While all this was going on at Earlston, there were other people in
whose minds, though the matter was not of importance so overwhelming,
pain and excitement and a trembling dread of the consequences had been
awakened. Mary, to whom it would be even more momentous than to Hugh,
knew nothing of it as yet. She had taken Mr. Penrose's letter into her
hand and looked at it, and hesitated, and then had smiled at her boy's
new position in the world, and redirected it to him, passing on as it
were a living shell just ready to explode without so much as scorching
her own delicate fingers. But Mrs. Kirkman felt herself in the position
of a woman who had seen the shell fired and had even touched the fatal
trigger, and did not know where it had fallen, nor what death and
destruction it might have scattered around. She was not like herself for
these two or three days. She gave a divided attention to her evangelical
efforts, and her mind wandered from the reports of her Bible readers.
She seemed to see the great mass of fire and flame striking the ground,
and the dead and wounded lying around it in all directions; and it might
be that she too was to blame. She bore it as long as she could, trying
to persuade herself that she, like Providence, had done it "for the
best," and that it might be for Mary's good or Hugh's good, even if it
should happen to kill them. This was how she attempted to support and
fortify herself; but while she was doing so Wilfrid's steady, matter of
fact countenance would come before her, and she would perceive by the
instinct of guilt, that he would neither hesitate nor spare, but was
clothed in the double armour of egotism and ignorance; that he did not
know what horrible harm he could do, and yet that he was sensible of his
power and would certainly exercise it. She was like the other people
involved--afraid to ask any one's advice, or betray the share she had
taken in the business; even her husband, had she spoken to him about it,
would probably have asked, what the deuce she had to do interfering? For
Colonel Kirkman though a man of very orthodox views, still was liable in
a moment of excitement to forget himself, and give force to his
sentiments by a mild oath. Mrs. Kirkman could not bear thus to descend
in the opinion of any one, and yet she could not satisfy her conscience
about it, nor be content with what she had done. She stood out bravely
for a few days, telling herself she had only done her duty; but the
composure she attained by this means was forced and unnatural. And at
last she could bear it no longer; she seemed to have heard the dreadful
report, and then to have seen everything relapse into the most deadly
silence; no cry coming out of the distance, nor indications if everybody
was perishing, or any one had escaped. If she had but heard one
outcry--if Hugh, poor fellow, had come storming to her to know the truth
of it, or Mary had come with her fresh wounds, crying out against her,
Mrs. Kirkman could have borne it; but the silence was more than she
could bear. Something within compelled her to get up out of her quiet
and go forth and ask who had been killed, even though she might bring
herself within the circle of responsibility thereby.
This was why, after she had put up with her anxiety as long as she
could, she went out at last by herself in a very disturbed and uneasy
state to the Cottage, where all was still peaceful, and no storm had yet
darkened the skies. Mary had received Hugh's letter that morning, which
he had written in the midst of his first misery, and it had never
occurred to her to think anything more about Uncle Penrose after the
calm mention her boy made of his letter. She had not heard from Will, it
is true, and was vexed by his silence; but yet it was a light vexation.
Mrs. Ochterlony, however, was not at home when Mrs. Kirkman arrived;
and, if anything could have increased her uneasiness and embarrassment
it would have been to be ushered into the drawing-room, and to find
Winnie seated there all by herself. Mrs. Percival rose in resentful
grandeur when she saw who the visitor was. Now was Winnie's chance to
repay that little demonstration of disapproval which the Colonel's wife
had made on her last visit to the Cottage. The two ladies made very
stately salutations to each other, and the stranger sat down, and then
there was a dead pause. "Let Mrs. Ochterlony know when she comes in,"
Winnie had said to the maid; and that was all she thought necessary to
say. Even Aunt Agatha was not near to break the violence of the
encounter. Mrs. Kirkman sat down in a very uncomfortable condition, full
of genuine anxiety; but it was not to be expected that her natural
impulses should entirely yield even to compunction and fright, and a
sense of guilt. When a few minutes of silence had elapsed, and Mary did
not appear, and Winnie sat opposite to her, wrapt up and gloomy, in her
shawl, and her haughtiest air of preoccupation, Mrs. Kirkman began to
come to herself. Here was a perishing sinner before her, to whom advice,
and reproof, and admonition, might be all important, and such a
favourable moment might never come again. The very sense of being rather
faulty in her own person gave her a certain stimulus to warn the
culpable creature, whose errors were so different, and so much more
flagrant than hers. And if in doing her duty, she had perhaps done
something that might harm one of the family, was it not all the more
desirable to do good to another? Mrs. Kirkman cleared her throat, and
looked at the culprit. And as she perceived Winnie's look of defiance,
and absorbed self-occupation, and determined opposition to anything
that might be advanced, a soft sense of superiority and pity stole into
her mind. Poor thing, that did not know the things that belonged to her
peace!--was it not a Christian act to bring them before her ere they
might be for ever hid from her eyes?
Once more Mrs. Kirkman cleared her throat. She did it with an intention;
and Winnie heard, and was roused, and fixed on her one corner of her
eye. But she only made a very mild commencement--employing in so
important a matter the wisdom of the serpent, conjoined, as it always
ought to be, with the sweetness of the dove.
"Mrs. Ochterlony is probably visiting among the poor," said Mrs.
Kirkman, but with a sceptical tone in her voice, as if that, at least,
was what Mary ought to be doing, though it was doubtful whether she was
so well employed.
"Probably," said Winnie, curtly; and then there was a pause.
"To one who occupies herself so much as she does with her family, there
must be much to do for three boys," continued Mrs. Kirkman, still with a
certain pathos in her voice. "Ah, if we did but give ourselves as much
trouble about our spiritual state!"
She waited for a reply, but Winnie gave no reply. She even gave a
slight, scarcely perceptible, shrug of her shoulders, and turned a
little aside.
"Which is, after all, the only thing that is of any importance," said
Mrs. Kirkman. "My dear Mrs. Percival, I do trust that you agree with
me?"
"I don't see why I should be your dear Mrs. Percival," said Winnie. "I
was not aware that we knew each other. I think you must be making a
mistake."
"All my fellow-creatures are dear to me," said Mrs. Kirkman, "especially
when I can hope that their hearts are open to grace. I can be making no
mistake so long as I am addressing a fellow-sinner. We have all so much
reason to abase ourselves, and repent in dust and ashes! Even when we
have been preserved more than others from active sin, we must know that
the root of all evil is in our hearts."
Winnie gave another very slight shrug of her shoulders, and turned away,
as far as a mingled impulse of defiance and politeness would let her.
She would neither be rude nor would she permit her assailant to think
that she was running away.
"If I venture to seize this moment, and speak to you more plainly than I
would speak to all, oh, my dear Mrs. Percival," cried Mrs. Kirkman, "my
dear fellow sinner! don't think it is because I am insensible to the
existence of the same evil tendency in my own heart."
"What do you mean by talking to me of evil tendencies?" cried Winnie,
flushing high. "I don't want to hear you speak. You may be a sinner if
you like, but I don't think there is any particular fellowship between
you and me."
"There is the fellowship of corrupt hearts," said Mrs. Kirkman. "I hope,
for your own sake, you will not refuse to listen for a moment. I may
never have been tempted in the same way, but I know too well the
deceitfulness of the natural heart to take any credit to myself. You
have been exposed to many temptations----"
"You know nothing about me, that I am aware," cried Winnie, with
restrained fury. "I do not know how you can venture to take such liberty
with me."
"Ah, my dear Mrs. Percival, I know a great deal about you," said Mrs.
Kirkman. "There is nothing I would not do to make a favourable
impression on your mind. If you would but treat me as a friend, and let
me be of some use to you: I know you must have had many temptations; but
we know also that it is never too late to turn away from evil, and that
with true repentance----"
"I suppose what you want is to drive me out of the room," said Winnie,
looking at her fiercely, with crimson cheeks. "What right have you to
lecture me? My sister's friends have a right to visit her, of course,
but not to make themselves disagreeable--and I don't mean my private
affairs to be discussed by Mary's friends. You have nothing to do with
me."
"I was not speaking as Mary's friend," said Mrs. Kirkman, with a passing
twinge of conscience. "I was speaking only as a fellow-sinner. Dear Mrs.
Percival, surely you recollect who it was that objected to be his
brother's keeper. It was Cain; it was not a loving Christian heart. Oh,
don't sin against opportunity, and refuse to hear me. The message I have
is one of mercy and love. Even if it were too late to redeem character
with the world, it is never too late to come to----"
Winnie started to her feet, goaded beyond bearing.
"How dare you! how dare you!" she said, clenching her hands,--but Mrs.
Kirkman's benevolent purpose was far too lofty and earnest to be put
down by any such demonstration of womanish fury.
"If it were to win you to think in time, to withdraw from the evil and
seek good, to come while it is called to-day," said the Evangelist, with
much stedfastness, "I would not mind even making you angry. I can dare
anything in my Master's service--oh, do not refuse the gracious message!
Oh, do not turn a deaf ear. You may have forfeited this world, but, oh
think of the next; as a Christian and a fellow-sinner----"
"Aunt Agatha!" cried Winnie, breathless with rage and shame, "do you
mean to let me be insulted in your house?"
Poor Aunt Agatha had just come in, and knew nothing about Mrs. Kirkman
and her visit. She stood at the door surprised, looking at Winnie's
excited face, and at the stranger's authoritative calm. She had been out
in the village, with a little basket in her hand, which never went
empty, and she also had been dropping words of admonition out of her
soft and tender lips.
"Insulted! My dear love, it must be some mistake," said Aunt Agatha. "We
are always very glad to see Mrs. Kirkman, as Mary's friend; but the
house is Mrs. Percival's house, being mine," Miss Seton added, with a
little dignified curtsey, thinking the visitor had been uncivil, as on a
former occasion. And then there was a pause, and Winnie sat down,
fortifying herself by the presence of the mild little woman who was her
protector. It was a strange reversal of positions, but yet that was how
it was. The passionate creature had now no other protector but Aunt
Agatha, and even while she felt herself assured and strengthened by her
presence, it gave her a pang to think it was so. Nobody but Aunt Agatha
to stand between her and impertinent intrusion--nobody to take her part
before the world. That was the moment when Winnie's heart melted, if it
ever did melt, for one pulsation and no more, towards her enemy, her
antagonist, her husband, who was not there to take advantage of the
momentary thaw.
"I am Mary's friend," said Mrs. Kirkman, sweetly; "and I am all your
friends. It was not only as Mary's friend I was speaking--it was out of
love for souls. Oh, my dear Miss Seton, I hope you are one of those who
think seriously of life. Help me to talk to your dear niece; help me to
tell her that there is still time. She has gone astray; perhaps she
never can retrieve herself for this world,--but this world is not
all,--and she is still in the land of the living, and in the place of
hope. Oh, if she would but give up her evil ways and flee! Oh, if she
would but remember that there is mercy for the vilest!"
Speaker and hearers were by this time wound up to such a pitch of
excitement, that it was impossible to go on. Mrs. Kirkman had tears in
her eyes--tears of real feeling; for she thought she was doing what she
ought to do; while Winnie blazed upon her with rage and defiance, and
poor Aunt Agatha stood up in horror and consternation between them,
horrified by the entire breach of all ordinary rules, and yet driven to
bay and roused to that natural defence of her own which makes the
weakest creature brave.
"My dear love, be composed," she said, trembling a little. "Mrs.
Kirkman, perhaps you don't know that you are speaking in a very
extraordinary way. We are all great sinners; but as for my dear niece,
Winnie---- My darling, perhaps if you were to go upstairs to your own
room, that would be best----"
"I have no intention of going to my own room," said Winnie. "The
question is, whether you will suffer me to be insulted here?"
"Oh, that there should be any thought of insult!" said Mrs. Kirkman,
shaking her head, and waving her long curls solemnly. "If anyone is to
leave the room, perhaps it should be me. If my warning is rejected, I
will shake off the dust of my feet, and go away, as commanded. But I did
hope better things. What motive have I but love of her poor soul? Oh, if
she would think while it is called to-day--while there is still a place
of repentance----"
"Winnie, my dear love," said Aunt Agatha, trembling more and more, "go
to your own room."
But Winnie did not move. It was not in her to run away. Now that she had
an audience to fortify her, she could sit and face her assailant, and
defy all attacks;--though at the same time her eyes and cheeks blazed,
and the thought that it was only Aunt Agatha whom she had to stand up
for her, filled her with furious contempt and bitterness. At length it
was Mrs. Kirkman who rose up with sad solemnity, and drew her silk robe
about her, and shook the dust, if there was any dust, not from her feet,
but from the fringes of her handsome shawl.
"I will ask the maid to show me up to Mary's room," she said, with
pathetic resignation. "I suppose I may wait for her there; and I hope it
may never be recorded against you that you have rejected a word of
Christian warning. Good-by, Miss Seton; I hope you will be faithful to
your poor dear niece yourself, though you will not permit me."
"We know our own affairs best," said Aunt Agatha, whose nerves were so
affected that she could scarcely keep up to what she considered a
correct standard of polite calm.
"Alas, I hope it may not prove to be just our own best interests that we
are most ignorant of," said Mrs. Kirkman, with a heavy sigh--and she
swept out of the room following the maid, who looked amazed and aghast
at the strange request. "Show me to Mrs. Ochterlony's room, and kindly
let her know when she comes in that I am there."
As for Winnie, she burst into an abrupt laugh when her monitress was
gone--a laugh which wounded Aunt Agatha, and jarred upon her excited
nerves. But there was little mirth in it. It was, in its way, a cry of
pain, and it was followed by a tempest of hot tears, which Miss Seton
took for hysterics. Poor Winnie! she was not penitent, nor moved by
anything that had been said to her, except to rage and a sharper sense
of pain. But yet, such an attack made her feel her position, as she did
not do when left to herself. She had no protector but Aunt Agatha. She
was open to all the assaults of well-meaning friends, and social critics
of every description. She was not placed above comment as a woman is who
keeps her troubles to herself--for she had taken the world in general
into her confidence, as it were, and opened their mouths, and subjected
herself voluntarily to their criticism. Winnie's heart seemed to close
up as she pondered this--and her life rose up before her, wilful and
warlike--and all at once it came into her head what her sister had said
to her long ago, and her own decision: were it for misery, were it for
ruin, rather to choose ruin and misery with _him_, than peace without
him? How strange it was to think of the change that time had made in
everything. She had been fighting him, and making him her chief
antagonist, almost ever since. And yet, down in the depths of her heart
poor Winnie remembered Mary's words, and felt with a curious pang, made
up of misery and sweetness, that even yet, even yet, under some
impossible combination of circumstances--this was what made her laugh,
and made her cry so bitterly--but Aunt Agatha, poor soul, could not
enter into her heart and see what she meant.
They were in this state of agitation when Mary came in, all unconscious
of any disturbance. And a further change arose in Winnie at sight of her
sister. Her tears dried up, but her eyes continued to blaze. "It is your
friend, Mrs. Kirkman, who has been paying us a visit," she said, in
answer to Mary's question; and it seemed to Mrs. Ochterlony that the
blame was transferred to her own shoulders, and that it was she who had
been doing something, and showing herself the general enemy.
"She is a horrid woman," said Aunt Agatha, hotly. "Mary, I wish you
would explain to her, that after what has happened it cannot give me
any pleasure to see her here. This is twice that she has insulted us.
You will mention that we are not--not used to it. It may do for the
soldiers' wives, poor things! but she has no right to come here."
"She must mean to call Mary to repentance, too," said Winnie. She had
been thinking, with a certain melting of heart, of what Mary had once
said to her; yet she could not refrain from flinging a dart at her
sister ere she returned to think about herself.
At this time, Mrs. Kirkman was seated in Mary's room, waiting. Her
little encounter had restored her to herself. She had come back to her
lofty position of superiority and goodness. She would have said herself
that she had carried the Gospel message to that poor sinner, and that it
had been rejected; and there was a certain satisfaction of woe in her
heart. It was necessary that she should do her duty to Mary also, about
whom, when she started, she had been rather compunctious. There is
nothing more strange than the processes of thought by which a limited
understanding comes to grow into content with itself, and approval of
its own actions. It seemed to this good woman's straitened soul that she
had been right, almost more than right, in seizing upon the opportunity
presented to her, and making an appeal to a sinner's perverse heart. And
she thought it would be right to point out to Mary, how any trouble that
might be about to overwhelm her was for her good, and that she herself
had, like Providence, acted for the best. She looked about the room with
actual curiosity, and shook her head at the sight of the Major's sword,
hanging over the mantel-piece, and the portraits of the three boys
underneath. She shook her head, and thought of creature-worship, and how
some stroke was needed to wean Mrs. Ochterlony's heart from its
inordinate affections. "It will keep her from trusting to a creature,"
she said to herself, and by degrees came to look complacently on her own
position, and to settle how she should tell the tale to be also for the
best. It never occurred to her to think what poor hands hers were to
meddle with the threads of fate, or to decide which or what calamity was
"for the best." Nor did any consideration of the mystery of pain disturb
her mind. She saw no complications in it. Your dearest ties--your
highest assurances of good--were but "blessings lent us for a day," and
it seemed only natural to Mrs. Kirkman that such blessings should be
yielded up in a reasonable way. She herself had neither had nor
relinquished any particular blessings. Colonel Kirkman was very good in
a general way, and very correct in his theological sentiments; but he
was a very steady and substantial possession, and did not suggest any
idea of being lent for a day--and his wife felt that she herself was
fortunately beyond that necessity, but that it would be for Mary's good
if she had another lesson on the vanity of earthly endowments. And thus
she sat, feeling rather comfortable about it, and too sadly superior to
be offended by her agitation downstairs, in Mrs. Ochterlony's room.
Mary went in with her face brightened by her walk, a little soft anxiety
(perhaps) in her eyes, or at least curiosity,--a little indignation, and
yet the faintest touch of amusement about her mouth. She went in and
shut the door, leaving her sister Aunt Agatha below, moved by what they
supposed to be a much deeper emotion. Nobody in the house so much as
dreamt that anything of any importance was going on there. There was not
a sound as of a raised voice or agitated utterance as there had been
when Mrs. Kirkman made her appeal to Winnie. But when the door of Mrs.
Ochterlony's room opened again, and Mary appeared, showing her visitor
out, her countenance was changed, as if by half-a-dozen years. She
followed her visitor downstairs, and opened the door for her, and looked
after her as she went away, but not the ghost of a smile came upon
Mary's face. She did not offer her hand, nor say a word at parting that
any one could hear. Her lips were compressed, without smile or syllable
to move them, and closed as if they never would open again, and every
drop of blood seemed to be gone from her face. When Mrs. Kirkman went
away from the door, Mary closed it, and went back again to her own room.
She did not say a word, nor look as if she had anything to say. She went
to her wardrobe and took out a bag, and put some things into it, and
then she tied on her bonnet, everything being done as if she had planned
it all for years. When she was quite ready, she went downstairs and went
to the drawing-room, where Winnie, agitated and disturbed, sat talking,
saying a hundred wild things, of which Aunt Agatha knew but half the
meaning. When Mary looked in at the door, the two who were there,
started, and stared at her with amazed eyes. "What has happened, Mary?"
cried Aunt Agatha; and though she was beginning to resume her lost
tranquillity, she was so scared by Mrs. Ochterlony's face that she had a
palpitation which took away her breath, and made her sink down panting
and lay her hands upon her heart. Mary, for her part, was perfectly
composed and in possession of her senses. She made no fuss at all, nor
complaint,--but nothing could conceal the change, nor alter the
wonderful look in her eyes.
"I am going to Liverpool," she said, "I must see Will immediately, and I
want to go by the next train. There is nothing the matter with him. It
is only something I have just heard, and I must see him without loss of
time."
"What is it, Mary?" gasped Aunt Agatha. "You have heard something
dreadful. Are any of the boys mixed up in it? Oh, say something, and
don't look in that dreadful fixed way."
"Am I looking in a dreadful fixed way?" said Mary, with a faint smile.
"I did not mean it. No there is nothing the matter with any of the boys.
But I have heard something that has disturbed me, and I must see Will.
If Hugh should come while I am away----"
But here her strength broke down. A choking sob came from her breast.
She seemed on the point of breaking out into some wild cry for help or
comfort; but it was only a spasm, and it passed. Then she came to Aunt
Agatha and kissed her. "Good-bye; if either of the boys come, keep them
till I come back," she said. She had looked so fair and so strong in the
composure of her middle age when she stood there only an hour before,
that the strange despair which seemed to have taken possession of her,
had all the more wonderful effect. It woke even Winnie from her
preoccupation, and they both came round her, wondering and disquieted,
to know what was the matter. "Something must have happened to Will,"
said Aunt Agatha.
"It is that woman who has brought her bad news," cried Winnie; and then
both together they cried out, "What is it, Mary? have you bad news?"
"Nothing that I have not known for years," said Mrs. Ochterlony, and she
kissed them both, as if she was kissing them for the last time, and
disengaged herself, and turned away. "I cannot wait to tell you any
more," they heard her say as she went to the door; and there they stood,
looking at each other, conscious more by some change in the atmosphere
than by mere eyesight, that she was gone. She had no time to speak or to
look behind her; and when Aunt Agatha rushed to the window, she saw Mary
far off on the road, going steady and swift with her bag in her hand. In
the midst of her anxiety and suspicion, Miss Seton even felt a pang at
the sight of the bag in Mary's hand. "As if there was no one to carry it
for her!" The two who were left behind could but look at each other,
feeling somehow a sense of shame, and instinctive consciousness that
this new change, whatever it was, involved trouble far more profound
than the miseries over which they had been brooding. Something that she
had known for years! What was there in these quiet words which made
Winnie's veins tingle, and the blood rush to her face? All these quiet
years was it possible that a cloud had ever been hovering which Mary
knew of, and yet held her way so steadily? As for Aunt Agatha, she was
only perplexed and agitated, and full of wonder, making every kind of
suggestion. Will might have broken his leg--he might have got into
trouble with his uncle. It might be something about Islay. Oh! Winnie,
my darling, what do you think it can be? Something that she had known
for years!
This was what it really was. It seemed to Mary as if for years and years
she had known all about it; how it would get to be told to her poor boy;
how it would act upon his strange half-developed nature; how Mrs.
Kirkman would tell her of it, and the things she would put into her
travelling bag, and the very hour the train would leave. It was a
miserably slow train, stopping everywhere, waiting at a dreary junction
for several trains in the first chill of night. But she seemed to have
known it all, and to have felt the same dreary wind blow, and the cold
creeping to the heart, and to be used and deadened to it. Why is it that
one feels so cold when one's heart is bleeding and wounded? It seemed to
go in through the physical covering, which shrinks at such moments from
the sharp and sensitive soul, and to thrill her with a shiver as of ice
and snow. She passed Mrs. Kirkman on the way, but could not take any
notice of her, and she put down her veil and drew her shawl closely
about her, and sat in a corner that she might escape recognition. But it
was hard upon her that the train should be so slow, though that too she
seemed to have known for years.
Thus the cross of which she had partially and by moments tasted the
bitterness for so long, was laid at last full upon Mary's shoulders. She
went carrying it, marking her way, as it were, by blood-drops which
answered for tears, to do what might be done, that nobody but herself
might suffer. For one thing, she did not lose a moment. If Will had been
ill, or if he had been in any danger, she would have done the same. She
was a woman who had no need to wait to make up her mind. And perhaps she
might not be too late, perhaps her boy meant no evil. He was her boy,
and it was hard to associate evil or unkindness with him. Poor Will!
perhaps he had but gone away because he could not bear to see his mother
fallen from her high estate. Then it was that a flush of fiery colour
came to Mary's face, but it was only for a moment; things had gone too
far for that. She sat at the junction waiting, and the cold wind blew in
upon her, and pierced to her heart--and it was nothing that she had not
known for years.