Mr. Penrose, however, was not a man of very lively feelings, and bore no
malice against Winnie for her defiance, nor even against Mary, to whom
he had been so cruel, which was more difficult. He was up again,
cheerful and full of energy in the morning, ready for his mission. If
Winnie began the world without something to live upon, or with any
prospect of ever being a burden on her friends, at all events it would
not be his fault. As it happened, Aunt Agatha received at the
breakfast-table the usual invariable letter containing a solemn warning
against Captain Percival, and she was affected by it, as she could not
help always being affected; and the evident commotion it excited in the
party was such that Mr. Penrose could not but notice it. When he
insisted upon knowing what it was, he was met by what was, in reality,
very skilful fencing on Miss Seton's part, who was not destitute
altogether of female skill and art; but Aunt Agatha's defence was made
useless by the impetuosity of Winnie, who scorned disguise.
"Oh, let us hear it, please," she said, "let us hear. _We_ know what it
is about. It is some new story--some lie, about my poor Edward. They may
save themselves the trouble. _I_ would not believe one of them, if it
was written on the wall like Belshazzar's feast; and if I did believe
them I would not care," said Winnie, vehemently; and she looked across,
as she never could help looking, to where her sister sat.
"What is it?" said Mr. Penrose, "something about your Captain? Miss
Agatha, considering my interest in the matter, I hope you will let me
hear all that is said."
"It is nothing, absolutely nothing," said Aunt Agatha, faltering. "It is
only some foolish gossip, you know--garrison stories, and that sort of
thing. He was a very young man, and was launched upon life by
himself--and--and--I think I may say he must have been imprudent.
Winnie, my dear love, my heart bleeds to say it, but he must have been
imprudent. He must have entangled himself and--and---- And then there
are always so many designing people about to lead poor young men
astray," said Aunt Agatha, trembling for the result of her explanation;
while Winnie divided her attention between Mr. Penrose, before whom this
new view of the subject was unfolded for the first time, and Mary, whom
she regarded as a natural enemy and the probable origin of it all.
"Wild, I suppose?" said Mr. Penrose, with sublime calm. "They're all
alike, for that matter. So long as he doesn't bet or gamble--that's how
those confounded young fellows ruin themselves." And then he dismissed
the subject with a wave of the hand. "I am going up to the Hall to talk
it all over with Sir Edward, and see what can be done. This sort of
penniless nonsense makes me sick," the rich man added; "and you women
are the most unreasonable creatures--one might as well talk to a stone
wall."
Thus it was that for once in their lives the two Miss Setons, Agatha and
Winnie, found Uncle Penrose for the moment half divine; they looked at
him with wide open eyes, with a wondering veneration. They were only
women after all, and had been giving themselves a great deal of trouble
about Captain Percival's previous history; but it all sank in mere
contemptible gossip under the calm glance of Mr. Penrose. He was not
enthusiastic about Edward, and therefore his impartial calm was all the
more satisfying. _He_ thought nothing of it at all, though it had been
driving _them_ distracted. When he went away on his mission to the Hall,
Winnie, in her enthusiasm, ran into Aunt Agatha's arms.
"You see he does not mind," said Winnie,--though an hour before she had
been far from thinking Mr. Penrose an authority. "He thinks it is all
gossip and spite, as I always said."
And Aunt Agatha for her part was quite overcome by the sudden relief. It
felt like a deliverance, though it was only Mr. Penrose's opinion. "My
dear love, men know the world," she said; "that is the advantage of
having somebody to talk to; and I always said that your uncle, though he
is sometimes disagreeable, had a great deal of sense. You see he knows
the world."
"Yes, I suppose he must have sense," said Winnie; and in the comfort of
her heart she was ready to attribute all good gifts to Mr. Penrose, and
could have kissed him as he walked past the window with his hand in his
pocket. She would not have forsaken her Edward whatever had been found
out about him, but still to see that his wickedness (if he had been
wicked) was of no consequence in the eyes of a respectable man like
Uncle Penrose, was such a consolation even to Winnie as nothing can
express. "We are all a set of women, and we have been making a mountain
out of a molehill," she said, and the tears came to her bright eyes; and
then, as Mary was not moved into any such demonstrations of delight,
Winnie turned her arms upon her sister in pure gaiety of heart.
"Everybody gets talked about," she said. "Edward was telling me about
Mary even--that she used to be called Madonna Mary at the station; and
that there was some poor gentleman that died. I supposed he thought she
ought to be worshipped like Our Lady. Didn't you feel dreadfully guilty
and wretched, Mary, when he died?"
"Poor boy," said Mrs. Ochterlony, who had recovered her courage a little
with the morning light. "It had nothing to do with Our Lady as you say;
it was only because he had been brought up in Italy, poor fellow, and
was fond of the old Italian poets, and the soft Italian words."
"Then perhaps it was Madonna Mary he was thinking of," said Winnie, with
gay malice, "and you must have felt a dreadful wretch when he died."
"We felt very sad when he died," said Mary,--"he was only twenty, poor
boy; but, Winnie dear, Uncle Penrose is not an angel, and I think now I
will say my say. Captain Percival is very fond of you, and you are very
fond of him, and I think, whatever the past may have been, that there is
hope if you will be a little serious. It is of consequence. Don't you
think that I wish all that is best in the world for you, my only little
sister? And why should you distrust me? You are not silly nor weak, and
I think you might do well yet, very well, my dear, if you were really to
try."
"I think we shall do very well without trying," said Winnie, partly
touched and partly indignant; "but it is something for you to say, Mary,
and I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good advice all the
same."
"Winnie," said Mrs. Ochterlony, taking her hands, "I know the world
better than you do--perhaps even better than Uncle Penrose, so far as a
woman is concerned. I don't care if you are rich or poor, but I want you
to be happy. It will not do very well without trying. I will not say a
word about him, for you have set your heart on him, and that must be
enough. And some women can do everything for the people they love. I
think, perhaps, you could, if you were to give your heart to it, and
try."
It was not the kind of address Winnie had expected, and she struggled
against it, trying hard to resist the involuntary softening. But after
all nature was yet in her, and she could not but feel that what Mary was
saying came from her heart.
"I don't see why you should be so serious," she said; "but I am sure it
is kind of you, Mary. I--I don't know if I could do--what you say; but
whatever I can do I will for Edward!" she added hastily, with a warmth
and eagerness which brought the colour to her cheek and the light to her
eye; and then the two sisters kissed each other as they had never done
before, and Winnie knelt down by Mary's knee, and the two held each
other's hands, and clung together, as it was natural they should, in
that confidence of nature which is closer than any other except that
between mother and daughter--the fellow-feeling of sisters, destined to
the same experience, one of whom has gone far in advance, and turning
back can trace, step by step, in her own memory, the path the other has
to go.
"Don't mistrust me, Winnie," said Mrs. Ochterlony. "I have had a little
to bear, though I have been very happy, and I could tell you many
things--though I will not, just now; but, Winnie dear, what I want is,
that you should make up your mind to it; not to have everything you
like, and live in a fairy tale, but to keep right, and to keep _him_
right. If you will promise to think of this, and to take it bravely upon
you, I will still hope that all may be well."
Her look was so serious that for the first time Winnie's heart forgave
her. Neither jealousy, nor ill-temper, nor fear of evil report on her
own side could have looked out of Mary's eyes at her little sister with
such a wistful longing gaze. Winnie was moved in spite of herself, and
thrilled by the first pang of uncertainty that had yet touched her. If
Mary had no motive but natural affection, was it then really a hideous
gulf of horrible destruction, on the verge of which she was herself
tripping so lightly? Something indefinable came over Winnie's face as
that thought moved her. Should it be so, what then? If it was to save
him, if it was to perish with him, what did it matter? the only place in
the world for her was by his side. She had made her choice, and there
was no other choice for her, no alternative even should see the gulf as
Curtius did, and leap conscious into it in the eye of day. All this
passed through her mind in a moment, as she knelt by Mary's side holding
her hands--and came out so on her face that Mary could read something
like it in the sudden changing of the fair features and expansion of the
eyes. It was as if the soul had been startled, and sprang up to those
fair windows, to look out upon the approaching danger, making the
spectator careless of their beauty, out of regard to the nobler thing
that used them for the moment. Then Winnie rose up suddenly, and gave
her sister a hearty kiss, and threw off her sudden gravity as if it had
been a cloud.
"Enough of that," she said; "I will try and be good, and so I think
will--we all. And Mary, don't look so serious. I mean to be happy, at
least as long as I can," cried Winnie. She was the same Winnie
again--gay, bold, and careless, before five minutes had passed; and Mary
had said her say, and there was now no more to add. Nothing could change
the destiny which the thoughtless young creature had laid out for
herself. If she could have foreseen the distinctest wretchedness it
would have been all the same. She was ready to take the plunge even into
the gulf--and nothing that could be said or done could change it now.
In the meantime, Mr. Penrose had gone up to the Hall to talk it over
with Sir Edward, and was explaining his views with a distinctness which
was not much more agreeable in the Hall than it had been in the
Cottage. "I cannot let it go on unless some provision can be made," he
said. "Winnie is very handsome, and you must all see she might have done
a great deal better. If I had her over in Liverpool, as I have several
times thought of doing, I warrant you the settlements would have been of
a different description. She might have married anybody, such a girl as
that," continued Mr. Penrose, in a regretful business way. It was so
much capital lost that might have brought in a much greater profit; and
though he had no personal interest in it, it vexed him to see people
throwing their chances away.
"That may be, but it is Edward Percival she chooses to marry, and nobody
else," said Sir Edward testily; "and she is not a girl to do as you seem
to think, exactly as she is told."
"We should have seen about that," said Mr. Penrose; "but in the
meantime, he has his pay and she has a hundred a year. If Mrs. Percival
will settle three hundred on him, and you, perhaps, two----"
"I, two!" cried Sir Edward, with sudden terror; "why should I settle
two? You might as well tell me to retire from the Hall, and leave them
my house. And pray, Mr. Penrose, when you are so liberal for other
people, what do you mean to give yourself?"
"I am a family man," said Uncle Penrose, taking his other hand out of
his pocket, "and what I can give must be, in justice to my family, very
limited. But Mrs. Percival, who has only four sons, and yourself who
have none, are in very different circumstances. If he had had a father,
the business might have been entered into more satisfactorily--but as
you are his godfather, I hear----"
"I never understood before, up to this minute," said Sir Edward, with
great courtesy, "that it was the duty of a godfather to endow his charge
with two hundred a year."
"I beg your pardon, Sir Edward," said Mr. Penrose; "I am a plain man,
and I treat things in a business way. I give my godchildren a silver
mug, and feel my conscience clear: but if I had introduced a young man,
not otherwise very eligible, to a handsome girl, who might have done a
great deal better for herself, that would make a great difference in the
responsibility. Winnie Seton is of very good family by her father's
side, as you know, I suppose, better than I do; and of very good
business connexions by her mother's; and her beauty is first rate--I
don't think there can be any doubt about that. If she had been an
ordinary pretty girl, I would not have said so much; but with all her
advantages, I should say that any fair equivalent in the shape of a
husband should be worth at least five thousand a year."
Mr. Penrose spoke with such seriousness that Sir Edward was awed out of
his first feeling of amusement. He restrained his smile, and
acknowledged the logic. "But I did not introduce him in any special
way," he said. "If I can negotiate with Mrs. Percival for a more liberal
allowance, I will do it. She has an estate of her own, and she is free
to leave it to any of her sons: but Edward, I fear, has been rather
unsatisfactory----"
"Ah, wild?" said Mr. Penrose: "all young men are alike for that. I
think, on the whole, that it is you who should negotiate with the
mother. You know her better than I do, and have known all about it from
the beginning, and you could show her the state of the case better. If
such a mad thing could be consented to by anybody in their senses, it
must at least be apparent that Winnie would bring twice as much as the
other into the common stock. If she were with me in Liverpool she would
not long be Winnie Seton; and you may trust me she should marry a man
who was worthy of her," the rich uncle added, with a confirmatory nod of
his head. When he spoke of a man who would be worthy of Winnie, he meant
no sentimental fitness such as Aunt Agatha would have meant, had she
said these words, nor was it even moral worth he was thinking of. What
Mr. Penrose meant, was a man who would bring a fair equivalent in silver
and gold to Winnie's beauty and youth, and he meant it most seriously,
and could not but groan when he contemplated the possibility of so much
valuable capital being thrown away.
And he felt that he had made a good impression when he went back to the
Cottage. He seemed to himself to have secured Mrs. Percival's three
hundred a-year, and even Sir Edward's more problematical gift to the
young people; and he occupied the interval in thinking of a silver
tea-service which had rather caught his fancy, in a shop window, and
which he thought if his negotiations succeeded, he would give to his
niece for a wedding present. If they did not succeed it would be a
different question--for a young woman who married upon a captain's pay
and a hundred a-year of her own, would have little occasion for a silver
tea-service. So Mr. Penrose mused as he returned to the Cottage. Under
the best of circumstances it was now evident that there could be nothing
to "settle" upon Winnie. The mother and the friends might make up a
little income, but as for capital--which after all was what Mr. Penrose
prized most--there was none in the whole matter, except that which
Winnie had in her face and person, and was going to throw so lamentably
away. Mr. Penrose could not but make some reflections on Aunt Agatha's
feminine idiocy and the cruel heedlessness of Sir Edward, as he walked
along the rural road. A girl who had so many advantages, whose husband,
to be worthy of her, should have had five thousand a-year at the least,
and something handsome to "settle"--and yet her natural guardians had
suffered her to get engaged to a captain in a marching regiment, with
only his pay! No wonder that Mr. Penrose was sad. But he went home with
a sense that, painful as the position was, _he_ had done his duty, at
least.
This was how Winnie's marriage got itself accomplished notwithstanding
all opposition. Captain Percival was the second of his mother's four
sons, and consequently the natural heir of her personal fortune if he
had not been "foolish," as she said; and the thought that it might be
the saving of him, which was suggested by Sir Edward, was naturally a
very moving argument. A beautiful young wife whom he was very fond of,
and who was ready to enter with him into all the risks of life,--if that
did not keep him right, what would? And after all he was only
five-and-twenty, an age at which reformation was quite possible. So his
friends thought, persuading themselves with natural sophistry that the
influence of love and a self-willed girl of eighteen would do what all
other inducements had failed to do; and as for _her_ friends, they were
so elated to see that in the eyes of Uncle Penrose the young man's
faults bore only the most ordinary aspect, and counted for next to
nothing, that their misgivings all but disappeared, and their acceptance
of the risk was almost enthusiastic. Sometimes indeed a momentary shadow
would cross the mind of Aunt Agatha--sometimes a doubt would change Sir
Edward's countenance--but then these two old people were believers in
love, and besides had the faculty of believing what they wished to
believe, which was a still more important circumstance. And Mary for her
part had said her say. The momentary hope she had felt in Winnie's
strength of character, and in her love--a hope which had opened her
heart to speak to her sister--found but little to support it after that
moment. She could not go on protesting, and making her presence a thorn
in the flesh of the excited household; and if she felt throughout all a
sense that the gulf was still there, though all these flowers had been
strewed over it--a sense of the terrible risk which was so poorly
counterbalanced by the vaguest and most doubtful of hopes--still Mary
was aware that this might be simply the fault of her position, which
led her to look upon everything with a less hopeful eye. She was the
spectator, and she saw what was going on as the actors themselves could
not be expected to see it. She saw Winnie's delight at the idea of
freedom from all restraint--and she saw Percival's suppressed impatience
of the anxious counsels addressed to him, and the look which Winnie and
he exchanged on such occasions, as if assuring each other that in spite
of all this they would take their own way. And then Mrs. Ochterlony's
own relations with the bridegroom were not of a comfortable kind. He
knew apparently by instinct that she was not his friend, and he
approached her with a solemn politeness under which Mary, perhaps
over-sensitive on that point, felt that a secret sneer was concealed.
And he made references to her Indian experiences, with a certain subtle
implication of something in them which he knew and nobody else
did--something which would be to Mrs. Ochterlony's injury should it be
known--which awoke in Mary an irritation and exasperation which nothing
else could have produced. She avoided him as much as it was possible to
avoid him during the busy interval before the marriage, and he perceived
it and thought it was fear, and the sneer that lay under his courtesy
became more and more evident. He took to petting little Wilfrid with an
evident consciousness of Mary's vexation and the painful effect it
produced upon her; not Hugh nor Islay, who were of an age to be a man's
plaything, but the baby, who was too young for any but a woman's
interest; and Captain Percival was not the kind of man who is naturally
fond of children. When she saw her little boy on her future
brother-in-law's knee, Mary felt her heart contract with an involuntary
shiver, of which she could have given no clear explanation. She did not
know what she was afraid of, but she was afraid.
Perhaps it was a relief to them all when the marriage day arrived--which
had to be shortly, for the regiment was ordered to Malta, and Captain
Percival had already had all the leave he could ask for. Mr. Penrose's
exertions had been crowned with such success that when he came to
Winnie's wedding he brought her the silver tea-service which in his
heart he had decided conditionally to give her as a marriage gift. Mrs.
Percival had decided to settle two hundred and fifty pounds a-year upon
her son, which was very near Mr. Penrose's mark; and Sir Edward, after
long pondering upon the subject, and a half-amused, half-serious,
consideration of Winnie's capital which was being thrown away, had made
up his mind to a still greater effort. He gave the young man in present
possession what he had left him in his will, which was a sum of five
thousand pounds--a little fortune to the young soldier. "You might have
been my son, my boy, if your mother and I could have made up our minds,"
the old baronet said, with a momentary weakness; though if anybody else
had suggested such an idea no doubt Sir Edward would have said, "Heaven
forbid!" And Mr. Penrose pounced upon it and had it settled upon Winnie,
and was happy, though the bridegroom resisted a little. After that there
could be no doubt about the tea-service. "If you should ever be placed
in Mary's position you will have something to fall back upon," Uncle
Penrose said; "or even if you should not get on together, you know." It
was not a large sum, but the difficulty there had been about getting it,
and the pleasant sense that it was wholly owing to his own exertions,
made it sweet to the man of capital, and he gave his niece his blessing
and the tea-service with a full heart.
As for Winnie, she was radiant in her glow of beauty and happiness on
that momentous day. A thunder-shower of sudden tears when she signed the
register, and another when she was taking leave of Aunt Agatha, was all
that occurred to overcloud her brightness; and even these did not
overcloud her, but were in harmony--hot, violent, and sudden as they
were--with the passionate happiness and emancipation of the married
girl. She kissed over and over again her tender guardian--who for her
part sat speechless and desolate to see her child go away, weeping with
a silent anguish which could not find any words--and dropped that sudden
shower over Aunt Agatha's gown; but a moment after threw back the veil
which had fallen over her face, and looked back from the carriage window
upon them in a flush of joy, and pride, and conscious freedom, which,
had no other sentiments been called for at the moment, it would have
done one's heart good to see. She was so happy that she could not cry,
nor be sentimental, nor think of broken links, as she said--and why
should she pretend to be sad about parting? Which was very true, no
doubt, from Winnie's point of view. And there was not the vestige of a
cloud about when she waved her hand to them for the last time as she
drove away. She was going away to the world and life, to see everything
and enjoy everything, and have her day. Why should she not show her
delight? While poor old Aunt Agatha, whose day was so long over, fell
back into Mary's arms, who was standing beside her, and felt that now at
last and finally, her heart was broken, and the joy of her life gone.
Was it not simply the course of nature and the way of the world?