Hugh, however, it is quite true, was very inexperienced. He did not even
notice that his uncle was very ill. He sat with him at dinner and saw
that he did not eat anything, and yet never saw it; and he went with him
sometimes when he tottered about the garden in the morning, and never
found out that he tottered; and sat with him at night, and was very kind
and attentive, and was very fond of his uncle, and never remarked
anything the matter with his breathing. He was very young, and he knew
no better, and it never seemed to him that short breathing and unequal
steps and a small appetite were anything remarkable at Mr. Ochterlony's
age. If there had been a lady in the house it might have made a
wonderful difference; but to be sure it was Francis Ochterlony's own
doing that there was not a lady in the house. And he was not himself so
shortsighted as Hugh. His own growing weakness was something of which he
was perfectly well aware, and he knew, too, how his breath caught of
nights, and looking forward into the future saw the shadow drawing
nearer to his door, and was not afraid of it. Probably the first thought
went chill to his heart, the thought that he was mortal like other
people, and might have to die. But his life had been such a life as to
make him very much composed about it, and not disinclined to think that
a change might be for the better. He was not very clear about the unseen
world--for one thing, he had nobody there in particular belonging to him
except the father and mother who were gone ages ago; and it did not seem
very important to himself personally whether he was going to a long
sleep, or going to another probation, or into pure blessedness, which of
all the three was, possibly, the hypothesis which he understood least.
Perhaps, on the whole, if he had been to come to an end altogether he
would not have much minded; but his state of feeling was, that God
certainly knew all about it, and that He would arrange it all right. It
was a kind of pagan state of mind; and yet there was in it something of
the faith of the little child which was once set up as the highest model
of faith by the highest authority. No doubt Mr. Ochterlony had a great
many thoughts on the subject, as he sat buried in the deep chair in his
study, and gazed into the little red spark of fire which was lighted for
him all that summer through, though the weather was so genial. His were
not bright thoughts, but very calm ones; and perhaps his perfect
composure about it all was one reason why Hugh took it as a matter of
course, and went on quite cheerily and lightly, and never found out
there was anything the matter with him until the very last.
It was one morning when Mr. Ochterlony had been later than usual of
coming downstairs. When he did make his appearance it was nearly noon,
and he was in his dressing-gown, which was an unheard-of thing for him.
Instead of going out to the garden, he called Hugh, and asked him to
give him his arm while he made a little _tour_ of the house. They went
from the library to the dining-room, and then upstairs to the great
drawing-room where the Venus and the Psyche were. When they had got that
length Mr. Ochterlony dropped into a chair, and gasped for breath, and
looked round upon his treasures. And then Hugh, who was looking on,
began to feel very uneasy and anxious for the first time.
"One can't take them with one," said Mr. Ochterlony, with a sigh and a
smile; "and you will not care for them much, Hugh. I don't mean to put
any burden upon you: they are worth a good deal of money; but I'd rather
you did not sell them, if you could make up your mind to the sacrifice."
"If they were mine I certainly should not sell them," said Hugh; "but as
they are yours, uncle, I don't see that it matters what I would do."
Mr. Ochterlony smiled, and looked kindly at him, but he did not give him
any direct answer. "If they were yours," he said--"suppose the
case--then what would you do with them?"
"I would collect them in a museum somewhere, and call them by your
name," said Hugh, on the spur of the moment. "You almost ought to do
that yourself, uncle, there are so few people to see them here."
Mr. Ochterlony's languid eyes brightened a little. "They are worth a
good deal of money," he said.
"If they were worth a mint of money, I don't see what that matters,"
said Hugh, with youthful extravagance.
His uncle looked at him again, and once more the languid eye lighted up,
and a tinge of colour came to the grey cheek.
"I think you mean it, Hugh," he said, "and it is pleasant to think you
do mean it now, even if---- I have been an economical man, in every way
but this, and I think you would not miss it. But I won't put any bondage
upon you. By the way, they would belong to the personalty. Perhaps
there's a will wanted for that. It was stupid of me not to think of it
before. I ought to see about it this very day."
"Uncle," said Hugh, who had been sitting on the arm of a chair looking
at him, and seeing, as by a sudden revelation, all the gradual changes
which he had not noticed when they began: the shortened breath, the
emaciated form, and the deep large circle round the eyes,--"Uncle, will
you tell me seriously what you mean when you speak to me like this?"
"On second thoughts, it will be best to do it at once," said Mr.
Ochterlony. "Hugh, ring the bell---- What do I speak like this, for, my
boy? For a very plain reason; because my course is going to end, and
yours is only going to begin."
"But, uncle!" cried Hugh.
"Hush--the one ought to be a kind of continuation of the other," said
Mr. Ochterlony, "since you will take up where I leave off; but I hope
you will do better than that. If you should feel yourself justified in
thinking of the museum afterward---- But I would not like to leave any
burden upon you. John, let some one ride into Dalken directly, and ask
Mr. Preston, the attorney, to come to me--or his son will do. I should
like to see him to-day---- And stop," said Mr. Ochterlony, reluctantly,
"he may fetch the doctor, too."
"Uncle, do you feel ill?" said Hugh. He had come up to his uncle's side,
and he had taken fright, and was looking at him wistfully as a woman
might have done--for his very inexperience which had prevented him from
observing gave him a tender anguish now, and filled him full of awe and
compunction, and made him in his wistfulness almost like a woman.
"No," said Mr. Ochterlony, holding out his hand. "Not ill, my boy, only
dying--that's all. Nothing to make a fuss about--but sit down and
compose yourself, for I have a good deal to say."
"Do you mean it, uncle?" asked Hugh, searching into the grey countenance
before him with his suddenly awakened eyes.
Mr. Ochterlony gave a warm grasp to the young hand which held his
closely yet trembling. "Sit down," he said. "I'm glad you are sorry. A
few years ago there would have been nobody to mind--except the servants,
perhaps. I never took the steps I might have done, you know," he added,
with a certain sadness, and yet a sense of humour which was curious to
see, "to have an heir of my own---- And speaking of that, you will be
sure to remember what I said to you about the Henri Deux. I put it away
in the cabinet yonder, the very last day they were here."
Then Mr. Ochterlony talked a great deal, and about many things. About
there being no particular occasion for making a will--since Earlston was
settled by his father's will upon his own heirs male, or those of his
brother--how he had bethought himself all at once, though he did not
know exactly how the law stood, that there was some difference between
real and personal property, and how, on the whole, perhaps, it was
better to send for Preston. "As for the doctor, I daren't take it upon
me to die without him, I suppose," Mr. Ochterlony said. He had never
been so playful before, as long as Hugh had known him. He had been
reserved--a little shy, even with his nephew. Now his own sense of
failure seemed to have disappeared. He was going to make a change, to
get rid of all his old disabilities, and incumbrances, and antecedents,
and no doubt it would be a change for the better. This was about the
substance of Mr. Ochterlony's thoughts.
"But one can't take Psyche, you know," he said. "One must go alone to
look into the face of the Immortals. And I don't think your mother,
perhaps, would care to have her here--so if you should feel yourself
justified in thinking of the museum---- But you will have a great deal
to do. In the first place your mother--I doubt if she'll be so happy at
the Cottage, now Mrs. Percival has come back. I think you ought to ask
her to come here. And I shouldn't wonder if Will gave you some trouble.
He's an odd boy. I would not say he had not a sense of honour, but----
And he has a jealous, dissatisfied temper. As for Islay, he's all safe,
I suppose. Always be kind to them, Hugh, and give Will his education. I
think he has abilities; but don't be too liberal. Don't take them upon
your shoulders. You have your own life to think of first of all."
All this Mr. Ochterlony uttered, with many little breaks and pauses, but
with very little aid from his companion, who was too much moved to do
more than listen. He was not suffering in any acute way, and yet,
somehow, the sense of his approaching end seemed to have loosened his
tongue, which had been to some extent bound all his life.
"For you must marry, you know," he said. "I consider _that_ a bargain
between us. Don't trust to your younger brother, as I did--not but what
it was the best thing for you. Some little bright thing like
_that_--that was with your mother. You may laugh, but I can remember
when Agatha Seton was as pretty a creature----"
"I think she is pretty now," said Hugh, half because he did think so,
and half because he was anxious to find something he could say.
Then Mr. Ochterlony brightened up in the strangest pathetic way,
laughing a little, with a kind of tender consciousness that he was
laughing at himself. He was so nearly separated from himself now that he
was tender as if it was the weakness of a dear old familiar friend at
which he was laughing. "She _is_ very pretty," he said. "I am glad you
have the sense to see it,--and good; and she'll go now and make a slave
of herself to that girl. I suppose that is my fault, too. But be sure
you don't forget about the Henri Deux."
And then all of a sudden, while his nephew was sitting watching him, Mr.
Ochterlony fell asleep. When he was sleeping he looked so grey, and
worn, and emaciated, that Hugh's heart smote him. He could not explain
to himself why it was that he had never noticed it before; and he was
very doubtful and uncertain what he ought to do. If he sent for his
mother, which seemed the most natural idea, Mr. Ochterlony might not
like it, and he had himself already sent for the doctor. Hugh had the
good sense finally to conclude upon doing the one thing that was most
difficult--to do nothing. But it was not an enlivening occupation. He
went off and got some wraps and cushions, and propped his uncle up in
the deep chair he was reclining in, and then he sat down and watched
him, feeling a thrill run through him every time there was a little drag
in the breathing or change in his patient's face. He might die like
that, with the Psyche and the Venus gleaming whitely over him, and
nobody by who understood what to do. It was the most serious moment that
had ever occurred in Hugh's life; and it seemed to him that days, and
not minutes, were passing. When the doctor arrived, it was a very great
relief. And then Mr. Ochterlony was taken to bed and made comfortable,
as they said; and a consciousness crept through the house, no one could
tell how, that the old life and the old times were coming to a
conclusion--that sad change and revolution hung over the house, and that
Earlston would soon be no more as it had been.
On the second day Hugh wrote to his mother, but that letter had not been
received at the time of Sir Edward's visit. And he made a very faithful
devoted nurse, and tended his uncle like a son. Mr. Ochterlony did not
die all at once, as probably he had himself expected and intended--he
had his spell of illness to go through like other people, and he bore it
very cheerfully, as he was not suffering much. He was indeed a great
deal more playful and at his ease than either the doctor or the
attorney, or Mrs. Gilsland, the housekeeper, thought quite right.
The lawyer did not come until the following day; and then it was young
Mr. Preston who came, his father being occupied, and Mr. Ochterlony had
a distaste somehow to young Mr. Preston. He was weak, too, and not able
to go into details. All that he would say was, that Islay and Wilfrid
were to have the same younger brother's portion as their father had, and
that everything else was to go to Hugh. He would not suffer himself to
be tempted to say anything about the museum, though the suggestion had
gone to his heart--and to make a will with so little in it struck the
lawyer almost as an injury to himself.
"No legacies?" he said--"excuse me, Mr. Ochterlony--nothing about your
beautiful collection? There ought to be some stipulation about that."
"My nephew knows all my wishes," Mr. Ochterlony said, briefly, "and I
have no time now for details. Is it ready to be signed? Everything else
of which I die possessed to my brother, Hugh Ochterlony's eldest son.
That is what I want. The property is his already, by his grandfather's
will. Everything of which I die possessed, to dispose of according as
his direction and circumstances may permit."
"But there are other friends--and servants," pleaded Mr. Preston; "and
then your wonderful collection----"
"My nephew knows all my wishes," said Mr. Ochterlony; and his weakness
was so great that he sank back on his pillows. He took his own way in
this, while poor Hugh hung about the room wistfully looking on. It was
to Hugh's great advantage, but he was not thinking of that. He was
asking himself could he have done anything to stop the malady if he had
noticed it in time? And he was thinking how to arrange the Ochterlony
Museum. If it could only have been done in his lifetime, so that its
founder could see. When the doctor and the attorney were both gone, Hugh
sat down by his uncle's bedside, and, half afraid whether he was doing
right, began to talk of it. He was too young and too honest to pretend
to disbelieve what Mr. Ochterlony himself and the doctor had assured him
of. The room was dimly lighted, the lamp put away on a table in a corner
with a shade over it, and the sick room "made comfortable," and
everything arranged for the night. And then the two had an hour of very
affectionate, confidential, almost tender talk. Mr. Ochterlony was
almost excited about the museum. It was not to be bestowed on his
college, as Hugh at first thought, but to be established at Dalken, the
pretty town of which everybody in the Fells was proud. And then the
conversation glided off to more familiar subjects, and the old man who
was dying gave a great deal of very sound advice to the young man who
was about to begin to live.
"Islay will be all right," said Mr. Ochterlony; "he will have what your
father had, and you will always make him at home in Earlston. It is Will
I am thinking about. I am not fond of Will. Don't be too generous to
him, or he will think it is his right. I know no harm of the boy, but I
would not put all my affairs into his hands as I put them into yours."
"It will not be my fault if I don't justify your confidence, uncle,"
said Hugh, with something swelling in his throat.
"If I had not known that, I would not have trusted you, Hugh," said Mr.
Ochterlony. "Take your mother's advice--always be sure to take your
mother's advice. There are some of us that never understand women; but
after all it stands to reason that the one-half of mankind should not
separate itself from the other. We think we are the wisest; but I am not
so sure----"
Mr. Ochterlony stopped short and turned his eyes, which were rather
languid, to the distant lamp, the one centre of light in the room. He
looked at it for a long time in a dreamy way. "I might have had a woman
taking care of me like the rest," he said. "I might have had the feeling
that there was somebody in the house; but you see I did not give my mind
to it, Hugh. Your father left a widow, and that's natural--I am leaving
only a collection. But it's better for you, my boy. If you should ever
speak to Agatha Seton about it, you can tell her _that_----"
Then there was a pause, which poor young Hugh, nervous, and excited, and
inexperienced, did not know how to break, and Mr. Ochterlony continued
to look at the lamp. It was very dim and shaded, but still a pale ray
shone sideways between the curtains upon the old man who lay a-dying,
and cast an enlarged shadow of Hugh's head upon the wall. When Mr.
Ochterlony turned round a little, his eye caught that, and a tender
smile came over his face.
"It looks like your father," he said to Hugh, who was startled, and did
not know what he meant. "It is more like him than you are. He was a good
fellow at the bottom--fidgety, but a very good fellow--as your mother
will tell you. I am glad it is you who are the eldest, and not one of
the others. They are fine boys, but I am glad it is you."
"Oh, uncle," said Hugh, with tears in his eyes, "you are awfully good to
me. I don't deserve it. Islay is a far better fellow than I am. If you
would but get well again, and never mind who was the eldest----"
Mr. Ochterlony smiled and shook his head. "I have lived my day," he
said, "and now it is your turn; and I hope you'll make Earlston better
than ever it was. Now go to bed, my boy; we've talked long enough. I
think if I were quiet I could sleep."
"And you'll call me, uncle, if you want me? I shall be in the
dressing-room," said Hugh, whose heart was very full.
"There is no need," said Mr. Ochterlony, smiling again. "But I suppose
it pleases you. You'll sleep as sound as a top wherever you are--that's
the privilege of your age; but John will be somewhere about, and nothing
is going to happen before morning. Good night."
But he called Hugh back before he reached the door. "You'll be sure to
remember about the Henri Deux?" he said, softly. That was all. And the
young man went to the dressing-room, and John, who had just stolen in,
lay down on a sofa in the shadow, and sleep and quiet took possession of
the room. If Mr. Ochterlony slept, or if he still lay looking at the
lamp, seeing his life flit past him like a shadow, giving a sigh to what
might have been, and thinking with perhaps a little awakening thrill of
expectation of what was so soon to be, nobody could tell. He was as
silent as if he slept--almost as silent as if he had been dead.
But Aunt Agatha was not asleep. She was in her room all alone, praying
for him, stopping by times to think how different it might have been.
She might have been with him then, taking care of him, instead of being
so far away; and when she thought of that, the tears stood in her eyes.
But it was not her fault. She had nothing to upbraid herself with. She
was well aware whose doing it was--poor man, and it was he who was the
sufferer now; but she said her prayers for him all the same.
When a few days had passed, the event occurred of which there had never
been any doubt. Francis Ochterlony died very peaceably and quietly,
leaving not only all of which he died possessed, but his blessing and
thanks to the boy who had stood in the place of a son to him. He took no
unnecessary time about his dying, and yet he did not do anything hastily
to shock people. It was known he was ill, and everybody had the
satisfaction of sending to inquire for him, and testifying their respect
before he died. Such a thing was indeed seen on one day as seven
servants, all men on horseback, sent with messages of inquiry, which was
a great gratification to Mrs. Gilsland, and the rest of the servants.
"He went off like a lamb at the last," they all said; and though he was
not much like a lamb, there might have been employed a less appropriate
image. He made a little sketch with his own hands as to how the Museum
was to be arranged, and told Hugh what provision to make for the old
servants; and gave him a great many advices, such as he never had taken
himself; and was so pleasant and cheery about it, that they scarcely
knew the moment when the soft twilight sank into absolute night. He died
an old man, full of many an unexpressed philosophy, and yet, somehow,
with the sentiment of a young one: like a tree ripe and full of fruit,
yet with blossoms still lingering on the topmost branches, as you see on
orange-trees--sage and experienced, and yet with something of the
virginal and primal state. Perhaps it was not a light price to give for
this crowning touch of delicacy and purity--the happiness (so to speak)
of his own life and of Aunt Agatha's. And yet the link between the old
lovers, thus fancifully revived, was very sweet and real. And they had
not been at all unhappy apart, on the whole, either of them. And it is
something to preserve this quintessence of maidenhood and primal
freshness to the end of a long life, and leave the visionary perfume of
it among a community much given to marrying and giving in marriage. It
was thus that Francis Ochterlony died.
Earlston, of course, was all shut up immediately, blinds drawn and
shutters closed, and what was more unusual, true tears shed, and a true
weight, so long as it lasted, upon the hearts of all the people about.
The servants, perhaps, were not quite uninfluenced by the thought that
all their legacies, &c., were left in the hands of their new master, who
was little more than a boy. And the Cottage, too, was closed, and the
inmates went about in a shadowed atmosphere, and were very sorry, and
thought a little of Mr. Ochterlony--not all as Aunt Agatha did, who kept
her room, and shed many tears; but still he was thought of in the house.
It is true that Mary could not help remembering that now her Hugh was no
longer a boy, dependent upon anybody's pleasure, but the master of the
house of his fathers--the house his own father was born in; and an
important personage. She could not help thinking of this, nor, in spite
of herself, feeling her heart swell, and asking herself if it was indeed
her Hugh who had come to this promotion. And yet she was very sorry for
Mr. Ochterlony's death. He had been good to her children, always
courteous and deferential to herself; and she was sorry for him as a
woman is sorry for a man _who has nobody belonging to him_--sorrier far,
in most cases, than the man is for himself. He was dead in his
loneliness, and the thought of it brought a quiet moisture to Mary's
eyes; but Hugh was living, and it was he who was the master of all; and
it was not in human nature that his mother's grief should be bitter or
profound.
"Hugh is a lucky boy," said Mrs. Percival; "I think you are all lucky,
Mary, you and your children. To come into Earlston with so little
waiting, and have everything left in his own hands."
"I don't think he will be thinking of that," said Mary. "He was fond of
his uncle; I am sure he will feel his loss."
"Oh, yes, no doubt; I ought not to have said anything so improper," said
Winnie, with that restrained smile and uncomfortable inference which
comes so naturally to some people. She knew nothing and cared nothing
about Francis Ochterlony; and she was impatient of what she called Aunt
Agatha's nonsense; and she could not but feel it at once unreasonable
and monstrous that anything but the painful state of her own affairs
should occupy people in the house she was living in. Yet the fact was
that this event had to a certain extent eclipsed Winnie. The anxiety
with which everybody looked for a message or letter about Mr.
Ochterlony's state blinded them a little to her worn looks and listless
wretchedness. They did not neglect her, nor were they indifferent to
her; for, indeed, it would be difficult to be indifferent to a figure
which held so prominent a place in the foreground of everything; but
still when they were in such a state of suspense about what was
happening at Earlston, no doubt Winnie's affairs were to a certain
extent overlooked. It is natural for an old man to die: but it is not
natural for a young woman--a woman in the bloom and fulness of life--one
who has been, and ought still to be, a great beauty--to be driven by her
wrongs out of all that makes life endurable. This was how Winnie
reasoned; and she was jealous of the attention given to Mr. Ochterlony
as he accomplished the natural act of dying. What was that in comparison
with the terrible struggles of life?
But naturally it made a great difference when it was all over, and when
Hugh, subdued and very serious, but still another man from the Hugh who
the other day was but a boy, came to the Cottage "for a little change,"
and to give his mother all the particulars. He came all tender in his
natural grief, with eyes ready to glisten, and a voice that sometimes
faltered; but, nevertheless, there was something about him which showed
that it was he who was Mr. Ochterlony of Earlston now.