suddenly, in an outburst of misery and desolation. After all, what
was the vase or the Psyche in comparison with the living creatures thus
banished to make place for them? which was a reflection which some
people may be far from acquiescing in, but that came natural to her,
being their mother, and not in any special way interested in art. She
cried, but she only hugged her boys and kissed them, and put them to
bed, lingering that she might not have to go downstairs again till the
last moment. When she went at last, and made Mr. Ochterlony's tea for
him, that magnanimous man did not say a word, and even accepted her
apologies with a feeble deprecation. He had put the wounded article
away, and made a sublime resolution to take no further notice. "Poor
thing, it is not her fault," he said to himself; and, indeed, had begun
to be sorry for Mary, and to think what a pity it was that a woman so
unobjectionable should have three such imps to keep her in hot water.
But he looked sad, as was natural. He swallowed his tea with a sigh, and
made mournful cadences to every sentence he uttered. A man does not
easily get over such a shock;--it is different with a frivolous and
volatile woman, who may forget or may dissimulate, and look as if she
does not care; but a man is not so lightly moved or mended. If it had
been Islay's legs, as has been said, there was a doctor within reach;
but who in the north country could be trusted so much as to look at the
delicate limbs of a rococo chair?