Will had seen his mother arrive. He was coming downstairs at the moment,
and he heard her voice, and could hear her say, "Tell him it is his
mother," and fright had seized him. If only three days could have been
abrogated, and he could have gone to her in his old careless way, to
demand an account of why she had come!--but there stood up before him a
ghost of what he had been doing--a ghost of uncomprehended harm and
mischief, which now for the first time showed to him, not in its real
light, but still with an importance it had never taken before. If it had
been hard to tell her of the discovery he had made before he left the
Cottage, it was twenty times harder now, when he had discussed it with
other people, and taken practical steps about it. He went out hurriedly,
and with a sense of stealth and panic. And the panic and the stealth
were signs to him of something wrong. He had not seen it, and did not
see it yet, as regarded the original question. He knew in his heart that
there was no favouritism in Mrs. Ochterlony's mind, and that he was just
the same to her as Hugh--and what could it matter which of her sons had
Earlston?--But still, nature was stronger in him than reason, and he was
ashamed and afraid to meet her, though he did not know why. He hurried
out, and said to himself that she was "angry," and that he could not
stay in all day long to be scolded. He would go back to luncheon, and
that would be time enough. And then he began to imagine what she would
say to him. But that was not so easy. What could she say? After all, he
had done no harm. He had but intimated to Hugh, in the quietest way,
that he had no right to the position he was occupying. He had made no
disturbance about it, nor upbraided his brother for what was not his
brother's fault. And so far from blaming his mother, it had not occurred
to him to consider her in the matter, except in the most secondary way.
What could it matter to her? If Will had it, or if Hugh had it, it was
still in the family. And the simple transfer was nothing to make any
fuss about. This was how he reasoned; but Nature held a different
opinion upon the subject. She had not a word to say, nor any distinct
suggestion even, of guiltiness or wrong-doing to present to his mind.
She only carried him away out of the house, made him shrink aside till
Mary had passed, and made him walk at the top of his speed out of the
very district in which Mr. Penrose's house was situated. Because his
mother would be "angry"--because she might find fault with him for going
away or insist upon his return, or infringe his liberty. Was that why he
fled from her?--But Will could not tell--he fled because he was driven
by an internal consciousness which could not find expression so much as
in thought. He went away and wandered about the streets, thinking that
now he was almost a man, and ought to be left to direct his own actions;
that to come after him like this was an injury to him which he had a
right to resent. It was treating him as Hugh and Islay had never been
treated. When he laid himself out for these ideas they came to him one
by one, and at last he succeeded in feeling himself a little ill-used;
but in his heart he knew that he did not mean that, and that Mrs.
Ochterlony did not mean it, and that there was something else which
stood between them, though he could not tell what it was.
All this time he contemplated going in facing his mother, and being
surprised to see her, and putting up with her anger as he best could.
But when midday came, he felt less willing than ever. His reluctance
grew upon him. If it had all come simply, if he had rushed into her
presence unawares, then he could have borne it; but to go back on
purpose, to be ushered in to her solemnly, and to meet her when her
wrath had accumulated and she had prepared what to say--this was an
ordeal which Will felt he could not bear. She had grown terrible to him,
appalling, like the angel with the flaming sword. His conscience arrayed
her in such effulgence of wrath and scorn, that his very soul shrank.
She would be angry beyond measure. It was impossible to fancy what she
might say or do; and he could not go in and face her in cold blood.
Therefore, instead of going home, Will went down hastily to his uncle's
office, and explained to him the position of affairs. "You go and speak
to her," said Will, with a feeling that it was his accomplice he was
addressing, and yet a pang to think that he had himself gone over to the
enemy, and was not on his natural side; "I am not up to seeing her
to-night."
"Poor Mary," said Uncle Penrose, "I should not be surprised to find her
in a sad way; but you ought to mind your own business, and it is not I
who am to be blamed, but you."
"She will not blame you," said Will; "she will be civil to you. She will
not look at you as she would look at me. When she is vexed she gives a
fellow such a look. And I'm tired, and I can't face her to-day."
"It is mail-day, and I shall be late, and she will have a nice time of
it all by herself," said Mr. Penrose; but he consented at the end. And
as for Will, he wandered down to the quays, and got into a steam-boat,
and went off in the midst of a holiday party up the busy river. He used
to remember the airs that were played on the occasion by the blind
fiddler in the boat, and could never listen to them afterwards without
the strangest sensations. He felt somehow as if he were in hiding, and
the people were pointing him out to each other, and had a sort of vague
wonder in his mind as to what they could think he had done--robbed or
killed, or something--when the fact was he was only killing the time,
and keeping out of the way because his mother was angry, and he did not
feel able to face her and return home. And very forlorn the poor boy
was; he had not eaten anything, and he did not know what to get for
himself to eat, and the host of holiday people filled up all the vacant
spaces in the inn they were all bound for, where there were pretty
gardens looking on the river. Will was young and alone, and not much in
the way of thrusting himself forward, and it was hard to get any one to
attend to him, or a seat to sit upon, or anything to eat; and his
forlorn sense of discomfort and solitude pressed as hard upon him as
remorse could have done. And he knew that he must manage to make the
time pass on somehow, and that he could not return until he could feel
himself justified in hoping that his mother, tired with her journey, had
gone to rest. Not till he felt confident of getting in unobserved, could
he venture to go home.
This was how it happened that Mr. Penrose went in alone, and that all
the mists suddenly cleared up for Mary, and she saw that she had harder
work before her than anything that had yet entered into her mind. He
drew a chair beside her, and shook hands, and said he was very glad to
see her, and then a pause ensued so serious and significant, that Mary
felt herself judged and condemned; and felt, in spite of herself, that
the hot blood was rushing to her face. It seemed to her as she sat
there, as if all the solid ground had suddenly been cut away from under
her, that her plea was utterly ignored and the whole affair decided
upon; and only to see Uncle Penrose's meekly averted face made her head
swim and her heart beat with a kind of half-delirious rage and
resentment. He believed it then--knew all about it, and believed it, and
recognised that it was a fallen woman by whose side he sat. All this
Mrs. Ochterlony perceived in an instant by the downcast, conscious
glance of Mr. Penrose's eye.
"Will has been out all day, has he?" he said. "Gone sight-seeing, I
suppose. He ought to be in to dinner. I hope you had a comfortable
luncheon, and have been taken care of. It is mail-day, that is why I am
so late."
"But I am anxious, very anxious, about Will," said Mary. "I thought you
would know where he was. He is only a country boy, and something may
happen to him in these dreadful streets."
"Oh no, nothing has happened to him," said Uncle Penrose, "you shall see
him later. I am very glad you have come, for I wanted to have a little
talk with you. You will always be quite welcome here, whatever may
happen. If the girls had been at home, indeed, it might have been
different--but whenever you like to come you know---- I am very glad
that we can talk it all over. It is so much the most satisfactory way."
"Talk what over?" said Mary. "Thank you, uncle, but it was Will I was
anxious to see."
"Yes, to be sure--naturally," said Mr. Penrose; "but don't let us go
into anything exciting before dinner. The gong will sound in ten
minutes, and I must put myself in order. We can talk in the evening, and
that will be much the best."
With this he went and left her, to make the very small amount of
toilette he considered necessary. And then came the dinner, during which
Mr. Penrose was very particular, as he said, to omit all allusion to
disagreeable subjects. Mary had to take her place at table, and to look
across at the vacant chair that had been placed for Will, and to feel
the whole weight of her uncle's changed opinion, without any opportunity
of rising up against it. She could not say a word in self-defence, for
she was in no way assailed; but she never raised her eyes to him, nor
listened to half-a-dozen words, without feeling that Mr. Penrose had in
his own consciousness found her out. He was not going to shut his doors
against her, or to recommend any cruel step. But her character was
changed in his eyes. A sense that he was no longer particular as to what
he said or did before her, no longer influenced by her presence, or
elevated ever so little by her companionship as he had always been of
old, came with terrible effect upon Mary's mind. He was careless of what
he said, and of her feelings, and of his own manners. She was a woman
who had compromised herself, who had no longer much claim to respect, in
Uncle Penrose's opinion. This feeling, which was, as it were, in the
air, affected Mary in the strangest way. It made her feel nearly mad in
her extreme suppression and quietness. She could not stand on her own
defence, for she was not assailed. And Will who should have stood by
her, had gone over to the enemy's side, and deserted her, and kept away.
Where was he? where could he have gone? Her boy--her baby--the last one,
who had always been the most tenderly tended; and he was
avoiding--_avoiding_ his mother. Mary realized all this as she sat at
the table; and at the same time she had to respect the presence of the
butler and Mr. Penrose's servants, and make no sign. When she did not
eat Mr. Penrose took particular notice of it, and hoped that she was not
allowing herself to be upset; and he talked, in an elaborate way, of
subjects that could interest nobody, keeping with too evident caution
from the one subject which was in his mind all the while.
This lasted until the servants had gone away, and Mr. Penrose had poured
out his first glass of port, for he was an old-fashioned man. He sat and
sipped his wine with the quietness of preparation, and Mary, too,
buckled on her armour, and made a rapid inspection of all its joints and
fastenings. She was sitting at the table which had been so luxuriously
served, and where the purple fruit and wine were making a picture still;
but she was as truly at the bar as ever culprit was. There was an
interval of silence, which was very dreadful to her, and then, being
unable to bear it any longer, it was Mary herself who spoke.
"I perceive that something has been passing here in which we are all
interested," she said. "My poor boy has told you something he had
heard--and I don't know, except in the most general way, what he has
heard. Can you tell, uncle? It is necessary I should know."
"My dear Mary, these are very unpleasant affairs to talk about," said
Mr. Penrose. "You should have had a female friend to support
you--though, indeed, I don't know how you may feel about that. Will has
told me _all_. There was nobody he could ask advice from under the
circumstances, and I think it was very sensible of him to come to me."
"I want to know what he wanted advice for," said Mary, "and what it is
you call _all_; and why Will has avoided me? I cannot think it is chance
that has kept him out so long. Whatever he has heard, he must have known
that it would be best to talk it over with me."
"He thought you would be angry," said Mr. Penrose, between the sips of
his wine.
"Angry!" said Mary, and then her heart melted at the childish fear. "Oh,
uncle, you should have advised him better," she said, "he is only a boy;
and you know that whatever happened, he had better have consulted his
own mother first. How should I be angry? This is not like a childish
freak, that one could be angry about."
"No," said Mr. Penrose; "it is not like a childish freak; but still I
think it was the wisest thing he could do to come to me. It is
impossible you could be his best counsellor where you are yourself so
much concerned, and where such important interests are at stake."
"Let me know at once what you mean," said Mary faintly. "What important
interests are at stake?"
She made a rapid calculation in her mind at the moment, and her heart
grew sicker and sicker. Will had been, when she came to think of it,
more than a week away from home, and many things might have happened in
that time--things which she could not realize nor put in any shape, but
which made her spirit faint out of her and all her strength ooze away.
"My dear Mary," said Mr. Penrose, mildly, "why should you keep any
pretence with me? Will has told me _all_. You cannot expect that a young
man like him, at the beginning of his life, would relinquish his rights
and give up such a fine succession merely out of consideration to your
feelings. I am very sorry for you, and he is very sorry. Nothing shall
be done on our part to compromise you beyond what is absolutely
necessary; but your unfortunate circumstances are not his fault, and it
is only reasonable that he should claim his rights."
"What are his rights?" said Mary; "what do you suppose my unfortunate
circumstances to be? Speak plainly--or, stop; I will tell you what he
has heard. He has heard that my husband and I were married in India
before he was born. That is quite true; and I suppose he and you
think----" said Mary, coming to a sudden gasp for breath, and making a
pause against her will. "Then I will tell you the facts," she said, with
a labouring, long-drawn breath, when she was able to resume. "We were
married in Scotland, as you and everybody know; it was not a thing done
in secret. Everybody about Kirtell--everybody in the county knew of it.
We went to Earlston afterwards, where Hugh's mother was, and to Aunt
Agatha. There was no shame or concealment anywhere, and you know that.
We went out to India after, but not till we had gone to see all our
friends; and everybody knew----"
"My wife even asked you here," said Mr. Penrose, reflectively. "It is
very extraordinary; I mentioned all that to Will: but, my dear Mary,
what is the use of going over it in this way, when there is this fact,
which you don't deny, which proves that Hugh Ochterlony thought it
necessary to do you justice at the last?"
Mary was too much excited to feel either anger or shame. The colour
scarcely deepened on her cheek. "I will tell you about that," she said.
"I resisted it as long as it was possible to resist. The man at Gretna
died, and his house and all his records were burnt, and the people were
all dead who had been present, and I had lost the lines. I did not think
them of any consequence. And then my poor Hugh was seized with a
panic--you remember him, uncle," said Mary, in her excitement, with the
tears coming to her eyes. "My poor Hugh! how much he felt everything,
how hard it was for him to be calm and reasonable when he thought our
interests concerned. I have thought since, he had some presentiment of
what was going to happen. He begged me for his sake to consent that he
might be sure there would be no difficulty about the pension or
anything. It was like dragging my heart out of my breast," said Mary,
with the tears dropping on her hands, "but I yielded to please _him_."
And then there was a pause, inevitable on her part, for her heart was
full, and she had lost the faculty of speech. As for Mr. Penrose, he
gave quiet attention to all she was saying, and made mental notes of it
while he filled himself another glass of wine. He was not an impartial
listener, for he had taken his side, and had the conducting of the other
case in his hands. When Mary came to herself, and could see and hear
again--when her heart was not beating so wildly in her ears, and her wet
eyes had shed their moisture, she gave a look at him with a kind of
wonder, marvelling that he said nothing. The idea of not being believed
when she spoke was one which had never entered into her mind.
"You expect me to say something," said Mr. Penrose, when he caught her
eye. "But I don't see what I can say. All that you have told me just
amounts to this, that your first marriage rests upon your simple
assertion; you have no documentary or any other kind of evidence. My
dear Mary, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but if you consider how
strong is your interest in it, what a powerful motive you have to keep
up that story, and that you confess it rests on your word alone, you
will see that, as Wilfrid's adviser, I am not justified in departing
from the course we have taken. It is too important to be decided by mere
feeling. I am very sorry for you, but I have Wilfrid's interests to
think of," said Mr. Penrose, slowly swallowing his glass of wine.
Mary looked at him aghast; she did not understand him. It seemed to her
as if some delusion had taken possession of her mind, and that the words
conveyed a meaning which no human words could bear. "I do not understand
you," she said; "I suppose there is some mistake. What course is it you
have taken? I want to know what you mean."
"It is not a matter to be discussed with you," said Mr. Penrose.
"Whatever happens I would not be forgetful of a lady's feelings. From
the first I have said that it must be a matter of private arrangement;
and I have no doubt Hugh will see it in the same light. I have written
to him, but I have not yet received a satisfactory answer. Under all the
circumstances I feel we are justified in asserting Wilfrid to be Major
Ochterlony's only lawful son----"
An involuntary cry came out of Mary's breast. She pushed her chair away
from the table, and sat bending forward, looking at him. The pang was
partly physical, as if some one had thrust a spear into her heart; and
beyond that convulsive motion she could neither move nor speak.
"--and of course he must be served heir to his uncle," said Mr. Penrose.
"Where things so important are concerned, you cannot expect that feeling
can be allowed to bear undue sway. It is in this light that Wilfrid sees
it. He is ready to do anything for you, anything for his brother; but
he cannot be expected to sacrifice his legal rights. I hope Hugh will
see how reasonable this is, and I think for your own sake you should use
your influence with him. If he makes a stand, you know it will ruin your
character, and make everybody aware of the unhappy position of affairs;
and it cannot do any good to him."
Mary heard all this and a great deal more, and sat stupified with a dull
look of wonder on her face, making no reply. She thought she had formed
some conception of what was coming to her, but in reality she had no
conception of it; and she sat listening, coming to an understanding,
taking it painfully into her mind, learning to see that it had passed
out of the region of what might be--that the one great, fanciful,
possible danger of her life had developed into a real danger, more
dreadful, more appalling than anything she had ever conceived of. She
sat thus, with her chair thrust back, looking in Mr. Penrose's face,
following with her eyes all his unconcerned movements, feeling his words
beat upon her ears like a stinging rain. And this was all true; love,
honour, pride, or faith had nothing to do with it. Whether she was a
wretched woman, devising a lie to cover her shame, or a pure wife
telling her tale with lofty truth and indignation, mattered nothing. It
was in this merciless man's hand, and nothing but merciless evidence and
proof would be of any use. She sat and listened to him, hearing the same
words over and over; that her feelings were to be considered; that
nothing was to be done to expose her; that Will had consented to that,
and was anxious for that; that it must be matter of private arrangement,
and that her character must be spared. It was this iteration that roused
Mary, and brought her back, as it were, out of her stupefaction into
life.
"I do not understand all you are saying," she said, at last; "it sounds
like a horrible dream; I feel as if you could not mean it: but one
thing--do you mean that Hugh is to be made to give up his rights, by way
of sparing me?"
"By way of sparing a public trial and exposure--which is what it must
come to otherwise," said Mr. Penrose. "I don't know, poor boy, how you
can talk about his rights."
"Then listen to me," said Mary, rising up, and holding by her chair to
support herself; "I may be weak, but I am not like that. My boy shall
not give up his rights. I know what I am saying; if there should be
twenty trials, I am ready to bear them. It shall be proved whether in
England a true woman cannot tell her true story, and be believed.
Neither lie nor shame has ever attached to me. If I have to see my own
child brought against me--God forgive you!--I will try to bear it. My
poor Will! my poor Will!--but Hugh's boy shall not be sacrificed. What!
my husband, my son, my own honour--a woman's honour involves all
belonging to her---- Do you think _I_, for the sake of pain or exposure,
would give them all up? It must be that you have gone out of your
senses, and don't know what to say. _I_, to save myself at my son's
expense!"
"But Wilfrid is your son too," said Mr. Penrose, shrinking somewhat into
himself.
"Oh, my poor Will! my poor Will!" said Mary, moaning in her heart; and
after that she went away, and left the supporter of Will's cause
startled, but not moved from his intention, by himself. As for Mrs.
Ochterlony, she went up into her room, and sank down into the first
chair that offered, and clasped her hands over her heart lest it should
break forth from the aching flesh. She thought no more of seeing Will,
or of telling him her story, or delivering him from his delusion. What
she thought of was, to take him into her arms in an infinite pity, when
the poor boy, who did not know what he was doing, should come to
himself. And Hugh--Hugh her husband, who was thought capable of such
wrong and baseness--Hugh her boy, whose name and fame were to be taken
from him,--and they thought she would yield to it, to save herself a
pang! When she came to remember that the night was passing, and to feel
the chill that had crept over her, and to recall to herself that she
must not exhaust her strength, Mary paused in her thoughts, and fell
upon her knees instead. Even that was not enough; she fell prostrate, as
one who would have fallen upon the Deliverer's feet; but she could say
no prayer. Her heart itself seemed at last to break forth, and soar up
out of her, in a speechless supplication--"Let this cup pass!" Did He
not say it once Who had a heavier burden to bear?