There followed after this a time of such tranquillity as never yet
entered into Mrs. Ochterlony's life. Mary had known joy, and she had
known sorrow, as people do to whom life comes with full hands, giving
and taking; but it had always been life, busy and personal, which left
her little leisure for anything beyond the quickly recurring duties of
the hour and the day. She had had no time to watch the current how it
flowed, being as it were part of it, and going along with it in its
ceaseless course. But now all this was changed. After Winnie's marriage
a sudden tranquillity fell upon the ladies in the Cottage. Life had gone
on and left them; they were no longer going with the tide, but standing
by upon the bank watching it. They were not unhappy, nor was their
existence sad,--for the three boys were world enough to satisfy the two
women and keep them occupied and cheerful; and when the children were
asleep, Aunt Agatha and her niece were, as people say, company for each
other, and talked over their work as they sat by the evening lamp, or in
the twilight garden, which was always so green and so sweet,--and were
content, or more than content; but still sometimes Mrs. Ochterlony would
bethink herself, and it would seem as a dream to her that she, too, had
once taken her part with the others and gone with the stream, and
suffered cruel sufferings and tasted sudden joys, and been Hugh
Ochterlony's wife. Was it so? Or had she never been but with Aunt Agatha
by the little river that ran steadily one day like another under the
self-same trees? This strange sense of unreality in the past turned her
giddy by times, and made her head swim and the world to go round and
round; but, to be sure, she never spoke of these sensations, and life
continued, and the boys grew, and everything went very well at
Kirtell-side.
Everything went so well that Aunt Agatha many a day pitied the poor
people who were out in the world, or the young men who set out from the
parish to begin their career, and would say, "Oh, if they but knew how
much better everybody is at home!" Mary was younger, and perhaps she was
not quite of the same mind; but still it was peace that had fallen upon
her and was wrapping her all round like a garment. There was the same
quiet routine every day; the same things to do, the same places to walk
to, the same faces to see. Nothing unforeseen ever arrived to break the
calm. When Hugh was old enough to begin serious lessons, a curate turned
up in the course of nature who took pupils, and to whom Islay, too went
by-and-by, and even little Wilfrid, who was always delicate. The boys
went to him with shining morning faces, and came back growing louder and
stronger, and, as Peggy said, more "stirring" every day. And Sir Edward
made his almost daily visit, and let a thin and gentle echo of the
out-of-door din into the Cottage quiet. He told them in his mild way
what was going on, and talked about the news in the papers, and about
the books reviewed, and about the occasional heavenly visitant in the
shape of a new publication that found its way to Kirtell-side. There
were few magazines then, and no cheap ones, and a single _Blackwood_ did
for a good many families. Sir Edward himself, who had been always
considered intellectual, took in the _Edinburgh_ all for himself, and
lent it to his neighbours; but then it could not be expected that many
people in a district could be so magnificent as that. When the Curate,
on the other hand, came to tea (he was not the sort of man, as Aunt
Agatha said, that one would think of making a dinner for), it was all
about the parish that he talked; and as Mrs. Ochterlony was a perverse
woman in her way, and had her own ideas about her poor neighbours, such
conversation was not so interesting to her as it might have been. But it
was in this sort of way that she spent the next ten or twelve years of
her life.
As for Winnie, she was having her day, as she had said, and was, it is
to be supposed, enjoying it. She wrote letters regularly and diligently,
which is one point in which a woman, however little elevated she may be
above her masculine companion in other respects, always has the better
of him. And she possessed a true feminine gift which ought also to be
put in the compensating scale against those female drawbacks which are
so often insisted upon. Sometimes she was ill-tempered, sometimes bitter
in her letters, for the honeymoon happiness naturally did not last for
ever; but, whatever mood Winnie might be in, she always threw an
unconscious halo of interest around herself when she wrote. It was, as
everybody might see, an instinctive and unpremeditated act, but it was
successful to the highest extent. Whether she described her triumphs or
her disappointments, her husband's kindness or his carelessness, their
extravagant living or their want of money, Winnie herself, in the
foreground of the picture, was always charmingly, and sometimes
touchingly, posed. A word or two did it, and it was done to perfection;
and the course of her history thus traced was followed by Aunt Agatha
with unfailing enthusiasm. She herself went through it all in the person
of her favourite, and Mary connected herself with a vague but still
fairer future in the persons of her boys. And thus the peaceful
existence went on day by day, with nothing more serious to trouble it
than a transitory childish ailment, or a passing rumour that the
Percivals were "going too fast," or did not "get on,"--clouds which only
floated mistily and momentarily about the horizon, and never came down
to trouble the quiet waters. It was a time which left no record, and
which by times felt languid and lingering to the younger woman, who was
still too young to be altogether satisfied with so dead a calm in the
middle of her existence; but still, perhaps, it was, on the whole, the
happiest time of Mary's life.
This halcyon time lasted until the boys were so far grown up as to bring
the disturbing plans and speculations of their beginning life into the
household calm. It lasted until Islay was sixteen and ready to pass his
examination for Woolwich, the long-headed boy having fixed his
affections upon scientific soldiership in a way which was slightly
disappointing to his mother, who, as was natural, had thought him
capable of a more learned profession. It roused the Cottage into
something like a new stage of existence to think of and prepare for the
entry of its nursling into that great vague unseen sphere which Aunt
Agatha called the world. But, after all, it was not Islay who was the
troublesome member of the family. He had fixed his thoughts upon his
chosen profession almost as soon as he knew what was meant by his
father's sword, which had hung in Mrs. Ochterlony's room from his
earliest recollection; and though there might be a little anxiety about
how he would succeed at his examination, and how he would get on when he
left home, still Islay was so steady that no one felt any alarm or
absolute disquiet about him.
But it was rather different with Hugh. Hugh was supposed to be his
uncle's heir, and received as such wherever he went, with perhaps more
enthusiasm than might have fallen to his share merely as Mary's son. He
was heir presumptive, recognised to a certain extent at Earlston itself
as elsewhere in that capacity; and yet Mr. Ochterlony had not, so far as
anybody was aware, made any distinct decision, and might still alter his
mind, and, indeed, was not too old to marry and have heirs of his own,
which was a view of the subject chiefly taken by Aunt Agatha. And, to
aggravate the position, Hugh was far from being a boy of fixed
resolutions, like his brother. He was one of the troublesome people, who
have no particular bias. He liked everything that was pleasant. He was
not idle, nor had he any evil tendencies; he was fond of literature in a
way, and at the same time fond of shooting and hunting, and all the
occupations and amusements of a country life. Public opinion in the
country-side proclaimed him one of the nicest young fellows going; and
if he had been Francis Ochterlony's son, and indisputably the heir of
Earlston, Hugh would have been as satisfactory a specimen of a budding
country gentleman as could have been found. But the crook in his lot
was, that he was the heir presumptive, and at the same time was generous
and proud and high-spirited, and not the kind of nature which could lie
in wait for another man's place, or build his fortunes upon another
man's generosity. His own opinion, no doubt, was that he had a right to
Earlston; but he was far too great a Quixote, too highly fantastical in
youthful pride and independence, to permit any one to say that it was
his uncle's duty to provide for him. And withal, he did not himself know
what manner of life to take up, or what to do. He would have made a good
soldier, or a good farmer, different though the two things are; and
would have filled, as well as most people, almost any other practical
position which Providence or circumstances had set clearly before him.
But no intuitive perception of what he was most fit for was in him to
enlighten his way; and at the same time he began to be highly impatient,
being eighteen, and a man as he thought, of waiting and doing nothing,
and living at home.
"If we could but have sent him to Oxford," Aunt Agatha said; "if I had
the means!"--but it is very doubtful whether she ever could have had the
means; and of late Aunt Agatha too had been disturbed in her quiet. Her
letters to Winnie had begun to convey enclosures of which she did not
speak much, even to Mrs. Ochterlony, but which were dead against any
such possibility for Hugh.
"If I had been brought up at school where I might have got a
scholarship, or something," said Hugh; "but I don't know why I should
want to go to Oxford. We must send Will if we can, mother; he has the
brains for it. Oxford is too grand an idea for me----"
"Not if you are to have Earlston, Hugh," said his mother.
"I wish Earlston was at the bottom of the sea," cried the poor boy; "but
for Earlston, one would have known what one was good for. I wish my
uncle would make up his mind and found a hospital with it, or marry, as
Aunt Agatha says----"
"He will never marry," said Mary; "he was a great deal older than your
father; he is quite an old man."
"Indeed, Mary, he is not old at all, for a man," said Aunt Agatha, with
eagerness. "Ladies are so different. He might get a very nice wife yet,
and children, for anything any one could tell. Not too young, you
know--I think it would be a great pity if he were to marry anybody too
young; but a nice person, of perhaps forty or so," said Aunt Agatha; and
she rounded off her sentence with a soft little sigh.
"He will never marry, I am sure," said Mary, almost with indignation;
for, not to speak of the injustice to Hugh, it sounded like an
imputation upon her brother-in-law, who was sober-minded, and not
thinking of anything so foolish; not to say that his heart was with his
marble Venus, and he was indifferent to any other love.
"Well, if you think so, my dear----" said Miss Seton; and a faint colour
rose upon her soft old cheek. She thought Mary's meaning was, that after
his behaviour to herself, which was not exactly what people expected, he
was not likely to entertain another affection; which was probably as
true as any other theory of Mr. Ochterlony's conduct. Aunt Agatha
thought this was Mary's meaning, and it pleased her. It was an old
story, but still she remembered it so well, that it was pleasant to
think _he_ had not forgotten. But this, to be sure, had very little to
do with Hugh.
"I wish he would marry," said his heir presumptive, "or put one out of
pain one way or another. Things can't go on for ever like this. Islay is
only sixteen, and he is starting already; and here am I eighteen past,
and good for nothing. You would not like me to be a useless wretch all
my life?" said Hugh, severely, turning round upon his mother, who was
not prepared for such an address; but Hugh, of all the boys, was the one
most like his father, and had the Major's "way."
"No," cried Mary, a little alarmed, "anything but that. I still think
you might wait a little, and see what your uncle means. You are not so
very old. Well, my dear boy! don't be impatient; tell me what you wish
to do."
But this was exactly what Hugh could not tell. "If there had been no
Earlston in the question, one would have known," he said. "It is very
hard upon a fellow to be another man's nephew. I think the best thing I
could do would be to ignore Earlston altogether, and go in for--anything
I could make my own living by. There's Islay has had the first
chance----"
"My dear, one is surely enough in a family to be a soldier," said Aunt
Agatha, "if you would consider your poor mamma's feelings and mine; but
I never thought, for my part, that _that_ was the thing for Islay, with
his long head. He had always such a very peculiar head. When he was a
child, you know, Mary, we never could get a child's hat to fit him. Now,
I think, if Hugh had gone into a very nice regiment, and Islay had
studied for something----"
"Do you think he will have no study to do, going in for the Engineers?"
said Hugh, indignantly. "I am not envious of Islay. I know he is the
best fellow among us; but, at the same time---- The thing for me would
be to go to Australia or New Zealand, where one does not need to be good
for anything in particular. That is my case," said the disconsolate
youth; and out of the depths, if not of his soul, at least of his
capacious chest, there came a profound, almost despairing sigh.
"Oh, Hugh, my darling boy! you cannot mean to break all our hearts,"
cried Aunt Agatha.
It was just what poor Hugh meant to do, for the moment, at least; and he
sat with his head down and despair in his face, with a look which went
to Mary's heart, and brought the tears to her eyes, but a smile to her
lips. He was so like his father; and Mrs. Ochterlony knew that he would
not, in this way, at least, break her heart.
"Would you like to go to Uncle Penrose?" she said; to which Hugh replied
with a vehement shake of his head. "Would you like to go into Mr.
Allonby's office? You know he spoke of wanting an articled pupil. Would
you think of that proposal Mr. Mortare, the architect, made us?--don't
shake your head off, Hugh; or ask Sir Edward to let you help old
Sanders--or--or---- Would you _really_ like to be a soldier, like your
brother?" said Mary, at her wits' end; for after this, with their
limited opportunities, there seemed no further suggestion to make.
"I must do something, mother," said Hugh, and he rose up with another
sigh; "but I don't want to vex you," he added, coming up and putting his
arms round her with that admiring fondness which is perhaps sweeter to a
woman from her son than even from her lover; and then, his mind being
relieved, he had no objection to change the conversation. "I promised to
look at the young colts, and tell Sir Edward what I thought of them," he
suddenly said, looking up at Mary with a cloudy, doubtful look--afraid
of being laughed at, and yet himself ready to laugh--such as is not
unusual upon a boy's face. Mrs. Ochterlony did not feel in the least
inclined for laughter, though she smiled upon her boy; and when he went
away, a look of anxiety came to her face, though it was not anything
like the tragical anxiety which contracted Aunt Agatha's gentle
countenance. She took up her work again, which was more than Miss Seton
could do. The boys were no longer children, and life was coming back to
her with their growing years. Life which is not peace, but more like a
sword.
"My dear love, something must be done," said Aunt Agatha. "Australia or
New Zealand, and for a boy of his expectations! Mary, something must be
done."
"Yes," said Mary. "I must go and consult my brother-in-law about it, and
see what he thinks best. But as for New Zealand or Australia, Aunt
Agatha----"
"Do you think it will be _nice_, Mary?" said Miss Seton, with a soft
blush like a girl's. "It will be like asking him, you know, what he
means; it will be like saying he ought to provide----"
"He said Hugh was to be his heir," said Mary, "and I believe he meant
what he said; at all events, it would be wrong to do anything without
consulting him, for he has always been very kind."
These words threw Aunt Agatha into a flutter which she could not
conceal. "It may be very well to consult him," she said; "but rather
than let him think we are asking his help---- And then, how can you see
him, Mary? I am afraid it would be--awkward, to say the least, to ask
him here----"
"I will go to Earlston to-morrow," said Mary. "I made up my mind while
Hugh was talking. After Islay has gone, it will be worse for poor Hugh.
Will is so much younger, poor boy."
"Will," said Aunt Agatha, sighing, "Oh, Mary, if they had only been
girls! we could have brought them up without any assistance, and no
bother about professions or things. When you have settled Hugh and
Islay, there will be Will to open it up again; and they will all leave
us, after all. Oh, Mary, my dear love, if they had been but girls!"
"Yes, but they are not girls," said Mrs. Ochterlony, with a half smile;
and then she too sighed. She was glad her boys were boys, and had more
confidence in them, and Providence and life, than Aunt Agatha had. But
she was not glad to think that her boys must leave her, and that she had
no daughter to share her household life. The cloud which sat on Aunt
Agatha's careful brow came over her, too for the moment, and dimmed her
eyes, and made her heart ache. "They came into the world for God's uses
and not for ours," she said, recovering herself, "and though they are
boys, we must not keep them unhappy. I will go over to Earlston
to-morrow by the early train."
"If you think it right," said Miss Seton: but it was not cordially
spoken. Aunt Agatha was very proud and sensitive in her way. She was the
kind of woman to get into misunderstandings, and shun explanations, as
much as if she had been a woman in a novel. She was as ready to take up
a mistaken idea, and as determined not to see her mistake, as if she had
been a heroine forced thereto by the exigencies of three volumes. Miss
Seton had never come to the third volume herself; she thought it more
dignified for her own part to remain in the complications and
perplexities of the second; and it struck her that it was indelicate of
Mary thus to open the subject, and lead Francis Ochterlony on, as it
were, to declare his mind.
The question was quite a different one so far as Mary was concerned, to
whom Francis Ochterlony had never stood in the position of a lover, nor
was the subject of any delicate difficulties. With her it was a
straightforward piece of business enough to consult her brother-in-law,
who was the natural guardian of her sons, and who had always been well
disposed towards them, especially while they kept at a safe distance.
Islay was the only one who had done any practical harm at Earlston, and
Mr. Ochterlony had forgiven, and, it is to be hoped, forgotten the
downfall of the rococo chair. If she had had nothing more important to
trouble her than a consultation so innocent! Though, to tell the truth,
Mary did not feel that she had a great deal to trouble her, even with
the uncertainty of Hugh's future upon her hands. Even if his uncle were
to contemplate anything so absurd as marriage or the founding of a
hospital, Hugh could still make his own way in the world, as his
brothers would have to do, and as his father had done before him. And
Mrs. Ochterlony was not even overwhelmed by consideration of the very
different characters of the boys, nor of the immense responsibility, nor
of any of the awful thoughts with which widow-mothers are supposed to be
overwhelmed. They were all well, God bless them; all honest and true,
healthful and affectionate. Hugh had his crotchets and fidgety ways, but
so had his father, and perhaps Mary loved her boy the better for them;
and Wilfrid was a strange boy, but then he had always been strange, and
it came natural to him. No doubt there might be undeveloped depths in
both, of which their mother as yet knew nothing; but in the meantime
Mary, like other mothers, took things as she saw them, and was proud of
her sons, and had no disturbing fears. As for Islay, he was steady as a
rock, and almost as strong, and did the heart good to behold, and even
the weakest woman might have taken heart to trust him, whatever might
be the temptations and terrors of "the world." Mary had that composure
which belongs to the better side of experience, as much as suspicion and
distrust belong to its darker side. The world did not alarm her as it
did Aunt Agatha; neither did Mr. Ochterlony alarm her, whose sentiments
ought at least to be known by this time, and whose counsel she sought
with no artful intention of drawing him out, but with an honest desire
to have the matter settled one way or another. This was how the interval
of calm passed away, and the new generation brought back a new and
fuller life.
It was not all pleasure with which Mary rose next morning to go upon her
mission to Earlston; but it was with a feeling of resurrection, a sense
that she lay no longer ashore, but that the tide was once more creeping
about her stranded boat, and the wind wooing the idle sail. There might
be storms awaiting her upon the sea; storm and shipwreck and loss of all
things lay in the future; possible for her boys as for others, certain
for some; but that pricking, tingling thrill of danger and pain gave a
certain vitality to the stir of life renewed. Peace is sweet, and there
are times when the soul sighs for it; but life is sweeter. And this is
how Mary, in her mother's anxiety,--with all the possibilities of fate
to affright her, if they could, yet not without a novel sense of
exhilaration, her heart beating more strongly, her pulse fuller, her eye
brighter,--went forth to open the door for her boy into his own personal
and individual career.