Madonna Mary

“No,” said Winnie.

“Perhaps he has gone to see his mother?” said Sir Edward, brightening up. “She is getting quite an old woman, and longs to see him; and you, my pretty Winnie, too. I suppose you will pay her your long-deferred visit, now you have returned to this country? Percival is there?”

“No – I think not,” said Winnie, winding herself up in her shawl, as she had done before.

“Then you have left him at – , where he is stationed now,” said Sir Edward, becoming more and more point-blank in his attack.

“Look here, Sir Edward,” said Winnie; “we are citizens of the world, as you say, and we have not lived such a tranquil life as you have. I did not come here to give an account of my husband; he can take care of himself. I came to have a little quiet and rest, and not to be asked questions. If one could be let alone anywhere, it surely should be in one’s own home.”

“No, indeed,” said Sir Edward, who was embarrassed, and yet more arbitrary than ever; “for in your own home people have a right to know all about you. Though I am not exactly a relative, I have known you all your life; I may say I brought you up, like a child of my own; and to see you come home like this, all alone, without baggage or attendant, as if you had dropped from the skies, and nobody knowing where you come from, or anything about it, – I think, Winnie, my dear, when you consider of it, you will see it is precisely your own friends who ought to know.”

Then Aunt Agatha rushed into the mêlée, feeling in her own person a little irritated by her old friend’s lecture and inquisition.

“Sir Edward is making a mistake, my dear love,” she said; “he does not know. Dear Winnie has been telling me everything. It is so nice to know all about her. Those little details that can never go into letters; and when – when Major Percival comes – ”

“It is very good of you, Aunt Agatha,” said Winnie, with a certain quiet disdain; “but I did not mean to deceive anybody – Major Percival is not coming that I know of. I am old enough to manage for myself: Mary came home from India when she was not quite my age.”

“Oh, my dear love, poor Mary was a widow,” cried Aunt Agatha; “you must not speak of that.”

“Yes, I know Mary has always had the best of it,” said Winnie, under her breath; “you never made a set against her as you do against me. If there is an inquisition at Kirtell, I will go somewhere else. I came to have a little quiet; that is all I want in this world.”

It was well for Winnie that she turned away abruptly at that moment, and did not see Sir Edward’s look, which he turned first upon Mary and then on Aunt Agatha. She did not see it, and it was well for her. When he went away soon after, Miss Seton went out into the garden with him, in obedience to his signals, and then he unburdened his mind.

“It seems to me that she must have run away from him,” said Sir Edward. “It is very well she has come here; but still it is unpleasant, to make the best of it. I am sure he has behaved very badly; but I must say I am a little disappointed in Winnie. I was, as you may remember, at the very first when she made up her mind so soon.”

“There is no reason for thinking she has run away,” said Aunt Agatha. “Why should she have run away? I hope a lady may come to her aunt and her sister without compromising herself in any way.”

Sir Edward shook his head. “A married woman’s place is with her husband,” he said, sententiously. He was old, and he was more moral, and perhaps less sentimental, in his remarks than formerly. “And how she is changed! There must have been a great deal of excitement and late hours, and bills and all that sort of thing, before she came to look like that.”

“You are very hard upon my poor Winnie,” said Aunt Agatha, with a long-restrained sob.

“I am not hard upon her. On the contrary, I would save her if I could,” said Sir Edward, solemnly. “My dear Agatha, I am sorry for you. What with poor Francis Ochterlony’s illness, and this heavy burden – ”

Miss Seton was seized with one of those passions of impatience and indignation to which a man’s heavy way of blundering over sore subjects sometimes moves a woman. “It was all Francis Ochterlony’s fault,” she said, lifting her little tremulous white hands. “It was his fault, and not mine. He might have had some one that could have taken care of him all these years, and he chose his marble images instead – and I will not take the blame; it was no fault of mine. And then my poor darling child – ”

But here Miss Seton’s strength, being the strength of excitement solely, gave way, and her voice broke, and she had to take both her hands to dry her fast-coming tears.

“Well, well, well!” said Sir Edward. “Dear me, I never meant to excite you so. What I was saying was with the kindest intention. Let us hope Ochterlony is better, and that all will turn out pleasantly for Winnie. If you find yourself unequal to the emergency, you know – and want a man’s assistance – ”

“Thank you,” said Aunt Agatha, with dignity; “but I do not think so much of a man’s assistance as I used to do. Mary is so very sensible, and if one does the very best one can – ”

“Oh, of course I am not a person to interfere,” said Sir Edward; and he walked away with an air still more dignified than that which Aunt Agatha had put on, but very shaky, poor old gentleman, about his knees, which slightly diminished the effect. As for Aunt Agatha, she turned her back upon him steadily, and walked back to the Cottage with all the stateliness of a woman aggrieved. But nevertheless the pins and needles were in her heart, and her mind was full of anxiety and distress. She had felt very strongly the great mistake made by Francis Ochterlony, and how he had spoiled both their lives – but that was not to say that she could hear of his illness with philosophy. And then Winnie, who was not ill, but whose reputation and position might be in deadly danger for anything Miss Seton knew. Aunt Agatha knew nothing better to do than to call Mary privately out of the room and pour forth her troubles. It did no good, but it relieved her mind. Why was Sir Edward so suspicious and disagreeable – why had he ceased “to understand people;” – and why was Hugh so young and inexperienced, and incapable of judging whether his uncle was or was not seriously ill; – and why did not “they” write? Aunt Agatha did not know whom she meant by “they,” nor why she blamed poor Hugh. But it relieved her mind. And when she had pushed her burden off on to Mary’s shoulders, the weight was naturally much lightened on her own.

CHAPTER XXX

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.