Mrs. Ochterlony was almost as much confused and as uncertain of her own
feelings as Will was. Her heart gave a leap towards her son; but yet
there was that between them which put pain into even a meeting with
Hugh. When she had seen him last, she had been all that a spotless
mother is to a youth--his highest standard, his most perfect type of
woman. Now, though he would believe no harm of her, yet there had been a
breath across her perfection; there was something to explain; and Mary
in her heart felt a pang of momentary anguish as acute as if the
accusation had been true. To have to defend herself; to clear up her
character to her boy! She took him into her arms almost that she might
not have to look him in the face, and held to him, feeling giddy and
faint. Will was younger, and he himself had gone wrong, but Hugh was old
enough to understand it all, and had no consciousness on his own side to
blunt his perceptions; and to have to tell him how it all was, and
explain to him that she was not guilty was almost as hard as if she had
been obliged to confess that she was guilty. She could not encounter him
face to face, nor meet frankly the wonder and dismay which were no doubt
in his honest eyes. Mary thought that to look into them and see that
wondering troubled question in them, "Is it so--have you done me this
wrong?" would be worse than being killed once for all by a
straightforward blow.
But there was no such thought in Hugh's mind. He came up to his mother
open-hearted, with no hesitation in his looks. He saw Will was there,
but he did not even look at him; he took her into his arms, holding her
fast with perhaps a sense that she clung to him, and held on by him as
by a support. "Mother, don't be distressed," he said, all at once, "I
have found a way to clear it all up." He spoke out loud, with his cheery
voice which it was exhilarating to hear, and as if he meant it, and felt
the full significance of what he said. He had to put his mother down
very gently on the sofa after, and to make her lie back and prop her up
with cushions; her high-strung nerves for an instant gave way. It was if
her natural protector had come back, whose coming would clear away the
mists. Her own fears melted away from her when she felt the warm clasp
of Hugh's arms, and the confident tone of his voice, not asking any
questions, but giving her assurance, a pledge of sudden safety as it
were. It was this that made Mary drop back, faint though not fainting,
upon the friendly pillows, and made the room and everything swim in her
eyes.
"What is it, Hugh?" she said faintly, as soon as she could speak.
"It is all right, mother," said Hugh; "take my word, and don't bother
yourself any more about it. I came on at once to see Uncle Penrose, and
get him out of this mess he has let himself into. I could be angry, but
it is no good being angry. On the whole, perhaps showing him his folly
and making a decided end to it, is the best."
"Oh, Hugh, never mind Uncle Penrose. Will, my poor Will! look, your
brother is there," said Mary, rousing up. As for Hugh, he took no
notice; he did not turn round, though his mother put her hand on his
arm; perhaps because his mind was full of other things.
"We must have it settled at once," he said. "I hope you will not object,
mother; it can be done very quietly. I found them last night, without
the least preparation or even knowing they were in existence. It was
like a dream to me. Don't perplex yourself about it, mother dear. It's
all right--trust to me."
"Whom, did you find?" said Mary eagerly; "or was it the lines--my
lines?"
"It was old Sommerville's daughter," said Hugh with an unsteady laugh,
"who was _there_. I don't believe you know who old Sommerville or his
daughter are. Never mind; I know all about it. I am not so simple as you
were when you were eighteen and ran away and thought of nobody. And she
says I am like my father," said Hugh, "the Captain, they called him--but
not such a bonnie lad; and that there was nobody to be seen like him for
happiness and brightness on his wedding-day. You see I know it all,
mother--every word; and I am like him, but not such a bonnie lad."
"No," said Mary, with a sob. Her resolution had gone from her with her
misery. She had suddenly grown weak and happy, and ready to weep like a
child, "No," she said, with the tears dropping out of her eyes, "you are
not such a bonnie lad; you are none of you so handsome as your father.
Oh, Hugh, my dear, I don't know what you mean--I don't understand what
you say."
And she did not understand it, but that did not matter--she could not
have understood it at that moment, though he had given her the clearest
explanation. She knew nothing, but that there must be deliverance
somehow, somewhere, in the air, and that her firstborn was standing by
her with light and comfort in his eyes, and that behind, out of her
sight, his brother taking no notice of him, was her other boy.
"Will is there," she said, hurriedly. "You have not spoken to him--tell
me about this after. Oh, Hugh, Will is there!"
She put her hand on his arm and tried to turn him round; but Hugh's
countenance darkened, and became as his mother had never seen it before.
He took no notice of what she said, he only bent over her, and began to
arrange the cushions, of which Mary now seemed to feel no more need.
"I do not like to see you here," he said; "you must come out of this
house. I came that it might be all settled out of hand, for it is too
serious to leave in vain suspense. But after this, mother, neither you
nor I, with my will, shall cross this threshold more."
"But oh, Hugh! Will!--speak to Will. Do not leave him unnoticed;" said
Mary, in a passionate whisper, grasping his hand and reaching up to his
ear.
Hugh's look did not relent. His face darkened while she looked at him.
"He is a traitor!" he said, from out his closed lips. And he turned his
back upon his brother, who sat at the other side of the room, straining
all his faculties to keep awake, and to keep the room steady, which was
going round and round him, and to know something of what it all meant.
"He is your brother," said Mary; and then she rose, though she was still
weak. "I must go to my poor boy, if you will not," she said. "Will!"
When Will heard the sound of her voice, which came strange to him, as if
it came from another world, he too stumbled up on his feet, though in
the effort ceiling and floor and walls got all confused to him and
floated about, coming down on his brain as if to crush him.
"Yes, mamma," he said; and came straight forward, dimly guiding himself,
as it were, towards her. He came against the furniture without knowing
it, and struck himself sharply against the great round table, which he
walked straight to as if he could have passed through it. The blow made
him pause and open his heavy eyes, and then he sank into the nearest
chair, with a weary sigh; and at that crisis of fate--at that moment
when vengeance was overtaking him--when his cruel hopes had come to
nothing, and his punishment was beginning--dropped asleep before their
eyes. Even Hugh turned to look at the strange spectacle. Will was
ghastly pale. His long brown hair hung disordered about his face; his
hands clung in a desolate way to the arms of the chair he had got into;
and he had dropped asleep.
At this moment Mrs. Ochterlony forgot her eldest son, upon whom till now
her thoughts had been centred. She went to her boy who needed her most,
and who lay there in his forlorn youth helpless and half unconscious,
deserted as it were by all consolation. She went to him and put her hand
on his hot forehead, and called him by his name. Once more Will half
opened his eyelids; he said "yes, mamma," drearily, with a confused
attempt to look up; and then he slept again. He slept, and yet he did
not sleep; her voice went into his mind as in the midst of a
dream--something weighed upon his nerves and his soul. He heard the cry
she gave, even vaguely felt her opening his collar, putting back his
hair, putting water to his lips--but he had not fainted, which was what
she thought in her panic. He was only asleep.
"He is ill," said Hugh, who, notwithstanding his just indignation, was
moved by the pitiful sight; "I will go for the doctor. Mother, don't be
alarmed, he is only asleep."
"Oh, my poor boy!" cried Mary, "he was wandering about all yesterday,
not to see me, and I was hard upon him. Oh, Hugh, my poor boy! And in
this house."
This was the scene upon which Mr. Penrose came in to luncheon with his
usual cheerful composure. He met Hugh at the door going for a doctor,
and stopped him; "You here, Hugh," he said, "this is very singular. I am
glad you are showing so much good sense; now we can come to some
satisfactory arrangement. I hardly hoped so soon to assemble all the
parties here."
"Good morning, I will see you later," said Hugh, passing him quickly and
hurrying out. Then it struck Mr. Penrose that all was not well. "Mary,
what is the matter?" he said; "is it possible that you are so weak as to
encourage your son in standing out?"
Mary had no leisure, no intelligence for what he said. She looked at him
for a moment vaguely, and then turned her eyes once more upon her boy.
She had drawn his head on to her shoulder, and stood supporting him,
holding his hands, gazing down in anxiety beyond all words upon the
colourless face, with its heavy eyelids closed, and lips a little apart,
and quick irregular breath. She was speaking to him softly without
knowing it, saying, "Will, my darling--Will, my poor boy--Oh, Will,
speak to me;" while he lay back unconscious now, no longer able to
struggle against the weight that oppressed him, sleeping heavily on her
breast. Mr. Penrose drew near and looked wonderingly, with his hand in
his pocket and a sense that it was time for luncheon, upon this
unexpected scene.
"What is the matter?" he said, "is he asleep? What are you making a fuss
about, Mary? You women always like a fuss; he is tired, I daresay, after
yesterday; let him sleep and he'll be all right. But don't stand there
and tire yourself. Hallo, Will, wake up and lie down on the sofa. There
goes the gong."
"Let us alone, uncle," said Mary piteously; "never mind us. Go and get
your luncheon. My poor boy is going to be ill; but Hugh is coming back,
and we will have him removed before he gets worse."
"Nonsense!" said Mr. Penrose; but still he looked curiously at the pale
sleeping face, and drew a step further off--"not cholera, do you think?"
he asked with a little anxiety--"collapse, eh?--it can't be that?"
"Oh, uncle, go away and get your luncheon, and leave us alone," said
Mary, whose heart fainted within her at the question, even though she
was aware of its absurdity. "Do not be afraid, for we will take him
away."
Mr. Penrose gave a "humph," partly indignant, partly satisfied, and
walked about the room for a minute, making it shake with his portly
form. And then he gave a low, short, whistle, and went downstairs, as he
was told. Quite a different train of speculation had entered into his
mind when he uttered that sound. If Wilfrid should die, the chances were
that some distant set of Ochterlonys, altogether unconnected with
himself, would come in for the estate, supposing Will's claim in the
meantime to be substantiated. Perhaps even yet it could be hushed up;
for to see a good thing go out of the family was more than he could
bear. This was what Mr. Penrose was thinking of as he went downstairs.
It seemed to Mary a long time before Hugh came back with the doctor, but
yet it was not long: and Will still lay asleep, with his head upon her
shoulder, but moving uneasily at times, and opening his eyes now and
then. There could be no doubt that he was going to be ill, but what the
illness was to be, whether serious and malignant, or the mere result of
over-fatigue, over-tension and agitation of mind, even the doctor could
not tell. But at least it was possible to remove him, which was a relief
to all. Mary did not know how the afternoon passed. She saw Hugh coming
and going as she sat by her sick boy, whom they had laid upon the sofa,
and heard him downstairs talking to uncle Penrose, and then she was
aware by the sound of carriage-wheels at the door that he had come to
fetch them; but all her faculties were hushed and quieted as by the
influence of poor Will's sleep. She did not feel as if she had interest
enough left in the great question that had occupied her so profoundly on
the previous night as to ask what new light it was which Hugh had seemed
to her for one moment to throw on it. A momentary wonder thrilled
through her mind once or twice while she sat and waited; but then Will
would stir, or his heavy eyelids would lift unconsciously and she would
be recalled to the present calamity, which seemed nearer and more
appalling than any other. She sat in the quiet, which, for Will's sake,
had to be unbroken, and in her anxiety and worn-out condition, herself
by times slept "for sorrow," like those disciples among the olive-trees.
And all other affairs fell back in her mind, as into a kind of
twilight--a secondary place. It did not seem to matter what happened, or
how things came to be decided. She had had no serious illness to deal
with for many, many years--almost never before in her life since those
days when she lost her baby in India; and her startled mind leapt
forward to all tragic possibilities--to calamity and death. It was a
dull day, which, no doubt, deepened every shadow. The grey twilight
seemed to close in over her before the day was half spent, and the
blinds were drawn down over the great staring windows, as it was best
they should be for Will, though the sight of them gave Mary a pang. All
these conjoined circumstances drove every feeling out of her mind but
anxiety for her boy's life, and hushed her faculties, and made her life
beat low, and stilled all other interests and emotions in her breast.
Then there came the bustle in the house which was attendant upon Will's
removal. Mr. Penrose stood by, and made no objection to it. He was
satisfied, on the whole, that whatever it might be--fever, cholera, or
decline, or any thing fatal, it should not be in his house; and his
thoughts were full of that speculation about the results if Will should
die. He shook hands with Mary when she followed her boy into the
carriage, and said a word to comfort her:
"Don't worry yourself about what we were talking of," he said; "perhaps,
after all, in case anything were to happen, it might still be hushed
up."
"What were we talking of?" asked Mary, vaguely, not knowing whether it
was the old subject or the new one which he meant; and she made him no
further answer, and went away to the lodging Hugh had found for her, to
nurse her son. Uncle Penrose went back discomfited into his commodious
house. It appeared, on the whole, that it did not matter much to them,
though they had made so great a fuss about it. Hugh was the eldest son,
even though, perhaps, he might not be the heir; and Will, poor boy, was
the youngest, the one to be guarded and taken care of; and whatever the
truth might be about Mary's marriage, she was their mother; and even at
this very moment, when they might have been thought to be torn asunder,
and separated from each other, nature had stepped in and they were all
one. It was strange, but so it was. Mr. Penrose had even spoken to Hugh,
but had drawn nothing from him but anxiety about the sick boy, to find
the best doctor, and the best possible place to remove him to; not a
word about the private arrangement he had, no doubt, come to make, or
the transfer of Earlston; and if Will should die, perhaps, it could yet
be hushed up. This was the last idea in Mr. Penrose's mind, as he went
in and shut behind him the resounding door.