"Everybody has sympathy with my sister," was what Winnie had said; and
perhaps that was the hardest thing of all to bear. She was like the
respectable son who came in disgusted into the midst of a merry-making
all consecrated to the return of his disreputable prodigal brother. What
did the fellow mean by coming home? Why did not he stay where he was,
and fill his belly with the husks? If Mary had but been left to her
young sister's sympathy, Winnie would (or thought she would) have
lavished tenderness upon her. But the fact was, that it was very very
hard to think how the days were passing by, and how perhaps all the
precious evenings which remained might be cut off for ever, and its
fairest prospect taken from her life, by Aunt Agatha's complaisance to
Mary. It was true that it was Captain Percival's visit that Winnie was
thinking of. Perhaps it was a little unmaidenly of her to own as much
even to herself. It was a thing which Aunt Agatha would have died sooner
than do, and which even Mary could not have been guilty of; but then
girls now are brought up so differently. He might find himself shut out
from the house, and might think the "family affliction" only a pretence,
and might go away and make an end of it for ever--and Winnie was
self-willed and passionate, and felt she must move heaven and earth
sooner than let this be so. It seemed to her as if the happiness of her
life hung upon it, and she could not but think, being young and fond of
poetry, of the many instances in books in which the magical moment was
thus lost, and two lives made miserable. And how could it harm Mary to
see a strange face or two about; she who had had the fortitude to come
home all the way from India, and had survived, and was in sufficiently
good health after her grief, which of itself was a thing for which the
critic of eighteen was disposed to despise a woman?
As she brooded over this at night in her own room with the window open,
and her long hair streaming over her shoulders like a romantic heroine,
and the young moonlight whitening over the trees, turrets, and windows
of the Hall, a wild impatience of all the restrictions which were at
that moment pressing upon her came upon Winnie. She had been very bright
and pleasant with the little boys in the garden; which was partly
because her heart melted towards the helpless children who were her own
flesh and blood, and partly because at that time nothing had occurred to
thwart or vex her; but from the moment when she had seen Sir Edward's
window suddenly gleam into the twilight matters had changed. Then Winnie
had perceived that the event which had been the central point of her
daily life for some time back, the visit of Sir Edward and his "young
friend," was not going to happen. It was the first time it had occurred
to her that Mary's arrival was in any way to limit or transform her own
existence; and her pride, her independence, her self-love and self-will
were all immediately in arms. She, who had a little scorned her sister
for the faculty of surviving, and for the steadiness with which she bore
her burden, now asked herself indignantly, if Mary wanted to devote
herself to her grief why she did not go into some seclusion to do it,
instead of imposing penance upon other people? And what harm could it
possibly have done Mary to see some one wandering in the garden by
Winnie's side whose presence made the world complete, and left no more
to be desired in it? or to look at poor Sir Edward talking to Aunt
Agatha, who took an innocent pleasure in his talk? what harm could all
this do to the ogress in the widow's cap who had come to trample on the
happiness of the cottage? What pleasure could it be to her to turn the
innocent old man, and the charming young one, away from the little
flowery bower which they were so fond of?--for to be sure it did not
occur to Winnie that Mrs. Ochterlony had nothing to do with it, and that
it was of his own will and pleasure that Sir Edward had stayed away.
Such were the thoughts which ran riot in the girl's mind while she stood
in the moonlight at the open window. There was no balcony to go forth
upon, and these were not sweet musings like Juliet's, but fiery
discontented thoughts. Winnie did not mean to let her happiness slip
by. She thought it was her happiness, and she was imperious and
self-willed, and determined not to let her chance be stolen from her, as
so many people do. As for Mary she had had her day. Let her be twenty
times a widow, she had once been wooed, and had tasted all the delights
of youth, and nobody had interfered with her--and Winnie too had made up
her mind to have her day. Such a process of thinking could never, as has
been already said, have gone through the minds of either of the other
women in the cottage; but Winnie was a girl of the nineteenth century,
in which young ladies are brought up differently--and she meant to have
her rights, and the day of her delight, and all the privileges of her
youth, whatever anybody might say.
As for Aunt Agatha on the other side, she too was making up her mind.
She would have cut herself up in little pieces to please her darling,
but she could not relinquish those rules of propriety which were dearer
than herself--she was making up her mind to the struggle with tears and
a kind of despair. It was a heartrending prospect, and she did not know
how she could live without the light of her pretty Winnie's countenance,
and see her looking sulky and miserable as she had done that night. But
still in consideration of what was _right_, Miss Seton felt that she
must and could bear anything. To expect a family in mourning, and who
had just received a widow into their house, to see visitors, was an
inhuman idea; and Aunt Agatha would have felt herself deeply humiliated
could she really have supposed that anybody thought her capable of such
a dereliction of duty. But she cried a little as she considered the
awful results of her decision. Winnie, disappointed, sullen, and
wretched, roused to rebellion, and taking no pleasure in her life, was a
terrible picture to contemplate. Aunt Agatha felt that all the pleasure
of her own existence was over, and cried a few salt tears over the
sacrifice; but she knew her duty, and at least there was, or ought to
be, a certain comfort in that.
Sir Edward came next day to pay a solemn visit at the cottage, and it
gave her a momentary gleam of comfort to feel that this was the course
of conduct which he at least expected of her. He came, and his "young
friend" came with him, and for the moment smiles and contentment came
back to the household. Sir Edward entered the drawing-room and shook
hands tenderly with Mrs. Ochterlony, and sat down beside her, and began
to talk as only an old friend could; but the young friend stayed in the
garden with Winnie, and the sound of their voices came in now and then
along with the songs of the birds and the fragrance of the flowers--all
nature conspiring as usual to throw a charm about the young creatures,
who apart from this charm did not make the loveliest feature in the
social landscape. Sir Edward, on the other hand, sat down as a man sits
down in a room where there is a seat which is known as his, and where he
is in the way of doing a great deal of pleasant talk most days of his
life. This was a special occasion, and he behaved himself accordingly.
He patted Mary's hand softly with one of his, and held it in the other,
and looked at her with that tender curiosity and inquiry which comes
natural after a long absence. "She is changed, but I can see our old
Mary still in her face," said the old man, patting her hand; and then he
asked about the journey, and if he should see the children; and then the
ordinary talk began.
"We did not come last evening, knowing you expected Mary," Sir Edward
said, "and a most unpleasant companion I had all the night in
consequence. Young people will be young people, you know--indeed, I
never can help remembering, that just the other day I was young myself."
"Yes," said Aunt Agatha, faltering; "but you see under the
circumstances, Sir Edward, Winnie could not expect that her sister----"
"Dear aunt," said Mary, "I have already begged you to make no difference
for me."
"I am sure, my love, you are very kind," said Aunt Agatha; "you always
were the most unselfish---- But I hope I know my duty, whatever your
good heart may induce you to say."
"And _I_ hope, after a while," said Sir Edward, "that Mary too will be
pleased to see her friends. We are all friends here, and everybody I
know will be glad to welcome her home."
Most likely it was those very words that made Mary feel faint and ill,
and unable to reply. But though she did not say anything, she at least
made no sort of objection to the hope; and immediately the pleasant
little stream of talk gushed up and ran past her as she knew it would.
The two old people talked of the two young ones who were so interesting
to them, and all that was special in Sir Edward's visit came to a close.
"Young Percival is to leave me next week," Sir Edward said. "I shall
miss him sadly, and I am afraid it will cost him a heartache to go."
Aunt Agatha knew so well what her friend meant that she felt herself
called upon to look as if she did not know. "Ah," she said, "I don't
wonder. It is not often that he will find such a friend as you have
been, Sir Edward: and to leave you, who are always such pleasant
company----"
"My dear Miss Seton," said Sir Edward, with a gentle laugh, "you don't
suppose that I expect him to have a heartache for love of me? He is a
nice young fellow, and I am sorry to lose him; but if it were only _my_
pleasant company----"
Then Aunt Agatha blushed as if it had been herself who was young
Percival's attraction. "We shall all miss him, I am sure," she said. "He
is so delicate and considerate. He has not come in, thinking no doubt
that Mary is not equal to seeing strangers; but I am so anxious that
Mary should see him--that is, I like her to know our friends," said the
imprudent woman, correcting herself, and once more blushing crimson, as
if young Percival had been a lover of her very own.
"He is a very nice fellow," said Sir Edward; "most people like him; but
I don't know that I should have thought of describing him as considerate
or delicate. Mary must not form too high an idea. He is just a young man
like other young men," said the impartial baronet, "and likes his own
way, and is not without a proper regard for his own interest. He is not
in the least a hero of romance."
"I don't think he is at all mercenary, Sir Edward, if that is what you
mean," said Aunt Agatha, blushing no longer, but growing seriously red.
"Mercenary!" said Sir Edward. "I don't think I ever dreamt of that. He
is like other young men, you know. I don't want Mary to form too high an
idea. But one thing I am sure of is that he is very sorry to go away."
And then a little pause happened, which was trying to Aunt Agatha, and
in the interval the voices of the two young people in the garden sounded
pleasantly from outside. Sitting thus within hearing of them, it was
difficult to turn to any other subject; but yet Miss Seton would not
confess that she could by any possibility understand what her old
neighbour meant; and by way of escaping from that embarrassment plunged
without thought into another in which she floundered helplessly after
the first dash.
"Mary has just come from Earlston," she said. "It has grown quite a
museum, do you know?--every sort of beautiful thing, and all so nicely
arranged. Francis--Mr. Ochterlony," said Aunt Agatha, in confusion, "had
always a great deal of taste---- Perhaps you may remember----"
"Oh, yes, I remember," said Sir Edward--"such things are not easily
forgotten--but I hope you don't mean to suppose that Percival----"
"I was thinking nothing about Captain Percival," Miss Seton said,
feeling ready to cry--"What I meant was, I thought--I supposed you
might have some interest--I thought you might like to know----"
"Oh, if that is all," said Sir Edward, "of course I take a great
interest--but I thought you meant something of the same kind might be
going on here. You must never think of that. I would never forgive
myself if I were twice to be the occasion----"
"I was thinking nothing about Captain Percival," said Aunt Agatha, with
tears of vexation in her eyes; "nor--nor anything else--I was talking
for the sake of conversation: I was thinking perhaps you might like to
hear----"
"May I show you my boys, Sir Edward?" said Mary, ringing the bell--"I
should like you to see them; and I am going to ask you, by-and-by, what
I must do with them. My brother-in-law is very much a recluse--I should
be glad to have the advice of somebody who knows more of the world."
"Ah, yes, let us see the boys," said Sir Edward. "_All_ boys are
they?--that's a pity. You shall have the best advice I can give you, my
dear Mary--and if you are not satisfied with that, you shall have better
advice than mine; there is nothing so important as education; come
along, little ones. So these are all?--three--I thought you had more
than three. Ah, I beg your pardon. How do you do, my little man? I am
your mamma's old friend--I knew her long before you were born--come and
tell me your name."
And while Sir Edward got at these particulars, and took the baby on his
knee, and made himself agreeable to the two sturdy little heroes who
stood by, and stared at him, Aunt Agatha came round behind their backs,
and gave Mary a quiet kiss--half by way of consolation, half by way of
thanks--for, but for that happy inspiration of sending for the children,
there was no telling what bog of unfortunate talk Miss Seton might not
have tumbled into. Sir Edward was one of those men who know much, too
much, about everybody--everything, he himself thought. He could detect
allusions in the most careless conversation, and never forgot anything
even when it was expedient and better that it should be forgotten. He
was a man who had been unlucky in his youth, and who now, in his old
age, though he was as well off as a man living all alone, in forlorn
celibacy, could be, was always called poor Sir Edward. The very
cottagers called him so, who might well have looked upon his life as a
kind of paradise; and being thus recognised as an object of pity, Sir
Edward had on the whole a very pleasant life. He knew all about
everybody, and was apt at times to confuse his neighbours sadly, as he
had just done Aunt Agatha, by a reference to the most private bits of
their individual history; but it was never done with ill-nature--and
after all there is a charm about a person who knows everything about
everybody. He was a man who could have told you all about the Gretna
Green marriage, which had cost poor Major Ochterlony so much trouble, as
well, or perhaps even better, than if he had been present at it; and he
was favourable to marriages in general, though he had never himself made
the experience, and rather liked to preside over a budding inclination
like that between Winifred Seton and young Percival. He took little
Wilfrid on his knee when the children were thus brought upon the scene,
in a fatherly, almost grand-fatherly way, and was quite ready to go into
Mary's plans about them. He thought it was quite right, and the most
suitable thing she could do, to settle somewhere where there was a good
grammar-school; and he had already begun to calculate where the best
grammar-schools were situated, and which would be the best plan for Mrs.
Ochterlony, when the voices in the garden were heard approaching. Aunt
Agatha had escaped from her embarrassment by going out to the young
people, and was now bringing them in to present the young man for Mary's
approval and criticism. Miss Seton came first, and there was anxiety in
her face; and after her Winnie stepped in at the window, with a little
flush upon her pretty cheek, and an unusual light in her eye; and after
her--but at that moment the whole party were startled by a sudden sound
of surprise, the momentary falling back of the stranger's foot from the
step, and a surprised, half-suppressed exclamation. "Oh!--Mrs.
Ochterlony!" exclaimed Sir Edward's young friend. As it happened all the
rest were silent at that moment, and his voice was distinctly audible,
though perhaps he had not meant it to be so. He himself was half hidden
by the roses which clambered all over the cottage, but Mary naturally
turned round, and turned her face to the window, when she heard her own
name--as indeed they all did--surprised at the exclamation, and still
more at the tone. And it was thus under the steady gaze of four pairs of
eyes that Captain Percival came into the room. Perhaps but for that
exclamation Mary might not have recognised him; but her ear had been
trained to quick understanding of that inflection, half of amusement,
half of contempt, which she had not heard for so long. To her ears it
meant, "Oh, Mrs. Ochterlony!--she who was married over again, as people
pretended--she who took in the Kirkmans, and all the people at the
station." Captain Percival came in, and he felt his blood run cold as he
met all those astonished eyes, and found Mary looking so intently at
him. What had he done that they should all stare at him like that? for
he was not so well aware of what he had given utterance to, nor of his
tone in giving utterance to it, as they were. "Good heavens, what is the
matter?" he said; "you all look at me as if I were a monster. Miss
Seton, may I ask you to introduce me----"
"We have met before, I think," Mary said, quietly. "When I heard of
Captain Percival I did not know it was the same I used to hear so much
about in India. I think, when I saw you last, it was at----"
She wanted by sudden instinct to say it out and set herself right for
ever and ever, here where everything about her was known; but the words
seemed to choke her. In spite of herself she stopped short; how could
she refer to that, the only great grievance in her life, her husband's
one great wrong against her, now that he was in his grave, and she left
in the world the defender and champion of all his acts and ways? She
could not do it--she was obliged to stop short in the middle, and
swallow the sob that would have choked her with the next word. And they
stood all gazing at her, wondering what it was.
"Yes," said the young man, with a confidential air--"I remember it very
well indeed--I heard all about it from Askell, you know;--but I never
imagined, when I heard you talking of your sister, that it was the same
Mrs. Ochterlony," he added, turning to Winnie, who was looking on with
great and sudden interest. And then there was a pause--such a pause as
occurs sometimes when there is an evident want of explanation somewhere,
and all present feel that they are on the borders of a mystery. Somehow
it changed the character of the assembled company. A few minutes before
it had been the sad stranger, in her widow's cap, who was the centre of
all, and to whom the visitors had to be presented in a half apologetic
way, as if to a queen. Aunt Agatha, indeed, had been quite anxious on
the subject, pondering how she could best bring Sir Edward's young
friend, Winnie's admirer, under Mrs. Ochterlony's observation, and have
her opinion of him; and now in an instant the situation was reversed,
and it was Mary and Captain Percival alone who seemed to know each
other, and to have recollections in common! Mary felt her cheeks flush
in spite of herself, and Winnie grew pale with incipient jealousy and
dismay, and Aunt Agatha fluttered about in a state of the wildest
anxiety. At last both she and Sir Edward burst out talking at the same
moment, with the same visible impulse. And they brought the children
into the foreground, and lured them into the utterance of much baby
nonsense, and even went so far as to foster a rising quarrel between
Hugh and Islay, all to cover up from each other's eyes and smother in
the bud this mystery, if it was a mystery. It was a singular disturbance
to bring into such a quiet house; for how could the people who dwelt at
home tell what those two strangers might have known about each other in
India, how they might have been connected, or what secret might lie
between them?--no more than people could tell in a cosy sheltered
curtained room what might be going on at sea, or even on the dark road
outside. And here there was the same sense of insecurity--the same
distrust and fear. Winnie stood a little apart, pale, and with her
delicate curved nostril a little dilated. Captain Percival was younger
than Mary, and Mary up to this moment had been hedged round with a
certain sanctity, even in the eyes of her discontented young sister. But
there was some intelligence between them, something known to those two
which was known to no one else in the party. This was enough to set off
the thoughts of a self-willed girl, upon whose path Mary had thrown the
first shadow, wildly into all kinds of suspicions. And to tell the
truth, the elder people, who should have known better, were not much
wiser than Winnie. Thus, while Hugh and Islay had a momentary struggle
in the foreground, which called for their mother's active interference,
the one ominous cloud of her existence once more floated up upon the dim
firmament over Mary's head; though if she had but finished her sentence
it would have been no cloud at all, and might never have come to
anything there or thereafter. But this did not occur to Mrs. Ochterlony.
What did occur to her in her vexation and pain was that her dead Hugh
would be hardly dealt with among her kindred, if the stranger should
tell her story. And she was glad, heartily glad, that there was little
conversation afterwards, and that very soon the two visitors went away.
But it was she who was the last to be aware that a certain doubt, a new
and painful element of uncertainty stayed behind them in Aunt Agatha's
pretty cottage after they were gone.