It was not likely that Will, who had speculated so much on the family
history, should remain unmoved by all these changes. His intellect was
very lively, and well developed, and his conscience was to a great
extent dormant. If he had been in the way of seeing, or being tempted
into actual vices, no doubt the lad's education would have served him in
better stead, and his moral sense would have been awakened. But he had
been injured in his finer moral perceptions by a very common and very
unsuspected agency. He had been in the way of hearing very small
offences indeed made into sins. Aunt Agatha had been almost as hard upon
him forgetting a text as if he had told a lie--and his tutor, the
curate, had treated a false quantity, or a failure of memory, as a moral
offence. That was in days long past, and it was Wilfrid now who found
out his curate in false quantities, and scorned him accordingly; and who
had discovered that Aunt Agatha herself, if she remembered the text,
knew very little about it. This system of making sins out of trifles had
passed quite harmlessly over Hugh and Islay; but Wilfrid's was the
exceptional mind to which it did serious harm. And the more he
discovered that the sins of his childhood were not sins, the more
confused did his mind become, and the more dull his conscience, as to
those sins of thought and feeling, which were the only ones at present
into which he was tempted. What had any one to do with the complexion of
his thoughts? If he felt one way or another, what matter was it to any
one but himself? Other people might dissemble and take credit for the
emotions approved of by public opinion, but he would be true and
genuine. And accordingly he did not see why he should pretend to be
pleased at Hugh's advancement. He was not pleased. He said to himself
that it went against all the rules of natural justice. Hugh was no
better than he; on the contrary, he was less clever, less capable of
mental exertion, which, so far as Will knew, was the only standard of
superiority; and yet he was Mr. Ochterlony of Earlston, with a house and
estate, with affairs to manage, and tenants to influence, and the Psyche
and the Venus to do what he liked with: whereas Will was nobody, and was
to have two thousand pounds for all his inheritance. He had been
talking, too, a great deal to Mr. Penrose, and that had not done him any
good; for Uncle Penrose's view was that nothing should stand in the way
of acquiring money or other wealth--nothing but the actual law. To do
anything dishonest, that could be punished, was of course pure
insanity--not to say crime; but to let any sort of false honour, or
pride, or delicacy stand between you and the acquisition of money was
almost as great insanity, according to his ideas. "Go into business and
keep at it, and you may buy him up--him and his beggarly estate"--had
been Uncle Penrose's generous suggestion; and it was a good deal in
Wilfrid's mind. To be sure it was quite opposed to the intellectual
tendency which led him to quite a different class of pursuits. But what
was chiefly before him in the meantime was Hugh, preferred to so much
distinction, and honour, and glory; and yet if the truth were known, a
very stupid fellow in comparison with himself--Will. And it was not only
that he was Mr. Ochterlony of Earlston. He was first with everybody. Sir
Edward, who took but little notice of Will, actually consulted Hugh, and
he was the first to be thought of in any question that occurred in the
Cottage; and, what went deepest of all, Nelly--Nelly Askell whom Will
had appropriated, not as his love, for his mind had not as yet opened to
that idea, but as his sympathizer-in-chief--the listener to all his
complaints and speculations--his audience whom nobody had any right to
take from him--Nelly had gone over to his brother's side. And the idea
of going into business, even at the cost of abandoning all his favourite
studies, and sticking close to it, and buying him up--him and his
beggarly estate--was a good deal at this moment in Wilfrid's thoughts.
Even the new-comer, Winnie, who might if she pleased have won him to
herself, had preferred Hugh. So that he was alone on his side, and
everybody was on his brother's--a position which often confuses right
and wrong, even to minds least set upon their own will and way.
He was sauntering on Kirtell banks a few days after the visit above
recorded, in an unusually uncomfortable state of mind. Mrs. Askell had
felt great compunction about her share in that event, and she had sent
Nelly, who was known to be a favourite at the cottage, with a very
anxious letter, assuring her dear Madonna that it was not her fault.
Mary had not received the letter with much favour, but she had welcomed
Nelly warmly; and Hugh had found means to occupy her attention; and
Will, who saw no place for him, had wandered out, slightly sulky, to
Kirtell-side. He was free to come and go as he liked. Nobody there had
any particular need of him; and a solitary walk is not a particularly
enlivening performance when one has left an entire household occupied
and animated behind. As he wound his way down the bank he saw another
passenger on the road before him, who was not of a description of man
much known on Kirtell-side. It seemed to Will that he had seen this
figure somewhere before. It must be one of the regiment, one of the
gentlemen of whom the Cottage was a little jealous, and who were thought
to seek occasions of visiting Kirtell oftener than politeness required.
As Will went on, however, he saw that the stranger was somebody whom he
had never seen before, and curiosity was a lively faculty in him, and
readily awakened. Neither was the unknown indifferent to Will's
appearance or approach; on the contrary, he turned round at the sound of
the youth's step and scrutinized him closely, and lingered that he might
be overtaken. He was tall, and a handsome man, still young, and with an
air which only much traffic with the world confers. No man could have
got that look and aspect who had lived all his life on Kirtell; and even
Will, inexperienced as he was, could recognise this. It did not occur to
him, quick as his intellect was at putting things together, who it was;
but a little expectation awoke in his mind as he quickened his steps to
overtake the stranger, who was clearly waiting to be overtaken.
"I beg your pardon," he said, as soon as Wilfrid had come up to him;
"are you young Ochterlony? I mean, one of the young Ochterlonys?"
"No," said Will, "and yet yes; I am not young Ochterlony, but I am one
of the young Ochterlonys, as you say."
Upon this his new companion gave a keen look at him, as if discerning
some meaning under the words.
"I thought so," he said; "and I am Major Percival, whom you may have
heard of. It is a queer question, but I suppose there is no doubt that
my wife is up there?"
He gave a little jerk with his hand as he spoke in the direction of the
Cottage. He was standing on the very same spot where he had seen Winnie
coming to him the day they first pledged their troth; and though he was
far from being a good man, he remembered it, having still a certain love
for his wife, and the thought gave bitterness to his tone.
"Yes, she is there," said Will.
"Then I will thank you to come back with me," said Percival. "I don't
want to go and send in my name, like a stranger. Take me in by the
garden, where you enter by the window. I suppose nobody can have any
objection to my seeing my wife: your aunt, perhaps, or your mother?"
"Perhaps _she_ does not wish to see you," said Will.
The stranger laughed.
"It is a pleasant suggestion," he said; "but at least you cannot object
to admit me, and let me try."
Wilfrid might have hesitated if he had been more fully contented with
everybody belonging to him; but, to tell the truth, he knew no reason
why Winnie's husband should not see her. He had not been sufficiently
interested to wish to fathom the secret, and he had accepted, not caring
much about it, Aunt Agatha's oft-repeated declaration, that their
visitor had arrived so suddenly to give her "a delightful surprise."
Wilfrid did not care much about the matter, and he made no inquiries
into it. He turned accordingly with the new-comer, not displeased to be
the first of the house to make acquaintance with him. Percival had all a
man's advantage over his wife in respect to wear and tear. She had lost
her youth, her freshness, and all that gave its chief charm to her
beauty, but he had lost very little in outward appearance. Poor Winnie's
dissipations were the mildest pleasures in comparison with his, and yet
he had kept even his youth, while hers was gone for ever. And he had not
the air of a bad man--perhaps he was not actually a bad man. He did
whatever he liked without acknowledging any particular restraint of
duty, or truth, or even honour, except the limited standard of honour
current among men of his class--but he had no distinct intention of
being wicked; and he was, beyond dispute, a little touched by seeing, as
he had just done, the scene of that meeting which had decided Winnie's
fate. He went up the bank considerably softened, and disposed to be very
kind. It was he who had been in the wrong in their last desperate
struggle, and he found it easy to forgive himself; and Aunt Agatha's
garden, and the paths, and flower-pots he remembered so well, softened
him more and more. If he had gone straight in, and nothing had happened,
he would have kissed his wife in the most amiable way, and forgiven
her, and been in perfect amity with everybody--but this was not how it
was to be.
Winnie was sitting as usual, unoccupied, indoors. As she was not doing
anything her eyes were free to wander further than if they had been more
particularly engaged, and at that moment, as it happened, they were
turned in the direction of the window from which she had so often
watched Sir Edward's light. All at once she started to her feet. It was
what she had looked for from the first; what, perhaps, in the stagnation
of the household quiet here she had longed for. High among the roses and
waving honeysuckles she caught a momentary glimpse of a head which she
could have recognised at any distance. At that sight all the excitement
of the interrupted struggle rushed back into her heart. A pang of fierce
joy, and hatred, and opposition moved her. There he stood who had done
her so much wrong; who had trampled on all her feelings and insulted
her, and yet pretended to love her, and dared to seek her. Winnie did
not say anything to her companions; indeed she was too much engrossed at
the moment to remember that she had any companions. She turned and fled
without a word, disappearing swiftly, noiselessly, in an instant, as
people have a gift of doing when much excited. She was shut up in her
room, with her door locked, before any one knew she had stirred. It is
true he was not likely to come upstairs and assail her by force; but she
did not think of that. She locked her door and sat down, with her heart
beating, and her breath coming quick, expecting, hoping--she would
herself have said fearing--an attack.
Winnie thought it was a long time before Aunt Agatha came, softly,
tremulously, to her door, but in reality it was but a few minutes. He
had come in, and had taken matters with a high hand, and had demanded to
see his wife. "He will think it is we who are keeping you away from him.
He will not believe you do not want to come," said poor Aunt Agatha, at
the door.
"Nothing shall induce me to see him," said Winnie, admitting her. "I
told you so: nothing in the world--not if he were to go down on his
knees--not if he were----"
"My dear love, I don't think he means to go down on his knees," said
Aunt Agatha, anxiously. "He does not think he is in the wrong. Oh,
Winnie, my darling!--if it was only for the sake of other people--to
keep them from talking, you know----"
"Aunt Agatha, you are mistaken if you think I care," said Winnie. "As
for Mary's friends, they are old-fashioned idiots. They think a woman
should shut herself up like an Eastern slave when her husband is not
there. I have done nothing to be ashamed of. And he--Oh, if you knew how
he had insulted me!--Oh, if you only knew! I tell you I will not consent
to see him, for nothing in this world."
Winnie was a different woman as she spoke. She was no longer the worn
and faded creature she had been. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks
glowing. It was a clouded and worn magnificence, but still it was a
return to her old splendour.
"Oh, Winnie, my dear love, you are fond of him in spite of all," said
Aunt Agatha. "It will all come right, my darling, yet. You are fond of
each other in spite of all."
"You don't know what you say," said Winnie, in a blaze of
indignation.--"Fond of him!--if you could but know! Tell him to think of
how we parted. Tell him I will never more trust myself near him again."
It was with this decision, immovable and often repeated, that Miss Seton
at last returned to her undesired guest. But she sent for Mary to come
and speak to her before she went into the drawing-room. Aunt Agatha was
full of schemes and anxious desires. She could not make people do what
was right, but if she could so plot and manage appearances as that they
should seem to do what was right, surely that was better than nothing.
She sent for Mrs. Ochterlony into the dining-room, and she began to take
out the best silver, and arrange the green finger-glasses, to lose no
time.
"What is the use of telling all the world of our domestic troubles?"
said Aunt Agatha. "My dear, though Winnie will not see him, would it not
be better to keep him to dinner, and show that we are friendly with him
all the same? So long as he is with us, nobody is to know that Winnie
keeps in her own room. After the way these people behaved to the poor
dear child----"
"They were very foolish and ill-bred," said Mary; "but it was because
she had herself been foolish, not because she was away from her husband:
and I don't like him to be with my boys."
"But for your dear sister's sake! Oh, Mary, my love, for Winnie's sake!"
said Aunt Agatha; and Mary yielded, though she saw no benefit in it. It
was her part to go back into the drawing-room, and make the best of
Winnie's resistance, and convey the invitation to this unlooked-for
guest, while Aunt Agatha looked after the dinner, and impressed upon
Peggy that perhaps Major Percival might not be able to stay long; and
was it not sad that the very day her husband came to see her, Mrs.
Percival should have such a very bad headache? "She is lying down, poor
dear, in hopes of being able to sit up a little in the evening," said
the anxious but innocent deceiver--doubly innocent since she deceived
nobody, not even the housemaid, far less Peggy. As for Major Percival,
he was angry and excited, as Winnie was, but not to an equal extent. He
did not believe in his wife's resistance. He sat down in the familiar
room, and expected every moment to see Winnie rush down in her impulsive
way, and throw herself into his arms. Their struggles had not terminated
in this satisfactory way of late, but still she had gone very far in
leaving him, and he had gone very far in condescending to come to seek
her; and there seemed no reason why the monster quarrel should not end
in a monster reconciliation, and all go on as before.
But it was bad policy to leave him with Mary. The old instinctive
dislike that had existed between them from the first woke up again
unawares. Mrs. Ochterlony could not conceal the fact that she took no
pleasure in his society, and had no faith in him. She stayed in the room
because she could not help it, but she did not pretend to be cordial.
When he addressed himself to Will, and took the boy into his confidence,
and spoke to him as to another man of the world, he could see, and was
pleased to see, the contraction in Mary's forehead. In this one point
she was afraid of him, or at least he thought so. Winnie stayed upstairs
with the door locked, watching to see him go away; and Hugh, to whom
Winnie had been perhaps more confidential than to any one else in the
house, went out and in, in displeasure ill-concealed, avoiding all
intercourse with the stranger. And Mary sat on thorns, bearing him
unwilling company, and Nelly watched and marvelled. Poor Aunt Agatha all
the time arranged her best silver, and filled the old-fashioned épergne
with flowers, thinking she was doing the very best for her child, saving
her reputation, and leaving the way open for a reconciliation between
her and her husband, and utterly unconscious of any other harm that
could befall.
When the dinner-hour arrived, however (which was five o'clock, an hour
which Aunt Agatha thought a good medium between the early and the late),
Major Percival's brow was very cloudy. He had waited and listened, and
Winnie had not come, and now, when they sat down at table, she was still
invisible. "Does not my wife mean to favour us with her company?" he
asked, insolently, incredulous after all that she could persevere so
long, and expecting to hear that she was only "late as usual;" upon
which Aunt Agatha looked at Mary with anxious beseeching eyes.
"My sister is not coming down to-day," said Mary, with hesitation, "at
least I believe----"
"Oh, my dear love, you know it is only because she has one of her bad
headaches!" Aunt Agatha added, precipitately, with tears of entreaty in
her eyes.
Percival looked at them both, and he thought he understood it all. It
was Mary who was abetting her sister in her rebellion, encouraging her
to defy him. It was she who was resisting Miss Seton's well-meant
efforts to bring them together. He saw it all as plain, or thought he
saw it, as if he had heard her tactics determined upon. He had let her
alone, and restrained his natural impulse to injure the woman he
disliked, but now she had set herself in his way, and let her look to
it. This dinner, which poor Aunt Agatha had brought about against
everybody's will, was as uncomfortable a meal as could be imagined. She
was miserable herself, dreading every moment that he might burst out
into a torrent of rage against Winnie before "the servants," or that
Winnie's bell would ring violently and she would send a message--so rash
and inconsiderate as she was--to know when Major Percival was going
away. And nobody did anything to help her out of it. Mary sat at the
foot of the table as stately as a queen, showing the guest only such
attentions as were absolutely necessary. Hugh, except when he talked to
Nelly, who sat beside him, was as disagreeable as a young man who
particularly desires to be disagreeable and feels that his wishes have
not been consulted, can be. And as for the guest himself, his
countenance was black as night. It was a heavy price to pay for the
gratification of saying to everybody that Winnie's husband had come to
see her, and had spent the day at the Cottage. But then Aunt Agatha had
not the remotest idea that beyond the annoyance of the moment it
possibly could do any harm.
It was dreadful to leave him with the boys after dinner, who
probably--or at least Hugh--might not be so civil as was to be wished;
but still more dreadful ten minutes after to hear Hugh's voice with
Nelly in the garden. Why had he left his guest?
"He left me," said Hugh. "He went out under the verandah to smoke his
cigar. I don't deny I was very glad to get away."
"But I am sure, Hugh, you are very fond of smoking cigars," said Aunt
Agatha, in her anxiety and fright.
"Not always," Hugh answered, "nor under all circumstances." And he
laughed and coloured a little, and looked at Nelly by his side, who
blushed too.
"So there is nobody with him but Will?" said Aunt Agatha with dismay, as
she went in to where Mary was sitting; and the news was still more
painful to Mary. Will was the only member of the family who was really
civil to the stranger, except Aunt Agatha, whose anxiety was plainly
written in her countenance. He was sitting now under the verandah which
shaded the dining-room windows, quite at the other side of the house,
smoking his cigar, and Will sat dutifully and not unwillingly by,
listening to his talk. It was a new kind of talk to Will--the talk of a
man _blasé_ yet incapable of existing out of the world of which he was
sick--a man who did not pretend to be a good man, nor even possessed of
principles. Perhaps the parish of Kirtell in general would not have
thought it very edifying talk.
"It is he who has come into the property, I suppose," said Percival,
pointing lazily with his cigar towards the other end of the garden,
where Hugh was visible far off with Nelly. "Get on well with him, eh? I
should say not if the question was asked of me?"
"Oh yes, well enough," said Will, in momentary confusion, and with a
clouding of his brows. "There is nothing wrong with _him_. It's the
system of the eldest sons that is wrong. I have nothing to say against
Hugh."
"By Jove," said Percival, "the difficulty is to find out which is
anybody's eldest son. I never find fault with systems, for my part."
"Oh, about that there can't be any doubt," said Will; "he is six years
older than I am. I am only the youngest; though I don't see what it
matters to a man, for my part, being born in '32 or '38."
"Sometimes it makes a great deal of difference," said Percival; and then
he paused: for a man, even when he is pushed on by malice and hate and
all uncharitableness, may hesitate before he throws a firebrand into an
innocent peaceful house. However, after his pause he resumed, making a
new start as it were, and doing it deliberately, "sometimes it may make
a difference to a man whether he was born in '37 or '38. You were born
in '38 were you? Ah! I ought to recollect."
"Why ought _you_ to recollect?" asked Will, startled by the meaning of
his companion's face.
"I was present at a ceremony that took place about then," said Percival;
"a curious sort of story. I'll tell it you some time. How is the
property left, do you know? Is it to him in particular as being the
favourite, and that sort of thing?--or is it simply to the eldest son?"
"Simply to the eldest son," said Will, more and more surprised.
Percival gave such a whistle as Uncle Penrose had given when he heard of
the museum, and nodded his head repeatedly. "It would be good fun to
turn the tables," he said, as if he were making a remark to himself.
"How could you turn the tables? What do you mean? What do you know about
it?" cried Will, who by this time was getting excited. Hugh came within
his line of vision now and then, with Nelly--always with Nelly. It was
only the younger brother, the inferior member of the household, who was
left with the unwelcome guest. If any one could turn the tables! And
again he said, almost fiercely, "What do you mean?"
"It is very easy to tell you what I mean; and I wonder what your opinion
will be of systems then?" said Percival. "By Jove! it's an odd position,
and I don't envy you. You think you're the youngest, and you were born
as you say in '38."
"Good heavens! what is that to do with it?" cried Wilfrid. "Of course I
was born in '38. Tell me what you mean."
"Well, then, I'll tell you what I mean," said Percival, tossing away the
end of his cigar, "and plainly too. That fellow there, who gives himself
such airs, is no more the eldest son than I am. The property belongs to
_you_."