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 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
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 PRESENTED BY 
 
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 COLLECTION 
 
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 BRITISH AUTHORS. 
 
 VOL. 871. 
 MADONNA MAEY BY MES. OLIPHANT. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I.
 
 TAUCHNITZ EDITION". 
 By the same Author, 
 
 THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS .... 2 vol.«. 
 
 MARGARET MAITLAND 1 vol. 
 
 AGNES 2 vols.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 MRS. OLIPHANT. 
 
 COPYBIGET EmTTOK 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. 1. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 B E R N H A R D T A U C H N I T Z 
 
 186 7. 
 
 The Might of Translation is reserved. 
 
 <^\^
 
 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Major Ochterlony had been very fidgety after 
 the coming in of the mail. He was very often so, as 
 all his friends were aware , and nobody so much as 
 Mary, his wife, who was herself, on ordinary occasions, 
 of an admirable composure. But the arrival of the 
 mail, which is so welcome an event at an Indian sta- 
 tion, and which generally affected the Major very 
 mildly, had produced a singular impression upon him 
 on this special occasion. He was not a man who pos- 
 sessed a large correspondence in his own jierson; he 
 had reached middle life, and had nobody particular be- 
 longing to him, except his wife and his little children, 
 who were as yet too young to have been sent "home-," 
 and consequently there was nobody to receive letters 
 from, except a few married brothers and sisters, who 
 don't count, as everybody knows. That kind of for- 
 mally affectionate correspondence is not generally ex- 
 citing, and even Major Ochterlony supported it with 
 composure. But as for the mail which arrived on the 
 15th of April, 1838, its effect was different. He went 
 out and in so often, that Mary got very little good of 
 her letters, which were from her young sister and her 
 old aunt, and were naturally overflowing with all kinds
 
 b MADONNA MARY. 
 
 of pleasant gossip and domestic information. The pre- 
 sent writer has so imperfect an idea of what an Indian 
 bungalow is like, that it would be impossible for her 
 to convey a clear idea to the reader, who probably 
 knows much better aboiit it. But yet it was in an 
 Indian bungalow that Mrs. Ochterlony was seated — in 
 the dim hot atmosphere, out of which the sun was 
 carefully excluded, bitt in AV'hich, nevertheless, the in- 
 mates simmered softly with the patience of people who 
 cannot help it, and who are vised to their martyrdom. 
 She sat still, and did her best to make out the pleasant 
 babble in the letters, which seemed to take sound to 
 itself as she read, and to break into a sweet confusion 
 of kind voices, and rustling leaves, and running water, 
 such as, she knCAV, had filled the little rustic drawing- 
 room in which the letters were written. The sister was 
 very young, and the aunt was old, and all the ex- 
 perience of the world possessed by the two together, 
 might have gone into Mary's thimble, which she kept 
 playing with upon her finger as she read. But though 
 she knew twenty times better than they did, the soft 
 old lady's gentle counsel, and the audacious girl's ad- 
 vice and censure, were sweet to Mary, who smiled many 
 a time at their simplicity, and yet took the good of it 
 in a way that was peculiar to her. She read, and she 
 smiled in her reading, and felt the fresh English air 
 blow about her, and the leaves rustling — if it had not 
 been for the Major, who went and came like a ghost, 
 and let everything fall that lie touched, and hunted 
 every innocent beetle or lizard that had come in to see 
 how things were going on; for he was one of those 
 men who have a great, almost womanish objection to 
 reptiles and insects, which is a sentiment much mis-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 7 
 
 placed In India. He fidgeted so much, indeed, as to 
 disturb even his wife's accustomed nerves at hist. 
 
 "Is there anything- wrong — has anything hap- 
 l)ened?" she asked, fohliug up her letter, and laymg 
 it down in her open work-basket. Her anxiety was 
 not profound, for she was accustomed to the Major's 
 "ways," but still she saw it was necessary for his com- 
 fort to utter what was on his mind. 
 
 "When you have read your letters I want to speak 
 to you," he said. "What do your people mean by 
 sending you such heaps of letters? I thought you would 
 never be done. Well, Mary, this is what it is — there's 
 nothing wrong with the children, or anybody belonging 
 to us, thank God; but it's very nearly as bad, and I 
 am at my wit's end. Old Sommerville's dead." 
 
 "Old Sommerville!" said Mrs. Ochterlony. This 
 time she was utterly perplexed and at a loss. She 
 could read easily enough the anxiety which filled her 
 husband's handsome, restless face; but, then, so small a 
 matter put him out of his ordinary! And she could not 
 for lier life remember who old Sommerville was. 
 
 "1 daresay you don't recollect him," said the Major, 
 in an aggrieved tone. "It is very odd how everything 
 has gone wrong with us since that false start. It is an 
 awful shame, when a set of old fogies put young people 
 in such a position — all for nothing, too," Major 
 Ochterlony added: "for after we were actually married, 
 everybody came round. It is an awful shame!" 
 
 "If I was a suspicious woman," said Mary, with a 
 smile, "I should think it was our marriage that you 
 called a false start and an awful shame." 
 
 "And so it is, my love: so it is," said the innocent 
 soldier, his face growing more and more cloudy. As
 
 8 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 for his wife being a suspicious woman, or the possible 
 existence of any delicacy on her part about his words, 
 the Major knew better than that. The truth was that 
 he might have given utterance to sentiments of the 
 most atrocious description on that point, sentiments 
 which would have broken the heart and blighted the 
 existence, so to speak, of any sensitive young woman, 
 without producing the slightest effect upon Mary, or 
 upon himself, to whom Mary was so utterly and abso- 
 lutely necessary, that the idea of existing without her 
 never once entered into his restless but honest brain. 
 "That is just what it is," he said; "it is a horrid busi- 
 ness for me, and I don't know what to do about it. 
 They mixst have been out of their senses to drive us to 
 many as we did; and we were a couple of awful fools," 
 said the Major, with the gravest and most care-worn 
 countenance. Mrs. Ochterlony was still a young woman, 
 handsome and admired, and she might very well have 
 taken off'ence at such words; but, oddly enough, there 
 was something in his gravely-disturbed face and pathetic 
 tone which touched another chord in Mary's breast. She 
 laughed, which was unkind, considering all the cir- 
 cumstances, and took up her work, and fixed a pair of 
 smiling eyes upon her perplexed husband's face. 
 
 "I daresay it is not so bad as you think," she said, 
 with the manner of a woman who was used to this 
 kind of thing. "Come, and tell me all about it." She 
 drew her chair a trifle nearer his, and looked at him 
 with a face in which a touch of suppressed amusement 
 was visible, under a good deal of gravity and sym- 
 pathy. She was used to lend a sympathetic ear to all 
 his difficulties, and to give all her efforts to their eluci- 
 dation , but still she could not help feeling it somewhat
 
 MADONNA MARY. 9 
 
 droll to be complained to in this strain about her own 
 marriage. "We were a couple of fools," she said, with 
 a little laugh, "but it has not turned out so badly as 
 it might have done." Upon which rash statement the 
 Major shook his head. 
 
 "It is easy for you to say so," he said, "and if I 
 were to go no deeper, and look no further — It is 
 all on your account, Mary. If it were not on your ac- 
 count — ^" 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Mrs. Ochterlony, still struggling 
 with a perverse inclination to laugh-, "but now tell me 
 what old Sommerville has to do with it; and who old 
 Somraerville is; and what put it into his head just at 
 this moment to die." 
 
 The Major sighed, and gave her a half-irritated, 
 half-melancholy look. To think she should laugh, 
 when, as he said to himself, the gulf was yawning 
 under her very feet. "My dear Mary," he said, "I 
 wish you would learn that this is not anything to laugh 
 at. Old Sommerville was the old gardener at Earlston, 
 who went with us, you recollect, when we went to — 
 to Scotland. My brother would never have him back 
 again, and he went among his own friends. He was a 
 stupid old fellow. I don't know what he was good for, 
 for my part; — but," said Major Ochterlony, with so- 
 lemnity, "he was the only surviving witness of our un- 
 fortunate marriage — that is the only thing that made 
 him interesting to me." 
 
 "Poor old man!" said Mary, "I am very sorry. I 
 had forgotten his name; but really, — if you speak like 
 this of our unfortunate marriage, you will hurt my feel 
 ings," Mrs. Ochterlony added. She had cast doM'n her 
 eyes on her work, but still there was a gleam of fuu
 
 10 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 out of cue of the corners. Tliis was all tlie effect made 
 upon her mind by words which would have naturally 
 produced a scene between half the married people in 
 the world. 
 
 As for the Major, he sighed: he was in a sighing 
 mood, and at such moments his wife's obtusity and 
 thoughlessness always made him sad. "It is easy talk- 
 ing," he said, "and if it were not on your account, 
 Mary — The fact is that everything has gone wrong 
 that had any connexion with it. The blacksmith's 
 house, you know, was burned down, and his kind of a 
 register — if it was any good, and I am sure I don't 
 know if it was any good; and then that woman died, 
 though she was as young as you are, and as healthy, 
 and nobody had any right to expect that she would 
 die," Major Ochterlony added Avith an injured tone, 
 "and now old Sommei-ville-, and Ave have nothing in 
 the Avorld to vouch for its being a good marriage, 
 except what that blacksmith fellow called the 'lines.' 
 Of course you have taken care of the lines," said the 
 Major, Avith a little start. It was the first time that 
 this new subject of doubt had occurred to his mind. 
 
 "To vouch for its being a good marriage!" said 
 Mrs. Ochterlony: "really, Hugh, you go too far. (.)ur 
 marriage is not a thing to make jokes about, you know 
 — • nor to get up alarms about either. Everybody 
 knows all about it, both among your people and mine. 
 It is very vexatious and disagreealjle of you to talk so." 
 As she spoke the colour rose to Mary's matron cheek. 
 She had learned to make great allowances for her 1ms- 
 band's anxious temper and perpetual panics; but this 
 suggestion was too much for her patience just at the 
 moment. She calmed down, however, almost immediately.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 11 
 
 and came to herself with a smile. "To think you 
 should almost have made me angry!" she said, taking- 
 up her work again. This did not mean to imply that 
 to make Mrs. Ochterlony angry was at all an impossible 
 process. She had her gleams of wrath like other people, 
 and sometimes it was not at all difficult to call them 
 forth; but, so far as the Major's "temperament" Av^as 
 concerned, she had got, by much exercise, to be the 
 most indulgent of women — perhaps by finding that no 
 other way of meeting it was of any use. 
 
 "It is not my fault, my love," said the Major, with 
 a meekness which was not habitual to him. "But I 
 hope you are quite sure you have the lines. Any mis- 
 take about them would be fatal. They are the only 
 proof that remains to us. I wish you would go and 
 find them, Mary, and let me make sure." 
 
 "The lines!" said Mrs. Ochterlony, and, notwith- 
 standing her self-command, she faltered a little. "Of 
 course I must have them somewhere — - I don't quite 
 recollect at this moment. What do you want them for, 
 Hugh? Are we coming into a fortune, or what are 
 the statistics good for? When 1 can lay my hand 
 upon them, I will give them to you," she added, with 
 that culpable carelessness which her husband had al- 
 ready so often remarked in her. If it had been a 
 trumpery picture or book that had been mislaid, she 
 could not have been less concerned. 
 
 "AVhen you can lay your hands upon them!" cried 
 the exasperated man. "Are you out of your senses, 
 !Mary? Don't you know that they are your sheet- 
 anchor, your charter — (lie only document you have — ' 
 
 "Hugh," said Mrs. Ochterlony, "tell me what this 
 means. Tliere must be something in it more than I
 
 12 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 can see. What need have I for documents? What 
 does it matter to us this old man being dead, more 
 than it matters to any one the death of somebody who 
 has been at their wedding? It is sad, but I don't see 
 how it can be a personal misfortune. If you really 
 mean anything, tell me what it is." 
 
 The Major for his part grew angry, as was not un- 
 natural. "If you choose to give me the attention you 
 ought to give to your husband when he speaks seriously 
 to you, you will soon perceive what I mean," he said; 
 and then he repented, and came up to her and kissed 
 her. "My poor Mary, my bonnie Mary," he said. "If 
 that wretched irregular marriage of ours should bring 
 harm to you! It is you only I am thinking of, my 
 darling — that you should have something to rest 
 upon;" and his feelings were so genuine that with that 
 the water stood in his eyes. 
 
 As for Mrs. Ochterlony, she was very near losing 
 patience altogether; but she made an effort and re- 
 strained herself. It was not the first time that she had 
 heard compunctions expressed for the irregular marriage, 
 which certainly was not her fault. But this time she 
 was undeniably a little alarmed, for the Major's gravity 
 was extreme. "Our marriage is no more irregular 
 than it always was," she said. "I wish you would 
 give up this subject, Hugh; I have you to rest upon, 
 and everything that a woman can have. We never 
 did anything in a corner," she continued, with a little 
 vehemence. "Our marriage was just as well known, 
 and well published, as if it had been in St. George's, 
 Hanover Square. I cannot imagine what you are 
 aiming at. And besides, it is done, and we cannot 
 mend it," she added, abruptly. On the whole, the
 
 MADONNA MARY. 13 
 
 runaway matcli liacl been a pleasant frolic enough; 
 there was no earthly reason, except some people's stupid 
 notions, why they should not have been married-, and 
 everybody came to their senses rapidly, and very little 
 harm had come of it. But the least idea of doubt on 
 such a subject is an offence to a woman, and her colour 
 rose and her breath came quick, without any will of 
 hers. As for the Major, he abandoned the broader 
 general question, and went back to the detail, as was 
 natural to the man. 
 
 "If you only have the lines all safe," he said, "if 
 you would but make sure of that. I confess old 
 Sommerville's death was a great shock to me, Mary, — 
 the last surviving witness; but Kirkman tells me the 
 marriage lines in Scotland are a woman's safeguard, 
 and Kirkman is a Scotchman and ought to know." 
 
 "Have you been consulting him?'''' said Mary, with 
 a certain despair; "have you been talking of such a 
 subject to — " 
 
 "I don't know where I could have a better con- 
 fidant," said the Major. "Mary, my darling, they are 
 both attached to you ; and they are good people, though 
 they talk; and then he is Scotch, and understands. If 
 anything were to happen to me, and you had any dif- 
 ficulty in proving — " 
 
 "Hugh, for Heaven's sake have done with this. I 
 cannot bear any more," cried Mrs. Ochterlony, who was 
 at the end of her powers. 
 
 It was time for the great coup for which his restless 
 soul had been preparing. He approached the moment 
 of fate with a certain skill, such as weak people oc- 
 casionally display, and mad people almost always, — 
 as if the feeble intellect had a certain right by reason
 
 14 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 of its weakness to the same kind of defence which is 
 possessed by the mind diseased. "Hush, Mary, yon 
 are excited," he said, "and it is only you I am think- 
 ing of. If anything should happen to me — I am 
 quite well, but no man can answer for his own life : — 
 my dear, I am afraid you will be vexed with what T 
 am going to say. But for my own satisfaction, for my 
 peace of mind — if we were to go through the cere- 
 mony again — " 
 
 Mary Ochterlony rose itp with sudden passion. It 
 was altogether out of proportion to her husband's in- 
 tentions or errors, and perhaps to the occasion. That 
 was but a vexatious complication of ordinary life; and 
 he a fidgety, uneasy, perhaps over-conscientious, well- 
 meaning man. She rose, tragic without knowing it, 
 with a swell in her heart of the unutterable and supreme 
 — feeling herself for the moment an outraged wife, an 
 insulted woman, and a mother wounded to the heart. 
 "I will hear no more," she said, with lips that had 
 suddenly grown parched and dry. "Don't say another 
 word. If it has come to this, I will take my chance 
 with my boys. Hugh, no more, no more." As she 
 lifted her hands with an impatient gesture of horror, 
 and towered over him as he sat by, having thus inter- 
 rupted and cut short his speech, a certain fear went 
 through Major Ochterlony's mind. Could her mind be 
 going? Had the shock been too much for her? He 
 could not understand otherwise how the suggestion 
 which he thought a wise one, and of advantage to his 
 own peace of mind, should have stung her into such an 
 incomprehensible passion. But he was afraid and silenced, 
 and could not go on. 
 
 "My dear Mary," he said mildly, "I had no inten-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 15 
 
 tion of vexing you. We can specak of this another 
 time. Sit down, and I'll get you a glass of water," he 
 added, with anxious affection; and hurried off" to seek 
 it: for he was a good husband, and very fond of his 
 wife, and was terrified to see her turn suddenly pale 
 and faint, notwithstanding that he was quite capable of 
 wounding her in the most exquisite and delicate point. 
 But then he did not mean it. He was a matter-of-fact 
 man, and the idea of marrying his Avife over again in 
 case there might be any doubtfulness about the first 
 marriage, seemed to him only a rational suggestion, 
 which no sensible woman ought to be disturbed by; 
 though no doubt it was annoying to be compelled to 
 have recourse to such an expedient. So he Avent and 
 fetched her the water, and gave up the subject, and 
 stayed with her all the afternoon and read the papers 
 to her, and made himself agreeable. It was a puzzling 
 sort of demonstration on Mary's part, but that did not 
 make her the less Mary, and the dearest and best of 
 earthly creatures. So Major Ochterlony put his pro- 
 posal aside for a more favourable moment, and did all 
 he could to make his wife forget it, and behaved him- 
 self as a man naturally would behave who was re- 
 cognised as the best husband and most domestic man 
 in the regiment. Mary took her seat again and her 
 work, and the afternoon went on as if nothing had 
 happened. They were a most united couple, and very 
 happy together, as everybody knew; or if one of them 
 at any chance moment was perhaps less than perfectly 
 blessed, it was not, at any rate, because the love- 
 match, irregular as it might be, had ended in any lack 
 of love.
 
 16 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Mrs. Ochterlony sat and worked and listened, 
 and lier husband read the papers to her, picking out 
 by instinct all those little bits of news that are grateful 
 to people who are far away from their own country. 
 And he went through the births and marriages, to see 
 "if there is anybody we know," — notwithstanding 
 that he was aware that corner of the paper is one 
 which a woman does not leave to any reader, but 
 makes it a principle to examine herself. And Mary sat 
 still and went on with her work, and not another syl- 
 lable was said about old Sommerville, or the marriage 
 lines, or anything that had to do with the previous 
 conversation. This tranquillity was all in perfect good 
 faith on Major Ochterlony's side, who had given up the 
 subject with the intention of waiting until a more con- 
 venient season, and who had relieved his mind by talk- 
 ing of it, and could put off his anxiety. But as for 
 Mary, it was not in good faith that she put on this 
 expression of outward calm. She knew her husband, 
 and she knew that he was pertinacious and insisting, 
 and that a question which he had once started was not 
 to be made an end of, and finally settled, in so short 
 a time. She sat with her head a little bent, hearing 
 the bits of news run on like a kind of accompaniment 
 to the quick-flowing current of her own thoughts. Her 
 heart was beating quick, and her blood coursing through 
 her veins as if it had been a sudden access of fever 
 which had come upon her. She was a tall, fair, serene
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 17 
 
 woman, with no paltry passion about her; but at the 
 same time, when the occasion required it, Mary was 
 capable of a vast suppressed fire of feeling which it 
 gave her infinite trouble to keep down. This was a 
 side of her character which was not suspected by the 
 world in general — meaning of course the regiment, 
 and the ladies at the station, who were all, more or 
 less, military. Mrs. Ochterlony was the kind of woman 
 to whom by instinct any stranger would have appro- 
 priated the name of Mary; and naturally all her in- 
 timates (and the regiment was very "nice," and lived 
 in great harmony, and they were all intimate) called 
 her by her Christian — most Christian name. And 
 there were people who put the word Madonna before it, 
 — "as if the two did not mean the same thing!" .said 
 little Mrs. Askell, the ensign's baby-wife, whose educa- 
 tion had been neglected, but whom Mrs. Ochterlony 
 had been very kind to. It was difficult to know how 
 the title had originated, though people did say it was 
 young Stafford, who had been brought up in Italy, and 
 who had such a strange adoration for Mrs. Ochterlony, 
 and who died, poor fellow — which perhaps was the 
 best thing he could have done under the circumstances. 
 " It was a special providence," Mrs. Kirkman said, who 
 was the Colonel's wife : for, to be sure, to be romantically 
 adored by a foolish young subaltern, was embarrassing 
 for a woman, however perfect her mind and temper 
 and fairest fame might be. It was he who originated 
 the name, perhaps with some faint foolish thought of 
 Petrarch and his Madonna Laura: and then he died 
 and did no more harm ; and a great many people adopted 
 it, and Mary herself did not object to be addressed by 
 that sweetest of titles.
 
 18 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 And yet she was not meek enough for the name. 
 Her complexion was very fair, but she had only a 
 veiy faint rose-tint on her cheeks, so faint that people 
 called her pale — which, with her fairness, was a 
 drawback to her. Her hair was light-brown, with a 
 golden reflection that went and came, as if it somehow 
 depended upon the state of her mind and spirits; and 
 her eyes were dark, large, and lambent, — not spai'- 
 kling, but concentrating within themselves a soft, full 
 depth of light. It was^a question whether they were 
 grey or brown; but at all events they were dark and 
 deep. And she was, perhaps, a little too large and 
 full and matronly in her proportions to please a youth- 
 ful critic. Naturally such a woman had a mass of hair 
 which she scarcely knew what to do with, and which 
 at this moment seemed to betray the disturbed state of 
 her mind by unusual gleams of the golden reflection 
 which sometimes lay quite tranquil and hidden among 
 the great silky coils. She was very happily married, 
 and Major Ochterlony was the model husband of the 
 regiment. They had married very young, and made 
 a runaway love-match which was one of the few which 
 everybody allowed had succeeded to perfection. But 
 
 yet There are so few things in this world which 
 
 succeed quite to perfection. It was Mrs. Kirkman's 
 opinion that nobody else in the regiment could have 
 supported the Major's fidgety temper. "It would be a 
 great trial for the most experienced Christian," she 
 said; "and dear Mary is still among the babes who 
 have to be fed with milk; but Providence is kind, and 
 I don't think she feels it as you or I would." This 
 was the opinion of the Colonel's wife; but as for Mary, 
 as she sat and worked and listened to her husband
 
 MADONNA MARY, 19 
 
 reading the papers, perhaps she could have given a 
 different version of her own composure and calm. 
 
 They had been married about ten years, and it 
 was the first time he had taken this idea into his head. 
 It is true that Mrs. Ochterlony looked at it solely as 
 one of his ideas, and gave no weight whatever to the 
 death of old Sommerville, or the loss of the mari'iage 
 lines. She had been very young at the time of her 
 marriage, and she Avas motherless, and had not those 
 pangs of wounded delicacy to encounter, which a young 
 woman ought to have who abandons her home in such 
 a way. This perhaps arose from a defect in Mary's 
 girlish undeveloped character; but the truth was, that 
 she too belonged to an Indian family, and had no 
 home to speak of, nor any of the sweeter ties to break. 
 And after that, she had thought nothing more about it. 
 She was married, and there was an end of it; and the 
 young people had gone to India immediately, and had 
 been very poor, and very happy, and very miserable, 
 like other young people who begin the world in an in- 
 considerate way. But in spite of a hundred drawbacks, 
 the happiness had always been pertinacious, lasted 
 longest, and held out most steadfastly, and lived every- 
 thing down. For one thing, Mrs. Ochterlony had a 
 great deal to do, not being rich, and that happily quite 
 preserved her from the danger of brooding over the 
 Major's fidgets, and making something serious out of 
 them. And then they had married so young that 
 neither of them could ever identify himself or herself, 
 or make the distinction that more reasonable couples 
 can between "me" and "you." This time, however, 
 the Major's restlessness had taken an uncomfortable 
 form. Mary felt herself offended and insulted without 
 
 2*
 
 20 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 knowing why. She, a matron of ten years' standing, 
 the mother of children ! She could not believe that she 
 had really heard true, that a repetition of her marriage 
 could have been suggested to her — and at the same 
 time she knew that it was perfectly true. It never 
 occurred to her as a thing that possibly might have to 
 be done, but still the suggestion itself was a wound. 
 IVIajor Ochterlony, for his part, thought of it as a pre- 
 caution, and good for his peace of mind, as he had 
 said; but to Mary it was scarcely less offensive than if 
 somebody else had ventured to make love to her, or 
 offer her his allegiance. It seemed to her an insult of 
 the same description, an outrage which surely could 
 not have occurred without some unwitting folly on her 
 part to make such a proposal possible. She went 
 away, searching back into the far, far distant years, as 
 she sat at work and he read the papers. Had she any- 
 how failed in womanly restraint or delicacy at that 
 moment when she was eighteen, and knew of nothing 
 but honour, and love, and purity in the world? To 
 be sure, she had not occiapied herself very much about 
 the matter — she had taken no pains for her own 
 safety, and had not an idea what registrars meant, nor 
 marriage laws, nor "lines." All that she knew was 
 that a great many people were married at Gretna 
 Green, and that she was married, and that there was 
 an end of it. All these things came up and passed 
 before her mind in a somewhat hurrying crowd; but 
 Mary's mature judgment did not disapprove of the 
 young bride who believed what was said to her, and 
 was content, and had unbounded faith in the black- 
 smith and in her bridegroom. If that young woman 
 had been occupying herself about the register, Mrs.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 21 
 
 Ochterlony probably, looking back, would have enter- 
 tained but a mean opinion of her. It was not any- 
 thing she had done. It was not anything special, so 
 far as she could see, in the circumstances: for hosts of 
 people before and after had been married on the 
 Scottish border. The only conclusion, accordingly, that 
 she could come to, was the natural conclusion, that it 
 was one of the Major's notions. But there was little 
 comfort in that, for Mrs. Ochterlony was aware that his 
 notions were persistent, that they lived and lasted and 
 took new developments, and were sometimes very hard 
 to get rid of. And she sighed in the midst of the 
 newspaper reading, and betrayed that she had not been 
 listening. Not that she expected her husband's new 
 whim to come to anything; but because she foresaw in 
 it endless repetitions of the scene which had just ended, 
 and endless exasperation and weariness to herself. 
 
 Major Ochterlony stopped short when he heard his 
 wife sigh — for he was not a man to leave anything 
 alone, or to practise a discreet neglect — and laid 
 down his paper and looked with anxiety in her face. 
 "You have a headache," he said, tenderly; "I saw it 
 the moment I entered the room. Go and lie down, 
 my dear, and take care of yourself. You take care of 
 everybody else," said the Major. "Why did you let 
 me go on reading the paper like an ass, when your 
 head aches?" 
 
 "My head does not ache. I was only thinking," 
 said Mrs. Ochterlony: for she thought on the whole it 
 would be best to resume the subject and endeavour to 
 make an end of it. But this was not the Major's way. 
 He had in the meantime emptied his reservoir, and it
 
 22 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 liacl to be filled again before lie would find himself in 
 the vein for speech. 
 
 "But I don't want you to think," said Major 
 Ochterlony with tender patronage: "that ought to be 
 my part of the business. Have you got a novel? — 
 if not, I'll go over and ask Miss Sorbette for one of 
 hers. Lie down and rest, Mary, I can see that is all 
 you are good for to-day." 
 
 Whether such a speech was aggravating or not to 
 a woman who knew that it was her brain which had 
 all the real weight of the family affairs to bear, may 
 be conjectured by wives in general who know the sort 
 of thing. But as for Mary, she was so used to it, that 
 she took very little notice. She said, " Thank you, Hugh ; 
 I have got my letters here, which I have not read, 
 and Aunt Agatha is as good as a novel." If this was 
 not a very clear indication to the Major that his best 
 policy was to take himself off for a little, and leave 
 her in peace, it would be hard to say what could have 
 taught him. But then Major Ochterlony was a man of 
 a lively mind, and above being taught. 
 
 "Ah, Aunt Agatha," he said. "My dear, I know 
 it is a painful subject, but we must, you know, begin 
 to think where we are to send Hugh." 
 
 Mary shuddered; her nerves — for she had nerves, 
 though she was so fair and serene — began to get ex- 
 cited. She said, "For pity's sake, not any more to- 
 day. I am worn out. I cannot bear it. He is only 
 six, and he is quite well." 
 
 The Major shook his head. "He is very well, but 
 I have seen when a few hours changed all that," he 
 said. "We cannot keep him much longer. At his
 
 MADONNA MARY. 23 
 
 age, you know; all the little Ilesketlis go at four — I 
 think " 
 
 "All," said Mary, "the Ilesketlis have nothing to 
 do with it; they have floods and floods of children, — 
 they don't know what it is; they can do without their 
 little things; but I — Hugh, I am tired — I am not 
 able for any more. Let me off for to-day." 
 
 Major Ochtcrlony regarded his wife with calm in- 
 dulgence, and smoothed her hair oft' her hot forehead 
 as he stooped to kiss her. "If you only would call 
 things by the same names as other people, and say 
 you have a headache, my dear," he said, in his caress- 
 ing way. And then he was so good as to leave her, 
 saying to himself as he went away that his Mary too 
 had a little temper, though nobody gave her credit for 
 it. Instead of annoying him, this little temper on 
 Mary's part rather pleased her husband. When it came 
 on he could be indulgent to her and pet her, which he 
 liked to do; and then he could feel the advantage on 
 his own side, which was not always the case. His 
 heart quite swelled over her as he went away; so good, 
 and so wise, and so fair, and yet not without that wo- 
 manly weakness Avliich it was sweet for a man to pro- 
 tect and pardon and put up with. Perhaps all men 
 are not of the same Avay of thinking; but then Major 
 Ochterlony reasoned only in his own way. 
 
 Mary stayed behind, and found it very difficult 
 to occupy herself with anything. It was not temper, 
 according to the ordinary meaning of the word. She 
 was vexed, disturbed, disquieted, rather than angry. 
 When she took up the pleasant letter in which the 
 English breezes were blowing, and the leaves rustling, 
 she could no longer keep her attention from wandering.
 
 24 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 She began it a dozen times, and as often gave it up 
 again, driven by the importunate thoughts which took 
 her mind by storm, and thrust everything else away. 
 As if it were not enough to have one great annoyance 
 suddenly overwhelming her, she had the standing terror 
 of her life, the certainty that she should have to send 
 her children away, thrown in to make up. She could 
 have cried, had that been of any use; but Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony had had good occasion to cry many times in her 
 life, which takes away the inclination at less important 
 moments. The worst of all was that her husband's 
 oft-repeated suggestion struck at the very roots of her 
 existence, and seemed to throw everything of which 
 she had been most sure into sudden ruin. She would 
 put no faith in it — pay no attention to it, she said 
 to herself; and then , in spite of herself, she found that 
 she paid great attention, and coiild not get it out of 
 her mind. The only character in which she knew her- 
 self — in which she had ever been known — was that 
 of a wife. There are some women — nay, many wo- 
 men — who have felt their own independent standing 
 before they made the first great step in a woman's life, 
 and who are able to realize their own identity without 
 associating it for ever with that of any other. But as 
 for Mary, she had married, as it were, out of the 
 nursery, and except as Hugh Ochterlony's wife, and 
 his son's mother, she did not know herself. In such 
 circumstances, it may be imagined what a bewildering 
 eflPect any doubt about her marriage would have upon 
 her. For the first time she began to think of herself, 
 and to see that she had been hardly dealt with. She 
 began to resent her guardian's carelessness, and to 
 blame even kind Aunt Agatha, who in those days was
 
 MADONNA MARY. 25 
 
 taken up with some faint love-affairs of her own, Avhioh 
 never came to anything. Why did not they see that 
 everything was right? Why did not Hugh make sure, 
 whose duty it was? After she had vexed herself with 
 such thoughts, she returned with natural inconsistency 
 to the conclusion that it was all one of the Major's 
 notions. This was the easiest way of getting rid of it, 
 and yet it was aggravating enough that the Major 
 should permit his restless fancy to enter such sacred 
 ground, and to play with the very foundations of their 
 life and honour. And as if that was not enough, to 
 talk at the end of it all of sending Hugh away! 
 
 Perhaps it would have been good for Mary if she 
 had taken her husband's advice and lain down, and 
 sent over to Miss Sorbette for a novel. But she was 
 rebellious and excited, and would not do it. It was 
 true that they were engaged out to dinner that night, 
 and that when the hour came Mrs. Ochterlouy entered 
 Mrs. Hesketh's drawing-room with her usual composure, 
 and without any betrayal of the agitation that was still 
 smouldering within. But that did not make it any 
 easier for her. There was nobody more respected, as 
 people say, in the station than she was — and to 
 think that it was possible that such a thing might 
 be, as that she should be humiliated and pulled 
 down from her fair elevation among all those wo- 
 men! Neither the Major nor any man had a right 
 to have notions upon a matter of such importance. 
 Mary tried hard to calm herself down to her ordinary 
 tranquillity, and to represent to herself how good he 
 was, and how small a drawback after all were those 
 fidgets of his, in comparison with the faults of most 
 other men. Just as he represented to himself, with
 
 26 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 more success, how trifling a disadvantage was the "little 
 temper" which gave him the privilege now and then, 
 of feeling tenderly superior to his wife. But the at- 
 tempt was not successful that day in Mrs. Ochterlony's 
 mind; for after all there are some things too sacred for 
 discussion, and with which the most fidgety man in 
 the world cannot be permitted to play. Such was the 
 result of the first conversation upon this startling sub- 
 ject. The Major found himself very tolerably at his 
 case, having relieved his mind for the moment, and 
 enjoyed his dinner and spent a very pleasant evening; 
 but as for Madonna Mary, she might have prejudiced 
 her serene character in the eyes of the regiment had 
 the veil been drawn aside only for a moment, and 
 could anybody have seen or guessed the whirl of 
 thoughts that was passing through her uneasy mind. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The present writer has already lamented her in- 
 ability to convey to the readers of this history any 
 clear account of an Indian bungalow, or the manner 
 in which life goes on in that curious kind of English 
 home: so that it would be vain to attempt any detailed 
 description of Mary Ochterlony's life at this period of 
 her career. She lived very much as all the others lived, 
 and gave a great deal of attention to her two little boys, 
 and wrote regularly by every mail to her friends in 
 England, and longed for the days when the mail came in, 
 though the interest of her correspondence was not ab- 
 sorbing. All this she did like everybody else, though
 
 MADONNA MARY. 27 
 
 tlie otlier ladies at the station had perhaps more people 
 helonging- to them, and a larger nnmher of letters, and 
 got more good of the eagerly looked-for mail. And 
 slie read all the hooks she could come by, even ]\[iss 
 Sorbette's novels, which were indeed the chief literary 
 nourishment of the station; and took her due share in 
 society, and was generally very popular, though not 
 so superior as Miss Sorbette for example, nor of re- 
 markable jiiety like Mrs. Kirkman, nor nearly so well 
 off as ]\[rs. Hesketh. Perhaps these three ladies, who 
 were the natural leaders of society, liked Mary all the 
 better because she did not come in direct contact with 
 tlieir claims; though if it had ever entered into Mrs. 
 Ochterlony's head to set up a distinct standard, no 
 doubt the masses would have flocked to it, and the 
 peace of the station might have been put in jeopardy. 
 Bat as no such ambitious project was in her mind, 
 ]\Iary kept her popularity with everybody, and gained 
 besides that character of "She could an if she would," 
 which goes a great deal farther than the limited repu- 
 tation of any actual achievement. She was very good 
 to the new people, the young people, the recent ar- 
 rivals, and managed to make them feel at home sooner 
 than anybody else could, which was a very useful gift 
 in such a society; and then a wife who bore her hus- 
 band's fidgets so serenely was naturally a model and 
 example for all the new wives. 
 
 "I am sure nobody else in the station could do so 
 well," Mrs. Kirkman said. "The most experienced 
 Christian would find it a trying task. But tlien some 
 people are so mercifully fitted for their position in life. 
 I don't think she feels it as you or I should." This 
 was said, not as implying that little Mrs. Askoll — to
 
 28 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 whom, the words were ostensibly addressed — had 
 peculiarly sensitive feelings, or was in any way to bo 
 associated with the Colonel's wife, but only because it 
 was a favourite way Mrs.Kirkman had of bringing herself 
 down to her audience, and uniting herself, as it were, 
 to ordinary humanity; for if there was one thing more 
 than another for which she was distinguished, it was 
 her beautiful Christian humility, and this was the sense 
 in which she now spoke. 
 
 "Please don't say so," cried the ensign's wife, who 
 was an unmanageable, eighteen-year-old, half- Irish 
 creature. "I am sure she has twenty thousand times 
 more feeling than you and — than both of us put to- 
 gether. It's because she is real good; and the Major 
 is an old dear. He is a fidget and he's awfully ag- 
 gravating, and he puts one in a passion; but he's an 
 old dear, and so you woixld say if you knew him as 
 well as I." 
 
 Mrs. Kirkman regarded the creature by her side, 
 as may be supposed, with the calm contempt which her 
 utterance merited. She looked at her, out of those 
 "down-dropt," half-veiled eyes, with that look which 
 everybody in the station knew so well, as if she were 
 looking down from an infinite distance with a serene 
 surprise which was too far off and elevated to partake 
 of the nature of disgust. If she knew him as well as 
 this baby did! But the Colonel's wife did not take 
 any notice of the audacious suggestion. It was her 
 duty, instead of resenting the impertinence to her- 
 self, to improve the occasion for the offender's own 
 sake. 
 
 "My dear, there is nobody really good," said Mrs. 
 Kirkman. "We have the highest authority for that.
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 29 
 
 I wish I could think dear Mary was possessed of the 
 true secret of a higher life; but she has so much of 
 that natural amiability, you know, which is, of all 
 things, the most dangerous for the soul. I would rather, 
 for my part, she was not so 'good' as you say. It is 
 all filthy rags," said Mrs. Kirkman, with a sigh. "It 
 might be for the good of her soul to be brought low, 
 and forced to abandon these refuges of lies — - — ^" 
 
 Upon which the little Irish wild-Indian blazed up 
 with natural fury. 
 
 "I don't believe she ever told a lie in her life. 
 I'll swear to all the lies she tells," cried the foolish 
 little woman; "and as for rags — it's horrible to talk 
 so. If you only knew — if you only could think — 
 how kind she was to me!" 
 
 For this absurd little hapless child had had a baby, 
 as might have been expected, and would have been in 
 rags indeed, and everything that is miserable, but for 
 Mary, who had taken her in hand; and being not 
 much more than a baby herself, and not strong yet, 
 and having her heart in her mouth, so to speak, she 
 burst out crying, as might have been expected too. 
 
 This was a result which her companion had not in 
 the least calculated upon, for Mrs. Kirkman, notwith- 
 standing her belief in Mary's insensibility, had not 
 very lively feelings, and was not quick at divining 
 other people. But she was a good woman notwith- 
 standing all her talk. She came down off" her moiintain 
 top, and soothed her little visitor, and gave her a glass 
 of wine, and even kissed her, to make matters up. 
 
 "I know she has a way, when people are sick," 
 said the Colonel's wife; and then, after that confession.
 
 30 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 she sighed again. "If only she does not put her trust 
 in her own works," Mrs. Kirkman added. 
 
 For, to tell the ti-uth, the Chaplain of the regiment 
 was not (as she thought) a spiritual-minded man, and 
 the Colouel's wife was troubled by an abiding con- 
 sciousness that it was into her hands that Providence 
 had committed the souls of the station. "Which was 
 an awful responsibility for a sinful creature," she said, 
 in her letters home-, "and one that required constant 
 watch over herself." 
 
 Perhaps, in a slightly different way, Mrs. Ochterlony 
 would have been similarly put down and defended in 
 the other two centres of society at the station. "She 
 is intelligent," Miss Sorbette said; "I don't deny that 
 she is intelligent-, but I w6uld not say she was superior. 
 She is fond of reading, but then most people are fond 
 of reading, when it's amusing, you know. She is a 
 little too like Amelia in 'Vanity Fair.' She is one of 
 the sweet women. In a general way, I can't bear 
 sweet women-, but I must confess she is the very best 
 specimen I ever saw." 
 
 As for Mrs. Hesketh, her opinion was not much 
 worth stating in words. If she had any fault to find 
 with Mrs. Ochterlony, it was because Mary had some- 
 times a good deal of trouble in making the two ends 
 meet. "I cannot endure people that are always having 
 anxieties," said the rich woman of the station, who had 
 an idea that everybody could be comfortable if they 
 liked, and that it was an offence to all his neighbours 
 when a man insisted on being poor-, but at the same 
 time everybody knew that she was very fond of Mary. 
 This had been the general opinion of her for all these 
 years, and naturally Mrs. Ochterlony was used to it,
 
 MADONNA MARY. 31 
 
 and, without being at all vain on the subject, had that 
 sense uf the atmosphere of general esteem and regaid 
 which surrounded her, which has a favourable influence 
 upon every character, and which did a great deal to 
 give her the sweet composure and serenity for which 
 she was famed. 
 
 But from the time of that first conversation with 
 her husband, a change came upon the Madonna of the 
 station. It was not perceptible to the general vision, 
 yet there were individual eyes which foiind out that 
 something was the matter, though nobody could tell 
 what. JMrs. Hesketh thought it was an attack of fever 
 coming on, and Mrs. Kirkmau hoped that Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony was beginning to occupy herself about her spiritual 
 state; and the one recommended quinine to Mary, and 
 the other sent her sermons, which, to tell the truth, 
 were not much more suitable to her case. But Mary 
 did not take any of the charitable friends about her 
 into her confidence. She went about among them as 
 a prince might have gone about in his court, or a chief 
 among his vassals, after hearing in secret that it was 
 possible that one day he may be discovered to be an 
 impostor. Or, if not that, — for Mary knew that she 
 never could be found out an impostor, — at least, that 
 such a charge was hanging over her head, and that 
 somebody might believe it; and that her history would 
 be discussed and her name get into people's mouths 
 and her claims to their regard be questioned. It was 
 very hard upon her to think that such a thing was 
 possible with composure, or to contemplate her hus- 
 band's restless ways, and to recollect the indiscreet con- 
 fidences which he was in the habit of making. He 
 had spoken to Colonel Kirkman about it, and even
 
 32 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 quoted his advice about tlie marriage lines; and Mary 
 could not but think (though in this point she did the 
 Colonel injustice) that Mrs. Kii-knian too must know; 
 and tlien, with a man of Major Ochterlony's tempera- 
 ment, nobody could make sure that he would not take 
 young Askell, the ensign, or any other boy in the 
 station, into his confidence, if he should happen to be 
 in the way. All this was very galling to Mary, who 
 had so high an appreciation of the credit and honour 
 Avhich, up to this moment, she had enjoyed; and who 
 felt that she would rather die than come down to be 
 discussed and pitied and talked about among all these 
 people. She thought in her disturbed and uneasy 
 mind, that she could already hear all the different 
 tones in which they would say, "Poor Mary!" and all 
 the wonders, and doubts, and inquiries that would rise 
 up round her. Mrs. Kirkman would have said that all 
 these were signs that her pride wanted humbling, and 
 that the thing her friends should pray for, should be 
 some startling blow to lead her back to a better state 
 of mind. But naturally this was a kind of discipline 
 which for herself, or indeed for anybody else, Mary 
 was not far enough advanced to desire. 
 
 Perhaps, however, it was partly true about the 
 pride. Mrs. Ochterlony did not say anything about it, 
 but she locked the door of her own room the next 
 morning after that talk with the Major, and searched 
 through all her repositories for those "marriage lines," 
 which no doubt she had put away somewhere, and 
 which she had naturally forgotten all about for years. 
 It was equally natural, and to be expected, that she 
 should not find them. She looked through all her 
 papers, and letters, and little sacred corners, and found
 
 MADONNA MARY. 33 
 
 many things that filled her heart Avith sadness and her 
 eyes with tears — for she had not come through those 
 ten years without leaving traces behind her where her 
 heart had been wounded and had bled by the way — 
 but she did not find what she was in search of. She 
 tried hai"d to look back and think, and to go over in 
 her mind the contents of her little school-girl desk, 
 which she had left at Aimt Agatha's cottage, and the 
 little work-table, and the secretary with all its drawers. 
 But she could not recollect anything about it, nor 
 where she had put it, nor what could have become of 
 it; and the effect of her examination was to give her, 
 this time in reality, a headache, and to make her eyes 
 heavy and her heart sore. But she did not say a 
 syllable about her search to the Major, who was (as, 
 indeed, he always was) as anxiously affectionate as a 
 man could be, and became (as he always did) when he 
 found his wife suffering, so elaborately noiseless and 
 still, that Mary ended by a good fit of laughing, which 
 was of the greatest possible service to her. 
 
 "When you are so quiet, you worry me, Hugh," 
 she said. "I am used to hear you moving about." 
 
 "My dear, I hope I am not such a brute as to 
 move about when you are suffering," her husband 
 replied. And though his mind had again begun to 
 fill with the dark thoughts that had been the occasion 
 of all Mary's annoyance, he restrained himself with a 
 heroic effort, and did not say a syllable about it all 
 that night. 
 
 But this was a height of virtue which it was quite 
 impossible any merely mortal powers could keep up to. 
 He began to make mysterious little broken speeches 
 next day, and to stop short and to say, "My darling, 
 
 Madonna Maia. I. 3
 
 34 MADONNA MAllY. 
 
 I mustn't worry you^'' aud to sigh like a furnace, and to 
 worry Mary to such an extremity that her difficulty in 
 keeping her temper and patience grew indescribable. 
 And then, when he had afflicted her in this way till it 
 was impossible to go any further — when he had be- 
 trayed it to her in every look, in every step, in every 
 breath he drew — which was half a sigh — and in 
 every restless movement he made; and when Mrs. 
 Ochterlony, who could not sleep for it, nor rest, nor 
 get any relief from the torture, had two red lines 
 round her eyes, and was all but out of her senses — 
 the stream burst forth at last, and the Major spoke: 
 
 "You remember, perhaps, Mary, what we were 
 talking of the other day," he said, in an insidiously 
 gentle way, one morning, early — when they had still 
 the long, long day before them to be miserable in. 
 "I thought it very important, but perhaps you may 
 have forgot — about old Sommerville who died?" 
 
 "Forgot!" said Mary. She felt it was coming now, 
 and was rather glad to have it over. "I don't know 
 how I could forget, Hugh. What you said would have 
 made one recollect anything; but you cannot make old 
 Sommerville come alive again, whatever you do." 
 
 "My dear, I spoke to you about some — about 
 a — paper," said the Major. "Lines — that is what 
 the Scotch call them — though, I daresay, they're 
 very far from being poetry. Perhaps you have found 
 them, Mary?" said Major Ochterlony, looking into her 
 face in a pleading way, as if he prayed her to answer 
 yes. And it was with difficulty that she kept as calm 
 as she wished to do, aud answered without letting him 
 see the agitation and excitement in her mind. 
 
 "I don't know where I have put them," Hugh
 
 MADONNA MARV. 35 
 
 she said, with a natural evasion, and in a low voice. 
 She did not acknowledge having looked for them, 
 and having failed to find them; but in spite of herself, 
 she answered with a certain humility, as of a woman 
 culpable. For, after all, it was her fault. 
 
 "You don't know where you put them?" said the 
 Major, with rising horror. "Have you the least idea 
 how important they are? They may be the saving of 
 you and of your children, and you don't know where 
 you have put them! Then it is all as I feared," Major 
 Ochterlony added, with a groan, "and everything is lost." 
 
 "What is lost?" said Mary. "You speak to me 
 in riddles, Hugh. I know I put them somewhere — 
 I must have put them somewhere safe. They are, most 
 likely, in my old desk at home, or in one of the 
 drawers of the secretary," said Mary calmly, giving 
 those local specifications with a certainty which she was 
 far from feeling. As for the Major, he was arrested by 
 the circumstance which made her faint hope and sup- 
 position look somehow like truth. 
 
 "If I could hope that that was the case," he said; 
 "but it can't be the case, Mary. You never were at 
 home after we were married — you forget that. We 
 went to Earlston for a day, and we went to your 
 guardian's; but never to Aunt Agatha. You are mak- 
 ing a mistake, my dear; and God bless me, to think 
 of it, what would become of you if anything were to 
 happen to me?" 
 
 "I hope there is nothing going to happen to you; 
 but I don't think in that case it would matter what be- 
 came of me," said Mary in utter depression; for by this 
 time she was worn out. 
 
 "You think so now, my love; but you would be 
 
 3*
 
 3G MADONNA MARY. 
 
 obliged to think otherwise ," said Major Ochterloiiy. 
 "I hope I'm all right for many a year; but a man can 
 never tell. And the insurance, and pension, and every- 
 thing — ■ and Earlston, if my brother should leave it 
 to us — all your future, my darling. I think it will 
 drive me distracted," said the Major, not a witness nor 
 a proof left!" 
 
 Mary could make no answer. She was quite over- 
 whelmed by the images thus called before her; for her 
 part, the pension and the insurance money had no mean- 
 ing to her ears; but it is difficult not to put a cer- 
 tain faith in it when a man speaks in such a circum- 
 stantial way of things that can only happen after his death. 
 
 "You have been talking to the doctor, and he 
 has been putting things into your head," she said 
 faintly. "It is cruel to torture me so. We know very 
 well how we were married, and all about it, and so do 
 our friends, and it is cruel to try to make me think 
 of anything happening. There is nobody in the regi- 
 ment so strong and well as you are," she continued, 
 taking courage a little. She thought to herself he 
 looked, as people say, the picture of health, as he sat 
 beside her, and she began to recover out of her pro- 
 stration. As for spleen or liver, or any of those uncom- 
 fortable attributes. Major Ochterlony, up to this moment, 
 had not known whether he possessed them — which 
 was a most re-assuring thought, naturally, for his anx- 
 ious wife. 
 
 "Thank God," said the Major with a little solem- 
 nity. It was not that he had any presentiment, or 
 thought himself likely to die early; but simply that he 
 was in a pathetic way, and had a naif and innocent 
 pleasure in deepening his effects; and then he took to
 
 MADONNA MARY. 37 
 
 walking about the room in his nervous manner. After 
 a while he came to a dead stop before his wife, and 
 took both her hands into his. 
 
 "Mary," he said, "I know it's an idea that you 
 don't like; but, for my peace of mind; suppose — just 
 suppose for the sake of supposing — that I was to die 
 now, and leave you without a word to prove your 
 claims. It would be ten times worse than death, Mary ; 
 but I could die at peace if you Avould only make one 
 little sacrifice to my peace of mind." 
 
 "Oh, Hugh, don't kill me — you are not going to 
 die," was all Mary could say. 
 
 "No, my darling, not if I can help it; but if 
 it were only for my peace of mind. There's no 
 harm in it that I can see. It's ridiculous, you 
 know; but that's all, Mary," said the Major, looking 
 anxiously in her face. "Why, it is what hosts of 
 people do every day. It is the easiest thing to do — 
 a mere joke, for that matter. They will say, you 
 know, that it is like Ochterlony, and a piece of his 
 nonsense. I know how they talk; but never mind. 
 I know very well there is nothing else that you would 
 not do for my peace of mind. It will set your future 
 above all casualties, and it will be all over in half 
 an hour. For instance, Churchill says " 
 
 "You have spoken to Mr. Churchill, too?" said 
 Mary, with a thrill of despair. 
 
 "A man can never do any harm speaking to his 
 clergyman, I hope," the Major said, peevishly. "What 
 do you mean by ^oo? I've only mentioned it to Kirk- 
 man besides — I wanted his advice — and to Sorbette, 
 to explain that bad headache of yours. And they all 
 think I am perfectly right."
 
 38 MADONNA MAFwY. 
 
 Mary put her hands up to lier face, and gave a low 
 but bitter cry. She said nothing more — not a syl- 
 lable. She had already been dragged down without 
 knowing it, and set low among all these people. She 
 who deserved nothing but honour, who had done no- 
 thing to be ashamed of, who was the same Madonna 
 Mary whom they had all regarded as the "wisest, vir- 
 tuousest, discreetest, best." By this time they had all 
 begun to discuss her story, and to wonder if all had 
 been quite right at the beginning, and to say, "Poor 
 Mary!" She knew it as well as if she had heard tlie 
 buzz of talk in those three houses to which her husband 
 had confided his difficulty. It was a horrible torture, 
 if you will but think of it, for an innocent woman to 
 bear. 
 
 "It is not like you to make such a fuss aboiit so 
 simple a thing," said Major Ochterlony. "You know 
 ver}'^ well it is not myself but you I am thinking of; 
 that you may have everything in order, and your future 
 provided for, whatever may happen. It may be absurd, 
 you know; hut a woman mustn't mind being absurd to 
 please her husband. We'll ask our friends to step 
 over with us to church in the morning, and in half 
 an hour it will be all over. Don't cover your face, 
 Mary. It worries me not to see your face. God bless 
 me, it is nothing to make such a fuss about," said the 
 Major, getting excited. "I would do a great deal more, 
 any day, to please you." 
 
 "I would cut off my hand to please you," said 
 Mary, with perhaps a momentary extravagance in the 
 height of her passion. "You know there is no sacrifice 
 I would not make for you; but oh, Hugh, not this, 
 not this," she said, with a sob that startled him — one
 
 MADONNA MAKV. 39 
 
 of those sobs that tear iuul rend tlie hi'east they come 
 from, and have no accompaniment of tears. 
 
 His answer was to come up to her side, and take 
 the face wliich she had been covering, between his 
 hands, and kiss it as if it had been a child's. "My 
 darling, it is only this that will do me any good. It is 
 for my peace of mind," he said, with all that tender- 
 ness and effusion which made him the best of husbands. 
 He was so loving to her that, even in the bitterness of 
 the injury, it was hard for Mary to refuse to be soothed 
 and softened. He had got his way, and his unbounded 
 love and fondness surrounded her with a kind of at- 
 mosphere of tender enthusiasm. He knew so well there 
 was none like her, nobody fit to be put for a moment 
 in comjjarison with his Mary; and this was how her 
 fate was fixed for her, and the crisis came to an end. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "I AM going with you, Mary," said Mrs. Kirkman, 
 coming suddenly in upon the morning of the day which 
 was to give peace to Major Ochterlony's mind, and 
 cloud over with something like a shadow of shame (or 
 at least she tlioi;ght so) his wife's fair matron fame. 
 The Colonel's wife had put on her last white bonnet, 
 which was not so fresh as it had been at the beginning 
 of the season, and white gloves which were also a little 
 the worse for wear. ^Po be sure the marriage was 
 not like a real marriage, and nobody knew how the 
 unwilling bride would think proper to dress. Mrs. 
 Kirkman came in at a quicker pace than ordinaiy, 
 with her hair hanging half out of curl on either side of
 
 40 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 her face, as was always the case. She was fair, but of 
 a greyish complexion , with light blue eyes a fleur 
 de la tetCy which generally she kept half veiled within 
 their lids — a habit which was particularly aggravating 
 to some of the livelier spirits. She came in hastily 
 (for her), and found Mary seated disconsolate, and doing 
 nothing, which is, in such a woman, one of the saddest 
 signs of a mind disturbed. Mrs. Ochterlony sat, dropped 
 down upon a chair, with her hands listlessly clasped 
 in her lap, and a hot flush upon her cheek. She was 
 lost in a dreary contemplation of the sacrifice which 
 was about to be exacted from her, and of the possible 
 harm it might do. She was thinking of her children, 
 what effect it might have on them — and she was 
 thinking bitterly, that for good or evil she could not 
 help it; that again, as on many a previous occasion, 
 her husband's restless mind had carried the day over 
 her calmer judgment, and that there was no way of 
 changing it. To say that she consented with personal 
 pain of the most acute kind, would not be to say all. She 
 gave in, at the same time, with a foreboding utterly 
 indistinct, and which she would not have given utter- 
 ance to, yet which was strong enough to heighten into 
 actual misery the pain and shame of her position. When 
 Mrs. Kirkman came in, with her eyes full of observa- 
 tion, and making the keenest scrutiny from beneath the 
 downcast lids, Mrs. Ochterlony was not in a position 
 to hide her emotions. She was not crying, it is true, 
 for the circumstances were too serious for crying; but 
 it was not difficult to form an idea of her state of mind 
 from her strangely listless attitude, and the expression 
 of her face. 
 
 "I have come to go with you," said Mrs. Kirkman.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 41 
 
 "I thought you woultl like to have somebody to coun- 
 tenance you. It will make no difference to me , I 
 assure you, Mary 5 and both the Colonel and I think 
 if there is any doubt, you know, that it is by far the 
 wisest thing you could do. And I only hope " 
 
 "Doubt!" said Mary, lighting up for the moment. 
 "There is no more doubt than there is of all the mar- 
 riages made in Scotland. The people who go there 
 to be married are not married again afterwards that 
 I ever heard of. There is no doubt whatever — none 
 in the world. I beg your pardon. I am terribly 
 vexed and annoyed, and I don't know what I am say- 
 ing. To hear any one talk of doubt!" 
 
 "]My dear jMary, we know nothing but what the 
 Major has told us," said Mrs. Kirkman. "You may 
 depend upon it he has reason for what he is doing-, 
 and I do hope you will see a higher hand in it all, 
 and feel that you are being humbled for your good." 
 
 "I wish you would tell me how it can be for my 
 good," said Mrs. Ochterlony, "when even you, who 
 ought to know better, talk of doubt — you who have 
 known us all along from the very first. Hugh has 
 taken it into his head — that is the whole matter; and 
 you, all of you , know, when he takes a thing into his 
 head " 
 
 She had been hurried on to say this, by the rush 
 of her disturbed thoughts; but Mary was not a woman 
 to complain of her husband. She came to a sudden 
 standstill, and rose up, and looked at her watch. 
 
 "It is aboxit time to go," she said, "and I am sorry 
 to give you the trouble of going with me. It is not 
 worth while for so short a distance; but, at least, don't 
 say anything more about it, please."
 
 42 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Mrs. Kirkman liad already made the remark that 
 Mary was not at all "dressed." She had on her brown 
 muslin, which was the plainest morning dress in her 
 possession, as everybody knew; and instead of going 
 to her room, to make herself a little nice, she took iip 
 her bonnet, which was on the table, and tied it on 
 without even so much as looking into the glass. "I am 
 quite ready," .she said, when she had made this simple 
 addition to her dress, and stood there, looking every- 
 thing that was most unlike the Madonna of former 
 days — flushed and clouded over, with lines in her 
 forehead, and the corners of her mouth dropped, and 
 her fair large serene beauty hidden beneath the 
 thundercloud. And the Colonel's wife was very sorry 
 to see her friend in such a state of mind, as may be 
 supposed. 
 
 "My dear Mary," Mrs. Kirkman said, taking her 
 arm as they went out, and holding it fast. "I should 
 much wish to see you in a better frame of mind. Man 
 is only the instrument in OTir troubles. It must have 
 been that Providence saw you stood in need of it, my 
 dear. He knows best. It would not have been sent 
 if it had not been for your good." 
 
 "In that way, if I were to stand in the sun till I 
 got a sunstroke, it would still be for my good," said 
 Mary, in her anger. "You would say, it was God's 
 fault, and not mine. But I know it is mi/ fault; I 
 ought to have stood out and resisted, and I have not 
 had the strength; and it is not for good, but evil. It is 
 not God's fault, but ours. It can be for nobody's 
 good." 
 
 But after this, she would not say any more. Not 
 though Mrs. Kirkman was shocked at her way of speak-
 
 MADONNA MAKV. 43 
 
 ing, and took great pains to impress upon her tliat she 
 must have been doing or thinking something whicli 
 God punished by this means. "Your pride must have 
 wanted bringing down, my dear; as we all do, Mary, 
 both you and I," said the Colonel's wife; but then Mrs. 
 Ivirkman's humility was well known. 
 
 Thus they walked together to the chapel, whither 
 various wondei'ing people, who could not understand 
 what it meant, were straying. Major Ochterlony had 
 meant to come for his wife, but he was late, as he so 
 often was, and met them only near the chapel-door; 
 and then he did something which sent the last pang of 
 which it was capable to Mary's heart, though it was 
 only at a later period that she found it out. He found 
 his boy with the Hindoo nurse, and brought little 
 Hugh in, 'wildered and wondering. Mr. Churchill by 
 this time had put his surplice on, and all was ready. 
 Colonel Kirkman had joined his wife, and stood by her 
 .side behind the "couple," furtively grasping his grey 
 moustache, and looking out of a corner of his eyes at 
 the strange scene. Mrs. Kirkman, for her part, dropt 
 her eyelids as usual, and looked down upon Mary 
 kneeling at her feet, with a certain compassionate un- 
 certainty, sorry that Mrs. Ochterlony did not see this 
 trial to be for her good, and at the same time wonder- 
 ing within herself whether it had all been perfectly 
 right, or was not something more than a notion of the 
 Major's. Farther back Miss Sorbette, who was with 
 Annie Hesketh, was giving vent in a whisper to the 
 same sentiments. 
 
 "I am very sorry for poor Mary; but coiild it be 
 all qTiite right before?" Miss Sorbette was saying. 
 "A man does not take fright like that for nothing. We
 
 44 MADONKA MARY, 
 
 women are silly, and take fancies; but when a man 
 does it, you know " 
 
 And it was with such an accompaniment that Mary 
 knelt down, not looking like a Madonna, at her hus- 
 band's side. As for the Major, an air of serenity had 
 diffused itself over his handsome features. He knelt in 
 quite an easy attitude, pleased with himself, and not 
 displeased to be the centre of so interesting a group. 
 Mary's face was slightly averted from him, and was 
 burning with the same flush of indignation as when 
 Mrs. Kirkman found her in her own house. She had 
 taken off her bonnet and thrown it down by her side; 
 and her hair was shining as if in anger and resistance 
 to this fate, which, with closed mouth, and clasped 
 hands, and steady front, she was submitting to, though 
 it was almost as terrible as death. Such was the curious 
 scene upon which various subaltern members of society 
 at the station looked on with wondering eyes. And 
 little Hugh Ochterlony stood near his mother with 
 childish astonishment, and laid up the singular group 
 in his memory, without knowing very well what it 
 meant; but that was a sentiment shared by many per- 
 sons much more enlightened than the poor little boy, 
 who did not know how much influence this mysterious 
 transaction might have upon his own fate. 
 
 The only other special feature was that Mary, with 
 the corners of her mouth turned down, and her whole 
 soul wound up to obstinacy, would not call herself by 
 any name but Mary Ochterlony. They persuaded her, 
 painfully, to put her long disused maiden name upon 
 the register, and kind Mr. Churchill shut his ears to it 
 in the service; but yet it was a thing that everybody 
 remarked. When all was over, nobody knew how they
 
 MADONNA :\rARV. 45 
 
 were expected to behave, whether to congratulate the 
 pair, or whether to disappear and hohl their tongues, 
 Avhich seemed in fact the wisest way. But no popular 
 assembly ever takes the wisest way of working. Mr. 
 ('hurchill was the first to decide the action of the party. 
 He descended the altar steps, and shook hands with 
 Mary, who stood tying her bonnet, with still the corners 
 of her mouth turned down, and that feverish flush on 
 her cheeks. He was a good man, though not spiritually- 
 minded in Mrs. Kirkman's opinion; and he felt the 
 duty of softening and soothing his flock as much as 
 that of teaching them , which is sometimes a great deal 
 less difficult. He came and shook hands with her, 
 gravely and kindly. 
 
 "I don't see that I need congratulate you, Mrs. 
 Ochterlony," he said, "I don't suppose it makes much 
 difference; but you know you ahvays have all our best 
 wishes." And he cast a glance over his audience, and 
 reproved by that glance the question that was circulat- 
 ing among them. But to tell the truth, Mrs. Kirkmau 
 and Miss Sorbette paid very little attention to Mr. 
 Churchill's looks. 
 
 "My dear Mary, you have kept up very well, 
 though I am sure it must have been tiyiug," Mrs. Kirk- 
 man said. "Once is bad enough; but I am sure you 
 will see a good end in it at the last.'' 
 
 And while she spoke she allowed a kind of silent 
 interrogation, from her half- veiled eyes, to steal over 
 ^[ary, and investigate her from head to foot. Had it 
 been all right before? Might not this perhaps be in 
 reality the first time, the once which was bad enough? 
 The question crept over ^Irs. Ochterlony, from the 
 I'oots of her haii- down to her feet, and examined her
 
 46 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 curiously to find a response. The answer was plain 
 enough, and yet it was not plain to the ColoneFs wife; 
 for she knew that the heai't is deceitful above all 
 things, and that where human nature is considered it 
 is always safest to believe the worst. 
 
 Miss Sorbette came forward too in her turn, with a 
 grave face. "I am sure you must feel more com- 
 fortable after it, and I am so glad you have had the 
 moral courage," the doctor's sister said, with a certain 
 solemnity. But perhaps it was Annie Ilesketh, in her 
 innocence, who was the worst of all. She advanced 
 timidly, with her face in a blaze, like Mary's own, not 
 knowing where to look, and lost in ingenuous embar- 
 rassment. 
 
 "Oh, dear Mrs. Ochterlony, I don't know what to 
 say," said Annie. "I am so sorry, and I hope you 
 will always be very, very happy, and mamma couldn't 
 
 come " Here she stopped short, and looked up 
 
 with candid eyes, that asked a hundred questions. And 
 Mary's reply was addressed to her alone. 
 
 "Tell your mamma, Annie, that I am glad she 
 could not come," said the injured wife. "It was very 
 kind of her." When she had said so much, Mrs. 
 Ochterlony turned round, and saw her boy standing 
 by, looking at her. It was only then that she turned 
 to the husband to whom she had just renewed her troth. 
 She looked full at him, with a look of indignation and 
 dismay. It was the last drop that made the cvtp run 
 over; but then, what was the good of saying anything? 
 That final prick, however, brought her to herself. She 
 shook hands with all the people afterwards, as if they 
 were dispersing after an ordinary service, and took 
 little Hugh's hand and went home as if nothing had
 
 MADONNA MARY. 47 
 
 happened. She left the Major behind her, and took no 
 notice of him, and did not even, as yonng Askell re- 
 marked, offer a glass of wine to the assistants at the 
 ceremony, but went home with her little boy, talking 
 to him, as she did on Sundays going home from church ; 
 and everybody stood and looked after her, as might 
 have been expected. She knew they were looking 
 after her, and saying "Poor Mary!" and wondering 
 after all if there must not have been a very seriovis 
 cause for this re-marriage. Mary thought to herself 
 that she knew as well what they were saying as if she 
 had been among them, and yet she was not entirely so 
 correct in her ideas of what was going on as she 
 thought. 
 
 In the first place, she could not have imagined how 
 a moment could undo all the fair years of unblemished 
 life which she had passed among them. She did not 
 really believe that they would doubt her honour, al- 
 though she herself felt it clouded; and at the same time 
 she did not know the curious compromise between 
 cruelty and kindness, which is all that their Christian 
 feelings can effect in many commonplace minds, yet 
 Avhich is a great deal when one comes to think of it, 
 Mrs. Kirkman, arguing from the foundation of the 
 desperate wickedness of the human heart, had gradually 
 reasoned herself into the belief that Mary had deceived 
 her, and had never been truly an honourable wife ; but 
 notwithstanding this conclusion, which in the abstract 
 would have made her cast off the culprit with utter 
 disdain, the Colonel's wife paused, and was moved, 
 almost in spite of herself, by the spirit of that faith 
 which she so often wrapped up and smothered in dis- 
 guising talk. She did not believe in Mary; but she did,
 
 48 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 in a wordy, defective way, in Hiin wlio was tlie son 
 of a woman, and who came not to condemn; and she 
 could not find it in her heart to cast off the sinner. 
 Perhaps if Mrs. Ochterlony had known this divine 
 reason for her friend's charity, it would have struck a 
 deeper blow than any other indignity to which she had 
 been subjected. In all her bitter thoughts, it never 
 occuiTed to her that her neighbour stood by her as 
 thinking of those Marys who once wept at the Saviour's 
 feet. Heaven help the poor Madonna, whom all the 
 world had heretofore honoured! In all her thoughts 
 she never went so far as that. 
 
 The ladies waited a little, and sent away Annie 
 Hesketh, who was too young for scenes of this sort, 
 though her mamma was so imprudent, and themselves 
 laid hold of Mr. Churchill, when the other gentlemen 
 had dispersed. Mr. Churchill was one of those mild 
 missionaries who turn one's thoughts involuntarily to 
 that much-abused, yet not altogether despicable institu- 
 tion of a celibate clergy. He was far from being 
 celibate, poor man ! He, or at least his wife, had such 
 a succession of babies as no man could number. They 
 had children at "home" in genteel asylums for the 
 sons and daughters of the clergy, and they had children 
 in the airiest costume at the station, whom people were 
 kind to, and who were waiting their chance of being 
 sent "home" too; and withal, there were always more 
 arriving, whom their poor papa received with a mild 
 despair. For his part, he was not one of the happy 
 men who held appointments under the beneficent rule 
 of the Company, nor was he a regimental chaplain. 
 He was one of that hapless band who are always 
 "doing duty" for other and better-oflP people. He was
 
 MADOJMISA MAKV. 49 
 
 almost too old uow (though he was not old), and too 
 much hampered and overlaid by children, to have mvTch 
 liope of anything- better than "doing duty" all the rest 
 of his life; and the condition of Mrs. Churchill, Avho 
 had generally need of neighbourly help, and of the 
 children, who were chiefly clothed — such clothing as 
 it was — by the bounty of the Colonel's and Major's 
 and Captain's wives, somehow seemed to give these 
 ladies the upper hand of their temporary pastor. He 
 managed well enough among the men, who respected 
 his goodness, and recognised him to be a gentleman, 
 notwithstanding liis poverty, but he stood in terror of 
 the women, who were more disposed to interfere, and 
 who were kind to his family and patronized bimself. 
 He tried Lard on this occasion, as on many others, to 
 escape, but he was hemmed in, and no outlet was left 
 him. If he had been a celibate brother, there can be 
 little doubt it would have been he who would have had 
 the upjier hand-, but with all his family burdens and 
 social obligations, the despotism of the ladies of his 
 flock came hard upon the poor clergyman; all the more 
 that, poor though he was, and accustomed to humilia- 
 tions, he had not learned yet to dispense with the 
 luxury of feelings and delicacies of his own. 
 
 "]\L'. Churchill, do give us your advice," said Miss 
 Sorbette, who was first. "Do tell us what all this 
 means? They surely must have told you at least the 
 rights of it. Do you think they have really never been 
 married all this time? Goodness gracious me! to think 
 of us all receiving her, and ])etting her, and calling her 
 Madonna, and all that, if tliis sliould be true! Do you 
 think " 
 
 "I don't think anything but what Major Ocbterlony 
 iladomw. Marij. I. 4
 
 50 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 told me," said Mr. Clmrcliill, witli a little empliasis. 
 "I have not tlie least doubt he told me the truth. The 
 witnesses of their marriage are dead, and that wretched 
 place at Gretna was burnt down, and he is afraid that 
 his wife would have no means of proving her marriage 
 in case anything happened to him. I don't know what 
 reason there can be to suppose that Major Ochterlony, 
 who is a Christian and a gentleman, said anything that 
 was not true." 
 
 "My dear Mr. Clmrchill," said Mrs. Kirkman, with 
 a sigh, "you are so charitable. If one could but hope 
 that the poor dear Major was a true Christian, as you 
 say. But one has no evidence of any vital change in 
 his case. And, dear Mary! — I have made up my 
 mind for one thing, that it shall make no difference to 
 me. Other people can do as they like, but so far as I 
 am concerned, I can but think of our Divine Example," 
 said the Colonel's wife. It was a real sentiment, and 
 she meant well, and was actually thinking as well as 
 talking of that Divine Example-, but still somehow 
 the words made the blood run cold in the poor priest's 
 veins. 
 
 "What can you mean, Mrs. Kirkman?" he said. 
 " Mrs. Ochterlony is as she always was, a person whom 
 we all may be proud to know." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Miss Sorbette, who interrupted 
 them both without any ceremony, "but that is not 
 what I am asking. As for his speaking the truth as a 
 Christian and a gentleman, I don't give much weight 
 to that. If he has been deceiving us for all these 
 years, you may be sure he would not stick at a fib to 
 end off with. What is one to do? I don't believe 
 it can have ever been a good marriage, for my part."
 
 MADONNA MARY. 51 
 
 This was the issue to which she had come by dint 
 of thinking it over and discussing it; although the 
 doctor's sister, like the Colonel's wife, had got up that 
 morning with the impression that Major Ochterlony's 
 fidgets had finally driven him out of his senses, and 
 that Maiy was the most ill-used woman in the world. 
 
 "And I believe exactly the contrary," said the 
 clergyman, with some heat. "I believe in an honour- 
 able man and a pure-minded woman. I had rather 
 give up work altogether than reject such an obvious 
 truth." 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Churchill," Mrs. Kirkman said again, 
 "we must not rest in these vain appearances. We are 
 all vile creatures, and the heart is deceitful above all 
 things. I do fear that you are taking too charitable a 
 view." 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Churchill, but perhaps he made a 
 different application of the words; "I believe that about 
 the heart; biit then it shows its wickedness generally 
 in a sort of appropriate, individual way. I daresay 
 they have their thorns in the flesh, like the rest; but it 
 is not falsehood and wantonness that are their besetting 
 sins," said the poor man, with a plainness of speech 
 which put his hearers to the blush. 
 
 "Goodness gracious! remember that you are talking 
 to ladies, Mr. Churchill," Miss Sorbette said, and put 
 down her veil. It was not a fact he was very likely 
 to forget; and then he put on his hat as they left the 
 chapel, and hoped he was now free to go upon his 
 way. 
 
 "Stop a minute, please," said Miss Sorbette. "I 
 should like to know what course of action is going to 
 
 4*
 
 52 MADONI^IA MAliY. 
 
 be decided on. I am very sorry for Mary, but so long 
 as her character remains under this doubt ^" 
 
 "It shall make no difference tome," said Mrs. Kiik- 
 man. "I don't pretend to regulate anybody's actions, 
 Sabina; but when one thinks of Mary of Bethany! She 
 may have done wrong, but I hope this occurrence will 
 be blessed to her soul. I felt sure she wanted some- 
 thing to bring her low, and make her feel her need," 
 the Colonel's wife added, with solemnity; "and it is 
 such a lesson for us all. In other circumstances, the 
 same thing might have happened to you or me." 
 
 "It could never have happened to me," said Miss 
 Sorbette, with sudden wrath; which was a fortunate 
 diversion for Mr. Churchill. This was how her friends 
 discussed her after Mary had gone away from her se- 
 cond wedding; and perhaps they were harder upon her 
 than she had supposed even in her secret thoughts. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 But the worst of all to Mrs. Ochterlony was that 
 little Hugh had been there — Hugh, who was six 
 years old, and so intelligent for his age. The child 
 was very anxious to know what it meant, and why she 
 knelt by his father's side while all the other people 
 were standing. Was it something particular they were 
 praying for, wliich Mrs. Kirkman and the rest did not 
 want? Mary satisfied him as she best could, and by- 
 and-by he forgot, and began to play with his little 
 brother as usual; but his mother knew that so strange 
 a scene could not fail to leave some impression. She
 
 MADONNA MART. 53 
 
 sat by herself tliat long clay, avoiding ber husband for 
 perhaps the first time in ber life, and imagining a 
 hundred possibilities to herself. It seemed to her as if 
 everybody who ever heard of her henceforth must hear 
 of this, and as if she miist go through the world with 
 a continual doubt upon her; and Mary's weakness was 
 to prize fair reputation and spotless honour above every- 
 thing in the world. Perhaps Mrs. Kirkman was not so 
 far wrong after all, and there was a higher meaning in 
 the unlooked-for blow that thus struck her at her 
 tenderest point; but that was an idea she coiild not re- 
 ceive. She could not think that God had anything to 
 do with her husband's foolish restlessness, and her own 
 impatient suVimission. It was a great deal more like 
 a malicious devil's work, than anything a beneficent 
 ))r()vidence could have arranged. This way of thinking 
 was far from bringing ]\Iary any consolation or solace, 
 Itut still there was a certain reasonableness in her 
 thoughts. And then an indistinct foreboding of harm 
 to her children, she did not know what, or how to be 
 l)rought aboiit, weiglied upon Mary's mind. She kept 
 looking at them as they played beside her, and think- 
 ing how, in the far future, the meaning of that scene 
 he had been a witness to might flash into Hugh's mind 
 when he was a man, and throw a bewildering doubt 
 upon his mother's name, which perhaps she might not 
 be living to clear up; and these ideas stung her like 
 a nest of serj)ents, each waking up and darting its 
 venom to her heart at a separate moment. She had 
 been very sad and very sorry many a time before in 
 lier life, — she had tasted all the iisual sufferings 
 of humanity; and yet she had never been what may 1)e 
 called unhap2>y f tortiired from within and without, dis-
 
 54 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 satisfied with herself and every thing about her. Major 
 Ochterlony was in every sense of the word a good 
 husband, and he had been Mary's support and true 
 companion in all her previous troubles. He might be 
 absurd now and then, but he never Avas anything but 
 kind and tender and sympathetic, as was the nature of 
 the man. But the special feature of this misfortune 
 was that it irritated and set her in arms against him, that 
 it separated her from her closest friend and all her 
 friends, and that it made even the sight and thought of 
 her children, a pain to her among all her other pains. 
 
 This was the wretched way in which Mary spent 
 the day of her second wedding. Naturally, Major 
 Ochterlony brought people in with him to lunch (pro- 
 bably it should be written tiffin, but our readers will 
 accept the generic word), and was himself in the gayest 
 spirits, and insisted upon champagne, though he knew 
 they could not afford it. "We ate our real wedding 
 breakfast all by ourselves in that villanous little place 
 at Gretna," he said, with a boy's enthusiasm, "and 
 had trout out of theSolway: don't you recollect, Mary? 
 Such trout! Wliat a couple of happy young fools we 
 were; and if every Gretna Green marriage turned out 
 like mine!" the Major added, looking at his wife with 
 beaming eyes. She had been terribly Avounded by his 
 hand, and was suffering secret torture, and was full of 
 the irritation of pain; and yet she could not so steel 
 her heart as not to feel a momentary softening at sight 
 of the love and content in his eyes. But though he 
 loved her he had sacrificed all her scruples, and thrown 
 a shadoAV upon her honour, and filled her heart with 
 bitterness, to satisfy an unreasonable fancy of his own, 
 and give peace, as he said, to his mind. All this was
 
 MADONNA MARY. 55 
 
 very natural, but in the pain of the moment it seemed 
 almost inconceivable to Mary, who was obliged to con- 
 ceal her mortification and suffering, and minister to her 
 guests as she was wont to do, without making any 
 show of the shadoAv that she felt to have fallen upon 
 her life. ' 
 
 It was, however, tacitly agreed by the ladies of the 
 station to make no difference, according to the example 
 of the Colonel's wife. Mrs. Kirkman had resolved upon 
 that charitable course from the highest motives, but the 
 others were perhaps less elevated in their principles of 
 conduct. Mrs. Hesketh, who was quite a worldly-minded 
 woman, concluded that it would be absurd for one to 
 take any step unless they all did, and that on the 
 whole, whatever were the rights of it, Mary could be 
 no worse than she had been for all the long time they 
 had known her. As for Miss Sorbette, who was strong- 
 minded, she was disposed to consider that the moral 
 courage the Ochterlonys had displayed in piitting an 
 end to an unsatisfactory state of affairs merited public 
 appreciation. Little Mrs. Askell, for her part, rushed 
 headlong as soon as she heard of it, which fortunately 
 was not until it was all over, to see her suffering pro- 
 tectress. Perhaps it was at that moment, for the first 
 time, that the ensign's wife felt the full benefit of being 
 a married lady, able to stand up for her friend and 
 stretch a small wing of championship over her. She 
 rushed into Mrs. Ochterlony's presence and arms like a 
 little tempest, and cried and sobbed and vittered inar- 
 ticulate exclamations on her friend's shoulder, to Mary's 
 great surprise, who thought something had happened 
 to her. Fortunately the little eighteen-year-old matron, 
 after the first incoherence was over, becran to find out
 
 56 MADONNA MAnV. 
 
 tliat Mrs. Ochterlony looked the Rnmo ns ever, and that 
 nothing tragical could have happened, and so restrained 
 the offer of her own countenance and support, whicli 
 would have been more humbling to Mary than all tlie 
 desertion in the world. 
 
 "What is the matter, my dear?" said Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony, who had regained her serene looks, though not 
 her composed mind; and little Irish Emma, looking at 
 her, was struck with such a sense of her own absurdity 
 and temerity and ridiculous pretensions, that she very 
 nearly broke down again. 
 
 "I've been quarrelling with Charlie," the quick- 
 Avitted girl said, with the best grace she could, and 
 added in her mind a secret clause to soften down the 
 fiction, — "he is so aggravating; and when I saw my 
 Madonna looking so sweet and so still — - — " 
 
 "Hush!" said Mary, "there was no need for crying 
 aboitt that — ■ nor for telling fibs either," she added, 
 with a smile that went to the heart of the ensign's 
 wife. "You see there is nothing the matter witli me," 
 Mrs. Ochterlony added; but notwithstanding her perfect 
 composure it was in a harder tone. 
 
 "I never expected anything else," said the im- 
 petuous little woman; "as if any nonsense could do 
 any harm to you! And T love the Major, and I always 
 have stood up for him; but oh, I should just like for 
 once to box his ears." 
 
 "Hush!" said Mary again; and then the need she 
 had of sym])athy prompted lier for one moment to 
 descend to the level of the little girl beside her, who 
 was all sympathy and no criticism, which Mary knew 
 to be a kind of friendship wonderfully uncommon in 
 this world. "It did me no harm," she said, feeling a
 
 UrADONNA MARY. 57 
 
 certain relief in dropping lier reserve, and making 
 visible tlie one thing of which tliey were both thinking, 
 and which had no need of being identified by name. 
 "It did me no harm, and it pleased him. I don't deny 
 that it hurt at the time," Mary added after a little 
 ))anse, with a smile; "but that is all over now. You 
 do not need to cry over me, my dear." 
 
 "I — cry over you," cried the prevaricating Emma, 
 "as if such a thing had ever come into my head; but 
 I did feel glad T was a married lady," the little thing 
 added; and tben saw her mistake, and blushed and 
 faltered and did not know what to say next. Mrs. 
 Ochterlony knew very well what her young visitor 
 meant, Imt she took no notice, as was the wisest way. 
 She had steeled herself to all tlie consequences by this 
 time, and knew she must accustom herself to such 
 .illusions and to take no notice of them. But it was 
 Iiard upon her, who had been so good to the child, to 
 think that little Emma was glad she was a married 
 lady, and could in her turn give a certain countenance. 
 All these sharp, secret, unseen arrows went direct to 
 ]\[ary's heart. 
 
 13ut on the whole the regiment kept its word and 
 made no difference. Mrs. Kirkman called every 
 Wednesday and took Mary with her to the prayer- 
 meeting wliich she held among the soldiers' wives, and 
 where she said she was having much precious fruit; 
 .vnd Avas never weary of representing to her companion 
 that she had need of being brought down and humbled, 
 and that for her part she would rejoice in anything 
 which would bring her dear Mary to a more serious 
 way of thiidving; which was an expression of feeling 
 perfectly genuine on Mrs. Kirkman's part, though at
 
 58 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 the same time she felt more and more convinced that 
 Mrs. Ochterlony had been deceiving her, and was not 
 by any means an innocent sufferer. The Colonel's wife 
 was quite sincere in both these beliefs, though it would 
 be hard to say how she reconciled them to each other; 
 but then a woman is not bound to be logical , Avhether 
 she belongs to the High or Loav Church. At the same 
 time she brought Mary sermons to read , with passages 
 marked, which were adapted for both these states of 
 feeling, — some consoling the righteous who were 
 chastened because they were beloved, and some exhort- 
 ing the sinners who had been long callous and now 
 were beginning to awaken to a sense of their sins. Per- 
 haps Mary, who was not very discriminating in point 
 of sermon-books, read both with equal innocence, not 
 seeing their special application: but she could scarcely 
 be so blind when her friend discoursed at the Mothers' 
 Meeting upon the Scripture Marys, and upon her who 
 wept at the Saviour's feet. Mrs. Ochterlony understood 
 then, and never forgot afterwards, that it was that 
 Mary with whom, in the mind of one of her most in- 
 timate associates , she had come to be identified. Not 
 the Mary blessed among women, the type of mother- 
 hood and purity, but the other Mary, who was forgiven 
 much because she had much loved. That night she 
 went home with a swelling heart, wondering over the 
 great injustice of human ways and dealings, and crying 
 within herself to the Great Spectator who knew all 
 against the evil thoughts of her neighbours. Was that 
 what they all believed of her, all these women? and 
 yet she had done nothing to deserve it, not so much as 
 by a light look, or thought, or word; and it was not 
 as if she could defend herself, or convince them of
 
 MADONNA MARY. 59 
 
 their cruelty: for uobody accused her, nobody re- 
 proached her — ■ her friends, as they all said, made no 
 difference. This was the sudden cloud that came over 
 Mary in the very fairest and best moment of her life. 
 
 But as for the Major, he knew nothing about all 
 that. It had been done for his peace of mind, and 
 until the next thing occurred to worry him he was 
 radiant with good-humour and satisfaction. If he saw 
 at any time a cloud on his wife's face, he thought it 
 was because of that approaching necessity which took 
 the pleasure out of everything even to himself, for the 
 moment, when he thought of it — the necessity of send- 
 ing Hugh "home." "We shall still have Islay for a 
 few years at least, my darling," he would say, in his 
 affectionate way; "and then the baby," — for there 
 was a baby, which had come some time after the event 
 which we have just narrated. That too must have had 
 something to do, no doubt, with Mary's low spirits. 
 "He'll get along famously with Aunt Agatha, and get 
 spoiled, that fellow will," the Major said; "and as for 
 Islay, we'll make a man of him." And except at 
 those moments, wlien, as we have just said, the thoughts 
 of his little Hugh's approaching departure struck him, 
 Major Ochterlony was as happy and light-hearted as a 
 man who is very well off in all his domestic concerns, 
 and getting on in his profession, and who has a plea- 
 sant consciousness of doing his duty to all men and a 
 greatful sense of the mercies of God, should be, and 
 naturally is. When two people are yoked for life to- 
 gether, there is generally one of the two who bears the 
 burden, while the other takes things easy. Sometimes 
 it is the husband, as is fit and right, who has the 
 heavy weight on his shoulders; but sometimes, and
 
 60 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 ofteuer tlian people think, it is the wife. And perlmps 
 this was why Major Ochterlony was so frisky in his 
 liarness, and Madonna Mary felt her serenity fall into 
 sadness, and was conscious of going on very slowly 
 and heavily upon the way of life. Not that he was to 
 blame, who was now, as always, the best husband in 
 the regiment, or even in the world. Mary would not 
 for all his fidgets, not for any reward, have changed 
 him against Colonel Kirkman with his fishy eye, nor 
 against Captain Ilesketh's jolly countenance, nor for 
 anybody else within her range of vision. He was very 
 far from perfect, and in utter innocence had given her 
 a wound which throbbed and bled daily whichever way 
 she turned herself, and which she woixld never cease to 
 feel all her life; but still at the same time he stood 
 alone in the woidd, so far as Maiy's heart was con- 
 cerned: for true love is, of all things on earth, the 
 most pertinacious and unreasonable, let the philosophers 
 say what they will. 
 
 And then the baby, for his part, was not like what 
 the other babies had been; he was not a great fellow, 
 like Hugh and Islay, but puny and pitiful and weakly, 
 — a little selfish soul that would leave his mother no 
 rest. She had been content to leave the other boys 
 to Providence and Nature, tending them tenderly, 
 wholesomely, and not too ranch, and hoping to make 
 men of them some day; Imt with this baby Mary fell 
 to di'eaming, wondering often as he lay in her lap 
 Avhat his future would be. She used to ask herself un- 
 consciously, without knowing why, what his influence 
 might be on the lives of his brothers, who were like 
 and yet so unlike him: though when she roused up she 
 rebuked herself, and thought how much more reason-
 
 MADONNA MAKV. 61 
 
 able it would be to speculate upon Hugh's iutlueuce, 
 who was the eldest, or eveu upon Islay, who had the 
 lougest head in the regiment, and looked as if he meant 
 to make some use of it one day. To think of the in- 
 lluence of little weakly Wilfrid coming to be of any 
 jiermanent im]»ortance in the lives of those two strong 
 fellows seemed absurd enough-, and yet it was an idea 
 which would come back to her, when she thought with- 
 out thinking, and escaped as it were into a spontane- 
 ous state of mind. The name even was a weak-minded 
 sort of name, and did not please Mary; and all sorts 
 of strange fancies came into her head as she sat with 
 the pitiful little peevish baby, who insisted upon hav- 
 ing all her attention, lying awake and fractious upon 
 her wearied knee. 
 
 Thus it was that the first important scene of her 
 history came to an end, with thorns which she never 
 dreamed of planted in Mrs. Ochterlony's way, and a 
 still greater and more unthought-of cloud rising slowly 
 upon the broken serenity of her life. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 EvKRVTHiNG liowcvcr went on well enough at the 
 sttition for some time after the great occurrence which 
 counted for so much in Mrs. Ochterlony's history; and 
 the Major was very peaceable, for him, and nothing 
 but trifling matters being in his way to move him, had 
 fewer fidgets than usual. To be sure he was put out 
 now and then by something the Colonel said or did, 
 or by llesketh's well-off-ness , which had come to the
 
 62 MADONXA MARY, 
 
 length of a moral peculiarity, and was' trying to a 
 man; but these little disturbances fizzed tliemselves 
 out, and got done witli without troubling anybody much. 
 There was a lull, and most people were surjirised at it, 
 and disposed to think that something must be the 
 matter with the Major; but there was nothing the 
 matter. Probably it occurred to him now and then 
 that his last great fidget had rather gone a step too 
 far — but this is mere conjecture, for he certainly 
 never said so. And then, after a while, he began to 
 play, as it were, with the next grand object of uneasi- 
 ness which was to distract his existence. This was the 
 sending "home" of little Hugh. It was not that he 
 did not feel to the utmost the blank this event would 
 cause in the house, and the dreadful tug at his heart, 
 and the difference it would make to Mary. But at the 
 same time it was a thing that had to be done, and 
 Major Ochterlony hoped his feelings would never make 
 him fail in his duty. He used to feel Hugh's head if 
 it was hot, and look at his tongue at all sorts of un- 
 timely moments, which Mary knew meant nothing, but 
 yet which made her thrill and tremble to her heart; 
 and then he would shake his own head and look sad. 
 " I would give him a little quinine, my dear," he would 
 say; and then Mary, out of her very alarm and pain, 
 would turn upon him. 
 
 "Why should I give him quinine? It is time enough 
 when he shows signs of wanting it. The child is quite 
 well, Hugh." But there was a certain quiver in Mrs. 
 Ochterlony's voice which the Major could not and did 
 not mistake. 
 
 "Oh yes, he is quite well," he would reply; "come 
 and let me feel if you have any flesh on your bones,
 
 MADONNA MARY. 63 
 
 old fellow. He is awfully thin, Mary. I dou't think 
 he would weigh half so much as he did a year ago if 
 you were to try. I don't want to alarm you, my dear-, 
 but we must do it sooner or later, and in a thing that 
 is so important for the child, we must not think of 
 ourselves," said Major Ochterlony; and then again he 
 laid his hand Avith that doubting, experimenting look 
 upon the boy's brow, to feel "if there was any fever," 
 as he said. 
 
 "He is quite well," said Mary, who felt as if she 
 were going distracted while this pantomime went on. 
 "You do frighten me, though you don't mean it; but I 
 know he is quite well." 
 
 "Oh yes," said Major Ochterlony, with a sigh; and 
 he kissed his little boy solemnly, and set him down 
 ;is if things were in a very bad way; "he is quite well. 
 But I have seen when five or six hours have changed 
 all that," he added with a still more profound sigh, and 
 got up as if he coiild not bear further consideration of 
 the subject, and went out and strolled into somebody's 
 quarters, where Mary did not see how lighthearted he 
 was half-an-hour after, quite naturally, because he had 
 poured out his uneasiness, and a little more, and got 
 quite rid of it, leaving her with the arrow sticking in 
 her heart. No wonder that Mrs. Kirkman, who came 
 in as the Major went out, said that even a very expe- 
 rienced Christian would have found it trying. As for 
 Mary, when she woke up in the middle of the night, 
 Avhich little peevish Wilfrid gave her plenty of occasion 
 to do, she used to steal off as soon as she had quieted 
 that baby-tyrant, and look at her eldest boy in his little 
 bed, and put her soft hand on his head, and stoop over 
 him to listen to his breathing. And sometimes she
 
 64 MADONNA MAUY. 
 
 persuaded herself that his forehead ivas hot, which it 
 was qtiite likely to be, and got no more sleep that 
 night-, though as for the Major, he was a capital sleepei'. 
 And then somehow it was not so easy as it had been 
 to conclude that it was only his way; for after his way 
 had once brought about such consequences as in that 
 re-marriage which Mary felt a positive physical pain in 
 remembering, it was no longer to be taken lightly. 
 The consequence was, that Mrs. Ochterlony wound her- 
 self up, and summoned all her courage, and wrote to 
 Aunt Agatha, though she thought it best, until she had 
 an answer, to say nothing about it; and she began to 
 look over all little Hugh's wardrobe, to make antl 
 mend, and consider within herself what warm things 
 she could get him for the termination of that inevitable 
 voyage, and to think what might happen before she 
 had these little things of his in her care again — how 
 they would wear out and be replenished, and his 
 mother have no hand in it — and how he would get 
 on without her. She used to make pictures of the 
 little forlorn fellow on shipboard, and how he would 
 cry himself to sleep, till the tears came dropping on her 
 needle and rusted it; and then would try to think how 
 good Aunt Agatha would be to him, but was not to 
 be comforted by that — not so much as she ought to 
 have been. There was nothing in the least remarkable 
 in all this, but only what a great many people have to 
 go through, and what Mrs. Ochterlony no doubt Avould 
 go through with courage when the inevitable moment 
 came. It was the looking forward to and rehearsing it, 
 and the Major's awful suggestions, and the constant 
 dread of feeling little Hugh's head hot, or his tongue 
 white, and thinking it was her fault — this was what
 
 MADONNA IMARY. 65 
 
 made it so hard upon IMary; tlioiigh Major Ocliterlony 
 never meant to alarm her, as anybody might see. 
 
 "I think he should certainly go home," Mrs. Kirk- 
 man said. "It is a trial, but it is one of the trials 
 that will work for good. I don't like to blame you, 
 Maiy, but I have always thought your children were a 
 temptation to you-, oh, take care! — if you were to 
 make idols of them " 
 
 "I don't make idols of them," said Mrs. Ochterlony, 
 hastily; and then she added, with an effort of self- 
 control which stopped even the rising colour on her 
 cheek, "You know I don't agree with you about these 
 things." She did not agree with Mrs. Kirkman 5 and yet 
 to tell the truth, where so much is concerned, it is a 
 little hard for a woman, however convinced she may 
 be of God's goodness, not to fail in her faith and learn 
 to think that, after all, the opinion which would make 
 an end of her best hopes and her surest confidence may 
 be true. 
 
 "I know you don't agree with me," said the Colo- 
 nel's wife, sitting down with a sigh. "Oh, Mary, if 
 you only knew how much I would give to see you 
 taking these things to heart — to see you not almost, 
 but altogether such as I am," she added, with solemn 
 ])athos. "If you would but remember that these blessings 
 are only lent us — that we don't know what day or hour 
 they may be taken back again " 
 
 All this ]\[ary listened to with a rising of nature in 
 her heart against it, and yet with that wavering behind, 
 — What if it might be true? 
 
 "Don't speak to me so," she said. "You always 
 make me think that something is going to happen. 
 As if God grudged ns our little happiness. Don't talk 
 
 Mmlmniii Mniii. I. 5
 
 66 MADONNA MARV. 
 
 of lending and taking back again. If He is not a 
 clieerful giver, who can be?" For she was carried 
 away by her feelings, and was not quite sure what she 
 was saying — and at the same time, it comes so much 
 easier to human nature to think that God grudges and 
 takes back again, and is not a cheerful giver. As for 
 Mrs. Kirkman, she thought it sinful so much as to ima- 
 gine anything of the kind. 
 
 "It gi-ieves me to hear you speak in that loose sort 
 of latitudinarian way," she said; "oh, my dear Mary, 
 if you could only see how much need you have to be 
 brought low. When one cross is not enough, another 
 comes — and I feel that you are not going to be let 
 alone. This trial, if you take it in a right spii-it, may 
 have the most blessed consequences. It must be to 
 keep you from making an idol of him, my dear — for 
 if he takes up your heart from better things — — " 
 
 "What could Mary say? She stopped in her work 
 to give her hands an impatient wring together, by way 
 of expressing somehow in secret to herself the im- 
 patience with which she listened. Yet perhaps, after 
 all, it might be true. Perhaps God was not such a 
 Father as He, the supreme and all -loving, whom her 
 own motherhood shadowed forth in Mary's heart, but 
 such a one as those old pedant fathers, Avho took away 
 pleasures and reclaimed gifts, for discipline's sake. 
 Perhaps — for when a heart has everything most dear 
 to it at stake, it has such a miserable inclination to 
 believe the worst of Him who leaves his explanation to 
 the end, — Mary thought perhaps it might be true, 
 and that God her Father might be lying in wait for 
 her somewhere to crush her to the ground for having 
 too much pleasure in his gift, — which was the state
 
 MADONNA MARY. 67 
 
 of miud which her friend, wljo was nt the bottom of 
 her heart a good woman, would have liked to bring 
 about. 
 
 "1 think it is simply because we ai'e in India," 
 said Sirs. Ochterlony, recovering herself; "it is one of 
 the conditions of oiu- lot. It is a very hard condition, 
 but of course we have to bear it. I think, for my part, 
 that God, instead of doing it to punish me, is sorry for 
 me, and that He would mend it and spare us if some- 
 thing else did not make it necessary. But perhaps it 
 is you who are right," she added, faltering agaizi, and 
 wondering if it was wrong to believe that God, in a 
 wonderful supreme way, must be acting, somehow as 
 in a blind ineffective way, she, a mother, would do to 
 her children. But happily her companion was not 
 aware of that profane thought. And then, Mrs. Iles- 
 keth had come in, who looked at the cpiestion from 
 entirely a different point of view. 
 
 "We have all got to do it, you know," said that 
 comfortable woman, "Avhether we idolize them or not. 
 1 don't see what that has to do with it; but then I 
 never do understand you. The great thing is, if you 
 have somebody nice to send them to. One's mother is 
 a great comfort for that; but then, there is one's hus- 
 band's friends to think about. I am not sure, for my 
 own part, that a good school is not the best. That 
 can't offend anybody, you know; neither your own 
 people, nor his; and then they can go all round in the 
 holidays. Mine have all got on famously," said Mrs. 
 Hesketh; and nobody who looked at her could have 
 thought anything else. Though, indeed, INIrs. Hesketh's 
 well-off-ncss was not nearly so disagreeable or offensive 
 to other people as her husband's, who had his balance
 
 68 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 at his banker's written on liis face; whereas in her case 
 it was only evident that she was on the best of terms 
 with her milliner and her jeweller, and all her ti-ades- 
 people, and never had any trouble with her bills. Mary 
 sat between the woman who had no children, and who 
 thought she made idols of her boys — and the woman 
 who had quantities of children, and saw no reason why 
 anybody should be much put out of their way about 
 them; and neither the one nor the other knew what 
 she meant, any more than she perhaps knew exactly 
 what they meant, though, as was natural, that latter 
 idea did not much strike her. And the sole strength- 
 ening which Mrs. Ochterlony drew from this talk was 
 a resolution never to say anything more about it; to 
 keep what she was thinking of to herself, and shut an- 
 other door in her heart, which, after all, is a process 
 which has to be pretty often repeated as one goes 
 through the world. 
 
 "But Mary has no friends — no female friends, 
 poor thing. It is so sad for a girl when that happens, 
 and accounts for so many things," the Colonel's wife 
 said, dropping the lids over her eyes, and with an im- 
 perceptible shake of her head , which brought the little 
 chapel and the scene of her second marriage in a mo- 
 ment before Mary's indignant eyes; "but there is one 
 good even in that, for it gives greater ground for faith; 
 when we have nothing and nobody to cling to " 
 
 "We were talking of the children," Mrs. Hesketh 
 broke in calmly. "If I were you I should keep Hugh 
 until Islay was old enough to go with him. They are 
 such companions to each other, you know, and two 
 children don't cost much more than one. If T were 
 you, Mary, I would send the two together. I always
 
 MADONNA MARY, 69 
 
 did it with mine. And I am sure you have somebody 
 that will take care of them; one always has somebody 
 in one's eye; and as for female friends " 
 
 Mary stopped short the profanity which doubtless 
 her comfortable visitor was about to utter on this sub- 
 ject. "I have nothing but female friends," said she, with 
 a natural touch of sharpness in her voice. "I have an 
 aunt and a sister who are my nearest relatives — and 
 it is there Hugh is going," for the prick of offence bad 
 been good for her nerves, and strung them up. 
 
 "Then I can't see what you have to be anxious 
 about," said Mrs. Hesketh; "some people always make 
 a fuss about things happening to children; why should 
 anything happen to them? mine have had everything, 
 I think, that children can have, and never been a bit 
 the worse; and though it makes one uncomfortable at 
 the time to think of their being ill, and so far away if 
 anything should happen, still, if you know they are in 
 good hands, and that everything is done that can be 
 
 done And then, one never hears till the worst is 
 
 over," said the well-off woman, drawing her lace shawl 
 round her. "Good-by, Mary, and don't fret; there is 
 nothing that is not made worse by fretting about it; I 
 never do, for my part." 
 
 Mrs. Kirkman threw a glance of pathetic import 
 out of the corners of her down- dropped eye^ at the 
 large departing skirts of Mary's other visitor. The 
 Colonel's wife was one of the people who always stay 
 last, and her friends generally cut their visits short 
 when they encountered her, with a knowledge of this 
 peculiarity, and at the same time an awful sense of 
 something that would be said when they had with- 
 draAvn. "Not that 1 care for what she says," Mrs.
 
 70 MABOXNA :-rARY. 
 
 riesketli murmured to lierself as sLe went out, "and 
 Mary ought to know better at least;" but at the same 
 time, society at the station, though it was quite used to 
 it, did not like to think of the sigh, and tlie tender, 
 bitter lamentations which would be made over them 
 wheu they took their leave. Mrs. Hesketh was not 
 sensitive, but she could not help feeling a little ag- 
 grieved, and wondering what special view of her evil 
 ways her regimental SH]3erior would take this time — 
 for in so limited a community, everybody knew about 
 everybody, and any little faults one might have were 
 not likely to be hid. 
 
 Mrs. Kirkman had risen too, and when Mary came 
 back from the door the Colonel's wife came and sat 
 down beside her on the sofa, and took Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony's hand. She would be very nice, if she only took 
 a little thought about the one thing needful," said Mrs. 
 Kirkman, with the usual sigh. "What does it matter 
 about all the rest? Oh, Mary, if we could only choose 
 the good part which cannot be taken away from us!" 
 
 "But surely, we all try a little after that," said 
 Mary. "She is a kind woman, and very good to the 
 poor. And how can we tell what her thoughts 
 are? I don't think we ever understand each other's 
 thoughts." 
 
 "I never pretend to understand. I judge according 
 to the Scripture rule," said Mrs. Kirkman ; "you are too 
 charitable, Mary; and too often, you know, charity 
 only means laxness. Oh, I cannot tell you how those 
 people are all laid upon my soul! Colonel Kirkman 
 being the principal officer, you know, and so little real 
 Christian work to be expected from Mr. Churchill, the 
 responsibility is terrible. T feel sometimes as if I must
 
 MADOXXA MARV. 71 
 
 die under it. If their blood should be demanded at 
 my hands!" 
 
 "But surely God must care a little about them Him- 
 self," said Mrs. Ochterlony. "Dont you think so? I 
 cannot think that He has left it all upon you " 
 
 "Dear Mary, if you but give me the comfort of 
 thinking I had been of use to yoi<," said Mrs. Kirkman, 
 pressing Mary's hand. And when she went away she 
 believed that she had done her duty by Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony at least ; and felt that perhaps, as a brand snatched 
 from the burning, this woman, who was so wrapped up 
 in regard for the world and idolatry of her children, 
 might still be brought into a better state. Prom this it 
 will be seen that the painful impression made by the 
 maiTiage had a little faded out of the mind of the sta- 
 tion. It Avas there, waiting any chance moment or 
 circumstance that might bring the name of Madonna 
 Mary into question; but in the meantime, for the con- 
 venience of ordinary life, it had been dropped. It was 
 a nuisance to keep up a sort of shadowy censure which 
 never came to anything, and by tacit consent the thing 
 had dropped. For it was a very small community, and 
 if any one had to be tabooed, the taboo must have 
 been complete and crushing, and nobody had the 
 courage for that. And so gradually the cloudiness 
 passed away like a breath on a mirror, and Mary to 
 all appearance was among them as she had been before, 
 (^nly no sort of compromise could really obliterate the 
 fact from anybody's recollection, or above all from her 
 own mind. 
 
 And Mary went back to little Hugh's wardrobe 
 when her visitors were gone, with that sense of having 
 shut another door in her henrt which has alreadv been
 
 72 MADONNA MARV. 
 
 mentioned. It is so natural to open all the doors and 
 leave all the chambers open to the day, but when 
 people walk up to the threshold and look in and turn 
 blank looks of surprise or sad looks of disapproval 
 upon you, what is to be done but to shut the door? 
 Mrs. Ochterlony thought as most people do, that it was 
 almost incredible that her neighbours did not under- 
 stand what she meant; and she thought too, like an in- 
 experienced woman, that this was an accident of the 
 station, and that elsewhere other people knew better, 
 which was a very fortunate thought, and did her good. 
 And so she continued to put her boy's things in order, 
 and felt half angry when she saw the Major come in, 
 and knew beforehand that he was going to resume his 
 pantomime with little Hugh, and to try if his head was 
 hot and look at his tongue. If his tongue turned out 
 to be white and his head feverish, then Mary knew 
 that he would think it was her fault, and began to long 
 for Aunt Agatha's letter, which she had been fearing, 
 and which might be looked for by the next mail. 
 
 As for the Major, he came home with the air of a 
 man who has hit upon a new trouble. His wife saw 
 it before he had been five minutes in the house. She 
 saw it in his eyes, which sought her and retired from 
 her in their significant restless way, as if studying how 
 to begin. In former days Mrs. Ochterlony, when she 
 saw this, used to help her husband out; but recently 
 she had had no heart for that, and he was left unaided 
 to make a beginning for himself. She took no notice 
 of his fidgeting, nor of the researches he made all 
 about the room, and all the things he put out of their 
 places. She could wait until he informed her what it 
 was. But Mary felt a little nervous until such time as
 
 MADONNA MARY. 73 
 
 her husbcind had seated himself opposite her, and began 
 to pull her working things about, and to take up little 
 Hugh's linen blouses which she had been setting in 
 order. Then the Major heaved a demonstrative sigh. 
 He meant to be asked what it meant, and even gave a 
 glance up at her from the corner of his eye to see if 
 she remarked it, but Mary was hard-hearted and would 
 take no notice. He had to take all the trouble him- 
 self. 
 
 "He will want warmer things when he goes home," 
 said the Major. "You must write to Aunt Agatha 
 about that, Mary. I have been thinking a great deal 
 about his going home. I don't know how I shall get 
 on without him, nor you either, my darling; but it is 
 for his good. How old is Islay?" Major Ochterlouy 
 added with a little abruptness: and then his wife knew 
 what it was. 
 
 "Islay is not quite three," said Mary, quietly, as if 
 the question Avas of no importance-, but for all that her 
 heart began to jump and beat against her breast. 
 
 "Three! and so big for his age," said the guilty 
 Major, labouring with his secret meaning. "I don't 
 want to vex you, Mary, my love, but I was thinking 
 perhaps when Hugh went; it comes to about the same 
 thing, you see — the little beggar would be dread- 
 fully solitary by himself, and I don't see that it would 
 make any dift'erence to Aunt Agatha " 
 
 "It would make a difference to me^'' said Mary. 
 "Oh, Hugh, don't be so cruel to me. I cannot let him 
 go so young. If Hugh must go, it may be for his 
 good — but not for Islay 's, who is only a baby. He 
 would not know us or have any recollection of us. 
 Don't make me send both of my boys away."
 
 71: MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "You would still have the baby," said the Major. 
 "My darling, I am not going to do anything without 
 your consent. Islay looked dreadfully feverish the 
 other day, you know. I told you so; and as I was 
 coming home I met Mrs. Hesketh " 
 
 "You took her advice about it," said Mary, with a 
 little bitterness. As for the Major, he set his Mary a 
 v,diole heaven above such a woman as Mrs. Hesketh, 
 and yet he had taken her advice about it, and it 
 irritated him a little to perceive his wife's tone of re- 
 proach. 
 
 "If I listened to her advice it was because she is a 
 very sensible woman," said ]\Iajor Ochterlony. "You 
 are so heedless, my dear. When your children's health 
 is ruined, you know, that is not the time to send them 
 home. We ought to do it now, while they are quite 
 well-, though indeed I thought Islay very feverish the 
 other night," he added, getting ixp again in his restless 
 way. And then the Major Avas struck with com- 
 punction when he saw Mary bending down over her 
 work, and remembered how constantly she was there, 
 working for them, and how much more trouble those 
 children cost her than they ever could cost him. "My 
 love," he said, coming up to her and laying his hand 
 caressingly upon her bent head, "my bonnie Mary! 
 you did not think I meant that you cared less for 
 them, or what was for their good, than I do? It will 
 be a terrible trial; but then, if it is for their good and 
 our own peace of mind — " 
 
 "God help me," said Mary, who was a little beside 
 lierself. "I don't think you will leave me any peace 
 of mind. You will drive me to do what I think wrong, 
 or, if I don't do it, you will make me think that every-
 
 MADONNA ]\rAnY. 75 
 
 tiling- that liai)pcns is my fault. You tlou't nieau it, 
 but you are cruel, Hugh." 
 
 "I am sure I don't mean it," said the Major, who, 
 as usual, had had his say out; "and when you come 
 to think but we will say no more about it to- 
 night. Give me your book, and I will read to you 
 for an hour or two. It is a comfort to come in to yon 
 and get a little peace. And after all, my love, Mrs. 
 Ilesketh means well, and she's a very sensible woman. 
 1 don't like Hesketh, but there's not a word to say 
 against her. They are all very kind and friendly. 
 We are in great luck in our regiment. Is this your 
 mark where you left off? Don't let us say anything 
 more about it, Mary, for to-night." 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Ochterlony, with a sigh; but she 
 knew in her heart that the Major would begin to feel 
 Islay's head, if it was hot, and look at his tongue, as 
 he had done to Hugh's, and drive her out of her senses; 
 and that, most likely, when she had come to an end of 
 lior powers, she would be beaten and give in at the 
 last. But tliey said no more about it that night; and 
 the JMajor got so interested in the book that he sat all 
 the evening reading, and Mary got very well on with 
 her work. Major Ochterlony was so interested that he 
 even forgot to look as if he thought the children 
 feverish when they came to say good night, which was 
 the most wonderful relief to his wife. If thoughts 
 came into her head while she trimmed Hugh's little 
 blouses, of another little three-year-old traveller totter- 
 ing by his brother's side, and going away on the 
 stormy dangerous sea, she kept them to herself. It 
 did not seem to her as if she could outlive the separa- 
 tion, nor how she could ])ermit a ship so richly freighted
 
 76 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 to sail away iuto the dark distance and tlie terrible 
 storms; and yet she knew that she must outlive it, and 
 that it must happen, if not now, yet at least some 
 time. It is the condition of existence for the English 
 sojourners in India. And what was she more than an- 
 other, that any one should think there was any special 
 hardship in her case? 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The next mail was an important one in many 
 ways. It was to bring Aunt Agatha's letter about 
 little Hugh, and it did bring something which had still 
 more effect upon the Ochterlony peace of mind. The 
 Major, as has been already said, was not a man to be 
 greatly excited by the arrival of the mail. All his 
 close and pressing interests were at present concentrated 
 in the station. His married sisters wrote to him now 
 and then, and he was very glad to get their letters, 
 and to hear when a new niece or nephew arrived, 
 which was the general burden of these epistles. Some- 
 times it was a death, and Major Ochterlony was sorry; 
 but neither the joy nor the sorrow disturbed him much. 
 For he was far away, and he was tolerably happy him- 
 self, and could bear with equanimity the vicissitudes in 
 the lot of his friends. But this time the letter which 
 arrived was of a different description. It was from his 
 brother, the head of the house — who was a little of 
 an invalid and a good deal of a dilettante, and gave 
 the Major no nephews or nieces, being indeed a con- 
 firmed bachelor of the most hopeless kind. He was a
 
 MADONNA MARY. 77 
 
 man who never wrote letters, so tliat tlie communica- 
 tion was a little startling. And yet there was nothing- 
 very particular in it. Something had occurred to make 
 l\[r. Ochterlony think of his brother, and the con- 
 sequence was that he had drawn his Avriting things to 
 liis hand and written a few kind words, with a sense 
 of having done something meritorious to himself and 
 deeply gratifying to Hugh. He sent his love to Mary, 
 and hoped the little fellow was all right who was, he 
 supposed, to carry on the family honours — "if there 
 are any family honours," the Squire had said, not 
 without an agreeable sense that there was something in 
 Ins last paper on the "Coins of Agrippa," that the 
 Numismatic Society would not willingly let die. This 
 Avas the innocent morsel of correspondence which had 
 come to the Major's hand. Mary was sitting by with 
 the baby on her lap while he read it, and busy with a 
 very different kind of communication. She was read- 
 ing Aunt Agatha's letter which she had been dreading 
 and wishing for, and her heart was growing sick over 
 the innocent flutter of expectation and kindness and 
 delight which was in it. Every assui'ance of the joy 
 she would feel in seeing little Hugh, and the care she 
 would take of him, which the simple-minded writer 
 sent to be a comfort to Mary, came vipon the mother's 
 unreasonable mind like a kind of injury. To think 
 that anybody could be happy about an occurrence that 
 would be so terrible to her; to think anybody could 
 have the bad taste to say that they looked with im- 
 patience for the moment that to Mary would be like 
 dying! She was unliinged, and for the first time, per- 
 haps, in her life, her nerves were thoroughly out of 
 order, and she was unreasonable to the bottom of her
 
 78 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 lieart; and when she came to lier yomig sister's gay 
 auiiouucemeiit of what for her part slic would do for 
 her little nephew's education, and how she had been 
 studying the subject ever since Mary's letter arriveil, 
 Mrs. Ochterlony felt as if she could have beaten the 
 girl, and was ready to cry with wretchedness and irrita- 
 tion and despair. All these details served somehow to 
 fix it, tliough she knew it had been fixed before. They 
 told her the little room Hugh should have, and the ohl 
 maid who Avould take care of him; and how he should 
 play in the garden, and learn his lessons in Aunt 
 Agatha's parlour, and all those details which would be 
 sweet to Mary when her boy was actually there. But 
 at present they made his going away so real, that they 
 were very bitter to her, and she had to draw the 
 astonished child away from his play, and take hold of 
 him and keep him by her, to feel quite sure that he 
 was still here, and not in the little North-country- 
 cottage which she knew so well. But this was an 
 arrangement which did not please the baby, who liked 
 to have his mother all to himself, and ])ushed Hugh 
 away, and kicked and screamed at him lustily. Thus 
 it was an agitated little group upon which the IMajor 
 looked down as he turned from his brother's pleasant 
 letter. He Avas in a very pleasant frame of mind him- 
 self, and was excessively entertained by the self-asser- 
 tion of little Wilfrid on his mother's knee. 
 
 "He is a plucky little soul, though he is so small," 
 said Major ()chterlony; "but Willie, my boy, there's 
 precious little for you of the grandeurs of the family. 
 It is from Francis, my dear. It's very surprising, you 
 know, but still it's true. And he sends you his love. 
 You know I always said that there was a great deal of
 
 MADONNA MARY. 79 
 
 good in Francis; he is nut a demonstrative man — but 
 still, when you j^ct at it, he has a warm heart. I 
 am sure he would be a good friend to you, Mary, if 
 ever — " 
 
 "I hope I shall never need him to be a good friend 
 to me," said Mrs. Ochterlony. "He is your brother, 
 Hugh, but you know we never got on." It was a per- 
 fectly correct statement of fact, but yet, perhaps, ]\[ary 
 would not have made it, had she not been so much 
 disturbed by Aunt Agatha's letter. She was almost 
 disposed to persuade herself for that moment that she 
 had not got on with Aunt Agatha, which was a moral 
 impossibility. As for the Major, he took no notice of 
 his wife's little ill-tempered unenthusiastic speech. 
 
 "You will be pleased when you read it," he said. 
 "He talks of Hugh quite plainly as the heir of Earlston. 
 I can't help being pleased. I wonder what kind of 
 Squire the little beggar will make: but we shall not 
 live to see that — or, at least, / shan't," the Major 
 went on, and he looked at his boy with a wistful look 
 which Mary used to think of afterwards. As for little 
 Hugh, he was very indifferent, and not much more 
 conscious of the affection near home than of the in- 
 heritance far off". Major ( )chterlony stood by the side 
 of Mary's chair, and he had it in his heart to give her 
 a little lesson upon her unbelief and want of confidence 
 in him, who was always acting for the \'ery best, and 
 who thought mucli more of her interests than of his 
 own. 
 
 "My darling," he said, in that coaxing tone which 
 Mary knew so well, "1 don't mean to blame you. It 
 was a hard thing to make you do; and you might 
 have thought me cruel and too precise. But only see
 
 80 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 now how important it was to be exact about our mar- 
 riage — too exact even. If Hugh should come into 
 the estate — " 
 
 Here Major Ochterlony stojjped short all at once, 
 without any apparent reason. He had still his brother's 
 letter in his hand, and was standing by Mary's side; 
 and nobody had come in, and nothing had happened. 
 But all at once, like a flash of lightning, something of 
 which he had never thought before had entered his 
 mind. He stopped short, and said, "Good God!" low 
 to himself, though he was not a man who used profane 
 expressions. His face changed as a summer day changes 
 when the wind seizes it like a ghost, and covers its 
 heavens with clouds. So great was the shock he had 
 received, that he made no attempt to hide it, but stood 
 gazing at Mary, appealing to her out of the midst of 
 his sudden trouble. "Good God!" he said. His eyes 
 went in a piteous way from little Hugh, who knew 
 nothing about it, to his mother, who was at present the 
 chief sufferer. Was it possible that instead of helping 
 he had done his best to dishonour Hugh? It was so 
 new an idea to him," that he looked helplessly into 
 Mary's eyes to see if it was true. And she, for her 
 part, had nothing to say to him. She gave a little 
 tremulous cry which did but echo his own exclamation, 
 and pitifully held out her hand to her husband. Yes; 
 it was true. Between them they had sown thorns in 
 their boy's path, and thrown doubt on his name, and 
 brought humiliation and uncertainty into his future life. 
 Major Ochterlony dropped into a chair by his wife's 
 side, and covered his face with her hand. He was 
 struck dumb by his discoveiy. It was only she who 
 had seen it all long ago — to whom no sudden re-
 
 MADONiSA MARY. 81 
 
 velatiou could come — who had been suft'ering, eveu 
 angrily and bitterly, but who was uow altogether sub- 
 dued aud couscious ouly of a common calamity; who 
 was the only one capable of speech or thought. 
 
 "Hugh, it is done now," said Mary; "perhaps it 
 may never do him any harm. We are in India, a long 
 way from all om* friends. They know what took place 
 in Scotland, but they can't know what happened here." 
 
 The Major only replied once more, "Good God!" 
 Perhaps he was not thinking so much of Hugh as of 
 the faihu-e he had himself made. To think he should 
 have landed in the most apparent folly by way of being- 
 wise — that perhaps was the immediate sting. But as 
 for ]\Irs. Ochterlony, her heart was full of her little boy 
 who was going away from her, and her husband's hoiTor 
 and dismay seemed ouly natural. She had to withdraw 
 her hand from him, for the tyrant baby did not ap- 
 prove of any other claim upon her attention, but she 
 caressed his stooping head as she did so. "Oh, Hugh, 
 let us hope things will turn out better than we think," 
 she said, with her heart overflowing in her eyes; and 
 the soft tears fell on Wilfrid's little frock as she soothed 
 and consoled him. Little Hugh for his part had been 
 startled in the midst of his play, and had come forward 
 to see what was going on. He was not particularly 
 interested, it is true, but still he rather wanted to know 
 what it was all about. And when the pugnacious baby 
 saw his brother he returned to the conflict. It was his 
 baby efforts with hands and feet to thrust Hugh away 
 which roused the Major. He got up aud took a walk 
 about the room, sighing heavily. " Wlien you saw what 
 was involved, why did you let me do it, Mary?" he 
 said, amid his sighs. That was all the advantage his 
 
 Jlu'loniia Mail]. 1. 6
 
 82 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 wife liad from bis discovery. He was still walking 
 about tbe room and sigbing, wben tbe baby went to 
 sleep, and Hiigb was taken away, and tlien to be sure 
 tbe fatber and motber were alone. 
 
 "77w^ never came into my bead," Major Ocbterlony 
 said, drawing a cbair again to Mary's side. "Wben 
 you saw tbe danger wby did you not tell me? I 
 tbougbt it was only because you did not like it. And 
 tben, on tbe otber side, if anytbing bappened to me — 
 Wby did you let me do it wben you saw tbat?" said 
 tbe Major, almost angrily. And he drew anotber long 
 impatient sigb. 
 
 "Perbaps it will do no barm, after all," said Mary, 
 wbo felt berself suddenly put upon ber defence. 
 
 "Harm! it is sure to do barm," said tbe Major. 
 "It is as good as saying we were never married till 
 now. Good beavens! to tbink you sbould bave seen 
 all tbat, and yet let me do it. We may bave ruined 
 him, for all we know. And tbe question is, what's to 
 be done? Perbaps I sbould write to Francis, and tell 
 him that I tbougbt it best for your sake, in case any- 
 thing bappened to me — and as it was merely a matter 
 of form, I don't see tbat Churchill could have any 
 hesitation in striking it out of the register — " 
 
 "Ob, Hugh, let it alone now," said Mrs. Ocbterlony. 
 "It is done, and we cannot undo it. Let us only be 
 quiet and make no more commotion. People may forget 
 it, perhaps, if we forget it." 
 
 "Forget it!" the Major said, and sighed. He shook 
 his head, and at the same time he looked with a certain 
 tender patronage on Mary. "You may forget it, my 
 dear, and I hope you will," be said, with a magnanimous 
 pathos; "but it is too much to expect tbat I should
 
 MADONNA MARV. 83 
 
 forget what may have such important results. I feel 
 sure I ought to let Francis know. I daresay he could 
 advise us what would be best. It is a very kind 
 letter," said the Major; and he sighed, and gave Mary 
 Mr. Ochterlony's brief and unimportant note with an 
 air of resigned yet hopeless affliction, wljich half ir- 
 ritated her, and half awoke those possibilities of 
 laughter which come "when there is little laughing in 
 one's head," as we say in Scotland. She could have 
 laughed, and she could have stormed at him-, and yet 
 in the midst of all she felt a poignant sense of con- 
 trast, and knew that it was she and not he who would 
 really sufPer — as it was he and not she who was in 
 fault. 
 
 While Mary read Mr. Ochterlony's letter, lulling 
 now and then with a soft movement the baby on her 
 knee, the Major at the other side got attracted after a 
 while by the pretty picture of the sleeping child, and 
 began at length to forego his sighing, and to smoothe 
 out the long white drapery that lay over Mary's dress. 
 He was thinking no harm, the tender-hearted man. 
 He looked at little Wilfrid's small waxen face pillowed 
 on his mother's arm — so much smaller and feebler 
 than Hugh and Islay had been, the great, gallant 
 fellows — and his heart was touched by his little 
 child. "My little man! you are all right, at least," 
 said the inconsiderate father. He said it to himself, 
 •and thought, if he thought at all on the subject, that 
 Mary, who was reading his brother's letter, did not 
 hear him. And when Mrs. Ochterlony gave that cry 
 which roused all the house and brought everybody 
 trooping to the door, in the full idea that it must be a 
 cobra at least, the Major jumped up to his feet as 
 
 6*
 
 84 MADOi!<NA MARY. 
 
 mucli startled as any of them, aud looked down to the 
 floor and cried, "Where — what is it?" with as little 
 an idea of what was the matter as the ayah who 
 grinned and gazed in the distance. When he saw that 
 instead of indicating somewhere a reptile intruder, 
 Mary had jdropped the letter and fallen into a weak 
 ou.tburst of tears, the Major was confounded. He sent 
 the servants away, and took his wife in his arms and 
 held her fast. "What is it, my love?" said the Major. 
 "Are you ill? For Heaven's sake tell me what it is-, 
 my poor darling, my bonnie Mary!" This was how 
 he soothed her, without the most distant idea what was 
 the matter, or what had made her cry out. And when 
 Mary came to herself, she did not explain very clearly. 
 She said to herself that it was no use making him un- 
 happy by the fantastical horror which had come into 
 her mind with his words, or indeed had been already 
 lurking there. And, poor soul, she was better when 
 she had had her cry out, and had given over little 
 Wilfrid, woke up by the sound, to his nurse's hands. 
 She said, "Never mind me, Hugh; I am nervous, I 
 suppose;" and cried on his shoulder as he never re- 
 membered her to have cried, except for very serious 
 griefs. And when at last he had made her lie down, 
 which was the Major's favourite panacea for all female 
 ills of body or mind, and had covered her over, and 
 patted and caressed and kissed her, Major Ochterlony 
 went out with a troubled mind. It could not be any- 
 thing in Francis's letter, which was a model of brotherly 
 correctness, that had vexed or excited her: and then 
 he began to think that for some time past her health 
 had not been what it used to be. The idea disturbed 
 him greatly, as may be supposed; for the thought of
 
 MADONNA MARY. 85 
 
 Mary ailing aiitl weakly, or perhaps 111 and in clanger, 
 was one which had never yet entered his mind. The 
 first thing he thought of was to go and have a talk 
 with Sorbette, who ought to know, if he was good for 
 anything, what it was. 
 
 "I am sure I don't know in the least what is the 
 matter," the Major said. "She is not ill, you know. 
 This morning she looked as well as ever she did, and 
 then all at once gave a cry and hui-st into tears. It is 
 so unlike Mary." 
 
 "It is very unlike her," said the doctor. "Perhaps 
 you were saying something that npset her nerves." 
 
 "Nerves!" said the Major, with calm pride. "My 
 dear fellow, you know that Mary has no nerves-, she 
 never was one of that sort of women. To tell the 
 truth, I don't think she has ever been quite herself 
 since that stupid business, you know." 
 
 "What stupid business?" said Mr. Sorbette. 
 
 "Oh, you know • — the marriage, to be sure. A 
 man looks very silly afterwards," said the Major with 
 candour, "when he lets himself be carried away by his 
 feelings. She ought not to have consented when that 
 was her idea. 1 would give a Imndred pounds I had 
 not been so foolish. I don't think she has ever been 
 quite herself since." 
 
 The doctor had opened de grands yeux. He looked 
 at his companion as if he could not believe his ears. 
 "Of course you would never have taken such an 
 unusual step if there liad not been good reason for it," 
 he ventured to say, which was rather a hazardous 
 speech; for the Major might have divined its actual 
 meaning, and then things would have gone badly with 
 Mr. Sorbette. But, as it happened. Major Ochterlony
 
 86 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 was far too much occupied to pay attention to any- 
 body's meaning except his own. 
 
 "Yes, there was good reason," he said. "She lost 
 her marriage 'lines,' you know, and all our witnesses 
 are dead. I thought she might perhaps find herself in 
 a disagreeable position if anything happened to me." 
 
 As he spoke, the doctor regarded him with surprise 
 so profound as to be half sublime — surprise and a 
 perplexity and doubt wonderful to behold. Was this a 
 story the Major had made up, or was it perhaps after 
 all the certain truth? It was just what he had said at 
 first-, but the first time it was stated with more warmth, 
 and did not produce the same effect. Mr. Sorbette 
 respected Mrs. Ochterlony to the bottom of his heart; 
 but still he had shaken his head, and said, "There 
 was no accounting for those things." And now he did 
 not know what to make of it: whether to believe in 
 the innocence of the couple, or to think the Major had 
 made up a story — which, to be sure, would be by 
 much the greatest miracle of all. 
 
 "If that was the case, I think it would have been 
 better to let well alone," said the doctor. "That is 
 what I would have done had it been me." 
 
 "Then why did not you tell me so?" said Major 
 Ochterlony. "I asked you before; and what you all 
 said to me was, 'If that's the case, best to repeat it at 
 once.' Good Lord! to think how little one can rely 
 upon one's friends when one asks their advice. But in 
 the meantime the question is about Mary. I wish 
 you'd go and see her and give her something — a 
 tonic, you know, or something strengthening. I think 
 I'll step over and see Churchill, and get him to strike 
 that unfortunate piece of nonsense out of the register.
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 87 
 
 As it was only a piece of form, I sliould think lie 
 would do it; and if it is that that ails her, it would do 
 her good." 
 
 "If I were you, I'd let well alone," said the 
 doctor; but he said it low, and he was putting on his 
 hat as he spoke, and Avent oft" immediately to see his 
 patient. Even if curiosity and surprise had not been 
 in operation , he Avould still probably have hastened to 
 Madonna Mary. For the regiment loved her in its 
 heart, and the loss of her fair serene presence would 
 have made a terrible gap at the station. "We must 
 not let her be ill if we can help it," Mr. Sorbette said 
 to himself; and then he made a private reflection about 
 that ass Ochterlony and his fidgets. But yet, notwith- 
 standing all his faults, the Major was not an ass. On 
 thinking it over again, he decided not to go to Churchill 
 with that little request about the register; and he felt 
 more and more, the more he reflected upon it, how 
 hard it was that in a moment of real emergency a man 
 should be able to put so little dependence upon his 
 friends. Even Mary had let him do it, though she 
 had seen how dangerous and impolitic it was; and all 
 the others had let him do it; for certainly it was not 
 without asking advice that he had taken what the 
 doctor called so unusual a step. Major Ochterlony felt 
 as he took this into consideration that he was an in- 
 jured man. What was the good of being on intimate 
 terms with so many people if not one of them could 
 give him the real counsel of a friend when he wanted 
 it? And even Mary had let him do it! The thought 
 of such a strange dereliction of duty on the part of 
 everybody connected with him, went to the Major's 
 heart.
 
 85 MADONNA MAr.Y. 
 
 As for Maiy, it would be a little difficult to express 
 her feelings. Slie got up as soon as her husband was 
 gone, and threw off the light covering he had put over 
 her so carefully, and went back to her work; for to lie 
 still in a darkened room was not a remedy in which 
 she put any faith. And to tell the truth, poor Mary's 
 heart was eased a little, perhaps physically, by her 
 tears, which had done her good, and by the other in- 
 cidents of the evening, which had thrown down as it 
 were the separation between her and her husband, and 
 taken away the one rankling and aching wound she 
 had. Now that he saw that he had done wrong — 
 now that he was aware that it was a wrong step he 
 had taken — a certain remnant of bitterness which had 
 been lurking in a corner of Mary's heart came all to 
 nothing and died down in a moment. As soon as he 
 was himself awakened to it, Mary forgot her own 
 wound and every evil thought she had ever had, in 
 her sorrow for him. She remembered his look of dis- 
 may, his dead silence, his uniisual exclamation; and 
 she said, "poor Hugh!" in her heart, and was ready to 
 condone his worst faults. Otherwise^ as Mrs. Ochterlony 
 said to herself, he had scarcely a fault that anybody 
 could point out. He was the kindest, the most true 
 and tender! Everybody acknowledged that he was the 
 best husband in the regiment, and which of them could 
 stand beside him, even in an inferior place? Not 
 Colonel Kirkman, who might have been a petrified 
 Colonel out of the Drift (if there were Colonels in 
 those days), for any particular internal evidence to the 
 contrary; nor Captain Hesketh, who was so Avell off; 
 nor any half dozen of the other officers. This was the 
 state of mind in which Mrs. Ochterlony was when the
 
 MADONNA MARY. 89 
 
 doctor called. And he found lier quite well, and 
 thought her an unaccountable woman, and shrugged 
 his shoulders, and wondered Avhat the IMajor would 
 take into his head next. "He said it was on the 
 nerves, as the poor women call it," said the doctor, 
 transferring his own suggestion to Major Ochterlony. 
 "I should like to know what he means by making 
 game of people — as if I had as much time to talk 
 nonsense as he has: but I thought, to be sure, when 
 he said that, that it was a cock-and-bull story. I 
 ought to know something about your nerves." 
 
 "He was quite right," said Mrs. Ochterlony; and 
 she smiled and took hold of the great trouble that was 
 approaching her and made a buckler of it for her hus- 
 band. "My nerves were very much upset. You know 
 Ave have to make up our minds to send Hugh home." 
 
 And as she spoke she looked up at Mr. Sorbette 
 with eyes brimming over with two great tears — real 
 tears, Heaven knows, which came but too readily to 
 back up her sacred plea. The doctor recoiled before 
 them as if somebody had levelled a pistol at him ; for 
 he was a man that could not bear to see women crying, 
 as he said, or to see anybody in distress, which was 
 the tri;e statement of the case. 
 
 "There — there," he said, "don't excite yourself. 
 What is the good of thinking about it? Everybody has 
 to do it, and the monkeys get on as well as possible. 
 Look here, pack up all this work and trash, and amuse 
 yourself Why don't you go out more, and take a 
 little relaxation? You had better send over to my sister 
 for a novel; or if there's nothing else for it, get the 
 baby. Don't sit working and driving yourself crazy 
 here."
 
 90 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 So that was all Mr. Sorbette could do in the case; 
 and a wonderfully puzzled doctor he was as he went 
 back to his quarters, and took the first opportunity of 
 telling his sister that she was all wrong about the 
 Ochterlonys, and he always knew she was. "As if a 
 man could know anything about it," Miss Sorbette said. 
 And in the meantime the Major went home, and was 
 very tender of Mary, and petted and watched over her 
 as if she had had a real illness. Though, after all, the 
 question why she had let him do so, was often nearly 
 on his lips, as it was always in his heart. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 What Mrs. Ochterlony had to do after this was to 
 write to Aunt Agatha, settling everything about little 
 Hugh, which was by no means an easy thing to do, 
 especially since the matter had been complicated by 
 that most unnecessary suggestion about Islay, which 
 Mrs. Hesketh had thought proper to make; as if she, 
 who had a grown-up daiaghter to be her companion, 
 and swarms of children, so many as almost to pass the 
 bounds of possible recollection, could know anything 
 about how it felt to send off one's entire family, leaving 
 only a baby behind; but then that is so often the way 
 with those well-off people, who have never had any- 
 thing happen to them. Mary had to write that if all 
 was well, and they could find "an opportunity," probably 
 Hugh would be sent by the next mail but one; for she 
 succeeded in persuading herself and the Major that 
 sooner than that it would be impossible to have his
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 91 
 
 things ready. "You do not say anything about Islay, 
 my dear," said the Major, when he read the letter, 
 "and yon must see that for the child's sake — " 
 
 "Oil, Hugh, what difference can it make?" said 
 Mrs. Ochterlony, with conscious sophistry. "If she can 
 take one child, she can take two. It is not like a 
 man — " But whether it was Islay or Aunt Agatha 
 who was not like a man, Mary did not explain; and 
 she went on with her preparations with a desperate 
 trust in circumstances, such as women are often driven 
 to. Something might happen to preserve to her yet for 
 a little while longer her three-year-old boy. Hugh was 
 past hoping for, but it seemed to her now that she 
 would accept with gratitude, as a mitigated calamity, 
 the separation from one which had seemed so terrible 
 to her at first. As for the Major, he adhered to the 
 idea with a tenacity unusual to him. He even came 
 and superintended her at the work-table, and asked 
 continually. How about Islay? if all these things were 
 for Hugh? — which was a question that called forth 
 all the power of sophistry and equivocation which Mrs. 
 Ochterlony possessed to answer. But still she put a 
 certain trust in circumstances that something might still 
 happen to save Islay — and indeed something did 
 happen, though far, very far, from being as Mary 
 wished. 
 
 The Major in the meantime had done his best to 
 shake himself free from the alarm and dismay indirectly 
 produced in his mind by his brother's letter. He had 
 gone to Mr. Churchill after all, but found it impractic- 
 able to get the entry blotted out of the register, not- 
 withstanding his assurance that it was simply a niatter 
 of form. Mr. Churchill bad no doubt on that point,
 
 92 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 but be could not alter tbe record, tliougb be condoled 
 witb the sufferer. "I cannot tbink bow you all could 
 let me do it," tbe Major said. "A man may be ex- 
 cused for taking tbe alarm, if be is persuaded tbat bis 
 wife will get into trouble wben he is gone, for want of 
 a formality; but bow all of you, witb cool beads and 
 no excitement to take away your judgment — " 
 
 "Who persuaded you?" said tbe clergyman, witb a 
 little dismay. 
 
 "Well, you know Kirkman said things looked very 
 bad in Scotland when the marriage lines were lost. 
 How could I tell? he is Scotch, and be ought to know. 
 And then to tbink of Mary in trouble, and perhaps 
 losing her little provision if anything happened to me. 
 It was enough to make a man do anything foolish; but 
 how all of you Avho know better should have let me 
 do it — " 
 
 "My dear Major," said Mr. Churchill mildly, "I 
 don't think you are a man to be kept from doing any- 
 thing when your heart is set upon it; — and then you 
 Avere in siicb a hurry — ■'" 
 
 "Ah, yes," said Major Ocbterlony with a deep 
 sigh; "and nobody, that I can remember, ever sug- 
 gested to me to wait a little. That's what it is, Chur- 
 chill; to have so many friends, and not one among 
 them who would take tbe trouble to tell a man he was 
 wrong." 
 
 "Major Ocbterlony," said the clergyman, a little 
 stiffly, "you forget that I said everything I could say 
 to convince you. Of course I did not know all the 
 circumstances — but I hope I shall always have courage 
 enough, when I tbink so, to tell any man he is in tbe 
 wrong."
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 93 
 
 "My dear I'elluAv, I did not mean you," said the 
 Major, with another sigh; and perhaps it was with a 
 similar statement that the conversation always eonclnded 
 when iMajor Ochterlony confided to any special in- 
 dividual of his daily associates, this general condennia- 
 tion of his friends, of which he made as little a secret 
 as he had made of his re-marriage. The station knew 
 as Avell after that, that Major Ochterlony was greatly 
 disturbed about the "unusual step" he had taken, and 
 was afraid it might be bad for little Hugh's future 
 prospects, as it had been aware beforehand of the 
 wonderful event itself. And naturally there was a 
 great deal of discussion on the subject. There were 
 some people who contented themselves with thinking, 
 like the doctor, that Ochterlony was an ass with his 
 fidgets; while there were others who thought he was 
 "deep," and was trying, as they said, to do away with 
 the bad impression. The former class were men, and 
 the latter were women; but it was by no means all the 
 women who thought so. Not to speak of the younger 
 class, like poor little Mrs. Askell, there were at least 
 two of the most important voices at the station which 
 did not declare themselves. Mrs. Kirkman shook her 
 head, and ho])ed that however it turned out it might 
 be for all their good, and above all might convince 
 Mary of the error of her ways; and Mrs. Hesketh 
 thought everybody made a great deal too much fuss 
 about it, and begged the public in general to let the 
 Ochterlonys alone. But the fact was, that so far as the 
 ordinary members of society were concerned, the Major's 
 new agitation revived the gossip that had nearly died 
 out, and set it all afloat again. It had been dying 
 away under the mingled influences of time, and the
 
 94 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 non-action of the leading ladies, and Mrs. Ocliterlony's 
 serene demeanonr, wliicli forbade the idea of evil. But 
 when it was thus started again the second time, it was 
 less likely to be made an end of. Mary, however, was 
 as unconscious of the renewed commotion as if she had 
 been a thousand miles away. The bitterness had gone 
 out of her heart, and she had half begun to think as 
 the Major did, that he was an injured man, and that 
 it was her fault and his friends' fault; and then she was 
 occupied with something still more important, and could 
 not go back to the old pain, from which she had suf- 
 fered enough. Thus it was with her in those troubled, 
 but yet, as she afterwards thought, happy days; when 
 she was very miserable sometimes and very glad — 
 when she had a great deal, as people said, to put up 
 with, a great deal to forgive, and many a thing of 
 which she did not herself approve, to excuse and justify 
 to others; this was her condition, and she had at the 
 same time before her the dreadful probability of sepa- 
 ration from both of her children , the certainty of a se- 
 paration, and ■ a long, dangerous voyage for one of 
 them, and sat and worked to this end day after day, 
 with a sense of what at the moment seemed exqiiisite 
 wretchedness. But yet, thinking over it afterwai'ds, 
 and looking back upon it, it seemed to Mary as if 
 those were happy days. 
 
 The time was coming very near when Hugh (as 
 Mrs. Ochterlony said), or the children (as the Major 
 was accustomed to say) were going home; when all at 
 once , without any preparation , very startling news 
 came to the station. One of the little local rebellions 
 that are always taking place in India had broken out 
 somewhere, and a strong detachment of the regiment
 
 MADONNA MARY, 95 
 
 was to be sent immediately to cjiiell it. Major Ochter- 
 lony came home that day a little excited by the news, 
 and still more by the certainty that it was he who 
 must take the command. He was excited because he 
 was a soldier at heart, and liked, kind man as he was, 
 to see something doing; and because active service was 
 more hopeful, and exhilarating, and profitable, than 
 reposing at the station, where there was no danger, 
 and very little to do. "I don't venture to hope that 
 the rogues will show fight," he said cheerfully; "so 
 there is no need to be anxious, Mary; and you can 
 keep the boys with you till I come back — that is 
 only fair," he said, in his exultation. As for Mary, 
 the aimouncement took all the colour out of her cheeks, 
 and drove both Hugh and Islay out of her mind. He 
 had seen service enough, it is true, since they were 
 married, to habituate her to that sort of thing; and she 
 had made, on the whole, a very good soldier's wife, 
 bearing her anxiety in silence, and keeping a brave 
 front to the world. But perhaps Mr. Sorbette was right 
 when he thought her nerves were upset. So many 
 things all coming together may have been too much 
 for her. When she heard of this she broke down 
 altogether, and felt a cold thrill of terror go through 
 her from her head to her heart, or from her heart to 
 her head, which perhaps would be the most just ex- 
 pression; but she dared not say a word to her husband 
 to deter or discourage him. When he saw the two 
 tears that sprang into her eyes, and the sudden paleness 
 that came over her face, he kissed her, all flushed and 
 smiling as he was, and said: "Now, don't be silly, 
 Mary. Don't forget you are a soldier's wife." There 
 was not a touch of despondency or foreboding about
 
 96 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 him; and what could she say who knew, had there 
 heen ever so much forehoding, that his duty was the 
 thing' to be thought of, and not anybody's feelings? 
 Her cheek did not regain its colour all that day, but 
 she kept it to herself, and forgot even about little 
 Hugh's reprieve. The children were dear, but their 
 father was dearer, or at least so it seemed at that 
 moment. Perhaps if the lives of the little ones had 
 been threatened, the Major's expedition might have 
 bulked smaller — for the heart can hold ordy one 
 overwhelming emotion at a time. But the aft'air was 
 urgent, and Mary did not have very much time left to 
 her to think of it. Almost before she had realized 
 what it was, the drums had beat, and the brisk music 
 of the band — - that music that people called exhilarating 
 — had roused all the station, and the measured march 
 of the men had sounded past, as if they were all 
 treading upon her heart. The Major kissed his little 
 boys in their beds, for it was, to be sure, unnaturally 
 early, as everything is in India-, and he had made his 
 wife promise to go and lie down, and take care of 
 herself, when he was gone. "Have the baby, and don't 
 think any more of me than you can help, and take 
 care of my boys. We shall be back sooner than you 
 want us," the Major had said, as he took tender leave 
 of his "bonnie Mary." And for her part, she stood as 
 long as she could see them, with her two white lips 
 pressed tight together, waving her hand to her soldier 
 till he was gone out of sight. And then she obeyed 
 him, and lay down and covered her head, and sobbed 
 to herself in the growing light, as the big blazing sun 
 began to touch the horizon. She was sick with pain 
 and terror, and she could not tell why. She had
 
 MADONNA 31AKY. 'J 7 
 
 watched biin go away before, and Lad hailed him 
 coming back again, and had known bim in hotter 
 conflict than this could be, and wounded, and yet he 
 had taken no great liai-m. But all that did her little 
 good now; perhaps because her nerves were weaker 
 tban usual, from tbe repeated shocks she had had 
 to bear. 
 
 And it was to be expected that Mrs. Kirkman 
 would come to see her, to console her that morning, 
 and put the worst thoughts into her head. But before 
 even Mrs. Kirkman, little Emma Askell came rushing 
 in, with her baby and a bundle, and threw herself at 
 Mary's feet. The Ensign had gone to the wars, and it 
 was the first experience of such a kind that had fallen 
 to the lot of his little baby- wife; and naturally ber 
 anxiety told more distinctly upon her than it did upon 
 Mary's ripe soul and frame. The poor little thing was 
 white and cold and shivering, notwithstanding the 
 blazing Indian day that began to lift itself over their 
 heads. She fell down at Mary's feet, forgetting all 
 about the beetles and scorpions wbich were the borror 
 of her ordinary existence, and clasped her knees, and 
 held Mrs. Ochterlony fast, grasping the bundle and 
 the little waxen baby at the same time in the other 
 arm. 
 
 "Do you think they will ever come back?" said 
 poor little Emma. "Oh, Mrs. Ochterlony, tell me. I 
 can bear it if you will tell me tbe worst. If anything 
 were to happen to Charlie, and me not with him! I 
 never, never, never can live until the news comes. Oh, 
 tell me, do you think they will ever come back?" 
 
 "If I did not think they would come back, do you 
 think I could take it so quietly?" said Mary, and she 
 
 iladouHU Jliiiij. I. 7
 
 98 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 smiled as best she could, and lifted up the poor little 
 girl, and took from her the baby and the bundle, which 
 seemed all one, so closely were they held. Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony had deep eyes, which did not show when she had 
 been crying-, and she was not young enough to cry in 
 thunder showers, as Emma Askell at eighteen might 
 still be permitted to do; and the very sight of her 
 soothed the young creature's heart. "You know you 
 are a soldier's wife," Mary said; "I think I was as bad 
 as you are the first time the Major left me — but we 
 all get used to it after a few years." 
 
 "And he came back?" said Emma, doing all she 
 could to choke a sob. 
 
 "He must have come back, or I should not have 
 parted with him this morning," said Mrs. Ochterlony, 
 who had need of all her own strength just at that 
 moment. "Let us see in the meantime what this 
 bundle is, and why you have brought poor baby out 
 in her night-gown. And what a jewel she is to sleep! 
 When my little Willy gets disturbed," said Mary, with 
 a sigh, "he gives none of us any rest. I will make up 
 a bed for her here on the sofa; and now tell me what 
 this bundle is for, and why you have rushed out half 
 dressed. We'll talk about them presently. Tell me first 
 about yourself" 
 
 Upon which Emma hung down her pretty little 
 head, and began to fold a hem upon her damp hand- 
 kerchief, and did not know how to explain herself. 
 "Don't be angry with me," she said. "Oh, my Ma- 
 donna, let me come and stay with you! — that was 
 what I meant; I can't stay there by myself — and I 
 will nurse Willy, and do your hair and help sewing. I 
 don't mind what I do. Oh, Mrs. Ochterlony, don't
 
 MADONNA MARY. 90 
 
 send me away! I sliould die if I were alone. And as 
 for baby, she never troubles anybody. She is so good. 
 I will be your little servant, and wait upon you like a 
 slave, if you will only let me stay." 
 
 It would be vain to say that IVIrs. Ocliterlony was 
 pleased by this appeal, for she was herself in a very 
 critical state of mind , full of fears that she could give 
 no reason for, and a hundred fantastic pains which 
 she would fain have hidden from human sight. She 
 had been taking a little comfort in the thought of the 
 solitude, the freedom from visitors and disturbance, 
 that she might safely reckon on, and in which she 
 thought her mind might perhaps recover a little-, 
 and this young creature's society was not specially 
 agreeable to her. But she was touched by the looks 
 of the forlorn girl, and could no more have sent her 
 away than she could repress the little movement of 
 impatience and half disgust that rose in her heart. She 
 was not capable of giving her any effusive welcome; 
 but she kissed poor little Emma, and put the bundle 
 beside the baby on the sofa, and accepted her visitor 
 without saying anything about it. Perhaps it did her 
 no harm: though she felt by moments as if her im- 
 patient longing to be alone and silent, and free to 
 think her own thoughts, would break out in spite of 
 all her self-control. But little Mrs. Askell never 
 suspected the existence of any such emotions. She 
 thought, on the contrary, that it was because Mary 
 was used to it that she took it so ([uietly, and wondered 
 whether she would ever get used to it. Perhaps, on 
 the whole, Emma hoped not. She thought to herself 
 that Mrs. Ocliterlony, who was so little disturbed by 
 the parting, would not feel the joy of the return half 
 
 7*
 
 100 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 SO mucli as slie should-, aud on these terms she pre- 
 ferred to take the despair along with the joy. But 
 under the shadow of Mary's matronly presence the 
 little thing cheered up, and got back her courage. 
 After she had been comforted with tea, and had fully 
 realized her position as Mrs. Ochterlony's visitor, Em- 
 ma's spirits rose. She was half or quarter Irish, as 
 has been already mentioned, and behaved herself ac- 
 cordingly. She recollected her despair, it is true, in 
 the midst of a game with Hugh and Islay, and cried 
 a little, but soon comforted herself with the thought 
 that at that moment her Charlie could be in no danger. 
 "They'll be stopping somewhere for breakfast by a 
 well, and camping all about, and they can't get any 
 harm there," said Emma; and thus she kept chattering 
 all day. If she had chattered only, aud been content 
 with chattering, it would have been comparatively 
 easy work; but then she was one of those people who 
 require answers, and will be spoken to. And Mary 
 had to listen and reply, and give her opinion where 
 they would be now, and when, at the very earliest, 
 they might be expected back. With such a discipline 
 to undergo, it may be thought a supererogation to bring 
 Mrs. Kirkman in upon her that same morning with her 
 handkerchief in her hand, prepared, if it were neces- 
 sary, to weep with Mary. But still it is tlie case that 
 Mrs. Kirkman did come, as might have been expected; 
 and to pass over conversation so edifying as hers, 
 would, under such circumstances, be almost a crime. 
 
 "My dear Mary," Mrs. Kirkman said when she 
 came in, "I am so glad to see you up and making an 
 effort; it is so much better than giving way. We must 
 accept these trials as something sent us for our good.
 
 MABOK^rA MARV. 101 
 
 I am sure tlic Major has all our prayers for his safe 
 return. Oh, Mary, do you not remember what I said 
 to you — that God, 1 was sure, was not going to let 
 you alone?" 
 
 ""I never thought He would leave me alone," said 
 Mrs. Ochterlony, but certainly, though it was a right 
 enough sentiment, it was not uttered in a right tone of 
 voice. 
 
 "He will not i-est till you see your duty more 
 clearly," said her visitor; "if it were not for that, why 
 should He have sent you so many things one after 
 another? It is far better and more blessed than if He 
 had made you happy and comfortable as the carnal 
 heart desires. But I did not see you had any one with 
 you," said Mrs. Kirkman, stopping short at the sight 
 of Emma, who had just come into the room. 
 
 "Poor child, she was frightened and unhappy, and 
 came to me this morning," said Mary. "She will stay 
 with me — till — they come home." 
 
 "Let us say ?/ they come home," said Mrs. Kirk- 
 man, solemnly. "I never like to be too certain. We 
 know when they go forth, but who can tell when they 
 will come back. That is in God's hands." 
 
 At this speech Emma fell trembling and shivering 
 again, and begged Mrs. Kirkman to tell her the worst, 
 and cried out that she could bear it. She thought of 
 nothing but her Charlie, as was natural, and that the 
 Colonel's wife had already heard some bad news. And 
 Mrs. Kirkman thought of nothing but improving the 
 occasion; and both of them were equally indifferent, 
 and indeed unaware of the cold shudder which went 
 through Maiy, and the awful foreboding that closed 
 down upon her, putting out the sunshine. It was a
 
 102 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 little safeguard to her to support the shivering girl 
 who already half believed herself a widow, and to 
 take up the challenge of the spiritual teacher who felt 
 herself responsible for their souls. 
 
 "Do not make Emma think something is wrong," 
 she said. "It is so easy to make a young creature 
 wretched with a word. If the Colonel had been with 
 them, it might have been different. But it is easy just 
 now for you to frighten us. I am sure you do not 
 mean it." And then Mary had to whisper in the 
 young wife's ear, "She knows nothing about them — 
 it is only her way," which was a thing very easily 
 said to Emma, but very difficult to establish herself 
 upon in her own heart. 
 
 And then Mrs. Ilesketh came in to join the party. 
 
 "So they are gone," the new comer said. "What 
 a way little Emma is in, to be sure. Is it the first 
 time he has ever left you, my dear? and I daresay 
 they have been saying something dreadful to frighten 
 you. It is a great shame to let girls marry so young. 
 I have been reckoning," said the easy-minded woman, 
 whose husband was also of the party, "how long they 
 are likely to be. If they get to Amberabad, say to- 
 morrow, and if there is nothing very serious, and all 
 goes well, you know, they might be back here on 
 Saturday — and we had an engagement for Saturday," 
 Mrs. Ilesketh said. Her voice was quite easy and 
 pleasant, as it always was; but nevertheless, Mary 
 knew that if she had not felt excited, she would not 
 have paid such an early morning visit, and that even 
 her confident calculation about the return proved she 
 was in a little anxiety about it. The fact was, that 
 none of them were quite at their ease, except Mrs.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 103 
 
 Kirkman, who, Laving no personal interest in the mat- 
 ter, was quite equal to taking a very gloomy view of 
 affairs. 
 
 "How can any one tliink of such vanities at such 
 a moment?" Mrs. Kirkman said. "Oh, if I only could 
 convince you, my dear friends. None of us can tell 
 what sort of engagement they may have before next 
 Saturday — perhaps the most solemn engagement ever 
 given to man. Don't let misfortune find you in this 
 unprepared state of mind. There is nothing on earth 
 so solemn as seeing soldiers go away. You may think 
 of the band and all that, but for me, I always seem to 
 hear a voice saying, 'Prepare to meet your God.'" 
 
 To be sure the Colonel was in command of the 
 station and was safe at home, and his wife could 
 speculate calmly upon the probable fate of the de- 
 tachmient. But as for the three women who were 
 listening to her, it was not so easy for them. There 
 was a dreadful pause, for nobody could contradict such 
 a speech-, and poor little Emma dropped down sobbing 
 on the floor; and the colour forsook even Mrs. Hesketh's 
 comely cheek; and as for Mary, though she could not 
 well be paler, her heart seemed to contract and shrink 
 within her; and none of them had the courage to say 
 anything. Naturally Mrs. Hesketh, with whom it was 
 a principle not to fret, was the first to recover her 
 voice. 
 
 "After all, though it's always an anxious time, 
 I don't see any particular reason we have to be un- 
 easy," she said. "Hesketh told me he felt sure they 
 would give in at once. It may be very true all you 
 say, but at the same time we may be reasonable, you 
 know, and not take fright when there is no cause for
 
 104 MADONNA MAny. 
 
 it. Don't cry, Emma, you little goose; you'll have him 
 back again in two or three days, all right." 
 
 And after awhile the anxious little assembly broke 
 up, and Mrs. Hesketli, who though she was very liberal 
 in her way, was not much given to personal charities, 
 went to see some of the soldiers' wives, who, poor 
 souls, would have been just as anxious if they had 
 liad the time for it, and gave them the best advice 
 about their children, and promised tea and sugar if 
 they would come to fetch it, and old frocks, in which 
 she was always rich; and these women were so un- 
 grateful as to like her visit better than that of the 
 Colonel's wife, who carried them always on her heart 
 and did them a great deal of good, and never confined 
 herself to kindnesses of impulse. And little Emma 
 Askell ci-ied herself to sleep sitting on the floor, not- 
 withstanding the beetles, reposing her pretty face 
 flushed with weeping and her swollen eyes upon the 
 sofa, where Mary sat and watched over her. Mrs. Hes- 
 keth got a little ease out of her visit to the soldiers' 
 wives, and Emma forgot her troubles in sleep; but no 
 sort of relief came to Mary, who reasoned with hersel 
 all day long without being able to deliver herself from 
 the pressure of the deadly cold hand that seemed to 
 have been laid upon her heart.
 
 JIADONNA MARY. 105 
 
 CHAPTEli IX. 
 
 And Mary's forebodings came true. Though it 
 was so unlikely, and indeed seemed so unreasonable to 
 everybody who knew about such expeditions, instead 
 of bringing back his men victorious, it was the men, 
 all drooping and discouraged, wlio carried back the 
 brave and tender Major, covered over with the flag he 
 liad died for. The whole station was overcast with 
 mourning when that melancholy procession came back. 
 Mr. Churchill, who met them coming in, hurried back 
 with his heart swelling up into his throat to prepare 
 Mrs. Ochterlony for Avhat was coming; but Mary was 
 the only creature at the station who did not need to 
 1)6 prepared. She knew it was going to be so when 
 she saw him go away. She felt in her heart that this 
 was to be the end of it from the moment when he first 
 told her of the expedition on which he was ordered. 
 And when she saw poor Mr. Churchill's face, from 
 which he had vainly tried to banish the traces of the 
 horrible shock he had just received, she saw that the 
 blow had fallen. She caine up to him and took hold 
 of his hands, and said, "I know what it is;" and al- 
 most felt, in the strange and terrible excitement of the 
 moment, as if she were sorry for him who felt it so 
 much. 
 
 This was how it was, and all the station was struck 
 with mourning. A chance bullet, which most likely 
 had been fired without any purpose at all, had done 
 its appointed office in Major Ochterlony's brave, tender,
 
 106 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 honest bosom. Though he had been foolish enough 
 by times, nobody now thought of that to his disad- 
 vantage. Rather, if anything, it surrounded him with 
 a more affectionate regret. A dozen wise men might 
 have perished and not left such a gap behind them as 
 the Major did, who had been good to everybody in his 
 restless way, and given -a great deal of trouble, and 
 made up for it, as only a man with a good heart and 
 natural gift of friendliness could do. He had worried 
 his men many a time as the Colonel never did, for 
 example: but then, to Major Ochterlony they were men 
 and fine fellows, while they were only machines, like 
 himself, to Colonel Kirkman; and more than one critic 
 in regimentals was known to say with a sigh, "If it 
 had only been the Colonel." But it was only the fated 
 man who had been so over-careful about his wife's fate 
 in case anything happened to him. Young Askell came 
 by stealth like a robber to take his little wife out of 
 the house where Mary was not capable any longer of 
 her society, and Captain Hesketh too had come back 
 all safe — all of them except the one: and the women 
 in their minds stood round Mary in a kind of hushed 
 circle, looking with an awful fellow-feeling and almost 
 self-reproach at the widowhood which might have, but 
 had not, fallen upon themselves. It was no fault of 
 theirs that she had to bear the cross for all of them as 
 it were; and yet their hearts ached over her, as if 
 somehow they had purchased their own exemption at 
 her expense. Wlien the first dark moment, during 
 which nobody saw Madonna Mary — a sweet title 
 which had come back to all their lips in the hour of 
 trouble — was over, they took turns to be with her, 
 those grieved and compunctious women — compunctious
 
 MADONNA MARY. 107 
 
 not SO much because at one time in thought they had 
 done her -wrong, as because now they were happy and 
 she was sorrowful. And thus passed over a time that 
 cannot be described in a book, ©r at least in such a 
 book as this. Mary had to separate herself, with still 
 the bloom of her life unimpaired, from all the fair 
 company of matrons round her; to put the widow's 
 veil over the golden reflections in her hair, and the 
 faint colour that came faintly back to her cheek by 
 imprescriptible right of her health and comparative 
 youth, and to go away out of the high-road of life 
 where she had been wayfaring in trouble and in hap- 
 piness, to one of those humble by-ways where the 
 feeble and broken take shelter. Heaven knows she 
 did not think of that. All that she thought of was 
 her dead soldier who had gone away iu the bloom of 
 his days to the unknown darkness which God alone 
 knows the secrets of, who had left all his comrades 
 uninjured and at peace behind him, and had himself 
 been the only one to answer for that enterprize with 
 his life. It is strange to see this wonderful selection 
 going on in the world, even when one has no imme- 
 diate part in it; but stranger, far stranger, to wake up 
 from one's musings and feel all at once that it is one's 
 self whom God has laid his hand upon for this stern 
 purpose. The wounded creature may wi-ithe upon the 
 sword, but it is of no use; and again as ever, those 
 who are not wounded — those perhaps for whose in- 
 struction the spectacle is made — draw round in a 
 hushed circle and look on. Mary Ochterlony was a 
 dutiful woman, obedient and submissive to God's will; 
 and she gave no occasion to that circle of spectators to 
 break up the hush and awe of natural sympathy and
 
 108 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 criticise lier liow slie bore it. But after a wliilo she 
 came to perceive, what everybody comes to perceive who 
 lias been in sxich a position, that the sympathy had changed 
 its character. Thatjwas natural too. How a man bears 
 death and suffering of body, has long been one of the 
 favourite objects of primitive human ciu'iosity; and to 
 see how anguish and sorrow affect the mind is a study as 
 exciting and still more interesting. It was this that roused 
 Mrs. Ochterlony out of her first stupor, and made her 
 decide so soon as she did upon her journey home. 
 
 All these events had passed in so short a time, that 
 there were many people who on waking up in the 
 morning, and recollecting that Mary and her children 
 were going next day, could scarcely realize that the 
 fact was possible, or that it could be true about the 
 Major, who had so fully intended sending his little 
 boys home by that same mail. But it is, on the whole, 
 astonishing how soon and how calmly a death is ac- 
 cepted by the general community; and even the people 
 who asked themselves could this change really have 
 happened in so short a time, took pains an hour or two 
 after to make up little parcels for friends at home, 
 which Mary was to carry, bits of Oriental embroidery 
 and filagree ornaments, and little portraits of the 
 children, and other trifles that were not important 
 enough to warrant an Overland parcel, or big enough 
 to go by the Cape. Mary was very kind in that way, 
 they all said. She accepted all kinds of commissions, 
 perhaps without knowing very well what she was doing, 
 and promised to go and see people whom she had no 
 likelihood of ever going to see; the truth was, that she 
 heard and saw and understood only partially, some- 
 times rousing up for a moment and catching one word
 
 iIAl>ONNA MAllV. 1U9 
 
 or oue little incident with the inteusest distinctness, and 
 then relapsing back again into herself. She did not 
 quite make out what Emma Askell was saying the last 
 time her little friend came to see her. Mary was pack- 
 ing her boys' things at the moment, and much occupied 
 with a host of cares, and what she heard was only a 
 stream of talk, broken with the occasional burden 
 which came in like a chorus "when you see mamma." 
 
 "When I see mamma?" said Mary, with a little 
 surprise. 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Ochterlony, you said you would per- 
 haps go to see her — in St. John's Wood," said Emma, 
 with tears of vexation in her eyes; "you know I told 
 you all about it. The Laburnums, Acacia-road. And 
 she will be so glad to see you. I explained it all, and 
 you said you would go. I told her how kind you had 
 been to me, and how you let me stay with you when I 
 was so anxious about Charlie. Oh, dear Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony, forgive me! I did not mean to bring it back to 
 your mind." 
 
 "No," said Mary, with a kind of forlorn amuse- 
 ment. It seemed so strange, almost droll, that they 
 should think any of their poor little passing words 
 would bring that back to her which was never once 
 out of her mind, nor other than the centre of all her 
 thoughts. "I must have been dreaming when I said 
 so, Emma; but if I have promised, I will try to go — 
 I have nothing to do in London, you know — I am 
 going to the North-country, among my own people," 
 which was an easier form of expression than to say, as 
 tliey all did, that she was going home. 
 
 "But everybody goes to London," insisted Emma; 
 and it Avas only when Mr. Churchill came in, also with
 
 1 10 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 a little packet, that the ensign's wife was silenced. 
 Mr. Churchill's parcel was for his mother who lived in 
 Yorkshire, naturally, as Mrs. Ochterlony was going to 
 the North, quite in her way. But the clergyman, for 
 his part, had something more important to say. When 
 Mrs. Askell was gone, he stopped Mary in her packing 
 to speak to her seriously as he said, "You will forgive 
 me and feel for me, I know," he said. "It is ahout 
 your second marriage, Mrs. Ochterlony." 
 
 "Don't speak of it — oh, don't speak of it," 
 Mary said, with an imploring tone that went to his 
 heart. 
 
 " But I ought to speak of it — if you can bear it," 
 said Mr. Churchill, "and I know for the boys' sake 
 that you can bear everything. I have brought an ex- 
 tract from the register, if you would like to have it; 
 and I have added below " 
 
 "Mr. Churchill, you are very kind, but I don't 
 want ever to think of that," said Mrs. Ochterlony. "I 
 don't want to recollect now that such a thing ever 
 took place — I wish all record of it would disappear 
 from the face of the earth. Afterwards he thought the 
 same," she said, hurriedly. Meanwhile Mr. Churchill 
 stood with the paper half drawn from his pocket-book, 
 watching the changes of her face. 
 
 "It shall be as you like," he said, slowly, "but 
 
 only as I have written below If you change your 
 
 mind, you have only to write to me, my dear Mrs. 
 Ochterlony — if I stay here — and I am sure I don't 
 know if I shall stay here; but in case I don't, you can 
 always learn where I am, from my mother at that 
 address." 
 
 "Do you think you will not stay here?" said Mary,
 
 MADONNA MARY. Ill 
 
 whose heart was uot so much absorbed in her own sor- 
 rows that she coukl uot feel for the dismayed, despond- 
 ing mind that made itself apparent in the poor clergy- 
 man's voice. 
 
 "I don't know," he said, in the dreary tones of a 
 man who has little choice, "with our large family, and 
 my wife's poor health. I shall miss you dreadfully — 
 both of you: you can't think how cheery and hearty 
 he always was — and that to a down-hearted man 
 like me " 
 
 And then Mary sat down and cried. It went to 
 her heart and dispersed all her heaviness and stupor, 
 and opened the great sealed fountains. And Mr. 
 Churchill once more felt the climbing sorrow in his 
 throat, and said in broken words, "Don't cry — God 
 will take care of you. He knows why He has done it, 
 though we don't; and He has given his own word to 
 be a father to the boys." 
 
 That was all the poor priest could find it in his 
 heart to say — but it was better than a sermon — 
 and he went away with the extract from the register 
 still in his pocket-book and tears in his eyes; while 
 for her part Mary finished her packing with a heart 
 relieved by her tears. Ah, how cheery and hearty he 
 had been, how kind to the down-hearted man; how 
 different the stagnant quietness now from that cheerful 
 commotion he used to make, and all the restless life 
 about him; and then his favourite words seemed to 
 come up about and surround her, flitting in the air 
 with a sensation between acute torture and a dull hap- 
 piness. His bonnie Mary! It was not any vanity on 
 Mary's part that made her think above all of that name. 
 Thus she did her packing and got ready for her voy-
 
 112 MAUOA'xNA MAUY. 
 
 age, and took the good people's cominisHions without 
 knowing very well to what it was that she pledged 
 herself; and it was the same mail — "the mail after 
 next" — by which she had written to Aunt Agatha, 
 that Hugh was to be sent home. 
 
 They would all have come to see her off if they 
 could have ventured to do it that last morning: but the 
 men prevented it, who are good for something now 
 and then in such cases. As it was, however, Mrs. 
 Kirkman and Mrs. Hesketh and Emma Askell were 
 there, and poor sick Mrs. Churchill, who had stolen 
 from her bed in her dressing-gown to kiss Mary for the 
 last time. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, if it had been me — oh, if it had 
 only been me! — and you would all have been so 
 good to the poor children," sobbed the poor clergyman's 
 ailing wife. Yet it was not her, but the strong, brave, 
 cheery Major, the prop and pillar of a house. As for 
 Mrs. Kirkman, there never was a better proof that she 
 was, as we have so often said, in spite of her talk, a 
 good woman, than the fact that she could only cry 
 helplessly over Mary, and had not a word to say. She 
 had thought and prayed that God would not leave her 
 friend alone, but she had not meant Him to go so far 
 as this-, and her heart ached and fluttered at the terrible 
 notion that perhaps she had something to do with the 
 striking of this blow. Mrs. Hesketh for her part 
 packed every sort of dainties for the children in a 
 basket, and strapped on a bundle of portable toys to 
 amuse them on the journey, to one of Mrs. Ochterlony's 
 boxes. "You will be glad of them before you get 
 there," said the experienced woman, who had once 
 made the journey with half-a-dozon, as she said, and
 
 MADONNA MARY. 113 
 
 kuevv what it was. And tlieu one or two of the men 
 were walking about outside in an accidental sort of 
 way, to liave a last look of Mary. It was considered 
 a very great thing among them all when the doctor, 
 who hated to see people in trouble, and disapproved of 
 crying on principle, made up his mind to go in and 
 shake hands with Mrs. Ochterlony; but it was not that 
 he went for, but to look at the baby, and give Mary a 
 little case "with some sal volatile and so forth, and the 
 quantities marked," he said, "not that you are one to 
 want sal volatile. The little shaver there will be all 
 right as soon as you get to England. Good-bye. Take 
 care of yourself." And he wrung her hand and bolted 
 out again like a flash of lightning. He said afterwards 
 that the only sensible thing he knew of his sister, was 
 that she did not go; and that the sight of all those 
 women crying was enough to give a man a sunstroke, 
 not to speak of the servants and the soldiers' wives 
 wlio were howling at the back of the house. 
 
 Oh, what a change it was in so short a time, to go 
 out of the Indian home, which had been a tri;e home, 
 with Mr. Churchill to take care of her and her poor 
 babies, and set her face to the cold fai'-away world of 
 her youth which she had forgotten , and which every- 
 body called home by a kind of mockery; and where 
 was Hugh, who had always taken such care of his own? 
 Mary did not cry as people call crying, but now and 
 then, two great big hot tears rolled out of the bitter 
 fountain that was full to overflowing, and fell scalding 
 on her hands, and gave her a momentary sense of 
 physical relief. Almost all the ladies of the station 
 were ill after it all the day; but Mary could not afford 
 to be ill; and Mr. Churchill was very kind, and went 
 
 MudoHHa Marij. 1,^ 8
 
 114 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 witb her tlirougli all the liiHt part of her journey over 
 the cross roads, until she had come into the trunk road, 
 where there was no more difficulty. He was very, 
 very kind, and she was very grateful; but yet perhaps 
 when you have had some one of your very own to do 
 everything for you, who was not kind but did it by 
 nature, it is better to take to doing it yourself after ^ 
 than have even the best of friends to do it for kindness' 
 sake. This was what Mary felt when the good man 
 had gone sadly back to his sick wife and his uncertain 
 lot. It was a kind of relief to her to be all alone, 
 entirely alone with her children, for the ayah, to be 
 sure, did not count — and to have everything to do; 
 and this was how they came down mournfully to the 
 sea-board, and to the big town which filled Hugh and 
 Islay with childish excitement, and Mary bade an 
 everlasting farewell to her life, to all that she had 
 actually known as life — and got to sea, to go, as 
 they said, home. 
 
 It would be quite useless for our purpose to go 
 over the details of the voyage, which was like other 
 voyages, bad and good by turns. When she was at 
 sea, Mrs. Ochterlouy had a little leisure, and felt ill 
 and weak and overworn, and was the better for it after. 
 It took her mind for the moment off that unmeasured 
 contemplation of her sorrow which is the soul of grief, 
 and her spirit got a little strength in the interval of 
 repose. She had been twelve years in India, and from 
 eighteen to thirty is a wonderful leap in a life. She 
 did not know how she was to find the things and the 
 people of whom she had a girl's innocent recollection ; 
 nor how they, who had not changed, would appear to 
 her changed eyes. Her own people were very kind,
 
 MADONNA MARY. 115 
 
 like everybody. Mary found a letter at Gibraltar from 
 her brother-in-law, Francis, full of sympathy and 
 friendly offers. He asked her to come to Earlstou 
 with her boys to see if they could not get on together. 
 "Perhaps it might not do, but it would be worth a 
 trial," Mr. Ochterlony sensibly said; and there was 
 even a chance that Aunt Agatha, who was to have met 
 with Hugh at Southampton, would come to meet her 
 widowed niece, who might be supposed to stand still 
 more in need of her good offices. Though indeed this 
 was rather an addition to Mary's cares; for she thought 
 the moment of landing would be bitter enough of it- 
 self, without the pain of meeting with some one who 
 belonged to her, and yet did not belong to her, and 
 who had doubtless groANai as much out of the Aunt 
 Agatha of old as she had grown out of the little Mary. 
 When Mrs. Ochterlony left the North-country, Aunt 
 Agatlia had been a middle-aged maiden lady, still 
 pretty, thoiigh a little faded, with light hair growing 
 grey, which makes a woman's countenance, already on 
 the decline, more faded still, and does not bring out the 
 tints as dark hair in the same powdery condition some- 
 times does. And at that time she was still occupied 
 by a thought of possibilities which people who knew 
 Agatha Seton from the time she was sixteen, had de- 
 cided at that early period to be impossible. No doubt 
 twelve years had changed this ^ and it must have 
 made a still greater change upon the little sister whom 
 Mary had known only at six years old, and who was 
 now eighteen, the ago she had herself been when she 
 married; a grown-up young woman, and of a character 
 more decided than Mary's had ever been. 
 
 A little stir of reviving life awoke in her and
 
 116 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 moved her, when the weary journey was over, and the 
 steam-boat at length had reached Southampton, to go 
 up to the deck and look from beneath the heavy pent- 
 house of her widow's veil at the strangers who were 
 coming — to see, as she said to herself, with a throb 
 at her heart, if there was anybody she knew. Aunt 
 Agatha was not rich, and it was a long journey, and 
 perhaps she had not come. Mary stood on the crowded 
 deck, a little apart, with Hugh and Islay on each side 
 of her, and the baby in his nurse's arms — a group 
 such as is often seen on these decks — all clad with 
 loss and mourning, coming "home" to a country in 
 Avhich perhaps they have no longer any home. Nobody 
 came to claim Mrs. Ochterlony as she stood among her 
 little children. She thought she would have been glad 
 of that, but when it came to the moment — when she 
 saw the cold unknown shore and the strange country, 
 and not a Christian soul to say welcome, poor Mary's 
 heart sank. She sat down, for her strength was failing 
 her, and drew Hugh and Islay close to her, to keep 
 her from breaking down altogether. And it was just 
 at that moment that the brightest of young faces peered 
 down under her veil and looked doubtfully, anxiously 
 at her, and called out impatiently, "Aunt Agatha!" to 
 some one at the other side, without speaking to Mary. 
 Mrs. Ochterlony did not hear this newcomer's equally 
 impatient demand: "Is it Mary? Are those the 
 children?" for she had dropped her sick head upon a 
 soft old breast, and had an old fresh sweet faded face 
 bent down upon her, lovely with love and age, and a 
 pure heart. "Cry, my dear love, cry, it will do you 
 good," was all that Aunt Agatha said. And she cried, 
 too, with good will, and yet did not know whether it
 
 MADONNA MARY. 117 
 
 was for sorrow or joy. This was bow Mary, coming- 
 back to a fashion of existence which she knew not, was 
 taken home. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Aunt Agatha bad grown into a sweet old lady: 
 not so old, perhaps, but that she might have made up still 
 into that elderly aspirant after youth, for whose special 
 use the name "old maid" must have been invented, 
 and yet there is a sweetness in the name, and it was 
 not inapplicable to the fair old woman, who received 
 Mary Ochterlony into her kind arms. There was a 
 sort of tender misty consciousness iipon her age, just 
 as there is a tender unconsciousness in youth, of so 
 many things that cannot but come to the knowledge of 
 })eople who have eaten of the tree in the middle of 
 the garden. She was surrounded by the unknown as 
 was seemly to such a maiden soitI. And yet she was 
 old, and gleams of experience, and dim knowledge at 
 second hand, had come to her from those misty tracts. 
 Though she had not, and never could have, half the 
 vigour or force in her which Mary had even in her 
 subdued and broken state, still she had strength of 
 affection and goodness enough to take the management 
 of all affairs into her hands for the moment, and to set 
 herself at the head of the little party. She took Mary 
 and the chidreu from the sliip, and brought them to 
 the inn at which she had stayed the night before; and, 
 what was a still greater achievement, she repressed 
 Winnie, and kept her in a semi-subordinate and silent
 
 lib MADONNA MARY. 
 
 state — which was an effort which taxed all Aunt 
 Agatha's powers. Though it may seem strange to say- 
 it, Mary and her young sister did not, as people say, 
 take to each other at that first meeting. It was twelve 
 years since they had met, and the eighteen-year-old 
 young woman, accustomed to be a sovereign among her 
 own people, and have all her whims attended to, did 
 not , somehow , commend herself to Mary, who was 
 broken, and joyless, and feeble, and little capable of 
 glitter and motion. Aunt Agatha took the traveller to 
 a cool room, where comparative quiet was to be had, 
 and took off her heavy bonnet and cloak, and made 
 her lie down, and came and sat by her. The children 
 were in the next room, where the sound of their voices 
 could reach their mother to keep her heart; and then 
 Aunt Agatha took Mary's hand in both of hers, and 
 said, "Tell me about it, my dear love." It was a way 
 she had of speaking, but yet such words are sweet; 
 especially to a forlorn creature who has supposed that 
 there is nobody left in the world to address her so. 
 And then Mary told her sad story with all the details 
 that women love, and cried till the fountain of tears 
 was for the time exhausted, and grief itself by its very 
 vehemence had got calm; which was, as Aunt Agatha 
 knew by instinct, the best way to receive a poor wo- 
 man who was a widow, and had just set her solitary 
 feet for the first time upon the shores which she left as 
 a bride. 
 
 And so they rested and slept that first night on 
 English soil. There are moments when sorrow feels 
 sacramental, and as if it never could be disturbed again 
 by the pettier emotions of life. Mrs. Ochterlony had 
 gone to sleep in this calm, and it was with something
 
 MADONNA MARY. 119 
 
 of the same feeling that she awoke. As if life , as she 
 thought, being over, its cares were in some sense over 
 too, and that now nothing could move her further-, un- 
 less, indeed, it might be any harm to the children, 
 which, thank Grod, there was no appearance of. In 
 this state of mind she rose up and said her prayers, 
 mingling them with some of those great tears which 
 gather one by one as the heart fills , and which seem to give 
 a certain physical relief when they brim over; and then 
 she went to join her aunt and sister at breakfast, where 
 they had not expected to see her. "My love, I would 
 have brought you your tea," said Aunt Agatha, with 
 a certain reproach; and when Mary smiled and said 
 there was no need, even Winnie's heart was touched, 
 — wilful Winnie in her black muslin gown, who was 
 a little piqued to feel herself in the company of one 
 more interesting than even she was , and hated herself for 
 it, and yet could not help feeling as if Mary had come 
 in like the prodigal, to be feasted and tended, while 
 they never even killed a kid for her who had always 
 been at home. 
 
 Winnie was eighteen, and she was not like her 
 sister. She was tall, but not like Mary's tallness — 
 a long slight slip of a girl, still full of corners. She 
 had corners at her elbows, and almost at her shoulders, 
 and a great many corners in her mind. She was 
 not so much a pretty girl as a girl who would, or 
 might be, a beautiful woman. Her eyebrows were 
 arched, and so were her delicate nostrils, and her up- 
 per lip — all curved and moveable , and ready to 
 quiver and speak when it was needful. When you 
 saw her face in profile, that outline seemed to cut itself 
 out, as in some warm marble against the back -ground.
 
 120 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 It was not the heaute du diahlc , the bewildering charm 
 of youth, and freshness, and smiles, and rose tints. 
 She had something of all this, and to boot she had 
 features — bemix traits. But as for this part of her 
 power, Winnie, to do her justice, thought nothing of 
 it; perhaps, to have understood that people minded 
 what she said, and noticed what she did because she 
 was very handsome, would have conveyed something 
 like an insult and affront to the young lady. She did 
 not care much , nor mind much at the present moment, 
 whether she was pretty or not. She had no rivals, and 
 beaixty was a weapon the importance of which had not 
 occurred to her. But she did care a good deal for being 
 Winifred Seton, and as such, mistress of all she sur- 
 veyed; and though she could have beaten herself for it, 
 it galled her involuntarily to find herself thus all at 
 once in the presence of a person whom Providence 
 seemed to have set, somehow, in a higher position, and 
 who was more interesting than herself. It was a wicked 
 thought, and she did it battle. If it had been left to 
 her, how she could have petted and cared for Mary, 
 how she would have borne her triumphantly over all 
 the fatigues of the journey, and thought nothing to take 
 the tickets, and mind the luggage, and struggle with 
 the railway porters for Mary's sake! But to have Mary 
 come in and absorb Aunt Agatha's and everybody's fii-st 
 look, their first appeal and principal regard, was trying 
 to Winnie; and she had never learned yet to banish 
 altogether from her eyes what she thought. 
 
 "It does not matter, aunt," said Mary; "I cannot 
 make a recluse of myself ^ — I must go among strangers 
 — and it is well to be able to practise a little with 
 Winnie and you."
 
 MADONNA MARY. 121 
 
 "You must not mind Winnie cand me, my darling," 
 said Aunt Agatlia , who had a way of missing the arrow, 
 as it Avere, and catching some of the feathers of it as 
 it flew past. 
 
 "What do you mean about going among strangers?" 
 said the keener AVinnie. "I hope you don't think we 
 are strangers; and there is no need for you to go into 
 society that I can see — not now at least; or at all 
 events not unless you like ," she continued with a 
 suspicion of sharpness in her tone, not displeased, per- 
 haps, on the whole that Mary was turning out delusive 
 and was thinking already of society — for which 
 notwithstanding she scorned her sister, as was natural 
 to a young woman at the experienced age of eighteen. 
 
 "Society is not what I was thinking of," said Mary, 
 who in her turn did not like her young sister's criticism ; 
 and she took her seat and her cup of tea with an un- 
 comfortable sense of opposition. She had thought that 
 she could not be annoyed any more by petty matters, 
 and was incapable of feeling the little cares and com- 
 ])lications of life , and yet it was astonishing how 
 Winnie's little, sharp, half-sarcastic tone broixght back 
 the faculty of being annoyed. 
 
 "The little we have at Kirtell will be a comfort 
 to you, my love," said the soothing voice of Aunt 
 Agatha; "all old friends. The vicar you know, Mary, 
 and the doctor, and poor Sir Edward. There are some 
 new people, but I do not make much account of them; 
 and our little visiting would harm nol)ody," the old 
 lady said, though Avith a slight tone of apology, not 
 •piite satisfied in herself that the Avidow should be even 
 able to think of society so soon. 
 
 Upon which a little pucker of vexation came to
 
 122 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Mary's brow. As if she cared or could care for tlieir 
 little visiting, and tlie vicar, and the doctor, and Sir 
 Edward! she to whom going among strangers meant 
 something so real and so hard to beai*. 
 
 "Dear Annt Agatha," she said, "I am afraid you 
 will not be pleased; but I have not been looking for- 
 ward to anything so pleasant as going to Kirtell. The 
 first thing I have to think of is the boys and their 
 interests. And Francis Ochterlony has asked us to go 
 to Earlston." These words came all confused from 
 Mary's lips. She broke down, seeing what was coming; 
 for this was something that she never had calculated 
 on , or thought of having to bear. 
 
 A dead pause ensued, Aunt Agatha started and 
 flushed all over, and gave an agitated exclamation, 
 and then a sudden blank came upon her sweet old 
 face. Mary did not look at her, but she saw without 
 looking how her aunt stiffened into resentment, and 
 oflPence, and mortification. She changed in an instant, 
 as if Mrs. Ochterlony's confused statement had been a 
 spell and drew herself up and sat motionless, a picture 
 of surprised affection and wounded pride. Poor Mary 
 saw it, and was grieved to the heart, and yet could 
 not but resent such a want of understanding of her 
 position and sympathy for herself. She lifted her cup 
 to her lips with a trembling hand, and her tea did not 
 refresh her. And it was the only near relative she had 
 in the world, the tenderest-hearted creature in existence, 
 a woman who could be cruel to nobody, who thus shut 
 up her heart against her. Thus the three -women sat 
 together round their breakfast- table, and helped each 
 other, and said nothing for one stern moment, which 
 was a cruel moment for two of them at least.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 123 
 
 "Earlstou!" said Aunt Agatlia at last, with a quiver 
 in her voice. "Indeed it never occurred to me — I 
 had not supposed that Francis Ochterlony had been so 
 
 much to But never mind; if that is what you 
 
 think best for yourself, Mary " 
 
 "There is nothing best for myself," said Mrs. 
 Ochterlony, with the sharpness of despair. "I think it 
 is my duty — and — and Hugh, I know, would have 
 thoiaght so. Our boy is his uncle's heir. They are 
 the — the only Ochterlonys left now. It is what I 
 must — Avhat I ought to do." 
 
 And then there was another pause. Aunt Agatha 
 for her part would have liked to cry, but then she had 
 her side of the family to maintain, and though every 
 pulse in her was beating with disappointment and morti- 
 fied affection, she was not going to show that. "You 
 must know best," she said, taking up her little air of 
 dignity; "I am sure you must know best; I would 
 never try to force my way of thinking on you, Mary. 
 No doubt you have been more in the world than I 
 have; but I did think when a woman was in trouble 
 that to go among her own friends " 
 
 "Yes," said Mary, who was overwhelmed, and 
 did not feel able to bear- it, "but her friends might 
 understand her and have a little pity for her, aunt, 
 when she had hard things to do that wrung her 
 heart " 
 
 "My dear," said Aunt Agatha, with, on her side, 
 the bitterness of unappreciated exertion, "if you will 
 think how far I have come, and what an unusual 
 jom-ney I have made, I think you will perceive that 
 to accuse me of want of pity " 
 
 "Don't Avorry her. Aunt Agatha," said Winnie,
 
 124 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "slie is not accusing yoix of want of pity. I tbink it 
 .1 very strange sort of thing, myself; but let Mary have 
 justice, that was not what she meant." 
 
 "I should like to know what she did mean," said 
 Aunt Agatha, who was trembling with vexation, and 
 with those tears which she wanted so much to shed; 
 and then two or three of them dropped on the broad- 
 brimmed cambric cuff which she was wearing solely 
 on Mary's account. For, to be sure, Major Ochterlony 
 was not to say a relation of hers that she should have 
 worn such deep mourning for him. "I am sure I don't 
 want to interfere, if she prefers Francis Ochterlony 
 to her own friends," she added, with tremulous haste. 
 8he was the very same Aunt Agatha who had taken 
 Mary to her arms the day before, and sat by her bed, 
 listening to all the sad story of her widowhood. She 
 had wept for Ilugh, and she would have shared her 
 cottage and her garden and all she had with Mary, 
 with good will and bounty, eagerly — but Francis 
 Ochterlony was a different matter; and it was not in 
 human nature to bear the preference of a husband's 
 brother to "her own friends." "They may be the last 
 Ochterlony's," said Aunt Agatha, "but I never under- 
 stood that a woman was to give up her own family 
 entirely; and your sister was born a Seton like you 
 and me, Winnie; — I don't iinderstand it, for my 
 part." 
 
 Aunt Agatha broke down when she had said this, 
 and cried more bitterly, more effusively, so long as it 
 lasted, than she had cried last night over Hugh Ochter- 
 lony's sudden ending: and Mary could not but feel 
 that; and as for Winnie, she sat silent, and if she did 
 not make things worse, at least she made no effort to
 
 MADONNA MARY. 125 
 
 make them better. Ou tlie whole, it was not much 
 wontler. They had made great changes in the cottage 
 for Mary's sake. Aunt Agatha had given up her par- 
 lour, her own pretty room that she loved, for a nursery, 
 and they had made up their minds that the best cham- 
 ber was to be Mary's, with a sort of sense that the 
 fresh chintz and the pictures on the walls — it was the 
 only bed-room that had any pictures — would make 
 up to her if anything could. And now to find all the 
 time that it was Francis Ochterlony, and not her own 
 friends, that she was going to! Winnie sat quite still, 
 with her fine profile cut out sternly against the dark 
 green wall, looking immovable and unfeeling, as only 
 a fine profile can under such circumstances. This was 
 what came of Mary's placid mourning, and the dear 
 union of family support and love into which she thought 
 she had come. It was harder upon Mrs. Ochterlony 
 than if Aunt Agatha had not come to meet her. She 
 had to sit blank and silent like a criminal, and see 
 the old lady cry and the young lady lift up the stern 
 delicacy of that profile against her. They were dis- 
 appointed inlFary, and not only were they disappointed, 
 but mortified — woiuided in their best feelings and 
 embarrassed in .secondary matters as Avell; for naturally 
 Aunt Agatha had told everybody that she was going 
 to bring her niece, Mrs. Ochterlony , and the poor dear 
 children home. 
 
 Thus it will be seen that the first breakfast in Eng- 
 land was a very unsatisfactory meal for Mary. She 
 took refuge witli her children when it was over , and 
 shut up. as she had been forced to do in other days, 
 another door in her heart; and Aunt Agatha and Win- 
 nie, on the other hand, withdrew to their apartment
 
 126 MADONNA M^KY. 
 
 and talked it over, and kindled each otlier's indigna- 
 tion. "If you knew the kind of man he was, Winnie!" 
 Aunt Agatha said, with a severity which was not 
 entirely on Mary's account; "not the sort of man I 
 would trust those poor dear fatherless children with. I 
 don't believe he has any religious principles. Dear, 
 dear, to think how Mary should have changed! I 
 never could have thought she would have preferred 
 Francis Ochterlony, and turned against her own 
 friends." 
 
 "I don't know anything about Francis Ochterlony," 
 said Winnie, "but I know what a lot of bother we 
 have had at home making all those changes; and your 
 parlour that you had given up. Aunt Agatha — I 
 must say when I think of that " 
 
 "That is nothing, my love," said Aunt Agatha; 
 "I was not thinking of what I have done, I hope — 
 as if the sacrifice was anything." But nevertheless the 
 tears came into her eyes at the thought. It is hard 
 when one has made a sacrifice with a liberal heart, to 
 have it thrown back, and to feel that it is useless. 
 This is hard, and Aunt Agatha was only human. If 
 she had been alone, probably after the first moment of 
 annoyance she would have gone to Mary, and the two 
 would have cried together, and after little Hugh's pro- 
 spects had been discussed, Miss Seton would have con- 
 sented that it was best for her niece to go to Earlston; 
 but then AVinnie was there to talk it over and keep 
 up Aunt Agatha's indignation. And Mary was wounded, 
 and had retired and shut herself up among her chil- 
 dren. And it was thus that the most trifling and un- 
 called-for of cares came, with little pricks of vexation 
 and disappointment, to disturb at its very outset the
 
 MADONNA MARV. 127 
 
 r.ew clia})ler of life wliicli Mrs. Ocliterlony liad imagined 
 lierself to be entering upon in such a calm of tranquil- 
 lizing grief. 
 
 They were to go to London that day, and to con- 
 tinue their journey to the North by the night train : 
 but it Avas no longer a journey in which any of the 
 party could take any pleasure. As for Mary, in the 
 great revulsion of her disappointment, it seemed to her 
 as if there was no comfort for her anywhere. She had 
 to go to Earlston to accept a home from Francis Ocli- 
 terlony, whom she had never "taken to," even in her 
 young days. And it had occurred to her that her aunt 
 and sister would understand why, and would be sorry 
 for her, and console her under this painful effort. When, 
 on the contrary, they proved to be affronted and indignant, 
 Mary's heart shut close , and retreated within itself. She 
 could take her children into her arms and press them 
 against her heart, as if that woxild do it some good: 
 but she could not talk to the little things , nor consult 
 tliem, nor share anything with them except such smiles as 
 were practicable. To a woman who has been used to 
 talk all her concerns over with some one, it is terrible 
 to feel her yearnings for counsel and sympathy turned 
 back upon her own soul, and to be struck dumb, and 
 feel that no ear is open to her, and that in all the 
 world there is no one living to whom her affairs are 
 more than the affairs of a stranger. Some poor wo- 
 men there are who must have fellowship somehow, and 
 who will be content with jjity if sympathy is not to be 
 had. But Mary was not of this kind of women. She 
 shut her doors. She went in, into herself in the silence 
 and solitude, and felt her instinctive yearning to be 
 helped and undei'stood come pouring back upon her
 
 128 MADONNA MARV. 
 
 like a bitter flood. And then she looked at her little 
 boys in their play, who had need of all from her, and 
 could give her back but their childish fondness, and no 
 help, or stay, or counsel. It is hard upon a woman, 
 but yet it is a thing which every woman must confront 
 and make up her mind to, whom God places in sucli 
 circumstances. I do not know if it is easier Avork for 
 a man in the same position. Mary had felt the prop 
 of expected sympathy and encouragement and affection 
 rudely driven from under her, and when she came in 
 among her innocent helpless children she faced her lot, 
 and did not deceive hei'self any more. To judge for 
 herself, and do the best that in her lay, and take all 
 the responsibilities upon her own head, whatever might 
 follow, to know tliat nobody now in all the world was 
 for her, or stood by her, except in a very secondary 
 way, after his or her concerns and intentions and feel- 
 ings had been carefully provided for in the first place. 
 This was how her position appeared to her. And, in- 
 deed, such tvas her position, withoixt any exaggeration. 
 It was very kind of Francis Ochterlony to be willing 
 to take her in, and very kind of Aunt Agatha to have 
 made preparations for her; and kindness is sweet, and 
 yet it is bitter, and hard, and cold, and killing to meet 
 with. It made Mary sick to her heart, and filled her 
 with a longing to take up her babes and rush away 
 into some solitary corner, where nobody would ever see 
 her again or hear of her. I do not say that she was 
 right, or that it was a proper state of mind to be in. 
 And Mary was too right-minded a woman to indulge 
 in it long; but that was the feeling that momentarily 
 took possession of her as she put the doors to in her 
 heart, and realized that she really was alone there, and
 
 MADONNA MARY. 129 
 
 tliat her concerns were hers alone, and belonged to 
 nobody else in the world. 
 
 And, on the other hand, it was very natural for 
 Aunt Agatha and Winnie. They knew the exertions 
 they had made, and tlie flutter of generous excitement 
 in which they liad been, and their readiness to give up 
 their best for the solace of the widow. And naturally 
 the feeling that all their sacrifices were unnecessary 
 and their preparations made in vain, turned the honey 
 into gall for the moment. It was not their part to 
 take Mary's duty into consideration, in the first place; 
 and they did not know beforehand of Francis Ochter- 
 lony's letter, nor the poor Major's confidence that his 
 brother would be a friend to his widow. And then 
 Aunt Agatha's parlour, which was all metamorphosed, 
 and the changes that had been made through the whole 
 house! The result was, that Aunt Agatha, offended, did 
 not so much as offer to her niece the little breathing- 
 time Mary had hoped for. When they got to London, 
 she re-opcncd tlie subject, but it was in an unanswer- 
 able way. 
 
 "I suppose your brother-in-law expects you?" she 
 said. "I think it will be better to wait till to-morrow 
 before you start, that he may send the carriage to the 
 station for you. I don't ask you to come to me for 
 tlie night, for it would be a pity to derange the children 
 for so short a time." 
 
 "Very well, aunt," said Mary, sadly. And she 
 wrote to Mr. Ochterlony, and slept that night in town 
 — her strength almost failing her at the thought that, 
 in her feebleness and excitement, she had to throw 
 herself immediately on Francis Ochterlony's tender 
 mercies. She even paused for a moment to think, 
 
 Madnunn M'li/i. I. 9
 
 1.30 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 might she not really do as her heart suggested — find 
 out some corner of refuge for herself with which nohody 
 could intermeddle, and keep apart from them all? But 
 Mary had come "home to her friends," as everybody 
 said at the station; and she had a woman's prejudices, 
 and it seemed unnatural to her to begin, without any 
 interposition of the people belonging to her, that strange 
 and solitary life of independence or self-dependence 
 which was what she must decide upon some time. And 
 then there was always Mr. Ochterlony's letter, which 
 was so kind. Thus it was fixed by a few words, and 
 could not be changed. Aunt Agatha had a terrible 
 compunction afterwards, and could not get Mary's look 
 out of her head, as she owned to Winnie, and would 
 have got up out of her bed in the middle of the night, 
 and gone to Mary and begged her to come to the cot- 
 tage first, if it had not been that Winnie might have 
 woke up, and that she would have to cross a passage 
 to Mary's room; and in a hotel where "gentlemen" 
 were continually about, wlio could tell whom she might 
 meet? So they all slept, or pretended to sleep, and 
 said nothing about it; and the next day set off with no 
 further explanations, on their way "home."
 
 MADONNA MARY. 131 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Earlston is a house whicli lies in a little gi-een 
 valley among the grey folds of the Sliap Fells. It is 
 not an inviting country, though the people love it as 
 people do love everything that belongs to them; and it 
 has a very different aspect from the wooded dell a 
 little farther north, where strays the romantic little 
 Ku-tell, and where Aunt Agatha's cottage smiled upon 
 a tufted slope, with the music of the cheery river in 
 its ears day and night. The rivers about Earlston 
 were shallow, and ran dry in summer, though it was 
 not because of any want of rain; and the greyness of 
 the hills made a kind of mist in the air to unaccustomed 
 eyes. Everybody, who has ever gone to the north that 
 way, knows the deep cuttings about Shap, where the 
 railway plunges through between two humid living 
 limestone walls, where the cottages, and the fences, 
 and the farm-houses all lead up in level tones of grey 
 to the vast greyness of the piebald hills, and where 
 the line of pale sky above is grey too in most cases. 
 It was at one of the little stations in this monotonous 
 district that Mrs. Ochterlony and her children and her 
 ayah were deposited — Aunt Agatha, with an aspect 
 of sternness, but a heart that smote her, and eyes that 
 kept filling with tears she was too proud to shed, 
 looking on the while. Winnie looked on too without 
 the compunction, feeling very affronted and angry. 
 They were going further on, and the thought of home 
 was overcast to both these ladies by the fact that 
 
 9»
 
 132 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 everybody would ask for Mary, and tliat the excite- 
 ment of the past few weeks would collapse in the 
 dreariest and suddenest way when they Avere seen to 
 return alone. As for Mary, she looked grey like the 
 landscape, under her heavy veil — gi"ey, silent, in a 
 kind of dull despair, persuading herself that the best 
 thing of all was to say nothing about it, and shut only 
 more closely the doors of that heart where nobody now 
 had any desire to come in. , She lifted her little boys 
 out, and did not care even to look if the carriage was 
 waiting for her — and then she came to the window 
 to bid her aunt and sister good-bye. She was so dis- 
 appointed and sick-hearted, and felt for the moment 
 that the small amount of affection and comprehension 
 Avhich they were capable of giving her was so little 
 worth the trouble of seeking for, that Mary did not 
 even ask to be written to. She put up her pale face, 
 and said good-by in a dreary unexpectant tone that 
 doubled the compunction in Aunt Agatha's bosom. 
 "Oh, Mary, if you had but been coming with us!" 
 cried that inconsistent woman, on the spur of the 
 moment. "It is too late to speak of it now," said 
 Mary, and kissed her and turned away, and the 
 heartless train dashed oflT, and carried off Aunt Agatha 
 with that picture in her eyes of the forlorn little group 
 on the platform of the railway station — the two little 
 boys clinging close to their mother, and she standing 
 alone among strangers, with the widow's veil hanging 
 over her colourless face. "Can you see the carriage, 
 Winnie? — look out and tell me if you can see it," 
 said Aunt Agatha. But the engine that carried them 
 on was too quick for Winnie, and had already swept 
 out of sight. And they pursued their journey, feeling
 
 MADONNA MARY. 133 
 
 guilty and wretclied, as indeed, to a certain extent, 
 they deserved to feel. A two months' widow, with 
 a baby and two helpless little boys — and at tlie 
 best it could only be a servant who had come to meet 
 her, and she would have everything to do for herself, 
 and to face her brother-in-law without any support or 
 helper. Wlien Aunt Agatha thought of this, she sank 
 back in her corner and sobbed. To think that she 
 should have been the one to take offence and be af- 
 fronted at Mary's first word, and desert her thus; when 
 she might have taken her home and comforted her, 
 and then, if it must have ended so, conveyed her to 
 Earlston: Aunt Agatha cried, and deserved to cry, and 
 even Winnie felt a twinge at her heart-, and they got 
 rather angry with each other before they reached home, 
 and felt disposed to accuse each other, and trembled 
 both of them before the idea of meeting Peggy, Miss 
 Seton's domestic tyrant, who would rush to the door 
 with her heart in her mouth to receive "our Miss Mary 
 and the puir dear fatherless bairns." Mary might be 
 silent about it, and never complain of uukiudness; but 
 it was not to be expected that Peggy would have the 
 same scruples ; and these two guilty and miserable 
 travellers trembled at the thought of her as they made 
 their wretched way home. 
 
 When the train had disappeared, Mary tried to 
 take a kind of cold comfort to herself She stood all 
 alone, a stranger, with the few rustic passengers and 
 rustic railway officials staring at her as if she had 
 dropped from the skies, and no apparent sign any- 
 where that her coming had been looked for, or that 
 there was any resting-place for her in this grey country. 
 And she said to herself that it was natural, and must
 
 134 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 always be so henceforth, and that it was best at once 
 to accustom herself to her lot. The carriage had not 
 come, nor any message from Earlston to say she was 
 expected, and all that she could do was to go into the 
 rude little waiting-room, and wait there with the tired 
 children till some conveyance could be got to take her 
 to her brother-in-law's house. Her thoughts would not 
 be pleasant to put down on paper, could it be done; 
 and yet they were not so painful as they had been the 
 day before, when Aunt Agatha failed her, or seemed 
 to fail. Now that disappointed craving for help and 
 love and fellowship was over for the moment, and she 
 had nothing biit her own duty and Francis Ochterlony 
 to encounter, who was not a man to give any occasion 
 for vain hopes. Mary did not expect fellowship or 
 love from her brother-in-law. If he was kind and 
 tolerant of the children, and moderately considerate to 
 herself, it was all that she looked for from him. Per- 
 haps, though he had invited her, he had not been 
 prepared to have her thrown on his hands so soon; 
 and it might be that the domestic arrangements of 
 Earlston were not such as to admit of the unlooked-for 
 invasion of a lady and a nursery on such very short 
 notice. But the most prominent feeling in Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony's mind was weariness, and that longing to escape 
 anywhere, which is the most universal of all sentiments 
 when the spirit is worn out and sick to death. Oh, 
 that she had wings like a dove! — though Mary had 
 nowhere to flee to, nobody to seek consolation from; 
 and instead of having a home anywhere on earth 
 awaiting her, was herself the home, the only shelter 
 they understood, of the little pale fatherless children 
 who clustered around her. If she could l)ut have taken
 
 MADONNA MARY. 135 
 
 possession of one of those poor cottages, grey and 
 homely as they looked, and put the little ones to bed 
 in it, and drawn a A.ooden chair to the fire, and been 
 where she had a right to be! It was July, but the 
 weather was cold at Shap, and Mary had that instinct 
 common to wounded creatures of creeping to the fire, as if 
 there Avas a kind of comfort in its warmth. She could have 
 borne her burden bravely, or at least she thought so, 
 if this had been what awaited her. But it was Earlston 
 and Francis Ochterlony that awaited her — a stranger 
 and a stranger's house. All these thoughts, and many 
 more, were passing through her mind, as she sat in 
 the little waiting-room with her baby in her arms, and 
 her two elder boys pressing close to her. The childi-en 
 clung and appealed to her, and the helpless Hindoo 
 woman crouclied at her mistress's side; but as for Mary, 
 there was nobody to give her any support or counte- 
 nance. It was a hard opening to the stern way which 
 had henceforward to be trodden alone. 
 
 Francis Ochterlony, however, though he had a cer- 
 tain superb indifference to the going-out and coming-in 
 of trains, and had forgotten the precise hour, was not 
 a wretch nor a brute, and had not forgotten his visitors. 
 While Mary sat and waited, and while the master of 
 the little station made slow but persevering search after 
 some possible means of conveyance for her, a heavy 
 rumbling of wheels became audible, and the carriage 
 from Earlston made its tardy appearance. It was an 
 old-fashioned vehicle, drawn by two horses, which be- 
 trayed their ordinaiy avocations much in the same way 
 as the coachman did, who, though dressed, as they 
 were, for the occasion, carried a breath of the fields 
 about him , which was more convincing than any con-
 
 136 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 veutioiialism of garments. But sucli as it was, tlie 
 Earlston carriage was not without consideration in the 
 countryside. All the people about turned oixt in a lei- 
 surely way to lift the children into it, and shoulder the 
 boxes into such corners as could be found for them — 
 which was an affair that demanded many counsellors — 
 and at length the vehicle got under way. Twilight be- 
 gan to come on as they mounted up into the grey 
 country, by the winding grey roads fenced in witli 
 limestone walls. Everything grew greyer in the wan- 
 ing light. The ver'y trees, of which there were so fcAV, 
 dropped into the gathering shadows, and deepened 
 them without giving any livelier tint of colour to the 
 scene. The children dropped asleep, and the ayah 
 crooned and nodded over the baby; but Mary, who had 
 no temptation to sleep, looked out with steady eyes, 
 and, though she saw nothing distinctly, took in u)i 
 awares all the comfortless chill and monotony of the 
 landscape. It went to her heart and made her shiver. 
 Or perhaps it was only the idea of meeting Francis 
 Ochterlony that made her shiver. If the children, any 
 one of them, had only been old enough to understand 
 it a little, to clasp her hand or her neck with the ex- 
 uberance of childish sympathy! But they did not 
 understand, and dropped asleep, or asked with timid, 
 quivering little voices, how long it wovild be before 
 they got home. Home! no wonder Mrs. Ochterlony 
 was cold, and felt the chill go to her heart. Thus they 
 went on for six or seven weary miles, taking as many 
 hours, as Mary thought. Aunt Agatha had arrived at 
 her cottage, though it was nearly thirty miles further 
 on, while the comfortless party were still jogging along 
 in the Earlston carriage; but Mary did not think par-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 137 
 
 ticularly of thai. She did not think at all, poor tioiil 
 She saw the grey hill-side gliding past her, and in a 
 vagne way, at the same moment, seemed to see herself, 
 a bride, going gaily past on the same road, and re- 
 hearsed all the past over again with a dull pain, and 
 shivered , and felt cold — cold to her heart. This was 
 partly perhaps because it is chilly in Cumberland, when 
 one has just come from India; and partly because there 
 was something that affected a woman's fanciful imagina- 
 tion in the misty monotony of the limestone country, 
 and the grey waste of the hills. 
 
 Earlston, too, was grey, as was to be expected; and 
 the trees which suiTounded it had lost colour iii the 
 night. The hall was but dimly lighted, when the door 
 was opened — as is but too common in country houses 
 of so retired a kind — and there was nobody ready at 
 the instant to open the door or to receive the strangers. 
 To be sure , people were called and came — the house- 
 keeper first, in a silk gown, which rustled excessively, 
 and with a certain air of patronizing affability; and 
 then Mr. Ochterlony, who had been sitting, as he usually 
 did, in his dressing-gown, and who had to get into his 
 coat so hurriedly that he had not recovered from it 
 when he shook hands with his sister-in-law; and then 
 by degrees servants appeared, and lifted out the sleepy, 
 startled children, wlio, between waking and sleeping, 
 worn out, frightened, and excited, were precisely in 
 the condition which it is most difficult to manage. And 
 the ayah, who could hold no Christian communication 
 with anybody around her, was worse than useless to 
 lier poor mistress. When Mr. Ochterlony led the way 
 into the great, solemn, dark, dining-room — which was 
 the nearest room at hand — the children, instead of
 
 138 MADONNA MARV. 
 
 consenting to be led upstairs, clung witli one unanimous 
 accord to their mother. Little Wilfrid got to her arms, 
 notwithstanding all remonstrances, and Hugh and Islay 
 each seized silently a handful of her black dress, crush- 
 ing the crape beyond all remedy. It was thus she 
 entered Earlston, Avhich had been her husband's birth- 
 place, and was to be her son's inheritance — or so at 
 least Mary thought. 
 
 "I hope you have had a pleasant journey," Mr. 
 Ochterlony said, shaking hands with her again. "I 
 daresay they are tired, poor little things — but you have 
 had good weather, I hope." This he said after he had 
 indicated to Mary a large easy-chair in carved oak, 
 which stood by the side of the fireplace, and into which, 
 with little Wilfrid clinging to her, and Islay and Hugh 
 holding fast by her dress, it was not so easy to get. 
 The master of the house did not sit down himself, for 
 it was dreary and dark, and he was a man of fine per- 
 ceptions; but he walked to the window and looked out, 
 and then came back again to his sister-in-law. "I am 
 glad you have had such good weather — but I am sure 
 you must all be tired," he said. 
 
 "Yes," said Mary, who would have liked to cry, 
 "very tired; but I hope we did not come too soon. 
 Your letter was so kind that I thought " 
 
 "Oh don't speak of it," said Mr. Ochterlony; and 
 then he stood before her on the dark hearth, and did 
 not know what more to say. The twilight was still 
 lingering, and there were no lights in the room, and it 
 was fitted up with the strictest regard to propriety, 
 and just as a dining-room ought to be. Weird gleams 
 of dull reflection out of the depths of old mahogany 
 lay low towards the floor, bewildering the visitor; and
 
 MADONNA MARY. 139 
 
 tliere was not cveu the ligbt of a fire, which, for merely 
 conventional motives, because it was July, did not oc- 
 cupy its usual place; though Mary, fresh from India, 
 and shivering with the chill of excitement and nervous- 
 ness and grief, would have given anything to be within 
 reach of one. Neither did she know what to say to 
 her almost unknown brother-in-law, whose face even 
 she could see very imperfectly, and the children grasped 
 her with that tight hold which is in itself a warning, 
 and shows that everything is possible in the way of 
 childish fright and passion. But still it was indispens- 
 able that she should find something to say. 
 
 "My poor little boys are so young," she said, 
 faltering. "It was very, very good of you to ask us, 
 and I hope they wont be troublesome. I think I will 
 ask the housekeeper to show us where we are to be. 
 The railway tires them more than the ship did. This 
 is Hugh," said ^lary, swallowing as best she could the 
 gasp in her throat, and detaching poor little Hugh's 
 hand from her crape. But she had tears in her voice, 
 and Mr. Ochterlony had a wholesome dread of crying. 
 He gave his nephew a hurried pat on the head without 
 looking at him, and called for Mrs. Gilsland, who was 
 at hand among the shadows rustling with her silk 
 gown. 
 
 "Oh!" he said hurriedly. "A fine little fellow I 
 am sure; — but you are quite right, and they must 
 be tired, and I will not detain you. Dinner is at 
 seven," said Mr. Ochterlony. What could he say? He 
 could not even see the faces of the woman and children 
 whom it was his dread but evident duty to receive. 
 When they went away under Mrs. Gilsland's cliarge, he 
 followed them to the foot of the stairs, and stood look-
 
 140 MADONNA MAllY. 
 
 ing after them as tlie procession mounted, guided by 
 the rustle of the housekeeper's gown. The poor man 
 looked at them in a bewildered way, and then went off 
 to his library, where his own shaded lamp was lit, and 
 where everything was cosy and familiar. Arrived 
 there, he threw himself into his own chair with a sigh. 
 He was not a brute, nor a wretch, as we have said, 
 and the least thing he could do when he heard of his 
 poor brother's death was to offer a shelter — tempo- 
 rarily at least — to the widow and her children: but 
 perhaps a lurking hope that something might turn up 
 to prevent the invasion had been in his mind up to this 
 day. Now she was here, and what was he to do with 
 her? Now they were here, which was still more serious 
 — three boys (even though one of them was a baby) 
 in a house full of everything that was daintiest and 
 rarest and most delicate! No wonder Mr. Ochterlony 
 was momentarily stupefied by their arrival; and then 
 he had not even seen their faces to know what they 
 were like. He remembered Mary of old in her bride- 
 days, but then she was too young, too fresh, too un- 
 subdued to please him. If she were as full of vigour 
 and energy now, wliat was to become of a quiet man 
 who, above all things, loved tranquillity and leisure? 
 This was what Francis Ochterlony was thinking as his 
 visitors went up-stairs. 
 
 Mrs. Ochterlony was inducted into the best rooms 
 in the house. Her brother-in-law was not an effusive 
 or sympathetic man by nature, but still he knew what 
 was his duty under the circumstances. Two great 
 rooms gleaming once more with ebon gleams out of 
 big wardrobes and half- visible mirrors, with beds that 
 looked a little like hearses, and heavy solemn hangings.
 
 MADONXA MARV. 141 
 
 Mrs. Gilsland's silk gown rustled about everywhere, 
 pointing out a thousand conveniences unknown at the 
 station; but all Mary was thinking about was one of 
 those grey cottages on the road, with the fire burning 
 brightly, and its little homely walls lighted up with the 
 iitful, cheerful radiance. If she could but have had a 
 fire, and crept up to it, and knelt on the hearth and 
 held herself to the comforting warmth! There are times 
 when a poor creature feels all body, just as there 
 are times when she feels all soul. And then, to think 
 that dinner was at seven! just as it had been when she 
 came there with Hugh, a girl all confident of happiness 
 and life. No doubt Mr. Ochterlony would have for- 
 given his sister-in-law, and probably indeed would have 
 been as much relieved as she, if she had but sent an 
 apology and stayed in her room all the evening. But 
 ]\[ary was not the kind of woman to do this. It did 
 not occur to her to depart from the natural routine, or 
 make so much talk about her own feelings or sentiments 
 as would be necessary even to excuse her. What did 
 it matter? If it had to be done, it had to be done, and 
 there was nothing more to be said. This was the view 
 her mind took of most matters; and she had always 
 been well, and never had any pretext to get oiit of 
 things she did not like, as women do who have head- 
 aches and handy little illnesses. She could always do 
 what was needful, and did always do it without stopping 
 to make any questions; which is a serviceable kind of 
 temperament in life, and yet subjects people to many 
 little martyrdoms Avhich otherwise they might escape 
 from. Though her heart was sick, she put on her best 
 gown all covered with crape, and her widow's cap, and 
 went down to dine with Francis Ochterlony in the great
 
 142 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 dining-room, leaving her children behind, and longing 
 unspeakably for that cottage with the fire. 
 
 It was not such an unbecoming dress after all, not- 
 withstanding what people say. Mary was worn and 
 sad, but she was not faded; and the dead white of the 
 cap that encircled her face, and the dead black of her 
 dress, did not do so much harm as perhaps they ought 
 to have done to that sweet and steadfast grace, which 
 had made the regiment recognise and adopt young 
 Stafford's fanciful title. She was still Madonna Mary 
 under that disfigurement; and on the whole she was 
 not disfigured by her dress. Francis Ochterlony lifted 
 his eyes with equal surprise and satisfaction to take a 
 second look at poor Hugh's widow. He felt by instinct 
 that Phidias himself could not have filled a corner in 
 his drawing-room, which was so full of fine things, 
 with a figure more fair or half so appropriate as that 
 of the serene woman who now took her seat there, ab- 
 stracted a little into the separation and remoteness of 
 sorrow, but with no discord in her face. He liked her 
 better so than with the group of children, who made 
 her look as if she were a Charity, and the heavy veil 
 hanging half over her face, which had a conventual 
 and uncomfortable effect; and he was very courteous 
 and attentive to his sister-in-law. "I hope you had 
 good weather," he said in his deferential way; "and I 
 trust, when you have been a few days at Earlston, the 
 fatigue will wear off. You will find everything very 
 quiet here." 
 
 "I hope so," said Mary; "but it is the children I 
 am thinking of I trust our rooms are a long distance 
 off, and that we will not disturb you." 
 
 " That is quite a secondary matter," said Mr. Ochter-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 113 
 
 lony. "The question is, are you comfortable? I hope 
 you will let Mrs. Gilsland know if anything is wanted. 
 We are not — not quite used to these sort of things, 
 
 you know; but I am sure, if anything is wanted " 
 
 "You are very kind," said Mary; "I am sure we 
 shall be very comfortable." And yet as she said so 
 her thoughts went off with a leap to that little cottage 
 interior, and the cheerful light that shone out of the 
 window, and the fire that crackled and blazed within. 
 Ah, if she were but there! not dining with Mr. Ochter- 
 lony in solemn grandeur, but putting her little boys to 
 bed, and preparing their supper for them, and cheating 
 away heavy thoughts by that dear common work for 
 the comfort and service of her own which a woman 
 loves. But this was not a sort of longing to give 
 expression to at Earlston, where in the evening Mr. 
 Ochterlony was very kind to his sister-in-law, and 
 showed her a great many priceless things which Mary 
 regarded with trembling, thinking of two small bar- 
 barians about to be let loose among them, not to speak 
 of little Wilfrid, who was old enough to dash an 
 Etruscan vase to the earth, or upset the rarest piece of 
 china, though he was still only a baby. She could not 
 tell how they were so much as to walk through that 
 drawing-room without doing some harm, and her heart 
 sank within her as she listened to all those loving 
 lingering descriptions which only a virtuoso can make. 
 Mr. Ochterlony retired that evening with a sense always 
 agj-eeable to a man, that in doing a kind thing he had 
 not done a foolish one, and that the children of such 
 a fair and gracious woman could not be the graceless 
 imps who had been haunting his dreams ever since he 
 knew they were coming home; Init Mary for her part
 
 144 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 took no sucli flattering unction to her soul. She sighed 
 as she went upstairs sad and weary to the great sombre 
 room , in wliich a couple of candles burned like tiny 
 stars in a world of darkness, and looked at her sleej)- 
 ing boys, and wondered what they were to do in this 
 collection of curiosities and beauties. She was an 
 ignorant Avoman, and did not, alas! care anything at 
 all for the Venus Anadyomene. But she thought of 
 little Ilugh tilting that marble lady and her pedestal 
 over, and shook and trembled at the idea. She trem- 
 bled too with cold and nervous agitation, and the chill 
 of sorrow in her heart. In the lack of other human 
 sources of consolation, oh! to go to that cottage hearth, 
 and kneel down and feel to one's very soul the comfort 
 of the warm sonsoline: fire. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 It had need to be a mind which has reached the 
 last stage of human sentiment which can altogether 
 resist the influence of a lovely summer morning, all 
 made of warmth, and light, and softened sounds, and 
 far-ofi" odours. Mrs. Ochterlony had not reached this 
 last stage; she was still young, and she was only at the 
 beginning of her loneliness, and her heart had not 
 sickened at life, as hearts do sometimes Avhich have 
 made a great many repeated efforts to live, and have 
 had to give in again and again. When she saw the 
 sunshine lying in a supreme peacefulness upon those 
 grey hills, and all the pale sky and blue depths of air 
 beaming softly with that daylight which comes from
 
 MADONNA MAUY. 145 
 
 God, her courage came back to her in spite of herself. 
 She began the morning by the shedding of those silent 
 tears which are all the apology one can make to one's 
 dead, for having the heart to begin another day without 
 tliem; and when that moment was over, and the children 
 had lifted all their daylight faces in a flutter of curiosity 
 and excitement about this new "home" they had come 
 to, after so long talking of it and looking forward to 
 it, things did not seem so dark to JMary as on the 
 previous evening. For one thing, the sun Avas warm 
 and shone in at her Avindows, Avhicli made a great 
 dillerence; and with her children's voices in her ears, 
 and their faces fresh in the morning light, what woman 
 could be altogether without courage? "So long as they 
 are well," she said to herself — and went down stairs 
 a little consoled, to pour out Mr. Ochterlony's coftee 
 for him, thanking heaven in her heart that her boys 
 Avere to have a meal Avhich had nothing calm nor 
 classical about it, in the old nursery where their father 
 had once eaten his breakfasts, and Avhich had been 
 hurriedly prepared for them. "The little dears must 
 go doAvn after dinner-, but master, ma'am — well, he's 
 an old bachelor, you knoAv," said Mrs. Gilsland, while 
 explaining this arrangement. "Oh, tliank you; I hope 
 you Avill lielp me to keep them from disturbing him," 
 JMary had said-, and thus it was Avith a lighter heart 
 that she Avent doAvn stairs. 
 
 Mr. Ochterlony came doAvn too at the same time in 
 an amiable frame of mind. Notwithstanding tliat he 
 had to put himself into a morning coat, and abjured 
 his dressing-gown, Avhich Avas soniCAvhat of a trial for 
 a man of lixcd habits, nothing could exceed the gra- 
 ciousness of his looks, A certain horrible notion com- 
 
 Madonv.a JIarij. I. 10
 
 146 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 mon to his class, that children scream all night long, 
 and hold an entire household liable to be called up 
 at any moment, had taken possession of his mind. 
 But his tired little guests had been swallowed up in 
 the silence of the house, and had neither screamed, nor 
 shouted, nor done anything to disturb its habitual quiet; 
 and the wonderful satisfaction of having done his duty, 
 and not having suffered for it, had entered Mr. Ochter- 
 lony's mind. It is in such circumstances that the sweet 
 sense of well-doing, which is generally supposed the 
 best reward of virtue, settles upon a good man's spirits. 
 The Squire might be premature in his self-congratulations, 
 but then his sense of relief was exquisite. If nothing 
 worse was to come of it than the presence of a fair 
 woman, whose figure was always in drawing, and who 
 never put herself into an awkward attitude — whose 
 voice was soft, and her movements tranquil, Mrs. Och- 
 terlony felt that self-sacrifice after all was practicable. 
 The boys could be sent to school as all boys were, and 
 at intervals might be endured when there was nothing 
 else for it. Thus he came down in a benign condition, 
 willing to be pleased. As for Mary, the first thing 
 that disturbed her calm, was the fact that she was her- 
 self of no use at her brother-in-law's breakfast-table. 
 He made his coffee himself, and then he went into 
 general conversation in the kindest way, to put her at 
 her ease. 
 
 "That is the Farnese Hercules," he said; "I saw it 
 caught your eye last night. It is from a cast I had 
 made for the purpose, and is considered very perfect; 
 and that you know is the new Pallas, the Pallas 
 that was found in the Sestina Villa; you recollect, 
 perhaps?"
 
 MADOXN'A MARV. 147 
 
 "I am afraid not," said Mary, faltering; and slie 
 looked at tliem, poor soul, with wistful eyes, and tried 
 to feel a little interest. "I have been so long- out of 
 the way of everything " 
 
 "To be sure," said the Squire, encouragingly, "and 
 my poor brother Hugh, I remember, knew very little 
 about it. He went early to India, and had few 
 advantages, poor fellow." All this Mr. Ochterlony said 
 while he was concocting his coffee; and Mary had 
 nothing to do but to sit and listen to him with her 
 face fully open to his inspection if he liked, and no 
 kindly urn before her to hide the sudden rush of tears 
 and indignation. A man who spent his life having 
 casts made, and collecting what Mary in her heart 
 with secret rage called "pretty things!" ■ — that he 
 should make a complacent contrast between himself 
 and his brother! The suggestion filled Mrs. Ochterlony 
 with a certain speechless fury which was born of her 
 grief. 
 
 "He knew well how to do his duty," she said, as 
 soon as she coxild speak; and she would not let her 
 tears ftill, but opened her burning eyes wide, and ab- 
 soi-ljed them somehow out of pride for Hugh. 
 
 "Poor fellow!" said his brother, daintily pouring 
 out the fragrant coffee. "I don't know if he ever could 
 have had much appreciation of Art; but I am sure he 
 made a good soldier, as you say. I was very much 
 moved and shocked when I heard — but do not let 
 us talk of such painful subjects; another time, per- 
 haps — " 
 
 And Mary sat still with her heart beating, and said 
 no more — thinking through all the gentle flow of 
 conversation that followed of the inconceivable conceit 
 
 10*
 
 148 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 that could for a moment class Francis Ochterlony's 
 dilettante life with that of her dead Hugh, who had 
 played a man's part in the world, and had the heart to 
 die for his duty's sake. And this useless Squire could 
 speak of the few advantages he had! It was un- 
 reasonable, for, to tell the truth, the Squire was much 
 more accomplished, much better instructed than the 
 Major. The Numismatic Society and the Society of 
 Antiquaries, and even, on certain subjects, the British 
 Association, would have listened to Francis Ochterlony 
 as if he had been a messenger from heaven. Whereas 
 Hugh the soldier would never have got a hearing nor 
 dared to open his lips in any learned presence. But 
 then that did not matter to his wife, who, notwith- 
 standing her many high qualities, was not a perfectly 
 reasonable woman. Those "few advantages" stood 
 terribly in Mary's way for that first morning. They 
 irritated her far more than Mr. Ochterlony could have 
 had the least conception or understanding of. If any- 
 body had given him a glass to look into her heart 
 with, the Squire would have been utterly confounded 
 by what he saw there. What had he done? And in- 
 deed he had done nothing that anybody (inliis senses) 
 could have found fault with-, he had but turned Mary's 
 thoughts once more with a violent longing to the road- 
 side cottage, where at least, if she and her children 
 were but safely housed, her soldier's memory would be 
 sln-ined, aiid his sword huug up upon the homely wall, 
 and his name turned into a holy thing. Whereas he 
 was only a younger brother who had gone away to 
 India, and had few advantages, in the Earlston way of 
 thinking. This was the uppermost thought in Mrs. 
 Ochterlony's mind as her brother-in-law exhibited all
 
 MADONNA MARV. 149 
 
 liis collections to her. The drawing-room, which she 
 had but imperfectly seen in her weariness and pre- 
 occupation the previous night, was a perfect museum 
 of things rich and rare. There were delicate marbles, 
 tiny but priceless, standing out white and ethereal 
 against the soft, carefully chosen, toned crimson of the 
 curtains ; and bronzes that were worth half a year's in- 
 come of the lands of Earlston-, and Etruscan vases and 
 Pompeian relics; and hideous dishes with lizards on 
 them, besides plaques of dainty porcelain with Raphael's 
 designs; the very chau's were fantastic with inlaying 
 and gilding — curious articles, some of them worth 
 their weight in gold; and if you but innocently looked 
 at an old cup and saucer on a dainty table wondering 
 what it did there, it turned out to be the ware of 
 Henri II., and priceless. To see Mary going over all 
 this with her attention preoccupied and wandering, and 
 yet a wistful interest in her eyes, was a strange sight. 
 All that she had in the world was her children, and 
 the tiny little income of a soldier's widow — and you 
 may suppose perhaps that she was thinking what a help 
 to her and the still more valuable little human souls 
 she had to care for, would have been the money's- 
 worth of some of these fragile beauties. But that was 
 not what was in Mrs. Ochterlony's mind. What oc- 
 cupied her, on the contrary, was an indignant wonder 
 within herself how a man who spent his existence upon 
 such trifles (they looked trifles to her, from her point 
 of view, and in this of course she was still unreasonable) 
 could venture to look down with complacency upon the 
 real life, so honestly lived and so bravely ended, of 
 his brother Hugh — poor Hugh, as he ventured to call 
 him. Mr. Ochterlony might die a dozen times over,
 
 150 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 and what would liis marble Venus care, that he was so 
 proud of? But it was Hugh who had died; and it was 
 a kind of comfort to feel that he at least, though they 
 said he had few advantages, had left one faithful woman 
 behind him to keep his grave green for ever. 
 
 The morning passed, however, though it was a long 
 morning-, and Mary looked into all the cabinets of coins 
 and precious engraved gems, and rare things of all 
 sorts, with a most divided attention and wandering 
 mind — thinking where were the children? were they 
 out-of-doors? were they in any trouble? for the un- 
 earthly quietness in the house seemed to her experienced 
 mother's ear to bode harm of some kind — either ill- 
 ness or mischief, and most likely the last. As for Mr. 
 Ochterlony, it never occurred to him that his sister-in- 
 law, while he was showing her his collections, should 
 not be as indifferent as he was to any vulgar outside 
 influence. "We shall not be disturbed," he said, with a 
 calm reassuring smile, when he saw her glance at the 
 door; "Mrs. Gilsland knows better," and he drew out 
 another drawer of coins as he spoke. Poor Mary began 
 to tremble, but the same sense of duty which made her 
 husband stand to be shot at, kept her at her post. She 
 went through with it like a martyr, without flinching, 
 though longing, yearning, dying to get free. If she 
 were but in that cottage, looking after her little boys' 
 dinner, and hearing their voices as they played at the 
 door — their servant and her own mistress, instead of 
 the helpless slave of courtesy, and interest, and her 
 position, looking at Francis Ochterlony's curiosities! 
 When she escaped at last, Mary found that indeed her 
 fears had not been without foundation. There had been 
 some small breakages, and some small quarrels in the
 
 MADONNA MARY. 151 
 
 nursery, where Hiigli and Islay had been engaged in 
 single combat, and where baby AVilfrid had joined in 
 Avith impartial kicks and scratches, to the confusion of 
 both combatants : all which alarming events the frightened 
 ayah had been too weak-minded and helpless to prevent. 
 And, by way of keeping them qniet, that bewildered 
 woman had taken down a beautiful Indian canoe, which 
 stood on a bracket in the corridor, and the boys, as 
 was natural, with true scientific inquisitiveness had 
 made researches into its constitution, such as horrified 
 their mother. Mary was so cowardly as to put the 
 l)oat together again with her own hands, and put it 
 back on its bracket, and say nothing about it, with 
 devout hopes that nobody would find it oixt — which, 
 to be sure, was a terrible example to set before children. 
 She breathed freely for the first time when she got 
 them out — out of Earlston — out of Earlston grounds 
 — to the hill-side, where, though everything was grey, 
 the turf had a certain greenness, and the sky a certain 
 lilueness, and the sun shone warm, and nameless little 
 English wild flowers were to be found among the grass; 
 nameless things, too insignificant for anything but a 
 botanist to classify, and Mrs. Ochterlony was no botanist. 
 She put down Wilfrid on the grass, and sat by him, 
 and watched for a little the three joyful unthinking 
 creatures, harmonized without knowing it by their 
 mother's presence, rolling about in an unaccustomed 
 ecstacy upon the English grass; and then Mary went 
 back, without being quite aware of it, into the darker 
 world of her own mind, and leant her head upon her 
 hands and began to think. 
 
 She had a great deal to think about. She had come 
 home obeying the first impulse, which suggested that
 
 152 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 a woman left alone in the world should pnt herself 
 under the guidance and protection of "her friends:" 
 and, in the first stupor of grief, it was a kind of con- 
 solation to think that she had still somebody belonging 
 to her, and could put off those final arrangements for 
 herself and by herself which one time or other must be 
 made. When she decided iipon this, Mary did not 
 realize the idea of giving offence to Aunt Agatha by 
 accej^ting Francis Ochterlony's invitation, nor of finding 
 herself at Earlston in the strange nondescript position 
 — something less than a member of the family, some- 
 thing more than a visitor — which she at present oc- 
 cupied. Her brother-in-law was very kind, but he did 
 not know what to do with her-, and her brother-in-law's 
 household was very doubtful and uneasy, with a certain 
 alarmed and suspicious sense that it might be a new 
 and permanent mistress who had thus come in upon 
 them — an idea which it was not to be exj)ected that 
 Mrs. Gilsland, who had been in authority so long, 
 should take kindly to. And then it was hard for Mary 
 to live in a house where her children were simply 
 tolerated, and in constant danger of doing inestimable 
 mischief. She sat upon the grey hill-side, and thought 
 over it till her head ached. Oh, for that wayside cot- 
 tage Avith the blazing fire! but Mrs. Ochterlony had no 
 such refuge. She had come to Earlston of her own 
 will, and she could not fly away again at once to 
 affront and oflPend the only relation who might be of 
 service to her boys — which was, no doubt, a sadly 
 mercenary view to take of the subject. She stayed 
 beside her children all day, feeling like a prisoner, 
 afraid to move or to do anything, afi-aid to let the boys 
 play or give scope to their limbs and voice. And then
 
 MADONNA MARY. 153 
 
 Hugh, tbougli be was not old enougli to sympathize 
 with her, was old enough to put terrible questions. 
 "Why shouldn't we make a noise?" the child said; "is 
 my uncle a king, mamma, that we must not disturb 
 him? Papa never used to mind." Mary sent her boy 
 back to his play when he said this, with a sharp im- 
 patience which he could not itnderstand. Ah, how 
 different it was! and how stinging the pain that went 
 to her heart at that suggestion. But then little Hugh, 
 thank heaven, knew no better. Even the Hindoo 
 woman, who had been a faithful woman in her way, 
 but who was going back again with another family 
 bound for India, began to make preparations for her 
 departure; and, after that, Mrs. Ochterlony's position 
 would be still more difficult. This Avas how the first 
 day at Earlston — the first day at home, as the chil- 
 dren said — passed over Mary. It was, perhaps, of 
 all other trials, the one most calculated to take from 
 her any strength she might have left. And after all 
 this she had to dress at seven o'clock, and leave her 
 little boys in the big dark nursery, and go down to 
 keep her brother-in-law company at dinner, to hear 
 him talk of the Farnese Hercules, and of his collec- 
 tions, and travels, and, perhaps, of the "few advantages" 
 his poor brotlier had had: which for a woman of a high 
 spirit and independent character, and profound loyal 
 love for the dead, was a very hard ordeal to bear. 
 
 The dinner, however, went over very fairly. Mr. 
 Ochterlony was the soul of politeness, and, besides, he 
 was pleased with his sister-in-law. She knew nothing 
 about Art; but then, she had been long in India, Jind 
 was a woman, and it was not to be wondered at. He 
 meant no harm when he spoke about poor Hugh's few
 
 154 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 advantages. He knew tliat he had a sensible woman 
 to deal with, and of course grief and that sort of thing 
 cannot last for ever; and, on the whole, Mr. Ochterlony 
 saw no reason why he should not speak quite freely of 
 his brother Hugh; and lament his want of proper 
 training. She must have known that as well as he 
 did. And, to tell the truth, he had forgotten about the 
 children. He made himself very agreeable, and even 
 went so far as to say that it was very pleasant to be 
 able to talk over these matters with somebody who 
 understood him. Mary sat waiting with a mixture of 
 fright and expectation for the appearance of the children, 
 who the housekeeper said were to come down to dessert; 
 but they did not come, and nothing was said about 
 them; and Mr. Ochterlony was fond of foreign habits, 
 and took very little wine, and accompanied his sister- 
 in-law upstairs when she left the table. He came with 
 her in that troixblesome French way with which Mary 
 was not even acquainted, and made it impossible for 
 her to hurry through the long passages to the nursery, 
 and see what her forlorn little boys were about. What 
 could they be doing all this time, lost at the other end 
 of the great house where she could not even hear their 
 voices, nor that soft habitual nursery hum which was 
 a necessary accompaniment to her life? She had to 
 sit down in a kind of despair and talk to Mr. Ochter- 
 lony, who took a seat beside her, and was very friendly. 
 The summer evening had begun to decline, and- it was 
 at this meditative moment that the master of Earlston 
 liked to sit and contemplate his Psyche and his Venus, 
 and call a stranger's attention to their beauties, and 
 tell pleasant anecdotes about how he picked them up. 
 Mrs, Ochterlony sat by her brother-in-law's side, and
 
 MADONNA MARY. 155 
 
 listeued to his talk about Art with her ear strained to 
 the most intense attention, prepared at any moment to 
 hear a shriek from the outraged housekeeper, or a 
 howl of unanimous Avoe from three culpable and ter- 
 rified voices. There Avas something comic in the situa- 
 tion, but Mary's attention was not sufficiently dis- 
 engaged to be amused. 
 
 "I have long wished to have some information 
 about Indian Ai-t," said Mr. Ochterlony. "I should be 
 glad to know what an intelligent observer like your- 
 self, with some practical knowledge, thought of my 
 theory. My idea is — But I am afraid you have a 
 headache? I hope you have all the attention you re- 
 ([uire, and are comfortable? It would give me great 
 ])ain to think that you were not perfectly comfortable. 
 You must not feel the least hesitation in telling me — " 
 
 "Oh no, we have everything," said Mary. She 
 thought she heard something outside like little steps 
 and distant voices, and her heart began to beat. But 
 as for her companion, he was not thinking about such 
 extraneous things. 
 
 "I hope so," said Mr. Ochterlony; and then he 
 looked at his Psyche with the lingering look of a con- 
 noisseur, dwelling lovingly upon her marble beauty. 
 "You must have that practical acquaintance which, 
 after all, is the only thing of any use," he continued. 
 "My idea is — " 
 
 And it was at this moment that the door was thrown 
 open, and they all rushed in — all, beginning with 
 little Wilfrid, who had just commenced to walk, and 
 who came with a tottering dash, striking against a 
 pedestal in his way, and making its precious burden 
 tremble. Outside at tlie oncn door appeared for an
 
 156 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 instant the ayah as she had set clown her charge, and 
 Mrs. Gilsland, gracious but formidable, in her rustling 
 gown, who had headed the procession. Poor woman, 
 she meant no harm, but it was not in the heart of 
 woman to believe that in the genial hour after dinner, 
 when all the inner and the ou.ter man was mollified 
 and comforted, the sight of three such "bonnie boys," 
 all curled, brushed, and shining for the occasion, could 
 disturb Mr. Ochterlony. Baby Wilfrid dashed across 
 the room in a straight line with "flicherin' noise and 
 glee" to get to his mother, and the others followed, 
 not, however, without stoppages on the way. They 
 were bonnie boys — ■ brave, little, erect, clear-eyed 
 creatures, who had never known anything but love in 
 their lives, and feared not the face of man; and to 
 Mary, though she (|uaked and trembled, their sudden 
 appearance changed the face of everything, and made 
 the Earlstou drawing-room glorious. But the effect 
 was different upon Mr. Ochterlony, as might be sup- 
 posed. 
 
 "How do you do, my little man," said the discom- 
 fited uncle. "Oh, this is Hugh, is it? I think he is 
 like his father. I suppose you intend to send them to 
 school. Good heavens! my little fellow, take care!" 
 cried Mr. Ochterlony. The cause of this sudden anima- 
 tion was, that Hugh, naturally facing his uncle when 
 he was addressed by him, had leant upon the pillar on 
 which Psyche stood with her immortal lover. He had 
 put his arm round it with a vague sense of admiration, 
 and as he stood was, as Mary thought, a prettier sight 
 than even the lovely group above; but Mr. Ochterlony 
 could not be expected to be of Mary's mind. 
 
 "Come here, Hugh," said his mother, anxiously.
 
 MADONNA MARV. 157 
 
 "You must not touch anything; your uncle will kindly 
 let you look at them, but you must not touch. It was 
 so different, you know, in our Indian house — and 
 then on board ship," said Mary, faltering. Islay, with 
 his big head tlu'own back a little, and his hands in his 
 little trousers pockets, was roving about all the while 
 in a manly way, inspecting everything, looking, as his 
 mother thought, for the most favourable opening for 
 mischief. AVhat was she to do? They might do more 
 damage in ten minutes than ten years of her little in- 
 come could set right. As for Mr. Ochterlony, though 
 he groaned in spirit, nothing could overcome his polite- 
 ness; he turned his back upon little Hugh, so that at 
 least he might not see what Avas going on, and resumed 
 the conversation with all the composure that he could 
 assume. 
 
 "You will send them to school of course," he said; 
 "we must inrpiirc for a good school for them. I don't 
 myself think that children can begin their education 
 too soon. I don't speak of the baby," said ]\Ir. Ochter- 
 lony, with a sigh. Tlie baby evidently was inevitable. 
 Mary had set him down at her feet, and he sat there 
 in a peaceable way, making no assault upon anything, 
 which was consolatory at least. 
 
 "They are so young," said Mary, tremulously. 
 
 "Yes, they are young, and it is all the better," 
 said the uncle. His eye was upon Islay, who had 
 sprung upon a chair, and was riding and spurring it 
 with delightful energy. Naturally, it was a unique 
 rococo chair of the daintiest and most fantastic work- 
 manship, and the unhappy owner expected to see it 
 fall into sudden destruction before his eyes; but he 
 was lienumljcd by politeness and despair, and took no
 
 158 MADONNA MARV. 
 
 notice. "There is nothing," said tlie poor man with 
 distracted attention, his eye npon Islay, his face turned 
 to his sister-in-Law, and horror in his heart, "like good 
 training begun early. For my part — " 
 
 "Oh, mamma, look here. How funny this is!" 
 cried little Hugh. When Mary turned sharply round 
 in despair, she found her hoy standing behind her with 
 a priceless Etruscan vase in his hand. He had just 
 taken it from the top of a low, carved bookcase, where 
 the companion vase still stood, and held it tilted up as 
 he might have held a drinking mug in the nursery. 
 "It's a fight," cried Hugh- "look mamma, how that 
 fellow is putting his lance into him. Isn't it jolly? 
 Why don't loe have some brown sort of jugs with 
 battles on them, like this?" 
 
 "What is it? Let me see," cried Islay, and he 
 gave a flying leap, and brought the rococo chair down 
 on its back, where he remounted leisurely after he had 
 cast a glance at the brown sort of jug. "I don't think 
 it's worth looking at," said the four-year-old hero. Mrs. 
 Ochterlony heard her brother-in-law say, "Good 
 heavens!" again, and heard him groan as he turned 
 away his head. He could not forget that they were his 
 guests and his dead brother's children, and he could 
 not turn them out of the room or the house, as he was 
 tempted to do; but at the same time he turned away 
 that at least he might not see the full extent of the 
 ruin. As for Mary, she felt her own hand tremble as 
 she took the vase out of Hugh's careless grasp. She 
 was terrified to touch its brittle beauty, though she was 
 not so enthusiastic about it as, perhaps, she ought to 
 have been. And it was with a sudden impulse of des-
 
 MADONNA MARV. 151) 
 
 pcratiou tliat she cauglit up her baby, antl lifted Islay 
 off the prostrate cliair. 
 
 "I hope you will excuse them," she said, all flushed 
 aud trembling. "They are so little, and they know no 
 better. But they must not stay here," and with that 
 poor Mary swept them out with her, making her way 
 painfully over the dangerous path, where snares and 
 perils lay on every side. She gave the astonished Islay 
 an involuntary "shake" as she dropped him in the 
 sombre corridor outside, and huri'ied along towards the 
 darkling nursery. The little flock of wicked black 
 sheep trotted by her side full of questions and surprise. 
 "Why are we coming away? What have we done?" 
 said Hugh. "Mamma! mamma! tell me!" and Islay 
 ])ulled at her dress, and made more demonstratively 
 the same demand. What had they done? If Mr. 
 ( )chterlony, left by himself in the drawing-room , could 
 but have answered the question! He was on his knees 
 beside his injured chair, examining its wounds, and as 
 full of tribulation as if those fantastic bits of tortured 
 Avood had been flesh-and-blood. And to tell the truth, 
 the misfortune was greater than if it had been flesh-and- 
 blood. If Islay Ochterlony's sturdy little legs had been 
 broken, there was a doctor in the parish qualified to a 
 certain extent to mend them. But who was there 
 among the Shap Fells, or within a hundred miles of 
 Earlston, who was qiialified to touch the delicate 
 members of a rococo chair? He gi'oaned over it as it 
 lay prostate, and would not be comforted. Children! 
 imps! come to be the torture of his life, as, no doubt, 
 ihey had been of poor Hugh's. What could Providence 
 be thinking of to send such reckless, heedless, irrespon- 
 sible creatures into the world? A vague notion that
 
 160 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 their motlier "would whip them all round as soon as she 
 got them into the shelter of the nursery, gave Mr. 
 Ochterlony a certain consolation; but even that judicial 
 act, though a relief to injured feeling, would do nothing 
 for the fractured chair. 
 
 Mary, we regret to say, did not whip the boys 
 when she got into her own apartments. They deserved 
 it, no doubt, but she was only a weak woman. Instead 
 of that, she put her arms round the three, who were 
 much excited and full of wonder, and very restless in 
 her clasp, and cried — not much, but suddenly, in an 
 outburst of misery and desolation. After all, what was 
 the vase or the Psyche in comjiarison with the living 
 creatures thus banished to make place for them? which 
 was a reflection which some people may be far from 
 acquiescing in, but that came natural to her, being 
 their mother, and not in any special way interested in 
 art. She cried, but she only hugged her boys and 
 kissed them, and put them to bed, lingering that she 
 might not have to go downstairs again till the last 
 moment. When she went at last, and made Mr. Ochter- 
 lony's tea for him, that magnanimous man did not say 
 a word, and even accepted her apologies with a feeble 
 deprecation. He had put the wounded article away, 
 and made a sublime resolution to take no further notice. 
 "Poor thing, it is not her fault," he said to himself; 
 and, indeed, had begun to be sorry for Mary, and to 
 think Avhat a pity it was that a woman so unobjection- 
 able should have three such imps to keep her in hot 
 water. But he looked sad, as was natural. He 
 swallowed his tea with a sigh, and made mournful 
 cadences to every sentence he uttered. A man does 
 not easily get over such a shock; — it is different with
 
 MADONNA MARY. 161 
 
 a frivolous and volatile woman, who may forget or 
 may dissimulate, and look as if she does not care-, but 
 a man is not so lightly moved or mended. If it had 
 been Islay's legs, as has been said, there was a doctor 
 within reach; but who in the north country could be 
 trusted so much as to look at the delicate limbs of a 
 rococo chair? 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The experience of this evening, though it was only 
 the second of her stay at Earlston, proved to Mary 
 that the visit she was paying to her brother-in-law 
 must be made as short as possible. She could not get 
 up and run away because Hugh had put an Etruscan 
 vase in danger, and Islay had broken his uncle's chair. 
 It was Mr. Ochterlony who was the injured party, and 
 he was magnanimously silent, saying nothing, and even 
 giving no intimation that the presence of these ob- 
 jectionable little visitors was not to be desired in the 
 drawing-room; and Mary had to stay and keep her 
 boys out of sight, and live consciously upon sufiFerauce, 
 in the nursery and her bedroom, until she could feel 
 warranted in taking leave of her brother-in-law, who, 
 without doubt, meant to be kind. It was a strange 
 sort of position, and strangely out of accord with her 
 character and habits. She had never been rich, nor 
 lived in such a great house, but she had always up to 
 this time been her own mistress — mistress of her 
 actions, free to do what she thought best, and to 
 manage her children according to her own wishes. Now 
 
 Madonmi Mmii. I. 11
 
 162 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 she liad, to a certain extent, to submit to the house- 
 keeper, who changed their hours, and interfered with 
 their habits at her pleasure. The poor ayah went 
 weeping away, and nobody was to be had to replace 
 her except one of the Earlston maids, who naturally 
 was more under Mrs. Gilsland's authority than Mrs. 
 Ochterlony's; and to this girl Mary had to leave them 
 when she went down to the inevitable dinner which 
 had always to be eaten downstairs. She made several 
 attempts to consult her brother-in-law iipon her future, 
 but Mr. Ochterlony, though very polite, was not a 
 sympathetic listener. He had received the few details 
 which she had been moved at first, vrith restrained 
 tears, to give him about the Major, with a certain 
 restlessness which chilled Mary. He was sorry for his 
 brother-, but he was one of those men who do not care 
 to talk about dead people, and who think it best not to 
 revive and recall sorrow — which would be very true 
 and just if true sorrow had any occasion to be revived 
 and recalled; and her own arrangements were all more 
 or less connected with this (as IVIr. Ochterlony called 
 it) painful subject. And thus it was that her hesitating 
 efforts to make her position clear to him, and to get 
 any advice which he could give, was generally put 
 aside or swallowed up in some communication from the 
 Numismatic Society, or qiiestions which she could not 
 answer about Indian art. 
 
 "We must leave Earlston soon," Mrs. Ochterlony 
 took courage to say one day, when the housekeeper, 
 and the continued exclusion of the children, and her 
 own curious life on sufferance, had been too much for 
 her. "If you are at leisure, would you let me speak 
 to you about it? I have so little experience of any
 
 MADONNA MARY. 1G3 
 
 thing but India — and 1 want to do what is best for 
 my boys." 
 
 "Oh — ah — yes," said Mr. Ochterlony, "you 
 must send tliem to school. We must try and hear of 
 some good school for them. It is the only thing you 
 can do — " 
 
 "But they arc so young," said Mary. "At their 
 age they are surely best with their mother. Hugh is 
 only seven. If you could advise me where it would be 
 best to go — " 
 
 "Where it would be best to go!" said Mr. Ochter- 
 lony. He was a little surprised, and not quite pleased 
 for the moment. "I hope you do not find yourself un- 
 comfortable here?" 
 
 "Oh, no," said Mary, faltering-, "but — they are 
 very young and troublesome, and — I am sure they 
 must worry you. Such little children are best by 
 themselves," she said, trying to smile — and thus, by 
 chance, touched a chord of pity in her brother-in-law's 
 heai't. 
 
 "Ah," he said, shaking his head, "I assure you I 
 feel the paiufulness of your position. If you had been 
 unencumbered, you might have looked forward to so 
 different a life; but with such a burden as these children, 
 and you so young still — " 
 
 "Burden?" said Maiy; and it may be supposed 
 how her eyes woke up, and what a colour came to her 
 cheek, and how her heart took to beating under her 
 crape. "You can't really think my children are a 
 burden to me? Ah! you don't know — I would not 
 care to live another day if I had not my boys." 
 
 And here, her nerves being weak with all she had 
 come through, hhe would have liked to cry — but did 
 
 11^
 
 164 XvIADONNA MARY. 
 
 not, the moment Leing unsuitable, and only sat facing 
 the virtuoso, all lighted up and glowing, brightened by 
 indignation, and surprise, and sudden excitement, to 
 something more like the former Mary than ever yet 
 had been seen underneath her widow's cap. 
 
 "Oh!" said Mr. Ochterlony. He could have under- 
 stood the excitement had it been about a Roman camp 
 or a newly-discovered statue-, but boys did not commend 
 themselves in the same way to his imagination. He 
 liked his sister-in-law, however, in his way. She was 
 a good listener, and pleasant to look at, and even 
 when she was unintelligible was never without grace, 
 or out of drawing, and he felt disposed even to take a 
 little trouble for her. "You must send them to school," 
 he said. "There is nothing else to be done. I will 
 write to a friend of mine who knows about such 
 matters; and I am sure, for my part, I shall be very 
 glad if you can make yourself comfortable at Earlston 
 — you and — and the baby, of course," Mr. Ochter- 
 lony said, with a slightly wry face. The innocent man 
 had not an idea of the longing she had for that cottage 
 with the fire in it. It was a notion which never could 
 have been made intelligible to him , even had he been 
 told in words. 
 
 "Thank you," said Mary, faltering more and more; 
 indeed she made a dead pause, and he thought she had 
 accepted his decision, and that there was to be no more 
 about it — which was comforting and satisfactory. He 
 had just risen up to leave the room, breakfast being 
 over, when she put out her hand to stop him. "I will 
 not detain you a minute," she said, "it is so desolate 
 to have no one to tell me what to do. Indeed, we 
 cannot stay here — though it is so good of you ; they
 
 MADONNA MARY. 165 
 
 are too young to leave me, and I care for nothing else 
 in life," Mrs. Ocbterlony said, yielding for an instant 
 to her emotion; bnt she soon recovered herself. "There 
 are good schools all over England, I have heard; in 
 places where we could live cheaply. That is what I 
 want to do. Near one of the good grammar-schools. 
 I am quite free; it does not matter where I live. If 
 you would give me your advice," she added, timidly. 
 Mr. Ochterlony, for his part, was taken so much by 
 surprise that he stood between the table and the door, 
 with one foot raised to go on, and not believing his 
 ears. He had behaved like an angel, to his own con- 
 viction, and had never said a word about the chair, 
 though it had to be sent to town to be repaired. He 
 had continued to afford shelter to the little ruffian who 
 did it, and had carefully abstained from all expression 
 of his feelings. What could the woman want more? 
 — • and what should he know about grammar-schools, 
 and places where people could live cheaply? A woman, 
 too, whom he liked, and had explained his theory of 
 ancient art more fully to than he had ever done to any 
 one. And she wanted to leave Earlston and his so- 
 ciety, and the Psyches and Venuses, to settle down in 
 some half-pay neighbourhood, where people with large 
 families lived for the sake of education. No wonder 
 Mr. Ochterlony turned round, struck dumb Avith wonder, 
 and came slowly back before giving his opinion, which, 
 but for an unexpected circumstance, would no doubt 
 have been such an opinion as to overwhelm his com- 
 panion with confusion, and put an instant stop to her 
 foolish plans. 
 
 But circumstances come wildly in the way of the 
 best intentions, and ciit off the wisest speech sometimes
 
 166 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 on a man's very lips. At this moment the door opened 
 softly, and a new interlocutor presented herself. The 
 apparition was one which took not only the words but 
 the very breath from the lips of the master of Earlston. 
 Aunt Agatha was twenty years older than her niece, 
 but so was Francis Ochterlony, and such a thing was 
 once possible as that the soft ancient maiden and the 
 elderly solitary dilettante might have made a cheerful 
 liuman household at Earlston. They had not met for 
 years, not since the time when Miss Seton was holding 
 on by her lingering youth, and looking forward to the 
 loss of it with an anxious and care-worn countenance. 
 She was twenty times prettier now than she had been 
 in those days — prettier perhaps, if the truth were 
 told, than she ever had been in her life. She was 
 penitent, too, and tearful in her white-haired sweetness, 
 though Mr. Ochterlony did not know why — with a 
 soft colour coming and going on her cheeks, and a 
 Avistful look in her dewy eyes. She had left her home 
 at least two hours before, and came carrying all the 
 freshness and odours of the morning, surrounded with 
 sunshine and sweet air, and everything that seems to 
 belong to the young. Francis Ochterlony was so be- 
 wildered by the sight that he stepped back out of her 
 way, and could not have told whether she was eighteen 
 or fifty. Perhaps the sight of him had in some degree 
 the same effect upon Aunt Agatha. She made a little 
 rush at Mary, who had risen to meet her, and threw 
 herself, soft little woman as she was, upon her niece's 
 taller form. "Oh, my dear love, I have been a silly 
 old woman — forgive me!" said Aunt Agatha. She 
 had put up with the estrangement as long as ever it was 
 in human nature to put up with it. She had borne
 
 MADONXA MATIY. 1G7 
 
 Peggy's sneers, and Winnie's heartless suggestions that 
 it was her own doing. How was Winnie to know what 
 made it so difficult for her to have any communications 
 with Earlston? But finally Aunt Agatha's heart had 
 conquered everything else. She had made such pictures 
 to herself of Slary, solitary and friendless ("for what is 
 a Man? no company when one is unhappy," Miss 
 Seton had said to herself with unconscious eloquence), 
 until instinct and impulse drove her to this decided 
 step. The hall door at Earlston had been standing 
 open, and there was nobody to announce her. And 
 this was how Aunt Agatha arrived just at the critical 
 moment, cutting off Mr. Ochterlony's utterance when 
 he was on the very point of speech. 
 
 The poor man, for his part, did not know what to 
 do; after the first moment of amaze he stood dumb and 
 humble, with his hand stretched out, waiting to greet 
 his unexpected visitor. But the truth was, that the two 
 women as they clung together were both so dreadfully 
 disposed to cry that they dared not face Mr. Ochterlony. 
 The sudden touch of love and unlooked-for sympathy 
 had this effect upon Mary, who had been agitated and 
 disturbed before; and as for Aunt Agatha, she was not 
 an old maid by conviction, and perhaps would not have 
 objected to this lioitsc or its master, and the revival of 
 these old associations was hard upon her. She clasped 
 Mary tight, as if it was all for Mary's sake; but per- 
 haps there was also a little personal feeling involved. 
 Mr. Ochterlony stood speechless for a moment, and then 
 he heard a faint sob, and fled in consternation. If 
 that was coming, it was high time for him to go. He 
 went away and took refuge in his library, in a confused 
 and uncomfortable state of mind, n^liis was the result
 
 168 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 of having a woman in the house; a man who had no- 
 thing to do in his own person with the opposite half of 
 humanity became subject to the invasion of other women, 
 and still worse, to the invasion of recollections and 
 feelings which he had no wish to have recalled. What 
 did Agatha Seton mean by looking so fresh and fair at 
 her age? and yet she had white hair too, and called 
 herself an old woman. These thoughts came dreadfully 
 in his way when he sat down to work. He was writing 
 a monograph upon Icelandic art, and naturally had 
 been much interested in a subject so characteristic and 
 exciting; but somehow after that glimpse of his old 
 love his mind would not stick to his theme. The two 
 women clinging together, though one of them had a 
 bonnet on, made a pretty "subject." He was not me- 
 diaeval, to speak of, but rather classical in his tastes; 
 yet it did strike him that a painter might have taken 
 an idea for a Visitation out of that embrace. And so 
 that was how Agatha Seton looked Avhen she was an 
 old woman! This idea fluttered in and out before his 
 mind's eye, and threw such reflections upon his paper 
 as came dreadfully in the way of his monograph. He 
 lost his notes and forgot his researches in the bewilder- 
 ment produced by it; for, to tell the truth, Agatha Seton 
 was in a very much finer state of preservation, not to 
 say fairer to look upon, than most of the existing mo- 
 numents of Icelandic art. 
 
 "He has gone away," said Aunt Agatha, who was 
 aware of that fact sooner than Mary was, though Mrs. 
 Ochterlony's face was towards her brother-in-law; and 
 she gave Maiy a sudden hug and subsided into that 
 good cry, which is such a relief and comfort to the 
 mind; Mary's tears came too, but they were fewer and
 
 MADONNA MARY. 169 
 
 not by any means so satisfactory as Axmt Agatha's, 
 who was crying for nothing particular. "Oh, my dear 
 love, don't think me a wretch," the old lady said. "I 
 have never been able to get you out of my head, 
 standing there on the platform all by yourself with the 
 dear children ; and I, like an old monster, taking offence 
 and going away and leaving you! If it is any comfort 
 to you, Mary, my darling, I have been wretched ever 
 since. I tried to write, but I could not write. So now 
 I've come to ask you to forgive me; and where are my 
 dear, dear, dai'ling boys?" 
 
 The poor little boys! Mary's heart gave a little 
 leap to hear some one once more talk of those poor 
 children as if they were not in the way. "Mr. Ochter- 
 lony is very kind," she said, not answering directly; 
 "but we must not stay. Aunt Agatha, we cannot stay. 
 He is not used to children, you know, and they worry 
 him. Oh, if I had but any little place of my own!" 
 
 "You shall come to me, my darling love," said 
 Aunt Agatha in triumph. "You should have come to 
 me from the first. I am not saying anything against 
 Francis Ochterlony. I never did; people might think 
 he did not q[uite behave as was expected; but I am 
 sure I never said a word against him. But how can a 
 man understand? or what can you look for from them? 
 My dearest Mary, you must come to me!" 
 
 "Thank you, Aunt Agatha," said Mary, doubtfully. 
 "You are very kind — you are all very kind" — and 
 then she repeated, under her breath, that longing aspi- 
 ration, "Oh, that I had but any little place of my very 
 own!" 
 
 "Yes, my love, that is what we must do," said 
 Aunt Agatha. "I would take you with me if I could,
 
 170 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 or I would take the dear boys witli me. Nobody will 
 be worried by them at the cottage. Oh, Mary, my 
 darling, I never woiild say anything against poor dear 
 Hugh, or encourage you to keep liis relations at a 
 distance; but just at this moment, my dear love, I did 
 think it was most natural that you should go to your 
 own friends." 
 
 "I think when one has little children one should be 
 by one's-self," said Mary, "it is more natural. If I 
 could get a little cottage near you, Aunt Agatha — " 
 
 "My love, mine is a little cottage," said MissSeton; 
 "it is not half nor quarter so big as Earlston — have 
 you forgotten ? and we are all a set of women together, 
 and the dear boys will rule over us. Ah, Mary, you 
 must come to me!" said the soft old lady. And after 
 that she went up to the dim Earlston nursery, and 
 kissed and hugged the tabooed children, whom it was 
 the object of Mary's life to keep out of the way. But 
 there was a struggle in Aunt Agatha's gentle bosom 
 when she heard of the Etruscan vase and the rococo 
 chair. Her heart yearned a little over the pretty things 
 llms put in peril, for she had a few pretty things her- 
 self which were dear to her. Her alarm, however, was 
 swallowed up by a stronger emotion. It was natural 
 for a woman to take thought for such things, but it 
 went to her heart to think of "poor Francis," once her 
 liero, in such a connexion. "You see he has nothing 
 else to care for," she said — and the fair old maiden 
 paused and gave a furtive sigh over the poor old 
 bachelor, who might have been so different. "It was 
 his own fault," she added to herself, softly, but still 
 the idea of Francis Ochterlony "wrapped up," as Miss 
 Seton expressed it, in chairs and vases, gave a shock
 
 MADONNA MARY. 171 
 
 to lier gentle spirit. It was i-igliteous retribution, but 
 still Aunt Agatha was a woman, and pitiful. She was 
 still more moved when Mary took her into the drawing- 
 room, where there were so many beautiful things. She 
 looked upon them with silent and reverent admiration, 
 but still not without a personal reference. "So that is 
 all he cares for, now-a-days," she said, Avith a sigh; and 
 it was just at the same moment that Mr. Ochterlony, in 
 his study, disturbed by visions of two women in his 
 peaceable house, gave up his monograph on Icelandic 
 art in despair. 
 
 This, it may be said, was how Mrs. Ochterlony's 
 first experiment terminated. She did not leave Earl- 
 ston at once, but she did so shortly after — without 
 any particular resistance on the part of her brother-in- 
 law. After Aunt Agatha's visit, Mr. Ochterlony's 
 tlioughts took a different turn. He was very civil to 
 her before she left, as indeed it was his nature to be to 
 all women, and showed her his collections, and paid 
 her a certain alarmed and respectful deference. Biit 
 after that he did not do anything to detain Mary in his 
 hoiase. Where one woman was, other women were 
 j)retty sure to come, and nobody coiild tell what un- 
 seen visitants might enter along with them, to disturb 
 a man in his occupations, and startle him out of his 
 tranquillity. lie never had the heart to resume that 
 monograph on Icelandic art — which was a great loss 
 to the Society of Antiquaries and the {esthetic world 
 in general; and tliough he had no advice in particular 
 to give to his sister-in-law as to her futui-e movements, 
 he did not say anything further to deter her from leaving 
 Earlston. "I hope you will let me know Avhat your 
 movements are, and where you decide upon settling,"
 
 172 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 be said, as he shook hands with her very gravely at 
 the carriage door, "and if I can be of any use." And 
 this was how the first experiment came to an end. 
 
 Then Mrs. Ochterlony kissed her boys when they 
 were fairly out of the grey shadow of their uncle's 
 house, and shed a few tears over them. "Now at least 
 I shall not have to keep my bonnie boys out of the 
 way any more," said Mary. But she caught sight 
 again of the cheery cottage, with the fire burning with- 
 in, and the hospitable door open, as she drove down to 
 the railway, and her heart longed to alight and take 
 possession, and find herself at home. When should she 
 be at home? or was there no such place left in the 
 world? But happily she had no maid, and no time 
 to think or calculate probabilities — and thus she set 
 out upon her second venture, among "her own friends." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Aunt Agatha's csottage was very different from 
 Earlston. It was a woman's house, and bore that char- 
 acter written all over it. The Pysche and the Venus 
 would have been dreadfully out of place in it, it is 
 true, but yet there was not a spot left vacant where an 
 ornament could be; little fanciful shelves nestled into 
 all the corners — which it was a great comfort to 
 Mary's mind to see were just above her boys' range — 
 bearing little vases, and old teacups and curiosities of 
 all kinds, not valuable like Francis Ochterlony's , nor 
 chosen with such refined taste, but yet dear to Aunt 
 Agatha's heart. Nothing so precious as the ware of
 
 MADONNA MARY. 173 
 
 Henri II. had ever come in Miss Seton's way, but she 
 liad one or two trifling articles that were real "Wedge- 
 wood, and she had some bits of genuine Sevres, and a 
 great deal of pretty rubbish, which answered the pur- 
 pose quite as well as if it had been worth countless 
 sums of money; and then there were flowers wherever 
 flowers could find a place. The rooms all opened out 
 with liberal windows upon the garden, and the doors 
 stood open, and sun and an-, sound and fragrance, went 
 throiigh and through tlie little liouse. It was the same 
 house as that in wliich Mary had felt the English leaves 
 rustling, and the English breezes blowing, as she read 
 Aunt Agatha's letter in India, ages ago, before any of 
 those great events had happened which had thrown 
 such a shadow on her life. The two ladies of the cot- 
 tage went to the railway to meet their visitors, and it 
 was Peggy, the real head of the establishment, who 
 stood in her best cap , in a flutter of black ribbons and 
 white apron to receive "Miss Mary." And the glow- 
 ing colour of the flowers, and the sunshine and the 
 open house, and the flutter of womanish welcome, made 
 the difference still more marked. When Mrs. Ochter- 
 luny was placed in the easiest chair in the brightest 
 corner in that atmosphere of sunshine and sweetness, 
 and saw her forlorn little boys take their place in the 
 foreground of the picture, elected autocrats over the 
 household in general, the sense of relief and difference 
 was so sweet to her that she no longer felt that yearn- 
 ing for some place of her own. The greatest infidel, 
 (he most hard-hearted cynic could not have felt other- 
 wise than at home under such circumstances. The 
 children were taken out of i\rary's hands on the instant, 
 she whose time had been entirely devoted to keeping
 
 174 MADOISNA MAKY. 
 
 them invisible and inaudible, and out of the way — 
 and Peggy took possession of the baby, and pretty 
 Winnie flashed away into the garden with the two 
 boys, with floating curls and flying ribbons, and all the 
 gay freedom of a country girl, taking the hearts of her 
 little companions by storm. Her sister, who had not 
 "taken to her" at first, sat in Aunt Agatha's chair, in 
 the first moment of conscious repose she had known in 
 England, and looked out at the fair young figure mov- 
 ing about among the flowers, and began to be in love 
 with Winnie. Here she was safe at last, she and her 
 fatherless children. Life might be over for her in its 
 fullest sense — but still she was here at peace among 
 her own people, and again some meaning seemed to 
 come back to the word home. She was lingering upon 
 this thought in the unusual repose of the moment, and 
 wiping some quiet tears from her cheeks, when Aunt 
 Agatha came and sat down beside her and took Mary's 
 hand. She had been partially incoherent with satisfac- 
 tion and delight until now, but by this time any little 
 tendency to hysterics which might be in Aunt Agatha's 
 nature, had been calmed down by the awe-inspiring 
 presence of Peggy, and the comfort of perceiving no- 
 thing but satisfiiction in that difficult woman's coun- 
 tenance. The baby had behaved himself like an angel, 
 and had made no objections whatever to the cap or 
 features of his new guardian ; and Peggy, too , was vi- 
 sible from the open windows walking up and down the 
 garden with little Wilfrid in her arms, in all the glory 
 of content. This sight brought Miss Seton's comfort to 
 a climax, as it did Mary's. She came and took her 
 niece's hand, and sat down beside her with a tearful 
 
 Joy-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 175 
 
 "All, Mary, tbis is what ought to have been from 
 the very first," she said; "this is differeut from Francis 
 Ochterlony and his dreary house. The dear children 
 will be happy here." 
 
 "Yes, it is very different," said Mary, returning the 
 pressure of the soft little white hand; but her heart 
 was full, and she could not find much more to say. 
 
 "And you, too, my dear love," Aunt Agatha went 
 on, who was not a wise woman, looking into the new- 
 comer's face — "^'ou, too, Mary, my darling — you 
 will try to be happy in your old home? Well, dear, 
 never mind answering me — I ought to know it is not 
 the same for you as for us. I can't help feeling so 
 happy to have you and the dear children. Look at 
 Winnie, how delightied she is — she is so fond of 
 children, though you would not think so just at first. 
 Doesn't it make you feel the difference, Mary, to think 
 you left her a baby, as one may say, and find her 
 grown up into such a great girl?" 
 
 "I have so many things to make me feel the dif- 
 ference," said Mary — for Miss Setou was not one of 
 those people who can do without an answer; and then 
 Aunt Agatha was very sorry, and kissed her, with 
 tears in her eyes. 
 
 "Yes, my love — yes, my dear love;" she said, 
 as if she were soothing a child. "It was very foolish 
 of me to use that expression; but you must try not to 
 mind me, Mary. Cry, my dear, or don't answer me, or 
 do just as you please. I never mean to say anything 
 
 to recall Look at the dear boys, how delighted 
 
 they are. I know they will be fond of Winnie — she 
 has such a nice way with children. Don't you think 
 she has a very nice way?"
 
 17G MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "Slie is very handsome," said Maiy, looking out 
 wistfully upon the young imperious creature, whose 
 stage of existence seemed the very antipodes of her 
 own. 
 
 "My dear love, she is beautiful," said Aunt Agatha. 
 "Sir Edward told me he had never, even at court — 
 and you know he was a great deal about the court in 
 his young days — seen any one that promised to be 
 such a beautiful woman. And to think she should just 
 be our Winnie all the same ! And s(% simple and sweet 
 — such a perfect child with it all! You may wonder 
 how I have kept her so long," continued Winnie's 
 adoring guardian, "when you were married, Mary, be- 
 fore you were her age." 
 
 Mrs. Ochterlony tried hard to look up with the 
 look of inquiry and interest which was expected of her 
 in Aunt Agatha's face; but she could not. It was dif- 
 ficult enough to struggle with the recollections that 
 hung about this place, without having them thrust con- 
 tinually in her face in this aflFectionately heartless way. 
 Thus the wheel turned softly round again, and the 
 reality of the situation crept out in bare outline from 
 under the cloak of flowers and tenderness, as hard and 
 clear as at Earlston. Mary's grief was her own con- 
 cern, and not of very much consequence to anybody 
 else in the world. She had no right to forget that fact, 
 and yet she did forget it, not being used yet to stand 
 alone. While Aunt Agatha, on her side, could not but 
 (hink it was rather hard-hearted of Mary to show so 
 little interest in her own sister, and such a sister as 
 Winnie. 
 
 "It is not because she is not a^jpreciated ," Miss 
 Seton went on, feeling all the more bound to celebrate
 
 MADONNA MARY. 177 
 
 lier favourite's praises, "but I am so anxious slie should 
 make a good choice. She is not a girl that could 
 many anybody, you know. She has her own little 
 ways, and such a great deal of character. I cannot tell 
 you what a comfort it is to me, Mary, my dear love, 
 to think that now we shall have your experience to 
 guide us," Aunt Agatha added, melting into tenderness 
 again. 
 
 "I am afraid experience is good for very little in 
 such cases," said Mary, "but I hope there will be no 
 guidance needed — she seems very happy now." 
 
 "To tell the truth, there is somebody at the 
 Hall — " said Aunt Agatha, "and I want to have 
 your opinion, my dear. Oh, Mary, you must not talk 
 of no guidance being needed. I have watched over 
 her ever since she was born. The wind has never 
 blown roughly on her; and if my darling was to marry 
 just an ordinary man, and be unhapj)y, perhaps — or 
 no happier than the rest of us — " said Aunt Agatha, 
 with a sigh. This last touch of nature went to Mary's 
 heart. 
 
 "She is rich in having such love, whatever may 
 happen to her," said Mrs. Ochterlony, "and she looks 
 as if, after all, she might yet have the perfect life. 
 She is very, very haiidsome — and good, I am sure, 
 and sweet — or she would not be your child. Aunt 
 Agatha; but we must not be too ready with our 
 guidance. She would not be happy if her choice did 
 not come spontaneously, and of itself." 
 
 "But oh, my dear love, the risk of marrying!" 
 said Miss Seton, with a little sob — and she gave 
 again a nervous pressure to Mary's hand, and did not 
 restrain her tears. They sat thus in the twilight to- 
 
 Madoiuia Mai//. I. l<s
 
 178 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 gether, looking out upon the young living creatures 
 for whom life was all brightly uncertain — one of 
 them regarding with a pitiful flutter of dread and 
 anxiety the world she had never ventured to enter into 
 for herself. Perhaps a vision of Francis Ochterlony 
 mingled with Miss Seton's thoughts, and a wistful 
 backward glance at the life Avhich might have been, but 
 had not. The other sat very still, holding Aunt 
 Agatha's soft little fluttering hand in her own, which 
 was steady, and did not tremble,-- with a strange pang 
 of anguish and pity in her heart. Mary looked at life 
 through no such fanciful mists — she knew, as she 
 thought, its deepest depth and profoundest calamity; 
 but the fountain of her tears was all sealed up and 
 closed, because nobody but herself had any longer any- 
 thing to do with it. And she, too, yearned over the 
 young creature whose existence was all to come, and 
 felt that it was hard to think that she might be "no 
 happier than the rest of us." It was these words 
 which had arrested Mary, who, perhaps, might have 
 otherwise thought that her own unquestionable sorrows 
 demanded more sympathy than Winnie's problematical 
 future. Thus the two elder ladies sat, until Winnie 
 and the children came in, bringing life and commotion 
 with them. The blackbird was still singing in the 
 bushes, the soft northern twilight lingering, and the 
 dew falling, and all the sweet evening odours coming 
 in. As for Aunt Agatha, her heart, though it was old, 
 fluttered with all the agitation and disturbance of a 
 girl's — while Mary, in the calm and silence of her 
 loneliness, felt herself put back as it were into history, 
 along with Euth and Rachel, and her own mother, and 
 all the women whose lives had been and were over.
 
 MADONNA MAUY. 179 
 
 This was how it felt to her in the presence of Aunt 
 Agatha's soft agitation — so that she half smiled at 
 herself sitting there composed and tranquil, and soothing 
 her companion into her usual calm. 
 
 "Mary agrees with me that this is better than 
 Earlston, Winnie," said Aunt Agatha, when the chil- 
 dren were all disposed of for the night, and the three 
 who were so near to each other in blood, and who were 
 henceforward to be close companions, yet who knew 
 so little of each other in deed and truth, were left 
 alone. The lamp was lighted, but the windows were 
 still open, and the twilight still lingered, and a wistful 
 blue-green sky looked in and put itself in swift com- 
 parison with the yellow lamplight. Winnie stood in 
 one of the open windows, half in and half out, looking 
 across the garden, as if expecting some one, and with 
 a little contraction in her forehead that marred her fine 
 profile slightly — giving a kind of careless half- 
 attention to what was said. 
 
 "Does she?" she answered, indifferently; "I should 
 have thought Earlston was a much handsomer house." 
 
 "It was not of handsome houses we were thinking, 
 my darling," said Aunt Agatha, with soft reproof; "it 
 was of love and welcome like what we are so glad as 
 to give her here." 
 
 "Wasn't Mr. Ochterlony kind?" said Winnie, with 
 half contempt. "Perhaps he does not fancy children. 
 I don't wonder so very much at that. If they were 
 not my own uepheAvs, very likely I sliould think them 
 dreadful little wretches. I suppose Mary won't mind 
 me saying what I think. I always have been brought 
 up to speak out." 
 
 "They are dear children," said poor Aunt Agatha,
 
 180 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 promptly. "I wish you would come in, my love. It 
 is a great deal too late now to go out." 
 
 And at that moment Mary, who was the spectator, 
 and could observe what was going on, had her atten- 
 tion attracted by a little jar and rattle of the window 
 at which Winnie was standing. It was the girl's im- 
 patient movement which had done it-, and whether it 
 was in obedience to Miss Seton's mild command, or 
 something more urgent, Winnie came in instantly with 
 a lowering brow, and shut the window with some noise 
 and sharpness. Probably Aunt Agatha was used to it, 
 for she took no notice; but even her patient spirit 
 seemed moved to astonishment by the sudden clang of 
 the shutters, which the hasty young woman began to 
 close. 
 
 "Leave that to Peggy, my darling," she said; 
 "besides, it was nice to have the air, and you know 
 how I like the last of the gloaming. That is the 
 window where one can always see poor Sir Edward's 
 light when he is at home. I suppose they are sure to 
 be at home, since they have not come here to-night." 
 
 "Shall I open the window again, and let you look 
 at the light, since you like it so much?" said the un- 
 dutiful Winnie. "I closed it for that. I don't like to 
 have anybody staring down at us in that superior sort 
 of way — as if we cared; and I am sure nobody here 
 was looking for them to-night." 
 
 "No, my dear, of course not," said Miss Seton. 
 "Sir Edward is far too much of a gentleman to think 
 of coming the night that Mary was expected home." 
 
 And then Winnie involuntarily turned half-round, 
 and darted upon Mary an inquiring defiant look out 
 of her stormy eyes. The look seemed to say, "So it
 
 MADONNA MARY. 181 
 
 was you who wei*e the cause of it!" and then she 
 swept past her sister with her streaming ribbons, and 
 pulled out an embroidery frame which stood in a 
 corner, and sat down to it in an irritated restless way. 
 In that pretty room, in the soft evening atmosphere, 
 beside the gentle old aunt, who was folding her soft 
 hands in the sweet leisure that became her age, and the 
 fair, mature, but saddened presence of the elder sister, 
 who was resting in the calm of her exhaustion, a 
 beautiful girl bending over an embroidery frame was 
 just the last touch of perfection needed by the scene-, 
 but nobody would have thought so to see how Winnie 
 threw herself down to her work, and dashed at it, all 
 because of the innocent light that had been lighted in 
 Sir Edward's window. Aunt Agatha did her best, by 
 impressive looks and coughs, and little gestures, and 
 transparently significant words, to subdue the spoilt 
 child into good behaviour; and then, in despair, she 
 thought herself called upon to explain. 
 
 "Sir Edward very often walks over of an evening," 
 she said, edging herself as it were between Mary and 
 her sister. "We are always glad to see him, you 
 know. It is a little change-, and then he has some 
 nice young friends who stay with him occasionally," 
 said the deceitful woman. "But to be sure, he has 
 too much feeling to think of making his appearance on 
 the night of your coming home." 
 
 "I hope you will make no difference for me," said 
 Mary. 
 
 "My love, I hope I know what is proper," said 
 Aunt Agatha, with her little air of decision. And 
 once more Winnie gave her sister a defiant, accusing 
 glance. "It is I that will be the sufferer, and it is all
 
 182 MABOKNA MARY. 
 
 on yonr account," tins look said, and the beautiful 
 profile marked itself out upon the wall with that con- 
 traction across the forehead which took away half its 
 loveliness. And then an uncomfortable silence ensued. 
 Mrs. Ochterlony covild say nothing more in a matter of 
 which she knew so little, and Aunt Agatha, though she 
 was the most yielding of guardians, still came to a 
 point of propriety now and then on which she would 
 not give way. This was how Mary discovered that 
 instead of the Arcadian calm and retirement of which 
 the cottage seemed an ideal resting place, she had 
 come into another little centre of agitated human life, 
 where her presence made a jar and discord without 
 any fault of hers. 
 
 But it would have been worse than ungrateful, it 
 would have been heartless and unkind, to have ex- 
 pressed such a feeling. So she, who was the stranger, 
 had to put force on herself, and talk and lead her two 
 companions back, so far as that was possible, from 
 their pre-occupation •, but at the best it was an unsatis- 
 factory and forced conversation, and Mrs. Ochterlony 
 was but too glad to own herself tired, and to leave 
 her aunt and sister to themselves. They had given 
 her their best room, with the fresh chintz and the pic- 
 tures. They had made every arrangement for her 
 comfort that affection and thoughtful care could suggest. 
 What they had not been able to do was to let her come 
 into their life without disturbing it, without introducing 
 forced restrictions and new rules, without, in short, 
 making her, all innocently and unwittingly on both 
 sides, the discord in the house. Thus Mary found that, 
 without changing her position, she had simply changed 
 the scene; and the thought made her heart sick.
 
 MADONXA MARY. 1S3 
 
 When Mrs. Ochterlony liad retirecl, the two ladies 
 of the cottage said nothing to each other for some time. 
 Winnie continued lier work in the same restless way as 
 she had begun and poor Aunt Agatha took up a book, 
 which trembled in her hand. The impetuous girl had 
 thrown open the window when she was reproved for 
 closing it, and the light in Sir Edward's window shone 
 far off on the tree tops, shedding an irritating influence 
 upon Winnie when she looked up; and at the same 
 time she coiild see the book shaking in Aunt Agatha's 
 hand. Winnie was very fond of the guardian of her 
 youth, and would have indignantly declared herself in- 
 capable of doing anything to vex her; but at the same 
 time there could be no doubt that Aunt Agatha's ner- 
 vousness gave a certain satisfaction to the young tyrant 
 who ruled over her. Winnie saw that she was suffer- 
 ing, and could not help feeling pleased, for had not 
 she too suffered all the evening? And she made no 
 attempt to speak, or to take any initiative, so that it 
 was only after Miss Seton had borne it as long as she 
 was capable of bearing it, that the silence was broken 
 at last. 
 
 "Dear Winnie," said Aunt Agatha, with a faltering 
 voice, "I think, Avhen you think of it, that you will 
 not think you have been quite considerate in making- 
 poor ]\Iary uncomfortable the first night." 
 
 "Mary feel uncomfortable?" cried Winnie. "Good 
 gracious. Aunt Agatha, is one never to hear of any- 
 thing but ^fary? What has anybody done? I have 
 been sitting working all the evening, like — like a 
 dressmaker or poor needlewoman; does she object to 
 that, I wonder?" and the young rebel put her frame 
 back into its corner, and rose to the fray. Sir Edward's
 
 184 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 window still tlirew its distant light over the tree tops, 
 and the sight of it made her smouldering passion blaze. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, you know that was not what I 
 meant," said the disturbed and agitated aunt. 
 
 "I wish then, please, you would say what you 
 mean," said Winnie. "She would not come with us at 
 first, when we were all ready for her, and then she 
 would not stay at Earlston after going there of her own 
 will. I dare say she made Mr. Ochterlony's life wretched 
 with her trouble and widow's cap. Why didn't she be 
 burnt with her Major, and be done with it?" said 
 Winnie. "I am sure it would be by far the most com- 
 fortable way." 
 
 "Oh, Winnie, I thought you would have had a 
 little sympathy for your sister," said Aunt Agatha, 
 with tears. 
 
 "Everybody has sympathy for my sister," said 
 Winnie, "from Peggy up to Sir Edward. I don't see 
 why she should have it all. Hasn't she had her day? 
 Nobody came in upon her, when she was my age, to put 
 the house in mourning, and banish all one's friends. I 
 hate injustice," cried the young revolutionary. "It is 
 the injustice that makes me angry. I tell you. Aunt 
 Agatha, she has had her day." 
 
 "Oh, Winnie," cried MissSeton, weeping — "Oh, 
 my darling child! don't be so hard upon poor Mary. 
 When she was your age she had not half nor quarter 
 the pleasures you have; and it was I that said she 
 ought to come among her oAvn friends." 
 
 "I am sure she would be a great deal better in 
 some place of her own," said Winnie, with a little 
 violence. "I wonder how she can go to other people's 
 houses with all that lot of little children. If I should
 
 MADONNA MARY. 185 
 
 ever come home a widow from India, or anywhere 
 else — " 
 
 "Winnie!" cried Aunt Agatha, with a little scream, 
 "for Heaven's sake, don't say such things. Sorrow 
 comes soon enough, without going to meet it; and if 
 we can give her a little repose, poor dear — And what 
 do a few pleasant evenings signify to you at your time 
 of life?" 
 
 "A few pleasant evenings!" said Winnie; and she 
 gave a kind of gasp, and threw herself into a chair, 
 and cried too, for passion, and vexation, and disgust 
 — perhaps, a little, too, out of self-disgust, though 
 she would not acknowledge it. "As if that were all! 
 And nobody thinks how the days are flying, and how 
 it may all come to an end!" cried the passionate girl. 
 After having given vent to such words, shame and re- 
 morse seized upon Winnie. Her cheeks blazed so that 
 the scorching heat dried up her tears, and she sprang 
 up again and flew at the shutters, on which her feel- 
 ings had already expended themselves more than once, 
 and brought down the bar with a clang that startled 
 the whole house. As for Aunt Agatha, she sat aghast, 
 and gazed, and could not believe her eyes or her ears. 
 Wliat were the days that were flying, or the things 
 that might come to an end? Could this wild exclama- 
 tion have anything to do with the fact that Captain 
 Percival was only on a visit at the Hall, and that his 
 days were, so to speak, numbered? Miss Scton was 
 not so old as to have forgotten what it was to be thus 
 on the eve of losing sight of some one who had, as 
 she would herself have said, "interested you." But 
 Aunt Agatha had never in her life been guilty of 
 violence or passion , and the idea of committing such a
 
 18G MADONNA MARY. 
 
 sin against all propriety and good taste as to have lier 
 usual visitors while the family was in affliction, was 
 something which she could not take into her mind. It 
 looked a breach of morals to Miss Seton; and for the 
 moment it actually seemed as if Winnie, for the first 
 time in her life, was not to have her way. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "Everybody has sympathy with my sister," was 
 what Winnie had said ; and perhaps that was the 
 hardest thing of all to bear. She was like the re- 
 spectable son who came in disgusted into the midst of 
 a merry-making all consecrated to the return of his 
 disreputable prodigal brother. What did the fellow 
 mean by coming home? Why did not he stay where 
 he was, and fill his belly with the husks? If Mary 
 had but been left to her young sister's sympathy, 
 Winnie would (or thought she would) have lavished 
 tenderness upon her. But the fact was, that it was 
 very very hard to think how the days were passing 
 by, and how perhaps all the precious evenings which 
 remained might be cut off for ever, and its fairest 
 prospect taken from her life, by Aunt Agatha's com- 
 plaisance to Mary. It was true that it was Captain 
 Percival's visit that Winnie was thinking of Perhaps 
 it was a little un maidenly of her to own as much even 
 to herself. It was a thing which Aunt Agatha would 
 have died sooner than do, and which even Mary could 
 not have been guilty of; but then girls now are brought 
 up so differently. He might find himself shut out from
 
 MADONNA MAUV. 187 
 
 tlie house, tand might think the "family affliction" only 
 a pretence, and might go away and make an end of it 
 for ever — and Winnie was self-willed and passionate, 
 and felt she must move heaven and earth sooner than 
 let this be so. It seemed to her as if the happiness of 
 her life hung upon it, and she could not but think, 
 being young and fond of poetry, of the many instances 
 in books in which the magical moment was thus lost, 
 and two lives made miserable. And how could it harm 
 Mary to see a strange face or two about; she who had 
 had the fortitude to come home all the way from 
 India, and had survived, and was in sufficiently good 
 health after her grief, which of itself was a thing for 
 which the critic of eighteen was disposed to despise a 
 woman ? 
 
 As she brooded over this at night in her own room 
 with the window open, and her long hair streaming- 
 over her shoulders like a romantic heroine, and the 
 young moonlight whitening over the trees, turrets, and 
 windows of the Hall, a wild impatience of all the 
 restrictions which were at that moment pressing upon 
 her came upon Winnie. She had been very bright and 
 pleasant with the little boys in the garden; which was 
 partly because her heart melted towards the helpless 
 children who wore her own flesh and blood, and partly 
 because at that time nothing had occurred to thwart or 
 vex her; but from tlie moment when she had seen Sir 
 Edward's window suddenly gleam into the twilight 
 matters had changed. Then Winnie had perceived 
 that the event which had been the central point of her 
 daily life for some time back, the visit of Sir Edwai'd 
 and his "young friend," was not going to happen. It 
 was the first time it had occurred to her that Mary's
 
 188 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 arrival was in any way to limit or transform her own 
 existence; and her pride, her independence, her self- 
 love and self-will were all immediately in arms. She, 
 who had a little scorned her sister for the faculty of 
 surviving, and for the steadiness with which she bore 
 her burden, now asked herself indignantly, if Mary 
 wanted to devote herself to her grief why she did not 
 go into some seclusion to do it, instead of imposing 
 penance upon other people? And what harm could it 
 possibly have done Mary to see some one wandering 
 in the garden by Winnie's side whose presence made 
 the world complete, and left no more to be desired in 
 it? or to look at poor Sir Edward talking to Aunt 
 Agatha, who took an innocent pleasure in his talk? 
 what harm could all this do to the ogress in the 
 widow's cap who had come to trample on the happiness 
 of the cottage? What pleasure could it be to her to 
 turn the innocent old man, and the charming young 
 one, away from the little flowery bower which they 
 were so fond of? — for to be sure it did not occur to 
 Winnie that Mrs. Ochterlony had nothing to do with 
 it, and that it was of his own will and pleasure that 
 Sir Edward had stayed away. Such were the thoughts 
 which ran riot in the girl's mind while she stood in 
 the moonlight at her open window. There was no 
 balcony to go forth upon, and these were not sweet 
 musings like Juliet's, but fiery discontented thoughts. 
 Winnie did not mean to let her happiness slip by. She 
 thought it was her happiness, and she was imperious 
 and self-willed, and determined not to let her chance 
 be stolen from her, as so many people do. As for 
 Mary she had had her day. Let her be twenty times 
 a widow, she had once been wooed, and had tasted all
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 189 
 
 tlie delights of youth, and nobody had interfered with 
 her — and Winnie too had made up her mind to have 
 her day. Such a process of tliinking coukl never, as 
 lias been already said, have gone through the minds 
 of either of the other women in the cottage ; but Winnie 
 was a girl of the nineteenth century, in which young 
 ladies are brought up differently — and she meant to 
 have her rights, and the day of her delight, and all 
 the privileges of her youth, whatever anybody might 
 say. 
 
 As for Aunt Agatha on the other side, she too was 
 making up her mind. She would have cut herself up 
 in little pieces to please her darling, but she could not 
 relinquish those rules of propriety which were dearer 
 than herself — she was making up her mind to the 
 struggle with tears and a kind of despair. It was a 
 heartrending prospect, and she did not know how she 
 could live without the light of her pretty Winnie's 
 countenance, and see her looking sulky and miserable 
 as she had done that night. But still in consideration 
 of what was rights Miss Seton felt that she must and 
 could bear anything. To expect a family in mourning, 
 and who had just received a widow into their house, to 
 see visitors, was an inhuman idea; and Aunt Agatha 
 would have felt herself deeply humiliated could she 
 really have supposed that anybody thought her capable 
 of such a dereliction of duty. But she cried a little as 
 she considered the awful results of her decision. Winnie 
 disappointed, sullen, and wretched, roused to rebellion, 
 and taking no pleasure in her life, was a teiTible pic- 
 ture to contemplate. Aunt Agatha felt that all the 
 l)leasure of her own existence was over, and cried a 
 few salt tears over the sacrifice ; biit she knew her
 
 190 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 duty, and at least tliere was, or oiiglit to be, a certain 
 comfort in that. 
 
 Sir Edward came next day to pay a solemn visit 
 at the cottage, and it gave her a momentary gleam of 
 comfort to feel that this was the course of conduct 
 which he at least expected of her. He came, and his 
 "young friend" came with him, and for the moment 
 smiles and contentment came back to the household. 
 Sir Edward entered the drawing-room and shook hands 
 tenderly with Mrs. Ochterlony, and sat down beside her, 
 and began to talk as only an old friend could; but the 
 young friend stayed in the garden with Winnie, and 
 the sound of their voices came in now and then along 
 with the songs of the birds and the fragrance of the 
 flowers — all nature conspiring as usual to throw a 
 charm about the young creatures, who apart from this 
 charm did not make the loveliest feature in the social 
 landscape. Sir Edward, on the other hand, sat down 
 as a man sits down in a room where there is a seat 
 which is known as his, and where he is in the way of 
 doing a great deal of pleasant talk most days of his 
 life. This was a special occasion, and he behaved him- 
 self accordingly. He patted Mary's hand softly with 
 one of his, and held it in the other, and looked at her 
 with that tender curiosity and inquiry which comes 
 natural after a long absence. "She is changed, but I 
 can see our old Mary still in her face," said the old 
 man, patting her hand; and then he asked about the 
 journey, and if he should see the children; and then 
 the ordinary talk began. 
 
 "We did not come last evening, knowing you ex- 
 pected Mary," Sir Edward said, "and a most un- 
 pleasant companion I had all the night in consequence.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 191 
 
 Young people will be young people, you know — 
 indeed, I never can help remembering, tliat just tlie 
 other day I was young myself." 
 
 "Yes," said Aunt Agatha, faltering; "but you see 
 under the circumstances, Sir Edward, Winnie could not 
 expect that her sister " 
 
 "Dear aunt," said Mary, "I have already begged 
 you to make no difference for me." 
 
 "I am sure, my love, you are very kind," said 
 Aunt Agatha; "you always were the most unselfish — 
 But I hope I know my duty, whatever your good heart 
 may induce you to say." 
 
 "And / hope, after a while," said Sir Edward, 
 "that Mary too will be pleased to see her friends. We 
 are all friends here, and everybody I know will be 
 glad to welcome her home." 
 
 Most likely it was those very words that made Mary 
 feel faint and ill, and unable to reply. But though 
 she did not say anything, she at least made no sort of 
 objection to the hope; and immediately the pleasant 
 little stream of talk gushed up and ran past her as 
 she knew it would. The two old people talked of the 
 two young ones who were so interesting to them, and 
 all that was special in Sir Edward's visit came to a 
 close. 
 
 "Young Percival is to leave me next week," Sir 
 Edward said. "I shall miss him sadly, and I am afraid 
 it will cost him a heartache to go." 
 
 Aunt Agatha knew so well what her friend meant 
 that she felt herself called upon to look as if she did 
 not know. "Ah," she said, "I don't wonder. It is not 
 often that he will find such a friend as you have been,
 
 192 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Sir Edward: and to leave you, who are always such 
 pleasant comj)any " 
 
 "My dear Miss Seton," said Sir Edv/ard, with a 
 gentle laugh, "you don't suppose that I expect him to 
 have a heartache for love of me? He is a nice young 
 fellow, and I am sorry to lose him; but if it were only 
 my pleasant company " 
 
 Then Aunt Agatha bluslied as if it had been her- 
 self who was young Percival's attraction. "We shall 
 all miss him, I am sure," she said. "He is so delicate 
 and considerate. He has not come in, thinking no 
 doubt that Mary is not equal to seeing strangers; but 
 I am so anxious that Mary should see him — that is, 
 I like her to know our friends," said the imprudent 
 woman, correcting herself, and once more blushing 
 crimson, as if young Percival had been a lover of her 
 very own. 
 
 "He is a very nice fellow," said Sir Edward; "most 
 people like him; but I don't know that I should have 
 thought of describing him as considerate or delicate. 
 Mary must not form too high an idea. He is just a 
 young man like other young men," said the impartial 
 baronet, and likes his own way, and is not without a 
 proper regard for his own interest. He is not in the 
 least a hero of romance." 
 
 "I don't think he is at all mercenary. Sir Edward, 
 if that is what you mean," said Aunt Agatha, blushing 
 no longer, but growing seriously red. 
 
 "Mercenary!" said Sir Edward. "I don't think I 
 ever dreamt of that. He is like other young men, 
 you know. I don't want Mary to form too high an 
 idea. But one thing I am sure of is that he is very 
 sorry to go away."
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 193 
 
 And tlien a little pause happened, wliicli was 
 trying to Aunt Agatha, and in the interval the voices 
 of the two young people in the garden sounded 
 pleasantly from outside. Sitting thus within hearing 
 of them, it was difficult to turn to any other subject; 
 hut yet ]Miss Seton would not confess that she could 
 Ly any possibility understand what her old neighbour 
 meant; and by way of escaping from that embarrass- 
 ment plunged without thought into another in which 
 she Houndered helplessly after the first dash. 
 
 "Mary has just come from Earlston," she said. 
 "It has grown quite a museum, do you know? — 
 every sort of beautiful thing, and all so nicely ar- 
 ranged. Francis — IMr. Ochterlony," said Aunt Agatha, 
 
 in confusion, "had always a great deal of taste 
 
 Perhaps you may remember " 
 
 "Oh, yes, I remember," said Sir Edward — "such 
 things are not easily forgotten — but I hope you don't 
 mean to suppose that Percival " 
 
 "I was thinking nothing about Captain Percival," 
 Miss Seton said, feeling ready to cry — " What I meant 
 was, I thought — I supposed you might have some 
 interest — I thought you might like to know " 
 
 "Oh, if that is all," said Sir Ed^vard, "of course I 
 take a great interest — but I thought you meant 
 something of the same kind might be going on here. 
 You must never think of that. I would never forgive 
 myself if I were twice to be the occasion " 
 
 "I was thinking nothing about Captain Percival," 
 said Aunt Agatha, with tears of vexation in her eyes; 
 "nor — nor anything else — 1 was talking for the sake 
 of conversation: I was thinking perhaps you might 
 like to hear " 
 
 Madonna Mnnj. I. *^
 
 19-i MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "May I sliow you my boys, Sir Edward?" said 
 Mary, ringing tlie bell — "I should like you to see 
 them; and I am going to ask you, by-and-by, what I 
 must do with them. My brother-in-law is very much 
 a recluse — I should be glad to have the advice of 
 somebo<ly who knows more of the world." 
 
 "Ah, yes, let us see the boys," said Sir p]dward. 
 ''''All boys are they? — that's a pity. You shall have 
 the best advice 1 can give you , my dear Mary — and 
 if you are not satisfied with that, you shall have better 
 advice than mine; there is nothing so important as 
 education; come along, little ones. So these are all? — 
 three — I thought you had more than three. Ah, I 
 beg your pardon. How do you do, my little man? I 
 am your mamma's old friend — I knew her long before 
 you were born — come and tell me your name." 
 
 And while Sir Edward got at these particulars, and 
 took the baby on his knee, and made himself agreeable 
 to the two sturdy little heroes who stood by, and stared 
 at him, Aunt Agatha came round behind backs, and 
 gave Mary a quiet kiss — half by way of consolation, 
 half by way of thanks — for, but for that happy in- 
 spu'ation of sending for the children, there was no tell- 
 ing what bog of unfortunate talk Miss Seton might 
 not have tumbled into. Sir Edward was one of those 
 men who know much, too much, about everybody — 
 everything, he himself thought. He could detect al- 
 lusions in the most careless conversation, and never 
 forgot anything even when it was expedient and better 
 that it should be forgotten. He was a man who had 
 been unlucky in his youth, and who now, in his old 
 age, though he was as well off as a man living all 
 alone, in forlorn celibacy, could be, was always called
 
 MADONNA MARV. 195 
 
 poor Sir Edward. Tlic very cottagers called him so, 
 ■who might well have looked upon his life as a kind 
 of paradise; and being- thus recognised as an object of 
 pity, Sir Edward had on the whole a very pleasant 
 life. lie knew all about everybody, and was apt at 
 times to confuse his neighbours sadly, as he had just 
 done Aunt Agatha, by a reference to the most private 
 hits of their individual history; but it was never done 
 with ill-nature — and after all the^'e is a charm about 
 a person who knows everything about everybody. 
 He was a man Avho could have told you all about the 
 Gretna Green marriage, which had cost poor Major 
 Ochterlony so much trouble, as well, or perhaps even 
 better, than if he had been present at it; and he was 
 favourable to marriages in general, though he had 
 never himself made the experience, and rather liked to 
 ))reside over a budding- inclination like that between 
 Winifred Seton and yoinig Percival. He took little 
 Wilfrid on his knee when the children were thus 
 brought upon the scene, in a fatherly, almost grand- 
 fatherly Avay, and was quite ready to go into Mary's 
 ])lans about them. lie thought it was quite right, and 
 the most suitable thing she could do, to settle some- 
 where whore there was a good grammar-school; and he 
 had ah-eady begun to calculate where the best gram- 
 mar-schools were situated, and which would be the best 
 plan for Mrs. Ochterlony, when the voices in the gar- 
 den were heard approaching. Aunt Agatha had escaped 
 from her embarrassment by going out to the young- 
 people, and was now bringing them in to present the 
 young man for 3Iary's apjtroval and criticism. j\Iis 
 Seton came first, and there was anxiety in her faces 
 and after her Winnie stepped in at the window, with; 
 
 1 '•> ¥■
 
 196 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 a little flusli upon lier pretty clieok, and an unusual 
 llglit in her eye; and after lier — but at that moment 
 the whole party were startled by a sudden sound of 
 surprise, the momentary falling back of the stranger's 
 foot from the step, and a surprised, half-suppressed ex- 
 clamation. "Oh! — Mrs. Ochterlony!" exclaimed Sir 
 Edward's young friend. As it happened all the rest 
 were silent at that moment, and his voice was distinctly 
 audible, though pea-haps he had not meant it to be so. 
 He himself was half hidden by the roses which 
 clambered all over the cottage, but Mary naturally 
 turned round, and turned her face to the window, 
 when she heard her own name — as indeed they all did 
 
 — surprised at the exclamation, and still more at the 
 tone. And it was thus under the steady gaze of four 
 pairs of eyes that Captain Percival came into the 
 room. Perhaps but for that exclamation Mary might 
 not have recognised him; but her ear had been trained 
 to quick understanding of that inflection, half of amuse- 
 ment, half of contempt, which she had not heard for 
 so long. To her ears it meant, "Oh, Mrs. Ochterlony! 
 
 — she who was married over again, as people pre- 
 tended — she who took in the Kirkmans, and all the 
 people at the station." Captain Percival came in, and 
 he felt his blood run cold as he met all those astonished 
 eyes, and found Mary looking so intently at him. 
 What had he done that they should all stare at him 
 like that? for he was not so well aware of what he 
 had given utterance to, nor of his tone in giving ut- 
 terance to it, as they were. "Good heavens, what is 
 the matter?" he said; "you all look at me as if I 
 were a monster. Miss Seton, may I ask you to in- 
 troduce me "
 
 MADONNA MARY. 197 
 
 "We liave met before, I tliink," Mary said, quietly. 
 "When I heard of Captain Percival I did not know it 
 was the same T used to hear so much about in India. 
 I tliiuk, when I saw you last, it was at " 
 
 She wanted by sudden instinct to say it out and 
 set herself right for ever and ever, here where every- 
 thing about her was known; but the words seemed to 
 choke her. In spite of herself she stopped short; how 
 could she refer to that, the only great grievance in her 
 life, her husband's one great wrong against her, now 
 that he was in his grave, and she left in the world the 
 defender and champion of all his acts and ways? She 
 could not do it — she was obliged to stop short in the 
 middle, and swallow the sob that would have choked 
 her with the next word. And they stood all gazing at 
 her, wondering what it was. 
 
 "Yes," said the young man, with a confidential air 
 — "I remember it very well indeed — - I heard all 
 about it from Askell, you know; — but I never 
 imagined, when I heard you talking of your sister, 
 that it was the same IVfrs. Ochterlony," he added, turn- 
 ing to Winnie, who was looking on with great and 
 sudden interest. And then there was a pause — such 
 a pause as occurs sometimes when there is an evident 
 want of explanation somewhere, and all present feel 
 that they are on the borders of a mystery. Somehow 
 it changed the character of the assembled company. 
 A few minutes before it had been the sad stranger, in 
 her widow's ca]), who was the centre of all, whom all 
 present paid, willingly or not, a certain homage to, and 
 to Avhom the visitors had to be presented in a half 
 apologetic way, as if to a queen. Aunt Agatha, in- 
 deed, had been quite anxious on the subject, pondering
 
 198 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 how slie could best bring Sir Edward's young friend, 
 Winnie's admirer, under Mrs. Ocliterlony's observation, 
 and liave her opinion of him; and now in an instant 
 the situation was reversed, and it was Mary and Cap- 
 tain Percival alone who seem to know each other, and 
 to have recollections in common! Mary felt her cheeks 
 flush in spite of herself, and Winnie grew pale with 
 incipient jealousy and dismay, and Aunt Agatha fliit- 
 tered about in a state of the wildest anxiety. At last 
 both she and Sir Edward burst out talking at the same 
 moment, with the same visible impulse. And they 
 brought the children into the foreground, and lured 
 them into the utterance of mvich baby nonsense, and 
 even went so far as to foster a rising quarrel between 
 Hugh and Islay, all to cover up from each other's eyes 
 and smother in the bud this mystery, if it was a 
 mystery. It was a singular disturbance to bring into 
 such a quiet house; for how could the people who 
 dwelt at home tell what those two strangers might have 
 known about each other in India, how they might have 
 been connected, or what secret might lie between them? 
 — no more than people could tell in a cosy sheltered 
 curtained room what might be going on at sea, or even 
 on the dark road outside. And here there was the 
 same sense of insecurity — the same distrust and fear. 
 Winnie stood a little apart, pale, and with her delicate 
 curved nostril a little dilated. Captain Percival was 
 younger than Mary, and Mary up to this moment had 
 been hedged round with a certain sanctity, even in the 
 eyes of her discontented young sister. But there was 
 some intelligence between them, something known to 
 those two which was known to no one else in the 
 party. This was enough to set off the thoughts of a
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 199 
 
 self-willed girl, upon whose patli Mary liad thrown tlie 
 first shadow, wildly into all kinds of suspicions. And 
 to tell the truth, the elder people, who should have 
 knoAvn better, were not much wiser than Winnie, 
 'i'hus, while Iluji'h and Islay had a momentary strugj^-le 
 in the foreground, which called for tlieir mother's active 
 interference, the one ominous cloud of her existence 
 once more floated up upon the dim firmament over 
 Clary's head; though if she had hut finished her sen- 
 fence it would have been no cloud at all, and might 
 never have come to anything there or thereafter. But 
 this did not occur to Mrs. Ochterlony. What did oc- 
 cur to her in her vexation and pain was that her dead 
 Hugh would be hardly dealt Avith among her kindred, 
 if the stranger should tell her story. And she was 
 glad, heartily glad, that there was little conversation 
 afterwards, and that very soon the two visitors Avent 
 aAvay. But it was she who was the last to be aware 
 that a certain doiibt, a new and painful element of un- 
 certainty stayed behind them in Aunt Agatha's pretty 
 cottage after tlicy were gone. 
 
 CHAPTER XVr. 
 
 Tii.vr night was a painful night for Winnie. The 
 girl was self-willed and self-loving, as has been said. 
 But she was not incapable of the more generous emo- 
 tions, and when she looked at her sister she could no 
 more suspect her of any wrong or treachery than she 
 could suspect the sun sliining OA'er their heads. And 
 her interest in the young soldier had gone a great 
 length. She thought he loved her, and it Avas very
 
 200 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 hard to tliiuk that lie was kept apart from her by a 
 reason which was no reason at all. She roved about 
 the garden all the evening in an unsettled way, think- 
 ing he would come again — thinking he could 
 not stay away — explaining to herself that he 
 must come to explain. And when she glanced in- 
 doors at the lamp which was lighted so much earlier 
 than it needed to be, for the sake of Mary's sewing, 
 and saw Mary seated beside it, in what looked like 
 perfect composure and quietness, Winnie's impatience 
 got the better of her. lie was to be banished, or con- 
 fined to a formal morning call, for Mary's sake, who 
 sat there so calm, a woman for whom the fret and 
 cares of life were over, while for Winnie life was only 
 beginning, and her heart going out eagerly to welcome 
 and lay claim to its troubles. And then the thought 
 that it was the same Mrs. Ochterlony came sharp as a 
 sting to Wliuiie's heart. AVhat could he have had to 
 do with Mrs. Ochterlony V what did she mean coming 
 home in the character of a sorroAvfal widow, and 
 shvitting out their visitors, and yet awakening some- 
 thing like agitation and unquestionable recognition in 
 the first stranger she saw? Winnie wandered through 
 the garden, asking herself those questions, while the 
 sweet twilight darkened, and the magical hour passed 
 by, Avhich had of late associated itself with so many 
 dreams. And again he did not come. It was impos- 
 sible to her, when she looked at Mary, to believe that 
 there could be anything inexplainable in the link 
 which connected her lover with her sister — but still 
 he ought to have come to explain. And when Sir Ed- 
 ward's windows were lighted once more, and the 
 certainty that he was not coming penetrated her mind,
 
 MADONNA MARV. 201 
 
 Winnie clenched her pretty hands, and went crazy 
 for the moment with despite and vexation. Anotlier 
 long dull weary evening, with all the expectation and 
 hope quenched out of it; another lingering night; 
 another day in Avhich there was as much doubt as hope. 
 And next week he was going away! And it Avas all 
 Mary's fault, however you took it — - whether she had 
 known more of him than she would allow in India, or 
 whether it was simply the fault of that widow's cap 
 whicli scared people away? This was what was going 
 on in Winnie's agitated mind while the evening dews 
 fell upon the banks of Kirtell, and the soft stars came 
 out, and the young moon rose, and everything glistened 
 and shone with the sweetness of a summer night. This 
 fair young creature, who was in herself the most 
 beautiful climax of all the beauty around her, wandered 
 among her flowers with her small hands clenched, and 
 the s])irit of a little fury in her heart. She had nothing 
 in the world to trouble her, and yet she was very un- 
 liappy, and it was all Mary's foult. Probably if Mary 
 could but have seen into Winnie's heart she would 
 have tliought it preferable to stay at Eurlston, where 
 the Psyche and the Venus were highly indifferent, and 
 had no hearts, but only arms and noses that could be 
 broken. Winnie was more fragile than the Etruscan 
 vases or tlie Henri 11. porcelain. They had escaped 
 fracture, but she had not; but fortunately this thought 
 did not occur to IMrs. Ocliterlony as she sat by the 
 lamp working at Hugh's little blouses in Aunt Agatha's 
 chair. 
 
 And Aunt Agatha, more actively jealous than Win- 
 nie herself, sat by knitting little socks — an occupa- 
 tion which she had devoted herself to, heart and soul,
 
 202 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 from tlie moment wlien slie first knew the little Ochter- 
 lonys were coming home. She was knitting with the 
 prettiest yarn and the finest needles, and had a model 
 before her of proportions so shapely as to have filled 
 any woman's soul with delight; hut all that was eclipsed 
 for the time by the doubt which hung over Mary, and 
 the evident unhappiness of her favourite. Aunt Agatha 
 was less wise than Winnie, and had not eyes to per- 
 ceive that people were characteristic even in their 
 wrong-doing, and that Captain Percival of himself 
 coxild have nothing to do with tlie shock which Mary 
 had evidently felt at the sight of him. Probably Miss 
 Seton had not been above a little flirtation in her own 
 day, and she did not see how that would come unna- 
 tural to a woman of her own flesh and blood. And she 
 sat accordingly on tlie other side of the lamp and 
 knitted, with a pucker of anxiety uj)on her fair old 
 brow, casting wistful glances now and then into the 
 garden where Winnie Avas. 
 
 "And I suppose, my dear, you know Captain Per- 
 cival very Avell?" said Aunt Agatha, with that anxious 
 look on her face. 
 
 "I don't think I ever saw him but once," said 
 Mary, who was a little impatient of the question. 
 
 "But once, my dear love! and yet you both were 
 so surprised to meet," said Aunt Agatha, with reason- 
 able surprise. 
 
 "There are some moments when to see a man is to 
 remember him ever after," said Mary. "It was at such 
 a time that I saw Sir Edward's friend. It would be 
 best to tell you about it. Aunt Agatha. There was a 
 time when my poor Hugh " 
 
 "Oh, Mary, my darling, you can't think I want to
 
 MADONNA MARY. 203 
 
 vex you," cried Aunt Agatha, "or make you go back 
 again upon anytliing tliat is painful. I am quite satis- 
 fied, for my ])art, wben you say so. And so would 
 Winnie be, 1 am sure." 
 
 "Satisfied?" said Mary, -wondering, and yet with a 
 smile-, and then she forgot the wonder of it in the 
 anxiety. "I should be sorry to think that Winnie 
 cared much for anything that could be said about 
 (3aptain Percival. I used to hear of him from the 
 Askells who were friends of his. Do not let her have 
 anything to do with him. Aunt Agatha; I am sure 
 he could bring her nothing but disappointment and 
 pain." 
 
 "I — JMary? — Oh, my dear love, what can I 
 do?" cried Miss Seton, in sudden confusion; and then 
 she paused and recovered herself. "Of course if he 
 was a wicked young man, I — I would not let Winnie 
 have anything to do with him," she added, faltering; 
 "but — do you think you are sure, Mary? If it should 
 be only that you do not — like him; or that you have 
 not got on — or something " 
 
 "I have told you that I know nothing of him. 
 Aunt," said Mary, "I saw him once at the most pain- 
 ful moment of my life, and spoke half-a-dozen Avords 
 to him in my own hoiise after that — but it is what 
 I have heard the gentlemen say. I do not like him. I 
 think it was unmannerly and indelicate to come to my 
 house at such a time " 
 
 "My darling!" said Aunt Agatha, soothing her 
 tenderly. JMiss Seton was thinking of the major's 
 death, not of any pain that miglit have gone before; 
 and ]\Iary by this time in the throng of recollections
 
 204 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 that came upon her had forgotten that everybody diil 
 not know. 
 
 "But that is not the reason," Mrs. Ochterlony said, 
 composing herself: "the reason is that he couhl not, 
 unless he is greatly changed, make Winnie other- 
 wise than unhappy. I know the reputation he had. 
 The Ileskeths would not let him come to their 
 house after Annie came out; and I have even heard 
 Hugh " 
 
 "My dear love, you are agitating yourself," cried 
 Aunt Agatha. "Oh, Mary, if you only knew how 
 anxious I am to do anything to recall — — " 
 
 "Thank you," said Mrs. Ochterlony, with a faint 
 smile: "it is not so far off that I should require any- 
 thing to recall all that has happened to me — but for 
 Winnie's sake — - — " 
 
 And it was just at that monent that the light 
 suddenly appeared in Sir Edward's window, and 
 brought Winnie in, white and passionate, with a 
 thunder-cloud full of tears and lightnings and miserable 
 headache and self-reproach, lowering over her brilliant 
 eyes. 
 
 "It is very good of Mary, I am sure, to think of 
 something for my sake," said Winnie. "What is it, 
 Aunt Agatha? Everything is always so unpleasant 
 that is for one's good. I should like to know what it 
 was." 
 
 And then tliere was a dead silence in the pretty 
 room. Mary bent her head over her work, silenced by 
 the question, and Aunt Agatha, in a flutter of un- 
 certainty and tribulation, turned from one to the 
 other, not knowing which side to take nor what to 
 say.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 205 
 
 "Mary has come among us a stranger," said Win- 
 nie, "and I suppose it is natural that slic sliould think 
 slic kuows our business better than we do. I suppose 
 that is always how it seems to a stranger; but at the 
 same time it is a mistake, Aunt Agatha, and I wish 
 you would let Mary know that we are disposed to 
 manage for ourselves. If we come to any harm it is 
 we who will have to suffer, and not Mary," the im- 
 petuous girl cried, as slie drew that unhappy embroidery 
 frame out of its corner. 
 
 And then another pause, severe and startling, fell 
 upon the little party. Aunt Agatha fluttered in her 
 chair, looking from one to another, and Winnie dragged 
 a violent needle through her canvas, and a great night 
 moth came in and circled about them, and dashed itself 
 madly against the globe of light on the table. As for 
 JMary, she sat working at Hugh's little blouse, and for 
 a long time did not speak. 
 
 "j\[y dear love!" Aunt Agatha said at last, 
 trembling, "you know there is nothing in the world I 
 would not do to please you, Winnie, — nor Mary 
 either. Oh, my dear children, there are only you two 
 in the world. If one says anything, it is for the other's 
 good. And here we are, three women together, and 
 we are all fond of each other, and surely, surely, 
 nothing ever can make any unpleasantness!" cried the 
 poor lady, with tears. She had her heart rent in two, 
 like every mediatrix, and yet the larger half, as was 
 natural, went to her darling's side. 
 
 "Winnie is right enough," Mary said, quietly. "I 
 am a stranger, and I have no right to interfere; and 
 very likely, even if I were permitted to interfere, it 
 would do no good. It is a shame to vex you, Aunt
 
 206 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Agatha. My sister must submit to bear my opinion 
 one time, but I am not going to disturb the peace of 
 the house, nor yours." 
 
 "Oh, Mary, my clear, it is only that she is a little, 
 impatient, and has always had her own way," said 
 Aunt Agatha, whispering across the table. And then 
 no more was said. Miss Seton took up her little socks, 
 and "Winnie continued to labour hotly at her em- 
 broidery, and the sound of Iut work, and the rustle oi' 
 Mary's arm at her sewing, and the little click of Aunt 
 Agatha's knitting-needles, and the mad dashes of the 
 moth at the lamp, were all the sounds in the room, 
 except, indeed, the sound of the Kirtell, flowing softly 
 over its pebbles at the foot of the brae, and the sigh- 
 ing of the evening air among the trees, which were 
 sadly contradictory of the spirit of the scene within; 
 and at a distance over the woods, gleamed Sir Ed- 
 ward's window, with the ill-disposed light Avhich was, 
 so to speak, the cause of all. Perhaps, after all, if 
 Mrs. Ochterlony had stayed at Earlston, where the 
 Psyche and the Venus were not sensitive, and there 
 was nothing but marble and china to jar into discord, 
 it might have been better; and what would have been 
 better still, was the grey cottage on the roadside, with 
 fire on the hearth and peace and freedom in the house; 
 and it was to that, with a deep and settled longing, 
 that Mary's heart and thoughts Avent always back. 
 
 When Mrs. Ochterlony had withdraAvn, the scene 
 changed much in Aunt Agatha's drawing-room. But 
 it was still a pretty scene. Then Winnie came and 
 poured out her girlish passion in the ears and at the 
 feet of her tender guardian. She sank down upon the 
 carpet, and laid her beautiful head upon Aunt Agatha's
 
 MADONNA MARY. 207 
 
 knee, autl clasped her slender arms around her. "To 
 think she should come and drive every one I care for 
 away from the house, and set even you against me!" 
 cried Winnie, with sobs of vexation and rage. 
 
 "Oh, Winnie! not me! Never me, my darling," 
 cried Aunt Agatha; and they made a group which a 
 painter would have loved, and which would have con- 
 veyed the most delicate conception of love and grief 
 to an admiring pixhlic, had it been painted. Nothing 
 less than a broken heart and a blighted life would have 
 been suggested to any innocent fancy by the abandon- 
 ment of misery in Winnie's attitude. And to tell the 
 truth, she was very unhappy, furious with Mary, and 
 with herself, and with her lover, and everybody in the 
 wide world. The braids of her beautiful hair got loose, 
 and the net that confined them came off, and the glisten- 
 ing silken flood came tumbling about her shoulders. 
 Miss Seton could not but take great handfuls of it as 
 she tried to soothe her darling; and poor Aunt Agatha's 
 licart was rent in twain as she sat with this lovely bur- 
 den in her lap, thinking, Oh, if nobody had ever come 
 to distract Winnie's heart with love-making, and bring 
 such disturbance to her life; oh, if Hugh Ochterlony 
 liad thought better of it, and had not died! Oh, if 
 ^lary had never seen Captain Percival, or seeing him, 
 had approved of him , and thought him of all others 
 the mate she would choose for her sister ! The reverse 
 of all these wishes had happened, and Aunt Agatha 
 could not but look at the combination with a certain 
 despair. 
 
 "What can I do, my dear love?" she said. "It 
 is my fault that Mary has come here. You know your- 
 self it Avould have been unnatural if she had gone any-
 
 208 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Avhere else: and how could we go on having people, 
 with her in such deep mourning? And as for Captain 
 Percival, my darling — ^" 
 
 "I was not speaking of Captain Percival," said 
 Winnie, with indignation. "What is he to me? — or 
 any man? But what I will not bear is Mary interfering. 
 She shall not tell us what we are to do. She shan't 
 come in and look as if she understood everything 
 ])etter than we do. And, Aunt Agatha, she shan't — 
 she shall never come, not for a moment, between you 
 and me!" 
 
 "My darling child! my dear love!" cried poor Aunt 
 Agatha, "as if that was possible, or as if poor Mary 
 wanted to. Oh , if you would only do her justice, 
 Winnie? She is fond of you; I know she is fond of 
 you. And what she was saying was entirely for your 
 good — " 
 
 "She is fond of nobody but her children," said 
 Winnie, rising up, and gathering her bright hair back 
 into the net. "She would not care what happened 
 to us, as long as all was well with her tiresome little 
 boys." 
 
 Aunt Agatha wrung her hands, as she looked in 
 despair at the tears on the flushed cheek , and the 
 cloud which still hung upon her child's brow. What 
 could she say? Perhaps there was a little truth in what 
 Winnie said. The little boys, though Miss Seton could 
 not help feeling them to be so unimportant in com- 
 parison with Winnie and her beginning of life, were 
 all in all to Mrs. Ochterlony, and when she had mur- 
 mured again that Mary meant it all for Winnie's good, 
 and again been met by a scornful protestation that any- 
 thing meant for one's good was highly unpleasant,
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 209 
 
 Auut Agatha was silenced, aud had not aiiuther word 
 to say. All that she could do was to pet her wilful 
 darling more than ever, and to promise with tears that 
 Mary should never, never make any difference between 
 them, and that she herself would do anything that Winnie 
 wished or wanted. The interview left her in such a 
 state of agitation that she could not sleep, nor even lie 
 down, till morning was breaking, and the neAV day had 
 begun — but wandered about in her dressing-gown, 
 thinking she heard Winnie move, and making pilgrim- 
 ages to her room to find her, notwithstanding all her 
 passion and tears, as fast asleep as one of Mary's boys 
 — which was very, very different from Auut Agatha's 
 case, or Mary's either, for that matter. As for Mrs. 
 Ocliterlony, it is useless to enter into any description 
 of her feelings. She went to bed with a heavy heart, 
 feeling that she had made another failure, and glad, as 
 people are when they have little comfort round them, 
 of the kind night and the possible sleep which, for a 
 few hours at least, would make her free of all this. 
 But she did not sleep as Winnie did, who felt herself 
 so ill-used and injured. Thus, Mrs. Ochterlony's re- 
 turn, a widow, brought more painful agitation to Miss 
 Seton's cottage than had been known under its quiet 
 roof since the time when she went away a bride. 
 
 MuitoiiiM Jlarij. I. 14
 
 210 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 And after this neither Sir Edward nor his young 
 friend appeared for two whole days. Any girl of 
 Winifred Seton's impetuous character, who has ever 
 been left in such a position on the very eve of the tell- 
 ing of that love- tale, which had been all but told for 
 several weeks past, but now seemed suddenly and arti- 
 ficially arrested just at the moment of utterance — will 
 be able to form some idea of Winnie's feelings during 
 this dreadful interval. She heard the latch of the gate 
 lifted a hundred times in the day, when, alas, there 
 was no one near to lift the latch. She was afraid to 
 go out for an instant, lest in that instant "they" 
 should come ; her brain was ringing with supposed 
 sounds of footsteps and echoes of voices, and yet the 
 road lay horribly calm and silent behind the garden 
 hedge, with no passengers upon it. And these two 
 evenings the light came early into Sir Edward's window, 
 and glared cruelly over the trees. And to be turned 
 inward upon the sweet old life from which the charm 
 had fled, and to have to content one's self with flowers 
 and embroidery, and the canary singing, and the piano, 
 and Aunt Agatha ! Many another girl has passed 
 through the same interval of torture, and felt the sus- 
 pense to be killing, and the crisis tragic — but yet to 
 older eyes perhaps even such a dread suspension of all 
 the laws of being has also its comic side. Winnie, 
 however, took care to keep anybody from laughing at 
 it in the cottage. It was life and death to her, or at
 
 MADONNA MARY. 211 
 
 least so slie thought. And her suppressed frenzy of 
 anxiety, and doubt, and fear, were deep earnest to 
 Aunt Agatha, who seemed now to be living her own 
 early disappointments over again , and more bitterly 
 than in the first version of them. She tried hard to re- 
 member the doubt thrown upon Captain Percival by 
 Mary, and to persuade herself that this interposition 
 was providential, and meant to save her child from 
 an unhappy marriage. But when Miss Seton saw 
 Winnie's tragic countenance, her belief in Providence 
 was shaken. She could not see the good of anything 
 that made her darling suffer. Mary might be wrong, 
 she might be prejudiced, or have heard a false ac- 
 count , and it might be simply herself who was to 
 blame for shutting her doors, or seeming to shut her 
 doors , against her nearest and oldest neighbours. 
 Could it be supposed that Sir Edward would bring any 
 one to her house who was not a fit associate or a fit 
 suitor, if things should take such a turn, for Winnie? 
 Under the painful light thrown upon the subject by 
 Winnie's looks, Aunt Agatha came altogether to ignore 
 that providential view which had comforted her at first, 
 and was so far driven in the other direction at last as 
 to write Sir Edward a little note, and take the respon- 
 sibility upon her own shoulders. What Miss Seton 
 wrote was, that though, in consequence of their late 
 affliction, the family were not equal to seeing visitors 
 in a general way, yet that it would be strange indeed 
 if they were to consider Sir Edward a stranger, and 
 that she hoped he would not stay away, as she was 
 sure his company would be more a comfort to Mary 
 than anything else. And she also hoped Captain Perci- 
 val would not leave the Hall without coming to see 
 
 14*
 
 212 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 tliem. It was such a note as a maideu lady was fully justi- 
 fied in writing to an old friend — an invitation, but 
 yet given with a full consideration of all the pro- 
 prieties , and that tender regard for Mary's feelings 
 which Aunt Agatha had shown throughout. It was 
 written and despatched when Winnie had gone out, as 
 she did on the third day, in proud defiance and despe- 
 ration, so that if Sir Edward's sense of propriety and 
 respect for Mary's cap should happen to be stronger 
 than Aunt Agatha's, no further vexation might come 
 to the young sufi'erer from this attempt to set all right. 
 And Winnie went out without knowing of this 
 effort for her consolation. She went down by Kirtell, 
 winding down the wooded banks, in the sweet light 
 and shade of the August morning, seeing nothing of 
 the brightness, wrapped up and absorbed in her own 
 sensations. She felt now that the moment of fate had 
 passed, — that moment that made or marred two lives; 
 — and had in her heart, in an embryo unexpressed 
 condition, several of Mr. Browning's minor poems, 
 which were not then written; and felt a general bitter- 
 ness against the world for the lost climax, the denoue- 
 ment which had not come. She thought to herself even, 
 that if the tale had been told, the explanation made, 
 and something, however tragical, had happened after, 
 it would not have been so hard to bear. But now it 
 was clear to Winnie that her existence must run on 
 soured and contracted in the shade, and that young 
 Percival must stiffen into a worldly and miserable old 
 bachelor, and that their joint life, the only life worth 
 living, had been stolen from them, and blighted in the 
 bud. And what was it all for? — because Mary, who 
 had had all the good things of this life, who had loved
 
 MADONNA MARY. 213 
 
 and been married iu the most romantic way, and had 
 been adored by her husband, and reigned over him, 
 had come, so far, to an end of her career. Mary was 
 over thirty, an age at which Winnie could not but 
 think it must be comparatively indifferent to a woman 
 what happened — at which the snows of age must 
 have begun to benumb her feelings, under any circum- 
 stances, and the loss of a husband or so did not much 
 matter; but at eighteen, and to lose the first love that 
 had ever touched your heart! to lose it without any 
 reason — without the satisfaction of some dreadful 
 obstacle in the way, or misunderstanding still more 
 dreadful; without ever having heard the magical words 
 and tasted that first rapture! — Ah, it was hard, very 
 h.ard; and no wonder that Winnie was in a turmoil of 
 rage, and bitterness, and despair. 
 
 The fact was, that she was so absorbed in her 
 thoughts as not to see him there where he was waiting 
 for her. He had seen her long ago, as she came down 
 the winding road, betraying herself at the turnings by 
 the flutter of her light dress — for Winnie's mourning 
 was slight — and he had waited, as glad as she could 
 be of the opportunity, and the chance of seeing her 
 undisturbed, and free from all critical eyes. There is 
 a kind of popular idea that it is only a good man, or 
 one with a certain "nobility" or "generosity" in his 
 character who is capable of being in love; but the idea 
 is not so justifiable as it would seem to be. Captain 
 I'ercival was not a good young man, nor would it be 
 safe for any conscientious historian to claim for him 
 generous or noble qualities to' any marked degree; but 
 at the same time I am not disposed to (pialify the state 
 of his sentiments by saying, as is generally said of un-
 
 2ii MADONNA MARY. 
 
 satisfactory characters, that he loved Winnie as much 
 as he could love anything. He was in love with her, 
 heart and soul, as much as if he had been a paladin. 
 He would not have stayed at any obstacle, nor regarded 
 either his own comfort or hers, or any other earthly 
 bar between them. When Winnie thought him distant 
 from her, and contemplating his departure, he had been 
 haunting all the old walks which he knew Miss Seton 
 and her niece were in the habit of taking. He was 
 afraid of Mary — that was one thing indisputable — 
 and he thought she would harm him , and bring up his 
 old character against him; and felt instinctively that 
 the harm which he thought he knew of her, could not 
 be used against her here. And it was for this reason 
 that he had not ventured again to present himself at the 
 cottage; but he had been everywhere about, wherever 
 he thought there was any chance of meeting the lady 
 of his thoughts. And if Winnie had not been so 
 anxious not to miss that possible visitor; if she had 
 been coming and going, and doing all she usually did, 
 their meeting must have taken place two days ago, and 
 all the agony and trouble been spared. He watched 
 her now, and held his breath, and traced her at all the 
 turnings of the road, now by a puff of her black and 
 white muslin dress, and then by a long streaming ribbon 
 catching among the branches — for Winnie was fond 
 of long ribbons wherever she could introduce them. 
 And she was so absorbed with her own settled anguish, 
 that she had stepped out upon him from among the 
 trees before she was aware. 
 
 "Captain Percival!" said Winnie, with an invo- 
 luntary cry ; and she felt the blood so rush to her cheeks 
 with sudden delight and surprise, that she was in an
 
 MADONNA MAltY. 215 
 
 instant put on her guard, and driven to account for it. 
 
 — "I did not see there was any one here — what a 
 fright you have given me. And we, who thought you 
 had gone away," added Winnie, looking suddenly at 
 him with blazing defiant eyes. 
 
 If he had not been in love, probably he would 
 have known what it all meant — the start, the blush, 
 the cry, and that triumphant, indignant, reproachful, 
 exulting look. But he had enough to do with his own 
 sensations, which makes a wonderful difference in such 
 a case. 
 
 "Gone away!" he said, on the spur of the moment 
 
 — "as if I could go away — as if you did not know 
 better than that." 
 
 "I was not aware that there was anything to detain 
 you," said Winnie; and all at once from being so 
 tragical, her natural love of mischief came back, and 
 she felt perfectly disposed to play with her mouse. 
 "Tell me about it. Is it Sir Edward? or perhaps 
 you, too, have had an affliction in your family. I 
 think that is the worst of all," she said, shaking 
 her pretty head mournfully — and thus the two came 
 nearer to each other and laughed together, which 
 was as good a means of rapprochemeiit as anything 
 else. 
 
 But the young soldier had waited too long for this 
 moment to let it all go off in laughter. "If you only 
 knew how I have been trying to see you," he said. 
 "I have been at the school and at the mill, and in the 
 woods — in all your pet places. Are you condemned 
 to stay at home because of this affliction? I could not 
 cume to the cottage because, though Miss Seton is so
 
 216 MADONNA MAUV. 
 
 kind, I am sure your sister would do me an ill turn if 
 she could." 
 
 Winnie was startled, and even a little annoyed by 
 this speech — for it is a fact always to be borne in 
 mind by social critics, that one member of a family 
 may be capable of saying everything that is unpleasant 
 about another, without at the same time being disposed 
 to hear even an echo of his or her own opinion from 
 stranger lips. Winnie was of this way of thinking. 
 She had not taken to her sister, and was quite 
 ready herself to criticise her very severely, but when 
 somebody else did it, the result was very different. 
 "Wliy should my sister do you an ill turn?" she 
 said. 
 
 "Oh!" said young Percival; "it is because you 
 know she knows that I know all about it " 
 
 "All about it!" said Winnie. She was tall already, 
 but she grew two inches taller as she stood and ex- 
 panded and looked her frightened lover into nothing. 
 "There can be nothing about Mary, Captain Percival, 
 which you and all the world may not know." 
 
 And then the young man saw he had made a wrong 
 move. "I have not been haunting the road for hours 
 to talk about Mrs. Ochterlony," he said. "She does not 
 like me, and I am fi'ightened for her. Oh, Winnie, 
 you know very well why. You know I would tremble 
 before anybody who might make you think ill of me. 
 It is cruel to pretend you don't understand." 
 
 And then he took her hand and told her every- 
 thing — all that she looked for, and perhaps more 
 than all — for there are touches of real eloquence 
 about what a man says when he is really in love (even 
 if he shoixld be no great things in his own person)
 
 MADONNA MARY. 217 
 
 which transcend as much as they fall short of, the sug- 
 gestions of a woman's curious fancy. She had said it 
 for hnn two or three times in lior own mind, and had 
 done it far more elegantly and neatly. But still there 
 was something about the genuine article which had not 
 been in "Winnie's imagination. There were fewer words, 
 but there was a great deal more excitement, though it 
 was much less cleverly expressed. And then, before 
 they knew how, the crisis was over, the denouement ac- 
 complished, and the two sitting side by side as in 
 another world. They wei'e sitting on the trunk of an 
 old beech-tree, with the leaves rustling and the birds 
 twittering over them, and Kirtell running, soft and 
 sweet, hushed in its scanty summer whisper at their 
 feet; all objects familiar, and well-known to them — 
 and yet it was another world. As for Mr. Browning's 
 [loems about the unlived life, and the hearts all 
 shrivelled up for want of a word at the right moment, 
 Winnie most probably would have laughed with youth- 
 ful disdain had they been suggested to her now. This 
 little world, in which the fallen beech-tree was the 
 throne, and the fairest hopes and imaginations possible 
 to man, crowded about the youthful sovereigns, and 
 paid them obse(|uious court, was so different from the 
 old world, where Sir Edward at the Hall, and Aunt 
 Agatha in the Cottage, were expecting the young 
 pco})le, that these two, as was not unnatural, forgot all 
 about it, and lingered together, no one interfering with 
 them, or even knowing they were there, for long 
 enough to fill ]\Iiss Seton's tender bosom with wild 
 anxieties and terrors. Winnie had not reached home at 
 the early dinner-hour — a thing which was to Aunt 
 Agatha as if the sun had declined to rise, or the earth
 
 218 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 (to speak more correctly) refused to perform her proper 
 revolutions. She became so restless, and anxious, and 
 unhappy, that Mary, too, was roused into uneasiness. 
 "It must be only that she is detained somewhere," said 
 Mrs. Ochterlony. "She never would allow herself to 
 be detained," cried Aunt Agatha, "and oh, Mary, my 
 darling is unhappy. How can I tell what may have 
 happened?" Thus some people made themselves very 
 wretched about her, while Winnie sat in perfect blessed- 
 ness, uttering- and listening to all manner of heavenly 
 nonsense on the trunk of the fallen tree. 
 
 Aunt Agatha's wretchedness, however, dispersed 
 into thin air the moment she saw Winnie come in at 
 the garden-gate, with Captain Percival in close attend- 
 ance. Then Miss Seton, with natural penetration, saw 
 in an instant what had happened; felt that it was all 
 natural, and wondered why she had not foreseen this 
 inevitable occurrence. "I might have known," she said 
 to Mary, who was the only member of the party upon 
 whom this wonderful event had no enlivening effect; 
 and then Aunt Agatha recollected herself, and put on 
 her sad face, and faltered an apology. "Oh, my dear 
 love, I know it must be hard upon you to see it," she 
 said, apologizing as it were to the widow for the presence 
 of joy. 
 
 "I would be a poor soul indeed, if it was hard 
 upon me to see it," said Mary. "No, Aunt Agatha, I 
 hope I am not so shabby as that. I have had my day. 
 If I look grave, it is for other reasons. I was not 
 thinking of myself" 
 
 "My love! you were always so unselfish," said Miss 
 Seton. "Are you really anxious about him? See how 
 happy he looks — he cannot be so fond of her as that,
 
 MADOXNA MARY. 219 
 
 and so happy, and yet a deceiver. It is not possible, 
 Mary." 
 
 This was in the afternoon, when they had come out 
 to the Liwn with their work, and the two lovers were 
 still together — not staying in one place, as their 
 eldei's did, but flitting across the line of vision now and 
 then, and, as it were, pervading the atmosphere with a 
 certain flavour of romance and happiness. 
 
 "I did not say he was a deceiver — he dared not 
 be a deceiver to Winnie," said Mrs. Ochterlony, "there 
 may be other sins than that." 
 
 "Oh, Mary, don't speak as if you thought it would 
 turn out badly," cried Aunt Agatha, clasping her hands; 
 and she looked into Mrs. Ochterlony's face as if some- 
 how she had the power by retracting her opinion to 
 prevent things from turning out badly. Mary was not 
 a stoic, nor above the sway of all the influences around 
 her. She could not resist the soft pleading eyes that 
 looked into her face, nor the fascination of her young 
 sister's happiness. She held her peace, and even did 
 her best to smile upon the spectacle, and to hope in 
 her heart that true love might work magically upon 
 the man who had now, beyond redemption, Winnie's 
 future in his hands. For her own part, she shrank 
 from him with a vague sense of alarm and danger; 
 and had it been possible to do any good by it, would 
 have felt herself capable of any exertion to cast the 
 intruder out. But it was evident that under present 
 circumstances there was no good to be done. She kept 
 her boys out of his way with an instinctive dread 
 which she could not explain to herself, and shuddered 
 when poor Aunt Agatha, hoping to conciliate all 
 parties, set little Wilfrid for a moment on their visitor's
 
 220 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 knee, aucl with a wistful wile reminded him of the new 
 family relationships Winnie would bring him. Mary 
 took her child away with a shivering sense of peril 
 which was utterly unreasonable. Why had it been 
 Wilfrid of all others who was brought thus into the 
 foreground? Why should it be he who was selected as 
 a symbol of the links of the future? Wilfrid was but 
 an infant, and derived no further impression from his 
 momentary perch upon Captain Percival's knee, than 
 that of special curiosity touching the beard which was 
 a new kind of ornament to the fatherless baby, and 
 tempting for closer investigation; but his mother took 
 him away, and carried him indoors, and disposed of 
 him carefully in the room which Miss Seton had made 
 into a nursery, with an anxious tremor which was 
 utterly absurd and out of all reason. But though in- 
 stinct acted upon her to this extent, she made no 
 further attempt to warn Winnie or hinder the course of 
 events which had gone too fast for her. Winnie would 
 not have accepted any warning — she would have 
 scorned the most trustworthy advice, and repulsed even 
 the most just and right interference — and so woiild 
 Mary have done in Hugh Ochterlony's case, when she 
 Avas Winnie's age. Thus her mouth was shut, and she 
 could say nothing. She watched the two with a 
 pathetic sense of impotence as they went and came, 
 tliinking, oh, if she could but make him what Hugh 
 Ochterlony was; and yet the Major had been far, very 
 far from perfect, as the readers of this history are 
 aware. When Captain Percival went away, the ladies 
 were still in the garden; for it was necessary that the 
 young man should go home to the Hall to join Sir 
 Edward at dinner, and tell his story, Winnie, a
 
 MADONNA MARY. 221 
 
 cliaugetl creature, stood at the gardcu-gate, leaning 
 upon the low wall, and watched him till he was out of 
 sight; and her aunt and her sister looked at her, each 
 with a certain pathos in her face. They were both 
 women of experience in their different ways, and there 
 could not but be something pathetic to them in the 
 sight of the young creature at the height of her happi- 
 ness, all-confident and fearing no evil. It came as 
 natural to them to think of the shadows that musi^ 
 even under the happiest conditions, come over that first 
 incredible brightness, as it was to her to feel that 
 every harm and fear was over, and that now notliing 
 could touch or injure her more. Winnie turned sharp 
 round when her lover disappeared, and caught Mary's 
 eye, and its wistful expression, and blazed up at once 
 into momentary indignation, which, however, was 
 softened by the contempt of youth for all judgment 
 other than its own, and by the kindly influence of her 
 great happiness. She turned round upon her sister, 
 sudden and sharp as some winged creature, and set her 
 all at once on her defence. 
 
 "You do not like him," she said, "but you need 
 not say anything, Mary. It does not matter what you 
 say. You had your day, and would not put up with 
 any interference — and I know him a hundred — a 
 thousand times better than you can do; and it is my 
 day now." 
 
 "Yes," said Mary. "I did not mean to say any- 
 thing. I do not like him, and I think I have reason; 
 but Winnie, dear, I would give anything in the world 
 to believe that you know best now." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know best," said Wiimio, with a soft 
 laugli; "and you will soon find out what mistakes
 
 222 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 people make wLo pretend to know — for I am sure he 
 thinks there could be something said, on the other side, 
 about you." 
 
 "About me," said Mary - — and though she did not 
 show it, but stood before her sister like a stately tower 
 firm on its foundation, she was aware of a thrill of 
 nervous trembling that ran through her limbs, and 
 took the strength out of them. "What did he say 
 about me?" 
 
 "He seemed to think there was something that 
 might be said," said Winnie, lightly. "He was afraid 
 of you. He said you knew that he knew all about 
 yoti; see what foolish ideas people take up! and I 
 said," Winnie went on, drawing herself up tall and 
 straight by her stately sister's side, with that superb 
 assumption of dignity which is fair to see at her age, 
 "that there never could be anything about you that he 
 and all the world might not know!" 
 
 Mary put out her hand, looking stately and firm as 
 she did so — but in truth it was done half groping 
 out of a sudden mist that had come up about her. 
 "Thank you, Winnie," she said, with a smile that had 
 anguish in it; and Winnie with a sudden tender im- 
 pulse out of her own happiness, feeling for the first 
 time the contrast, looked at Mary's black dress beside 
 her own light one, and at Mary's hair as bright as her 
 own, which was put away beneath that cap which she 
 had so often mocked at, and threw her arms round her 
 sister .with a sudden thrill of compassion and tenderness 
 unlike anything she had ever felt before. 
 
 "Oh, Mary, dear!" she cried, "does it seem heart- 
 less to be so happy and yet to know that you " 
 
 "No," said Mary, steadily — taking the girl, who
 
 MADONNA MAUY. 223 
 
 was as passionate iu ber repentance as in her rebellion, 
 to ber own bosom. "No, Winnie; no, my darling — 
 I am not sucb a poor soul as tbat. I bave bad my 
 c^ay." 
 
 And it was tbiis tbat tbe cloud rolled off, or seemed 
 to roll off, and tbat even in the midst of tbat sharp 
 reminder of tbe pain which life might still have in 
 store for ber, the touch of nature came to heal and 
 lielp. The enemy who knew all about it might have 
 come in bringing with him sickening suggestions of 
 horrible barm and mischief; but anything be could do 
 would be in vain here, where everybody knew more 
 about ber still; and to bave gained as she thought ber 
 little sister's heart, was a wonderful solace and con- 
 solation. Thus Mary's faith was revived again at tbe 
 moment when it was most sorely shaken, and she began 
 to feel, with a grateful sense of peace and security, tbe 
 comfort of being, as Aunt Agatha said, among her 
 own friends. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The announcement of Winnie's engagement made, 
 as was to be looked for, a considerable commotion 
 among all the people connected with ber. Tbe very 
 next morning Sir Edward himself came down to the 
 Cottage with a very serious face. He had been dis- 
 posed to play with tbe budding affection and to take 
 pleasure in tbe sight of the two young creatures as 
 they drew towards each other; for Percival, though in 
 love, was not without prudence (bis friend thought), 
 and Winnie, though very open to impressions, was ca-
 
 224 MADONNA MARV. 
 
 piicious and fanciful, and not the kind of girl, Sir Ed- 
 ward imagined, to say Yes to the first man who asked 
 her. Thus tlie only sensible adviser on the spot had 
 wilfully blinded himself It had not occurred to him 
 that Winnie might think of Percival , not as the first 
 man who had ever asked her, but as the only man 
 whom she loved; nor that Percival, though prudent 
 enough, liked his own way, and was as liable to bo 
 carried away by passion as a better man. These re- 
 flections had not come into Sir Edward's head, and con- 
 sequently he had rather encouraged the growing tender- 
 ness, which now all at once had turned into earnest, 
 and had become a matter of responsibility and serious 
 concern. Sir Edward came into Miss Seton's pretty 
 drawing-room with care on his brow. The young- 
 people had gone out together to Kirtell-side to visit the 
 spot of their momentous interview, and doubtless to go 
 over it all again, as people do at that foolish moment, 
 and only Aunt Agatha and Mrs. Ochterlony were at 
 home. Sir Edward went in, and sat down between 
 the two ladies, and offered his salutations with a pen- 
 sive gravity which made Mary smile, but brought a 
 cloud of disquietude over Aunt Agatha's gentle coun- 
 tenance. He sighed as he said it was a fine day. He 
 even looked sympathetically at the roses, as if he knew 
 of some evil that was about to befall them; — and his 
 old neighbour knew his ways and knew that he meant 
 something, and with natural consciousness divined at 
 once what it was. 
 
 "You have heard what has happened," said Aunt 
 Agatha, trembling a little, and laying down her work. 
 "It is so kind of you to come over at once; but I do 
 hope that is not why you are looking so grave?"
 
 MADONNA MARY. 225 
 
 "Am I looking- grave?" said Sir Edward, clearing 
 np in an elaborate way, "I did not mean it, I am sure. 
 I suppose we ought to have seen it coming and been 
 prepared; but these sort of things always take one by 
 surprise. I did not think Winnie was the girl to — to 
 make up her mind all at once , you know — the 
 very first man that asked her. I suppose it was my 
 mistake." 
 
 "If you think it was the very first that asked her!" 
 cried Aunt Agatha, who felt this reproach go to her 
 heart, "it is a mistake. She is only eighteen — a mere 
 child — but I was saying to Mary only yesterday, that 
 it was not for want of being admired " 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Sir Edward, with a little wave of 
 his hand, "we all know she has been admired. One's 
 eyes alone would have proved that; and she deserves 
 to be admired ; and that is generally a girl's chief 
 stronghold, in my opinion. She knows it, and learns 
 her own value, and does not yield to the first fellow 
 who has the boldness to say right out " 
 
 "I assure you, Sir Edward," said Aunt Agatha, 
 growing red and very erect in her chair, and assuming 
 a steadiness which was unfortunately quite contradicted 
 by the passionate quiver of her lip, "tliat you do 
 "Winnie great injustice — so far as being the first 
 goes " 
 
 "What does it matter if he were the first or the 
 fiftieth, if she likes him?" said Mary, who had begun 
 by being much amused, but who had ended by being 
 a little indignant; for she had herself married at eighteen 
 and never had a lover b\it Hugh Ochterlony, and felt 
 liorself disapproved of along with her sister. 
 
 Upon which Sir Edward shook his head. 
 
 Mmluiiwt Mary. I. l-J
 
 226 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "Certainly, my dear Mary, if she likes him," said 
 the Baronet; "but the discouraging thing is, that an 
 inexperienced girl — a girl so very well brought up as 
 Winnie has been — should allow herself, as I have 
 said, to like the very first man who presents himself. 
 One would have thought some sort of introduction was 
 necessary before such a thought could have penetrated 
 into her mind. After she had been obliged to receive 
 it in that way — then, indeed — — But I am aware 
 that there are people who have not my scruples," said 
 Sir Edward, with a sigh; for he was, as all the neigh- 
 bourhood was aware , a man of the most delicate 
 mind. 
 
 "If you think my dear, pure-minded child is not 
 scrupulous. Sir Edward!" cried poor Aunt Agatha — 
 but her emotion was so great that her voice failed her; 
 and Mary, half amused and half angry, was the only 
 champion left for Winnie's character, thus unexpectedly 
 assailed. 
 
 "Poor child, I think she is getting very hard 
 measure," said Mary. "I don't mean to blame you, 
 but I think both of you encouraged her up to the last 
 moment. You let them be always together, and smiled 
 on them; and they are young, and what else could you 
 expect? It is more delicate to love than to flirt," said 
 Mrs. Ochterlony. She had not been nearly so well 
 brought up as her sister, nor with such advanced 
 views, and what she said brought a passing blush upon 
 her matron cheek. Winnie could have discussed all 
 about love without the shadow of a blush, but that was 
 only the result of the chronological difference, and had 
 nothing to do Avith purity of heart. 
 
 "If we have had undue confidence," said Sir Ed-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 227 
 
 ward, with a sigli, "we will Lave to pay for it. Mary- 
 speaks — as I have heard many women speak — with- 
 out making any consideration of the shock it must be 
 to a delicate young girl; and I think, after the share 
 which I may say I have myself had in Winnie's educa- 
 tion, that I might be permitted to express my surprise; 
 and Percival ought to have shown a greater regard for 
 the sacredness of hospitality. I cannot but say that I 
 was very much vexed and siirprised." 
 
 It may Av^ell be supposed that such an address, after 
 poor Aunt Agatha's delight and exultation in her child's 
 joy, and her willingness to see with Winnie's eyes and 
 accept Winnie's lover on his own authority, was a most 
 confounding utterance. She sat silent, poor lady, with 
 her lips apart and her eyes wide open, and a kind of 
 feeling that it was all over with Winnie in her heart. 
 Aunt Agatha was ready to fight her darling's battles 
 to her last gasp, but she was not prepared to be put 
 down and made an end of in this summary way. She 
 had all sorts of pretty lady-like deprecations about their 
 youth and Winnie's inexjierience ready in her mind, 
 and had rather hoped to be assured that to have her 
 favourite thus early settled in life was the very best 
 that anybody would desire for her. Miss Setou had 
 been so glad to think in former days that Sir Edward 
 always understood her, and she had thought Winnie's 
 interests were as dear to him as if she had been a child 
 of his own; and now to think that Sir Edward regarded 
 an event so important for Winnie as an evidence of 
 indelicacy on her part, and of a kind of treachery on 
 her lover's! All that Aunt Agatha could do was to 
 throw an appealing look at Mary, who had hitherto 
 been the only one dissatisfied or disapproving. She 
 
 15*
 
 228 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 knew more about Captain Percival than any one. 
 Would not she say a word for them now'r* 
 
 "He must have thought that was what you meant 
 when you let them be so much together," said Mary. 
 "I think, if you will forgive me, Sir Edward, that it 
 is not their fault." 
 
 Sir Edward answered this reproach only by a sigh. 
 He was in a despondent rather than a combative state 
 of mind. "And you see I do not know so much as I 
 should like to know about him," he said, evading the 
 personal question. "He is a very nice fellow; but I 
 told you the other day I did not consider him a paladin ; 
 and whether he has enough to live upon, or anything 
 to settle on her — My dear Mary, at least you will 
 agree with me, that considering how short a time they 
 have known each other, things have gone a great deal 
 too far." 
 
 "I do not know how long they have known each 
 other," said Mary, who now felt herself called upon ab- 
 solutely to take Aunt Agatha's part. 
 
 "Ah, / know," said Sir Edward, "and so does your 
 aunt; and things did not go at rail-road speed like this 
 in our days. It is only about six weeks, and they are 
 engaged to be married! I suppose you know as much 
 about him as anybody — or so he gave me to under- 
 stand at least; and do yoii think him a good match for 
 your young sister?" added Sir Edward, Avith a tone of 
 superior virtue which went to Mary's heart. 
 
 Mary was too true a woman not to be a par- 
 tisan, and had the feminine gift of putting her own 
 private sentiments out of the question in comparison 
 with the cause which she had to advocate; but still it 
 was an embarrassing question, especially as Aimt Agatha
 
 MADONNA MARY. 229 
 
 was looking" at her witli the most pathetic appeal iu her 
 eyes. 
 
 "I know very little of Captain Percival," she said; 
 "I saw him once only in India, and it was at a mo- 
 ment very painful to me. But Winnie likes him — 
 and you must have approved of him, Sir Edward, or 
 you would not have brought him here." 
 
 Upon which Aunt Agatha rose and kissed Mary, 
 recognising perfectly that she did not commit herself on 
 (he merits of the case, but at the same time sustained 
 it by her support. Sir Edward, for his part, turned a 
 deaf ear to the implied reproach, but still kept up his 
 melancholy view of the matter, and shook his head. 
 
 "He has good connexions," he said; "his mother 
 was a great friend of mine. In other circumstances, 
 and could we have made up our minds to it at the 
 
 ])roper moment, she might have been Lady . But 
 
 it is vain to talk of that. I think we might push him 
 a little if he would devote himself steadily to his pro- 
 fession; but what can be expected from a man who 
 wants to marry at five-and-twenty? I myself," said Sir 
 lOdward, with dignity, "though the eldest son — " 
 
 "Yes," said Aunt Agatha, unable to restrain herself 
 longer, "and see what has come of it. You are all by 
 yourself at the Hall, and not a soul belonging to 
 you; and to see Francis Ochterlony with his statues 
 and nonsense! — Oh, Sir Edward! when you might 
 have had a dozen lovely children growing up round 
 
 you — " 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" said Sir Edward, piously; and 
 then he sighed — perhaps only from the mild mel- 
 ancholy which possessed him at the moment, and was 
 occasioned by Winnie's indelicate haste to fall in love;
 
 230 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 perhaps, also, from some toucb of personal feeling. A 
 dozen lovely children might be rather too heavy an 
 amount of happiness , while yet a modified bliss would 
 have been sweet. He sighed and leant his head upon 
 his hand, and withdrew into himself for the moment in 
 that interesting way Avhich was habitual to him, and 
 had gained him the title of "poor Sir Edward." It 
 might be very foolish for a man (who had his own way 
 to make in the world) to marry at five-and-twenty; but 
 still, perhaps it was rather more foolish when a man 
 did not marry at all, and was left in his old age all 
 alone in a great vacant house. But naturally, it was 
 not this view of the matter which he displayed to his 
 feminine companions, who were both women enough to 
 have triumphed a little over such a confession of failure. 
 He had a fine head, though he was old, and his hand 
 was as delicate and almost as pale as ivory, and he 
 could not but know that he looked interesting in that 
 particular attitude, though, no doubt, it was his soli- 
 citude for these two indiscreet young people which 
 chiefly moved him. "I am quite at a loss what to do," 
 he said. "Mrs. Percival is a very fond mother, and 
 she will naturally look to me for an account of all tliis; 
 and there is your Uncle Penrose, Mary — a man I 
 could never bear, as you all know — he will come in 
 all haste, of course, and insist upon settlements and so 
 forth; and why all this responsibility should come on 
 me, who have no desire in this world but for tranquillity 
 and peace — " 
 
 "It need not come on you," said Mrs. Ochterlony; 
 "we are not very great biasiness people, but still, with 
 Aunt Agatha and myself — ■" 
 
 Sir Edward smiled. The idea diverted him so much
 
 JFADONNA MARY. 231 
 
 that he raised his head from his hand. "My dear 
 Mar}'," he said, "I have the very highest opinion of 
 your capacity; but in a matter of this kind, for in- 
 stance — And I am not so utterly selfish as to forsake 
 my old neighbour in distress." 
 
 Here Aunt Agatha took up her own defence. "I 
 don't consider that I am in distress," she said. "I must 
 say, I did not expect anything like this. Sir Edward, 
 from you. If it had been Mr. Penrose, with his mer- 
 cenary ideas — I was very fond of Mary's poor dear 
 mamma, and I don't mean any reflection on her, poor 
 darling — but I suppose that is how it always happens 
 with people in trade. Mr. Penrose is always a trial, 
 and Mary knows that; but I hope I am able to bear 
 something for my dear child's sake," Aunt Agatha con- 
 tinued, growing a little excited; "though I never 
 thought that I should have to bear — " and then the 
 poor lady gave a stifled sob, and added in the midst of 
 it, "this from you!" 
 
 This was a kind of climax which had arrived be- 
 fore in the familiar friendship so long existing betAveen 
 the Hall and the Cottage. The two principals knew 
 how to make it up better than the spectator did who 
 was looking on with a little alarm and a little amuse- 
 ment. Perhaps it was as well that Mary was called 
 away to her o^vn individiaal concerns, and had to leave 
 Aunt Agatha and Sir Edward in the height of their 
 misunderstanding. Maiy went away to her children, 
 and perhaps it was only in the ordinary course of 
 human nature that when she went into the nursery 
 among those three little human creatures, who were so 
 entirely dependent upon herself, there should be a 
 smile upon her face as she thought of the two old
 
 232 JIADONNA MARY, 
 
 people she had left. It seemed to her, as perhaps it 
 seems to most women in the presence of their own 
 children, at sight of those three boys — who were 
 "mere babies" to Aunt Agatha, but to Mary the most 
 important existences in the world — as if this serio- 
 comic dispute about Winnie's love affairs was the most 
 quaintly-ridiculous exhibition. When she was con- 
 scious of this thought in her own mind, she rebuked it, 
 of course; but at the first glance it seemed as if Winnie's 
 falling in love was so trivial a matter — so little to be 
 put in comparison with the grave cares of life. There 
 are moments when the elder women, who have long 
 passed tlirough all that, and have entered upon another 
 stage of existence, cannot but smile at the love-matters, 
 without considering that life itself is often decided by 
 the complexion of the early romance, which seems to 
 belong only to its lighter and less serious side. Sir 
 Edward and Aunt Agatha for their part had never, 
 old as they both were, got beyond the first stage — 
 and it was natural it should bulk larger in their eyes. 
 And this time it was they who were right, and not 
 Mary, whose children were but children, and in no 
 danger of any harm. Whereas, poor Winnie, at the 
 top of happiness — gay, reckless, daring, and assured 
 of her own future felicity — was in reality a creature 
 in deadly peril and wavering on the verge of her 
 fate. 
 
 But when the day had come to an end, and Cap- 
 tain Percival had at last retired, and Winnie, a little 
 languid after her lover's departure, sat by the open 
 window watching, no longer with despite or displeasure, 
 the star of light which shone over the tree-tops from 
 the Hall, there occurred a scene of a different descrip-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 233 
 
 tion. But foi* die entire change In Winnie's looks and 
 manner, the absence of the embroidery frame at which 
 she had worked so violently, and the languid softened 
 grace with which she had thrown herself down upon a 
 low chair, too happy and content to feel called upon 
 to do anything, the three ladies were just as they had 
 been a few evenings before; that is to say, that Aunt 
 Agatha and Mary, to neither of whom any change was 
 possible, were just as they had been before, while to 
 the girl at the window, everything in heaven and earth 
 had changed. The two others had had their day and 
 were done Avith it. Though Miss Seton was still 
 scarcely an old woman, and Mary was in the full 
 vigour and beauty of life, they were both ashore high 
 up upon the beach, beyond the range of the highest 
 tide; while the other, in her boat of hope, was playing 
 with the rippling incoming waters, and preparing to 
 put to sea. It was not in nature that the two who had 
 been at sea, and knew all the storms and dangers, 
 should not look at her wistfully in her happy ignorance, 
 perhaps even they looked at her with a certain envy 
 too. But Aunt Agatha was not a woman who could 
 let eitlier well or ill alone — and it was she who dis- 
 turbed the household calm which might have been pro- 
 found that night, so far as "Winnie was concerned. 
 
 "My dear love," said Aunt Agatha, with a timidity 
 which implied something to tell, " Sir Edward has been 
 here. Captain Percival had told him, you know — " 
 "Yes," said "Winnie, carelessly, "I know." 
 "And, my darling," said Miss Seton, "I am sure 
 it is what I never could have expected from him, who 
 was always such a friend; but I sometimes think he 
 gets a little strange — as he gets old, you know — "
 
 234 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 This was what the unprincipled woman said, not 
 caring in the least how much she slandered Sir Edward, 
 or anybody else in the world, so long as she gave a 
 little comfort to the child of her heart. And as for 
 Winnie, though she had been brought up at his feet, 
 as it were, and was supposed by himself and others to 
 love him like a child of his own, she took no notice of 
 this unfounded accusation. She was thinking of quite 
 a different person, just as Aunt Agatha was thinking 
 of her, and Mary of her boys. They were women, 
 each preoccupied and absorbed in somebody else, and 
 they did not care about justice. And thus Sir Edward 
 for the moment fared badly among them , though , if 
 any outside assailant had attacked him, they would all 
 have fought for him to the death. 
 
 "Well!" said Winnie, still very carelessly, as Miss 
 Seton came to a sudden stop. 
 
 "My dear love!" said Aunt Agatha, "he has not a 
 word to say against Captain Percival, that I can 
 see — " 
 
 "Against Edward?" cried Winnie, raising herself 
 up. "Good gracious, Aunt Agatha, what are you 
 thinking of? Against Edward! I should like to know 
 what he could say. His own god-father — and his 
 mother was once engaged to him — and he is as good 
 as a relation, and the nearest friend he has. What 
 could he possibly have to say? And besides, it was 
 he who brought him here; and we think he will leave 
 us the most of his money," Winnie said, hastily — and 
 then was very sorry for what she had said, and blushed 
 scarlet and bit her lips, but it was too late to draw 
 back. 
 
 "Winnie," said Miss Seton, solemnly. "If he has
 
 MADONNA MARY. 235 
 
 been calculating upon what people will leave to him 
 when they die, I will think it is all true that Sir Ed- 
 ward said." 
 
 "You said Sir Edward did not say anything," cried 
 Winnie. "What is it you have heard? It is of no 
 use trying to deceive me. If there has been anything 
 said against him, it is Mary who had said it. I can 
 see by her face it is Mary. And if she is to be heard 
 against /i/w«," cried AVinnie, rising up in a blaze of 
 wrath and indignation, "it is only just that he should 
 be heard on the other side. He is too good and too 
 kind to say things about my sister to me; but Mary is 
 only a woman, and of course she does not mind what 
 she says. She can blacken a man behind his back, 
 though he is ftir too honourable and too — too delicate 
 to say what he knows of her!'" 
 
 This unlocked for assault took Mary so entirely by 
 surprise, that she looked up with a certain bewilder- 
 ment, and could not lind a word to say. As for Aunt 
 Agatha, she too rose and took Winnie's hands, arid 
 put her arms round her as much as the angiy girl 
 would permit. 
 
 "It was not Mary," she said. "Oh, Winnie, my 
 darling, if it was for your good, and an ease to my 
 mind, and better for you in life — if it was for your 
 good, my dear love — that is what we are all think- 
 ing of — could not you give him up?" 
 
 It was, perhaps, the boldest thing Aunt Agatha 
 had ever done in all her gentle life — and even Win- 
 nie could not but be influenced by such unusual reso- 
 lution. She made a wild effort to escape for the first 
 moment, and stood with her hands held fast in Aunt 
 Agatha's hands, avcrtiug her angry face, and refusing
 
 236 MADONNA MAllY. 
 
 to answer. But when she felt herself still held fast, 
 and that her fond guardian had the courage to hold to 
 her question, Winnie's anger turned into another kind 
 of passion. The tears came pouring to her eyes in a 
 sudden violent flood, which she neither tried to stop 
 nor to hide. "No!" cried Winnie, Avith the big thunder- 
 drops falling hot and heavy. "What is my good with- 
 out him? If it was for my harm I shouldn't care. 
 Don't hold me, don't look at me, Aunt Agatha! I 
 don't care for anything in the world but Edward. I 
 would not give him up — no, not if it was to break 
 everybody's heart. What is it all to me without Ed- 
 ward?" cried the passionate girl. And when Miss 
 Seton let her go, she threw herself on her chair again, 
 with the tears coming in floods, but still facing them 
 both throiigh this storm-shower with crimson cheeks 
 and shining eyes. As for poor Aunt Agatha, she too 
 tottered back to her chair, frightened and abashed, as 
 well as in distress; for young ladies had not been in 
 the habit of talking so freely in her days. 
 
 "Oh, Winnie — and we have loved you all your 
 life; and you have only known him a few weeks," she 
 said, faltering, and with a natural groan. 
 
 "I cannot help it," said Winnie; "you may think 
 me a wretch, but I like him best. Isn't it natural I 
 should like him best? Mary did, and ran away, 
 and nobody was shocked at her; and even you your- 
 self " 
 
 "I never, never, could have said such a thing all 
 my life!" cried Aunt Agatha, with a maiden blush 
 upon her sweet old cheeks. 
 
 "If you had, you would not have been a as 
 
 you are now," said the dauntless Winnie; and she re-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 237 
 
 covered in the twinkling of an eye, and wiped away 
 her tears, and was lierself again. Possibly what she 
 had said was trne and natural, as she asserted; bnt it 
 is an xinqnestionable fact, that neither her annt nor 
 her sister could have said it for their lives. She was 
 a young lady of the nineteenth century, and she acted 
 accordingly; but it is a certain fact, as Aunt Agatha 
 justly observed, whatever people may think now, that 
 girls did not speak like that in oiw day. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 The few weeks which ensued were the most stormy 
 and troublous period of all Miss Seton's life; and through 
 her there was naturally a considerable disturbance of 
 the peace of the Cottage. Though she lived so quietly, 
 she had what is called in the country "a large circle," 
 and had dwelt among her own people all her life, {ind 
 was known to everybody about. It was a quiet neigh- 
 bourhood, but yet there never was a neighbourhood so 
 quiet as not to have correspondents and relations living 
 out in the world, to whom all news went, and from 
 whom all news came. And there were a number of 
 "families" about Kirtell, not great people certainly, 
 but very respectable people, gentry, and well-connected 
 persons hanging on by various links to the great world. 
 In this way Winnie's engagement, which nobody wanted 
 to conceal, came to be known far and wide, as such 
 facts are so apt to get known. And a great many 
 people out in the world, who had once known Miss 
 Seton, wrote letters to her, in which they suggested 
 that perhaps she had forgotten them, but hoped that
 
 238 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 she would excixse tliem, and attribute it to the regard 
 which they had never ceased to feel for her, if they 
 asked, Did she know Captain Percival very well, who 
 was said to be engaged to her pretty niece? Had she 
 heard what happened in the Isle of Man when his 
 regiment was stationed there? and why it was that he 
 did not go out to Gibraltar after he had got that ap- 
 pointment? Other people, who did not know Aunt 
 Agatha, took what was after all the more disagreeable 
 step of writing to their friends in the jjarish about the 
 young man, whose career had certainly left traces, as 
 it appeared, upon the memory of his generation. To 
 rise every morning with a sense, that such an epistle 
 might be awaiting her on the breakfast-table — or to 
 receive a visitor with the horrible conviction that she 
 had come to look into her face, and hold her hand, 
 and be confidential and sympathetic, and deliver a 
 solemn warning — was an oi'deal which Aunt Agatha 
 found it hard to bear. She was a woman who never 
 forgot her character as a maiden lady, and liked to be 
 justified by precedents and to be approved of by all 
 the world. And these repeated remonstrances had no 
 doubt a great effect upon her mind. They filled her 
 with terrible misgivings and embittered her life, and 
 drove her noAV and then into so gTeat a panic that she 
 felt disposed to thrust Captain Percival out of the house 
 and forbid his reappearance there. But then, Winnie. 
 Winnie was not the girl to submit to any such violent 
 remedies. If she could not see her lover there, she 
 would find means to see him somewhere else. If she 
 could not be married to him with stately propriety in 
 her parish church, she Avould manage to marry him 
 somehow in any irregular way, and she would by no
 
 MADONNA MARY. 239 
 
 means hesitate to say so or shrink from the respon- 
 sibility. And if it must be done, would it not be bet- 
 ter that it should be done correctly, than incorrectly, 
 and with all things decent and in order? Thus poor 
 Aunt Agatha would muse as she gathered up her 
 bundle of letters. It might have been all very well 
 for parents to exercise their authority in the days when 
 their children obeyed them-, but what was the use of 
 issuing commands to which nobody would pay any 
 attention? AVinnic had very plainly expressed her 
 preference for her own happiness rather than her aunt's 
 peace of mind; and though J\Iiss Seton would never 
 have consented to admit that Winnie was anything less 
 than the most beautiful character, still she was aware 
 that unreasoning obedience was not her faculty. Besides, 
 another sentiment began to mingle with this prudential 
 consideration. Everybody was against the poor young 
 man. The first letters she received about him made 
 her miserable; but after that there was no doubt a 
 revulsion. Everybody was against him, poor fel- 
 low! — and he was so young, and could not, after 
 all, have done so much harm in the world. "He 
 has not had the time, Mary," she said, with an appeal 
 to Mrs. Ochterlony for support. "If he had been doing- 
 wrong from his very cradle, he could not have had the 
 time." She could not refuse to believe what was told 
 her, and yet notwithstanding her belief she clung to 
 the culprit. If he had found any other advocate it 
 might have been different; but nobody took the other 
 side of the question: nobody wrote a pretty letter to 
 say what a dear fellow he was, and how glad his 
 friends were to think he had found some one worthy
 
 240 MADONNA MAllY. 
 
 of him — not even bis mother 5 and Aunt Agatha's 
 lieart accordingly became the avvocato del diavolo. Fair 
 play was due even to Captain Percival. It was im- 
 possible to leave him assailed as be was by so many 
 without one friend. 
 
 It was a curious sight to see how she at once re- 
 ceived and ignored all the information thus conveyed 
 to her. A woman of a harder type would probably, 
 as women do, have imputed motives, and settled the 
 matter with the general conclusion that "an enemy 
 hath done this;" but Aunt Agatha could not help, for 
 the moment at least, believing in everybody. She 
 could not say right out, "It is not true," even to the 
 veriest impostor who deceived and got money from her, 
 and their name was legion. In her own innocent soul 
 she had no belief in lies, and could not understand 
 them ; and it was easier for her to give credence to the 
 wildest marvel than to believe that anybody could tell 
 her a deliberate falsehood. She would have kissed the 
 ladies who wrote to her of those stories about Captain 
 J^ercival, and cried and wrung her hands, and asked, 
 What could she do? — and yet her heart was by no 
 means turned against him, notwithstanding her belief 
 in what everybody said; which is a strange and novel 
 instance, well enough known to social philosophers, 
 but seldom remarked upon, of the small practical in- 
 fluence of belief upon life. "How can it be a lie, my 
 dear child? what motive could they all have to tell 
 lies?" she would say to Winnie, mournfully; and yet 
 ten minutes after, when it was Mrs. Ochterlony she 
 was speaking to, she would make her piteous appeal 
 for him, poor fellow! — "Everybody is against him;
 
 MADONNA MARV. 241 
 
 and lie is so youug still; and ob, IMaiy, liow miicli he 
 must need looking after," Aunt Agatha would say, "if 
 it is all true!" 
 
 Perhaps it was stranger still that Mary, who did 
 not like Caj^tain Percival, and was convinced of the 
 truth of all the stories told of him, and knew in her 
 heart that he was her enemy and would not scruple to 
 do her harm if the chance should come in his way — 
 was also a little moved by the same argument. Every- 
 body was against him. It was the Cottage against the 
 world, so far as he was concerned; and even Mrs. 
 Ochterlony, though she ought to have known better, 
 could not help feeling herself one of a "side," and to a 
 certain extent felt her honour pledged to the defence 
 of her sister's lover. Had she, in the very heart of this 
 stronghold which was standing out for him so stoutly, 
 lifted up a testimony against him, she would have felt 
 herself in some respects a domestic traitor. She might 
 be silent on the subject, and avoid all comment, but 
 she could not utter an adverse opinion, or join in with 
 tlie g(>neral voice against which Aunt Agatha and 
 Winnie stood forth so steadfastly. As for Winnie, every 
 word that was said to his detriment made her more 
 determined to adhere to him. What did it matter 
 whether he was good or bad, so long as it was indis- 
 putably he? There was but one Edward Percival in 
 the world, and he would still be Edward Percival if 
 he had committed a dozen murders, or gambled twenty 
 fortunes away. Such was Winnie's defiant way of 
 treating the matter which concerned her more closely 
 than anybody else. She carried things with a high 
 hand in those days. All the world was against her, 
 and she scorned the world. She attributed motives, 
 
 Madonna Mary. I. lo
 
 .MADONNA MARY. 
 
 tliougli Aunt Agatha did not. She said it was envy 
 and jealousy and all the evil passions. She made wild 
 counter-acciisations, in the style of that literature which 
 sets forth the skeleton in every man's closet. Who 
 could tell what little incidents could be found out in 
 the private history of the ladies who had so much to 
 say about Captain Percival? This is so ordinary a 
 mode of defence, that no doubt it is natural, and 
 Winnie went into it with good will. Thus his standard 
 was planted upon tlie Cottage, and however unkindly 
 people might think of him outside, shelter and su}>port 
 were always to be found within. Even Peggy, though 
 she did not always agree with her mistress, felt, as 
 Mrs. Ochterlony did, that she was one of a side, and 
 became a partisan with an earnestness that was impos- 
 sible to Mary. Sir Edward shook his head still, but 
 he was disarmed by the close phalanx and the deter- 
 mined aspect of PercivaFs defenders. "It is true love," 
 he said in his sentimental way; "and love can work 
 miracles when e-A'^erything else has failed. It may be 
 his salvation." This was Avhat he wrote to Percival's 
 mother, who, up to this moment, had been but doubt- 
 ful in her approbation, and very anxious, and uncer- 
 tain, as she said, whether she ought not to tell Miss 
 Seton that Edward had been "foolish." He had been 
 "foolish," even in his mother's opinion; and his other 
 critics were, some of them, so tolerant as to say "gay," 
 and some "wild," while a few used a more solemn 
 style of diction; — but everybody was against him, 
 whatever terms they might employ; everybody except 
 the ladies at the Cottage, who set up his standard, and 
 accepted him with all his initjuities upon his head. 
 It may be worth while at this point, before Mr.
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 243 
 
 Penrose arrives, who played so important a part in tlie 
 business, to say a word about the poor yonng man who 
 was thus universally assailed. He was five-and-twenty 
 and a yonng man <jf expectations. Though he had 
 spent every ftirthing which came to himself at his 
 majority, and a good deal more than that, still his 
 mother had a nice estate, and Sir Edward was his god- 
 father, and the world was full of obliging tradespeople 
 and other amiable persons. He was a handsome fel- 
 low, nearly six feet high, with j)lenty of hair, and a 
 moustache of the most charming growth. The hair 
 was of dull brown, which was rather a disadvantage to 
 him, but then it went perfectly well with his pale com- 
 plexion, and suited the cloudy look over the eyes, 
 which was the most characteristic point in his face. 
 The eyes themselves were good, and had, when they 
 chose, a sufficiently frank expression, but there lay 
 about the eyebrows a number of lurking hidden linos 
 Avliich looked like mischief — lines which could be 
 brought into action at any moment, and could scowl, 
 or lower, or brood, according to the fancy of their 
 owner. Some people thought this \incertainty in his 
 face was its greatest charm-, you could nOAer tell whrt 
 a moment might bring forth from that moveable aid 
 changing forehead. It was suggestive, as a great man}' 
 persons thought — suggestive of storm and thunder, 
 and sudden disturbance, or even in some eyes of 
 cruelty and gloom — though ho was a fine young 
 man, and gay and fond of his pleasure. Winnie, as 
 may be supposed, was not of this latter opinion. She 
 even loved to bring out those hidden lines, and call the 
 shadows over his face, for the pleasure of seeing hov/ 
 they melted away again, according to the use and wont
 
 244 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 of young ladles. It was a sort of uncertainty that was 
 permissible to him, who had been a spoiled child, and 
 whom everybody, at the beginning of his career, had 
 petted and taken notice of; but possibly it was a qua- 
 lity which would not have called forth much admira- 
 tion from a wife. 
 
 And with Winnie standing by him as she did — 
 clinging to him closer at every new accusation, and 
 proclaiming, without faltering, her indiflFerence to any- 
 thing tliat could be said, and her conviction that the 
 worse he was the more need he had of her — Captain 
 Percival, too, took matters very lightly. The two 
 foolish young creatures even came to laugh, and make 
 fun of it in their way. "Here is Aunt Agatha coming 
 with another letter; I wonder if it is to say that I poi- 
 soned my grandmother, this time?" cried the young 
 man; and they both laughed as if it was the best joke 
 in the world. If ever there was a moment in which, 
 when they were alone, Winnie did take a momentary 
 thought of the seriousness of the position, her gravity 
 soon dissipated itself. "I know yovi have been very 
 naughty," she would say, clasping her pretty hands 
 upon his arm; "but you will never, never do it again," 
 and the lover, thus appealed to, would make the ten- 
 derest and most eager assurances. What temptation 
 could he ever have to be "naughty" with such an 
 angel by his side? And Winnie was pleased enough 
 to play the part of the angel — though that was not, 
 perhaps, her most characteristic development — and 
 went home full of happiness and security; despising the 
 world which never had understood Edward, and think- 
 ing with triumph of the disappointed women less happy 
 than herself, who, out of revenge, had no doubt got up
 
 MADONNA MARY. 245 
 
 this outcry against him. "For I don't mean to defend 
 him out and out," she said, her eyes sparkling with 
 malice and exultation; "I don't mean to say that he 
 has not hehaved very badly to a great many people:" 
 and there was a certain sweet self-glorification in the 
 thought which intoxicated Winnie. It was wicked, but 
 somehow she liked him better for having behaved badly 
 to a great many people: and naturally any kind of 
 reasoning was entirely ineffectual with a foolish girl 
 who had taken such an idea into her mind. 
 
 Thus things went on; and Percival went away and 
 returned again, and paid many flying visits, and, pre- 
 sent and absent, absorbed all Winnie's thoughts. It was 
 not only a first love, but it was a first occupation to 
 the young woman, who had never felt, up to this time, 
 that she had a sufficient sphere for her energies. Now 
 she could look forward to being married, to receiving 
 all the presents, and being busy about all the busiiiess 
 of that important moment; and beyond lay life — life 
 without any one to restrain her, without even the bon- 
 dage of habit, and the necessity of taking into consi- 
 deration what people would think. Winnie said frankly 
 that she would, go with him anywhere, that she did not 
 mind if it was India, or even the Cape of Good Hope; 
 and her eyes sparkled to think of the everything new 
 which would replace to her all the old bonds and limits: 
 though, in one point of view, this was a cruel satisfac- 
 tion, and very wounding and injurious to some of the 
 other people concerned. 
 
 "Oh, Winnie, my darling! and what am I to do 
 without you?" Aunt Agatha would cry; and the girl 
 would kiss her in her laughing way. "It must have 
 come, sooner or later," she said; "you always said so
 
 246 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 yourself. I dou't see wby you should not get married 
 too, 'Aunt Agatlia; you are perfectly beautiful some- 
 times, and a great deal younger than — many people; 
 or, at least, you will have Mary to be your husband," 
 Winnie would add, with a laugh, and a touch of affec- 
 tionate S]3ite: for the two sisters, it must be allowed, 
 were not to say fond of each other. Mary had been 
 brought up differently, and was often annoyed, and 
 sometimes shocked, by Winnie's ways: and Winnie — 
 though at times she seemed disposed to make friends 
 with her sister — could not help thinking of Mary as 
 somehow at the bottom of all that had been said about 
 Edward. This, indeed, was an idea which her lover 
 and she shared: and Mary's life was not made plea- 
 santer to her by the constant implication that he, too, 
 could tell something about her - — which she despised 
 too much to take any notice of, but which yet was an 
 offence and an insult. So that on the whole — even 
 before the arrival of Mr. Penrose — the Cottage on 
 Kirtell-side, though as bowery and fair as ever, was, in 
 reality, an agitated and even an uncomfortable home. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Mr. Penrose was the uncle of Mary and Winnie, 
 their mother's only brother. Mrs. Seton had come from 
 Liverpool originally, and though herself very "nice," 
 had not been, according to Aunt Agatha's opinion, "of 
 a nice class." And -her brother shared the evil condi- 
 tions, without sharing the good. He was of his class 
 soul and body, and it was not a nice class — and, to
 
 MADONNA MARY. 247 
 
 tell tlie truth, his nieces had been brought up to ignore 
 lather than to take any pleasure in him. lie was not 
 a man out of whom, under the best circumstances, 
 much satisfaction could be got. lie was one of the 
 men who always turn up when something about money 
 is going on in a honso. He had had to do Avith all 
 the wills and settlements in the family, though they 
 were of a very limited description; but Mr. Penrose did 
 not despise small things, and was of opinion, that even 
 if you had only a hundred pounds, you ought to know 
 all about it, and how to take care of it. And he had 
 once been very kind to Aunt Agatha, who was always 
 defective in her arithmetic, and who, in earlier days, 
 wliile she still thought of a possible change in her con- 
 dition, had gone beyond the just limit of her income, 
 and got into difiiculties. Mr. Penrose had interfered 
 at that period, and had been very kind, and set her 
 straight, and had given her a very telling address upon 
 the value of money: and though Miss Seton was not one 
 of the people who take a favour as an injui-y, still she 
 could have forgiven him a great many ill turns sooner 
 than that good one. He had been very kind to her 
 ;ind had ruflled all her soft plumes, and rushed up 
 against her at all her tender points; and the very sound 
 of his name was a lively irritant to Aunt Agatha. 
 But he had to be acquainted with Winnie's engage- 
 ment, and when he received the information, he lost no 
 time in coming to see about it. He was a largo, 
 portly, well-to-do man, with one of his hands always 
 in his pocket, and seemed somehow to breathe money, 
 and to have no ideas which did not centre in it; and 
 yet he had a good many ideas, and was a clever man 
 in his wny. With him, as with many people in the
 
 248 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 world, there was one thing needful, and that one thing 
 was money. He thought it was a duty to possess some- 
 thing — a duty Avhich a man owed absolutely to him- 
 self, and to all who belonged to him — and if he did 
 not acquit himself well on this point, he was, in Mr. 
 Penrose's opinion, a very indifferent sort of person. 
 There is something immoral to most people in the fact 
 of being poor, but to Mr. Penrose it was a crime. He 
 was very well off himself, but he was not a man to 
 communicate of his goods as he did of his advice; and 
 then he had himself a family, and could not be ex- 
 pected to give anything except advice to his nieces — 
 and as for that one good thing, it was at their com- 
 mand in the most liberal way. He came to the Cot- 
 tage, which was so especially a lady's house, and per- 
 vaded the whole place with his large male person, dif- 
 fusing through it that moral fragrance which still 
 betrays the Englishman, the man of business, the 
 Liverpool man, wherever he may happen to bless the 
 earth. Perhaps in that sweet-smelling dainty place, the 
 perfume Avhich breathed from Mr. Penrose told more 
 decidedly than in the common air. As soon as you 
 went in at the garden-gate you became sensible that 
 the atmosphere was changed, and that a Man was 
 there. Perhaps it may be thought that the presence of 
 a man in Aunt Agatha's maiden bower was not what 
 might be called strictly proper, and Miss Seton herself 
 had doubts on the subject; but then, Mr. Penrose never 
 ajked for any invitation, and it would have been very 
 difficult to turn him out; and Mary was there, who at 
 least was a married lady. He came without any invita- 
 tion , and asked which was his room as if it had been 
 his own house — and he complained of what he called
 
 MADONNA MARY. 249 
 
 "the smell" of the roses, and declared he would tear 
 down all the sickly jasmine from the side of the house 
 if it belonged to him. All this Miss Setou endured 
 silently, feeling it her duty, for Winnie's sake, to 
 keep all her connexions in good humour; but the poor 
 lady suffered terribly under the process, as everybody 
 could see. 
 
 "I hope it is only a conditional sort of engagement," 
 Mr. Penrose said, after he had made himself comfort- 
 able, and had had a good dinner, and came into the 
 drawing-room the first evening. The lovers had seized 
 the opportunity to escape to Kirtell-side, and Mary was 
 with her boys in the garden, and poor Aunt Agatha, a 
 martyr of civility, was seated alone, awaiting the re- 
 appearance of her guest, and smiling upon him with 
 anxious politeness. He threw himself into the largest 
 and most solid chair he could find, and spread himself, 
 as it seemed, all over the room — a Man, coarse and 
 undisguised, in that soft feminine paradise. Poor Sir 
 Edward's graceful presence, and the elegant figure of 
 Captain Percival, made no such impression. "I hope 
 you have not settled it all without consulting any- 
 body. To be sure, that don't matter very much; but 
 I know you ladies have a summary way of settling 
 such affairs." 
 
 "Indeed, I — I am afraid — I — I hope — it is 
 all settled," said Aunt Agatha, with tremulous dignity. 
 "It is not as if there was a great deal of money to 
 settle. They are not — not rich, you know," she 
 added, nervously. This was the chief thing to tell, and 
 she was anxious to get it over at once. 
 
 "Not rich?" said Mr. Penrose. "No, I suppose 
 not. A rich fellow would not have been such a fool
 
 250 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 as to entangle liimself with Winnie, avIio lias only her 
 pretty face; but he has something, of course. The first 
 thing to ascertain is, what they will have to live on, 
 and what he can settle upon her. I suppose you have 
 not let it go so far without having a kind of idea on 
 these points?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Aunt Agatha, with a very poor 
 pretence at composure; "oh, yes, Mr. Penrose, that is 
 all quite right. He has very nice expectations. I have 
 always heard that Mrs. Percival had a charming little 
 jiroperty; and Sir Edward is his godfather, and very 
 fond of him. You will see it will come all right about that." 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Penrose, who was nursing one of 
 his legs — a colossal member, nearly as big as his 
 liostess — • in a meditative way, "I hope it will wlien / 
 come to look into it. But Ave must have something 
 more than expectations. What has he of his own? — 
 and what do his mother and Sir Edward mean to do 
 for him? We must have it in pounds, shillings, and 
 pence, or he shan't have Winnie. It is best tliat he 
 should make up his mind about that." 
 
 Aunt Agatha drew a frightened, panting breath; 
 but she did not say anything. She had known what 
 she would have to brave, and she was aware that 
 Winnie would not brave it, and that to prevent a 
 breach with her darling's only rich relation, it was ne- 
 cessary and expedient as long as she was alone to have 
 it all out. 
 
 "Let me see," said Mr. Penrose, "you told me what 
 he was in your letter — Captain, ain't he? As for his 
 pay, that don't count. Let us go systematically to 
 work if we are to do any good. I know ladies are 
 very vague about lousiness matters, but still you must
 
 MADONNA MARY. 251 
 
 know somelliiug'. What sort of a fellow is he, and 
 what has he got of his own?" 
 
 "Oh, he is very nice," cried Aunt Agatha, consoled 
 to find a question she could answer; "very, very nice. 
 I do think you will like him very much-, such a fine 
 j-oung fellow, and with what you gentlemen call no 
 nonsense about him," said the anxious woman; "and 
 with excellent connexions," she added, faltering again, 
 for her enthusiasm awoke no answer in Mr. Penrose's 
 face. 
 
 "My dear Miss Agatha," he said in his offensive 
 way — and he always called her Miss Agatha, which 
 Avas very trying to her feelings — "yon need not take 
 the trouble to assure me that a handsome young fellow 
 who pays her a little attention, is always very nice to 
 a lady. I was not asking whether he was nice; I was 
 asking what were his means — which is a very much 
 more important part of the subject, though you may 
 not think so," Mr. Penrose added. "A charming little 
 house like this, for instance, where you can have every- 
 tliing within yourself, and can live on honey and dew 
 I suppose, may be kept on nothing — though you and 
 I, to be sure, know a little different " 
 
 "Mr. Penrose," said Aunt Agatha, trembling with 
 indignation, "if you mean that the dinner was not par- 
 ticubu* enough " 
 
 "It was a charming little dinner," said Mr. Pen- 
 rose, "just what it ought to have been. Nothing could 
 have been nicer than that white soup; and I think I 
 am a judge. I was speaking of something to live on; 
 a pretty house like this, I was saying, is not an ana- 
 logous case. You have everything within yourself — 
 ^^^i'y, and vegetables, and fruit, and your butter and
 
 252 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 milk so cheap. I wish we could get it like that in 
 Liverpool, and — pardon me — -no increase of family 
 likely, you know." 
 
 "My niece Mary and her three children have come 
 to the Cottage since you were last here, Mr. Penrose," 
 said Aunt Agatha, with a blush of shame and displea- 
 sure. "It was the only house of all her relations that 
 she could come to with any comfort, poor dear — per- 
 haps you don't call that an increase of family, and as 
 for the milk and butter " 
 
 "She must pay you board," said Mr. Penrose, de- 
 cisively, "there can be no question about that; your 
 little money has not always been enough for yourself, 
 as we both know. But all this is merely an illustra- 
 tion I was giving. It has nothing to do with the main 
 subject. If these young people marry, my dear Miss 
 Agatha, their family may be increased by inmates who 
 will pay no board." 
 
 This was what he had the assurance to say to an 
 unmarried lady in her own house — and to laugh and 
 chuckle at it afterwards, as if he thought it a capital 
 joke. Aunt Agatha was struck dumb with horror and 
 indignation. Such eventualities might indeed, perhaps 
 must, be discussed by the lawyers where there are 
 settlements to make; but to talk of them to a maiden 
 lady when alone , was enough to make her drop through 
 the very floor with consternation. She made no attempt 
 to answer, but she did succeed in keeping her seat 
 and to a certain extent her self-possession, for "Winnie's 
 sake. 
 
 "It is a different sort of thing altogether," said the 
 family adviser. "Things may be kept square in a 
 quiet lady's house — though even that is not always
 
 MADONNA MARY. 253 
 
 the case, as we are both aware; but two young mamerl 
 people, who are just as likely as not to be extravagant 
 and all that — If he has not something to settle on 
 her, I don't see how I can have anything to do with 
 it," Mr. Penrose continued; "and you will not answer 
 me as to what he has of his own." 
 
 "He has his — his pay," said poor Aunt Agatha. 
 "I am told it is a great deal better than it used to be; 
 and he has, I think, some — some money in the Funds. 
 I am sure he will be glad to settle that on Winnie ; and 
 then his mother, and Sir Edward. I have no doubt 
 myself, though really they are too young to marry, that 
 they will do very well on the whole." 
 
 "Do you know what living means, Miss Agatha?" 
 asked Mr. Penrose, solemnly, "when you can speak in 
 this loose way? Butchers' bills are not so vague as 
 your statements, I can tell you; and a pretty girl like 
 that ought to do very well, even though she has no 
 money. It is not lier fault, poor thing," the rich uncle 
 added, with momentary compassion; and then he asked, 
 abruptly, "^Miat will Sir Edward do for them?" as if 
 he had presented a pistol at his companion's head. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Penrose!" cried Aunt Agatha, forgetting 
 all her policy, and what she had just said. "Surely, 
 surely, you would not like them to calculate upon Sir 
 Edward! He is not even a relation. He is only Ed- 
 ward's godfather. I would not have him applied to, 
 not for the world." 
 
 "Then what have you been talking to me all this 
 while about?" cried Mr. Penrose, with a look and sense 
 of outraged virtue. And Aunt Agatha, seeing how she 
 had betrayed her own position, and weary of the contest, 
 and driven to her wits' end, gave way and cried a little
 
 254 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 — wliicli at tliat moment, vexed, ■worried, and mortified 
 as she was, was all she could do. 
 
 And then Mr. Penrose got up and walked away, 
 whistling audibly, through the open window, into the 
 garden, leaving the chintz cover on his chair so 
 crumpled up and loosened out of all its corners, that 
 you could have told a mile ofi" that a man had been 
 there. What he left behind him was not that subth) 
 agreeable suggestion of his jiresence which hung around 
 the footsteps of young Percival, or even of Sir Edward, 
 but something that felt half like an insult to the femi- 
 nine inhabitants — a disagreeable assertion of anothci- 
 kind of creature who thought himself superior to them 
 — which was an opinion which they did not in the 
 least share, having no illusions so far as he went. 
 Aunt Agatha sank back into her chair with a sense of 
 relief, which she afterwards felt she ought not to ha'so 
 entertained. She had no right to such a feeling, for 
 she had done no good; and instead of diverting the 
 common enemy from an attack upon Winnie or her 
 lover, had actually roused and whetted him, and made 
 him more likely than ever to rush at those young 
 victims, as soon as ever he should have the chance. 
 But notwithstanding, for the moment to be rid of him, 
 and able to draw breath a little, and dry her incipient 
 tears, and put the cover straight upon that ill-used 
 chair, did her good. She drew a long breath, poor 
 soul, and felt the ease and comfort of being left to her- 
 self; even though next moment she might have to brace 
 herself up and collect all her faculties, and face the 
 adversary again. 
 
 But in the meantime he had gone out to the garden, 
 and was standing l^y Mary's side, with, his hand in his
 
 MADONNA MARV. 255 
 
 pocket. He was telling Mary tliat lie bad come out in 
 despair to her, to see if she knew anything about this 
 sad business — since he found her Aunt Agatha quite 
 as great a fool about business matters as she always 
 was. He wanted to know if she, who Icnew what was 
 what, could give him any sort of a reasonable idea 
 about this young fellow whom Winnie wanted to marry 
 — which was as difficult a question for Mrs. Ochterlony 
 as it had been for Miss Seton. And then in the midst 
 of the conversation the two culprits themselves ap- 
 peared, as careless about the inquiring uncle as they 
 were about the subject of his anxiety. Winnie, who 
 was not given to the reticences practised by her aunt 
 and her sister, had taken care to convey a veiy clear 
 idea of her Uncle Penrose, and her own opinion of 
 him, to the mind of Percival. He was from Liverpool, 
 and not "of a nice class." He was not Winnie's guar 
 dian, nor had he any legal control over her; and in 
 these circumstances it did not seem by any means ne- 
 cessary to either of the young people to show any un- 
 due attention to his desires, or be disturbed by his 
 interference; for neither of them had been brought up 
 to be dutiful to all the claims of nature, like their 
 seniors. "Go away directly, that he may not have any 
 chance of attacking you," Winnie had said to her 
 lover; for though she was not self-denying or unselfish 
 to speak of, she could be so where Percival was con- 
 cerned. "We can manage him among us," she added, 
 with a laugh — for she had no doubt of the co-opera- 
 tion of both her aunt and sister, in the case of Uncle 
 Penrose. And in obedience to this arrangement, Captain 
 Percival did nothing but take off his hat in honour of 
 Mary, and say half a doxon words of tlie most ordinary
 
 256 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 salutation to the stranger before lie went away. And 
 then Winnie came in, and came to her sister's side, 
 and stood facing IMr. Penrose, in all the triumph and 
 glory of her youth. She was beautiful, or would be 
 beautiful, everybody had long allowed; but she had 
 still retained a certain girlish meagreness up to a very 
 recent date. Now all that had changed, like every- 
 thing else; she had expanded, it appeared, as her heart 
 expanded and was satisfied — everything about her 
 looked rounder, fuller, and more magnificent. She 
 came and stood before the Liverpool uncle, who was a 
 man of business, and thinking of no such vanities, and 
 struck him dumb with her splendovir. He could talk 
 as he liked to Aunt Agatha, or even to Mary in her 
 widow's cap, but this radiant creature, all glowing with 
 love and happiness, took away his breath. Perhaps it 
 was then, for the first time in his life, that Mr. Penrose 
 actually realized that there was something in the world 
 for which a man might even get to be indifferent about 
 the balance at his banker's. He gave an involuntary 
 gasp; and though up to this moment he had thought 
 of Winnie only as a child, he now drew back before 
 her, and stopped whistling, and took his hand out of 
 his pocket, which perhaps was as decided an act of 
 homage as it was in him to pay. 
 
 But of course such a manifestation could not last. 
 After another moment he gave a "humph" as he looked 
 at her, and then his self-possession came back. "So 
 that was your Captain, I suppose?" he said. 
 
 "Yes, uncle, that was my Captain," said the daunt- 
 less Winnie, "and I hope you approve of him; though 
 it does not matter if you don't, for you know it is all
 
 MADONXA l\rAUV. 257 
 
 settled, and nobody except my aunt and bis motber 
 has any rigbt to say a word." 
 
 "If bis motber is as wise a judge as your aunt — " 
 said Mr. Penrose; but yet all tbe same, Winnie's bold- 
 ness imposed upon bim a little. It was impossible to 
 imagine tbat a grand creature like tbis, wbo was not 
 pale nor sentimental, nor of Agatba Seton's kind, could 
 contemplate witb sucb satisfaction any Captain wbo bad 
 asked ber to many bim upon notbiug a year. 
 
 "Tbat is all very fine," Mr. Penrose added, taking 
 courage; "you can make your cboice as you please, 
 but it is my business to look after tbe money. If you 
 and your cbildren come to me starving, twenty years 
 lience, and ask bow I could possibly let you marry 
 sucb a — " 
 
 "Do you tbink you will be living in twenty years, 
 Uncle Penrose?" said AYinnie. "I know you are a 
 great deal older tban Aunt Agatba; — but if you are, 
 we will not come, I promise you. We sball keep our 
 starvation to ourselves." 
 
 "I can't tell bow old your Aunt Agatba is," said 
 .Mr. Penrose, witb natural offence; "and you must 
 know. Miss Winnie, tbat tbis is not bow you sbould 
 talk to me." 
 
 "Very well, uncle," said tbe daring girl; "but 
 neitber is your Avay tbe way to talk to me. You know 
 I bave made up my mind, and tbat everytbing is 
 settled, and tbat it does not matter tbe least to me if 
 Edward was a beggar; and you come bere witb your 
 money, as if tbat was tbe only tbing to be tbougbt of. 
 Wliat do I care about money? — and you migbt try 
 till tbe end of tbe world, and you never would break 
 it odf," sbe cried, ilasbing into a brilliant glow of pas- 
 
 JIudoHiia Xuiij. I. 17
 
 258 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 sion and veliemence such as Mr. Penrose did not under- 
 stand. He had expected to have a great deal of diffi- 
 culty, but he had never expected to be defied after this 
 fashion; and the wildness of her womanish folly made 
 the good man sad. 
 
 "You silly girl!" he said, Avith profound pathos, 
 "if you only knew what nonsense you were speaking. 
 There is nobody in this world but cares about money; 
 you can do nothing without it, and marry least of all. 
 And you speak to me with such an example before 
 your eyes; look at your sister Mary, how she has come 
 with all those helpless children to be, most likely, a 
 burden on her friends — " 
 
 "Uncle Penrose!" cried Winnie, putting up her 
 two beautiful hands to stop his mouth; but Mr. Penrose 
 was as plain-spoken as Winnie herself was, though in 
 a difierent way. 
 
 "I know perfectly well she can hear me," he said, 
 "and she ought to hear me, and to read you a lesson. 
 If Mary had been a sensible girl, and had married a 
 man who could make proper settlements upon her, and 
 make a provision for his family, do you think she 
 would have required to come here to seek a shelter — 
 do you think — " 
 
 "Oh, Mary, he is crazy; don't mind him!" cried 
 Winnie, forgetting for the moment all about her own 
 affau'S, and clinging to her sister in real distress. 
 
 And then it was Mrs. Ochterlony's turn to speak. 
 
 "I did not come to seek a shelter," she said; 
 "though I know they would have given it me all the 
 same, I came to seek love and kindness, uncle, which 
 you cannot bny with money: and if there was nothing
 
 MADONNA MARV. 259 
 
 more than want of money between Winnie and Captain 
 J'ercival " 
 
 "Mary!" cried Winnie, impetuously, "go in and 
 don't say any more. You shall not be insulted while 
 I am here; but don't say anything about Edward. 
 Leave me to have it out with Uncle Penrose, and go 
 away." 
 
 And somehow Mary obeyed. She would not have 
 done it a month ago; but she was wearied of conten- 
 tion, and broken in spirit, and, instead of standing 
 still and defending herself, she withdrew from the two 
 belligerents, who were both so ready to turn their arms 
 against her, and went away. She went to the nursery, 
 which was deserted: for her boys were still outside in 
 the lingering daylight. None of them were able to 
 advise, or even to sympathize with their mother. They 
 could give her their childish love, but nothing else in 
 the world. The others had all some one to consult, 
 some one to refer to, but Mary was alone. Her heart 
 beat dull and low, with no vehement offence at the 
 bitter words she had just heard, but with a heavy 
 despondency and sense of her solitude, which her very 
 attitude showed - — for she did not sit down, or lie 
 down, or try to find any fictitious support, but stood 
 up by the vacant fire-place with her eyes fixed upon 
 nothing, holding unconsciously the little chain which 
 secured her watch, and letting its beads drop one by 
 one from her fingers. "Mary has come home to be a 
 burden on her friends," said I'ncle Penrose. She did 
 not resent it wildly, as she might have done some time 
 before, but pondered it with wondering pain and a 
 dull sense of hopelessness. How did it happen that 
 she, of all women, had come to such a position? what 
 
 17*
 
 2G0 MADONNA MARV, 
 
 coiTespoiiflence was tlicre between that and all her 
 past? and what was the future to be? which, even now, 
 .she could make no spasmodic changes in, but must 
 accept and endure. This was how Mary's mind was 
 employed while Winnie, reckless and wilful, defied 
 Uncle Penrose in the garden. For the time, the power 
 of defying any one seemed to have died out of Mary's 
 breast. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Mr. Penrose, however, was not a man of very 
 lively feelings, and bore no malice against Winnie for 
 her defiance, nor even against Mary, to whom he bad 
 been so cruel, which was more difficult. He was up 
 again, cheerful and full of energy in the morning, 
 ready for his mission. If Winnie began the world 
 without something to live upon, or with any prospect 
 of ever being a burden on her friends , at all events it 
 would not be his fault. As it happened, Aunt Agatha 
 received at the breakfast-table the usual invai'iable 
 letter containing a solemn warning against Captain 
 Percival, and she was affected by it, as she could not 
 help always being affected; and the evident commotion 
 it excited in the party was such that Mr. Penrose could 
 not but notice it. When he insisted upon knowing 
 what it was, he was met by what was, in reality, very 
 skilful fencing on Miss Seton's part, who was not 
 destitute altogether of female skill and art: but Aunt 
 Agatha's defence was made useless liy the impetuosity 
 of Winnie, who scorned disguise.
 
 MADOXNA MARY. 261 
 
 "Oil, let US lioar it, please," she said, "let us Lear. 
 Jfe know what it is about. It is some new story — 
 some lie, about my poor Edward. They may save 
 themselves the trouble. / would not believe one of 
 them, if it was written on the wall like Belshazzar's 
 feast; and if I did believe them I would not care," 
 said Winnie, vehemently, and she looked across, as 
 she never could help looking, to where her sister sat. 
 
 "What is it?" said Mr. Penrose; "something about 
 your Captain? Miss Agatha, considering my interest 
 in the matter, I hope you will let me hear all that is 
 said." 
 
 "It is nothing, absolutely nothing," said Aunt 
 Agatha, faltering. "It is only some foolish gossip, 
 you know — garrison stories , and that sort of thing. 
 He was a very young man, and was launched upon 
 life by himself — and — and — I think I may say 
 he must have been imprudent. Winnie, my dear love, 
 my heart bleeds to say it, but he must have been im- 
 prudent. He must have entangled himself and ■ — 
 and And then there are always so many de- 
 signing people about to lead poor young men astray," 
 said Aunt Agatha, trembling for the result of her 
 explanation: while Winnie divided her attention be- 
 tween Mr. Penrose, before whom this new view of the 
 subject was ixnfolded for the first time, and Mary, whom 
 she regarded as a natural enemy and the probable 
 origin of it all. 
 
 "Wild, I suppose?" said Mr. Penrose, with sublime 
 calm. "They're all alike, for that matter. So long- 
 as he doesn't bet or gamble — that's how those con- 
 founded young follows ruin themselves." And then 
 he dismissed the subject with a wave of the hand. "1
 
 262 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 am going up to the Hall to talk it all over with Sir 
 Edward, and see what can be done. This sort of 
 penniless nonsense makes me sick," the rich man added; 
 "and you women are the most unreasonable creatures 
 — one might as well talk to a stone wall." 
 
 Thus it was that for once in their lives the two 
 Miss Setons, Agatha and Winnie, found Uncle Penrose 
 for the moment half divine; they looked at him with 
 wide open eyes, with a wondering veneration. They 
 were only women after all, and had been giving them- 
 selves a great deal of trouble about Captain Percival's 
 previous history ; but it all sank into mere contemptible 
 gossip under the calm glance of Mr. Penrose. He was 
 not enthusiastic about Edward, and therefore his im- 
 partial calm was all the more satisfying. lie thought 
 nothing of it all, though it had been driving them dis- 
 tracted. When he went away on his mission to the 
 Hall, Winnie, in her enthusiasm, ran into Aunt Agatha's 
 arms. 
 
 "You see he does not mind," said Winnie, — 
 though an hour before she had been far from thinking 
 Mr. Penrose an authority. "He thinks it is all gossip 
 and spite, as I always said." 
 
 And Aunt Agatha for her part was quite overcome 
 by the sudden relief. It felt like a deliverance, though 
 it was only Mr. Penrose's opinion. "My dear love, 
 men know the world," she said; "that is the advantage 
 of having somebody to talk to; and I always said that 
 your l^ncle, though he is sometimes disagreeable, had 
 a great deal of sense. You see he knows the world." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose he must have sense," said Winnie; 
 and in the comfort of her heart she was ready to 
 attribute all good gifts to Mr. Penrose, and could have
 
 MADONNA MARY. 263 
 
 kissed him as lie -svalked past tlie M'indow witli his 
 liand in his pocket. She woukl not have forsaken her 
 Edward whatever had been found out about him, but 
 still to see that his wickedness (if he had been wicked) 
 was of no consequence in the eyes of a respectable 
 man like Uncle Penrose, was such a consolation even 
 to Winnie as nothing can express. "We are all a set 
 of women, and we have been making a mountain out 
 of a molehill," she said, and the tears came to her 
 bright eyes; and then, as Maiy was not moved into 
 any such demonstrations of delight, Winnie turned her 
 arms upon her sister in pure gaiety of heart. 
 
 "Everybody gets talked about," she said. "Edward 
 was telling me about Mary even — that she used to 
 be called Madonna Mary at the station; and that there 
 was some poor gentleman that died. I supposed he 
 thought she ought to be worshipped like Our Lady. 
 Didn't you feel dreadfully guilty and wretched, Mary, 
 when he died?" 
 
 "Poor boy," said Mrs. Ochterlony, who had re- 
 covered her courage a little with the morning light. 
 "It had nothing to do with Our Lady as you say; it 
 was only because he had been brought up in Italy, 
 poor fellow, and was fond of the old Italian poets, and 
 the soft Italian words." 
 
 "Then perhaps it was Madonna Mary he was 
 thinking of," said Winnie, with gay malice, "and you 
 must have felt a dreadful wretch when he died." 
 
 "We felt very sad when he died," said Mary, — 
 "he was only twenty, poor boy: but, Winnie dear, 
 Uncle Penrose is not an angel, and I think now I will 
 say my say. Captain ]'ercival is very fond of you, 
 and you are very f(md of him, and I think, whatever
 
 264 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 tlie past may have been, tliat there is hope if you will 
 be a little serious. It is of conseqitence. Don't you 
 think that I wish all that is best in the world for you, 
 my only little sister? And why should you distrust 
 me? Yoii are not silly nor weak, and I think you 
 might do well yet, very well, my dear, if you were 
 really to try." 
 
 "I think we shall do veiy well without trying," 
 said Winnie, partly touched and partly indignant; "but 
 it is something for you to say, Mary, and I am sure I 
 am mvxch obliged to you for your good advice all the 
 same." 
 
 "Winnie," said Mrs. Ochterlony, taking her hands, 
 "I know the world better than you do — -perhaps even 
 better than Uncle Penrose, so far as a woman is con- 
 cerned. 1 don't care if you are rich or poor, but I 
 want you to be happy. It will not do very well with- 
 out trying. I will not say a woi'd about him, for you 
 hdve set your heart on him, and that must be enough. 
 And some women can do everything for the people 
 they love. I think, perhaps, you could, if you were 
 to give your heart to it, and try." 
 
 It was not the kind of address Winnie had ex- 
 pected, and she struggled against it, trying hard to re- 
 sist the involuntary softening. But after all nature was 
 yet in her, and she could not but feel that what Mary 
 was saying came from her heart. 
 
 "I don't see why you should be so serious," she 
 said; "but I am sure it is kind of you, Mary. I — I 
 don't know if I could do — what you say; but Avliat- 
 ever I can do I will for Edward!" she added hastily, 
 with a warmth and eagerness which brought the colour 
 to her cheek and tlie liglit to her eye; and then the
 
 MADONNA MAUV. 265 
 
 tAvo sisters kissed each other as they had never done 
 before, and Winnie knelt down by ]Mary's knee, and 
 the two hekl each other's hands, and clung together, as 
 it was natural they should, in that coutidence of nature 
 which is closer than any other except that between 
 mother and daughter — the felloAv-fecling of sisters, 
 destined to the same experience, one of whom has gone 
 far in advance, and turning back can trace, step by 
 step, in her own memory, the path the other has to go. 
 
 "Don't mistrust me, Winnie," said Mrs. Ochterlony. 
 "I have had a little to bear, though I have been very 
 Jiappy, and I could tell you many things — though 1 
 will not, just now; but, Winnie dear, what I want is, 
 that you should make up your mind to it; not to have 
 everything you like, and live in a fair}'' tale, but to 
 keep right, and to keep him right. If you will promise 
 to think of this, and to take it bravely upon you, I 
 will still hope that all may be well." 
 
 Her look was so serious that for the first time 
 Winnie's heart forgave her. Neither jealousy, nor ill- 
 temper, nor fear of evil report on her own side could 
 have looked out of Mary's eyes at her little sister with 
 such a wistful longing gaze. Winnie was moved in 
 spite of herself, and thrilled by the first pang of un- 
 certainty that had yet touched her. If ^Mary had no 
 motive but natural adection, Avas it then really a hideous 
 gulf of horrible destruction, on the verge of which she 
 was herself tripping so lightly? Something indefinable 
 came over Winnie's face as that thought moved her. 
 Should it be so, what then? If it was to save him, if 
 it was to perish Avith him, Avhat did it matter? the only 
 place in the world for her Avas by his side. She had 
 marie her choice, and tlicrc Avas no other choice for her,
 
 266 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 no alternative even slinukl she see the gulf as Curtius 
 did, and leap conscious into it in tlie eye of day. All 
 this passed through her mind in a moment, as she knelt 
 by Mary's side holding her hands ■ — ■ and came out so 
 on her face that Mary could read something like it in 
 the sudden changing of the fair features and expansion 
 of the eyes. It was as if the soul had been startled, 
 and sprang up to those fair windows, to look out upon 
 the approaching danger, making the spectator careless 
 of their beauty, out of regard to the nobler thing that 
 used them for the moment. Then Winnie rose up 
 suddenly, and gave her sister a hearty kiss, and threw 
 off her sudden gravity as if it had been a cloud. 
 
 "Enough of that," she said; "I will try and be 
 good , and so I think will — we all. And Mary, don't 
 look so serious. I mean to be happy, at least as long 
 as I can," cried Winnie. She was the same Winnie 
 again — gay, bold, and careless, before five minutes 
 had passed; and Mary had said her say, and there was 
 now no more to add. Nothing could change the des- 
 tiny which the thoughtless young creature had laid out 
 for herself. If she could have foreseen the distinctest 
 wretchedness it would have been all the same. She 
 was ready to take the plunge even into the gulf — 
 and nothing that could be said or done could change 
 it now. 
 
 In the meantime, Mr. Penrose had gone up to the 
 Hall to talk it over with Sir Edward, and was explain- 
 ing his views with a distinctness which was not much 
 more agreeable in the Hall than it had been in the 
 Cottage. "I cannot let it go on unless some provision 
 can be made," he said. "Winnie is very handsome, 
 and you must all see she might have done a great deal
 
 MADONNA MARY. 267 
 
 better. If I had lier over in Liverpool, as I have 
 several times thought of doiug, I warrant yon the 
 settlements would have been of a different description. 
 She might have married anybody, such a girl as that," 
 continued Mr. Penrose, in a regretful business way. It 
 was so much capital lost that might have brought in a 
 much greater profit; and though he had no personal 
 interest in it, it vexed him to see people throwing their 
 chances away. 
 
 "That may be, but it is Edward Percival she 
 chooses to marry, and nobody else," said Sir Edward 
 testily, "and she is not a girl to do as you seem to 
 think, exactly as she is told." 
 
 "We shovild have seen about that," said Mr. Pen- 
 rose; "but in the meantime, he has his pay and she 
 has a hundred a year. If Mrs. Percival will settle 
 three hixndred on him, and you, perhaps, two " 
 
 "I, two!" cried Sir Edward, with sudden terror; 
 "why should I settle two? You might as well tell me 
 to retire from the Hall, and leave them my house. 
 And pray, Mr. Penrose, when you are so liberal for 
 other people, what do you mean to give yourself?" 
 
 "I am a ftvmily man," said Uncle Penrose, taking 
 his other hand out of his pocket, "and what I can give 
 must be, in justice to my family, very limited. But 
 Mrs. Percival, who has only four sons, and yourself 
 who have none, are in very different circumstances. If 
 he had had a father, the business might have been 
 entered into more satisfactorily — but as you are his 
 godfather, I hear " 
 
 "I never understood before, up to this minute," 
 said Sir Edward, with great courtesy, "that it was the
 
 268 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 duty of a godfatlier to endow his charge with two 
 hundred a year." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Sir Edward," said Mr. Pen- 
 rose; "I am a plain man, and I treat things in a busi- 
 ness way. I give my godchiklren a silver mug, and 
 feel my conscience clear: but if I had introduced a 
 young man, not otherwise very eligible, to a handsome 
 girl, who might have done a great deal better for her- 
 self, that would make a great difference in the respons- 
 ibility. Winnie Seton is of very good family by her 
 father's side, as you know, I suppose, better than I 
 do; and of very good business cfonnexions by her mo- 
 ther's; and her beauty is first-rate, — I don't think 
 there can be any doubt about that. If she had been 
 an ordinary pretty girl, I would not have said so 
 much; but with all her advantages, I should say that 
 any fair equivalent in the shape of a husband should 
 be worth at least five thousand a year." 
 
 Mr. Penrose spoke with such seriousness that Sir 
 Edward was awed out of his first feeling of amusement. 
 He restrained his smile, and acknowledged the logic. 
 "But I did not introduce him in any special way," he 
 said. "If I can negotiate with Mrs. Percival for a more 
 liberal allowance, I will do it. She has an estate of 
 her own, and she is free to leave it to any of her sons: 
 but Edward , I fear, has been rather unsatisfactory — " 
 
 "Ah, wild?" said Mr. Penrose: "all young men are 
 alike for that. I think, on the whole, that it is you 
 who should negotiate with the mother. You know her 
 better than I do, and have known all about it from the 
 beginning, and you could show her the state of the 
 case better. If such a mad thing could be consented 
 to by anybody in their senses, it must at least be ap-
 
 MADONXA MAUY. 269 
 
 parent tliat Winnie would bring twice as mucli as the 
 otlier into the common stock. If she were with me in 
 Liverpool she would not long be Winnie Seton; and 
 you may trust me she should marry a man who was 
 worthy of her," the rich uncle added, with a confirma- 
 tory nod of his head. When he spoke of a man who 
 Avould be worthy of Winnie, he meant no sentimental 
 litness such as Aunt Agatha would have meant, had 
 she said these words, nor was it even moral worth he 
 was thinking of. What Mr. Penrose meant, was a man 
 who w^ould bring a fair e(j^uivalent in silver and gold 
 to Winnie's beauty and youth, and he meant it most 
 seriously, and could not but groan wlien he contem- 
 j)lated the possibility of so much valuable capital being 
 thrown away. 
 
 And he felt that he had made a good impression 
 when he went back to the Cottage. He seemed to 
 himself to have secured Mrs. Percival's three hundred 
 a-year, and even Sir Edward's more problematical gift 
 to the young people; and he occupied the interval in 
 ihiuking of a silver tea-service which had rather caught 
 his fancy, in a shop window, and which he thought if 
 his negotiations succeeded, he would give to his niece 
 for a wedding present. If they did not succeed it 
 would be a different question — for a young woman 
 who married upon a captain's pay and a hundred a-year 
 of her own, would have little occasion for a silver tea- 
 service. So Mr. Penrose mused as he returned to the 
 Cottage. Under the best of circumstances it was now 
 evident that there could be nothing to "settle" upon 
 Winnie. The mother and the friends might make up 
 a little income, but as for capital — which after all 
 Avas what Mr. Penrose prized most — there was none
 
 270 MADONNA MARY, 
 
 in the whole matter, except that which Winnie had in 
 her face and person, and was going to throw so la- 
 mentably away. Mr. Penrose could not hut make some 
 reflections on Annt Agatha's feminine idiocy and the 
 cruel heedlessness of Sir Edward, as he walked along 
 the rural road. A girl who had so many advantages, 
 whose husband, to be worthy of her, should have had 
 five thousand a-year at the least, and something hand- 
 some to "settle" — and yet her natural guardians had 
 suffered her to get engaged to a captain in a marching 
 regiment, with only his pay! No wonder that Mr. 
 Penrose was sad. But he went home with a sense 
 that, painful as the position was, he had done his duty, 
 at least. 
 
 This was how Winnie's marriage got itself accom- 
 plished notwithstanding all opposition. Captain Per- 
 cival was the second of his mother's four sons, and 
 consequently the natural heir of her personal fortune 
 if he had not been "foolish," as she said; and the 
 thought that it might be the saving of him, which was 
 suggested by Sir Edward, was naturally a very mov- 
 ing argument. A beautiful young wife whom he was 
 very fond of, and who was ready to enter with him 
 into all the risks of life, — if that did not keep him 
 right, what would? And after all he was only five- 
 and- twenty, an age at which reformation was quite 
 possible. So his friends thought, persuading them- 
 selves with natural sophistry that the infliience of love 
 and a self-willed girl of eighteen would do what all 
 other inducements had failed to do; and as for her 
 friends, they were so elated to see that in the eyes of 
 Uncle Penrose the young man's faults bore only the 
 most ordinary aspect, and counted for next to nothing,
 
 MADOJSNA MARY. 271 
 
 tliat their misgivings all but disappeared, and their 
 acceptance of the risk was almost enthusiastic. Some- 
 times indeed a momentary shadow would cross the 
 mind of Aunt Agatha — sometimes a doubt would 
 change Sir Edward's countenance — but then these 
 two old people were believers in love, and besides had 
 the faculty of believing what they wished to believe, 
 which was a still more important circumstance. And 
 Mary for her part had said her say. The momentary 
 liope she had felt in Winnie's strength of character, 
 and in her love — a hope which had opened her heart 
 to speak to her sister — found but little to support it 
 after that moment. She could not go on protesting, 
 and making her presence a thorn in the flesh of the 
 excited household; and if she felt throughout all a 
 sense that the gulf was still there, though all these 
 flowers had been strewed over it — a sense of the 
 terrible risk which was so poorly counter-balanced by 
 the vaguest and most doubtful of hopes - — ■ still Mary 
 was aware that this might be simply the fault of her 
 position, which led her to look upon everything with 
 a less hopeful eye. She was the spectator, and she 
 saw what was going on as the actors themselves could 
 not be expected to see it. She saw Winnie's delight 
 at the idea of freedom from all restraint — and she 
 saw Percival's suppressed imjiatience of the anxious 
 coiinsels addressed to him, and the look which Winnie 
 and he exchanged on such occasions, as if assuring 
 each other that in sjiite of all this they would take 
 their own way. And then Mrs. Ochterlony's own re- 
 lations with the bridegroom Avere not of a comfortable 
 kind. He knew apparently by instinct that she was 
 not his friend, and he approached her with a solemn
 
 272 MADONNA :jauy. 
 
 politeness under wliicli i\faiy, perliaps over-sensitive on 
 that point, felt that a secret sneer was concealed. And 
 he made references to her Indian experiences, with a 
 certain subtle implication of something in them which 
 he knew and nobody else did — something which 
 would he to Mrs. Ochterlony's injury sliould it be 
 known — which awoke in Mary an irritation and ex- 
 asperation which nothing else could Ikivc produced. 
 She avoided him as much as it was possible to avoid 
 liim during the busy interval before the marriage, and 
 he perceived it and thought it was fear, and the sneer 
 that lay under his courtesy became more and more 
 evident. He took to petting little Wilfrid with an 
 evident consciousness of Mary's vexation and the pain- 
 ful effect it produced upon her; not Hugh nor Islay, 
 who were of an age to be a man's plaything, but the 
 baby, who Avas too young for any but a woman's in- 
 terest; and Captain Percival was not the kind of man 
 who is naturally fond of children. When she saw her 
 little boy on her futui-e brother-in-law's knee, Mary 
 felt her heart contract with an involuntary shiver, of 
 which she coiild have given no clear explanation. She 
 did not know what she was afraid of, but she was 
 afraid. 
 
 Perliaps it was a relief to them all when the mar- 
 riage day arrived — which had to be shortly, for the 
 regiment was ordered to Malta, and Captain Percival 
 had already had all the leave he could ask for. Mr. 
 Penrose's exertions had been crowned with such success 
 that when he came to Winnie's wedding he brought 
 her the silver tea-sei'vice which in his heart he had 
 decided conditionally to give her as a marriage gift. 
 Mrs. Percival had decided to settle two hundred and
 
 AIADONNA MARV. 273 
 
 fifty pountls a-year ii])on Iior son, which was very near 
 Mr. Penrose's mark; and Sir Edward, after long ponder- 
 ing upon the subject, and a half-amused, half-serious, 
 consideration of Winnie's capital which was being 
 thrown away, had made up his mind to a still greater 
 eflTort. Pie gave the young man in jjresent possession 
 what he had left him in his will, which was a sum of 
 five thousand pounds — a little fortune to the young 
 soldier. "You might have been my son, my boy, if 
 your mother and I could have made up our minds," 
 the old baronet said, Avith a momentary weakness; 
 though if anybody else had suggested such an idea no 
 doubt Sir Edward would have said, "Heaven forbid!" 
 And Mr. Penrose pounced upon it and had it settled 
 upon Winnie, and was happy, though the bridegroom 
 resisted a little. After that there could be no doubt 
 about the tea-service. "If you should ever be placed 
 in Mary's position you will have something to fall back 
 upon," Uncle Penrose said; "or even if you should 
 not get on together, you know." It was not a large 
 sum, but the difficulty there had been about getting it, 
 and the pleasant sense that it was wholly owing to his 
 own exertions, made it sweet to the man of capital, 
 and he gave his niece his blessing and the tea-service 
 with a full heart. 
 
 As for Winnie, she was radiant in her glow of 
 beauty and happiness on that momentous day. A 
 thunder-sliower of sixdden tears when she signed the 
 register, and another when she Avas taking leave of 
 Aunt Agatha, was all that occurred to overcloud her 
 brightness; and even these did not overcloud her, but 
 Avere in harmony — hot, violent, and sudden as they 
 were — with the passionate happiness and emancipation 
 
 Madoima Marij. I. IS
 
 274 MADONNA MAUY. 
 
 of the married girl. She kissed over and over again 
 her tender guardian — who for her part sat speechless 
 and desolate to see her child go aAvay, weeping Avith a 
 silent anguish which could not find any words — and 
 dropped that sudden shower over Aunt Agatha's gown; 
 but a moment after threw back the veil which had 
 fallen over her face, and looked back from the car- 
 riage windoAv upon them in a flush of joy, and pride, 
 and conscious freedom, which, had no other sentiments 
 been called for at the moment, it Avould have done 
 one's heart good to see. She was so happy that she 
 could not cry, nor be sentimental, nor think of broken 
 links, as she said — and why should she pretend to 
 be sad about parting? Which Avas very true, no doubt, 
 from Winnie's point of vieAv. And there was not the 
 vestige of a cloud about when she Avaved her hand to 
 them for the last time as she drove aAvay. She was 
 going aAvay to the world and life, to see everything 
 and enjoy everything, and have her day. Why should 
 not she sIioav her delight? While poor old Aunt 
 Agatha, Avhose day was so long over, fell back into 
 Mary's arms, who was standing beside her, and felt 
 that now at last and finally, her heart was broken, 
 and the joy of her life gone. Was it not simply the 
 course of nature and the way of the world?
 
 MADONNA MAUY. 275 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 There followed after tbis a time of such tranquil- 
 lity as had never yet entered into Mrs. Ochterlony's 
 life. Mary had known joy, and she liad known sor- 
 I'ow, as people do to whona life comes with full hands, 
 giving and taking; but it had always been life, busy 
 and personal, which left her little leisure for anything 
 beyond the quickly recurring duties of the hour and 
 day. She had had no time to watch the current how 
 it flowed, being as it were part of it, and going along 
 with it in its ceaseless course. But noAv all this was 
 changed. After Winnie's marriage a sudden tranquil- 
 lity fell upon the ladies in the Cottage. Life had gone 
 on and left them; they were no longer going with the 
 tide, but standing by upon the bank Avatching it. They 
 were not unhappy, nor was their existence sad, — for 
 the three boys were world enough to satisfy the two 
 women and keep them occupied and cheerful; and 
 when the children were asleep, Aunt Agatha and her 
 niece were, as people say, company for each other, 
 and talked over their work as they sat by the evening 
 lamp, or in the twilight garden, which was always so 
 green and so sweet, — and were content, or more 
 than content; but still sometimes Mrs. Ochterlony would 
 bethink herself, and it would seem as a dream to her 
 that she, too, had once taken her part with the others 
 and gone with the stream, and suffered cruel sufferings 
 and tasted sudden joys, and been Hugh Ochterlony's 
 wife. Was it so? ()r had she never been but with 
 Aunt Agatha by the little river that ran steadily one 
 
 18*
 
 276 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 (lay like another under the self-same trees? This 
 strange sense of unreality in the past turned her giddy 
 Ly times, and made her head swim and the world to 
 go round and round; but, to be sure, she never spoke 
 of these sensations , and life continued , and the boys 
 grew, and everything went very well at Kirtell-side. 
 
 Everything went so well that Aunt Agatha many 
 a day pitied the poor people who were out in the world, 
 or the young men who set out from the parish to be- 
 gin their career, and would say, "Oh, if they but 
 knew how much better everybody is at home!" Mary 
 was younger|, and perhaps she was not quite of the 
 same mind; but still it was peace that had fallen upon 
 her and was wrapping her all round like a garment. 
 There was the same quiet routine every day; the same 
 things to do, the same places to walk to, the same 
 faces to see. Nothing imforeseen ever arrived to break 
 the calm. When Hugh was old enough to begin serious 
 lessons, a curate turned up in the course of nature who 
 took pupils, and to whom Islay, too, went by-and-by, 
 and even little Wilfrid, who was always delicate. The 
 boys went to him with shining morning faces, and 
 came back growing louder and stronger, and, as Peggy 
 said, more "stirring" every day. And Sir Edward 
 made his almost daily visit, and let a thin and gentle 
 echo of the out-of-door din into the Cottage quiet. He 
 told them in his mild way what was going on, and 
 talked about the news in the papers, and about the 
 books reviewed, and about the occasional heavenly 
 visitant in the shape of a new publication that found 
 its way to Kirtell-side. There were few magazines 
 then, and no cheap ones, and a single Blackwood did 
 for a good many families. Sir Edward himself, who
 
 MADONNA MARY. 277 
 
 hail been always considered intellectual, took in the 
 Edinhurgh all for himself, and lent it to his neighbours ; 
 but then it could not be expected that many people in 
 a district could be so magnificent as that. When the 
 Curate, on the other hand, came to tea (he was not the 
 sort of man, as Aunt Agatha said, that one would 
 think of making a dinner for), it was all about the 
 jiarish that he talked; and as Mrs. Ochterlony was a 
 perverse woman in her way, and had her own ideas 
 about her poor neighbours, such conversation was not 
 so interesting to her as it might have been. But it 
 was in this sort of way that she spent the next ten or 
 twelve years of her life. 
 
 As for Winnie, she was having her day, as she 
 had said, and was, it is to be supposed, enjoying it. 
 She wrote letters regularly and diligently, which is one 
 point in which a Avomau , however little elevated she 
 may be above her masculine companion in other re- 
 spects, always has the better of him. And she pos- 
 sessed a true feminine gift which ought also to be put 
 in the compensating scale against those female draw- 
 backs which are so often insisted upon. Sometimes she 
 was ill-tempered, sometimes bitter in her letters, for the 
 honeymoon happiness naturally did not last for ever; 
 but, whatever mood Winnie might be in, she always 
 threw an unconscious halo of interest around herself 
 when she wrote. It was, as everybody might see, 
 an instinctive and unpremeditated act, but it was 
 successful to the highest extent. Wliether she de- 
 scribed her triumphs or her disappointments, her hus- 
 band's kindness or his carelessness, their extravagant 
 living or their want of money, Winnie herself, in the 
 foreground of the picture, was always charmingly,
 
 278 MAnONNA MARY. 
 
 and sometimes toucliingly, posed. A word or two did 
 it, and it was done to perfection; and the course of Ler 
 liistory thus traced was followed by Aunt Agatha with 
 an unfailing enthusiasm. She herself went through it 
 all in the person of her favourite, and Mary connected 
 herself with a vague but still fairer future in the per- 
 sons of her boys. And thus the peaceful existence 
 went on day by day, with nothing more serious to 
 trouble it than a transitory childish ailment, or a pass- 
 ing rumour that the Percivals were "going too fast," 
 or did not "get on," — clouds which only floated 
 mistily and momentarily about the horizon, and never 
 came down to trouble the quiet waters. It was a time 
 which left no record, and which by times felt languid 
 and lingering to the younger woman, who was still too 
 young to be altogether satisfied with so dead a calm in 
 the middle of her existence-, but still, perhaps, it was, 
 on the whole, the happiest time of Mary's life. 
 
 This halcyon time lasted until the boys were so far 
 grown up as to bring the disturbing plans and speci;la- 
 tions of their beginning life into the household calm. 
 It lasted until Islay was sixteen and ready to pass his 
 examination for Woolwich, the long-headed boy having 
 fixed his affections upon scientific soldiei'ship in a way 
 which was slightly disappointing to his mother, who, 
 as was natui'al, had thought him capable of a more 
 learned profession. It roused the Cottage into some- 
 thing like a new stage of existence to think of and 
 prepare for the entry of its nursling into that great 
 vague unseen sphere which Aunt Agatha called the 
 world. But, after all, it was not Islay who was the 
 troublesome member of the family. He had fixed his 
 thoughts upon his chosen profession almost as soon as
 
 MADONKA I\rARV. 279 
 
 lie knew what was mcaut by his father's swovd, which 
 had hung in Mrs. Ochterlony's room from his earliest 
 recollection; and tliough there might be a little anxiety 
 about how he woiild succeed at his examination, and 
 how he would get on when he left lionie, still Islay 
 was so steady that no one felt any alarm or absolute 
 disquiet about him. 
 
 But it was rather different with Ilugh. Hugh was 
 supposed to be his uncle's heir, and received as such 
 wherever he went, with perhaps more enthusiasm than 
 might have fallen to his share merely as ]\Iary's sou. 
 He was heir jjresiimptive, recognised to a certain ex- 
 tent at Eai'lston itself as elsewhere in that capacity; 
 and yet Mr. Ochterlony had not, so far as anybody 
 was aware, made any distinct decision, and might still 
 alter his mind, and, indeed, was not too old to marry 
 and have heirs of his own, which was a view of the 
 subject chiefly taken by Aunt Agatha. And, to ag- 
 gravate the position , Hugh was far from being a boy 
 of fixed resolutions, like his brother. He was one of 
 the troublesome people, who have no very particular 
 bias. He liked everything that was pleasant. He was 
 not idle, nor had he any evil tendencies; he was fond 
 of literature in a way, and at the same time fond of 
 shooting and hunting, and all the occupations and 
 amusements of a country life. Public opinion in the 
 country-side proclaimed him one of the nicest young 
 fellows going; and if he had been Francis Ochterlony 's 
 son, and indisputably the heir of Earlston, Hugh would 
 have been as satisfactory a specimen of a budding 
 country gentleman as could have been found. But the 
 crook in his lot was, that he was tlie hoir presumptive, 
 and at the same time was genei'ous and proud and
 
 280 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 high-spirited , and not the kind of nature which could 
 lie in wait for another man's place, or build his for- 
 tunes upon another man's generosity. His own opinion, 
 no doubt, was that he had a right to Earlston; but he 
 was far too great a Quixote, too highly fantastical in 
 youthful pride and independence, to permit any one to 
 say that it was his uncle's duty to provide for him. 
 And withal, he did not himself know what manner of 
 life to take up, or what to do. He Avould have made 
 a good soldier, or a good farmer, different though the 
 two things are-, and would have filled, as well as most 
 people, almost any other practical position which Pro- 
 vidence or circumstances had set clearly before him. 
 But no intuitive perception of what he was most fit for 
 was in him to enlighten his way; and at the same 
 time he began to be highly impatient, being eighteen, 
 and a man as he thought, of waiting and doing nothing 
 and living at home. 
 
 "If we could but have sent him to Oxford," Aunt 
 Agatha said; "if I had the means!" — but it is very 
 doubtful whether she ever could have had the means; 
 and of late Aunt Agatha too had been disturbed in her 
 quiet. Her letters to Winnie had begun to convey en- 
 closures of which she did not speak much, even to Mrs. 
 Ocherlony, but which were dead against any such pos- 
 sibility for Hugh. 
 
 "If I had been brought up at school where I might 
 have got a scholarship, or something," said Hugh; 
 "but I don't know why I should want to go to Ox- 
 ford. We must send Will if we can, mother; he has 
 the brains for it. Oxford is too grand an idea for me — " 
 
 "Not if you are to have Earlston, Hugh," said his 
 mother.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 281 
 
 "I wish Earlston was at the bottom of the sea," 
 cried the poor boy; "but for Earlston, one would have 
 known what one was good for. I wish my uncle would 
 make xij) his mind and found a hospital with it, or 
 marry, as Aiint Agatha says — " 
 
 "He will never marry," said Mary-, "he was a 
 great deal older than your father; he is quite an old 
 man." 
 
 "Indeed, Mary, he is not old at all, for a man," 
 said Aunt Agatha, Math eagerness. "Ladies are so 
 different. He might get a very nice Avife yet, and 
 children, for anything any one could tell. Not too 
 young, you know — I think it would be a great pity 
 if he were to marry anybody too young; but a nice 
 person, of perhaps forty or so," said Aunt Agatha; 
 and she rounded off her sentence with a soft little 
 sigh. 
 
 "He will never marry, I am sure," said Mary, al- 
 most with indignation; for, not to speak of the injustice 
 to Hugh, it sounded like an imputation upon her bro- 
 ther-in-law, who was sober-minded, and not thinking 
 of anything so foolish; not to say that his heart was 
 with his marble Venus, and he was indifferent to any 
 other love. 
 
 "Well, if you tliink so, my dear — " said Miss 
 Seton ; and a faint colour rose upon her soft old cheek. 
 She tliought Mary's meaning Avas, that after his behavi- 
 our to herself, which was not exactly what people ex- 
 pected, he was not likely to entertain another affection; 
 which was probably as true as any other thcorie of Mr. 
 Ochterlony's conduct. Aunt Agatha thought this was 
 Mary's meaning, and it pleased her. It was an old
 
 282 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 story, but still she remembered it so well, that it was 
 pleasant to think he had not forgotten. But this, to 
 be sure, had very little to do wnth Hugh. 
 
 "I wish he would marry," said his heir presumtive, 
 "or put one out of pain one way or another. Things 
 can't go on for ever like this. Islay is only sixteen, 
 and he is starting already, and here am I eighteen 
 past, and good for nothing. You would not like me 
 to be a useless wretch all my life?" said Hugh, severely, 
 turning round upon his mother, who was not prepared 
 for such an address; but Hugh, of all the boys, was 
 the one most like his father, and had the Major's 
 "way." 
 
 "No," cried Mary, a little alarmed, "anything but 
 that. I still think you might wait a little, and see 
 what your uncle means. You are not so very old. 
 Well, my dear boy! don't be impatient; tell me what 
 you wish to do." 
 
 But this was exactly what Hugli could not tell. 
 "If there had been no Earlston in the question, one 
 would have known," he said. "It is very hard upon 
 a fellow to be another man's nephew. I think the best 
 thing I could do would be to ignore Earlston alto- 
 gether , and go in for — anything I could make 
 my own living by. There's Islay has had the first 
 chance — ^" 
 
 "My dear, one is siirely enough in a family to be 
 a soldier," said Aunt Agatha, "if you would consider 
 your poor mamma's feelings and mine ; but I never 
 thought, for my part, that that was the thing for Is- 
 lay, with his long head. He had always such a very 
 peculiar head. When he was a child, you know, Maiy, 
 we never could get a child's hat to fit him. Now, I
 
 MADONNA MARY. 283 
 
 think, if Ilugli had gone into a very nice regiment, 
 and Islay had stndied for something — " 
 
 "Do you think he will have no study to do, going 
 in for the Engineers?" said Hugh, indignantly. "I 
 am not envious of Islay. I know he is the best fellow 
 among us; but, at the same time — - The thing for me 
 would be to go to Australia or New Zealand, where 
 one does not need to be good for anything in particular. 
 That is my case," said the disconsolate youth; and out 
 of the depths, if not of his soul, at least of his capa- 
 cious chest, there came a profound, almost despairing 
 sigh. 
 
 "Oh, Hugh, my darling boy! you cannot mean to 
 break all our hearts," cried Aunt Agatha. 
 
 It was just what poor Hugh meant to do, for the 
 moment, at least; and he sat with his head down and 
 despair in his face, with a look which went to Mary's 
 heart, and brought the tears to her eyes, but a smile 
 to her li])S. He was so like liis father; and Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony knew that he would not, in this way, at least, 
 break her heart. 
 
 "Would you like to go to Uncle Penrose?" she 
 said; to which Hugh re])lied with a vehement shake 
 of his head. "Would you like to go into Mr. Allonby's 
 office? You know he spoke of wanting an articled 
 pupil. Would you think of that ])roposal Mr. Mortare, 
 the architect, made us? — don't shake your head off, 
 Hugh; or ask Sir Edward to let you help old Sanders 
 — or — or — Would you really like to be a soldier, 
 like your brother?" said Mary, at her wits' end; for 
 after this, with their limited opportunities, there seemed 
 no further suggestion to make. 
 
 "1 must do something, mother," said Hugli, and
 
 284 MADONNA MARV. 
 
 he rose iip Avitli another sigh; "but I don't want to 
 vex you," he addud, coming up and putting his arms 
 round her with that admiring fondness which is perhaps 
 sweeter to a woman from her son than even from her 
 lover; and then, his mind being relieved, he had no 
 objection to change the conversation. "I promised to 
 look at the young colts, and tell Sir Edward what I 
 thought of them," he suddenly said, looking up at 
 Mary with a cloudy, doubtful look ■ — afraid of l)eing 
 laughed at, and yet himself ready to laugh — such as 
 is not unusual upon a boy's face. Mrs. Ochterlony 
 did not feel in the least inclined for laughter, though 
 she smiled i;pon her boy; and when he went away, a 
 look of anxiety came to her face, though it was not 
 anything like the tragical anxiety which contracted 
 Aunt Agatha's gentle countenance. She took up her 
 work again, which was more than Miss Seton could do. 
 The boys were no longer children, and life was coming 
 back to her with their growing years. Life which is 
 not peace, but moi-e like a sword. 
 
 "My dear love, something must be done," said 
 Aunt Agatha. "Australia or New Zealand, and for 
 a boy of his expectations! Mary, something must be 
 done." 
 
 "Yes," said Mary. "I must go and consult my 
 brother-in-law about it, and see what he thinks best. 
 But as for New Zealand or Australia, Aunt Agatha — " 
 
 "Do you think it will be nice^ Mary?" said Miss 
 Seton, with a soft blush like a girl's. "It will be like 
 asking him, you know, what he means; it will be like 
 saying he ought to provide — " 
 
 "He said Hugh was to be his heir," said Mary, 
 "and I believe he meant what he said; at all events
 
 MADONNA MARY. 285 
 
 it would be wrong to do anytliing without consulting' 
 liim , for he has always been very kind." 
 
 These words threw Aunt Agatha into a flutter 
 which she could not conceal. "It may be very well 
 to consult him," she said; "but rather than let him 
 
 think we are asking his help And then, how can 
 
 you see him, Mary? I am afi'aid it would be — awk- 
 ward, to say the least, to ask him here " 
 
 "I will go to Earlston to-morrow," said Mary. "I 
 made tip my mind while Hugh was talking. After 
 Islay has gone, it will be worse for Hugh. Will is so 
 much younger, poor boy." 
 
 "Will," said Aunt Agatha, sighing. "Oh, Mary, 
 if they had only been girls! we could have brought 
 them up without any assistance, and no bother about 
 professions or things. When you have settled Hugh 
 and Islay, there will be Will to open it up again; and 
 they will all leave us, after all. Oh, Mary, my dear 
 love, if they had been but girls!" 
 
 "Yes, but they are not girls," said Mrs. Ochterlony, 
 with a half smile; and then she too sighed. She was 
 glad her boys were boys, and had more confidence in 
 them, and Providence and life, than Aunt Agatha had. 
 But she was not glad to tliinlv that her boys must leave 
 her, and that she had no daughter to share her house- 
 hold life. The cloud which sat on Aunt Agatha's care- 
 ful brow came over her, too, for the moment, and 
 dimmed her eyes, and made her heart ache. "They 
 came into the world for God's uses and not for ours" 
 she said, recovering Iierself, "and though they are boys, 
 we must not keep them unhap})y. I will go over to 
 Earlston to-morrow by the early train. 
 
 "If you think it riglit," said Miss Seton: but it
 
 286 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 was not cordially spoken. Aunt Agatha was very proud 
 and sensitive in her way. She was the kind of woman 
 to get into misunderstandings, and shun explanations, 
 as much as if she had been a woman in a novel. She 
 was as ready to take up a mistaken idea, and as de- 
 termined not to see her mistake, as if she had been a 
 licroine forced thereto by the exigencies of three volumes. 
 Miss Seton had never come to the third volume herself; 
 she thought it more dignified for her own part to re- 
 main in the complications and perplexities of the second ; 
 and it struck her that it was indelicate of Mary thus 
 to open the subject, and lead Francis Ochterlouy on, 
 as it Avere, to declare his mind. 
 
 The question Avas quite a different one so far as 
 Mary was concerned, to whom Francis Ochterlony had 
 never stood in the position of a lover, nor was the 
 subject of any delicate difficulties. With her it was a 
 straightforward piece of business enough to consult her 
 brother-in-law, who was the natural guardian of her 
 sons, and who had ahvays been well disposed towards 
 them, especially while they kept at a safe distance. 
 Islay was the only one who had done any practical 
 harm at Earlston, and Mr. Ochterlony had forgiven 
 and, it is to be hoped, forgotten the downfall of the 
 rococo chair. If she had had nothing more important 
 to trouble her than a consiiltation so innocent! Though, 
 to tell the truth, Mary did not feel that she had a 
 great deal to trouble her, even with the uncertainty of 
 Hugh's future upon her hands. Even if his uncle were 
 to contemplate anything so absurd as marriage or the 
 founding of a hospital, Hugh could still make his own 
 way in the world, as his brothers would have to do, 
 and as his father had done before him. And Mrs.
 
 MADONNA ttlAKY. 287 
 
 Ocliterlony was not even overwhelmefl by consideration 
 of the very diflferent characters of the boys, nor of the 
 immense responsibility, nor of any of the awful thoughts 
 with which widow-mothers are supposed to be over- 
 whelmed. They were all well, God bless them; all 
 honest and true, healthful and affectionate. Hugh had 
 his crotchets and figety ways, but so had his father, 
 and perhaps Mary loved her boy the better for them-, 
 and Wilfrid was a strange boy, but then he had always 
 been strange, and it came natural to him. No doubt 
 there might be undeveloped depths in both, of which 
 their mother as yet knew nothing; but in the mean- 
 time Mary, like other mothers, took things as she saw 
 them, and was proud of her sons, and had no disturbing 
 fears. As for Islay, he was steady as a rock, and 
 almost as strong, and did the heart good to behold, 
 and even the weakest woman might have taken heart 
 to trust him, whatever might be the temptations and 
 terrors of "the world." Mary had that composure 
 which belongs to the better side of experience, as 
 much as suspicion and distrust belong to its darker side. 
 The world did not alarm her as it did Aunt Agatha; 
 neither did Mr. Ocliterlony alarm her, whose sentiments 
 ought at least to be known by this time, and whose 
 counsel she sought with no artful intention of drawing 
 him out, but with an honest desire to have the matter 
 settled one way or another. This was how the interval 
 of calm passed away, and the new generation brought 
 back a new and fuller life. 
 
 It was not all pleasure with which Mary rose next 
 morning to go upon her mission to Earlston; but it 
 was with a feeling of resurrection, a sense that she lay 
 no longer ashore, but that the tide was once more
 
 288 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 creeping about her stranded boat, and the wind wooing 
 the idle sail. There might be storms awaiting her 
 upon the sea; storm and shipwreck and loss of all 
 things lay in the future; possible for her boys as for 
 others, certain for some; but that pricking, tingling 
 thrill of danger and pain gave a certain vitality to the 
 stir of life renewed. Peace is sweet, and there are 
 times when the soul sighs for it; but life is sweeter. 
 And this is how Mary, in her mother's anxiety, — 
 with all the possibilities of fate to affright her, if they 
 could, yet not without a novel sense of exhilaration, 
 her heart beating more strongly, her pulse fuller, 
 her eye brighter, — • went forth to open the door for her 
 boy into his own personal and individual career. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 It was a cheerful summer morning when Mary set 
 out on her visit to her brother-in-law. She had said 
 nothing to her boys about it, for Hugh was fantastical, 
 like Aunt Agatha, and would have denounced her in- 
 tention as an expedient to make his uncle provide 
 for him. Hugh had gone out to attend to some of 
 the many little businesses he had in hand for Sir 
 Edward; and Islay was working in his own room pre- 
 paring for the "coach," to whom he was going in a 
 few days; and Wilfrid, or Will, as everybody called 
 him, was with his curate-tutor. The Cottage held its 
 placid place upon the high bank of Kirtell, shining 
 through its trees in a purple cloud of roses, and listen- 
 ing in the sun to that everlasting quiet voice that
 
 MADONNA MARY. 289 
 
 sung in its ear, summer and winter, the little river's 
 changeful yet changeless song. It looked like a place 
 to which no changes could ever come; calm people in 
 the stillness of age, souls at rest, little children, were 
 the kind of people to live in it; and the stir and 
 quickening of pleasurable pain which Mary felt in her 
 own veins, — the sense of new life and movement 
 about her, — - felt out of place with the quiet house. 
 Aunt Agatha was out of sight, ordering her house- 
 hold aftairs; and the drawing-room was silent and 
 deserted as a fairy palace, full of a thousand signs of 
 habitation, but without a single tenant audible or visible, 
 except the roses that clambered about the open windows, 
 and the bee that went in and made a confused in- 
 vestigation, and came out again none the wiser. An 
 odd sense of the contrast struck Mrs. Ochterlony; but 
 a little while before, her soul had been in unison with 
 the calm of the place, and she had thought nothing of 
 it; now she had woke up out of that fair chamber 
 turned to the sunrising, the name of which is Peace, 
 and had stepped back into life, and felt the tingle and 
 tbrill of resurrection. And an unconscious smile came 
 on her face as she looked back. To think that out of 
 that silence and sunshine should pour out such a tide 
 of new strength and vigour — and that henceforth 
 hearts should leap with eagerness and wistfulness under 
 that roof, and perhaps grow wild with joy, or perhaps, 
 God knows, break with anguish, as news came good or 
 evil! She had been but half alive so long, that the 
 sense of living was sweet. 
 
 It was a moment to call forth many thoughts and 
 recollections, but the fact was that she did not have 
 time to entertain them. There happened to her one 
 
 Madonna Jlni)/. I. Lu
 
 290 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 of those curious coincidences which occur so often, and 
 which it is so difficult to account for. Long before 
 she reached the little station, a tall figure broke the 
 long vacant line of the dusty country road, a figure 
 which Mary felt at once to be that of a stranger, and 
 yet one she seemed to recognise. She could not believe 
 her eyes, nor think it was anything but the association 
 of ideas which misled her, and laughed at her ovm 
 fantastic imagination as she went on. Bat nevertheless 
 it is true that it was her brother-in-law himself who 
 met her, long before she reached the railway by which 
 she had meant to go to him. Her appearance struck 
 him too, it was evident, with a little surprise; but yet 
 she was at home, and might have been going any- 
 where-, whereas the strange fact of his coming required 
 a more elaborate explanation than he had it in his 
 power to give. 
 
 "I do not know exactly what put it into my head," 
 said Mr. Ochterlony, "perhaps some old work of mine 
 which turned up the other day, and which I was 
 doing when you were with me. I thought I would 
 come over and have a talk with you about your 
 boy." 
 
 "It is very strange," said Mary, "for this very 
 morning I had made up my mind to come to you, to 
 consult you. It must be some kind of magnetism, I 
 suppose." 
 
 "Indeed, I can't say; I have never studied the 
 natural sciences," said Mr. Ochterlony, with gravity. 
 "I have had a very distinguished visitor lately: a man 
 whose powers are as much above the common mind as 
 his information is — Dr. Franklin, whose name of
 
 MADONNA MARY. 291 
 
 course you have heard — a man of European reputa- 
 tion." 
 
 "Yes," said Mary, doubtfully, feeling very guilty 
 and ignorant, for to tell the truth she had never heard 
 of Dr. Franklin; but her brother-in-law perceived her 
 ignorance, and explained in a kind of compassionate 
 way — 
 
 "He is about the gi-eatest numismatist we have in 
 England," said Mr. Ochterlony, "and somehow my 
 little monograph upon primitive art in Iceland came to 
 be talked of. I have never completed it, though 
 Franklin expressed himself much interested — and I 
 think that's how it was suggested to my mind to come 
 and see you to-day." 
 
 "I am very glad," said Mary, "I wanted so much 
 to have your advice. Hugh is almost a man now — " 
 
 "A man!" said Mr. Ochterlony, with a smile; "I 
 don't see how that is possible. I hope he is not so 
 unruly as he used to be; but you are as young as 
 ever, and I don't see how your children can be men." 
 
 And oddly enough, just at that moment, Hugh 
 himself made his appearance, making his way by a 
 cross road down to the river, with his basket over his 
 shoulder, and his fishing-rod. He was taller than his 
 uncle, though ]\[r. Ochterlony was tall; and big besides, 
 with large, mighty, not perfectly developed limbs, 
 swinging a little loosely upon their hinges like the 
 limbs of a young Newfoundland or baby lion. His 
 face was still smooth as a girl's, and fair, with downy 
 cheeks and his mother's eyes, and that pucker in his 
 forehead which Francis Ochterlony had known of old 
 in the countenance of another Hugh. Mary did not 
 say anything, but she stopped short before her boy, 
 
 19*
 
 292 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 and put her hand on his shoulder, and looked at his 
 uncle with a smile, appealing to him with her proud 
 eyes and beaming face, if this was not almost a man. 
 As for Mr. Ochterlony, he gave a great start and said, 
 "God bless us!" under his breath, and was otherwise 
 speechless for the moment. He had been thinking of 
 a boy, grown no doubt, but still within the limits of 
 childhood; and lo, it was an unknown human creature 
 that faced him, with a will and thoughts of his own, 
 like its father and mother, and yet like nobody but 
 itself. Hugh, for his part, looked with very curious 
 eyes at the stranger, and dimly recognised him, and 
 grew shamefaced and a little fidgety, as was natural to 
 the boy. 
 
 "You see how he has grown," said Mary, who, 
 being the triumphant one among the three, was the 
 first to recover herself. "You do not think him a 
 child now? It is your uncle, Hugh, come to see us. 
 It is very kind of him — but of course you knew who 
 he was." 
 
 "I am very glad to see my uncle," said Hugh, 
 with eager shyness. "Yes, I knew. You are like my 
 father's picture, sir-, — and your own that we have 
 at the Cottage — and Islay a little. I knew it was 
 you." 
 
 And then they all walked on in silence; for Mr. 
 Ochterlony was more moved by this sudden encounter 
 than he cared to acknowledge; and Mary, too, for the 
 moment, being a sympathetic woman, saw her boy 
 with his uncle's eyes, and saw what the recollections 
 were that sprang up at sight of him. She told Hugh 
 to go on and do his duty, and send home some trout 
 for dinner; and, thus dismissing him, guided her un-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 293 
 
 looked-for visitor to tlie Cottage. He knew the way as 
 well as she did, which increased the embarrassment of 
 the situation. Mary saw only the stiles and the fields, 
 and the trees that over-topped the hedges, familiar ob- 
 jects that met her eyes every day; but Francis Ochter- 
 lony saw many a past day and past imagination of his 
 own life, and seemed to walk over his own ashes as he 
 went on. And that was Hugh! — Hugh, not his 
 brother, hut his nephew and heir, the representative of 
 the Ochterlony's, occupying the position which his own 
 son should have occupied. Mr. Ochterlony had not 
 calculated on the progress of time, and he was startled 
 and even touched, and felt wonderingly — what it is 
 so difficult for a man to feel — that his own course 
 was no longer of much importance to anybody, and 
 that here was his successor. The thought made him 
 giddy, just as Mary's wondering sense of the unreality 
 of her own independent life, and everlastinguess of her 
 stay at the Cottage, had made her; but yet in a dif- 
 ferent way. For perhaps Francis Ochterlony had never 
 actually realized before that most things were over for 
 him, and that his heir stood ready and waiting for the 
 end of his life. 
 
 There was still something of this sense of giddiness 
 in his mind when he followed Mary through the open 
 window into the silent drawing-room where nobody was. 
 Perhaps he had not behaved just as he ought to have 
 done to Agatha Seton; and the recollection of a great 
 many things that had happened, and that had not hap- 
 pened, came back upon him as he wound his way Avith 
 some confusion through the roses. He was half ashamed 
 to go in, like a familiar friend, through the window. 
 Of all men in the world, he had the least right to such
 
 294 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 a privilege of intimacy. He ought to have gone to the 
 door in a formal way and sent in his card, and been 
 admitted only if Miss Seton pleased; and yet here he 
 was, in the very sanctuary of her life, invited to sit 
 down as it were by her side, led in by the younger 
 generation, which could not but smile at the thought 
 of any sort of sentiment between the old woman and 
 the old man. For indeed Mary, though she was not 
 young, was smiling softly within herself at the idea. 
 She had no sort of sympathy with Mr. Ochterlony's 
 delicate embarrassment, though she was woman enough 
 to hurry away to seek her aunt and prepare her for 
 the meeting, and shield the ancient maiden in the first 
 flutter of her feelings. Thus the master of Earlston 
 was left alone in the Cottage, with leisure to look 
 round and recognise the identity of the place, and see 
 all its differences, and become aware of its pleasant 
 air of habitation, and all the signs of daily use and 
 Avont which had no existence in his own house. All 
 this confused him, and put him at a great disadvantage. 
 The probabilities were that Agatha Seton , would not 
 have been a bit the happier had she been mistress of 
 Earlston. Indeed the Cottage had so taken her stamp 
 that it was impossible for anybody, whose acquaintance 
 with her was less than thirty years old, to imagine her 
 with any other surroundings. But Francis Ochterlony 
 had known her for more than thirty years, and naturally 
 he felt that he himself was a possession worth a woman's 
 while, and that he had, so to speak, defrauded her of 
 so important a piece of property, and he was penitent 
 and ashamed of himself. Perhaps too his own heart 
 was moved a little by the sense of something lost. His 
 own house might have borne this sunny air of home;
 
 MADONNA MARY. 295 
 
 instead of liis brother Hugh's son, there might have 
 been a boy of his own to inherit Earlston; and looking 
 back at it quietly in this cottage drawing-room, Francis 
 Ochterlony's life seemed to him something very like a 
 mistake. He was not a hard-hearted man, and the in- 
 ference he drew from this conclusion was very much in 
 his nephew's favour. Hugh's boy was almost a man, 
 and there was no doubt that he was the natural heir, 
 and that it was to him everything ought to come. 
 Instead of thinking of marrying, as Aunt Agatha 
 imagined, or founding a hospital, or making any other 
 ridiculous use of his money, his mind, in its softened 
 and compunctious state, turned to its natural and ob- 
 vious duty. "Let there be no mistake, at least, about 
 the boy," he said to himself. "Let him have all that 
 is good for him, and all that can best fit him for his 
 position;" for. Heaven be praised, there was at least 
 no doubt about Hugh, or question as to his being the 
 lawful and inevitable heir. 
 
 It was this process of reasoning, or rather of feel- 
 ing, that made Mrs. Ochterlony so entirely satisfied with 
 her brother-in-law when she returned (still alone, for 
 Miss Seton was not equal to the exertion all at once, 
 and naturally there was something extra to be ordered 
 for dinner), and began to talk to their uncle about the 
 children. 
 
 "There has been no difficulty about Islay," she 
 said; "he always knew what he wanted, and set his 
 heart at once on his profession; but Hugh has no such 
 decided turn. It was very kind what you said when 
 you wrote — but I — don't think it is good for the 
 boy to be idle. Whatever you might think it right to
 
 296 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 arrange afterwards, I tbink he sliould have something 
 to do " 
 
 "I did not think he had been so old," said Mr. 
 Ochterlony, almost apologetically. "Time does not 
 leave much mark of its progress at Earlston. Some- 
 thing to do? I thought what a young fellow of his age 
 enjoyed most was amusing himself. What would he 
 like to do?" 
 
 "He does not know," said Mary, a little abashed; 
 "that is why I wanted so much to consult you. I sup- 
 pose people have talked to him of — of what you 
 might do for him; but he cannot bear the thought of 
 hanging, as it were, on your charity •" 
 
 "Charity!" said Mi-. Ochterlony, "it is not charity, 
 it is right and nature. I hope he is not one of those 
 touchy sort of boys that think kindness an injury. My 
 poor brother Hugh was always fidgety " 
 
 "Oh no, it is not that," said the anxious mother, 
 "only he is afraid that you might think he was cal- 
 culating upon you; as if you were obliged to provide 
 for him " 
 
 "And so I am obliged to provide for him," said 
 ]\Ir. Ochterlony, "as much as I should be obliged to 
 provide for my own son , if I had one. We must find 
 him something to do. Perhaps I ovight to have thought 
 of it sooner. What has been done about his education? 
 What school has he been at? Is he fit for the Univer- 
 sity? Earlston will be a better property in his days 
 than it was when I was young," added the uncle with 
 a natural sigh. If he had but provided himself with 
 an heir of his own, perhaps it would have been less 
 troublesome on the whole. "I would send him to Ox-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 297 
 
 ford, which would be the best way of employing- him; 
 but is he fit for it? Where has he been to school?" 
 
 Upon which ]\[ary, with some confusion, murmured 
 something about the curate, and felt for the first time 
 as if she had been indifferent to the education of her 
 boy. 
 
 "The curate!" said Mr. Ochterlony; and he gave a 
 little shrug of his shouMers, as if that was a very poor 
 security for Hugh's scholarship. 
 
 "He has done very well with all his pupils," said 
 Mary, "and Mr. Cramer, to whom Islay is going, was 
 very much satisfied " 
 
 "I forget where Islay was going?" said Mr. Ochter- 
 lony, inquiringly. 
 
 "Mr. Cramer lives near Kendal," said Mary, "he 
 was very highly recommended; and we thoiight the boy 
 could come home for Sunday " 
 
 Mr. Ochterlony shook his head, though still in a 
 patronizing and friendly way. "I am not sure that it 
 is good to choose a tutor because the boy can come 
 home on Sunday," he said, "nor send them to the 
 curate tliat you may keep them with yourself. I know 
 it is the way Avith ladies ; but it would have been 
 better, I think, to have sent them to school." 
 
 Mrs. Ochterlony was confounded by this verdict 
 against her. All at once her eyes seemed to be opened, 
 and she saw herself a selfish mother keeping her boys 
 at her own apron-strings. She had not time to think 
 of such poor arguments in her favour as want of means, 
 or her own perfectly good intentions. She was silent, 
 struck dumb by this unthought-of condemnation; but 
 just tlicn a champion she had not thought of appeared 
 in her defence.
 
 298 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "Mr, Small did very well for Hugh," said a voice 
 at the window; "he is a very good tutor so far as he 
 goes. He did very well for Hugh — and Islay too," 
 said the new-comer, Avho came in at the window as he 
 spoke with a bundle of books under his arm. The in- 
 terruption was so unexpected that Mr. Oehterlony, being 
 quite unused to the easy entrance of strangers at the 
 window, and into the conversation, started up alarmed 
 and a little angry. But, after all, there was nothing 
 to be angry about. 
 
 " It is only Will," said Mary. " Wilfrid, it is your 
 uncle, whom you have not seen for so long. This was 
 my baby," she added, turning to her brother-in-law, 
 with an anxioiTS smile — for Wilfrid was a boy who 
 puzzled strangers, and was not by any means so sure 
 to make a good impression as the others were. Mr. 
 Oehterlony shook hands with the new-comer, but he 
 surveyed him a little doubtfully. He was about thirteen, 
 a long boy, with big wrists and ankles visible, and 
 signs of rapid growth. His face did not speak of 
 country air and fare and outdoor life and healthful 
 occupation like his brother's, but was pale and full of 
 fancies and notions which he did not reveal to every- 
 body. He came in and put down his books and threw 
 himself into a chair with none of his elder brother's 
 shamefacedness. Will, for his part, was not given to 
 blushing. He knew nothing of his uncle's visit, but 
 he took it quietly as a thing of course, and prepared 
 to take part in the conversation, whatever its subject 
 might be. 
 
 "Mr. Small has done very well for them all," said 
 Mary, taking heart again; "he has always done very 
 well with his pupils. Mr. Cramer was very much sa-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 299 
 
 tisfied with tlie progress Islay bad made; and as for 
 Hugh " 
 
 "He is quite clever enough for Hugh," said Will, 
 with the same steady voice. 
 
 Mr. Ochterlony, though he was generally so grave, 
 was amused. "My young friend, are you sure you are 
 a judge?" he said. "Perhaps he is not clever enough 
 for Wilfrid — is that what you meant to say?" 
 
 "It is not so much the being clever," said the boy. 
 "I think he has taught me as much as he knows, so it 
 is not his fault. I wish we had been sent to school; 
 but Hugh is all right. He knows as much as he wants 
 to know, I suppose; and as for Islay, his is technical," 
 the young critic added with a certain quiet superiority. 
 Will, poor fellow, was the clever one of the family, 
 and somehow he had found it out. 
 
 Mr. Ochterlony looked at this new representative 
 of his race with a little alarm. Perhaps he was thinking 
 that, on the whole, it was as well not to have boys; 
 and then, as much from inability to carry on the con- 
 versation as from interest in his own particular subject, 
 he returned to Hugh. 
 
 "The best plan, perhaps, will be for Hugh to go 
 back with me to Earlston; that is, if it is not disagree- 
 able to you," he said, in his old-fashioned, polite way. 
 "I have been too long thinking about it, and his posi- 
 tion must be made distinct. Oxford would be the best; 
 that would be good for him in every way. And I 
 think afterwards he might pay a little attention to the 
 estate. I never could have believed that babies grew 
 into boys, and boys to men, so quickly. Why, it can 
 barely be a few years since — Ah!" Mr. Ochterlony 
 got up very precipitately from his chair. It was Aunt
 
 300 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Agatha who had come into the room, with her white 
 hair smoothed under her white cap, and her pretty- 
 Shetland shawl over her shoulders. Then he perceived 
 that it was more than a few years since he had last 
 seen her. The difference was more to him than the 
 difference in the boys, who were creatures that sprang 
 up nobody knew how, and were never to be relied 
 upon. That summer morning when she came to Earl- 
 ston to claim her niece, Miss Seton had been old; but 
 it was a different kind of age from that which sat 
 upon her soft countenance now. Francis Ochterlony 
 had not for many a year asked himself in his seclusion 
 whether he was old or young. His occupations were 
 all tranquil , and he had not felt himself unable for 
 them; but if Agatha Seton was like this, surely then 
 it must indeed be time to think of an heir. 
 
 The day passed with a curious speed and yet tar- 
 diness, such as is peculiar to days of excitement. 
 When they were not talking of the boys, nobody could 
 tell what to talk about. Once or twice, indeed, Mr. 
 Ochterlony began to speak of the Numismatic Society, 
 or the excavations at Nineveh, or some other cognate 
 subject; but he always came to a standstill when he 
 caught Aunt Agatha's soft eyes wondering over him. 
 They had not talked about excavations, nor numis- 
 matics either, the last time he had been here; and 
 there was no human link between that time and this, 
 except the boys, of whom they could all talk; and to 
 this theme accordingly everybody returned. Hugh 
 came in audibly, leaving his basket at the kitchen 
 door as he passed, and Islay, with his long head and 
 his deep eyes, came down from his room where he was 
 working, and Will kept his seat in the big Indian
 
 MADONNA MARY. 301 
 
 chair in the corner, where lie dangled his long" legs, 
 and listened. Everybody felt the importance of the 
 moment , and was dreadfully serious , even when lighter 
 conversation was attempted. To show the boys in their 
 best light, each of the three, and yet not so to show 
 them as if anybody calculated upon, or was eager 
 about the uncle's patronage ; to give him an idea of 
 their different characters, Avithout any suspicion of 
 "showing off," which the lads could not have tolerated; 
 all this was very difficult to the two anxious women, 
 and required such an amount of mental effort as made 
 it hard to be anything but serious. Fortunately, the 
 boys themselves were a little excited by the novelty 
 of such a visitor, and curious about their uncle, not 
 knowing what his appearance might mean. Hugh 
 fiushdd into a singular mixture of exaltation, and sus- 
 picion, and surprise, when Mr. Ochterlony invited him 
 to Earlston; and looked at his mother with momentary 
 distrust, to see if by any means she had sought the 
 invitation; and Wilfrid sat and dangled his long legs, 
 and listened, witli an odd appreciation of the fact that 
 the visit was to Hugh, and not to himself, or any more 
 important member of the family. As for Islay, he was 
 always a good fellow, and like himself; and his way 
 was clear before him, and admitted of no hopes or 
 fears except as to whether or not he should succeed at 
 liis examination, which was a matter about which he 
 had himself no very serious doubts, though he said 
 little about it; and perhaps on the whole it was Islay, 
 who was quite indifferent, whom Mr. Ochterlony would 
 have fixed his choice upon, had he been at liberty to 
 choose. 
 
 When the visitor departed, which he did the same
 
 302 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 evening, the household drew a long breath; everybody 
 was relieved, from Peggy in the kitchen, whose idea 
 was that the man was "looking after our Miss Agatha 
 again," down to Will, who had now leisure and occa- 
 sion to express his sentiments on the subject. Islay 
 went back to his work, to make up for the lost day, 
 having only a moderate and temporary interest in his 
 uncle. It was the elder and the younger who alone 
 felt themselves concerned. As for Hugh, the world 
 seemed to have altered in these few hours; Mr. 
 Ochterlony had not said a great deal to him; but what 
 he said had been said as a man speaks who means and 
 has the power to carry out his words; and the vague 
 heirship had become all of a sudden the realest fact in 
 existence, and a thing which could not be, and never 
 could have been, otherwise. And he was slightly 
 giddy, and his head swam with the sudden elevation. 
 But as for Wilfrid, what had he to do with it, any 
 more than any other member of the family? though he 
 was always a strange boy, and there never was any 
 reckoning what he might do or say. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Will's room was a small room opening from his 
 mother's, which would have been her dressing-room 
 had she wanted such a luxury; and when Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony went up-stairs late that night, after a long talk 
 with Aunt Agatha, she found the light still burning in 
 the little room, and her boy seated , with his jacket and 
 his shoes off, on the floor, in a brown study. He was
 
 MADONNA MARY. 303 
 
 sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin in a patch 
 of moonlight that shone in from the window. The moon- 
 light made him look ghastly, and his candle had burnt 
 down, and was flickering unsteadily in the socket, and 
 Mary was alarmed. She did not think of any moral 
 cause for the first moment, but only that something 
 was the matter with him, and went in with a sudden 
 maternal panic to see what it was. Will took no 
 immediate notice of her anxious questions, but he con- 
 descended to raise his head and prop up his chin with 
 his hands, and stare up into her face. 
 
 "Mother," he said, "you always go on as if a 
 fellow was ill. Can't one be thinking a little without 
 anything being the matter? I should have put out my 
 light had I known you were coming up-stairs." 
 
 "You know. Will, that I cannot have you sit here 
 and think, as you say. It is not thinking — it is brood- 
 ing, and does you harm," said Mrs. Ochterlony. "Jump 
 up, and go to bed." 
 
 "Presently," said the boy. "Is it true that Hugh 
 will go to Oxford, mamma?" 
 
 "Very likely," said Mary, with some pride. "Your 
 uncle will see how he has got on with his studies, and 
 after that I think he will go." 
 
 "What for?" said Will. "Wliat is the good? He 
 knows as much as he wants to know, and Mr. Small 
 is quite good enough for him." 
 
 "What for?" said Mary, with displeasure. "For 
 his education, like other gentlemen, and that he may 
 take his right position. But you are too young to un- 
 derstand all that. Get up, and go to bed." 
 
 "I am not too young to understand," said Wilfrid; 
 "what is the good of throwing money and time away?
 
 304 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Yoxi may tell my uncle, ITugli will never do any good 
 at Oxford; and I don't see, for my part, why he shoixld 
 be the one to go." 
 
 "He is the eldest son, and he is your uncle's heir," 
 said Mary, with a conscious swelling of her motherly 
 heart. 
 
 "I don't see what diflPerence being the eldest makes," 
 said Will, embracing his knees. "I have been think- 
 ing over it this long time. Why should he be sent to 
 Oxford, and the rest of us stay at home? What does 
 it matter about the eldest? A fellow is not any better 
 than me because he was born before me. You might 
 as well send Peggy to Oxford," said Will, with vehe- 
 mence, "as send Hugh." 
 
 Mrs. Ochterlony, whose mind just theu was speci- 
 ally occupied by Hugh, was naturally disturbed by 
 this speech. She put out the flickering candle, and 
 set down her own light, and closed the door. "I can- 
 not let you speak so about your brother. Will," she 
 said. "He may not be so quick as you are for your 
 age, but I wish you were as modest and as kind as 
 Hugh is. Why should you grudge his advancement? I 
 used to think you would get the better of this feeling 
 when you ceased to be a child." 
 
 "Of what feeling?" cried Will, lifting his pale face 
 from his knees. 
 
 "My dear boy, you ought to know," said Mary; 
 "this grudge that any one should have a pleasure or 
 an advantage which you have not. A child may be 
 excused, but no man who thinks so continually of him- 
 self — " 
 
 "I was not thinking of myself," said Will, spring- 
 ing up from the floor with a flush on his face. "You
 
 MADOXNA MARY. 305 
 
 will always make a moral afiair of it, mother. As if 
 one could not discuss a thing. But I know that Hugh 
 is not clever, though he is the eldest. Let him have 
 Earlston if he likes, but why should he have Oxford? 
 And why should it always be supposed that he is 
 better, and a difierent kind of clay?" 
 
 "I wonder where you learned all that, Will," said 
 Mary, with a smile. "One would think you had picked 
 up some Radical or other. I might be vexed to see 
 ]jady Balderston walk out of the room before me, if 
 it was because she pretended to be a better woman; 
 but when it is only because she is Lady Balderston, 
 what does it matter? Hugh can't help being the eldest-, 
 if you had been the eldest — " 
 
 "Ah!" said Will, with a long breath-, "if I had 
 been the eldest — " And then he stopped short. 
 
 "What would you have done?" said Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony, smiling still. 
 
 "I would have done what Hugh will never do," 
 cried the boy. "I would have taken care of every- 
 body. I would have found out what they were fit 
 for, and put them in the right way. The one that 
 had brains should have been cultivated, and the one 
 who had no brains shoiild have — done something 
 else. There should have been no such mistake as — 
 But that is always how it is in the world — every- 
 body says so," said Wilfrid; "stupid people who know 
 nothing about it are set at the head, and those who 
 could manage — " 
 
 "Will," said his mother, "do you know you are 
 very presumptuous, and think a great deal too well of 
 yourself? If you were not such a child, I shoul4 l>6 
 angry. It is very well to be clever at your lessons, 
 
 Mndoumi Maiij. I. t-0
 
 306 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 but that is no proof that you are able to manage, as 
 you say. Let Hugh and his prospects alone for to- 
 night, and go to bed." 
 
 "Yes, I can let him alone," said Will. "I suppose 
 it is not worth one's while to mind — he will do no 
 good at Oxford, you know, that is one thing; — whereas 
 other people — " 
 
 "Ahvays yourself. Will," said Mary, with a sigh. 
 
 "Myself — - or even Islay," said the boy, in the 
 most composed way, "though Islay is very technical. 
 Still, he could do some good. But Hugh is an out- 
 of-door sort of fellow. He would do for a farmer or 
 gamekeeper, or to go to Australia, as he says. A man 
 should always fallow his natural bent. If, instead of 
 going by eldest sons and that sort of rubbish, they 
 were to try for the right man in the right place. And 
 then yon might be sure to be done the best for, mother, 
 and that he would take care of youy 
 
 "Will, you are very conceited and very unjust," 
 said Mary; but she was his mother, and she relented 
 as she looked into his weary young face: "but I hope 
 you have your heart in the right place, for all your 
 talk," she said, kissing him before she went away. 
 She went back to her room disturbed, as she had often 
 been before, but still smiling at Will's "way." It was 
 all boyish folly and talk, and he did not mean it; and 
 as he grew older he would learn better. Mary did not 
 care to speculate upon the volcanic elements which, for 
 anything she could tell, might be lying under her very 
 hand. She could not think of different developments 
 of character, and hostile individualities, as people might 
 to whom the three boys were but boys in the abstract, 
 and not Hugh, Islay, and Will — the one as near and
 
 MADONNA MARY. 307 
 
 dear to her as the other. Mrs. Ochterlony was not 
 philosophical, neither could she follow out to their 
 natural results the tendencies which she could not but 
 see. She preferred to think of it, as Will himself said, 
 as a moral affair — a fault which would mend; and so 
 laid her head on her pillow with a heart uneasy — but 
 no more uneasy than was consistent with the full 
 awakening of anxious yet hopeful life. 
 
 As for Will, he was asleep ten minutes after, and 
 had forgotten all about it. His heart was in its right 
 place, though he was plagued with a very arrogant, 
 troublesome, restless little head, and a greater amount 
 of "notions" than are good for his age. He wanted 
 to be at the helm of affairs, to direct everything — a 
 task for which he felt himself singularly competent-, 
 but, after all, it was for the benefit of other people 
 that he wanted to rule. It seemed to him that he could 
 arrange for everybody so much better than they could 
 for themselves; and he would have been liberal to 
 Hugh, though he had a certain contempt for his abili- 
 ties. He would have given him occupation suited to 
 him, and all the indulgences which he was most fitted 
 to appreciate: and he would have made a kind of 
 beneficent empress of his mother, and put her at the 
 head of all manner of benevolences, as other wise 
 despots have been known to do. But Will was the 
 youngest, and nobody so much as asked his advice, or 
 took him into consideration; and the poor boy was thus 
 tlirown back upon his own superiority, and got to brood 
 upon it, and scorn the weaker expedients with which 
 other people sought to fill up the place Avhich he alone 
 was truly qualified to fill. Fortunately, however, he 
 forgot all this as soon as he had fallen asleep. 
 
 20*
 
 308 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Hugli had no such legislative views for his part. 
 He was not given to speculation. He meant to do his 
 duty, and be a credit to everybody belonging to him-, 
 but he was a great deal "younger" than his boy-brother, 
 and it did not occur to him to separate himself in idea 
 — even to do them good — from his own people. 
 The future danced and glimmered before him, but it 
 was a brightness without any theory in it — a thing 
 full of spontaneous good-fortune and well-doing, with 
 which his own cleverness had nothing to do. Islay, 
 for his part, thought very little about it. He was 
 pleased for Hugh's sake, but as he had always looked 
 upon Hugh's good fortune as a certainty, the fact did 
 not excite him, and he was more interested about a 
 tough problem he was working at, and which his uncle's 
 visit had interrupted. It was a more agitated house- 
 hold than it had been a few months before — ere the 
 doors of the future had opened suddenly upon the lads •, 
 but there was still no agitation under the Cottage 
 roof which was inconsistent with sweet rest and quiet 
 sleep. 
 
 It made a dreadful difference in the house, as 
 everybody said, when the two boys went away — Islay 
 to Mr. Cramer's, the "coach" who was to prepare him 
 for his examination, and Hugh to Earlston. The Cot- 
 tage had always been quiet, its inhabitants thought, but 
 now it fell into a dead calm, which was stifling and 
 unearthly. Will, the only representative of youth left 
 among them, was graver than Aunt Agatha, and made 
 no gay din, but only noises of an irritating kind. He 
 kicked his legs and feet about, and the legs of all the 
 chairs, and let his books fall, and knocked over the 
 flower-stands — which were all exasperating sounds;
 
 MADONNA MARY. 309 
 
 but he (lid not fill the house with snatches of song, 
 with laughter, and the pleasant evidence that a light 
 heart was there. He used to "read" in his own room, 
 with a diligence which was much stimulated by the 
 conviction that Mr. Small was very little ahead of him, 
 and, to keep up his position of instructor, must work 
 hard, too; and, when this was over, he planted himself 
 in a corner of the drawing-room, in the great Indian 
 chair, with a book, beguiling the two ladies into un- 
 consciousness of his presence, and then interposing in 
 their conversation in the most inconvenient way. This 
 was Will's way of showing his appreciation of his 
 mother's society. He was not her right hand, like 
 Hugh, nor did he watch over her comfort in Islay's 
 steady, noiseless way. But he liked to be in the same 
 room with her, to haunt the places where she was, to 
 interfere in what she was doing, and seize the most 
 unfit moments for the expression of his sentiments. 
 With Aunt Agatha he was abrupt and indifferent, being 
 insensible to all conventional delicacies; and he took 
 pleasure, or seemed to take pleasure, in contradicting 
 Mrs. Ochterlony, and going against all her conclu- 
 sions and arguments; but he paid her the practical 
 compliment of preferring her society, and keeping by 
 her side. 
 
 It was while thus left alone, and with the excite- 
 ment of this first change fresh upon her, that Mrs. 
 Ochterlony heard another piece of news which moved 
 her greatly. It was that the regiment at Carlisle was 
 about to leave, and that it was Our regiment Avhich 
 was to take its place. She thought she was sorry for 
 the first moment. It was upon one of those quiet after- 
 noons, just after the boys had left the Cottage, when
 
 310 MADONNA MART. 
 
 the two ladies were sitting in tlie silence, not talking 
 much, thinking how long it was to post-time, and how 
 strange it was that the welcome steps and voices which 
 used to invade the quiet so abruptly and so sweetly, 
 were now beyond hoping for. And the afternoon 
 seemed to have grown so much longer, now that there 
 was no Hugh to burst in with news from the outer 
 world, no Islay to emerge from his problem. Will sat, 
 as usual, in the great chair, but he was reading, and 
 did not contribute to the cheerfulness of the party. 
 And it was just then that Sir Edward came in, doubly 
 welcome, to talk of the absent lads, and ask for the 
 last intelligence of them, and bring this startling piece 
 of news. Mrs. Ochterlony was aware that the regiment 
 had finished its service in India long ago, and there 
 was, of course, no reason why it should not come to 
 Carlisle, but it was not an idea which had ever oc- 
 curred to her. She thought she was sorry for the first 
 moment, and the news gave her an unquestionable 
 shock; but, after all, it was not a shock of pain-, her 
 heart gave a leap, and kept on beating faster, as with 
 a new stimulus. She could think of nothing else all 
 the evening. Even when the post came, and the letters, 
 and all the wonderful first impressions of the two new 
 beginners in the world, this other thought returned as 
 soon as it was possible for any thought to regain a 
 footing. She began to feel as if the very sight of the 
 uniform would be worth a pilgrimage; and then there 
 would be so many questions to ask, so many curiosities 
 and yearnings to satisfy. She could not keep her mind 
 from going out into endless speculations — how many 
 would remain of her old friends? — how many might 
 have dropped out of the ranks, or exchanged, or re-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 311 
 
 tireil, or been promoted? — liow many new marriages 
 there had been, and how many children? — little 
 Emma Askcll, for instance, how many babies she might 
 have now? JMary had kept up a desultory correspond- 
 ence with some of the ladies for a year or two, and 
 even had continued for a long time to get serious 
 letters from Mrs. Kirkman; but these correspondences 
 had dropped off gradually, as is their nature, and 
 the colonel's wife was not a woman to enlarge on 
 Emma AskelFs babies, having matters much more im- 
 portant on hand. 
 
 This new opening of interest moved Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony in spite of herself. She forgot all the painful as- 
 sociations, and looked forward to the arrival of the 
 regiment as an old sailor might look for the arrival of 
 a squadron on active service. Did the winds blow and 
 the waves rise as they used to do on those high seas 
 from which they came? Though Mary had been so 
 long becalmed , she remembered all about the conflicts 
 and storms of that existence more vividly than she re- 
 membered what had passed yesterday, and she had a 
 strange longing to know whether all that had departed 
 from her own life existed still for her old friends. Be- 
 tween the breaks of the tranquil conversation she felt 
 herself continually relapse into the regimental roll, al- 
 Avays beginning again and always losing the tlu'ead; 
 recalling the names of the men and of their wives whom 
 she had been kind to once, and feeling as if they be- 
 longed to her, and as if something must be brought 
 back to her by their return. 
 
 There was, however, little said about it all that 
 evening, much as it was in INfrs. Ochterlony's mind. 
 AVhen the letters had been discussed, tlie conversation
 
 312 MADONNA MARY, 
 
 languished. Summer liad begun to wane, and the roses 
 were over, and it began to be impracticable to keep 
 the windows open all the long evening. There was 
 even a fire for the sake of cheerfulness — a little fire 
 which blazed and crackled and made twice as much 
 display as if it had been a serious winter fire and es- 
 sential to existence — and all the curtains were drawn 
 except over the one window from which Sir Edward's 
 light was visible. Aunt Agatha had grown more fanci- 
 ful than ever about that window since Winnie's mar- 
 riage. Even in winter the shutters were never closed 
 there iintil Miss Seton herself went iipstairs, and all 
 the long night the friendly star of Sir Edward's lamp 
 shone faint but steady in the distance. In this way the 
 hall and the cottage kept each other kindly company, 
 and the thought pleased the old people, who had been 
 friends all their lives. Aunt Agatha sat by her favourite 
 table, with her own lamp burning softly and respond- 
 ing to Sir Edward's far-off light, and she never raised 
 her head without seeing it and thinking thoughts in 
 which Sir Edward had but a small share. It was darker 
 than usual on this special night, and there were neither 
 moon nor stars to diminish the importance of the do- 
 mestic Pharos. Miss Seton looked up, and her eyes 
 lingered upon the blackness of the window and the 
 distant point of illumination, and she sighed as she 
 often did. It was a long time ago, and the boys had 
 grown up in the meantime, and intruded much upon 
 Aunt Agatha's afi"ections; but still these interlopers 
 had not made her forget the especial child of her 
 love. 
 
 "My poor dear Winnie!" said the old lady. "I 
 sometimes almost fancy I can see her coming in by
 
 MADONXA MARY. 313 
 
 that window. She was fond of seeing Sir Edward's 
 light. Now that the dear boys are gone, and it is so 
 quiet again, does it not make you think sometimes 
 of your darling sister, Mary? If we could only 
 hear as often from her as we hear from Islay and 
 Hugh—" 
 
 "But it is not long since you had a letter," said 
 Mary, who, to tell the truth, had not been thinking 
 much of her darling sister, and felt gixilty when this 
 appeal was made to her. 
 
 "Yes," said Aunt Agatha, with a sigh, "and they 
 are always such nice letters; but I am afraid I am very 
 discontented, my dear love. I always want to have 
 something more. I was thinking some of your friends 
 in the regiment could tell you, perhaps, about Edward. 
 I never would say it to you, for I knew that you had 
 things of your own to think about; but for a long time 
 1 have been very uneasy in my mind." 
 
 "But Winnie has not complained," said Mary, 
 looking up unconsciously at Sir Edward's window, and 
 feeling as if it shone with a certain weird and con- 
 scious light, like a living creature aware of all that 
 was being said. 
 
 "She is not a girl ever to complain," said Aunt 
 Agatha, proudly. "She is more like what I would 
 have been myself, Mary, if I had ever been — in the 
 circumstances, you know. She would break her heart 
 before she would complain. I think there is a good 
 deal of difference, my dear, between your nature and 
 ours; and that was, perhaps, why you never quite 
 understood my sweet Winnie. I am sure you are more 
 reasonable; but you are not — not to call passionate, 
 you know. It is a great deal better, a very great deal
 
 314 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 better," cried Aunt Agatha, anxiously. "You mitst not 
 think I do not see that; but Winnie and I are a couple 
 of fools that would do anything for love ; and , rather 
 than complain, I am sure she would die." 
 
 Mary did not say that Winnie had done what was 
 a great deal more than complaining, and had set her 
 husband before them in a very uncomfortable light - — 
 and she took the verdict upon herself quietly, as a 
 matter of course. "Mr. Askell used to know him very 
 well," she said; "perhaps he knows something. But 
 Edward Percival never was very popular, and you must 
 not quarrel with me if I bring you back a disagreeable 
 report. I think I will go into Carlisle as soon as they 
 arrive — I should like to see them all again." 
 
 "I should like to hear the truth whatever it is," 
 said Aunt Agatha, "but my dear love, seeing them all 
 will be a great trial for you." 
 
 Mary was silent, for she was thinking of other 
 things: not merely of her happy days, and the dif- 
 ference which would make such a meeting "a great 
 trial;" but of the one great vexation and mortification 
 of her life, of which the regiment was aware — and 
 whether the painful memory of it would ever return 
 again to vex her. It had faded out of her recollection 
 in the long peacefulness and quiet of her life. Could 
 it ever return again to shame and wound, as it had 
 once done? From where she was sitting with her work, 
 between the cheerful lamp and the bright little blazing 
 fire, Mary went away in an instant to the scene so 
 distant and difi"erent, and was kneeling again by her 
 husband's side, a woman humbled, yet never before so 
 indignantly, resentfully proud, in the little chapel of 
 the station. Would it ever come back again, that one
 
 MADONNA MARY. 315 
 
 l)lot on her life, with all its false, injurious sugges- 
 tions? She said to herself "No." No doubt it had 
 died out of other people's minds as out of her own, 
 and on Kirtell-side nobody would have dared to doubt 
 on such a subject; and now that the family afiPairs were 
 settled, and Hugh was established at Earlston, his 
 uncle's acknowledged heir, tliis cloiul, at least, could 
 never rise on her again to take the comfort out of her 
 life. She dismissed the very thought of it from her 
 mind, and her heart warmed to the recollection of the 
 old faces and the old ways. She had a kind of a 
 longing to see them, as if her life would be completer 
 after. It was not as "a great trial" that Mary thought 
 of it. She was too eager and curious to know how 
 they had all fared; and if, to some of them at least, 
 the old existence, so long broken up for herself, con- 
 tinued and flourished as of old. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 It was accordingly with a little excitement that 
 when the regiment had actually arrived Mrs. Ochterlony 
 set out for the neighbouring to"\vn to renew her ac- 
 quaintance with her old friends. It was winter by that 
 time, and winter is seldom very gentle in Cumberland; 
 but she was too much interested to be detained by the 
 weather. She had said nothing to Wilfrid on the sub- 
 ject, and it startled her a little to find him standing at 
 the door waiting for her, carefully dressed, which was 
 not usually a faculty of his, and evidently prepared to 
 accompany her. Wlien she opened the Cottage door to
 
 316 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 go out, aud saw him, an unaccountable panic seized 
 her. There he stood in the sunshine, — not gay and 
 thoughtless like his brother Hugh, nor preoccupied like 
 Islay, — with his keen eyes and sharp ears, and mind 
 that seemed always to lie in wait for something. The 
 recollection of the one thing which she did not want to 
 be known had come strongly to her mind once more at 
 that particular moment; a little tremor had run through 
 her frame — a sense of half-painful, half-pleasant ex- 
 citement. When her eye fell on Wilfrid, she went back 
 a step unconsciously, and her heart for the moment 
 seemed to stop beating. She wanted to bring her 
 friends to Kirtell, to show them her boys and make 
 them acquainted with all her life; and jirobably, had it 
 been Hugh, he would have accompanied her as a 
 matter of course. But somehow Wilfrid was different. 
 Without knowing what her reason was, she felt re- 
 luctant to undergo the first questionings and reminis- 
 cences with this keen spectator standing by to hear 
 and see all, and to demand explanation of matters 
 which it might be difficult to explain. 
 
 "Did you mean to go with me. Will?" she said. 
 "But you know we cannot leave Aunt Agatha all by 
 herself. I wanted to see you to ask you to be as 
 agreeable as possible while I am gone." 
 
 "I am never agreeable to Aunt Agatha," said Will; 
 "she always liked the others best; and besides, she 
 does not want me, and I am going to take care of 
 
 you." 
 
 "Thank you," said Mary, with a smile; "but I 
 don't want you either for to-day. We shall have so 
 many things to talk about — old affairs that you would 
 not understand."
 
 jrADONNA MAKY. 317 
 
 "I like that sort of tliiug," said Will; "I like 
 listening to women's talk — especially when it is 
 about things I don't understand. It is always some- 
 thing new." 
 
 Mary smiled, but there was something in his per- 
 sistence that frightened her. "My dear Will, I don't 
 want you to-day," she said with a slight shiver, in 
 spite of herself. 
 
 "Why, mamma?" said Will, with open eyes. 
 
 He was not so well brought up as he oiight to 
 have been, as everybody will perceive. He did not ac- 
 cept his mother's decision, and put away his Sunday 
 hat, and say no more about it. On the contrary, he 
 looked with suspicion (as she thought) at her, and kept 
 his position — surprised and remonstrative, and not 
 disposed to give in. 
 
 "Will," said Mrs. Ochterlony, "I will not have you 
 with me, and that must be enough. These are all 
 people whom I have not seen since you were a baby. 
 It may be a trial for us all to meet, for I don't know 
 what may have happened to them. I can speak of my 
 affairs before you, for you — know them all," Mary 
 went on with a momentary faltering; "but it is not to 
 be supposed that they could speak of theirs in the pre- 
 sence of a boy they do not know. Go now and amuse 
 yourself, and don't do anything to frighten Aunt 
 Agatha; and you can come and meet me by the evening 
 train." 
 
 But she could not get rid of a sense of fear as she 
 left him. He was not like other boys, from whose mind 
 a little contradiction passes away almost as soon as it 
 is spoken. He had that strange faculty of connecting 
 one thing with another, which is sometimes so valuable,
 
 318 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 and sometimes leads a lively intellect so much astray; 
 and if ever he should come to know that there was 
 anything in his mother's history which she wished to 
 
 keep concealed from him — . It was a foolish thought, 
 
 but it was not the less painful on that account. Mary 
 had come to the end of her little journey before she 
 got free from its influence. The united household at 
 the cottage was not rich enough to possess anything in 
 the shape of a carriage, but they were near the rail- 
 way, which served almost the same purpose. It seemed 
 to Mrs. Ochterlony as if the twelve intervening years 
 were but a dream when she found herself in a drawing- 
 room which had already taken Mrs. Kirkman's imprint, 
 and breathed of her in every corner. It was not such 
 a room, it is true, as the hot Indian chamber in which 
 Mary had last seen the colonel's wife. It was one of 
 the most respectable and sombre, as well as one of the 
 best of the houses which let themselves furnished, with 
 an eye to the officers. It had red curtains and red 
 carpets, and blinds drawn more than half way down; 
 and there were two or three boxes, with a significant 
 slit in the lid, distributed about the different tables. 
 In the centre of the rovind table before the fire there 
 was a little trophy built up of small Indian gods, which 
 were no doubt English manufacture, but wliich had 
 been for a long time Mrs. Kirkman's text, and quite 
 invaluable to her as a proof of the heathen darkness, 
 which was her favourite subject; and at the foot of this 
 ugly pyramid lay a little heap of pamphlets, reports of 
 all the societies under heaven. Mary recognised, too, 
 as she sat and waited, the large brown-paper cover, in 
 which she knew by experience Mrs. Kirkman's favourite 
 tracts were enclosed; and the little basket which con-
 
 JIADONNA MARY. 319 
 
 tained a smaller roll, aud which had room beyides oc- 
 casionally for a little tea aud sugar, when circumstances 
 made them necessary, and the book with limp boards, 
 in which the Colonel's wife kept her list of names, 
 with little biographical comments opposite, which had 
 once amused the subalterns so much when it fell into 
 then- hands. She had her sealed book besides, with a 
 Bramah lock, which was far too sacred to be revealed 
 to profane eyes 5 but yet, perhaps, she liked to tantalize 
 profane eyes with the sight of its uudiscoverable riches, 
 for it lay on the table like the rest. This was how 
 Mary saw at a glance that, whatever might have hap- 
 pened to the others, ISLrs. Kii-kman at least was quite 
 unchanged. 
 
 She came gliding into the room a minute after, so 
 like herself that Mrs. Ochterlony felt once more that 
 time was not, and that her life had been a dream. She 
 folded her visitor in a silent embrace, and kissed her 
 with inexpressible meaning, and ftmned her cheeks 
 with those two long locks hanging out of curl, which 
 had been her characteristic embellishments since ever 
 any one remembered. The light hair was now a little 
 grey, but that made no difference to speak of either in 
 colour or general aspect-, and, so ftir as any other 
 change went, those intervening yeai'S might never have 
 been. 
 
 "My dear Mary!" she said at last. "My dear 
 friend! Oh, what a thought that little as we deserve 
 it, we should have been both spared to meet again!" 
 
 There was an emphasis on the both which it was 
 very touching to hear-, and Mary naturally could not 
 but feel that tlie wonder and the thankfulness were 
 chiefly on her own account.
 
 320 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "I am very glad to see you again," she said, feel- 
 ing her heart yearn to her old friend — "and so en- 
 tirely unchanged." 
 
 "Oh, I hope not," said Mrs. Kirkman. "I hope 
 we have both profited by our opportunities, and made 
 some return for so many mercies. One great thing I 
 have looked forward to ever since I knew we were 
 coming here, was the thought of seeing you again. You 
 know I always considered you one of my own little 
 Hock, dear Mary! one of those who would be my 
 crown of rejoicing. It is such a pleasure to have you 
 again." 
 
 And Mrs. Kirkman gave Mrs. Ochterlony another 
 kiss, and thought of the woman that was a sinner with 
 a gush of sweet feeling in her heart. 
 
 As for Mary, she took it very quietly, having no 
 inclination to be affronted or offended — but, on the 
 contrary, a kind of satisfaction in finding all as it used 
 to be; the same thoughts and the same kind of talk, 
 and everything unchanged, while all with herself had 
 changed so much. "Thank you," she said; "and now 
 tell me about yourself and about them all; the Hes- 
 keths and the Churchills, and all our old friends. I am 
 thirsting to hear about them, and what changes there 
 may have been, and how many are here." 
 
 "Ah, my dear Mary, there have been many changes," 
 said Mrs. Kirkman. "Mrs. Churchill died years ago 
 
 — did you not hear? — and in a very much more 
 prepared state of mind, I trust and hope; and he has a 
 curacy somewhere, and is bringing up the poor children 
 
 — in his own pernicious views, I sadly fear." 
 
 "Has he pernicious views?" said Mary. "Poor
 
 MADONNA MAUY. 321 
 
 Mrs. Churchill — and yet one could uot have looked 
 for anything else." 
 
 "Don't say poor," said Mrs. Kirkman. "It is good 
 for her to have been taken away from the evil to come. 
 He is very lax, and always was very lax. You know 
 how little he was to be depended upon at the station, 
 and how much was thi-own upon me, unworthy as I 
 am, to do; and it is sad to think of those poor dear 
 childi-en brought up in such opinions. They are very 
 poor, but that is nothing in comparison. ^ Captain Hes- 
 keth retired when we came back to England. They 
 went to their own place in the country, and they are 
 very comfortable, I believe — too comfortable, Mary. 
 It makes them forget things that are so much more 
 precious. And I doubt if there is anybody to say a 
 faithful word — " 
 
 "She was very kind," said Mary, "and good to 
 everybody. I am very sorry they are gone." 
 
 "Yes, she was kind," said Mrs. Kirkman, "that 
 kind of natural amiability which is such a delusion. 
 And everything goes Avell with them," she added, with 
 a sigh: "there is nothing to rouse them up. Oh, IMary, 
 you remember what I said when your pride was brought 
 low — anything is better than being let alone." 
 
 IVIrs. Ochterlony began to feel her old opposition 
 stirring in her mind, but she refrained heroically, and 
 went on with her interrogatory. "And the doctor," 
 she said, "and the Askells? — they are still in the re- 
 giment. I want you to tell me Avhere I can find Emma, 
 and how things have gone with her — poor child ! 
 but she ought not to be such a baby now." 
 
 Mrs. Kirkman sighed. "No, she ought not to be 
 a baby," she said. "I never like to judge any one, 
 
 Miulonna Maty. J. ^J-
 
 322 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 and I woxxld like you to form your own opinion, Mary. 
 She too has little immortal souls committed to her; and 
 oh! it is sad to see how little people think of such a 
 trust — whereas others who would have given their 
 whole souls to it — But no doubt it is all for the 
 best. I have not asked you yet how are your dear 
 boys? I hope you are endeavouring to make them 
 groAV in grace. Oh, Mary, I hope you have thought 
 well over your responsibility. A mother has so much 
 in her hands.". 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Ochterlony, quickly, "but they 
 are very good boys, and I have every reason to be 
 content with them. Hugh is at Earlston, just now, with 
 his uncle. He is to succeed him, you know; and he is 
 going to Oxford directly, I believe. And Islay is going 
 to Woolwich if he can pass his examination. He is 
 just the same long-headed boy he used to be. And 
 Will — my baby ; perhaps you remember what a little 
 thing he was? — I think he is going to be the genius 
 of the family." IVIary went on with a simple effusive- 
 ness unusixal to her, betrayed by the delight of talking 
 about her boys to some one who knew and yet did not 
 know them. Perhaps she forgot that her listener's in- 
 terest could not possibly be so great as her own. 
 
 Mrs. Kirkman sat with her hands clasped on her 
 knee, and she looked in Mary's eyes with a glance 
 which was meant to go to her soul — a mournful in- 
 quiring glance which, from under the dropped eyelids, 
 seemed to fall as from an altitude of scarcely human 
 compassion and solicitude. "Oh, call them not good," 
 she said. "Tell me what signs of awakening you have 
 seen in their hearts. Dear Mary, do not neglect the 
 one thing needful for your precioiis boys. Think of
 
 MADONNA MARY. 323 
 
 their immortal souls. That is what interests ine much 
 more than their worldly prospects. Do you think their 
 liearts have been truly touched — " 
 
 "1 think God has been very kind to us all, and 
 that they are good boys," said Mary; "you know we 
 don't think quite alike on some subjects; or, at least, 
 we don't express ourselves alike. I can see you do 
 as much as ever among the men, and among the 
 poor — " 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Kirkman, with a sigh; "I feel un- 
 worthy of it, and the flesh is weak, and I would fain 
 draw back; but it happens strangely that there is al- 
 ways a very lukewarm ministry wherever we are placed, 
 my dear. I would give anything in the world to be 
 but a hearer of the word like others; but yet woe is 
 unto me if I neglect the work. This is some one com- 
 ing in now to speak with me on spiritual matters. I 
 am at home to them between two and three; but, my 
 dear Mary, it is not necessary that you, who have been 
 in the position of an inqiiiring soul yourself, should go 
 away." 
 
 "I will come back again," said Mary, rising; "and 
 you will come to see me at Kirtell, will not you? It 
 makes one forget how many ycai's have passed to see 
 you employed exactly as of old." 
 
 "Ah, we are all too apt to forget how the years 
 pass," said Mrs. Kirkman. She gave a nod of re- 
 cognition to some women who came shyly in at the 
 moment, and then she took Mary's hand and drew her 
 a step aside. "And nothing more has happened, ^Mary?" 
 she said; "nothing has followed? and there is to be 
 no inquiry or anything? I am very thankful, for your 
 sake." 
 
 21*
 
 324 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "Inquiry!" said Mary, with momentary amazement. 
 "What kind of inquiry? what could have followed? I 
 do not know what you mean!" 
 
 "I mean about — what gave us all so much pain 
 — your marriage, Mary," said Mrs. Kirkman. "I hope 
 there has been nothing about it again?" 
 
 This was a very sharp trial for the superstition of 
 old friendship in Mrs. Ochterlony's heart, especially as 
 the inquiring souls who had come to see Mrs. Kirkman 
 were within hearing, and looked with a certain subdued 
 curiosity upon the visitor and the conversation. Mary's 
 face flushed with a sudden burning, and indignation 
 came to her aid; but even at that moment her strongest 
 feeling was thankfulness that Wilfrid was not there. 
 
 "I do not know what could have been about it," 
 she said: "I am among my own people here; my mar- 
 riage was well known, and everything about it, in my 
 own place." 
 
 "You are angry, dear," said Mrs. Kirkman. "Oh, 
 don't encourage angry feelings; you know I never 
 made any difference; I never imagined it was your 
 fault. And I am so glad to hear it has made no un- 
 pleasantness with the dear boys." 
 
 Perhaps it was not with the same charity as at first 
 that Mrs. Ochterlony felt the long curls again fan her 
 cheek, but still she accepted the fareAvell kiss. She had 
 expected some ideal difference, some visionary kind of 
 elevation, which would leave the same individual, yet 
 a loftier kind of woman, in the place of her former 
 friend. And what she had found was a person quite 
 unchanged — the same woman, harder in her peculiarities 
 rather than softer, as is unfortunately the most usual 
 case. The Colonel's wife had the best meaning in the
 
 MADONNA MARY. 325 
 
 world, and she was a good woniau in her way; but not 
 a dozen lives, let alone a dozen years, could have given 
 her the finer sense which must come by nature, nor 
 even that tolerance and sweetness of experience, which 
 is a benefit which only a few people in the world draw 
 from the passage of years. Mary was disappointed, 
 but she acknowledged in her heart — having herself 
 acquired that gentleness of experience — that she had 
 no right to be disappointed-, and it was with a kind of 
 smile at her own vain expectations that she went in 
 search of Emma Askell , her little friend of old — the 
 impulsive girl, who had amused her, and loved her, 
 and worried her in former times. Young Askell was 
 Captain now, and better off, it was to be hoped: but 
 yet they were not well enough off to be in a handsome 
 house, or have everything proper about them, like the 
 Colonel's wife. It was in the oixtskirts of the town that 
 Mary had to seek them, in a house with a little bare 
 garden in front, bare in its winter nakedness, with its 
 little grass-plot trodden down by many feet, and show- 
 ing all those marks of neglect and indifference which 
 betray the stage at which poverty sinks into a muddle 
 of discouragement and carelessness, and forgets ap- 
 pearances. It was a dirty little maid who opened the 
 door, and the house was another very inferior specimen 
 of the furnished house so well known to all unsettled 
 and wandering people. The chances are, that delicate 
 and orderly as Mrs. Ochterlony was by nature, the 
 sombre shabbiness of the place would not have struck 
 her in her younger days, when she, too, had to take 
 her chance of furnished houses, and do her best, as be- 
 came a soldier's wife. And then poor little Emma had 
 been married too early, and began her struggling, shifty
 
 326 MADOJSNA MARY. 
 
 life too soon, to know anything about that delicate 
 domestic order, which is half a religion. Poor little 
 Emma! she was as old now as Mary had been when 
 she came back to Kirtell with her boys, and it was 
 difficult to form any imagination of what time might 
 have done for her. Mrs. Ochterlony went up the narrow 
 stairs with a sense of half-amused curiosity, guided not 
 only by the dirty little maid, but by the sound of a 
 little voice crying in a lamentable, endless sort of way. 
 It was a kind of cry which in itself told the story of 
 the family — not violent, as if the result of a sudden 
 injury or fit of passion, which there was somebody by 
 to console or to punish, but the endless, tedious lamenta- 
 tion, which nobody took any particular notice of, or 
 cared about. 
 
 And this was the scene that met Mrs. Ochterlony's 
 eyes when she entered the room. She had sent the 
 maid away and opened the door herself, for her heart 
 was full. It was a shabby little room on the first 
 floor, with cold windows opening down to the floor, 
 and letting in the cold Cumberland winds to chill the 
 feet and aggravate the temper of the inhabitants. In 
 the foreground sat a little girl with a baby sleeping on 
 her knee, one little brother in front of her and another 
 behind her chair, and that pretty air of being herself 
 the domestic centre and chief mover of everything, 
 which it is at once sweet and sad to see in a child. 
 This little woman neither saw nor heard the stranger 
 at the door. She had been hushing and rocking her 
 baby, and, now that it had peaceably sunk to sleep, 
 was about to hear her little brother's lesson, as it ap- 
 peared; while at the same time addressing a word of 
 remonstrance to the author of the cry, another small
 
 MADONNA MARY. 327 
 
 creature who sat rubbing her eyes with two fat fists, 
 upon the floor. Of all this group, the only one aware 
 of Mary's appearance was the little fellow behind his 
 sister's chair, who lifted wondering eyes to the door, 
 and stared and said nothing, after the manner of 
 children. The little party was so complete in itself, 
 and seemed to centre so naturally in the elder sister, 
 that the spectator felt no need to seek further. It was 
 all new and unlooked-for, yet it was a kind of scene to 
 go to the heart of a woman who had children of her 
 own; and Mary stood and looked at the little ones, 
 and at the child-mother in the midst of them, without 
 even becoming aware of the presence of the actual 
 mother, who had been lying on a sofa, in a detached 
 and separate way, reading a book, which she now 
 thrust under her pillow, as she raised herself on her 
 cushions and gazed with wide-open eyes at her visitor, 
 who did not see her. It was a woman very little like 
 the pretty Emma of old times, with a hectic colour on 
 her cheeks, her hair hanging loosely and disordered by 
 lying downi, and the absorbed, half-awakened look, 
 natural to a mind which has been suddenly roused up 
 out of a novel into an actual emergency. The hushing 
 of the baby to sleep, the hearing of the lessons, the 
 tedious crying of the little girl at her feet, had all 
 gone on without disturbing Mrs. Askell. She had been 
 so entirely absorbed in one of Jane Eyre's successors 
 and imitators (for that was the epoch of Jane Eyre in 
 novels), and Nelly was so completely responsible for 
 all that was going on, that the mother had never even 
 roused up to a sense of wliat was passing round her, 
 until the door opened and the stranger looked in with 
 a face which was not a stranirer's lace.
 
 328 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Askell, springing up. 
 "Oh, my Madonna, can it be you? Are you sui-e it is 
 you, you dear, you darling! Don't go looking at the 
 children as if they were the principal, but give me a 
 kiss and say it is you, — say you are sure it is you!" 
 
 And the rapture of delight and welcome she went 
 into, though it showed how weak-minded and excitable 
 she was, was in its way not disagreeable to Mary, and 
 touched her heart. She gave the kiss she was asked 
 for, and received a flood in return, and such embraces 
 as nearly took her breath away; and then Nelly was 
 summoned to take "the things" off an easy chair, the 
 only one in the room, which stood near her mother's 
 sofa. Mary was still in Mrs. Askell's embrace when 
 this command was given, but she saw the girl gather 
 up the baby in her arms, and moving softly not to 
 disturb the little sleeper, collect the encumbering ar- 
 ticles together and draw the chair forward. No one 
 else moved or took any trouble. The bigger boy stood 
 and watched behind his sister's chair, and the younger 
 one turned round to indulge in the same inspection, 
 and little Emma took her fists out of her eyes. But 
 there was nobody biit the little woman with the baby 
 who could get for the guest the only comfortable 
 chair. 
 
 "Now sit down and be comfortable, and let me 
 look at you; I could be content just to look at you all 
 day," said Emma. "You are just as you always were, 
 and not a bit changed. It is because you have not 
 had all our cares. I look a perfect fright, and as old 
 as my grandmother, and I am no good for anything; 
 "but you are just the same as you used to be. Oh, it 
 is just like the old times, seeing you! I have been in
 
 MADONNA MARY. 329 
 
 svicli a state, I did not know wLat to do with myself 
 since ever I knew we were coming here." 
 
 "But I do not tliink you are looking old, though 
 you look delicate," said Mary. "Let me make ac- 
 quaintance with the children. Nelly, you used to be 
 in my arms as much as your mamma's when you were 
 a baby. You are just the same age as my Will, and 
 you were the best baby that ever was. Tell me their 
 names and how old they all are. Yoix know they are 
 all strangers to me." 
 
 "Yes," said their mother, with a little fretfulness. 
 "It was such a mercy Nelly was the eldest. I never 
 could have kept living if she had been a boy. I have 
 been such a suffering creature, and we have been moved 
 about so much, and oh, we have had so much to do! 
 iou can't fancy what a life we have had," cried poor 
 Emma; and the mere thought of it brought tears to 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Yes, I know it is a troublesome life," said Mary, 
 "but you are young, and you have your husband, and 
 the children are all so well — " 
 
 "Yes, the children are all well," said Emma; "but 
 then every new place they come to, they take measles 
 or something, and I am gone to a shadow before they 
 are right again; and then the doctors' bills — I think 
 Charley and Lucy and Emma have had everythmg^'' 
 said the aggrieved mother; "and they always take 
 them so badly; and then Askell takes it into his head 
 it is damp linen or something, and thinks it is my 
 fault. It is bad eninigh when a woman is having her 
 children," cried poor Emma, "without all their ill- 
 nesses, you know, and tempers and bills, and every-
 
 330 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 thing beaides. Oh, Madonna! you are so well off. You 
 live quiet, and you know nothing about all our cares." 
 
 "I think 1 would not mind the cares," said Mary; 
 "if you were quiet like me, you wovild not like it. 
 You must come out to Kirtell for a little change." 
 
 "Oh, yes, with all my heart," said Emma. "I think 
 sometimes it would do me all the good in the world 
 just to be out of the noise for a little, and where there 
 Avas nothing to be found fault with. I should feel like 
 a girl again, my Madonna, if I could be with you." 
 
 "And Nelly must come too," said JMrs. Ochterlony, 
 looking down upon the little bright, anxious, careful 
 face. 
 
 Nelly was thirteen — the same age as Wilfrid; but 
 she was little, and laden with the care of which her 
 mother talked. Her eyes were hazel eyes, such as 
 would have run over with gladness had they been left 
 to nature, and her brown hair curled a little on her 
 neck. She was uncared for, badly dressed, and not 
 old enough yet for the instinct that makes the budding 
 woman mindful of herself. But the care that made 
 Emma's cheek hollow and her life a waste, looked 
 sweet out of Nelly's eyes. The mother thought she 
 bore it all, and cried and complained under it, while 
 the child took it on her shoulders unawares and carried 
 it without any complaint. Her soft little face lighted 
 up for a moment as Mary sjjoke, and then her look 
 turned on the sleeping baby with that air half infantile, 
 half motherly, which makes a child's face like an 
 angel's. 
 
 "I do not think I could go," she said; "fur the 
 children are not used to the new nurse; and it would 
 make poor papa so uncomfortable; and then it would
 
 MADONNA JFARY. 331 
 
 do mamma so mucli more good to be quiet for a little 
 without the children — " 
 
 Mary rose u]) softly just then, and, to Nelly's great 
 surprise, bent over her and kissed her. Nobody but 
 such another woman could have told what a sense of 
 envy and yearning was in Mary's heart as she did it. 
 How she would have surrounded with tenderness and 
 love that little daughter who was but a domestic slave 
 to Emma Askell! and yet, if she had been Mary's 
 daughter, and sun'ounded by love and tenderness, she 
 would not have been such a child. The little thing 
 Iirightened and blushed, and looked up with a gleam 
 of sweet surprise in her eyes. "Oh, thank you, Mrs. 
 Ochterlony," she said, in that sudden flush of pleasure; 
 ;nid the two recognised each other in that moment, and 
 l;nitted between them, different as their ages were, that 
 bond of everlasting friendship which is made oftener 
 at sight than in any more cautious way. 
 
 "Come and sit by me," said Emma, "or I shall be 
 jealous of my own child. She is a dear little thing, 
 and so good with the others. Come and tell me about 
 your boys. And, oh, please, just one word — we have 
 so often sjjoken about it, and so often wondered. Tell 
 me, dear ^Irs. Ochterlciny, did it never do any harm?" 
 
 "Did Avhat never do any harm?" asked Mary, with 
 once more a sudden pang of thankfulness that Wilfrid 
 was not there. 
 
 ^Irs. Askell threw her arms round IMary's neck 
 and kissed her and clasped her close. "There never 
 was any one like you," she said; "you never even 
 would complain." 
 
 This second assault made IMary falter and recoil, in 
 spite of herself. They had not forgot, though she
 
 332 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 might have forgotten. And, what was even worse than 
 words, as Emma spoke, the serious little woman-child, 
 who had won Mrs. Ochterlony's heart, raised her sweet 
 eyes and looked with a mixture of wonder and under- 
 standing in Mary's face. The child whom she would 
 have liked to carry away and make her own — did 
 she, too, know and wonder? There was a great deal 
 of conversation after this — a great deal about the 
 Askells themselves, and a great deal abovit Winnie and 
 her husband, whom Mrs. Askell knew much more 
 about than Mrs. Ochterlony did. But it would be vain 
 to say that anything she heard made as great an im- 
 pression upon Mary as the personal allusions which 
 sent the blood tingling through her veins. She went 
 home, at last, with that most grateful sense of home 
 which can only be fully realised by those who return 
 from the encounter of an indifferent world, and from 
 friends who, though kind, are naturally disposed to 
 regard everything from their own point of view. It is 
 sweet to have friends, and yet by times it is bitter. 
 Fortunately for Mary, she had the warm circle of her 
 own immediate belongings to return into, and could 
 retire, as it were, into her citadel, and there smile at 
 all the world. Her boys gave her that sweetest youth- 
 ful adoration which is better than the love of lovers, 
 and no painful ghost lurked in their memory — or so, 
 at least, Mrs. Ochterlony thought. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.
 
 COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 BRITISH AUTHORS. 
 
 VOL. 872. 
 
 MADONNA MAEY BY MRS. OLIPHANT. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. IL
 
 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 MRS. OLirHANT. 
 
 COPYBIGET EDITION. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. 11. 
 
 L E I P Z I G 
 
 BERN HARD TAUCIINITZ 
 
 1867. 
 
 r/ic Itifjhi of Translation is reserved.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 The Cottage changed its aspect greatly after the 
 arrival of the regiment, and it was a change which 
 lasted a long time, for the depot was established at 
 Carlisle, and Captain Askell got an appointment which 
 smoothed the stony way of life a little for himself and 
 his wife. Kirtell was very accessible and very pretty, 
 and there was always a welcome to be had at the 
 Cottage; and the regiment returned in the twinkling of 
 an eye to its old regard for its Madonna Mary. The 
 officers came about the house continually, to the gi-eat 
 enlivenment of the parish in general. And Mrs. Kirk- 
 man came, and very soon made out that the vicar and 
 his curate were both very incompetent, and did what 
 she could to form a missionary nucleus, if not under 
 Mrs. Ochterlony's wing, at least protected by her shadow; 
 and the little Askells came and luxuriated in the grass 
 and the flowers; and ]\tiss Sorbette and the doctor, who 
 were still on the strength of the regiment, paid many 
 visits, bringing with them the ncAv people whom Mary 
 did not know. When Hugh and Islay came home at 
 vacation times, they found the house so lively, that it 
 acquired new attractions for them, and Aunt Agatha, 
 who was not so old as to be quite indifierent to society, 
 
 JhuioniM Jlcmj. 11, 1
 
 2 MADONNA MART. 
 
 said to herself with natural sophistry, that it was very 
 good for the boys, and made them happier than two 
 solitary women could have done by themselves, which 
 no doubt was true. As for Mrs. Ochterlony herself, 
 she said frankly that she was glad to see her friends; 
 she liked to receive them in her own house. She had 
 been rather poor in India, and not able to entertain 
 them very splendidly, and though she was poor still, 
 and the Cottage Avas a very modest little dwelling- 
 place, it could receive the visitors, and give them plea- 
 sant welcome, and a pleasant meal, and pleasant faces, 
 and cheerful companionship. Mrs. Ochterlony was not 
 yet old, and she had lived a quiet life of late, so peace- 
 ful that the incipient wrinkles which life had outlined 
 in her face, had been filled up and smoothed out by 
 the quietness. She was in perfect health, and her eyes 
 were bright, and her complexion sweet, and her hair 
 still gave by times a golden gleam out of its brown 
 masses. 
 
 No wonder then that her old friends saw little or 
 no change in her, and that her new ones admired her 
 as much as she had ever been admired in her best days. 
 Some women are sweet by means of being helpless, 
 and fragile, and tender; and some have a loftier charm 
 by reason of their veiled strength and composure, and 
 calm of self-possession. Mary was one of the last; she 
 was a woman not to lean, but to be leant upon; soft 
 with a touch like velvet, and yet as steady as a rock 
 — a kind of beauty which wears long, and does not 
 spoil even by growing old. 
 
 It was a state of affairs very agreeable to every- 
 body in the place, except, perhaps, to Will, who was 
 very jealous of his mother. Hugh and Isiay when
 
 MADONNA MART. d 
 
 they came home took it all for granted, in an open- 
 hearted boyish way, and were no more afraid of any- 
 thing Mrs. Ochterlony might do, than for their own 
 existence. But Will was always there. He haunted 
 the drawing-room, whoever might be in it at the mo- 
 ment; yet — though to Aunt Agatha's consciousness, 
 the boy Avas never absent from the big Indian chair in 
 the corner — he was at the same time always ready to 
 pursue his curate to the very verge of that poor gentle- 
 man's knowledge, and give him all the excitement of a 
 hairbreadth 'scape ten times in a morning. Nobody 
 could tell when he learned his lessons, or what time he 
 had for study — for there he was always, taking in 
 everything, and making comments in his own mind, 
 and now and then interposing in the conversation to 
 Aunt Agatha's indignation. Mary would not see it, 
 she said; Mary thought that all her boys did was right 
 — which was, perhaps, to some extent true; and it 
 was said in the neighbourhood, as was natural, that so 
 many gentlemen did not come to the Cottage for 
 nothing; that Mrs. Ochterlony was still a young woman; 
 that she had devoted herself to the boys for a long 
 time, and that if she were to marry again, nobody 
 could have any right to object. Such reports spring 
 up in the country so easily, either with or without 
 foundation: and Wilfrid, who found out everything, 
 heard them, and grew very watchful and jealous, and 
 even doubtful of his mother. Should such an idea 
 have entered into her head, the boy felt that he would 
 despise her; and yet at the same time he was very 
 fond of her and tilled with unbounded jealousy. While 
 all the time, Mary herself was very glad to see her 
 friends, and, perhaps, was not entirely unconscious of 
 
 1*
 
 4 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 exciting a certain respectful admiration, but had as 
 little idea of severing herself from her past life, and 
 making a new fictitious beginning, as if she had been 
 eighty; and it never occurred to her to imagine that 
 she was watched or doubted by her boy. 
 
 It was a pleasant revival, but it had its drawbacks 
 — for one thing. Aunt Agatha did not, as she said, get 
 on with all Mary's friends. There was between Miss 
 Seton and ]\Irs. Kirkman an enmity which was to the 
 death. The Colonel's wife, though she might be, as 
 became her position, a good enough conservative in 
 secular politics, was a revolutionary, or more than a 
 revolutionary, an iconoclast, in matters ecclesiastical. 
 She had no respect for anything, Aunt Agatha thouglit. 
 A woman who works under the proper authorities, and 
 reveres her clergyman, is a woman to be regarded with 
 a certain respect, even if she is sometimes zealous oiit 
 of season; but when she sets up on her own foundation, 
 and sighs over the shortcomings of the clergy, and 
 believes in neither rector nor curate, then the -whole 
 aspect of affairs is changed. " She believes in nobody 
 but herself," Aunt Agatha said; "she has no respect 
 for anything. I wonder how you can put up with such 
 a woman, Mary. She talks to our good vicar as if he 
 were a boy at school — and tells him how to manage 
 the parish. If that is the kind of person you think a 
 good woman, I have no wish to be good, for my part. 
 She is quite insufferable to me." 
 
 "She is often disagreeable," said Mary, "but I am 
 sure she is good at the bottom of her heart." 
 
 "I don't know anything about the bottom of her 
 heart," said Aunt Agatha; "from all one can see of 
 the surface, it must be a very unpleasant place. And
 
 MADONNA MARY. O 
 
 tlien that useless ]\Ir.s. Askell; she is quite strong enough 
 to talk to the geutlemen and amuse them, but as for 
 taking a little pains to do her duty, or look after her 
 children — I must say I am surprised at your friends. 
 A soldier's life is trying, I suppose," Miss Seton added. 
 "I have always heard it was trying; but the gentlemen 
 should be the ones to feel it most, and they are not 
 spoiled. The gentlemen are very nice — most of them," 
 Aunt Agatha added with a little hesitation, for there 
 was one Avhom she regarded as Wilfrid did with 
 jealous eyes. 
 
 "The gentlemen are further off, and we do not see 
 them so clearly," said Mary; "and if you knew what 
 it is to wander about, to have no settled home, and to 
 be ailing and poor — " 
 
 "My dear love," said Aunt Agatha, with a little 
 impatience, "you might have been as poor, and you 
 never would have been like that; and as for sick — 
 You know I never thought you had a very strong con- 
 stitution — nor your sister either — my pretty Winnie! 
 Do you think that sickness, or poverty, or anything 
 else, could ever have brought down Winnie to be like 
 that silly little woman?" 
 
 "Hush," said Mary, "Nelly is in the garden, and 
 might hear." 
 
 "Nelly!" said Aunt Agatha, who felt herself 
 suddenly pulled up short. "I have nothing to say 
 against Nelly, I am sure. I could not help thinking 
 last night, that some of these days she would make a 
 nice wife for one of the boys. She is quite beginning 
 to grow up now, poor dear. When I see her sitting 
 there it makes me think of my Winnie; — not that 
 she will ever be beaiitiful like Winnie. But Mary, my
 
 6 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 dear love, I don't think you are kind to me. I am 
 sure you must have heard a great deal about Winnie, 
 especially since she has come back to England, and you 
 never tell me a word." 
 
 "My dear aunt," said Mary, with a little embarrass- 
 ment, "you see all these people as much as I do; and 
 I have heard them telling you what news of her they 
 know." 
 
 "Ah, yes," said Aunt Agatha, with a sigh. "They 
 tell me she is here or there, but I know that from her 
 letters-, what I want to know is, something about her, 
 how she looks, and if she is happy. She never says 
 she is not happy, you know. Dear, dear! to think she 
 must be past thirty now — two-and-thirty her last 
 birthday — and she was only eighteen when she went 
 away. You were not so long away, Mary — " 
 
 "But Winnie has not had my reason for coming 
 back upon your hands. Aunt Agatha," said Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony, gravely. 
 
 "No," said Aunt Agatha: and again she sighed; 
 and this time the sigh was of a kind which did not 
 sound very complimentary to Captain Percival. It 
 seemed to say "More's the pity!" Winnie had never 
 come back to see the kind aunt who had been a mother 
 to her. She said in her letters how unlucky she was,- 
 and that they were to be driven all round the world, 
 she thought, and never to have any rest; but no doubt, 
 if Winnie had been very anxious, she might have 
 found means to come home. And the years were 
 creeping on imperceptibly, and the boys growing up — 
 even Will, who was now almost as tall as his brothers. 
 When such a change had come upon these children, 
 Avhat a change must there be in the wilful, sjorightly,
 
 MADONNA MARY, 7 
 
 beautiful girl whose image reigned supreme in Aunt 
 Agatha's heart. A sudden thought struck the old lady 
 as she sighed. The little Askells were at Kirtell at 
 the moment with the nurse, and Nelly, who was more 
 than ever the mother of the little party. Aunt Agatha 
 sat still for a little with her heart beating, and then 
 she took up her work in a soft stealthy way, and went 
 out into the garden. "No, my dear, oh no, don't 
 disturb yourself,' she said, with anxious deprecation to 
 Mary, who would have risen too, "I am only going to 
 look at the lilies;" and she was so conscientious that 
 she did go and cast an undiscerning, preoccupied 
 glance upon the lilies, though her real attraction was 
 quite in an opposite quarter. At the other side, 
 audible but not visible, was a little group which was 
 pretty to look at in the afternoon sunshine. It was 
 outside the garden, on the other side of the hedge, 
 in the pretty green field, all white and yellow with 
 buttercups and daisies, which belonged to the Cottage. 
 Miss Seton's mild cow had not been able to crop 
 down all that flowery fragrant growth, and the little 
 Askells were wading in it, up to their knees in 
 the cool sweet gi-ass, and feeding upon it and drawing 
 nourishment out of it almost as much as the cow did. 
 But in the corner close by the garden hedge there was 
 a more advanced development of youthful existence. 
 Nelly was seated on the grass, working with all her 
 might, yet pausing now and then to lift her serious 
 eyes to Will, who leant upon an old stump of oak 
 which projected out of the hedge, and had the conver- 
 sation all in his own hands. He was doing what a boy 
 under such circumstances loves to do; he was startling, 
 shocking, frightening his companion. He was saying
 
 8 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 a great deal that he meant auci some things that he did 
 not mean, and taking a great secret pleasure in the 
 widening of Nelly's eyes and the consternation of her 
 face. Will had grown into a very long lank boy, 
 with joints which were as awkward as his brother's 
 used to be, yet not in the same way, for the limbs 
 that completed them were thin and meagre, and had 
 not the vigour of Hugh's. His trousers were too short 
 for him , and so were his sleeves. His hair had no 
 curls in it, and fell down over his forehead. He was 
 nearly sixteen, and he was thoroughly discontented — 
 a misanthrope, displeased with everything without 
 knowing why. But time had been kinder to Nelly, 
 who was not long and lean like her companion, but 
 little and round and blooming, with the soft outlines 
 and the fresh bloom of earliest youth just emerging 
 out of childhood. Her eyes were brown, very serious, 
 and sweet — eyes that had "seen trouble," and knew 
 a great many more things in the world than were 
 dreamt of in Will's philosophy; but then she was not 
 so clever as Will, and his talk confused her. She was 
 looking up to him and taking all in with a mixture of 
 willing faith and instinctive scepticism which it was 
 curious to see. 
 
 "You two are always together, I think," said Aunt 
 Agatha, putting down a little camp-stool she had in 
 her hand beside Nelly — for she had passed the age 
 when people think of sitting on the grass. "What are 
 you talking about? I suppose he brings all his troubles 
 to you." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Nelly, with a blush, which was on 
 Aunt Agatha's account, and not on Will's. He was a 
 little older than herself actually; but Nelly was an ex-
 
 MADONNA MARY. y 
 
 pevienced woman, and could not but look down amiably 
 (in such an unexercised inhabitant of the world as 
 "only a boy." 
 
 "Then I suppose, my dear, he must talk to you 
 about Clreek and Latin," said Aunt Agatha, "which 
 is a thing young ladies don't much care for: I am 
 very sure old ladies don't. Is that what you talk 
 about?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, often," said Nelly, brightening, as she 
 looked at Will. That was not the sort of talk they 
 had been having, but still it was true. 
 
 "Well," said Miss Seton, "I am sure he will go 
 on talking as long as you will listen to him. But he 
 must not have you all to himself. Did he tell you 
 Hugh was coming home to see us? We expect him 
 next week." 
 
 "Yes," said Nelly, who was not much of a talker. 
 And then, being a little ashamed of her taciturnity, 
 she added, "I am sure Mrs. Ochterlony will be glad." 
 
 "We shall all be glad," said Aunt Agatha. "Hugh 
 is very nice. We must have you to see a little more 
 of him this time; I am sure you would like him. Then 
 you will be well acquainted with all our family," the 
 old lady ccmtinued, artfully approaching her real ob- 
 ject; "for you know my dear Winnie, I think — I 
 ought to say, Mrs. Percival; she is the dearest girl that 
 
 ever was. You must have met her, my dear 
 
 abroad." 
 
 Nelly looked up a little surprised. "We knew 
 
 Mrs. Percival," she said, "but she was not a girl 
 
 at all. She was as old — as old as mamma — like 
 all the other ladies," she added, liastily; for the word 
 girl h;id limited meanings to Nelly, and she would
 
 10 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 have laughed at its application in such a case, if she 
 had not been a natural gentlewoman with the finest 
 manners in the world. 
 
 "Ah, yes," said Aunt Agatha, with a sigh, "I 
 forget how time goes; and she will always be a girl to 
 me: but she Avas very beautiful, all the same; and she 
 had such a way Avith children. Were you very fond 
 of her, Nelly? Because, if that were so, I should love 
 you more and more." 
 
 Nelly looked up with a frightened, puzzled look in 
 Aunt Agatha's eyes. She was very soft-hearted, and 
 had been used to give in to other people all her life; 
 and she almost felt as if, for Aunt Agatha's sake, she 
 could persuade herself that she had been fond of Mrs. 
 Percival; but yet at the same time honesty went above 
 all. "I do not think we knew them very well," she 
 said. "I don't think mamma was very intimate with 
 Mrs. Percival; that is, I don't think papa liked /«'»?," 
 added Nelly, with natural art. 
 
 Aunt Agatha gave another sigh. "That might be, 
 my dear," she said, with a little sadness; "but even 
 when gentlemen don't take to each other, it is a great 
 pity when it acts upon their families. Some of our 
 friends here even were not fond at first of Captain 
 
 Percival, but for my darling Winnie's sake 
 
 You must have seen her often at least; I wonder I 
 never thought of asking you before. She was so 
 beautiful, with such lovely hair, and the sweetest com- 
 plexion. Was she looking well — and — and happy?" 
 asked Aunt Agatha, growing anxious as she spoke, and 
 looking into Nelly's face. 
 
 It was rather hard vipon Nelly, who Avas one of 
 those true Avomen, young as she was, who can see
 
 MADONNA MARY. 11 
 
 what other women mean when they put such questions, 
 and hear the heart beat under the words. Nelly had 
 heard a great deal of talk in her day, and knew things 
 about 3Irs. Percival that would have made Aunt Aga- 
 tha's liair stand on end with horror. But her heart 
 understood the other heart, and could not have breathed 
 a whisper that would wound it, for the world. 
 
 "I was such a little thing," said Nelly; "and then 
 I always had the little ones to look after — mamma 
 was so delicate. I remember the people's names more 
 than themselves. " 
 
 "You have always been a very good girl, I am 
 sure," said Aunt Agatha, giving her young companion 
 a sudden kiss, and with perhaps a faint instinctive 
 sense of Nelly's forbearance and womauful skill in 
 avoiding a difficult subject; but she sighed once more 
 as she did it, and wondered to herself whether nobody 
 would ever speak to her freely and fully of her child. 
 And silence ensued, for she had not the heart to ask 
 more questions. Will, who had not found the con- 
 versation amusing, had gone in to find his mother, 
 with a feeling that it Avas not quite safe to leave her 
 alone, which had something to do with his frequent 
 presence in the drawing-room ; so that the old lady and 
 Nelly were left alone in the corner of the fragrant 
 field. The girl went on with her work, but Aunt 
 Agatha, who was seated on her camp-stool, with her 
 back against the oak stump, let her knitting fall upon 
 her knee, and her eyes wander into vacancy with a 
 wistful look of abstraction that was not natural to them. 
 Nelly, who did not know what to say, and yet would 
 have given a great deal to be able to say something, 
 watched her from under the shadow of her curls , and
 
 12 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 at last saw Miss Seton's abstract eyes brigliten up and 
 wake into attention and life. Nelly looked round, and 
 lier impulse was to jump up in alarm when ske saw it 
 was her own mother who was approaching — her 
 mother, whom Nelly had a kind of adoration for as a 
 creature of divine helplessness, for whom everything 
 had to be done, but in whose judgment she had an 
 instinctive want of confidence. She jumped up and 
 called to the children on the spur of this sudden im- 
 pulse: "Oh! here is mamma, we must go in," cried 
 Nelly; and it gave her positive pain to see that Miss 
 Seton's attitude remained unchanged, and that she had 
 no intention of being disturbed by JMrs. Askell's ap- 
 proach. 
 
 "Oh how deliciously comfortable you are here," 
 cried Emma, throwing herself down on the grass. "I 
 came out to have a little fresh air and see after those 
 tiresome children. I am sure they have been teasing 
 you all day long; Nelly is not half severe enough, and 
 nurse spoils them; and after a day in the open air like 
 this, they make my head like to split when they come 
 home at night." 
 
 "They have not been teasing me," said Aunt 
 Agatha; "they have been very good, and I have been 
 sitting here for a long time talking to Nelly. I wanted 
 her to tell me something about my dear child, Mary's 
 own sister — Mrs. Percival, you know." 
 
 "Oh!" said Mrs. Askell, making a troubled 
 pause, — "and I hope to goodness you did not tell 
 Miss Seton anything that was unpleasant," she said 
 sharply; turning to Nelly. "You must not mind any- 
 thing she said," the foolish little woman added; "she
 
 MADONNA MARY. 13 
 
 was only a child aud she did not know. Yon shonld 
 have asked me. ' 
 
 "What could there be that was not pleasant?" cried 
 Aunt Agatha. "If there is anything unpleasant that 
 can be said about my Winnie, that is precisely what I 
 ought to hear." 
 
 "Mamma!" cried Nelly, in what was intended to 
 be a whisper of warning, though her anxiety made it 
 shrill and audible. Dnt Emma was not a woman to be 
 kept back. 
 
 "Goodness, child, you have pulled my dress out of 
 the gathers," she said. "Do you think / don't know 
 what 1 am talking about? When I say unpleasant, I 
 am sure I don't mean anything serious-, I mean only, 
 
 you know, that and then her husband is such 
 
 a man — I am sure I don't wonder at it, for my 
 part." 
 
 "What is it your mamma does not wonder at, 
 Nelly?" said Aunt Agatha, who had turned white and 
 cold, and leaned back all feeble and broken upon the 
 old tree. 
 
 "Her husband neglected her shamefully," said 
 Emma; "it was a great sin for her friends to let her 
 marry him; I am sure JMrs. Ochterlony knew what a 
 dreadful character he had. And, poor thing, when she 
 
 found herself so deserted Askell would never 
 
 let me see much of her, and I had always such Avretched 
 health; but I always stood up for JMrs. Percival. She 
 was young, and she had nobody to stand by her " 
 
 "Oh, mamma," cried Nelly, "don't you see what 
 yoii are doing? I think she is going to faint — aud 
 it will be all our fault." 
 
 "Oh, no; I am not going to faint," said Aunt
 
 14 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Agatha, feebly, but when she laid back hei* head upon 
 Nelly's shoulder, who had come to support her, and 
 closed her eyes, she was like death, so pale did she 
 look and ghastly; and then Mrs. Askell in her turn 
 took fright. 
 
 "Goodness gracious! run and get some water. Will," 
 she cried to Wilfrid, who had rejoined them. "I am 
 sure there was nothing in what I said to make any- 
 body faint. She was talked about a little, that was 
 all — there was no harm in it. We have all been 
 talked about, sometime or other. Why, fancy what a 
 talk there was about our Madonna, her very self." 
 
 "About my mother?" said Wilfrid, standing bolt 
 upright between Aunt Agatha, in her half swoon, and 
 silly little Emma, who sat, a heap of muslin and 
 ribbons upon the grass. He had managed to hear 
 more about Mrs. Percival than anybody knew, and 
 was very indifferent on the subject. And he was not 
 alarmed about Aunt Agatha; but he was jealous of his 
 mother, and could not bear even the smallest whisper 
 in which there was any allusion to her. 
 
 "Goodness, boy, run and get some water!" cried 
 Mrs. Askell, jumping up from the grass in her fright. 
 "I did not mean anything; there was nothing to be 
 put out about — indeed there was not. Miss Seton. 
 It was only a little silly talk; what happens to us all, 
 
 you know: not half, nor quarter part so bad as 
 
 Oh, goodness gracious, Nelly, don't make those ridi- 
 culous signs, as if it was you that was my mother, and 
 I did not know what to say." 
 
 "Will!" said Nelly. Her voice was perfectly quiet 
 and steady, but it made him start as he stood there 
 jealous, and curious, and careless of everybody else.
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 15 
 
 When lie met lier eye, lie grew red aud frowued, and 
 made a momentary stand against her; but the next 
 moment turned resolutely aud went away. If it was 
 for water, Aunt Agatha did not need it. She came to 
 herself without any restorative-, and she kissed Nelly, 
 who had been whispering in her ear. "Yes, my dear 
 I know you are right — it could have been nothing," 
 she said faintly, with a wan sort of smile-, "but I am 
 not very strong, and the heat, you know — - — " And 
 when she got up, she took the girl's arm, to steady 
 her. Thus they went back to the house, 'Mxs. Askell 
 following, holding up her hands in amazement and 
 self-justification. "Could I tell that she was so weak?" 
 Emma said to herself. "Goodness gracious, how could 
 anybody say it was my fault?" As for Nelly, she 
 said nothing-, but supported her trembling companion, 
 and held the soft old hand firm on her arm. And 
 when they approached the house, Nelly, carried away 
 by her feelings, did, what in full possession of herself 
 she never would have done. She bent down to Aunt 
 Agatha's ear — for though she was not tall, she was a 
 little taller at that moment than the poor old lady who 
 was bowed down with weakness and the blow she had 
 just received. "Mamma says things without meaning 
 them," said Nelly, with an undutiful frankness, which 
 it is to be hoped was forgiven her. "She does not 
 mean any barm, and sometimes she says whatever 
 comes into her head." 
 
 "Yes, my dear, your mamma is a very silly little 
 woman," said Aunt Agatha, with a little of her old 
 spirit-, and she gave Nelly, who was naturally much 
 startled by this unexpected vivacity, a kiss as she 
 reached the door of her room and left her. The door
 
 16 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 closed, ami the girl had no pretext nor right to follow. 
 She turned away feeling as if she had received a 
 sudden prick which stimulated all the blood in her 
 veins, but yet yearning in her good little heart over 
 Aunt Agatha who was alone. Miss Seton's room, to 
 which she had retired, was on the ground floor, as 
 were all the sitting-rooms in the house, and Nelly as 
 she turned away, suddenly met Wilfred, and came 
 to a stand-still before him looking him severely in the 
 face. 
 
 "1 say, Nell!" said Will. 
 
 "And I say, Will!" said Nelly. "1 will never like 
 you nor care for you any more. You are a sliocking, 
 selfish, disagreeable prig. To stand there and never 
 mind when poor Aunt Agatha was fainting — all for 
 the sake of a piece of gossip. I don't want ever to 
 speak to you again." 
 
 "It was not a piece of gossip, — it was something 
 about my mother," said Will, in self-defence. 
 
 "And what if it were fifty things about your 
 mother?" cried Nelly, — "what right had you to 
 stand and listen when there was something to do? 
 Oh, I am so ashamed! and after talking to you so 
 much and thinking you were not so bad " 
 
 "Nelly," said Wilfred, "when there is anything 
 said about my mother, I have always a right to listen 
 what it is " 
 
 "Well, then, go and listen," said Nelly, with 
 indignation, "at the keyhole if you like; but don't 
 come afterwards and talk to me. There, good-by, I 
 am going to the children. Mamma is in the drawing- 
 room, and if you like to go there I dare say you will
 
 MADONNA MARY. 17 
 
 hear a great many things; I don't care for gossip 
 myself, so I may as well bid you good-by." 
 
 And she went out by the open door with fine 
 youthful majesty, leaving poor Will in a very doubtful 
 state of mind behind her. He knew that in this parti- 
 cular Nelly did not understand him, and perhaps was 
 not capable of sympathizing in the jealous watch he 
 kept over his mother. But still Nelly was pleasant to 
 look at and pleasant to talk to, and he did not want 
 to be cast oft' by her. He stood and hesitated for a 
 moment — but he could see the sun shining at the 
 open door, and hear the river, and the birds, and the 
 sound of Nelly's step — and the end was that he went 
 after her, there being nothing in the present crisis, as 
 far as he could see, to justify a stern adoption of duty 
 rather than pleasure; and there was nobody in the 
 world but Nelly, as he had often explained to himself, 
 by whom, when he talked, he stood the least chance 
 of being understood. 
 
 This was how the new generation settled the matter. 
 As for Aunt Agatha she cried over it in the solitude 
 of her chamber, but by-and-by recovered too, thinking 
 that after all it was only that silly woman. And she 
 wrote an anxious note to Mrs. Percival, begging her 
 now she was in England to come and see them at the 
 Cottage. "I am getting old, my dear love, and I may 
 not be long for this world, and you must let me see 
 you before I die," Aunt Agatha said. She thought she 
 felt weaker than usual after her agitation, and regarded 
 this sentence, wliicli was in a high degree eff"ective and 
 sensational, Avith some pride. She felt sure tliat such 
 a thought would go to her Winnie's heart. 
 
 And so the Cottage lapsed once more into tran- 
 
 Madonna Mary. 11. 2
 
 18 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 quillity, and into tLat sense that every thing must go 
 
 well which comes natural to the mind after a long 
 interval of peace. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "I LIKE all your people, mamma," said Hugh, 
 "and I like little Nelly Lest of all. She is a little 
 jewel, and as fresh as a little rose." 
 
 "And such a thing might happen as that she might 
 make you a nice little wife one of these days," said 
 Aunt Agatha, who was always a match-maker in her 
 heart. 
 
 Upon which Hugh nodded and laughed and grew 
 slightly red, as became his years. "I had always the 
 greatest confidence in your good sense, my dear aunt," 
 he said in his laughing Avay, and never so much as 
 thought of Wilfrid in the big Indian chair, who had 
 been Nelly's constant companion for at least one long 
 year. 
 
 "I should like to know what business he has with 
 Nelly," said Will between his teeth. "A great hulking 
 fellow, old enough to be her father." 
 
 "She would never have you, Will," said Hugh, 
 laughing; "girls always despise a fellow of their own 
 age. So you need not look sulky, old boy. For that 
 matter I doubt very much if she'd have me." 
 
 "You are presumptuous boys," said Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony, "to think she would have either of you. She 
 has too much to do at home, and too many things to 
 think of. / should like to have her all to myself,"
 
 MADONNA MARY. 19 
 
 said Mary, with a sigh. She sighed, but she smiled; 
 for though her boys could not be with her as Nelly 
 might have beeu, still all was well with them, and the 
 heart of their mother was content. 
 
 "My uncle wants you all to come over to Eai'lston," 
 said Hugh. "I think the poor old boy is beginning 
 to give in. He looks very shaky in the morning when 
 he comes downstairs. I'd like to know what you think 
 of him, mamma; I don't think his wanting to see you 
 all is a good sign. He's awfully good when you come 
 to know him," said Hugh, cleai'ing his throat. 
 
 "Do you mean that Francis Ochterlony is ill?" 
 said Aunt Agatha, with sudden interest. " Your mother 
 must go and see him, but you must not ask me; I am 
 an old woman, and 1 have old-fashioned notions, you 
 know — but a married lady can go anywhere. Besides 
 he would not care for seeing me," Aunt Agatha added, 
 with a slightly-wistful look, "it is so very — very 
 many years since we used to " 
 
 "I know he Avants to see you," said Hugh, who 
 could not help laughing a little; "and with so many 
 people in the house I think you might risk it. Aunt 
 Agatha. He stands awfully in awe of you, I can tell 
 you. And there are to be a lot of people. It's a kind 
 of coming of age affair," said Hugh. "I am to be set 
 up on Psyche's pedestal, and everybody is to look at 
 me and sing out, 'Behold the heir!' That's the sort of 
 thing it's to be. You can bring anybody you like, you 
 two ladies — little Nelly Askell, and all that sort of 
 thing," ho added, Avith a conscious laugh; and gi'ew 
 red again, not at thought of Nelly Askell, but with 
 the thrill which "all that sort of thing" naturally 
 brought into the young man's veins. 
 
 2*
 
 20 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 The face of Wilfrid grew darker and darker as he 
 sat and listened. It was not a precocious passion for 
 Nelly Askell that moved him. If Nelly had been his 
 sister, his heart might still have swelled with a very 
 similar sentiment. "He'll have her too," was what the 
 boy said to himself. There was no sort of justice or 
 distribution in it; Hugh was the lucky fellow who had 
 everything, while no personal appropriation whatever 
 was to be permitted to Wilfrid. He could not engross 
 his mother as he would have liked to do, for she loved 
 Hugh and Islay just as well as she loved himself, and 
 had friends and acquaintances, and people who came 
 and talked, and occupied her time, and even one who 
 was supposed to have the audacity to admire her. And 
 there was no one else to supply the imperious necessity 
 which existed in Will's mind, to be the chief object of 
 somebody's thoughts. His curate had a certain awe of 
 him, which was satisfactory enough in its way; but no- 
 body watched and worshipped poor Will, or did any- 
 thing more than love him in a reasonable unadoring 
 way; and he had no sister whom he could make his 
 slave, nor hxamble friend to whom he could be the 
 centre of interest. Nelly's coming had been a God- 
 send to the boy. She had foxmd out his discontent, 
 and taken to comforting him instinctively, and had 
 been introduced into a world new to her by means of 
 his fancies: and the budding womaA had regarded the 
 budding man with that curiosity, and wonder, and re- 
 spect, and interest, which exists by nature between the 
 two representatives of humanity. And now here was 
 Hugh, who, not content with being an Oxford scholar, 
 and the heir of Earlstou , and his mother's eldest son, 
 and Sir Edward's favourite, and the most interesting
 
 MADONNA MARY. 21 
 
 member of tlie family to the parish in general, was 
 about to seize on Nelly too. Will, though he was per- 
 haps of a jealous temper, was not mean or envious, nor 
 did he grudge his brother his elevation. But he thought 
 it hard that all should go to one, and that there should 
 be no shares: if he had had the arranging of it, it 
 would have been otherwise arranged; Hugh should still 
 have had J]arlston , and any other advantages suited to 
 
 his capacity — but as for Oxford and Nelly It was 
 
 unfair — that was the sting ; all to one , and nothing to 
 the other. This sentiment made Wilfrid very unwilling 
 to accompany the rest of the family to Earlston. He 
 did not want to go and survey all the particulars of 
 Hixgh's good-fortune, and to make sure once again, as 
 he had already so often decided, that Hugh's capacities 
 Avere inferior to his luck, and that it was really of 
 little advantage to him to be so well off. But Will's 
 inclinations, as it happened, were not consulted on the 
 subject; the expedition was all settled without any 
 room being left for his protest. Aunt Agatha was to 
 go, though she had very little desire to do so, being 
 coy about Mr. Ochterlony's house, and even not too 
 well pleased to think that coyness was absurd in her 
 case, and that she was old enough to go to anybody's 
 house, and indeed do what she pleased. And Sir Ed- 
 ward was going, who was older than any of them, and 
 was still inclined to believe that Francis Ochterlony 
 and Agatha Seton might make it up; and then, though 
 Mrs. Askell objected greatly, and could not tell what 
 she was to do witli the children, and limited the ex- 
 pedition absolutely to two days, Nelly was going too. 
 Thus Will had to give in, and withdraw his opposition. 
 It was, as Hugh said, "a coming of age sort of af-
 
 22 MADONNA MARV. 
 
 fair," but it was not precisely a coming of age, for tliat 
 important event liacl taken place some time before, 
 wlien Hugh, whose ambition was not literary, had been 
 working like a coal-heaver to take his degree, and had 
 managed to take it and please his uncle. But there 
 was to be a great dinner to introduce the heir of Earl- 
 ston to his country neighbours, and everything was to 
 be conducted with as much solemnity as if it had been 
 the heir-apparent's birthday. It was so great an occa- 
 sion, that Mrs. Ochterlony got a new dress, and Aunt 
 Agatha brought forth from among the sprigs of lavender 
 her silver-grey which she wore at Winnie's marriage. 
 It was not Hugh's marriage, but it was an event almost 
 as important 5 and if his own people did not try to do 
 him credit, what was to be expected of the rest of the 
 world ? 
 
 And for Nelly Askell it was a very important crisis. 
 She was sixteen, but up to this moment she had never 
 had a dress "made long," and the excitement of coming 
 to this grandeur, and of finding Hugh Ochterlony by 
 her side, full of unspeakable politeness, was almost too 
 much for Nelly; the latter complication was something 
 she did not quite understand. Will, for his part, car- 
 ried things with a high hand, and behaved to her as a 
 brother behaves to the sister whom he tyrannizes over. 
 It is true that she sometimes tyrannized over him in 
 her turn, as has been seen, but they did not think it 
 necessary to be civil, nor did either of them restrain 
 their personal sentiments in case anything occurred 
 they disapproved of. But Hixgh was altogether different 
 — Hugh was one of "the gentlemen;" he was grown 
 up, he had been to the University, he rode, and shot, 
 and hunted, and did everything that the gentlemen are
 
 MADONNA MARY. 23 
 
 expected to do — and he lowered liis voice when he 
 spoke to Nelly, and schemed to g'et near her, and took 
 bonqnets from the Cottage garden which were not in- 
 tended for Mrs. Askell. Altogether, he was like the 
 hero of a story to Nelly, and he made her feel as if 
 she, just that very moment as it were, translated into 
 a long dress, was a young lady in a story too. Will 
 was her friend and companion, but this was something 
 quite different from Will-, and to be taken to see his 
 castle, and his guardian, and his future domains, and 
 assist at the recognition of the young prince, was but 
 the natural continuation of the romance. Nelly's new 
 long dresses were only muslin, but they helped out the 
 force of the situation, and intensified that vague thrill 
 of commencing womanhood and power undreamed of, 
 which Hugh's presence had helped to ja-oduce. Could 
 it lie possible that she could forget the children, and 
 her mamma's head Avhich was ahvays so bad, and go 
 off for two whole days from her duty? Mrs. Askell 
 could scarcely believe it, and Nelly felt guilty when 
 she realized the dreadful thought, but still she wanted 
 to go; and she had no patience with Will's objections, 
 but treated tliem with summary incivility. "Why 
 shouldn't you like to go?" said Nelly, "you would 
 like it very much if you were your brother. And I 
 would not be jealous like you, not for all the world;" 
 and then Nelly added, "it is not because it is a party 
 that I care for it, but because it is such a pleasure to 
 dear Mrs. Ochterlony, and to — Mr. Hugh — " 
 
 "Ah, yes, I knew you would go over to Hugh's 
 side," said Will; "I said so the very day he came 
 here." 
 
 "Why should I go over to his side?" cried Nelly,
 
 24 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 indignantly; "but I am pleased to see people happy; 
 and I am Mr. Hugh's friend, just as I am your friend," 
 added the little woman, with dignity; "it is all for 
 dear Mrs. Ochterlony's sake." 
 
 Thus it was that the new generation stepped in 
 and took up all the foreground of the stage, just as 
 Winnie and her love affairs had done, who was of the 
 intermediate generation — thrusting the people whose 
 play was played out, and their personal story over, 
 into the background. Mary, perhaps, had not seen how 
 natural it was, when her sister was the heroine; but 
 when she began to suspect that the everlasting romance 
 might, perhaps, begin again under her very eyes, with 
 her children for the actors, it gave her a sweet shock 
 of surprise and amusement. She had been in the shade 
 for a long time, and yet she had still been the central 
 figure, and had everything in her hands. What if, 
 now, perhaps. Aunt Agatha's prophecy should come 
 true, and Hugh, whose future was now secure, should 
 find the little wife all ready for him at the very outset 
 of his career? Such a possibility gave his mother, who 
 had not yet arrived at the age which can consent to 
 be passive and superannuated, a curious thrill — but 
 still it might be a desirable event. When Mary saw 
 her son hanging over the fair young creature, whom 
 she had coveted to be her daughter, a true perception 
 of what her own future must be came over her. The 
 boys must go away, and would probably marry and set 
 iTp households, and the mother who had given up the 
 best ]jart of her life to them must remain alone. She 
 was glad, and yet it went with a curious penetrating 
 pang to her heart. Some women might have been 
 jealous of the girl who had first revealed this possibility
 
 MADONNA MARV. 25 
 
 to them; but Mary, for her part, knew better, and saw 
 that it was Nature and not Nelly that was to blame; 
 and she was not a woman to go in the face of Nature. 
 "Hugh will marry early," she said to Aunt Agatha, 
 with a smile; but her heart gave a little flutter in her 
 breast as she said it, and saw how natural it was. 
 Islay was gone already, and very soon Will would 
 have to go; and there would be no more for their 
 mother to do but to live on, with her occupation over, 
 and her jiersonal history at an end. The best thing to 
 do was to make up her mind to it. There was a little 
 moisture in her eyes as she smiled upon Nelly the 
 night before they set out for Earlston. The girl had 
 to spend the previous night at the Cottage, to be ready 
 for their early start next day; and Mrs. Ochterlony 
 smiled upon and kissed her, with a mingled yearning 
 and revulsion. Ah, if she had but been her own — ■, 
 that woman-child! and yet it required a little effort to 
 accept her for her own, at the cost, as it were, of her 
 boy — for women are inconsistent, especially when 
 they are women who have children. But one thing, at 
 least, Mary was sure about, and that was, that her 
 own share of the world would henceforward be very 
 slight. Nothing would ever happen to her individually. 
 Perhaps she regretted the agitations and commotions of 
 life, and felt as if she would prefer still to endure 
 them, and feel herself something in the world; but 
 that was all over; Will must go. Islay was gone. 
 Hugh would marry; and Mary's remaining years would 
 flow on by necessity like the Kirtell, until some day 
 they would come to a noiseless end. She said to her- 
 self that she ought to accept, and make up her mind 
 to it; that boys must go out into the world, and quit
 
 26 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 tlie parent nest; and that slie ought to be very thank- 
 ful for the cahn and secure provision which had been 
 made for the rest of her life. 
 
 And next morning they started for Earlston, on 
 the whole a very cheerful party. Nelly was so happy, 
 that it did every one's heart good to see her; and she 
 had given Will what she called "such a talking to," 
 that he was as good as gold, and made no unpleasant 
 remarks. And Sir Edward was very suave and benign, 
 though full of recollections which confused and embar- 
 rassed Aunt Agatha. "I remember travelling along 
 this same road when we still thought it could be all 
 arranged," he said; "and thinking what a long way it 
 would be to have go to Earlston to see you; but there 
 was no railroad then, and everything is very much 
 changed." 
 
 "Yes, everything," said Aunt Agatha; and then 
 she talked about the weather in a tremulous way. Sir 
 Edward would not have spoken as he did, if he had 
 not thought that even yet the two old lovers might 
 make it up, which naturally made it very confusing 
 for Aunt Agatha to be the one to go to Earlston, and 
 make, as it were, the first advances. She felt just the 
 same heart thumping a little against her breast, and 
 her white hair and soft faded cheek could not be sup- 
 posed to be so constantly visible to her as they were 
 to everybody else; and if Francis Ochterlony were to 
 take it into his head to imagine — For Miss Seton, 
 though nothing would have induced her to marry at 
 her age, was not so certainly secure as her niece was 
 that nothing now would ever happen in her individual 
 life. 
 
 Nothing did happen, however, when they arrived
 
 MADONNA MARY. 27 
 
 at Earlston, where tlie master of the house received 
 them, not with open arms, which was not his nature, 
 but with all the enthusiasm he was capable of. He 
 took them to see all his collections, everything he had 
 that was most costly and i-are. To go back to the 
 house in this way, and see the scene of her former 
 tortures; tortures which looked so light to look back 
 upon, and were so amusing to think of, but which 
 had been all but unbearable at the time, was strange 
 to j\l'ary. She told the story of her miseries, and they 
 all laughed 5 but Mr. Ochterlony was still seen to change 
 colour, when she pointed out the Etruscan vase which 
 Hugh had taken into his hand , and the rococo chair 
 which Islay had mounted. "This is the chair," the 
 master of Earlston said-, and he did not laugh so 
 frankly as the rest, but turned aside to show Miss 
 Seton his Henri H. porcelain. "It was nothing to 
 laugh at, at ^he time," he said, confidentially, in a 
 voice which sank into Aunt Agatha's heart; and, to 
 restore her composure, she paid great attention to the 
 Henri Deux ware. She said she remembered longing 
 very much to have a set like that when she was a 
 girl. "I never knew you were fond of china," said 
 Mr. Ochterlony. "Oh, yes," Aunt Agatha replied; 
 but she did not explain that the china she had longed 
 for was a toy service for her doll's and little com- 
 panions' tea. Mr. Ochterlony put the costly cups away 
 into a little cabinet, and locked it, after this; and he 
 offered Aimt Agatha his arm, to lead her to the library, 
 to see his collection there. She took it, but she trembled 
 a little, the tender-hearted old woman. They looked 
 such an old couple as they walked out of the room 
 together, and yet there was something virginal and
 
 28 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 poetic about them, which they owed to their lonely 
 lives. It was as if the roses that Hugh had just 
 gathered for Nelly had been put away for half a cen- 
 tury, and brought out again all dried and faded, but 
 still roses , and with a lingering pensive perfume. And 
 Sir Edward sat and smiled in a corner, and whispered 
 to Mary to leave them to themselves a little: such 
 things had been as that they might make it up. 
 
 There was a great dinner in the evening, at which 
 Hugh's health was drunk, and everybody hoped to 
 see him for many a happy year at Earlston, yet prayed 
 that it might be many a year before he had to take 
 any other place than the one he now occupied at his 
 uncle's side. There were some county ladies present, 
 who were very gracious to Mary, and anxious to know 
 all about her boys, and whether she, too, was coming 
 to Earlston; but who were disposed to snub Nelly, 
 who was not Mrs. Ochterlony's daughter, nor "any 
 relation," and who was clearly an interloper on such 
 an occasion. Nelly did not care much for being 
 snubbed; but she was very glad to seize the moment 
 to propitiate Wilfrid, who had come into the room 
 looking in what Nelly called "one of his states of 
 mind;" for it must not be forgotten that she Avas a 
 soldier's daughter, and had been brought up exclu- 
 sively in the regiment, and used many very colloquial 
 forms of speech. She managed to glide to the other 
 end of the room, where Wilfrid was scowling over a 
 collection of cameos, without being noticed. To tell 
 the truth, Nelly was easier in her mind when she was 
 at a little distance from the Psyche and the Venus. 
 She had never had any training in art, and she would 
 have preferred to throw a cloak or, at the least, a lace
 
 MADONNA MARY. 29 
 
 shawl, or something, over those marhle beauties. But 
 she Avas, at least, wise enough to keep her sentiments 
 to herself. 
 
 "Why have you come up so early, Will?" she 
 said. 
 
 "What need I stay for, I wonder?" said Will; 
 "I don't care for their stupid county talk. It is just 
 as bad as parish talk, and not a bit more rational. 1 
 suppose my uncle must have known better one time 
 or other, or he could not have collected all these things 
 here." 
 
 "Do you think they are very pretty?" said Nelly, 
 looking back from a safe distance, and thinking that, 
 however pretty they might be, they were not very 
 suitable for a drawing-room, where people in general 
 were in the habit of putting on more decorous gar- 
 ments: by which it will be perceived that she was a 
 very ignorant little girl and knew nothing about it, 
 and had no natural feeling for art. 
 
 "Pretty!" said Will, "you have only to look and 
 see what they are — or to hear their names would be 
 enough. And to think of all those asses downstairs 
 turned in among them, that probably would like a few 
 stupid busts mucli better, — whereas there are plenty 
 of other people that would give their ears — " 
 
 "Oh, Will!" cried Nelly, "you are always harping 
 on the old string!" 
 
 "I am not harping on any string," said Will. "All 
 1 want is, tliat people should stick to what they under- 
 stand. Hugh might know liow mucli money it was 
 all worth, but I don't know what else he couhl know 
 about it. If my uncle was in his senses and left things
 
 30 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 in shares as tliey do in France and everywhere where 
 they have any nnderstandiug — " 
 
 "And then what would become of the house and 
 the family?" cried Nelly, — "if you had six sons and 
 Hugh had six sons — and then your other brother. 
 They would all come down to have cottages and be a 
 poor sort of clan — instead of going and making a 
 fortune like a man, and leaving Earlston to be the 
 head — ^" Probably Nelly bad somewhere heard the 
 argument which she stated in this bewildering way, or 
 picked it out of a novel, which was the only kind of 
 literature she knew much about — for it would be 
 vain to assert that the principles of primogeniture had 
 ever been profoundly considered in her own thoughts — • 
 "and if you were the eldest," she added, forsaking 
 her argumentation, "I don't think you would care so 
 much for everybody going shares." 
 
 "If I were the eldest it would be quite different," 
 said Will. And then he devoted himself to the cameos, 
 and would enter into no further explanation. Nelly 
 sat down beside him in a resigned way, and looked at 
 the cameos too, without feeling very much interest in 
 them, and wondered what the children were doing, 
 and whether mamma's head was bad; and her own 
 astonishing selfishness in leaving mamma's headache 
 and the children to take care of themselves, struck 
 her vividly as she sat there in the twilight and saw 
 the Psyche and Venus, whom she did not approve of, 
 gleaming white in the grey gloaming, and heard the 
 loud voices of the ladies at the other end of the room. 
 Then it began to come into her head how vain plea- 
 sures are, and how to do one's duty is all one ought 
 to care for in the world. Mrs. Ochterlony was at the
 
 MADONNA MARY. 31 
 
 other end of the drawing-room, talking to the other 
 ladies, and "Mr. Hugh" was downstairs with a quan- 
 tity of stupid men, and Will was in one of his "states 
 of mind." And the chances were that something had 
 gone wrong at home; that Charley had fallen down- 
 stairs, or baby's bath been too hot for her, or some- 
 thing — a judgment upon Nelly for going away. At 
 one moment she got so anxious thinking of it all, that 
 she felt disposed to get up and run home all the way, 
 to make sure that nothing had happened. Only that 
 Just then Aunt Agatha came to join them in looking 
 over the cameos, and began to tell Nelly, as she often 
 did, little stories about Mrs. Percival, and to call her 
 "my dear love," and to tell her her dress looked very 
 nice, and that nothing was so pretty as a sweet natural 
 rose in a girl's hair. "I don't care for artificial flowers 
 at your age, my dear," Aunt Agatha Avas saying, when 
 the gentlemen came in and Hugh made his appear- 
 ance; and gradually the children's possible mischances 
 and her mamma's headache faded out of Nelly's 
 thoughts. 
 
 It was the pleasantest two days that had been spent 
 at Earlston in the memory of man. Mrs. Ochterlony 
 went over all the house with very different feelings 
 from those she had felt when she was an inmate of the 
 place, and smiled at her own troubles and found her 
 misery very comical; and little Nelly, who never in all 
 her life before had known what it was to have two 
 days to herself, was so happy that she was perfectly 
 wretched about it when she went to bed. For it had 
 never yet occurred to Nelly, as it does to so many 
 young ladies, that she had a right to everything that 
 was delightful and pleasant, and that the people who
 
 32 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 kept her out of her rights were ogres and tyrants. She 
 was frightened and rather ashamed of herself for being 
 so happy, and then she made it up by resolving to be 
 doubly good and make twice as much a slave of her- 
 self as ever as soon as she got home. This curious and 
 unusual development of feeling probably arose from 
 the fact that Nelly had never been brought up at all, 
 so to speak, but had simply grown; and had too much 
 to do to have any time for thinking of herself — which 
 is the best of all possible bringings up for some natures. 
 As for Aunt Agatha, she went and came about this 
 house, which could never be otherwise than interesting 
 to her, with a wistful look and a flickering unsteady 
 colour that would not have shamed even Nelly's six- 
 teen-year old cheek. Miss Seton saw ghosts of what 
 might have been in every corner; she saw the unborn 
 faces shine beside the neverlighted fire. She saw her- 
 self as she might have been, rising up to receive her 
 guests, sitting at the head of the long, full, cheerful 
 table. It was a curious sensation, and made her stop 
 to think now and then which was the reality and which 
 the shadow; and yet there could be no doubt that there 
 was in it a certain charm. 
 
 And there could be no doubt, either, that a certain 
 sadness fell upon Mr. Ochterlony when they were all 
 gone. He had a fire lighted in his study that night, 
 though it was warm, "to make it look a little more 
 cheerful," he said; and made Hugh sit with him long 
 after the usual time. He sat buried in his "great chair, 
 with his thin, long limbs looking longer and thinner 
 than ever, and his head a little sunk upon his breast. 
 And then he began to moralize and give his nephew 
 good advice.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 33 
 
 "I hope you'll marry, Hugh," he said. "I don't 
 think it's good to shut one's self out from the society 
 
 of women ; they're very unscientific , but still And 
 
 it makes a great difference in a house. When I was 
 
 a young fellow like you But, indeed, it is not 
 
 necessary to go back so far. A man has it in his 
 power to amuse himself for a long time, but it doesn't 
 
 last for ever And there are always things that 
 
 might have been better otherwise " Here Mr. 
 
 Ochterlony made a long pause and stared into the fire, 
 and after a while resumed without any preface: "When 
 I'm gone, Hugh, you'll pack up all that Henri Deux 
 
 ware and send it over to to your Aunt Agatha. 
 
 I never thought she cared for china. John will pack 
 it for you — he is a very careful fellow for that sort 
 of thing. I put it all into the Louis Quinze cabinet; 
 now mind you don't forget." 
 
 "Time enough for that, sir," said Hugh, cheer- 
 fully, and not without a suppressed laugh ; for the loves 
 of Aunt Agatha and Francis Ochterlony were slightly 
 comical to Hugh. 
 
 "That is all you know about it," said his uncle. 
 "But I shall expect you altogether to be of more use 
 in the world than I have been, Hugh; and you'll have 
 more to do. Your father, you know, married when he 
 was a boy, and went out of my reach; but you'll have 
 all your people to look after. Don't play the generous 
 prince and spoil the boys — mind you don't take any 
 stupid notions into your head of being a sort of Pro- 
 vidence for them. It's a great deal better for them to 
 make their own way; but you'll be always here, and 
 you'll lend a helping hand. Stand by them — that's 
 the great thing; and as for your mother, I needn't re- 
 
 Mudouiia MdYji. 11. 3
 
 34 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 commend her to your kindest care. She has done a 
 great deal for you." 
 
 "Uncle, I wish you would not talk like this," said 
 Hugh; "there's nothing the matter with you? What's 
 the good of making a fellow uneasy and sending him 
 uncomfortable to bed? Leave those sort of things till 
 you're old and ill, and then I'll attend to what you 
 say." 
 
 Mr. Ochterlony softly shook his head. "You won't 
 forget about the Henri Deux," he said; and then he 
 paused again and laughed as it were under his breath, 
 with a kind of laugh that was pathetic and full of 
 quaint tenderness. "If it had ever come to that, I 
 don't think you would have been any the worse," he 
 added; "we were not the sort of people to have heirs," 
 and the laugh faded into a lingering, wistful smile, 
 half sad, half amused, with which on his face, he sat 
 for a long time and gazed into the fading fire. It was, 
 perhaps, simply that the presence of such visitors had 
 stirred up the old recollections in his heart — perhaps 
 that it felt strange to him to look back on his own 
 past life in the light thrown upon it by the presence 
 of his heir, and to feel that it was ending, while yet, 
 in one sense, it had never begun. As for Hugh, to 
 tell the truth, he was chiefly amused by his uncle's re- 
 flective mood. He thought, which no doubt was to 
 some extent true, that the old man was thinking of an 
 old story which had come to nothing, and of which 
 old Aunt Agatha was the heroine. There was some- 
 thing touching in it he could not but allow, but still 
 he gave a laugh within himself at the superannuated 
 romance. And all that immediately came of it, was 
 the injunction not to forget about the Henri Deux.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 35 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Of the visit to Earlston , this was all that came 
 immediately; but yet, if anybody had been there with 
 clear-sighted eyes, there might have been other results 
 perceptible and other symptoms of a great change at 
 hand. Such little shadows of an event impending might 
 have been traced from day to day if that once possible 
 lady of the house, whose ghost Aunt Agatha had met 
 with in all the rooms, had been there to watch over its 
 master. There being nobody but Hugh, everything 
 was supposed to go on in its usual way. Hugh had 
 come to be fond of his uncle, and to look up to him 
 in many ways; but he was young, and nothing had 
 ever occun-ed to him to put insight into his eyes. He 
 thought Mr. Ochterlony was just as usual — and so he 
 was; and yet there were some things that were not as 
 usual, and which might have aroused an experienced 
 observer. And in the meantime something happened 
 at the Cottage, where things did not happen often, 
 which absorbed everybody's thoughts for the moment, 
 and threw Earlston and Mr. Ochterlony entirely into 
 the shade. 
 
 It happened on the very evening after their return 
 home. Aunt Agatha had been troubled with a head- 
 ache on the previous night — she said, from the fatigue 
 of the journey, though possibly the emotions excited at 
 Earlston had something to do with it — and had been 
 keeping very quiet all day; Nelly Askell had gone 
 home, eager to get back to her little flock, and to her 
 
 3»
 
 3G MADONNA MARY. 
 
 mother, who was the greatest baby of all; Mary had 
 gone out iipou some village business; and Aunt Agatha 
 sat alone, slightly drowsy and gently thoughtful, in the 
 summer afternoon. She was thinking, with a soft sigh, 
 that perhaps everything was for the best. There are 
 a great many cases in which it is very difficult to say 
 so — especially when it seems the mistake or blindness 
 of man, instead of the direct act of God, that has 
 brought the result about. Miss Seton had a meek and 
 quiet spirit; and yet it seemed strange to her to make 
 out how it could be for the best that her own life 
 and her old lover's should thus end, as it were, unful- 
 filled, and all through his foolishness. Looking at it 
 in an abstract point of view, she almost felt as if she 
 could have told him of it, had he been near enough to 
 hear. Such a diff'erent life it might have been to both: 
 and now the moment for doing anything had long past, 
 and the two barren existences were alike coming to an 
 end. This was what Miss Seton could not help think- 
 ing; and feeling as she did that it was from beginning 
 to end a kind of flying in the face of Providence, it 
 was difficult to see how it could be for the best. If it 
 had been her own fault, no doubt she would have felt 
 as Mr. Ochterlony did, a kind of tender and not un- 
 pleasant remorse; but one is naturally less tolerant and 
 more impatient when one feels that it is not one's own, 
 but another's fault. The subject so occupied her mind, 
 and her activity was so lulled to rest by the soft fatigue 
 and languor consequent upon the ending of the excite- 
 ment, that she did not take particular notice how the 
 afternoon glided away. Mary was out, and Will was 
 out, and no visitor came to disturb the calm. Miss 
 Seton had cares of more immediate force even at that
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 37 
 
 Dioment — auxieties and apprehensions about Winnie, 
 which had brought of late many a sickening thrill to 
 her heart; but these had all died away for the time 
 before the force of recollections and the interest of her 
 own personal story thus revived without any will of 
 her own; and the soft afternoon atmosphere, and the 
 murmuring of the bees, and the roses at the open 
 windows, and Kirtell flowing audible but unseen, lulled 
 Aunt Agatha, and made her forget the passage of time. 
 Then all at once she roused herself with a start. 
 Perhaps — though she did not like to entertain such 
 an idea — she had been asleep, and heard it in a 
 dream; or perhaps it was Mary, whose voice had a 
 family resemblance. Miss Seton sat upright in her 
 chair after that first start and listened very intently, 
 and said to herself that of course it must be Mary. 
 It was she who was a fantastical old woman to think 
 she heai'd voices which in the course of nature could 
 not be within hearing. Then she observed how late it 
 was, and that the sunshine slanted in at the west 
 window and lay along the lawn outside almost in a 
 level line. Mary was late, later than usual; and Aunt 
 Agatha blushed to confess, even to herself, that she 
 must have, as she expressed it, "just closed her eyes," 
 and had a little dream in her solitude. She got up 
 now briskly to throw this drowsiness off, and went out 
 to look if Mary was coming, or Will in sight, and to 
 tell Peggy about the tea — for nothing so much revives 
 one as a cup of tea when one is drowsy in the after- 
 noon. Miss Seton went across the little lawn, and the 
 sun shone so strongly in her eyes as she reached the 
 gate that she had to }tut uj) her hand to shade them, 
 and for the moment could sec nothing. Was that
 
 38 MADONNA JIARY. 
 
 Mary so near the gate? The figure was dark against 
 the sunshine, which shone right into Aunt Agatha's 
 eyes, and made everything black between her and the 
 light. It came drifting as it were between her and the 
 sun, like the phantom ship in the mariner's vision. 
 She gazed and did not see, and felt as if a kind of 
 insanity was taking possession of her. "Is it Mary?" 
 she said, in a trembling voice, and at the same moment 
 felt by something in the air that it was not Mary. 
 And then Aunt Agatha gave such a cry as brought 
 Peggy, and indeed all the household, in alarm to the 
 door. 
 
 It was a woman who looked as old as Mary, and 
 did not seem ever to have been half so fair. She had 
 a shawl drawn tightly round her shoulders, as if she 
 were cold, and a veil over her face. She was of a 
 very thin meagre form, with a kind of forlorn grace 
 about her, as if she might have been splendid under 
 better conditions. Her eyes were hollow and large, her 
 cheek-bones prominent, her face worn out of all fresh- 
 ness, and possessing only Avhat looked like a scornful 
 recollection of beauty. The noble form had missed its 
 development, the fine capabilities had been checked or 
 turned in a false direction. When Aunt Agatha uttered 
 that gi-eat cry which brought Peggy from the utmost 
 depths of the house, the new comer showed no corres- 
 ponding emotion. She said, "No; it is I," with a kind 
 of bitter rather than affectionate meaning, and stood 
 stock-still before the gate, and did not even make a 
 movement to lift her veil. Miss Seton made a tremulous 
 rush forward to her, but she did not advance to meet 
 it; and when Aunt Agatha faltered and was likely to 
 fall, it was not the stranger's arm that interposed to
 
 MADONNA MARY- 39 
 
 save lier. She stood still, neither advancing nov going- 
 back. She read the shock, the jtainful recognition, the 
 reluctant certainty in Miss Seton's eye. She was like 
 the returning prodigal so far, but she was not content 
 with his position. It Avas no happiness to her to go 
 home, and yet it ought to have been; and she conld 
 not forgive her aunt for feeling the shock of the 
 recognition. AVhen she roused herself, after a moment, 
 it was not because she was pleased to come home, but 
 because it occurred to her that it was absurd to stand 
 still and be stared at, and make a scene. 
 
 And when Peggy caught her mistress in her arms, 
 to keep her from falling, the stranger made a step for- 
 ward and gave her a hurried kiss, and said, "It is I, 
 Aunt Agatha. I thought you would have known me 
 better. I will follow you directly," and then turned 
 to take out her purse, and give a shilling to the porter, 
 who had carried her bag from the station — which was 
 a proceeding which they all watched in consternation, 
 as if it had been something remarkable. Winnie, 
 was still Winnie, though it was difficult to realize that 
 Mrs. Percival was she. She was coming back wounded, 
 resentful, remorseful to her old home; and she did not 
 mean to give in, nor show the feelings of a prodigal, 
 nor gush forth into affectionateness. To see her give 
 (he man the shilling brought Aunt Agatha to herself. 
 She raised her head from l*eggy's shoulder, and stood 
 u])right, trembling, but self-restrained. "I am a silly 
 old woman to be so surprised," she said; "but you did 
 not write to say what day we were to expect you, my 
 dear love." 
 
 "I did not write anything about it," said AVinnie;
 
 40 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "for I did not know. But let me go in, please; don't 
 let us stay here." 
 
 "Come in, my darling," said Aunt Agatha. "Oh, 
 how glad, how thankful, how happy I am, Winnie, my 
 dear love, to see you again!" 
 
 "I think you are more shocked than glad," said 
 Winnie; and that was all she said, until they had 
 entered the room where Miss Seton had just left her 
 maiden dreams. Then the wanderer, instead of throw- 
 ing herself into Aunt Agatha's kind longing arms, 
 looked all round her with a strange passionate mourn- 
 fulness and spitefulness. "I don't wonder you were 
 shocked," she said, going up to the glass, and looking 
 at herself in it. "You, all just the same as ever, and 
 such a change in me!" 
 
 "Oh, Winnie, my darling!" cried Aitnt Agatha, 
 throwing herself upon her child with a yearning which 
 was no longer to be restrained; "do you think there 
 can ever be any change in you to me? Oh, Winnie, 
 my dear love! come and let me look at you; let me 
 feel I have you in my arms at last, and that you have 
 really come home." 
 
 "Yes, I have come home," said Winnie, suffering 
 herself to be kissed. "I am sure I am very glad that 
 you are pleased. Of course Mary is still here, and her 
 children? Is she going to marry again? Are her boys 
 as tiresome as ever? Yes, thank you, I will take my 
 things off — and I should like something to eat. Biit 
 you must not make too much of me, Aunt Agatha, for 
 I have not come only for a day." 
 
 "Winnie, dear, don't you know if it was for your 
 good I would like to have you for ever?" cried poor
 
 MADOXNA MARV. 41 
 
 Aunt Agatha, trembling so that she could scarcely form 
 the words. 
 
 And then for a moment, the strange woman, who 
 was Winnie, looked as if she too was moved. Some- 
 thing like a tear came into the corner of her eye. Her 
 breast heaved with one profound, unnatural, convulsive 
 swell. "Ah, you don't know me now," she said, with 
 a certain sharpness of anguish and rage in her A'oice. 
 Aunt Agatha did not understand it, and trembled all 
 the more; but her good genius led her, instead of ask- 
 ing questions as she was burning to do, to take 
 off Winnie's bonnet and her shawl, moving softly 
 about her with her soft old hands, which shook yet 
 did their office. Aunt Agatha did not understand it, 
 but yet it was not so very difficult to understand. 
 Winnie was abashed and dismayed to find herself 
 there among all the innocent recollections of her 
 youth — and she was full of rage and misery at the 
 remembrance of all her injuries, and to think of the 
 explanation which she would have to give. She was 
 even angry with Aunt Agatha because she did not 
 know what manner of woman her Winnie had grown 
 — but beneath all this impatience and irritation was 
 such a gulf of wretchedness and wrong that even the 
 unreasonableness took a kind of miserable reason. She 
 did well to be angry with herself, and all the Avorld. 
 Her friends ought to understand the difference, and see 
 what a changed creature she was, without exacting the 
 humiliation of an explanation; and yet at the same 
 time the poor soul in her misery was angry to perceive 
 that Aunt Agatha did see a difference. She suffered 
 her bonnet and shawl to be taken off, but started when 
 she felt Miss Seton's soft caressing hand upon her hair.
 
 42 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 She started partly because it was a caress she was un- 
 used to, and partly that her hair had grown thin and 
 even had some grey threads in it, and she did not like 
 that change to be observed; for she had been proud of 
 her pretty hair, and taken pleasure in it as so many 
 women do. She rose up as she felt that touch, and 
 took the shawl which had been laid upon a chair. 
 
 "I suppose I can have my old room," she said. 
 "Never mind coming with me as if I was a visitor. I 
 should like to go upstairs, and I ought to know the 
 way, and be at home here." 
 
 "It is not for that, my darling," said Aunt Agatha, 
 with hesitation; "but you must have the best room, 
 Winnie. Not that I mean to make a stranger of you. 
 But the truth is one of the boys — and then it is too 
 small for what you ought to have now." 
 
 "One of the boys — which of the boys?" said 
 Winnie. "I thought you would have kept my old 
 room — I did not think you would have let your 
 house be overrun with boys. I don't mind where it 
 is, but let me go and put my things somewhere and 
 make myself respectable. Is it Hugh that has my room?" 
 
 "No, — Will," said Aunt Agatha, faltering; "I 
 could change him, if yoia like, but the best room is far 
 the best. My dear love, it is just as it was when you 
 Avent away. Will! Here is Will. This is the little 
 one that was the baby — I don't think that you can 
 say he is not changed." 
 
 "Not so much as I am," said Mrs. Percival, under 
 her breath, as turning round she saw the long-limbed, 
 curious boy, with his pale face and inquiring eyes, 
 standing in the open window. Will was not excited, 
 but he was curious; and as he looked at the stranger,
 
 MADONNA MARY. 43 
 
 tliougli lie had never seen her before, his quick mind 
 set to work on the subject, and he put two and two 
 together and divined who it was. He was not like her 
 in external appearance — at least he had never been 
 a handsome boy, and Winnie had still her remains of 
 Avasted beauty — but yet perhaps they were like each 
 other in a more subtle, invisible way. Winnie looked 
 at him, and she gave her shoulders a shrug and turned 
 impatiently away. "It must be a dreadful nuisance to 
 1)6 interrupted like that, whatever you may be talking 
 about," she said. "It does not matter what room I am 
 to have, but I suppose I may go upstairs?" 
 
 "My dear love, I am waiting for you," said poor 
 Aunt Agatha, anxiously. "Kun, Will, and tell your 
 mother that my dear Winnie has come home. Run as 
 fast as ever you can, and tell her to make haste. 
 Winnie, my darling, let me carry your shawl. You will 
 feel more like yourself when you have had a good rest; 
 and Mary will be back directly, and I know how glad 
 she will be." 
 
 "Will she?" said Winnie; and she looked at the 
 lioy and heard him receive his instructions, and felt his 
 ((uick eyes go throiigh and through her. "lie will go 
 and tell liis mother the wreck I am," she said to her- 
 self, with bitterness; and felt as if she hated Wilfrid. 
 She had no children to defend and surround her, or 
 even to take messages. No one could say, referring 
 to her, " Go and tell your mother." It was IVIary that 
 was well off, always the fortunate one, and for the 
 moment poor Winnie felt as if she hated the keen-eyed 
 boy. 
 
 Will, for his part, went off to seek his mother, 
 leaving Aunt Agatha to conduct her dear and welcome,
 
 44 MADONNA MAKV. 
 
 but embarrassing and difficult, guest upstairs. He did 
 not run, nor show any symptoms of unnecessary haste, 
 but went along in a very steady, leisurely way. He 
 was so far like Winnie that he did not see any occa- 
 sion for disturbing himself much on account of other 
 people. He went to seek Mrs. Ochterlony with his 
 hands in his pockets, and his mind working steadily at 
 the new position of affairs. Why this new-comer should 
 have amved so unexpectedly? why Aunt Agatha should 
 look so anxious, and helpless, and confused, as if, not- 
 withstanding her love, she did not know what to do 
 with her visitor? were questions which exercised all 
 Will's faculties. He walked up to his mother, who was 
 coming quietly along the road from the village, and 
 joined her Avithout disturbing himself. "Aunt Agatha 
 sent me to look for yovx," he said, and turned with her 
 towards the Cottage in the calmest way. 
 
 "I am afraid she thought I was late," said Mary. 
 
 "It was not that," said Will. "Mrs. Percival had 
 just come, so far as I could understand, and she sent 
 me to tell you." 
 
 "Mrs. Percival?" cried Mary, stopping short. 
 "Whom do you mean? Not Winnie? Not my sister? 
 You must have made some mistake." 
 
 "I think it was. It looked like her," said Will, in 
 his calm way. 
 
 Mary stood still, and her breath seemed to fail her 
 for the moment; she had what the French call a 
 serrement du cceur. It felt as if some invisible hand 
 had seized upon her heart and compressed it tightly; 
 and her breathing failed, and a chill went through her 
 veins. The next moment her face flushed with shame 
 and self-reproach. Could she be thinking of herself
 
 MADONNA MARY. 45 
 
 and any possible consequences, and grudging lier sister 
 the only natural refuge whicb remained to her? She 
 was incapable for the moment of asking any further 
 questions, but went on with a sudden hasty impulse, 
 feeling her head swim, and her whole intelligence con- 
 fused. It seemed to Mary, for the moment, though 
 she could not have told how, as if there was an end 
 of her peaceful life, of her comfort, and all the good 
 things that remained to her; a chill presentiment, con- 
 founding and inexplicable, went to her heart; and at 
 the same time she felt utterly ashamed and horrified 
 to be thinking of herself at all, and not of poor Winnie, 
 the returned wanderer. Her thoughts were so busy 
 and full of occupation that she had gone a long way 
 before it occurred to her to say anything to her boy. 
 
 "You say it looked like her. Will," she began at 
 last, taking up the conversation where she had left off; 
 "tell me, Avhat did she look like?" 
 
 "She looked just like other women," said Will; "I 
 didn't remark any difference. As tall as you, and a 
 sort of a long nose. Why I thought it looked like 
 her, was because Aunt Agatha was in an awful 
 way." 
 
 "What sort of a way?" cried Mary. 
 
 "Oh, well, I don't know. Like a hen, or some- 
 thing — walking round her, and looking at her, and 
 cluck-clucking; and yet all the same as if she'd like 
 to cry." 
 
 "And Winnie," said Mrs. Ochterlony, "how did she 
 look? — - that is what I want most to know." 
 
 "Awfully bored," said Will. He was so sometimes 
 liimself, when Aunt Agatha paid any special attentions 
 to him, and he said it with feeling. This was almost
 
 46 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 all the conversation that passed between tliem as Mrs. 
 Ochterlony hurried home. Poor Winnie! Mary knew 
 better than Miss Setou did what a dimness had fallen 
 upon her sister's bright prospects — how the lustre of 
 her innocent name had been tarnished, and all the 
 freshness and beauty gone ovit of her life; and Mrs. Och- 
 terlony's heart smote her for the momentary reference 
 to herself, which she had made without meaning it, 
 when she heard of Winnie's return. Poor Winnie! if 
 the home of her youth was not open to her, where 
 could she find refuge? if her aunt and her sister did 
 not stand by her, who would? and yet — The sen- 
 sation was altogether involuntary, and Mary resisted it 
 with all her might; but she could not help a sort of 
 instinctive sense that her peace was over, and that 
 the storms and darkness of life were about to begin 
 again. 
 
 When she went in hurriedly to the drawing-room, 
 not expecting to see anybody, she found, to her surprise, 
 that Winnie was there, reclining in an easy chair, with 
 Aunt Agatha in wistful and anxious attendance on her. 
 The poor old lady was hovering about her guest, full 
 of wonder, and pain, and anxioiTS curiosity. Winnie 
 as yet had given no explanation of her sudden apj^ear- 
 ance. She had given no satisfaction to her perplexed 
 and fond comj)anion. When she found that Aunt 
 Agatha did not leave her, she had come downstairs 
 again, and dropped listlessly into the easy chair. She 
 Avanted to have been left alone for a little, to have 
 realized all that had befallen her, and to feel that she 
 was not dreaming, but was actually in her old home. 
 But Miss Seton would have thought it the greatest un- 
 kindness, the most signal want of love and sympathy,
 
 aiADONNA MARY. 47 
 
 and all that a wounded heart required, to leave Winnie 
 alone. And she was glad when Mary came to help 
 her to rejoice over, and overwhelm with kindness, her 
 child who had been lost and was found. 
 
 "It is your dear sister, thank God!" she cried, with 
 tears. "Oh, Mary! to think we should have her again; 
 to think she should be here after so many changes! 
 And our own Winnie through it all. She did not 
 wi'ite to tell us, for she did not quite know the 
 day — " 
 
 "I did nut know things would go further than I 
 could bear," said Winnie, hurriedly. "Noav Mary is 
 here, I know you must have some explanation. I have 
 not come to see you; 1 have come to escape, and hide 
 myself. Now, if you have any kindness, you won't 
 ask me any more just now. 1 came off last night be- 
 cause he went too far. There! that is why I did not 
 write. I thought you would take me in, whatever my 
 circumstances might be." 
 
 "Oh, Winnie, my darling! then you have not been 
 happy?" said Aunt Agatha, tearfully clasping Winnie's 
 hands in her own, and gazing wistfully into her 
 face. 
 
 "Happy!" she said, with something like a laugh, 
 and then drew her hand away. "Please, let us have 
 tea or something, and don't question me any more." 
 
 It was then only that Mary interposed. Her love 
 for her sister was not the absorbing love of Aunt 
 Agatha; but it was a wiser affection. And siie managed 
 to draw the old lady away, and leave the new-comer 
 to herself for the moment. "I must not leave Winnie," 
 Aunt Agatha said; "I cannot go away from my poor 
 child; don't you see how unhappy and suffering she is?
 
 48 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 You can see after everything- yourself, Mary, there is 
 nothing to do; and tell Peggy — " 
 
 "But I have something to say to you," said Mary, 
 drawing her reluctant companion away, to Aunt 
 Agatha's great impatience and disti-ess. As for Winnie, 
 she was grateful for the moment's quiet, and yet she 
 was not grateful to her sister. She wanted to be alone 
 and undisturbed, and yet she rather wanted Aunt 
 Agatha's suffering looks and tearful eyes to be In the 
 same room with her. She wanted to resume the sover- 
 eignty, and to be queen and potentate the moment 
 after her return; and it did not please her to see an- 
 other authority, which prevailed over the fascination of 
 her presence. But yet she was glad to be alone. When 
 they left her, she lay back in her chair, in a settled 
 calm of passion which was at once twenty times more 
 calm than their peacefulness, and twenty times more 
 passionate than their excitement. She knew whence 
 she came, and why she came, which they did not. 
 She knew the last step which had been too far, and 
 was still tingling with the sense of outrage. She had 
 in her mind the very different scene she had left, and 
 which stood oiit in flaming outlines against the dim 
 background of this place, which seemed to have stopped 
 still just where she left it, and in all these years to 
 have grown no older; and her head began to steady a 
 little out of the whirl. If he ventured to seek her 
 here, she would turn to bay and defy him. She was 
 too much absorbed by active enmity, and rage, and 
 indignation, to be moved by the recollections of her 
 youth, the romance that had been enacted within these 
 walls. On the contrary, the last exasperation which 
 had filled her cup to overflowing was so much more
 
 MADONNA MARY. 49 
 
 real than auytlimg tliat followed, that Aunt Agatha 
 was but a pale ghost to Winnie, flitting dimly across 
 the fiery surface of her own thoughts; and this calm 
 scene in which she found herself, almost without know- 
 ing how, felt somehow like a pasteboard cottage in a 
 theatre, suddenly let down upon her for the moment. 
 She had come to escape and hide herself, she said, and 
 that was in reality what she intended to do; but at the 
 same time the thought of living there, and making the 
 change real, had never occurred to her. It was a sud- 
 den expedient, adopted in the heat of battle; it was not 
 a flight for her life. 
 
 "She has come back to take refuge with us, the 
 poor darling," said Aunt Agatha. "Oh, Mary, my 
 dear love, don't let us be hard upon her! She has not 
 been happy, you heard her say so, and she has come 
 home; let me go back to Winnie, my dear. She will 
 think we are not glad to see her, that we don't sym- 
 pathize — And oh, Mary, her poor dear wounded heart ! 
 when she looks upon all the things that surrounded her, 
 when she was so happy! — " 
 
 And Mary could not succeed in keeping the tender 
 old lady away, nor in stilling the thousand questions 
 that bubbled from her kind lips. All she could do was 
 to provide for Winnie's comfort, and in her own per- 
 son to leave her undisturbed. And the night fell over 
 a strangely disquieted household. Aunt Agatha could 
 not tell whether to cry for joy or for distress, whether 
 to be most glad that Winnie had come home, or most 
 concerned and anxious how to account for her sudden 
 arrival, and keep up appearances, and prevent the 
 parish from thinking that anything unpleasant had 
 happened. In Winnie's room there was such a silent 
 
 Madoiiua Mary. II, i
 
 50 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 tumult of fury, and injury, and active conflict, as had 
 never existed before near Kirtell side. Winnie was not 
 thinking, not caring where she was; slie was going 
 over the last battle from which she had fled, and an- 
 ticipating the next, and instead of making herself 
 wretched by tlie contrast of her former happiness, felt 
 herself only, as it were, in a painted retirement, no 
 more real than a dream. What was real was her own 
 feelings, and nothing else on earth. As for Mary, she 
 too was strangely, and she thought ridiculously aftected 
 by her sister's return. She tried to explain to herself 
 that except for her natural sympathy for Winnie, it 
 affected her in no other way, and was indignant with 
 herself for dwelling upon a possible derangement of 
 domestic peace, as if that could not be guarded against, 
 or even endured if it came about. But nature was too 
 strong for her. It was not any fear for the domestic 
 peace that moved her; it was an indescribable con- 
 viction that this unlooked-for return was the onslaught 
 signal for a something lying in wait — that it was the 
 touch of revolution, the opening of the flood-gates — 
 and that henceforward her life of tranquil confidence 
 was over, and that some mysterious trouble which 
 she could not at present identify, had been let loose 
 upon her, let it come sooner or later, from that day.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 51 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 After tliat first bewildered night, and when the 
 morning came, the I'ceollection that Winnie was in the 
 honse had a tnirions effect upon the thoughts of the 
 entire househohl. Even Aunt Agatha's uneasy joy 
 was mingled with many feelings that were not joyful. 
 She had never had anything to do before with wives 
 who "were not happy." Any such cases which might 
 have come to her knowledge among her acquaintance she 
 had been in the way of avoiding and tacitly condemning. 
 "A man may be bad," she had been in the habit of 
 saying, "but still if his wife had right feelings " — and 
 she was in the way of thinking that it was to a woman's 
 credit to endure all things, and to make no sign. Such 
 had been tlie pride and the principles of Aunt Agatha's 
 generation. But now, as in so many cases, principle 
 and theory came right in the face of fact, and gave 
 way. Winnie must be right at whatever cost. Poor 
 Winnie! to think what she had been, to remember her 
 as she left Kirtell splendid in her bridal beauty, and 
 to look at her now! Such arguments made an end of 
 all Aunt Agatha's old maiden sentiments about a Avife's 
 duty; but nevertheless her heart still ached. She knew 
 how she would herself have looked upon a runaway 
 wife, and she could not endure to think that other 
 people would so look upon Winnie-, and she dried an 
 indignant tear, and made a vow to herself to carry 
 matters with a high hand, and to maintain her child's 
 discretion, and wisdom, and perfect propriety of action, 
 
 4r
 
 52 MADOilNA MARY. 
 
 in the face of all comers. "My dear child has come 
 to pay me a visit, the very first chance she has had," 
 she said to herself, rehearsing her part; "I have been 
 begging and begging her to come, and at last she has 
 found an opportunity. And to give me a delightful 
 surprise, she never named the day. It was so like 
 Winnie." This was what, omitting all notice of the 
 feelings which made the surprise far from delightful, 
 Aunt Agatha made up her mind to say. 
 
 As for Winnie, when she woke up in the sunshine 
 and stillness, and heard nothing but the birds singing, 
 and Kirtell in the distance murmuring below her win- 
 dow, her heart stood still for a moment and wondered; 
 and then a few hot salt tears came scalding to her 
 eyes; and then she began over again in her own mind 
 the recapitulation of her wrongs. She thought very 
 little indeed of Aunt Agatha, or of her present sur- 
 roundings. What she thought of was the late scenes 
 of exciting strife she had gone through, and future 
 scenes which might still be before her, and what he 
 would say to her, and what she would say to him; for 
 matters had gone so far between tliem that the con- 
 stantly progressing duel was as absorbing as the first 
 dream of love, and swallowed up every thought. It 
 cost her an effort to be patient with all the morning 
 greetings, with Aunt Agatha's anxious talk at the 
 breakfast-table, and discussion of the old neighbours, 
 whom, doubtless, Winnie, she thought, would like to 
 hear of. Winnie did not care a great ^deal for the old 
 neighbours, nor did she take much interest in hearing 
 of the boys. Indeed she did not know the boys. They 
 had been but babies when she went away, and she 
 had no acquaintance with the new creatures who bore
 
 MADONNA MART. 53 
 
 tlieir names. It gave her a little pang when she looked 
 at Mary and saw the results of peace and tranquillity 
 in her face, which seemed to have grown little older 
 — but that was almost the sole thing that drew "Winnie 
 from her own thoughts. There was a subtle sort of 
 connexion between it and the M'rongs which were 
 rankling at her heart. 
 
 "There used to be twelve years between us," she 
 said, abruptly. "I was eighteen when Mary was thirty. 
 I think anybody that saw us would ask which was the 
 eldest now." 
 
 "My darling, you are thin," said poor Aunt 
 Agatha, anxiously; "but a few weeks of quiet and 
 your native air will soon round out your dear cheeks — " 
 
 "Well," said Winnie, paying no attention, "I 
 suppose it's because I have been living all the time, 
 and Mary hasn't. It is I that have the wrinkles — 
 but then I have not been like the Sleeping Beauty. I 
 have been working hard at life all this time.' 
 
 "Yes," said Mary, with a smile, "it makes a dif- 
 ference: — and of the two I think I would rather 
 live. It is harder work, but there is more satisfaction 
 in it." 
 
 "Satisfaction!" Winnie said, bitterly. There had 
 been no satisfaction in it to her, and she felt fierce 
 and angry at the word - — and then her eye fell upon 
 Will, who had been listening as usual. "I wonder you 
 keep that great boy there," she said; "why isn't he 
 doing something? You ought to send him to the 
 army, or put him to go through some examinations. 
 What does he want at his mother's lap? You should 
 mind you don't spoil them, Mary. Home is the ruin
 
 54 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 of boys. I have always heard so wherever I have 
 been." 
 
 "My clear love," cried Aunt Agatha, fearful that 
 Mary might be moved to reply, "it is very interesting 
 to hear you; but I want you to tell me a little about 
 yourself. Tell me aboixt yourself, my darling — if 
 you are fixed there now, you know, and all where you 
 have been." 
 
 "Before that boy?" said Winnie, with a kind of 
 smile, looking Wilfrid in the face with her great sunken 
 eyes. 
 
 "Now, Will, be quiet, and don't say anything im- 
 pertinent," cried Aunt Agatha. "Oh, my darling, 
 never mind him. lie is strange, but he is a good boy 
 at the bottom. I sliould like to hear about all my 
 dearest child has been doing. Letters never tell all. 
 Oh , Winnie , what a pleasure it is, my love, to see your 
 dear face again." 
 
 "I am glad you think so, aunt — nobody else does, 
 that I know of; and you are likely to have enough of 
 it," said Winnie, with a certain look of defiance at her 
 sister and her sister's son. 
 
 "Thank you, my dear love," said Aunt Agatha, 
 trembling; for the maid was in the room, and Miss 
 Seton's heart quailed with fear lest the sharp eyes of 
 such a domestic critic should be opened to something 
 strange in the conversation. " I am so glad to hear you are 
 going to pay me a long visit; I did not like to ask you 
 just the first morning, and I was dreadfully frightened 
 you might soon be going again; you owe me some- 
 thing, Winnie, for staying away all these long years." 
 
 Aunt Agatha in her fright and agitation continued 
 this speech until she had talked the maid safely ovxt of
 
 MADONNA MARY. 55 
 
 the room, and then, being excited, she fell, without 
 knowing it, into tears. 
 
 Winnie leant back in her chair and folded a light 
 shawl she wore round her, and looked at Miss Seton. 
 In her heart she was wondering what Aunt Agatha 
 could possibly have to cry about; what could ever 
 happen to }m\ that made it worth her while to cry? 
 But she did not put this sentiment into words. 
 
 "You will be tired of me before I go," she said, 
 and that was all; not a word, as Aunt Agatha after- 
 wards explained to Mary, about her husband, or about 
 how she had been living, or anything about herself. 
 And to take her by the tliroat , as it were , and demand 
 that she should account for herself, was not to be 
 thought of. The end was that they all dispersed to 
 their various occupations, and that the day went on 
 almost as if Winnie was not there. But yet the fact 
 that Winnie was there tinged every one's thoughts, 
 and made a difference in every corner of the house. 
 They had all their occupations to betake themselves to, 
 but she had nothing to do, and unconsciously every 
 individual in the place took to observing the new-comer, 
 with that curious kind of feminine observation which 
 goes so little way, and yet goes so far. She had 
 brought only a portmanteau with her, a gentleman's 
 box, not a lady's, and yet she made no move towards 
 unpacking, but let her things remain in it, notwith- 
 standing that the wardrobe was empty and open , and her 
 dresses, if she had brought any, must have been crushed 
 up like rags in that tight enclosure. And she sat in 
 the drawing-room with the open windows, through 
 which every one in the house now and then got a 
 glimpse of her, doing nothing, not even reading; she
 
 66 MADONNA MAKV. 
 
 Lad her thin shawl rouud her shoulders, though it was 
 so warm, and she sat there with nothing to occupy 
 her, like a figure carved out of stone. Such an atti- 
 tude, in a woman's eyes, is the embodiment of every- 
 thing that is saddest, and most listless, and forlorn. 
 Doing nothing, and not trying to take an interest in 
 anything, careless about the books, indifferent to the 
 garden, with no curiosity about anybody or anything. 
 The sight of her listless figure filled Aunt Agatha with 
 despair. 
 
 And then, to make things worse, Sir Edward made 
 his appearance the very next day to inquire into it all. 
 It was hard to make out how he knew, but he did 
 know, and no doubt all the parish knew, and were 
 aware that there was something strange about it. Sir 
 Edward was an old man, about eighty now, feeble but 
 irreproachable, with lean limbs that now and then were 
 slightly unsteady, but a toilette Avhich was always 
 everything it ought to be. He came in, cool and fresh 
 in his summer morning dress, but his brow was 
 puckered with anxiety, and there was about him that 
 indescribable air of coming to see about it, which has 
 so painful an effect in general upon the nerves of the 
 persons whose affairs are to be put under investigation. 
 When Sir Edward made his appearance at the open 
 window, Aunt Agatha instinctively rose up and put 
 herself before Winnie, who , however, did not show any 
 signs of disturbance in her own person, but only wound 
 herself up more closely in her shawl. 
 
 "So Winnie has come to see us at last," said Sir 
 Edward, and he came up to her and took both her 
 hands, and kissed her forehead in a fatherly way. He 
 did so almost without looking at her, and then he gave
 
 MADONNA MAnY. 01 
 
 an unaffected start; but lie Lad too much delicacy to 
 utter tlie Avords tliat came to his lips. He did not say 
 how much changed she was, but he gave Aunt Agatha 
 u pitiful look of dismay and astonishment as he sat 
 down, and this Winnie did not fail to see. 
 
 "Yes, at last," cried Aunt Agatha, eagerly. "I 
 have begged and begged of her to come, and was won- 
 dering what answer I should get, when she was all the 
 while planning me such a delightful surprise: but how 
 did you know?" 
 
 "Xews travels fast," said Sir Edward, and then he 
 turned to the stranger. "You will find us much changed 
 Winnie. We are getting old people now, and the boys 
 whom you left babies — you must see a great deal of 
 difference." 
 
 "Not so much difference," said Winnie, "as you 
 see in me." 
 
 "It was to be expected there should be a difference," 
 said Sir Edward. "Yovi were but a girl when you 
 went away. I hope you are going to make a good 
 long stay. You will find us just as quiet as ever, and 
 as humdrum, but very delighted to see you." 
 
 To this Winiiie made no reply. She neither an- 
 swered his question, nor gave any I'esponse to his 
 expression of kindness, and the old man sat and looked 
 at her Avith a deeper wrinkle than ever across his 
 brow. 
 
 "She nmst pay me a long visit," said poor Aunt 
 Agatha, "since she has been so long of coming. Now 
 that I have her she shall not go away." 
 
 "And Percival?" said Sir Edward. He had cast 
 about in his own mind for the best means of approach- 
 ing this difficult subject, but had ended by feeling
 
 58 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 there was nothing for it but plain speaking. And then, 
 though there were reports that they did not "get on," 
 still there was nothing as yet to justify suspicions of a 
 final rupture. "I hope you left him quite well-, I 
 hope we are to see him, too." 
 
 "He was very well when 1 left him, thank you," 
 said Winnie, with steady formality, and then the con- 
 versation once more came to a dead stop. 
 
 Sir Edward was disconcerted. He had come to 
 examine, to reprove, and to exhort, but he was not 
 prepared to be met with this steady front of uncon- 
 sciousness. He thought the wanderer had most likely 
 come home full of complaints and outcries, and that it 
 might be in his power to set her right. He hemmed 
 and cleared his throat a little, and cast about what 
 he should say, but he had no better inspiration than to 
 turn to Aunt Agatha and disturb her gentle mind with 
 another topic, and for this moment let the original sub- 
 ject rest. 
 
 "Ah — have you heard lately from Earlston?" he 
 said, turning to Miss Seton. "I have just been hearing 
 a report about Francis Ochterlony. I hope it is not 
 true." 
 
 "What kind of report?" said Aunt Agatha, breath- 
 lessly. A few minutes before she could not have be- 
 lieved that any consideration whatever would have dis- 
 turbed her from the one subject which was for the mo- 
 ment dearest to her heart — but Sir Edward with his 
 usual felicity had found out another chord which 
 vibrated almost as painfully. Her old delusion recurred 
 to Aunt Agatha with the swiftness of lightning. He 
 might be going to marry, and divert the inheritance
 
 MADOiNNA MAItY. 59 
 
 from Hugh, and she did her best to persuade her lips 
 to a kind of smile. 
 
 "They say he is ill," said Sir Edward; "but of 
 course if you have not heai'd — I thought he did not 
 look like himself when we were there. Very poorly I 
 heard — not anything violent you know, but a sort of 
 breaking up. Perhaps it is not true." 
 
 Aunt Agatha's heart had been getting hard usage 
 for some time back. It had jumped to her mouth, and 
 sunk into depths as deep as heart can sink to, time 
 after time in these eventful days. Now she only felt 
 it contract as it were, as if somebody had seized 
 it violently, and she gave a little cry, for it hurt 
 her. 
 
 "Oh, Sir Edward, it cannot be true," she said. 
 "We had a letter from Hugh on Monday, and he does 
 not say a word. It cannot be true." 
 
 "Hugh is very young," said Sir Edward, who did 
 not like to be supposed wrong in a point of fact. "A 
 boy with no experience might see a man all but dying, 
 and as long as he did not complain would never 
 know." 
 
 "But lie looked very well when we were there," 
 said Aunt Agatha, faltering. If she had been alone 
 she would have shed silent tears, and her thoughts 
 would have been both sad and bitter; but this was not 
 a moment to think of her own feelings — nor above 
 all to cry. 
 
 Sir Edward shook his liead. "I always mistrust 
 those sort of looks for my part," he said. "A big man 
 has always an appearance of strength, and that carries 
 it off." 
 
 "Is it Mr. Ochterlony?" said AVinnie, interposing
 
 60 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 for the first time. "What hick Mary has and her 
 hoys! And so Hugh will come into the property with- 
 out any waiting. It may be very sad of course, 
 Aunt Agatha, but it is great luck for him at his 
 age." 
 
 "Oh, Winnie, my dear love!" cried Aimt Agatha, 
 feebly. It was a speech that went to her heart, but 
 she was dumb between tlie two people who did not care 
 for Francis Ochterlony, and could find nothing to 
 say. 
 
 "I hope that is not the way in which any of us 
 look at it," said Sir Edward with gentle severity, and 
 then he added, "I always thought if you had been left 
 a little more to yourselves when we were at Earlston 
 that still you might have made it up." 
 
 "Oh no, no!" said Aunt Agatha, "now that we 
 are both old people — and he was always far too 
 sensible. But it was not anything of that sort. Fran- 
 cis Ochterlony and I were — were always dear 
 friends." 
 
 "Well, you must let me know next time when 
 Hugh writes," said Sir Edward, "and I hope we shall 
 have better news." When he said this he turned again 
 quite abruptly to Winnie, who had dropped once more 
 into her own thoughts, and expected no new assault. 
 
 "Percival is coming to fetch you, I suppose?" he 
 said. "I think I can offer him some good shooting in 
 a month or two. This may overcloud us all a little 
 if ■ — ^ if anything should happen to Francis Ochterlony. 
 But after what your Aunt Agatha says, I feel disposed 
 to hope the best." 
 
 "Yes, I hope so," said Winnie: which was a very 
 unsatisfactory reply.
 
 MADOliNA MARY. 61 
 
 "Of course you are citizens of the worUl, aud we 
 are very quiet people," said Sir Edward. "I suppose 
 promotion comes slow in these times of peace. 1 should 
 have thought he was entitled to another step by thi.^ 
 time; but we civilians know so little about military 
 aflfairs." 
 
 "I thought everybody knew that steps were bought," 
 said Winnie; and once more the conversation broke off 
 dead. 
 
 It was a relief to them all when Mary came into 
 the room, and had to be told about Mr. Ochterlony's 
 supposed illness, and to take a reasonable place be- 
 tween Aunt Agatha's panic-stricken assixrance that it 
 was not true, and Sir Edward's calmly indifferent be- 
 lief that it was. Mary for the first time suggested that 
 a man might be ill, and yet not at the point of death, 
 which was a conclusion to which the others had leapt. 
 And then they all made a little effort at ordinary 
 talk. 
 
 "You will have everybody coming to call," said 
 Sir Edward, "now that Winnie is known to have come 
 home; and I daresay Percival will find Mary's military 
 friends a great resource when he comes. Love-making 
 being over, he will want some substitute " 
 
 "Who are Mary's military friends?" said Winnie, 
 suddenly breaking in. 
 
 "Only some people in our old regiment," said Mary. 
 "It is stationed at Carlisle, strangely enough. You 
 know the Askells, I think, and " 
 
 "The Askells!" said Winnie, and her face grew 
 dark. "Are they here, all that wretched set of people? 
 — Mary's friends. Ah, I might have known " 
 
 "My dear love, she is a very silly little Avomau;
 
 62 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 but Nelly is delightful, and he is very nice, poor man," 
 cried Aunt Agatha, eager to interfere. 
 
 "Yes, poor man, he is very nice," said Winnie, with 
 contempt; "his wife is an idiot, and he doesn't beat 
 her; I am sure I should, if I were he. Who's Nelly? 
 and that horrid Methodist of a woman, and the old 
 maid that reads novels? Why didn't you tell me of 
 them? If I had known, I should never have come 
 here." 
 
 "Oh, Winnie, my darling!" cried Aunt Agatha; 
 "but I did mention them; and so did Mary, I feel 
 sure." 
 
 "They are Mary's friends," said Winnie, with bit- 
 terness, and then she stopped herself abruptly. The 
 others were like an army of observation round a be- 
 leaguered city, which was not guided by the most per- 
 fect wisdom, but lost its temper now and then, and made 
 injudicious sallies. Now Winnie shut i;p her gates, 
 and drew in her garrison once more; and her com- 
 panions looked at each other doubtfully, seeing a world 
 of sore and wounded feeling, distrust, and resistance, 
 and mystery to which they had no clue. She had gone 
 away a girl, full of youthful bravado, and fearing no- 
 thing. She had come back a stranger, with a long- 
 history unknown to them, and with no inclination to 
 make it clear. Her aunt and sister were anxious and 
 uneasy, and did not venture on direct assault; but Sir 
 Edward, who was a man of resolution, sat down before 
 the fortress, and was determined to fight it out. 
 
 "You should have sent us word you were coming," 
 he said; "and your husband should have been with 
 you, Winnie. It was he who took you away, and he
 
 MADONNA MARY. 63 
 
 oiiglit to liave como back to give an account of his 
 stewardship. I shall tell him so when he conies." 
 
 Again Winnie made no answer, her face contracted 
 slightly; but soon settled back again into its blank 
 look of self-concentration , and no response came. 
 
 "He has no appointment, I suppose; no adjutant- 
 ship, or anything to keep him from getting away?" 
 
 "No," said Winnie. 
 
 "Perhaps he has gone to see his mother?" said Sir 
 EdAvard, brightening up. "She is getting quite an old 
 Avoman, 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 her- 
 self 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 EdAvard," said Winnie; "we are 
 citizens of the world, as you say, and we haA^e 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, Avho Avas embar- 
 rassed, and yet more arbitrary than e\'er; "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 yoiir life; I may say I brought you up, like a child 
 of my own; and to see you come home like this, all
 
 64 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 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 mele'e^ 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 in- 
 quisition 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 ab- 
 ruptly 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-
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 65 
 
 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. 
 1 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 ilrst 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." 
 
 Sii' 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 sen- 
 timental, in his remarks than formerly. "And how she 
 is changed! There must have been a great deal of ex- 
 citement 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 
 woitld save her if I could," said Sir Edward, solemnly. 
 "My dear Agatha, I am very, very 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 liands. "It was 
 his fault, and not mine. He might have had some one 
 
 Madonna Miay. II. O
 
 66 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 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 
 liad to take both her hands to dry the 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 Ochter- 
 lony 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 eff"ect. As for Aunt Agatha, she 
 turned her back upon him steadily, and walked back 
 to the Cottage with all the stateliness of a woman ag- 
 grieved. But nevertheless the pins and needles were in 
 her heart, and her mind was full of anxiety and dis- 
 tress. She had felt very strongly the great mistake 
 made by Francis Ochterlony, and bow he had spoiled 
 both their lives — but that was not to say that she 
 could hear of his illness with philosojDhy. 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 iDetter to do
 
 MADONNA MART. 67 
 
 tlian 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 dis- 
 agreeable — 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 o^Ti. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Hugh, however, it is quite true, was very inex- 
 perienced. 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 Avas very kind 
 and attentive, and 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
 
 68 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 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 draw- 
 ing nearer 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 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 ex- 
 cept 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 an- 
 other probation , or into pure blessedness, which of all 
 the three was, possibly, the hypothesis which he under- 
 stood 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.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 69 
 
 It was one morning when Mr. Ocliterlony bad been 
 biter than usual of coming downstairs. Wben be did 
 make bis a])pearauce it was nearly noon, and be was 
 in bis dressing-gown, wbicb was an iinbeard-of tbing 
 for bini. Instead of going out to tbe garden, be called 
 Hugb, and asked bim to give bim bis arm wbile be 
 made a little tour of tbe bouse. They went from tbe 
 library to tbe dining-room, and tben upstairs to tbe 
 great draAving-room wbere tbe Venus and tbe Psycbe were. 
 Wben tbey bad got that lengtb Mr. Ocbterlony dropped 
 into a chair, and gasped for breath, and looked round upon 
 bis treasures. And tben Hugb, who was looking on, 
 began to feel very uneasy and anxious for tbe first time. 
 
 "One can't take them Avith one," said Mr. Ocbter- 
 lony, with a sigh and a smile; "and you will not care 
 for them much, Hugb. 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 tbe sacrifice." 
 
 "If tbey were mine I certainly should not sell 
 them," said Hugh-, "but as tbey are yours, uncle, I 
 don't see that it matters what I would do." 
 
 Mr. Ocbterlony smiled, and looked kindly at bim, 
 but be did not give bim any direct answer. "If tbey 
 were yours," be said — "suppose the case — tben 
 what would you do with themV" 
 
 "I woixld collect them in a museum somewhere, 
 and call them by your name," said Hugb, on tbe spur 
 of the moment. "You almost ought to do that your- 
 self, uncle, there are so few people to see them here." 
 
 Mr. Ocbterlony's languid eyes brightened a little. 
 "They are worth a good deal of money," be said. 
 
 "If tliey were worth a mint of money, I don't
 
 70 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 see what that matters," said Hugh, with youthful ex- 
 travagance. 
 
 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 wont put 
 any bondage upon you. By the way, they would be- 
 long 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 cii'cle 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 continua- 
 tion 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 afterwards — But I would 
 not like to leave any burden upon you. John, let 
 some one ride into Dalken directly, and ask Mr. Preston,
 
 MADONNA MARY. 71 
 
 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 tilings. 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
 
 72 MADONNA MARY, 
 
 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 per- 
 sonal 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. That 
 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 Im- 
 mortals. 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 Cot- 
 tage, now Mrs. Percival has come back. I think you 
 ought to ask her to come here. And I shouldn't won- 
 der 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 Is- 
 lay, 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
 
 MADONNA MARY. 73 
 
 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 be- 
 cause he did think so, and half because he was anxious 
 to find something he could say. 
 
 Then Mr. Ochterlony brightened up in tlie 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 tliat is my fault, too. But be sure 
 you don't forget about the Henri Deux." 
 
 And tlien all of a sudden, while his nephew was 
 sitting watching liim, Mr. Ochterlony fell asleep. When 
 he was sleeping he looked so grey, and worn, and ema- 
 ciated, that Hugh's heart smote him. He could not ex- 
 plain 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
 
 74 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 not like it, and he had himself already sent foi' 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 thi-ill 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 ar- 
 rived, it was a very great relief. And then Mr. Ochter- 
 lony 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. Ochter- 
 lony did not die all at once, as probably he had himself 
 expected and intended — he had liis spell of illness to 
 go through like other people, and he bore it very cheer- 
 fully, as he was not siifFering much. He was indeed a 
 great deal more playful and at his ease than either the 
 doctor and the attorney, or Mrs. Gilsland, the house- 
 keeper, thought quite right. 
 
 The lawyer did not come until the following day;
 
 MADONNA MARY. 75 
 
 and tlien it was young Mr. Preston who came, his 
 father being occupied, and Mr. Ochterh>ny had a dis- 
 taste somehow to young Mr. Preston. He was weak, 
 too, and not able to go into details. All that he Avould 
 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. 
 
 "No legacies?" he said — "excuse me, Mr. Ochter- 
 lony — nothing about your beautiful collection ? There 
 ought to be some stipulation about that." 
 
 "My nephew knows all my wishes," Mr. Ochterlony 
 said, briefly, "and I have no time now for details. Is 
 it ready to be signed? Everything else of which I die 
 possessed to my brother, Hugh Ochterlouy's eldest son. 
 That is what I want. The property is his already, by 
 his grandfather's will. Everything of which I die pos- 
 sessed, to dispose of according as his discretion and cir- 
 cumstances may permit." 
 
 "But there are other friends — and servants," 
 pleaded Mr. Preston; "and then your wonderful collec- 
 tion " 
 
 "My nephew knows all my wishes," said Mr. Ochter- 
 lony, and his weakness was so great that he sank back 
 on his pillows. He took his own way in this, while 
 poor Hugh hung about the room wistfully looking on. 
 It was to Hugh's great advantage, but he was not 
 thinking of tliat. He was asking himself cotdd he have 
 done anything to stop the malady if he had noticed it 
 in time? And he was thinking how to arrange the Ochter-
 
 76 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 lony Museum. If it could only have been clone in 
 his lifetime, so that its founder could see. When the 
 doctor and the attorney were both gone, Hugh sat down 
 by his uncle's bedside, and, half afraid whether he was 
 doing right, began to talk of it. He was too young 
 and too honest to pretend to disbelieve what Mr. Ochter- 
 lony himself and the doctor had assured him of. The 
 room was dimly lighted, the lamp put away on a table 
 in a corner with a shade over it, and the sick room 
 "made comfortalde," and everything arranged for the 
 night. And then the two had an hour of very affectio- 
 nate, confidential, almost tender talk. Mr. (Jchterlony 
 was almost excited about the museum. It was not to 
 be bestowed on Ids college, as Hugh at first thought, 
 but to be established at Dalken; the pretty town of 
 which everybody in the Fells was proud. And then 
 the conversation glided off to more familiar subjects, 
 and the old man who was dying gave a great deal of 
 very sound advice to the young man who was about to 
 begin to live. 
 
 "Islay will be all right," said Mr. Ochterlony; "he 
 will have what your father had, and you will always 
 make him at home in Earlston. It is Will I am think- 
 ing about. I am not fond of Will. Don't be too ge- 
 nerous to him, or he will think it is right. I know no 
 harm of the boy, but I would not put all my affairs 
 into his hands as I put them into yours." 
 
 "It will not be my fault if I don't justify your con- 
 fidence, uncle," said Hugh , with something swelling 
 in his throat. 
 
 "If I had not known that, I would not have trusted 
 you, Hugh," said Mr. Ochterlony. "Take your mother's 
 advice — always be sure to take your motlier's advice.
 
 MADONNA MAKV. 77 
 
 There are some of us that never understand women; 
 but after all it stands to reason that the one-half of 
 mankind should not separate itself from the other. We 
 think we are the wisest; but I am not so sm-e " 
 
 Mr. Ochterlony stopped short and turned his eyes, 
 which were rather languid, to the distant lamp, tlie 
 once centre of light in the room. He looked at it for 
 a long time in a dreamy Avay. "I might have had a 
 woman taking care of me like the rest," he said. "I 
 might have had the feeling that there was somebody in 
 the house; but you see I did not give my mind to it, 
 Hugh. Your father left a widow, and that's natural — 
 I am leaving only a collection. But it's better for you, 
 ™y boy. If you should ever speak to Agatha Seton 
 about it, you can tell her that — - — " 
 
 Then there was a pause, which poor young Hugh, 
 nervous, and excited, and inexperienced, did not know 
 how to break, and Mr. Ochterlony continued to look 
 at the lamp. It was very dim and shaded, but still a 
 pale ray shone sideways between the curtains upon the 
 old man who lay a-dying, and cast an enlarged shadow 
 of Hugh's head upon the wall. When Mr. Ochterlony 
 turned round a little, his eye caught that, and a tender 
 smile came over his face. 
 
 "It looks like your father," he said to Hugh, who 
 Avas startled, and did not know what he meant. "It is 
 more like him tlian you are. He was a good fellow at 
 the bottom — fidgety, but a very good fellow — as 
 your mother will tell you. I am glad it is you who 
 are the eldest, and not one of the others. They are fine 
 boys, but I am glad it is you." 
 
 "Oh, uncle," said Hugh, with tears in his eyes, 
 "you are awfully good to me. I don't deserve it.
 
 78 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Islay is a far better fellow than I am. If you would 
 but get well again , and never mind who was the 
 eldest " 
 
 Mr. Ochterlony smiled and shook his head. "I 
 have lived my day," he said, "and now it is your 
 turn ; and I hope you'll make Earlston better than 
 ever it was. Now go to bed, my boy, we've talked 
 long enough. I think if I were quiet I could sleep." 
 
 "And you'll call me, uncle, if you want me? I 
 shall be in the dressing-room," said Hugh, whose heart 
 was very full. 
 
 "There is no need," said Mr. Ochterlony, smiling 
 again. "But I suppose it pleases you. You'll sleep 
 as sound as a top wherever you are ■ — that's the pri- 
 vilege of your age; biat John will be somewhere about, 
 and nothing is going to happen before morning. Good 
 night." 
 
 But he called Hugh back before he had reached 
 the door. "You'll be sure to remember about the Henri 
 Deux?" he said, softly. That was all. And the young 
 man went to the dressing-room, and John, who had 
 just stolen in, lay down on a sofa in the shadow, and 
 sleep and quiet took possession of the room. If Mr. 
 Ochterlony slept, or if he still lay looking at the lamp, 
 seeing his life flit past him like a shadow, giving a 
 sigh to what might have been, and thinking with per- 
 haps a little awakening thrill of expectation of what 
 was so soon to be, nobody could tell. He was as 
 silent as if he slept — almost as silent as if he had 
 been dead. 
 
 But Aunt Agatha was not asleep. She was in her 
 room all alone, praying for him, stopping by times to 
 think how different it might have been. She might
 
 MADONNA MARY. 79 
 
 liave been witli him then, taking care of him, instead 
 of being so far away 5 and when she thought of tliat, 
 the tears stood in her eyes. But it was not her fault. 
 She had nothing to upbraid herself with. She was well 
 aware whose doing it was — poor man, and it was he 
 who was the sufferer now; but she said her prayers for 
 him all the same. 
 
 When a few days had passed, the event occurred 
 of which there had never been any doubt. Francis 
 Ochterlony died very peaceably and quietly, leaving 
 not only all of which he died possessed, but his blessing 
 and thanks to the boy who had stood in the place of a 
 son to him. He took no imnecessary time about his 
 dying, and yet he did not do anything hastily to shock 
 people. It was known he was ill, and everybody had 
 the satisfaction of sending to inquire for him, and testi- 
 fying their respect before he died. Such a thing was 
 indeed seen on one day as seven servants, all men on 
 horseback, sent with messages of inquiry, which was a 
 great gratification to Mrs. Gilsland, and the rest of the 
 servants. "He went off like a lamb at the last," they 
 all said; and though he was not much like a lamb, 
 there might have been employed a less appropriate 
 image. He made a little sketch with his own hands 
 as to how the Museum was to be arranged, and told 
 Hugh what provision to make for the old servants; 
 and gave him a gi-eat many advices, such as he never 
 had taken himself; and was so pleasant and cheery 
 about it, that they scarcely knew the moment when 
 the soft twilight sank into absolute night. He died an 
 old man, full of many an unexpressed philosophy, and 
 yet, somehow, with the sentiment of a young one: like 
 a tree ripe and full of fruit, yet witli blossoms still
 
 80 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 lingering on tlie topmost branches, as you see on 
 orange-trees — sage and experienced, and yet with 
 something of the virginal and primal state. Perhaps 
 it was not a light price to give for this crowning touch 
 of delicacy and purity — the happiness (so to speak) 
 of his own life and of Aunt Agatha's. And yet the 
 link between the old lovers, thus fancifully revived, 
 was very sweet and real. And they had not been at 
 all unhappy apart, on the whole, cither of them. And 
 it is something to preserve this quintessence of maiden- 
 hood and primal freshness to the end of a long life, 
 and leave the visionary perfume of it among a com- 
 munity much given to marrying and giving in mar- 
 riage. It was thus that Francis Ochterlony died. 
 
 Earlston, of course, was all shut up immediately, 
 blinds drawn and shutters closed, and what was more 
 unusual, true tears shed, and a true weight, so long 
 as it lasted, upon the hearts of all the people about. 
 The servants, perhaps, were not quite uninfluenced by 
 the thought that all their legacies, &c., were left in the 
 hands of the new master, who was little more than a 
 boy. And the Cottage, too, was closed, and the in- 
 mates went about in a shadowed atmosphere, and were 
 very sorry, and thought a little of Mr. Ochterlony — 
 not all as Aunt Agatha did, who kept her room, and 
 shed many tears-, but still he was thought of in the 
 house. It is true that Mary could not help remembering 
 that now her Hugh was no longer a boy, dej)endent 
 upon anybody's pleasure, but the master of the house 
 of his fathers — the house his own father was born 
 in; and an important personage. She could not help 
 thinking of this, nor, in spite of herself, feeling her 
 heart swell, and asking herself if it was indeed her
 
 MADONNA MARY. 81 
 
 Hugli who liad come to this promotion. And yet she 
 was very sony for Mr. Ochterlony's death. He had 
 been good to her children, always courteous and de- 
 ferential to herself; and she was sorry for him as a 
 woman is sorry for a man -who has nobody belonging to 
 him — sorrier far, in most cases, than the man is for 
 himself. He was dead in his loneliness, and the thought 
 of it brought a quiet moisture to Mary's eyes; but Hugh 
 was living, and it was he who was the master of all; 
 and it was not in human nature that his mother's grief 
 should be bitter or profound. 
 
 "Hugh is a lucky boy," said Mrs. Percival; "I 
 think you are all lucky, Mary, you and your children. 
 To come into Earlston with so little waiting, and have 
 everything left in his own hands." 
 
 ."I don't think he will be thinking of that," said 
 Mary. "He was fond of his uncle; I am sure he will 
 feel his loss." 
 
 "Oh yes, no doubt; I ought not to have said any- 
 thing so improper," said Winnie, with that restrained 
 smile and uncomfortable inference Mdiich comes so n?.- 
 turally to some people. She knew nothing and cared 
 nothing about Francis Ochterlony; and she was im- 
 patient of what she called Aunt Agatha's nonsense ; 
 and she could not but feel it at once unreasonable and 
 monstrous that anything but the painful state of hor 
 own affairs should occupy people in the house she was 
 living in. Yet the fact was that this event had to a 
 certain extent eclipsed Winnie. The anxiety with which 
 everybody looked for a message or letter aboiit Mr. 
 Ochterlony's state blinded them a little to her worn 
 looks and listless wretchedness. They did not neglect 
 her, nor were they indifferent to her; for, indeed, it 
 
 Madunna Maiy. II. 6
 
 82 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 would be difficult to be indifferent to a figure wliich 
 held so prominent a place in the fore-ground of every- 
 thing; but still when they were in such a state of sus- 
 pense about what was happening at Earlston, no doubt 
 Winnie's affairs were to a certain extent overlooked. 
 It is natural for an old man to die:'* but it is not na- 
 tural for a young woman — a woman in the bloom 
 and fulness of life — one who has been, and ought 
 still to be, a great beauty — to be driven by her 
 wrongs out of all that makes life endurable. This 
 was how Winnie reasoned; and she was jealous of the 
 attention given to Mr. Ochterlony as he accomplished 
 the natural act of dying. What was that in comparison 
 with the terrible struggles of life? 
 
 But naturally it made a great difterence when it 
 was all over, and when Hugh, subdued and very serious, 
 but still another man from the Hugh who the other 
 day was but a boy, came to the Cottage "for a little 
 change," and to give his mother all the particulars. 
 He came all tender in his natural grief, with eyes 
 ready to glisten, and a voice that sometimes faltered; 
 but, nevertheless, there was something about him which 
 showed that it was he who was Mr. Ochterlony of 
 Earlston now.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 83 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Tins was tlie kind of crisis in the family liistoiy at 
 which Uncle Penrose was sure to make his appearance. 
 He was the only man among them, he sometimes said 
 — or, at least, the only man who knew anything about 
 money; and he came into the midst of the Ochterlonys 
 in their mourning, as large and important as he had 
 been when Winnie was married, looking as if he had 
 never taken his left hand out of his pocket all the 
 time. He had not been asked to the funeral, and he 
 marked his consciousness of that fact by making his 
 appearance in buff waistcoats and apparel which alto- 
 gether displayed light-heartedness if not levity — and 
 which was very wounding to Aunt Agatha's feelings. 
 Time, somehow, did not seem to have touched him. 
 If he was not so offensively and demonstratively a 
 ]\[an, in the sweet-scented feminine house, as he used 
 to be, it was no reticence of his, but because the boys 
 were men, or nearly so, and the character of the house- 
 hold changed. And Hugh was jMr.Ochterlony of Eaidston; 
 Avhich, perhaps, was the fact that made the greatest dif- 
 ference of all. 
 
 He came the day after Hugh's return, and in the 
 evening there had been a very affecting scene in the 
 Cottage. In faithful dischai'ge of his promise, Hugh 
 had carried the Henri Deux, carefully packed, as be- 
 came its value and fragile character, to Aunt Agatha; 
 and she had received it from him with a throbbing 
 heart and many tears. "It was almost the last thing 
 
 6*
 
 84 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 he said to me," Hugli liad said. "He put it all aside 
 with his own hand, the day you admired it so much; 
 and he tokl me over and over again, to be sure not to 
 forget." Aunt Agatha had been sitting with her hands 
 clasped upon the arm of his chair, and her eyes fixed 
 upon him, not to lose a word; but when he said this, 
 she covered her face with those soft old hands, and 
 was silent and did not even weep. It was the truest 
 grief that was in her heart, and yet with that, there 
 was an extpiisite pang of delight, such as goes through 
 and through a girl when first she perceives that she is 
 loved, and sees her power! SheAvas as a widow, and yet 
 she was an innocent maiden, full of experience and in- 
 experience, feeling the heaviness of the evening shadows, 
 and yet still in the age of splendour in the grass and 
 glory in the flower. The sense of that last tenderness 
 went through her with a thrill of joy and grief beyond 
 description. It gave him back to her for ever and ever, 
 but not with that sober appropriation which might have 
 seemed natural to her age. She could no more look 
 them in the face while it was being told, than had he 
 been a living lover and she a girl. It was a supreme 
 conjunction and blending of the two extremes of life, 
 a fusion of youth and of age. 
 
 "I never thought he noticed what I said," she an- 
 swered at last with a soft sob — and uncovered the 
 eyes that were full of tears, and yet dazzled as with a 
 sudden light; and she would let no one touch the pre- 
 cious legacy, but iinpacked it herself, shedding tears 
 that were bitter and yet sweet, over its many wrappings. 
 Though he was a man, and vaguely buoyed up, with- 
 out knowing it, by the strange new sense of his own 
 importance, Hugh could have found it in his heart to
 
 MADOXNA MARY, 85 
 
 sLed tears, too, over the precious bits of porcelain, tliat 
 had now acquired an interest so much more near and 
 toiiching than anything- connected with Henri Deux; 
 and so could his mother. I'ut there were two who 
 looked on with dry eyes: the one was Winnie, who 
 would have liked to break it all into bits, as she swept 
 past it with her long dress, and could not put up with 
 Aunt Agatha's nonsense •, the other was Will, who 
 watched the exhibition curiously with close observation, 
 Avondering how it was that people were such fools, and 
 feeling the shadow of his brother weigh upon him with 
 a crushing weight. But these two malcontents were 
 not in sympathy with each other, and never dreamt of 
 making common cause. 
 
 And it was when the house was in this condition, 
 that Uncle Penrose arrived. He arrived, as usual, just 
 in time to make a fuss necessary about a late dinner, 
 and to put Peggy out of temper, which was a fact that 
 soon made itself felt through the house; and he began 
 immediately to speak to Hugh about Earlston, and about 
 "your late iincle," without the smallest regard for Aunt 
 Agatha's feelings. "I know there was something between 
 him and Miss Agatha, once," he said, with a kind of 
 smile at her, "but of course that Avas all over long 
 ago." And this was said when poor Miss Seton, who 
 felt tliat tlie bond had never before been so sweet and 
 so close, was seated at the head of her own table, and 
 had to bear it and make no sign. 
 
 "Probably there will be a great deal to be done on 
 the estate," Mr. Penrose said; "these studious men 
 always let things go to ruin out of dooi'S; but there's 
 a collection of curiosities or antiquities, or something.
 
 86 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 If that's good, it will bring in money. When a man 
 is known, such things sell." 
 
 "But it is not to be sold," said Hugh quickly. "I 
 have settled all about that." 
 
 "Not to be sold? — nonsense!" said Mr. Penrose; 
 "you don't mean to say you are a collector — at your 
 age? No, no, my boy, they're no good to him where 
 he is now, he could not take them into his vault with 
 him. Feelings are all very well, but you can't be 
 allowed to lose a lot of money for a prejudice. What 
 kind of things are they — pictures and that sort? 
 or—" 
 
 "I have made all the necessary arrangements," said 
 Hugh with youthful dignity. "I want you to go with 
 me to Dalken, mother, to see some rooms the mayor 
 has offered for them — ■ nice rooms belonging to the 
 Town HaU. They could have 'Ochterlony Museum' 
 put up over the doors, and do better than a separate 
 building, besides saving the expense." 
 
 Mr. Penrose gave a long Avhistle, which under any 
 circumstances would have been very indecorous at a 
 lady's table. "So that is how it's to be!" he said; 
 "but we'll talk that over first, with your permission, 
 Mr. Ochterlony of Earlston. You are too young to 
 know what you're doing. I suppose the ladies are at 
 the bottom of it; they never know the value of money. 
 And yet we know what it costs to get it when it is 
 wanted. Miss Agatha," said the insolent man of money, 
 who never would forget that Miss Seton herself had 
 once been in difficulties. She looked at him with a 
 kind of smile, as politeness ordained, but tears of pain 
 stood in Aunt Agatha's eyes. If ever she hated any- 
 body in her gentle life, it was Mr. Penrose; and some-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 87 
 
 liow he made himself hateful in her presence to every- 
 body concerned. 
 
 "It costs more to ^et it than it is ever worth," said 
 Winnie, indignant, and moved for the first time, to 
 make a diversion, and come to Aunt Agatha's aid. 
 
 "Ah, I have no doubt you know all about it," said 
 Mr. Penrose, turning his arms upon her. "You should 
 have taken my advice. If you had come to Liverpool, 
 as I wanted you, and mamed some steady-going fellow 
 with plenty of money, and gone at a more reasonable 
 pace, you would not have changed so much at your 
 age. Look at Mary, how well preserved she is: I 
 don't know what you can have been doing with your- 
 self to look so changed." 
 
 "I am sorry you think me a fright," said Winnie, 
 with an angry sparkle in her eye. 
 
 "You are not a fright," said L^ncle Penrose; "one 
 can see that you've been a very handsome woman, but 
 you are not what you were when I saw you last, 
 Winnie. The fault of your family is that you are 
 extravagant, — I am sure you did not get it from 
 your mother's side; — extravagant of your money and 
 your hospitality, and your looks and everything. I am 
 sure Mary has nothing to spare, and yet I've found 
 people li^■ing here for weeks together. / can't afford 
 visitors like that — I have my family to consider, and 
 people that have real claims upon me — no more than 
 I could afford to set up a museum. If I had a lot of 
 curiosities thrown on my hands, I should make them 
 into money. It is not everybody that can appreciate 
 pictures, but everybody iindcrstands five per cent. And 
 then he might have done something worth while for 
 his brothers: not that I aj)prove of a man impoverishing
 
 88 MADONNA MART. 
 
 himself for tlie sake of liis friends, but still two 
 ihousand jjounds isn't much. And he might have done 
 something for his mother, or looked after Will's educa- 
 tion. It's family jjride, I suppose; but I'd rather give 
 my mother a house of her own than set up an Ochter- 
 lony Museum. Tastes differ, you know." 
 
 "His mother agrees with him entirely in everything 
 he is doing," said Mary, with natui-al resentment. "I 
 wish all mothers had sons as good as mine." 
 
 "Hush," said Hugh, who was crimson with indigna- 
 tion and anger: "I decline to discuss these matters 
 with Uncle Penrose. Because he is your uncle, mother, 
 he shall inquire into the estate as much as he likes; 
 but I am the head of the house, and I am responsible 
 only to God and to those who are dead — - and, mother 
 to you," said Hugh, with his eyes glistening and his 
 face glowing. 
 
 Uncle Penrose gave another contemptuous pro- 
 longed whistle at this speech, but the others looked at 
 the young man with admiration and love; even Winnie, 
 whose heart could still be touched, regarded the young- 
 paladin with a kind of tender envy and admiration. 
 She was too young to be his mother, bu.t she did not 
 feel herself young; and her heart yearned to have some 
 one who would stand by her and defend her as such a 
 youth could. A world of softer possibilities than any- 
 thing she would permit herself to think of now, came 
 into her mind, and she looked at him. If she too had 
 but been the mother of children like her sister! but it 
 appeared that Mary was to have the best of it , always 
 and in every way. 
 
 As for Will, he looked at the eldest son with very 
 different feelings. Hugh was not particularly clever,
 
 MADONNA MARY. 89 
 
 and his brother had long- entertained a certain contempt 
 for him. He thought what he would have done had he 
 been the head of the house. He was disposed to sneer, 
 like Mr. Penrose, at the Ochterlony Museum. Was it 
 not a confession of a mean mind, an acknowledgment 
 of weakness, to consent to send away all the lovely 
 things that made Will's vision of Earlston like a vision 
 of heaven? If it had been Will he would not have 
 thought of five per cent., but neither would he have 
 thought of making a collection of them at Dalken, 
 where the country bumpkins might come and stare. He 
 would have kept them all to himself, and they would 
 have made his life beautiful. And he scorned Hugh 
 for dispossessing himself of them, and reducing the 
 Earlston rooms into rooms of ordinary habitation. Had 
 they but been his — had he but been the eldest, the 
 head of the house — the world and the family 
 and Uncle Penrose would have seen very different 
 things. 
 
 But yet Hugh had character enough to stand firm. 
 He made his mother get her bonnet and go out with 
 him after dinner; and everybody in the house looked 
 after the two as they went away — the mother and her 
 firstborn — he, with his young head towering above 
 her, though ]\[ary was tall, and she putting her arm 
 within his so proudly — not without a tender elation 
 in his new imj)ortance, a sense of his superior place 
 and inde])endent rank, which was strangely sweet. 
 Winnie looked after them, envying her sister, and yet 
 with an envy which was not bitter; and Will stood 
 and looked fiercely on this brother who, by no virtue 
 of his own, had been born before him. As for Aunt 
 Agatha, who Avas fond of them all, she went to ber
 
 ©0 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 own room to heal lier wounds; and Mr. Penrose, who 
 was fond of none of them, went up to the Hall to talk 
 things over with Sir Edward, whom he had once talked 
 over to such purpose. And the only two who could 
 stray down to the soft-flowing Kirtell, and listen to the 
 melody of the woods and waters, and talk in concert 
 of what they had wished and planned , were Mary and 
 Hugh. 
 
 "The great thing to be settled is about Will," the 
 head of the house was saying. "You shall see, mother, 
 when he is in the Avorld and knows better, all that will 
 blow away. His two thousand pounds is not much, as 
 Uncle Penrose says-, but it was all my father had: and 
 when he wants it, and Avhen Islay wants it, there can 
 always be something added. It is my business to see 
 to that." 
 
 "It was all your father had," said Mary, "and all 
 your uncle intended; and I see no reason why you 
 should add to it, Hugh. There will be a little more 
 when I am gone; and in the meantime, if we only 
 knew what Will would like to do — " 
 
 "Why, they'll make him a fellow of his college," 
 said Hugh. "He'll go in for all sorts of honours. 
 He's awfully clever, mother; there's no fear of Will. 
 The best thing I can see is to send him to read with 
 somebody — somebody with no end of a reputation, 
 that he would have a sort of an awe for — and then 
 the University. It would be no use doing it if he was 
 just like other people; but there's everything to be 
 made of Will." 
 
 "I hope so," said Mary, with a little sigh. And 
 then she added, "So I shall be left quite alone?" 
 
 ' "No; vou are coming to Earlston with mo," said
 
 MADONNA MARY. 91 
 
 Hugh; "that is quite understood. There will be a 
 great deal to do; and I don't think things are quite 
 comfortable at the Cottage, with Mrs. Percival here." 
 
 "Poor Winnie!" said Mrs. Ochterlony. "I don't 
 think I ought to leave Aunt Agatha — at least, while 
 she is so much in the dark about my sister. And then 
 you told me you had promised to marry, Hugh?" 
 
 "Yes," said the young man; and straightway the 
 colour came to his cheek, and dimples to the corners 
 
 of his mouth; "but she is too y I mean, there is 
 
 plenty of time to think of that." 
 
 "She is too young?" said Mary, startled. "Do I 
 know her, I wonder? I did not imagine you had 
 settled on the person as well as the fact. Well; and 
 then, you know, I should have to come back again. I 
 will come to visit you at Earlston: but I must keep 
 my head-quarters here." 
 
 "I don't see why you should have to come back 
 again," said Hugh, somewhat affronted. "Earlston is 
 big enough, and you would be sure to be fond of her. 
 No, I don't know that the person is settled upon. 
 Perhaps she wouldn't have me; perhaps But, any- 
 how, you are coming to Earlston, mother dear. And, 
 after a while, we could have some visitoi's perhaps — 
 your friends; you know I am very fond of your friends, 
 mamma." 
 
 "All my friends, Hugh?" said his mother, with a 
 smile. 
 
 This was the kind of talk they were having while 
 Mr. Penrose was laying the details of Hugh's extra- 
 vagance before Sir Edward, and doing all he could to 
 incite him to a solemn cross-examination of AVinnie. 
 Whether she had run away from her husband, or if
 
 92 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 not exactly that, what were the circumstances under 
 which she had left him; and whether a reconciliation 
 could be brought about; — all this was as interesting 
 to Sir Edward as it was to Uncle Penrose; but what 
 the latter gentleman was particularly anxious about 
 was, what they had done with their money, and if the 
 unlucky couple were very deeply in debt. "I suspect 
 that is at the bottom of it," he said. And they were 
 both concerned about Winnie, in their way — anxious 
 to keep her from being talked about, and to preserve 
 to her a place of I'cpentance. ]\[rs. Percival, however, 
 was not so simple as to subject herself to this ordeal. 
 When Sir Edward called in an accidental way next 
 morning, and Uncle Penrose drew a solemn chair to 
 her side, Winnie sprang up and went away. She went 
 off, and shut herself up in her own room, and declined 
 to go back, or give any further account of herself. "If 
 they want to drive me away, I will go away," she said 
 to Aunt Agatha, who came up tremulously to her door, 
 and begged her to go downstairs. 
 
 "My darling, they can't drive you away; you have 
 come to see me," said Aunt Agatha. "It would be 
 strange if any one wanted to drive you from my 
 house." 
 
 Winnie was excited, and driven out of her usual 
 self-restraint. Perhaps she had begun to soften a little. 
 She gave way to momentary tears, and kissed Aunt 
 Agatha, whose heart in a moment forsook all other 
 pre-occupations , and returned for ever and ever to her 
 child. 
 
 "Yes, I have come to see yow," she cried; "and 
 don't let them come and hunt me to death. I have 
 done nothing to them. I have injured nobody; and I
 
 MADONNA MARY, 93 
 
 will not be put upon my trial for anybody in the wide 
 world." 
 
 "My dear love! my poor darling child!" was all 
 that Aunt Agatha said. 
 
 And then Winnie dried her eyes. "I may as well 
 say it now," she said. "I will give an account of my- 
 self to nobody but you; and if lie should come after 
 me here—" 
 
 "Yes, Winnie darling?" said Aunt Agatha, in 
 great suspense, as Mrs. Percival stojiped to take 
 breath. 
 
 "Nothing in the world will make me see him — 
 nothing in the world!" cried Winnie. "It is best you 
 should know. It is no good asking me — nothing in 
 the world!" 
 
 "Oh, Winnie, my dear child!" cried Aunt Agatha, 
 in anxious remonstrance, but she was not permitted to 
 say any more. W^innie kissed her again in a per- 
 emptory way, and led her to the door, and closed it 
 softly upon her. She had given forth her ultimatum, 
 and now it was for her defender to carry on the 
 
 But within a few days another crisis arose of a less 
 manageable kind. Uncle Penrose made everybody 
 liighly uncomfortable, and left stings in each individual 
 mind, but fortunately business called him back after 
 two days to his natural sphere. And Sir Edward, was 
 affronted, and did not return to the charge; and Mrs. 
 Percival, with a natural yearning, had begun to make 
 friends with her nephew, and draw him to her side to 
 support her if need should be. And Mary was prepar- 
 ing to go with her boy after a while to Earlston; and 
 Hugh himself found i're(|ucnt business at Carlisle, and
 
 94 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 ■went and came continually; when it happened one day 
 that her friends came to pay Mrs. Ochterlony a visit, 
 to offer their condolences and congratulations upon 
 Hugh's succession and his uncle's death. 
 
 They came into the drawing-room before any one 
 was aware; and Winnie was there, with her shawl 
 round her as usual. All the ladies of the Cottage were 
 there: Aunt Agatha seated Avithin sight of her legacy, 
 the precious Henri Deux, which was all arranged in a 
 tiny little cupboard, shut in with glass, Avhich Hugh 
 had found for her; and Mary working as usual for her 
 boys. Winnie was the one who never had anything to 
 do; instead of doing anything, poor soul, she wound 
 her arms closer and closer into her shawl. It was not 
 a common visit that was about to be paid. There was 
 Mrs. Kirkman, and Mrs. Askell, and the doctor's sister, 
 and the wife of a new Captain, who had come with 
 them; and they all swept in, and kissed Mary, and 
 took possession of the place. They kissed Mary, and 
 shook hands with Aunt Agatha; and then Mrs. Kirk- 
 man stopped short, and looked at Winnie, and made 
 her a most stately curtsey. The others would have 
 done the same, had their courage been as good; but 
 both Mrs. Askell and Miss Sorbette were dovibtful how 
 Mary would take it, and compromised, and made some 
 sign of recognition in a distant way. Then they all 
 subsided into chairs, and did their best to talk. 
 
 "It is a coincidence that brings us all here together 
 to-day," said 'Mrs. Kirkman; "I hope it is not too 
 much for you, my dear Mary. How affecting was 
 poor Mr. Ochterlony's death! I hope you have that 
 evidence of his spiritual state which is the only con- 
 solation in such a case."
 
 MADONNA MARY. 95 
 
 "He was a good man," said Mary, "very kind, 
 and generous, and just. Hugh, who knew him best, 
 was very fond of him — " 
 
 "Ah, fond of him! We are all fond of our friends," 
 said Mrs. Kirkman; "but the only real comfort is to 
 know what was their spiritual state. . Do you know I 
 am very anxious about your parish here. If you would 
 but take up the work, it would be a great thing. And 
 I would like to have a talk with Hugh: he is in an 
 important position now, he may influence for good so 
 many people. Dear Miss Seton, I am sure you will 
 lielp me all you can to lead him in tlie right way." 
 
 "He is such a dear!" said Emma Askell. "He 
 has been to see us four or five times: it was so good 
 of him. / didn't know Mr. Ochterlony, Madonna dear; 
 so you need not be vexed if I say right out that I am 
 so glad. Hugh will make a perfect Squire-, and he is 
 such a dear. Oh, Miss Seton, I know you will agree 
 with me — isn't he a dear?" 
 
 "He's a very fine young fellow," said Miss Sorbette. 
 "I remember him when he was only that height, so I 
 think I may speak. It seems like yesterday when he 
 was at that queer marriage, you know — such a funny, 
 wistful little soul. I daresay you recollect, Mary, for 
 it was rather hard upon you." 
 
 "We all recollect," said Mrs. Kirkman; "don't 
 speak of it. Thank Heaven, it has done those dear 
 children no harm." 
 
 There was something ringing in Mary's ears, but 
 she could not sjCy a word. Her voice seemed to die on 
 her lips, and her heart in her breast. If her boys were 
 to hear, and demand an explanation! Something al- 
 most as bad happened. Winnie, who was looking on.
 
 96 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 whom nobody had spoken to, now took it upon her to 
 interpose. 
 
 "What marriage?" she said. "It must have 
 been something of consequence, and I shoukl like to 
 know." 
 
 This question fluttered the visitors in the strangest 
 way, none of them looked at Winnie, but they looked 
 at each other, with a sudden movement of skirts and 
 consultation of glances. Mrs. Kirkman put her bonnet- 
 strings straight, slowly, and sighed; and Miss Sorbettc 
 bent down her head with great concern, and exclaimed 
 that she had lost the button of her glove; and Emma 
 Askell shrank behind backs, and made a great rustling 
 with her dress. "Oh, it was nothing at all," she said; 
 being by nature the least hard-hearted of the three. 
 That was all the answer they gave to Winnie, who was 
 the woman who had been talked about. And the next 
 moment all three rushed at Mary, and spoke to her in 
 the same breath, in their agitation; for at least they 
 were agitated by the bold coup they had made. It was 
 a stroke which Winnie felt. She turned very red and 
 then very pale, but she did not flinch: she sat there in 
 the foreground, close to them all, till they had said 
 everything they had to say; and held her head high, 
 ready to meet the eye of anybody who dared to look 
 at her. As for the other members of the party, Mary 
 had been driven hors du combat ^ and for the first mo- 
 ment was too much occupied with her own feelings to 
 perceive the insult that had been directed at her sister; 
 and Aunt Agatha was too much amazed to take any 
 part. Thus they sat, the visitors in a rustle of talk 
 and silk and agitation and uneasiness, frightened at the 
 step they had taken, with Winnie immovable and un-
 
 MADONNA JIARV. 97 
 
 flinching in tlie midst of tliem, until the other ladies of 
 the house recovered tlieir self-possession. Then an un- 
 questionable chill fell upon the party. When such 
 visitors came to Kirtell on ordinary occasions, they 
 were received with pleasant hospitality. It was not a 
 ceremonious call, it was a frank familiar visit, pro- 
 longed for an iiour or two; and though five o'clock tea 
 had not then been invented, it was extemporized for 
 the occasion, and fruit was gathered, and flowers, and 
 all the pleasant country details that please visitors 
 from a town. And when it was time to go, everybody 
 knew how many minutes were necessary for the walk 
 to the station, and the Cottage people escorted their 
 visitors, and waved their hands to them as the train 
 started. Such had been the usual routine of a visit to 
 Kirtell. But matters were changed now. After that 
 uneasy rustle and flutter, a silence equally uneasy fell 
 upon the assembly. The new Captain's wife, who had 
 never been there before, could not make it out. Mrs. 
 Percival sat silent, the centre of the group, and nobody 
 addressed a word to her; and Aunt Agatha leaned back 
 in her chair and never opened her lips; and even 
 Mary gave the coldest, briefest answers to the talk 
 Avhich everybody poured upon her at once. It Avas all 
 qiiite mysterious and unexplainable to the Captain's 
 wife. 
 
 "I am afraid we must not stay," Mrs. Kirkman 
 said at last, who was the superior officer. "I hope we 
 have not been too much for you, my dear Mary. I 
 want so much to have a long talk with you about the 
 parish and the work that is to be done in it. If I 
 could only see you take it up! But I see you are not 
 able for it now." 
 
 M'Ulonwt Mir,]. II. 7
 
 9S MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "I am not the clergyman," said Mary, whose 
 temper was slightly touched. "You know that never 
 was my ro^c." 
 
 "Ah, my dear friend!" said Mrs. Kirkman, and she 
 ])ent her head forward pathetically to Mrs. Ochterlony's, 
 and shook it in her face, and kissed her, "if one could 
 always feel one's self justified in leaving it in the hands 
 of the clergyman! But you are suffering, and I will 
 say no more to day." 
 
 And Miss Sorbette, too, made a pretence of having 
 something very absorbing to say to Mrs. Ochterlony, 
 and the exit of the visitors was made in a kind of 
 scuffle very different from their dignified entrance. 
 They had to walk back to the station in the heat of 
 the afternoon, and to sit there in the dusty waiting- 
 room an hour and a half waiting for the train. Seldom 
 is justice so promptly or poetically executed. And 
 they took to upbraiding each other, as was natural, 
 and Emma Askell cried, and said it was not her fault. 
 And the new Cajjtain's wife asked audibly, if that was 
 the Madonna Mary the gentlemen talked about, and 
 the house that was so pleasant? Perhaps the three 
 ladies in the Cottage did not feel much happier; Aunt 
 Agatha rose up tremblingly when they were gone, and 
 went to Winnie and kissed her. "Oh, what does it all 
 mean?" Miss Seton cried. It was the first time she 
 had seen anyone belonging to her pointed at by the 
 finger of scorn. 
 
 "It means that Mary's friends don't approve of 
 me," said Winnie; but her lip quivered as she spoke. 
 She did not care! But yet she was a woman, and she 
 did care, whatever she might say. 
 
 And then Mary, too, came and kissed her sister.
 
 MADONNA MAUY. 99 
 
 "My poor Winnie!" she said, tenderly. She could not 
 be her sister's partisan out and out, like Aunt Agatha. 
 Her heart was sore for what she knew, and for what 
 she did not know, but she could not forsake her own 
 flesh and blood. The inquisition of Uncle Penrose and 
 Sir Edward Avas a very small matter indeed in com- 
 parison with this woman's insult, but yet it drew 
 Winnie imperceptibly closer to her only remaining 
 friends. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 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 doxxbt 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 heai-ing very small oifences indeed 
 made into sins. Aunt Agatha had been almost as 
 hard upon him for forgetting a text as if he had told 
 a lie — and his tutor, the curate, had treated a false 
 ([uantity, or a failure of memory, as a moral oifence. 
 That was in days long past, and it was AVilfrid 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 
 
 7*
 
 100 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 very little more about it. This system of m.iking 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 dis- 
 covered 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 be should pretend to be pleased at Hugh's ad- 
 vancement. 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 yon and the acquisition of
 
 MADONNA MARY. 101 
 
 money was almost as great insanity, according to Lis 
 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 diti'erent 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 
 sort of 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 specula- 
 tions — 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 every- 
 body 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 Kirtcll banks a few days
 
 102 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 after the visit above recorded, in an unusiially uncom- 
 fortable 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 Avandered out, slightly sulky, to Kirtell- 
 side. He was free to come and go as he liked. No- 
 body there had any particular need of him; and a 
 solitary walk is not a particularly enlivening perform- 
 ance 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 seeiued to Will that he had seen this 
 figure somewhere before. It must be one of the regi- 
 ment, 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 appear- 
 ance 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, iuex-
 
 MADONNA IMARY. 103 
 
 perienced 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 over- 
 take the stranger, who was clearly waiting to be over- 
 taken. 
 
 "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 yon may have heard of. It is a queer ques- 
 tion, 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 motherV"
 
 104 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "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 suf- 
 ficiently 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 acqiaaintance 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 tlie 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
 
 MADONNA MARY. 105 
 
 to be very kind. It was he wlio bad been iu the 
 wrong in their hist desperate struggle, and he found it 
 easy to forgive himself; and Aunt Agatha's garden, 
 and the paths, and llower-j)ots 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 stagna- 
 tion 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 op- 
 position moved her. There he stood who had done her 
 so much wrong; Avho 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 iu 
 her room, with Jicr door locked, before any one knew
 
 106 MADONNA MARY, 
 
 she liacl stirred. It is true be 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, expect- 
 ing, 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 mimites. 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 Win- 
 nie, 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 con- 
 sent to see him, for nothing in this world." 
 
 Winnie was a difterent woman as she spoke. She 
 was no longer the worn and faded creature she had
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 107 
 
 been. Her eyes were sparkling, lier 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 Avhat 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 re- 
 peated, that IMiss 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. Axxnt 
 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, no- 
 body is to know that Winnie keeps in her OAvn room. 
 After the way these people behaved to the poor dear 
 child " 
 
 "They were very foolish and ill-bred," said Mary,
 
 108 MADONNA 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 JMary 
 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 per- 
 haps 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 bad head- 
 ache? "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 ex- 
 cited, 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 Avay of late, but still 
 she had gone very far in leaving him , and he had gone 
 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.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 109 
 
 Ocliterloiiy 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 ar- 
 ranged her best silver, and filled the old-fashioned 
 ('pergne with flowers, thinking she was doing the very 
 l)est 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 
 Fercival'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. "Docs 
 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.
 
 110 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "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. lie 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 uncom- 
 fortable a meal as could be imagined. She was miser- 
 able herself, dreading every moment that he might 
 burst out into a torrent of rage against Winnie befoi'e 
 "the servants," or that Winnie's bell would ring vio- 
 lently and she would send a message — so rash and 
 inconsiderate as she was — to know when Major Per- 
 cival Avas 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 
 Avhen 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 wislies 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
 
 MADONI^A MARY. Ill 
 
 that AViunie's Imsband liad come to see her, and liad 
 spent the day at the Cottage. But then Aunt Agatlia 
 had not the remotest idea that beyond the annoyance 
 of the moment it possibly couhl do any hai'm. 
 
 It was dreadful to leave him with the two boys 
 after dinner, who probably — or at least Hugh — 
 might not be so civil as was to be wished; but still 
 more dreadful it was ten minutes after to hear Hugh's 
 voice with Xelly 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 smok- 
 ing cigars," said Aunt Agatha, in her anxiety and 
 fright. 
 
 "Not always," Hugh answered, "nor under all cir- 
 cumstances." 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 M-as 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 Avindows, quite at the 
 other side of the house, smoking his cigar, and Will 
 sat dutifully and not unwillingly by, listening to his 
 tJilk. It was a new kind of talk to Will — the talk of 
 a man blase, 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.
 
 112 MADOKXA MARY. 
 
 Perhaps the parisli of Kirtell in general would not have 
 thought it very edifying talk. 
 
 "It is he who has come into the property, I sup- 
 pose," said Percival, pointing lazily with his cigar to- 
 wards 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 Avith him. It's the system of 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 deal of difference," said 
 Percival; and then he paused: for a man, even when 
 he is pushed on by malice and hate and all uncharitable- 
 ness, 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 in 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
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 113 
 
 know? Is it to him in ptarticular as being the favoui'ite, 
 and that sort of thing? — or is it simply to the ekiest 
 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 tm-n 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 aboiit 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, ami 
 you were born as you say in '38." 
 
 "Good heavens! what has that to do with it?" 
 cried Wilfrid. "Of course I was boi-n in '38. Tell 
 me what you mean." 
 
 "Well, then, I'll tell you what I mean," said Per- 
 cival, 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 be- 
 longs to yoM." 
 
 Miidonna Nary. II. o
 
 114 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Wilfrid was so stunned by tlie information thus 
 suddenly given him, that he had but a confused con- 
 sciousness of the explanations which followed. lie was 
 aware that it was all made clear to him, and that he 
 uttered the usual words of assent and conviction; but 
 in his mind he was too profoundly moved, too com- 
 pletely shaken and unsettled, to be aware of anything 
 but the fact thus strangely communicated. It did not 
 occur to him for a moment that it was not a fact. He 
 saw no improbability, nothing unnatural in it. He was 
 too young to think that anything was unlikely because 
 it was extraordinary, or to doubt what was affirmed 
 with so much confidence. But, in the meantime, the 
 news was so startling, that it upset his mental balance, 
 and made him incapable of understanding the details. 
 Hugh was not the eldest son. It was he who was the 
 eldest son. This at the moment was all that his mind 
 was capable of taking in. He stayed by Percival as 
 long as he remained, and had the air of devouring 
 everything the other said; and he went with him to 
 the railway station when he went away. Percival, for 
 his part, having once made the jilunge, showed no dis- 
 inclination to explain everything, but for his own credit 
 told his story most fully, and with many particulars 
 undreamt of when the incident took place. But he 
 might have spared his pains so far as Will was con- 
 cerned. He was aware of the one great fact stated to 
 him to begin with, but of nothing more.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 115 
 
 The last words which Percival said as he took 
 leave of his youug companion at the railway were, 
 however, caught by Wilfrid's half-stupefied ears. They 
 were these: "I will stay in Carlisle for some days. 
 You can hear where I am fromAskell, and perhaps we 
 may be of use to each other." This, beyond the start- 
 ling and extraordinary piece of news which had shaken 
 him like a sudden earthquake, was all Percival had 
 said, so far as Will was aware. "That fellow is no 
 more the eldest son than I am — the property is yours;'''' 
 and "I will stay in Carlisle for some days — perhaps 
 we may be of use to each other." The one exjiression 
 caught on to the other in his mind, which was utterly 
 confused and stunned for the first time in his life. He 
 turned them over and over as he Avalked home alone, 
 or rather, they turned over and over in his memory, as 
 if possessed of a distinct life; and so it happened that 
 he had got home again and opened the gate and 
 stumbled into the garden before he knew what the 
 terrific change was which had come over everything, 
 or had time to realize his own sensations. It Avas such 
 a moment as is very sweet in a cottage-garden. They 
 had all been watering the Mowers in the moment of 
 relief after Percival's departure, and the fragrance of 
 the grateful soil was mounting up among the other 
 perfumes of the hour. Hugh and Nelly were still 
 sprinkling a last shower upon the roses, and in the 
 distance in the field upon which the garden opened 
 were to be seen two figures wandering slowly over the 
 grass, — Winnie, whom Aunt Agatha had coaxed out 
 to breathe the fresh air after her self-imprisonment, and 
 3Iiss Seton herself, Avith a shawl over her head. And 
 the tAvilight was growing insensibly dimmer and dim- 
 
 8*
 
 116 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 mer, and the dew falling, and the young moon sailing 
 aloft. When Mary came across the lawn, her long 
 dress sweeping with a soft rustle over the grass, a 
 siadden horror seized Wilfrid. It took him all his 
 force of mind and will to keep his face to her and 
 await her coming. His face was not the treacherous 
 kind of face which betrays everything; but still there 
 was in it a look of pre-occupation which INIary could 
 not fail to see. 
 
 "Is he gone?" she said, as she came up. "You 
 are sure he is gone. Will? It was kind of you to be 
 civil to him; but I am almost afraid you were in- 
 terested in him too." 
 
 "Would it be Avrong to be interested in him?" 
 said Will. 
 
 "I don't like him," said Mary, simply; and then 
 she added, after a pause, "I have no confidence in him. 
 I should be sorry to see any of my boys attracted by 
 the society of such a man." 
 
 And it was at this moment that his new knowledge 
 rushed upon Wilfrid's mind and embittered it; any of 
 her boys , of whom he was the youngest and least im- 
 portant; and yet she must know what his real position 
 was, and that he ought to be the chief of all. 
 
 "I don't care a straw for 7(mm," said Will, hastily; 
 "but he knows a great many things, and I was in- 
 terested in his talk." 
 
 "What was he saying to you?" said Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony. 
 
 He looked into her face, and he saw that there 
 was uneasiness in it, just as she, looking at him, saw 
 signs of a change which he was himself unaware of; 
 and in his impetuosity he was very near saying it all
 
 MAnONNA MARV. 117 
 
 out ami betraying liimself. But then his uncertainty 
 of all the details stood him in good stead. 
 
 "He was saying lots of things," said Will. "I am 
 sure 1 can't tell you all that he was saying. If I were 
 Hugh I would not let Nelly make a mess of herself 
 with those roses. I am going in-doors." 
 
 "A lovely evening like this is better than the best 
 book in the world," said Mary. "Stay with me, and 
 talk to me, Will. You see I am the only one who is 
 left alone." 
 
 "I don't care about lovely evenings," said Will; 
 "I think you should all come in. It is getting dread- 
 ful cold. And as for being alone, I don't see how 
 that can be, when they are all there. Good night, 
 mother. I think I shall go to bed." 
 
 "Why should you go to bed so early?" said Mary; 
 but he was already gone, and did not hear her. And 
 as he went, he turned right round and looked at Hugh 
 and Nelly, who were still together. When Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony remarked that look, she was at once troubled and 
 comforted. She thought her boy was jealous of the 
 way in which his brother engrossed the young visitor, 
 and she was sorry, but yet knew that it was not very 
 serious — while , at the same time , it was a comfort to 
 her to attribiite his pre-occupation to anything but 
 Percival's conversation. So she lingered about the 
 lawn a little, and looked wistfully at the soft twilight 
 countiy, and the wistful moon. She was the only one 
 who was alone. The two young creatures were to- 
 gether, and they wei'e happy; and poor AVinnic, though 
 she was far from happy, was buoyed ii}) by the ab- 
 sorbing passion and hostility which had to-day reached 
 one of its climaxes, and had Aunt Agatha for her
 
 118 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 slave, ready to receive all the burning outburst of 
 grievance and misery. This fiery passion which ab- 
 sorbed her whole being was almost as good as being 
 happy, and gave her mind full occupation. But as for 
 Mary, she was by herself, and all was twilight with 
 her; and the desertion of her boy gave her a little 
 chill at her heart. So she, too, went in presently, and 
 had the lamp lighted, and sat alone in the room, which 
 was bright and yet dim — with a clear circle of light 
 round the table, yet shadowy as all the corners are of 
 a summer evening, when there is no fire to aid the 
 lamp. But she did not find her son there. His dis- 
 content had gone further than to be content with a 
 book, as she had expected; and he had really disap- 
 peared for the nig] it. 
 
 "I can't have you take possession of Nelly like 
 this," she said to Hugh, when, after a long interval, 
 they came in. "We all want a share of lier. Poor 
 Will has gone to bed quite discontented. You must 
 not keep her all to yourself." 
 
 "Oh! is he jealous?" said Hugh, laughing; and 
 there was no more said about it; for Will's jealousy in 
 this respect was not a thing to alarm anybody much. 
 
 But Will had not gone to bed. He was seated in 
 his room at the table, leaning his head upon both his 
 hands, and staring into the flame of his candle. He 
 was trying to put what he had heard into some sort of 
 shape. That Hugh, who was down-stairs so triumphant 
 and successful, was, after all, a mere impostor; that it 
 was he himself, whom nobody paid any particular at- 
 tention to, who was the real heir; that his instinct had 
 not deceived him, but from his birth he had been ill- 
 used and oppressed: these thoughts M^ent all circling
 
 MADONNA MARV. 119 
 
 through his mind as the moths circletl round his light, 
 taking now a larger, and now a shorter flight. This 
 strange sense that he had been right all along was, for 
 the moment, the first feeling in his mind. He had 
 been disinherited and thrust aside, but still he had felt 
 all along that it was he who was the natural heir; and 
 there was a satisfaction in having it thus proved and 
 established. This was the first distinct reflection he 
 was conscious of amid the whirl of thoughts; and then 
 came the intoxicating sense that he could now enter 
 u})0n his true position, and be able to arrange every- 
 body's future wisely and generously, without any regard 
 for mere proprieties, or for the younger brother's two 
 thousand pounds. Strange to say, in the midst of this 
 whirlwind of egotistical feeling. Will rushed all at once 
 into imaginations that were not selfish, glorious schemes 
 of what he Avould do for everybody. He was not un- 
 generous, nor unkind, but only it was a necessity with 
 him that generosity and kindness should come from 
 and not to himself. 
 
 All this passed through the boy's mind before it 
 ever occurred to him what might be the consequences 
 to others of his extraordinary discovery, or what effect 
 it must have upon his mother, and the character of 
 the family. He was self-absorbed, and it did not oc- 
 cur to him in that light. Even when he did come to 
 think of it, he did it in the calmest way. No doubt 
 his mother would be annoyed; but she deserved to be 
 annoyed — she who had so long kept him out of his 
 rights; and, after all, it would still be one of her sons 
 who would have Earlston. And as for Hugh, Wilfrid 
 had the most generous intentions towards him. There 
 was, indeed, nothing that he was not ready to do for
 
 120 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 his brothers. As soou as he believed that all was to 
 be his, he felt himself the steward of the family. And 
 then his mind glanced back upon the Psyche and the 
 Venus, and upon Earlston, which might be made into 
 a fitter shrine for these fair creations. These ideas 
 filled him like wine, and went to his head, and made 
 him dizzy; and all the time he was as unconscious of 
 the moral harm, and domestic treachery, as if he had 
 been one of the lower animals; and no scruple of any 
 description, and no doubt of what it was right and 
 necessary to do, had so nuxch as entered into his 
 primitive and savage mind. 
 
 We call his mind savage and primitive because it 
 was at this moment entirely free from those complica- 
 tions of feeling and dreadful conflict of what is de- 
 sirable, and what is right, which belong to the civilized 
 and cultivated mind. Perhaps Will's affections were 
 not naturally strong; but, at all events, he gave in to 
 this temptation as a man might have given in to it in 
 the depths of Africa, where the "good old rule" and 
 "simple plan" still exist and reign; and where every- 
 body takes what he has strength to take, and he keejjs 
 who can. This was the real state of the case in Wil- 
 frid's mind. It had been supposed to be Hugh's right, 
 and he had been obliged to give in; now it was his 
 right, and Hugh would have to make up his mind to 
 it. What else was there to say? So far as Will could 
 see, the revolution would be alike certain and instan- 
 taneous. It no more occurred to him to doubt the im- 
 mediate effect of the new fact than to doubt its truth. 
 Perhaps it was his very egotism, as well as his youth 
 and inexperience, which made him so credulous. It 
 had been wonder enough to him how anybody could
 
 MADONNA MARY. 121 
 
 leave him iu an inferior position, even wliile lie was 
 only the youngest-, to think of anybody resisting his 
 rights, now that he had rights, was incredible. 
 
 Yet when the morning came, and the sober day- 
 light brightened npon his dreams. Will, notwithstand- 
 ing all his contideuce, began to see the complication of" 
 circvimstances. How was he to announce his discovery 
 to his mother? How was he to acquaint Hugh with 
 the change in their mutual destinies? What seemed so 
 easy and simple to him the night before, became diffi- 
 cult and complicated now. He began to have a vague 
 sense that they would insist, that Mrs. Ochterlony would 
 fight for her honour, and Hugh for his inheritance, and 
 that in claiming his own rights, he would have to rob 
 his mother of her good name, and put a stigma inefia- 
 ceable upon his brother. This idea startled him, and 
 took away his breath; but it did not make him falter-. 
 Uncle Penrose's suggestion about buying up him and 
 bis beggarly estate, and Major Percival's evident entire 
 indifierence to the question whether anything it suited 
 him to do was right or wrong, had had their due efiect 
 on Will. He did not see what call he had to sacrifice 
 himself for others. No doubt, he would be sorry for 
 the others, but after all it was his own life he had to 
 take care of, and his own rights that he had to assert. 
 But he mused and knitted his brows over it as he had 
 never done before in his life. Throughout it will bo 
 seen that he regarded the business in a very sober, 
 matter-of-fact way — not in the imaginative way which 
 leads you to enter into other people's position, and 
 analyse tlieir possible feelings. As for himself, he who 
 had been so jealous of his mother's visitors, and watched 
 over her so keenly, did not feel somehow that horror
 
 122 MADONNA MAKY, 
 
 Avliicli miglit have been expected at the revelation that 
 she was not the spotless woman he thought her. ' Per- 
 haps it was the importance of the revelation to himself 
 
 — perhaps it was a secret disbelief in any guilt of hers 
 
 — perhaps it was only the stunned condition in which 
 the announcement left him. At all events, he was 
 neither horrified at the thought, nor profoundly im- 
 pressed by the consciousness that to prove his own 
 rights, would be to take away everything from her, 
 and to shut her up from all intercourse with the ho- 
 nourable and pure. When the morning roused him to 
 a sense of the difficulties as well as the advantages of 
 his discovery, the only thing he could think of was to 
 seek advice and direction from Percival, who was so 
 experienced a man of the world. But it was not so 
 easy to do this without betraying his motive. The 
 only practical expedient was that of escorting Nelly 
 home; which was not a privilege he was anxious for of 
 itself; for though he was jealous that she had been 
 taken away from him, he shrank instinctively from her 
 company in his present state of mind. Yet it was the 
 only thing that could be done. 
 
 When the party met at the breakfast-table, there 
 were three of them who were ill at ease. Winnie made 
 her appearance in a state of headache, pale and haggard 
 as on the day of her arrival; and Aunt Agatha was 
 pale too, and could not keep her eyes from dwelling 
 with a too tender aflfectionateness upon her suffering 
 child. And as for Will, the colour of his young face 
 was indescribable, for youth and health still contended 
 in it with those emotions which contract the skin and 
 empty the veins. But on the other hand, there were 
 Hugh and Nelly handsome and happy, with hearts full
 
 MADOXNA ^rARV. 123 
 
 of charity to everybody, and conlidence in the bright- 
 ness of their own dawning lot. Mary sat at the head 
 of the table, with tlie urn before her, superintending 
 all. The uneasiuoss of last night had passed from her 
 mind; her cheek was almost as round and fair as that 
 of the girl by her side — fairer perhaps in its way; her 
 eyes were as bright as they had ever been; her dress, 
 it is true, was still black, btit it had not the shadowy 
 denseness of her widow's garb of old. It was silk, that 
 shone and gave back subdued reflections to the light, 
 and in her hair there were still golden gleams, though 
 mixed with here and there a thread of silver. Her 
 mourning, which prevented any confusion of colours, 
 but left her a sweet-complexioned woman, rich in the 
 subdued tints of nature, in the soft austerity of black 
 and white, did all for her that toilette could do. This 
 Avas the figure which her son Wilfrid saw at the head 
 of the pretty country breakfast -table, between the 
 flowers and the sunshine — an i;nblemished matron 
 and a beloved mother. He knew, and it came into 
 his mind as he looked at her, that in the parish, or 
 even in the county, there was nobody more honoured; 
 
 and yet He kept staring at her so, and gi-ew so 
 
 white as he did so , and had so scared a look in his 
 eyes, that Mrs. Ochterlony herself perceived it at last. 
 
 "What is the matter. Will?" she said. "I could 
 think there Avas a ghost standing behind me, from your 
 eyes. Why do you look so startled?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Will, hastily; "I didn't know I 
 looked startled. A fellow can't help how he looks. 
 Look here, Nelly, if you're going home to-day, I'll go 
 with you, and see you safe there." 
 
 "You'll go with her?" said Hugh, witli a kind of
 
 124 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 good-humoured elder-brotherly contempt. "Not quite 
 so fast, Will. We can't trust young ladies in your 
 care. I am going with Nelly myself." 
 
 "Oh! I am sure AVill is very kind," said Nelly; 
 and then she stopped short, and looked first at Mrs. 
 Ochterlony and then at Hugh. Poor Nelly had heard 
 of brothers being jealous of each other, and had read 
 of it in books, and was half afraid that such a case 
 was about to come under her own observation. She 
 was much frightened, and her impulse was to accept 
 Will's guardianship, that no harm might come of it, 
 though the sacrifice to herself would be considerable; 
 but then, what if Hugh should be jealous too? 
 
 "I see no reason why you should not both go," 
 said Mrs. Ochterlony: "one of you shall take care of 
 Nelly, and one shall do my commissions; I think that 
 had better be Will — for I can put no confidence, just 
 now, in Hugh." 
 
 " Of course it must be Will," said Hugh. "A squire 
 of dames requires age and solidity. It is not an office 
 for a younger brother. Your time will come, old fellow ; 
 it is mine now." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it is yours now," said Will. 
 
 He did not mean to put any extraordinary signi- 
 ficance in his tone, but yet he was in such a condition 
 of mind that his veiy voice betrayed him against his 
 will. Even Winnie, pre-occupied as she was, inter- 
 mitted her own thoughts a moment to look at him, and 
 Hugh reddened, though he could not have told why. 
 There was a certain menace, a certain implication of 
 something behind , which the inexperienced boy had no 
 intention of betraying, but which made themselves ap- 
 parent in spite of him. And Hugh too grew crimson
 
 MADONNA MARY. 125 
 
 in spite of himself. He said "By Jove!" and then bo 
 laughed , and cleared his mind of it , feeling it absurd 
 to be made angry by the petulance of his boy-brother. 
 Then he turned to Nelly, who had drawn closer to him, 
 fearing that the quarrel was aboixt to take place as it 
 takes place in novels, trembling a little, and yet by 
 the aid of her own good sense, feeling that it could 
 not be so serious after all. 
 
 "If we are going to the Lady's Well we must go 
 early," he said; and his face changed when he turned 
 to her. She was growing prettier every day, — every 
 day at least that she spent in Hugh's society, — open- 
 ing and unfolding as to the sun. Her precocious woman- 
 liness, if it had been precocious, melted under the new 
 influence, and all the natural developments were 
 quickened. She was more timid, more caressing, less 
 self-reliant, and yet she was still as much as ever the 
 head of the house at home. 
 
 "But not if it will vex Will," she said, almost in 
 a Avhisper, in his ear; and the close approach which 
 this whisper made necessary, effaced in an instant all 
 unbrotherly feelings towards Wilfrid from Hugh's mind, 
 '^rhcy both looked at Will, instinctively, as they spoke, 
 the girl with a little wistful solicitude in case he might 
 be disturbed by the sight of their confidential talk. But 
 Will was quite unmoved. He saw the two draw closer 
 together, and perceived the confidential communication 
 that passed between them, but his countenance did not 
 change in the slightest degree. By this time he was 
 far beyond that. 
 
 "You see he docs not mind," said Hugh, carrying 
 on the half-articulate colloquy, of which one half was 
 done by thoughts instead of words; and Nelly, with
 
 126 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 tlie colour a little deepened on her clieek, looked up 
 at him with a look which Hugh could but lialf inter- 
 pret. He saw the soft brightness, the sweet satisfaction 
 in it tinged by a certain gleam of fun, but he did not 
 see that Nolly was for the moment a little ashamed of 
 herself, and was asking herself how she ever could, 
 for a moment, have supposed that Will was jealous. 
 It was a relief to her mind to see his indifference, and 
 yet it filled her with shame. 
 
 When the meal was over, and they all dispersed 
 with their different interests, it was Mary who sought 
 to soften what she considered the disappointment of 
 her boy. She came to him as he stood at the window 
 under the verandah , where the day before Percival had 
 given him his fatal illumination, and put her arm 
 within his, and did her best to draw his secret from his 
 clouded and musing eyes. 
 
 "My dear boy, let us give in to Hugh," said Mary; 
 "he is only a guest now, you know, and you are at 
 home." She was smiling when she said this, and yet 
 it made her sigh. "And then I think he is getting 
 fond of Nelly, and you are far too young for anything 
 of that sort," Mrs. Ochterlony said, with anxiety and 
 a little doubt, looking him in the face all the time. 
 
 "There are some things I am not too young for," 
 said Will. "Mamma, if I were Hugh I would be at 
 home nowhere unless you were at home there as well." 
 
 "My dear Will, that is my own doing," said Mary. 
 "Don't blame your brother. I have refused to go to 
 Earlston. It will always be best for me, for all your 
 sakes, to have a house of my own." 
 
 "If Earlston had been mine, I should not have 
 minded your refusal," said Will. Perhaps it was as
 
 MADONNA MARY. 127 
 
 a kind of secret atonement to lier and to liis own heart 
 that he said so, and yet it was done instinctively, and 
 was the utterance of a genuine feeling. He was medi- 
 tating in his heart her disgrace and downfall, and yet 
 the first effects of it, if he could succeed, would be 
 to lay everything that he had won by shaming her, at 
 her feet. He would do her the uttermost cruelty and 
 injury without flinching, and then he would overAvhelm 
 her with every honour and grandeur that bis ill-got 
 wealth could supply. And he did not see how incon- 
 sistent those two things were. 
 
 "But my boys must mind when I make such a 
 decision," said Mary, and yet she was not displeased 
 with the sentiment. "You shall go to Carlisle for me," 
 she added. "I want some little things, and Hiigb 
 very likely would be otherwise occupied. If you would 
 like to have a little change, and go eai-ly, do not Avait 
 for them. Will. There is a train in half an hour." 
 
 "Yes, I would like a little change," he answered 
 vaguely — feeling somehow , for that moment solely, 
 a little prick of conscience. And so it was by his 
 mother's desire to restore his good-humour and cheer- 
 fulness , that he was sent upon his mission of harm and 
 treachery. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 While Hugh showed Nelly the way to the Lady's 
 Well with that mixture of brotherly tenderness and 
 a dawning emotion of a much warmer kind, which is 
 the privileged entrance of their i\^Q into real love and 
 passion; and while Will made his with silent vehe-
 
 128 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 mence and ardour to Carlisle, Winnie was left very 
 miserable in the Cottage. It was a moment of reaction 
 after the furious excitement of the previous day. She 
 had held him at bay, she had shown him her contempt 
 and scorn, she had proved to him that their parting 
 was final, and that she would never either see or listen 
 to him again-, and the excitement of doing this had so 
 supported her that the day which Aunt Agatha thought 
 a day of such horrible trial to her poor Winnie, was, 
 in shox't, the only day in which she had snatched a 
 certain stormy enjoyment since she returned to the 
 Cottage. But the day after was different. He was 
 gone; he had assented to her desire, and accepted her 
 decision to all appearance, and poor Winnie was very 
 miserable. For the moment all seemed to her to be 
 over. She had felt sure he would come, and the sense 
 of the continued conflict had buoyed her up-, but she 
 did not feel so sure that he would come again, and 
 the long struggle which had occupied her life and 
 thoughts for so many years seemed to have come to 
 an abrupt end, and she had nothing more to look 
 forward to. When she realized this fact, Winnie stood 
 aghast. It is hard when love goes out of a life; but 
 sometimes, when it is only strife and opposition which 
 go out of it, it is almost as hard to bear. She thought 
 she had sighed for peace for many a long day. She 
 had said so times without number, and written it 
 down , and persuaded herself that was what she wanted ; 
 but now that she had got it she found out that it was 
 not that she wanted. The Cottage was the very home 
 of peace, and had been so for many years. Even the 
 growth of young life within it, the active minds and 
 varied temperaments of the three boys, and Will's
 
 MADONNA MARY. 129 
 
 cloudy and uncomfortable disposition, had not liitberto 
 interfered with its character. But so far from being 
 content, Winnie's heart sank within her when she 
 realized the fact, that War had marched off in the 
 person of her husband, and that she was to be "left 
 in peace," — horrible words that paralyzed her very 
 soul. 
 
 This event, however, if it had done nothing else, 
 had opened her mouth. Her history, which she had 
 kept to herself, began to be revealed. She told her 
 aunt and her sister of his misdeeds, till the energy of 
 her nari'ative brought something like renewed life to 
 her. She described how she had herself endured, how 
 she had been left to all the dangers that attend a 
 beautiful young woman whose husband has found 
 superior attractions elsewhere; and she gave such 
 sketches of the women whom she imagined to have 
 attracted him, as only an injured wife in a chronic 
 state of wrath and suffering could give. She was so 
 very miserable on that morning that she had no alter- 
 native but to speak or die; and as she could not die, 
 she gave her miseries utterance. "And if he can do 
 you any harm — if he can strike me through my 
 friends," said Winnie, "if you know of any point on 
 which he could assail you, you had better keep close 
 guard." 
 
 "Oh, my dear love!" said Aunt Agatha, with a 
 troubled smile, "what harm could he do us? He could 
 hurt us only in wounding you; and now we have you 
 safe, my darling, and can defend you, so he never can 
 harm us." 
 
 "Of course I never meant yo?^," said Winnie. 
 " But he might perhaps harm Mary. Mary is not like 
 
 Madonna Mar;/. II. 9
 
 130 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 you; she has had to make her way hi the world, and 
 no doubt there may be things in her life, as in other 
 people's, that she would not care to have known." 
 
 Mary was startled by this speech, which was made 
 half in kindness, half in anger; for the necessity of 
 having somebody to quarrel with had been too great 
 for Winnie. Mrs. Ochterlony was startled, but she 
 could not help feeling sure that her secret was no secret 
 for her sister, and she had no mind for a quarrel, though 
 Winnie wished it. 
 
 "There is but one thing in my life that I don't 
 wish to have known," she said, "and Major Percival 
 knows it, and probably so do you, Winnie. But I am 
 here among my own people, and everybody knows all 
 about me. I don't think it would be possible to do 
 me harm here." 
 
 "It is because you don't know him," said Winnie. 
 "He would do the Queen harm in her own palace. 
 You don't know what poison he can put on his arrows, 
 and how he shoots them. I believe he will strike me 
 through my friends." 
 
 All this time Aunt Agatha looked at the two with 
 her lips apart, as if about to speak; but in reality it 
 was horror and amazement that moved her. To liear 
 them talking calmly of something that mvist be con- 
 cealed! of something, at least, that it was better should 
 not be known! — and that in a house which had 
 always been so spotless, so respectable, and did not 
 know what mystery meant! 
 
 Mary shook her head, and smiled. She had felt a 
 little anxious the night before about what Percival 
 might be saying to Wilfrid; but, somehow, all that had 
 blown away. Even Will's discontent with his brother
 
 MADONNA MARV. 131 
 
 liad taken the form of jealous tenderness for herself, 
 which, in her thinking, was quite incompatible with 
 any revelation which could have lowered her in his 
 eyes; and it seemed (o her as if the old sting, which 
 had so often come back to her, which had put it into 
 the power of her friends in "the regiment" to give her 
 noAv and then a prick to the heart, had lost its venom. 
 Hugh was peacefully settled in his rights, and Will, 
 if he had heard anything, must have nobly closed his 
 ears to it. Sometimes this strange feeling of assurance 
 and confidence comes on the very brink of the deadliest 
 danger, and it was so with Mary at the present moment 
 that she had no fear. 
 
 As for Winnie, she too was thinking principally 
 of her own affairs, and of her sister's only as sub- 
 sidiary to them. She would have rather believed in 
 the most diabolical rage and assault than in her hus- 
 band's indifference and the utter termination of hos- 
 tilities between them. "He will strike me through my 
 iViends," she repeated-, and perhaps in her heart she 
 was rather glad that there still remained this oblique 
 way of teaching her, and expressed a hope rather tlian 
 a fear. This conversation v.as interrupted by Sir 
 Edward, who came in more cheerfully and alertly than 
 usual, taking off his hat as soon as he became visible 
 through the open window. He had heard what he 
 thought Avas good ncAV'S, and there was satisfaction in 
 his face. 
 
 "So Percival is here," he said. "I can't tell you 
 how pleased I was. Come, we'll have some pleasant 
 days yet in our old age. Why hasn't he come up to 
 the Hall?" 
 
 There was an embarrassed pause — embarrassed at 
 
 9*
 
 132 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 least on the part of Miss Seton and Mrs. Ocliterlony, 
 while Winnie fixed her eyes, which looked so large 
 and wild in their sunken sockets, steadily upon him, 
 without attempting to make any reply. 
 
 "Yes, Major Percival was here yesterday," said 
 Aunt Agatha with hesitation; "he spent the whole day 
 with us ^ — I was very glad to have him, and I am 
 sure he would have gone up to the Hall if he had had 
 time — But he was obliged to go away." 
 
 How difficult it was to say all this under the gaze 
 of Winnie's eyes, and with the possibility of being 
 contradicted flatly at any moment, may be imagined. 
 And while Aunt Agatha made her faltering statement, 
 her own look and voice contradicted her; and then 
 there was a still more embarrassed pause, and Sir 
 Edward looked from one to another with amazed and 
 unquiet eyes. 
 
 "He came and spent the day with you," said their 
 anxious neighbour, "and he was obliged to go away! 
 I confess I think I merited difierent treatment, I wish 
 I could make out what you all mean — " 
 
 "The fact is. Sir Edward," said Winnie, "that 
 Major Percival was sent away. He is a very impor- 
 tant person, no doubt; but he cannot do just as he 
 pleases. My aunt is so good that she tries to keep up 
 a little fiction, but he and I have done with each 
 other," said Winnie in her excitement, notwithstand- 
 ing that she had been up to this moment so reticent 
 and self-contained. 
 
 "Wlio sent him away?" asked Sir Edward, with a 
 pitiful, confidential look to Aunt Agatha, and a slight 
 shake of his head over the very bad business — a
 
 MADONNA MARY. 133 
 
 little pantomime which moved Wiunie to deeper wrath 
 and discontent. 
 
 "/ sent him away," said Mrs. Percival, with as 
 much dignity as this ebullition of passion would permit 
 her to assume. 
 
 "My dear Winnie," said Sir Edward, "I am very, 
 very sorry to hear this. Think a little of what is be- 
 fore you. You are a young woman still; you are both 
 young people. Do you mean to live here all the rest 
 of your life, and let him go where he pleases — U) 
 destruction, 1 suppose, if he likes? Is that what you 
 mean? And yet we all remember when you would 
 not hear a word even of advice — would not listen to 
 anybody about him. lie had not been quite sans re- 
 proche when you married him, my dear; and you took 
 him with a knoAvledge of it. If that had not been the 
 case, there might have been some excuse. But what 
 I want you to do is to look it in the face, and con- 
 sider a little. It is not only for to-day, or to-morrow 
 — it is for your life." 
 
 Winnie gave a momentary shudder, as if of cold, 
 and drew her shawl closer round her. "I had rather 
 not discuss our private affairs," she replied: "they are 
 between ourselves." 
 
 "But the fact is, they are not between yourselves," 
 said Sir Edward, who Avas inspired by the great con- 
 viction of doing his duty. "You have taken the public 
 into your confidence by coming here. 1 am a very 
 old friend, both of yours and his, and I might do 
 some good, if you let me try. I daresay he is not 
 very far from here; and if I might mediate between 
 you — " 
 
 A sudden gleam shot out of Winnie's eyes — per-
 
 134 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 liaps it was a sudden wild hope — perhaps it was 
 merely the flash of indignation; but still the proposal 
 moved her. "Mediate!" she said, with an air which 
 was intended for scorn; but her lips quivered as she 
 repeated the word. 
 
 "Yes," said Sir Edward, "I might, if you would 
 have confidence in me. No doubt there are wrongs 
 on both sides. He has been impatient, and you have 
 been exacting, and - — Where are you going?" 
 
 "It is no use continuing this conversation," said 
 Winnie. "I am going to my room. If I were to have 
 more confidence in you than I ever had in any one, 
 it would still be useless. I have not been exacting. 
 I have been — But it is no matter. I trust. Aunt 
 Agatha, that you will forgive me for going to my own 
 I'oom." 
 
 Sir Edward shook his head, and looked after her 
 as she withdrew. He looked as if he had said, "I 
 knew how it would be;" and yet he was concerned 
 and sorry. "I have seen such cases before," he said, 
 when Winnie had left the room, turning to Aunt 
 Agatha and Mary, and once more shaking his head: 
 "neither will give in an inch. They know that they 
 are in a miserable condition, but it is neither his fault 
 nor hers. That is how it always is. And only the 
 bystanders can see what faults there are on both 
 sides." 
 
 "But I don't think Winnie is so exacting," said 
 Aunt Agatha, with natural partisanship. "I think it 
 is woi'se than that. She has been telling me two or 
 lliree things ■ — ■" 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Sir Edward, with mild despair, 
 "they can tell you dozens of things. No doubt he
 
 MADONNA AfARY. 135 
 
 could, on his side. It is always like that; aud to think 
 that nothing would have any efifect on her! — she 
 would hear no sort of reason — though you know very 
 well you were warned that he was not immaculate be- 
 fore she married him: nothing would have any effect." 
 
 "Oh, Sir Edw^ard!" cried Aunt Agatha, with tears 
 in her eyes; "it is surely not the moment to remind lis 
 of that." 
 
 "For my part, I think it is just the moment," said 
 Sir Edward; and he shook his head, and made a me- 
 lancholy pause. Then, with an obvious effort to change 
 the subject, he looked round the room, as if that per- 
 sonage might, perhaps, be hidden in some corner, and 
 asked where was Hugh? 
 
 "He has gone to show Nelly Askell the way to 
 the Lady's Well," said Mary, who could not repress a 
 smile. 
 
 "Ah! he seems disposed to show Nelly Askell the 
 ■way to a great many things," said Sir Edward. " There 
 it is again, you see! Not that I have a word to say 
 against that little thing. She is very nice, and pretty 
 enough; though no more to be compai*ed to what 
 Winnie was at her age — But you'll see Hiigh will 
 have engaged himself and forestalled his life before we 
 know where we are." 
 
 "It would have been better had they been a little 
 older," said IMary; "but otherwise everything is very 
 suitable; and Nelly is very good, and very sweet — " 
 
 Again Sir Edward sighed. "You must know that 
 Hugh might have done a very great deal better," he 
 said. "I don't say that I have any particular ob- 
 jections , but only it is an instance of your insanity in 
 the way of marriage — all you Sctons. You go and
 
 136 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 plunge into it head foremost, witliont a moment's re- 
 flection; and then, of course, when leisure comes — I 
 don't mean you, Mary. What I was saying had no 
 reference to you. So far as I am aware, you were 
 always very happy, and gave your friends no trouhle. 
 Though in one way, of course, it ought to be con- 
 sidered that you did the worst of all." 
 
 "Captain Askell's family is very good," said Mary, 
 by way of turning off too close an inquiry into her 
 own affairs; "and he is just in the same position as 
 Hugh's father was; and I love Nelly like a child of 
 my own. I feel as if she ought to have been a child 
 of my own. She and Will used to lie in the same 
 cradle — " 
 
 "Ah, by the way," said Sir Edward, looking round 
 once more into the corners, "where is Will?" 
 
 And then it had to be explained where Will had 
 gone, which the old man thought very curious. "To 
 Carlisle? What did he want to go to Carlisle for? 
 If he had been out with his fishing rod, or out with 
 the keepers, looking after the young pheasants — But 
 what could he want going into Carlisle? Is Percival 
 there?" 
 
 "I hope not," said Mary, with sudden anxiety. 
 It was an idea which had not entered into her mind 
 before. 
 
 "Why should you hope not? If he really wants 
 to make peace with Winnie, I should think it very 
 natural," said Sir Edward; "and Will is a curious sort 
 of boy. He might be a very good sort of auxiliary 
 in any negotiation. Depend upon it that's why he is 
 gone."
 
 MADONNA MARY. 137 
 
 "I think not. I think he would have told nie," 
 said Mary, feeling her heart sink with a sudden dread. 
 
 "I don't see why he should have told you," said 
 Sir Edward, who was in one of his troublesome moods, 
 and disposed to put everybody at sixes and sevens. 
 "He is old enough to act a little for himself I hope 
 you are not one of the foolish women, Mary, that like 
 to keep their boys always at their apron-strings'?" 
 
 With this reproach Sir Edward took his leave, and 
 made his way placidly homeward, with the tranquillity 
 of a man who has done his duty. He felt that he had 
 discharged the great vocation of man, at least for the 
 past hour. Winnie had heard the truth, whether she 
 liked it or not, and so had the other members of the 
 family, over whom he shook his head kindly but sadly 
 as he went home. Their impetuosity, their aptitude to 
 rush into any scrape that presented itself — - and 
 especially their madness in respect to marriage, filled 
 him with pity. There was Charlie Seton, for example, 
 the father of these girls, who had married that man 
 Penrose's sister. Sir Edward's memory was so long, 
 that it did not seem to him a very great stretch to go 
 back to that. Not that the young woman was amiss 
 in herself, but the man who, with his eyes open, 
 burdened his unborn descendants with such an uncle, 
 was worse than lunatic — he was criminal. This was 
 what Sir Edward thought as he went quietly home, 
 with a rather comfortable dreary sense of satisfaction 
 in his heart in the thought that his own behaviour had 
 been marked by no such aberrations; and, in the 
 meantime, Winnie was fanning the embers of her own 
 wrath, and Mary had sickened somehow with a sense 
 of insecurity and unexplainable apprehension. On the
 
 138 MADONNA MARV. 
 
 other hand, the two young creatures were very happy 
 on the road to the Lady's Well, and Will addressed 
 himself to his strange business with resolution: and, 
 painful as its character was, was not pained to speak 
 of, but only excited. So ran the course of the world 
 upon that ordinary summer day. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Of the strangest kind were Wilfrid's sensations 
 when he found himself in the streets of Carlisle on his 
 extraordinary mission. It was the first time he had ever 
 taken any step absolutely by himself. To be sure, he 
 had been brought up in full j)ossession of the freedom 
 of an English boy, in whose honour everybody has 
 confidence — but never before had he been moved by 
 an individual impulse to independent action, nor had 
 he known what it was to have a secret in his mind, 
 and an enterprise which had to be conducted wholly 
 according to his own judgment, and in respect to which 
 he could ask for no advice. When he emerged out of 
 the railway station, and found himself actually in the 
 streets, a thrill of excitement, sudden and strange, came 
 over him. He had known very well all along what he 
 was coming to do, and yet he seemed only to become 
 aware of it at that moment, when he put his foot upon 
 the pavement, and was appealed to by cab-drivers, 
 eager to take him somewhere. Here there was no time 
 or opportunity for lingering; he had to go somewhere, 
 and that instantly, were it only to the shops to execute 
 bis mother's innocent commissions. It might be pos-
 
 SIADONNA AIARY. 139 
 
 slble to loiter and meditate on tlie calm country roads 
 about Kirtell, but the town and the streets have other 
 associations. He was there to do something, to go some- 
 where, and it had to be begun at once. He was not 
 imaginative, but yet he felt a kind of palpable tearing 
 asunder as ho took his first step onward. He had he- 
 sitated, and his old life seemed to hold out its arms to 
 him. It was not an unhajjpy life; he had his own way 
 in most things, he had his future before him unfettered, 
 and he knew that his wishes would be furthered, and 
 everything possible done to help and encourage him. 
 All this passed through his mind like a Hash of light- 
 ning. He would be helped and cared for and made 
 much of, but yet he would only be Will, the youngest, 
 of whom nobody took particular notice, and who sat 
 in the lowest room; whereas, by natural law and justice, 
 he was the heir. After he had made that momentary 
 comparison, he stepped on with a firm foot, and then 
 it was that he felt like the tearing asunder of some- 
 thing that had bound him. He had thrown the old 
 bonds, the old pleasant ties, to the wind; and now all 
 that he had to do was to push on by himself and gain 
 his rights. This sensation made his head swim as he 
 walked on. He had put out to sea, as it were, and 
 the new movement made him giddy — and yet it was 
 not pain; love was not life to him, but he had never 
 known what it was to live without it. There seemed 
 no reason why he should not do perfectly well for him- 
 self; Hugh would be affronted, of course — but it could 
 make no difference to Islay, for example, nor much to 
 his mother, for it would still be one of her sons. These 
 were the thoughts that went thi-ougli Wilfrid's mind as 
 he walked along; from wliich it will be a])])arent that
 
 140 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 the wickedness he was about to do was not nearly so 
 great in intention as it was in reality, and that his 
 youth, and inexperience, and want of imagination, his 
 incapacity to put himself into the position of another, 
 or realize anything hut his own wants and sentiments, 
 pushed him unawares, while he contemplated only an 
 act of selfishness, into a social crime. 
 
 But yet the sense of doing this thing entirely alone, 
 of doing it in secret, which was contrary to all his 
 habitudes of mind, filled him with a strange inquietude. 
 It hurt his conscience more to he making such a 
 wonderful move for himself, out of the knowledge of 
 his mother and everybody belonging to him, than to be 
 trying to disgrace his mother and overthrow her good 
 name and honour; of the latter, he was only dimly 
 conscious, but the former he saw clearly. A strange 
 paradox, apparently, but yet not without many parallels. 
 There are poor creatures who do not hesitate at drown- 
 ing themselves, and yet shrink from the chill of the 
 "black flowing river" in which it is to be accomplished. 
 As for Will, he did not hesitate to throw dark anguish 
 and misery into the peaceful household he had been 
 bred in — he did not shrink from an act which would 
 embitter the lives of all who loved him, and change 
 their position, and disgrace their name — but the 
 thought of taking his first great step in life out of 
 anybody's knowledge, made his head swim, and the 
 light fail in his eyes — and filled him with a giddy 
 mingling of excitement and shame. He did not realize 
 the greater issue, except as it affected him solely — but 
 he did the other in its fullest sense. Thus he went on 
 through the common-place streets, with his heart throb- 
 bing in his ears, and the blood rushing to his head-,
 
 MADONNA MARY. 141 
 
 and yet he was not remorseful, nor conscience-stricken, 
 nor sorry, but only strongly excited, and moved by a 
 certain nervous shyness and shame. 
 
 Notwithstanding this, a certain practical faculty in 
 Wilfrid led him, before seeking out his tempter and 
 first informant, to seek independent testimony. It 
 would be difficult to say what it was that turned his 
 thoughts towards Mrs. Kirkman; but it was to her he 
 went. The colonel's wife received him with a sweet 
 smile, but she was busy with much more important 
 concerns; and when she had placed him at a table 
 covered with ti-acts and magazines, she took no further 
 notice of Will. She was a woman, as has been before 
 mentioned, who laboured under a chronic dissatisftiction 
 with the clergy, whether as represented in the person 
 of a regimental chaplain, or of a Dean and Chapter; 
 and she was not content to suffer quietly, as so many 
 people do. Her discontent was active, and expressed 
 itself not only in lamentation and complaint, but in 
 very active measures. She could not reappoint to the 
 offices in the Cathedral, but she could do what was in 
 her power, by Scripture-readers, and societies for private 
 instruction, to make up the deficiency; and she was 
 very busy with one of her agents when Will entered, 
 who certainly had not come about any evangelical 
 business. As time passed, however, and it became ap- 
 parent to him that Mrs. Kirkman was much more oc- 
 cupied with her other visitor than with any curiosity 
 about his own boyish errand, whatever it might be, 
 Will began to lose patience. When he made a little 
 attempt to gain a hearing in his turn, he was silenced 
 by the same sweet smile, and a clasp of the hand. 
 "My dear boy, just a moment; what we are talking of
 
 142 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 is of the greatest importance," said Mrs. Kirkman. 
 "There are so few real means of grace in this benighted 
 town, and to think that souls are being lost daily, 
 hourly — and yet such a show of services and prayers 
 — it is terrible to think of it. In a few minutes, my 
 dear boy." 
 
 "What I want is of the greatest importance, too," 
 said Wilfrid, turning doggedly away from the table and 
 the magazines. 
 
 Mrs. Kirkman looked at him, and thought she saw 
 spiritual trouble in his eye. She was flattered that he 
 should have thought of her under such interesting cir- 
 cumstances. It was a tardy but sweet compensation 
 for all she had done, as she said to herself, for his 
 mother; and going on this mistaken idea she dismissed 
 the Scripture- reader, having first filled him with an 
 adequate sense of the insufficiency of the regular clergy. 
 It was, as so often happens, a faithful remnant, which 
 was contending alone for true religion against all the 
 powers of this world. They were sure of one thing at 
 least, and that was that everybody else was wrong. 
 This was the idea with which her humble agent left 
 Mrs. Kirkman; and the same feeling, sad but sweet, 
 was in her own mind as she drew a chair to the table 
 and sat down beside her dear young friend. 
 
 "And so you have come all the way from Kirtell 
 to see me^ my dear boy?" she said. "How happy I 
 shall be if I can be of some use to you. I am afraid 
 you won't find very much sympathy there." 
 
 "No," said Wilfrid, vaguely, not knowing in the 
 least what she meant. "I am sorry I did not bring 
 you some flowers, but I was in a hurry when I came 
 away."
 
 MADONNA jrARY. 143 
 
 "Don't think of anything of the kind," said the 
 colonel's wife, pressing his hand. "What are flowers 
 in comparison with the one great object of our existence? 
 Tell me about it, my dear Will; you know I have 
 known you from a child." 
 
 "You knew I was coming then," said Will, a little 
 surprised, "thougli I thought nobody knew? Yes, I 
 suppose you have known us all our lives. W^hat I 
 want is to fintl out about my mother's marriage. I 
 heard you knew all about it. Of course you must 
 have known all about it. That is what I want to under- 
 stand." 
 
 "Your mother's marriage!" cried Mrs. Kirkman; 
 and to do her justice she looked aghast. The question 
 horrified her, and at the same time it disappointed her. 
 "I am sure that was not what you came to talk to me 
 about," she said coaxingly, and with a certain charitable 
 wile. "My dear, dear boy, don't let shyness lead you 
 away from the greatest of all subjects. I know you 
 came to talk to me about your soul." 
 
 "I came to ask you about my mother's marriage," 
 said Will. His giddiness had passed by this time, and 
 he looked lier steadily in the face. It Avas impossible 
 to mistake him now, or think it a matter of unimport- 
 ance or mere curiosity. Mrs. Kirkman had her faults, 
 but she was a good woman at the bottom. She did 
 not object to make an allusion now and then Avhich 
 vexed Mary, and made her aware, as it were, of the 
 precipice by which she was always standing. It was 
 what Mrs. Kirkman thought a good moral discipline for 
 her friend, besides giving herself a j^leasant conscious- 
 ness of power and superiority, but when Mary's son 
 sat down in front of her, and looked with cold but
 
 144 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 eager eyes in her face, and demanded this frightful 
 information, her heart sank within her. It made her 
 forget for the moment all about the clergy and the de- 
 fective means of grace; and brought her down to the 
 common standing of a natural Christian woman, anxious 
 and terror-stricken for her friend. 
 
 "What have you to do with your mother's mar- 
 riage?" she said, trembling a little. "Do you know 
 what a very strange question you are asking? Who 
 has told you anything about that? me! yoii frighten 
 me so, I don't know what I am saying. Did Mary 
 send you? Have you just come from your mother? 
 If you want to know about her marriage, it is of her 
 that you should ask information. Of course she can 
 tell you all about it — she and your aunt Agatha. 
 What a very strange question to ask of me!" 
 
 Wilfrid looked steadily into Mrs. Kirkman's agitated 
 face, and saw it was all true he had heard. "If you 
 did not know anything about it," he said, with pitiless 
 logic, "you would say so. Why should you look so 
 put out if there was nothing to tell?" 
 
 "I am not put out," said Mrs. Kirkman, still more 
 disturbed. "Oh, Will, you are a dreadful boy. What 
 is it you want to know? What is it for? Did you 
 tell your mother you were coming here?" 
 
 "I don't see what it matters whether I told my 
 mother, or what it is for," said Will. "I came to you 
 because you were good, and would not tell a lie. I 
 can depend on what you say to me. I have heard all 
 about it already, but I am not so sure as I should be 
 if I had it from you." 
 
 This compliment touched the colonel's wife on a 
 susceptible point. She calmed a little out of her fright.
 
 MADONNA MAKV. 145 
 
 A boy with so just au appreciation of other people's 
 virtues could not be meditating anything unkind or 
 unnatural to his mother. Perhaps it would be better 
 for Mary that he should know the rights of it; perhaps 
 it was providential that he should have come to her, 
 who could give him all the details. 
 
 "I don't suppose you can mean any harm," she 
 said. "Oh, Will, our hearts are all despei'ately wicked. 
 The best of us is little able to resist temptation. You 
 are right in thinking 1 will tell you the truth if I tell you 
 anything; but oh, my dear boy, if it should be to lead 
 you to evil and not good " 
 
 "Never mind about the evil and the good," said 
 Will, impatiently. "What I want is to know what is 
 false and what is true." 
 
 Mrs. Kirkman hesitated still; but she began to per- 
 suade herself that he might have heard something 
 worse than the truth. She was in a great perplexity; 
 impelled to speak, and yet frightened to death at the 
 consequences. It was a new situation for her altogether, 
 and she did not know how to manage it. She clasped 
 her hands helplessly together, and the very movement 
 suggested an idea which she grasped at, partly because 
 she was really a sincere, good Avoman who believed in 
 the efficacy of prayer, and partly, poor soul, to gain a 
 little time, for she was at her Avits' end. 
 
 "I will," she said. "I will, my dear boy; I will 
 tell you everything; but oh, let us kneel down and 
 have a word of prayer first, that we may not make a 
 bad use of — of what we hear." 
 
 If she had ever been in eainiest in her life it was 
 at that moment; the tears were in her eyes, and all her 
 little afi'ectations of solemnity had disappeared. She 
 
 Madonna Marj. J I. 10
 
 146 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 could not have told anybody what it was she feared; 
 and yet the more she looked at the hoy beside her, 
 the more she felt their positions change, and feared 
 and stood in awe, feeling that she was for the mo- 
 ment his slave, and must do anything he might com- 
 mand. 
 
 "Mrs. Kirkman," said Will, "I don't understand 
 that sort of thing. I don't know what bad use 
 you can think I am going to make of it; — at all 
 events it wont be your fault. I shall not detain you 
 five minutes if you will only tell me what I want to 
 know." 
 
 And she did tell him accordingly, not knowing 
 how to resist, and warmed in the telling in spite of 
 herself, and could not but let him know that she 
 thought it was for Mary's good, and to bring her to a 
 sense of the vanity of all earthly things. She gave 
 him scrupulously all the details. The story flowed out 
 upon Will's hungry ears with scarcely a pause. She told 
 him all about the marriage, where it had happened, and 
 who had performed it, and who had been present. 
 Little Hugh had been present. She had no doubt he 
 would remember, if it was recalled to his memory. 
 Mrs. Kirkman recollected perfectly the look that Mary 
 had thrown at her husband when she saw the child 
 there. Poor Mary ! she had thought so much of reputa- 
 tion and a good name. She had been so much thought 
 of in the regiment. They all called her by that ridi- 
 culous name. Madonna Mary — and made so much of 
 her, before 
 
 "And did they not make much of her after?" said 
 Will, quickly. 
 
 "It is a different thing," said Mrs. Kirkman, softly
 
 MADONNA MARY. 147 
 
 shaking her long curls and returning to herself. "A 
 poor sinner returning to the right way ought to be more 
 warmly welcomed than even the best, if we can call 
 any human creature good; but " 
 
 "Is it my mother you call a poor sinner?" asked 
 Will. 
 
 Then there was a pause. Mrs. Kirkman shook her 
 head once more, and shook the long curls that hung 
 over her cheeks; but it was difficult to answer. "We 
 are all poor sinners," she said. "Oh, my dear boy, if 
 I could only persuade you how much more important 
 it is to think of your own soul. If your poor dear 
 mamma has done Avrong, it is God who is her judge. 
 I never judged her for my part, I never made any dif- 
 ference. I hope I know my own shortcomings too well 
 for that." 
 
 "I thought I heard you say something odd to her 
 once," said AVill. "I should just like to see any one 
 uncivil to my mother. But that's not the question. I 
 want that Mr. Churchill's address, please." 
 
 "I can truly say I never made any difference," said 
 Mrs. Kirkman; "some people might have blamed me 
 — but I always thought of the Mary that loved much 
 
 Oh, Will, what comforting words! I hope your 
 
 deal" mother has long, long ago repented of her error. 
 Perhaps your father deceived her, as she was so young; 
 perhaps it was all true the strange story he told about 
 the register being burnt, and all that. We all thought 
 it was best not to inquire into it. We know what we 
 saw; but remember, you have pledged your word not 
 to make any dispeace with Avhat I have told you. 
 You are not to make a disturbance in the family 
 about it. It is all over and past, and everbody has 
 
 10*
 
 148 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 agreed to forget it. You are not going to make any 
 dispeace " 
 
 "I never thought of making any dispeace," said 
 Will; but that was all he said. He was brief, as he 
 always was, and uncommunicative, and inclined, now 
 he had got all he wanted, to get up abruptly and go 
 away. 
 
 "And now, my dear young friend, you must do 
 something for me," said Mi's. Kirkman, "in repayment 
 for what I have done for you. You must read these, 
 and you must not only read them, but think over 
 them, and seek light where it is to be found. Oh, my 
 dear boy, how anxious we are to search into any little 
 mystery in connexion with ourselves, and how little 
 we think of the mysteries of eternity! You must pro- 
 mise to give a little attention to this great theme be- 
 fore this day has come to an end." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I'll read them," said Will, and he thrust 
 into his pocket a roll of tracts she gave him without 
 any further thought what they were. The truth was, 
 that he did not pay much attention to what she was 
 saying-, his head had begun to throb and feel giddy 
 again, and he had a rushing in his ears. He had it 
 all in his hands now, and the sense of his power over- 
 whelmed him. He had never had such an instrument 
 in his hands before, he had never known what it was 
 to be capable of moving anybody, excejjt to momentary 
 displeasure or anxiety; and he felt as a man might feel 
 in whose hand there had suddenly been placed the most 
 powerful of weapons, with unlimited license to use it 
 as he would — to break down castles with it or crowns, 
 or slay armies at a blow — and only his own absolute 
 pleasure to decide when or where it should fall. Some-
 
 MADONKA MARY. 149 
 
 thing of intoxicatiou and yet of alarm was in that first 
 sense of power. He was rapt into a kind of ecstasy, 
 and yet he was alarmed and afraid. He thrust the 
 tracts into his pocket, and he received, cavalierly 
 enough, Mrs. Kirkman's parting salutations. He had 
 got all he wanted from her, and Will's was not a 
 natvu-e to be very expansive in the way of gratitiide. 
 Perhaps even, any sort of dim moral sense he might 
 have on the subject, made him feel that in the news 
 he had just heard there was not much room for gi-ati- 
 tude. Anyhow he made very little pretence at those 
 hollow forms of courtesy which are current in the elder 
 world. He went away having got what he wanted, 
 and left the colonel's wife in a state of strange excite- 
 ment and growing compunction. Oddly enough, Will's 
 scanty courtesy roused more compunctions in her mind 
 than anything else had done. She had put Mary's fate, 
 as it were, into the hands of a boy who had so little 
 sense of what was right as to withdraw in the most 
 summary and abrupt way the moment his curiosity was 
 satisfied; who had not even grace enough, or self-con- 
 trol enough, to go through the ordinary decorums, or 
 pay common attention to what she said to him; and 
 now this inexperienced undisciplined lad had an in- 
 calculable power in his hands — power to crush and 
 ruin his own family, to dispossess his brother and 
 disgrace his mother: and nothing but his own forbearance 
 or good pleasure to limit him. What had she done? 
 
 Will walked about the streets for a full hour after, 
 dizzy with the same extraordinary, intoxicating, alarm- 
 ing sense of power. Before, it had all been vague, 
 now it Avas distinct and clear; and even beyond his 
 desire to "right" himself, came the inclination to set
 
 150 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 tills strange machine in motion, and try his new strength. 
 He was still so much a boy, that he was curious to see 
 the effect it would produce, eager to ascertain how it 
 would woi'k, and what it could do. He was like a 
 child in possession of an infernal machine, longing to 
 try it, and yet not unconscious of the probable mis- 
 chief. The sense of his power went to his head, and 
 intoxicated him like wine. Here it was all ready in 
 his hands, an instrument which could take away more 
 than life, and he was afraid of it, and of the strength 
 of the recoil: and yet was full of eagerness to see it go 
 off, and see what results it would actually bring forth. 
 He walked about the town, not knowing where he was 
 going, forgetting all about his mother's commissions, 
 and all about Percival, which was more extraordinary 
 — solely occupied with the sensation that the power 
 was in his hands. He went into the cathedral, and 
 walked all round it, and never knew he had been 
 there; and when at last he found himself at the rail- 
 way station again, he woke up again abruptly, as if he 
 liad been in a dream. Then making an effort he set 
 his wits to work about Percival, and asked himself 
 what he was to do. Percival was nothing to Will: he 
 was his Aunt Winnie's husband, and perhaps had not 
 used her well, and he could furnish no information 
 half so clear or distinct as that which Mrs. Kirkman 
 had given. Will did not see any reason in particular 
 why he should go out of his way to seek such a man 
 out. He had been no doubt his first informant, but in 
 his present position of power and superiority, he did 
 not feel that he had any need of Percival. And why 
 should he seek him out? When he had sufficiently 
 recovered his senses to go through this reasoning. Will
 
 MADONNA MARY. 151 
 
 went deliberately Lack to town again, and executed his 
 mother's commissions. He went to several shops, and 
 gave orders which she had charged him with, and even 
 took the trouble to choose the things she wanted, in 
 the most painstaking way, and was as concerned that 
 they should be right as if he had been the most dutiful 
 and tender of sons; and all the while he was thinking 
 to ruin her, and disgi-ace her, and put the last stigma 
 upon her name, and render her an outcast from the 
 peaceful world. Such was the strange contradiction 
 tliat existed within him; he went back without speaking 
 to any one, without seeing anybody, knitting his brows 
 and thinking all the way. The train that carried him 
 home, with his weapon in his hands, passed with a rush 
 and slu'iek the train which was conveying Nelly, with 
 a great basket of flowers in her lap, and a vague gleam 
 of infinite content in her eyes, back to her nursery and 
 her duties, with Hugh by her side, who was taking 
 care of her, and losing himself, if there had been any 
 harm in it. That sweet loss and gain was going on 
 imperceptibly in the carriage where the one brother sat 
 hapj)y as a young prince, when the other brother shot 
 past as it were on wings of flame liKe a destroying 
 angel. Neither thought of the other as they thus 
 crossed, the one being busy with the pre-occupation of 
 young love, the other lost in a passion, which was not 
 hate, nor even enmity, which was not inconsistent with 
 a kind of natural affection, and yet involved destruc- 
 tion and injury of the darkest and most overwhelming 
 kind. Contrasts so sharply and clearly pointed occur 
 but seldom in a world so full of modifications and com- 
 plicated interests; yet they do occur sometimes. And 
 this was how it was with Mary's boys.
 
 152 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 When Wilfrid reached home, he found his mother 
 by herself in the draAving-room. Winnie had a headache, 
 or some other of those aches which depend upon tem- 
 per and the state of the mind , and Aunt Agatha was 
 sitting by her, in the darkened room, with bottles of 
 eau de Cologne, and sal volatile, and smelling salts, 
 and all the paraphernalia of this kind of indisposition. 
 Aunt Agatha had been apt to take headaches herself 
 in her younger days when she happened to be crossed, 
 and she was not without an idea that it was a very 
 orthodox resource for a woman when she could not 
 have her own way. And thus they were shut up, ex- 
 changing confidences. It did poor Winnie good, and it 
 did not do Miss Seton any harm. And Mary was alone 
 downstairs. She was not looking so bright as when 
 Wilfrid went away. The idea which Sir Edward had 
 suggested to her, even if it had taken no hold of her 
 mind, had breathed on her a possible cloud; and she 
 looked up wistfully at her boy as he came in. Wilfrid, 
 too, bore upon his face, to some extent, the marks of 
 what he had been doing; but then his mother did not 
 know what he had been doing, and could not guess 
 what the dimness meant which was over his counte- 
 nance. It was not a bright face at any time, but was 
 often lost in mists, and its meaning veiled from his 
 mother's eyes; and she could not follow him, this time 
 any more than other times, into the uncertain depths. 
 All she could do was to look at him wistfully, and
 
 MADONNA MARY. 153 
 
 loug to see a little clearer, and wonder, as she had so 
 often wondered, how it was that his thoughts and ways 
 were so often out of her ken — how it was that chil- 
 dren could go so far away, and be so wholly sundered, 
 even while at the very side of those who had nursed 
 them on their knees, and trained them to think and 
 feel. A standing wonder, and yet the commonest thing 
 in nature. Mary felt it over again Avith double force 
 to-day, as he came and brought her her wool and bits 
 of ribbon , and she looked into his face and did not 
 know what its meaning was. 
 
 As for Will, it was a curious sensation for him, 
 too, on his part. It was such an opportunity as he 
 could scarcely have looked for, for opening to his 
 mother the great discovery he had made, and the great 
 changes that might follow. He could have had it all 
 out with her and jnit his power into operation, and 
 seen what its effects wei'e, without fear of being dis- 
 turbed. But he shrank from it, he could not tell vrhy. 
 He was not a boy of very fastidious feelings, but still 
 to sit there fticing lier and look into her face, and tell 
 her that he had been inquiring into her past life, and 
 had found out her secret, was more than Will was 
 capable of. To meditate doing it, and to think over 
 what he would say, and to aiTange the words in which 
 he would tell her that it was still one of her sons who 
 would have Earlston — was a very different thing 
 from fairly looking her in the face and doing it. He 
 stared at her for a moment in a way which startled 
 Mary; and then the impossibility became evident to 
 him, and he turned his eyes away from her and sat 
 down. 
 
 "You look a little strange, Will," said Mary. "Are
 
 154 MADONNA AIARY. 
 
 you tired, or has anything happened? You startled me 
 just now, you looked so pale." 
 
 "No, I am not tired," said Will, in his curt way. 
 "I don't know anything about being pale." 
 
 "Well, you never were very rosy," said Mrs. Och- 
 terlony. "I did not expect you so soon. I thought 
 you would have gone to the Askells', and come home 
 with Hugh." 
 
 "I never thought of that. I thought you wanted 
 your wool and things," said Will. 
 
 It was very slight, ordinary talk, and yet it was 
 quivering with meaning on both sides, though neither 
 knew what the other's meaning was. Will, for his 
 part, was answering his mother's questions with some- 
 thing like the suppressed mania of homicide within him, 
 not quite knowing whether at any moment the subdued 
 purpose might not break out, and kill, and reveal itself; 
 whereas his mother, totally unsuspecting how far things 
 had gone, was longing to discover whether Percival 
 had gained any power over him, and what that ad- 
 versary's tactics were. 
 
 "Have you seen anybody?" she said. "By the 
 way. Sir Edward was talking of Major Percival — he 
 seemed to tliink that he might still be in Carlisle. Did 
 you by any chance see anything of him there?" 
 
 She fixed her eyes full upon him as she spoke, but 
 Will did not in any way shrink from her eyes. 
 
 "No," he said, carelessly. "I did not see him. He 
 told me he was going to stay a day or two in Carlisle, 
 but I did not look out for him, particularly. He gets 
 to be a bore after the first." 
 
 When Mary heard this, her face cleared up like the 
 sky after a storm. It had been all folly, and once
 
 MADONNA MARV. 155 
 
 more she had made herself unhappy about notliing'. 
 How absurd it was! Percival was wicked, but still he 
 had no cause to fix any quarrel upon her, or poison the 
 mind of her son. It was on Winnie's account he came, 
 and on Winnie's account, no doubt, he was staying; 
 and in all likelihood Mrs. Ochterlony and her boys 
 were as utterly unimportant to him, as in ordinary cir- 
 cumstances he was to them. Mary made thus the mis- 
 take by which a tolerant and open mind, not too much 
 occupied about itself, sometimes goes astray. People 
 go wrong much more frequently from thinking too much 
 of themselves, and seeing their own shadow across every- 
 body's way; but yet there may be danger even in the 
 lack of egotism: and thus it was that Mary's face cleared 
 up, and her doubts dispersed, just at the moment when 
 she had most to dread. 
 
 Then there was a pause, and the homicidal impulse, 
 so to speak, took possession of Will. lie was playing 
 with the things he had bought, putting them into sym- 
 metrical and unsymmeti'ical shapes on the table, and 
 when he suddenly said "Mother," Mrs. Ochterlony 
 turned to him with a smile. He said "Mother," and 
 then he stopped short, and picked to pieces the con- 
 struction he was making, but at the same time he never 
 raised his eyes. 
 
 "AVell, Will?" said Mary. 
 
 And then there was a brief, but sharp, momentary 
 struggle in his mind. He meant to speak, and wanted 
 to speak , but could not. His throat seemed to close 
 with a jerk Avhen he tried; the words would not come 
 from his lips. It was not that he was ashamed of 
 what he was going to do, or that any sudden compunc- 
 tion for his mother seized him. It was a kind of spasm
 
 156 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 of impossibility, as mucli physical as mental. He could 
 no more do it, than he could lift the Cottage from its 
 solid foundations. He went on arranging the little 
 parcels on the table into shapes, square, oblong, and 
 triangular, his fingers busy, but his mind much more 
 busy, his eyes looking at nothing, and his lips unable 
 to articulate a single word. 
 
 "Well, Will, what were you going to say?" said 
 Mary, again. 
 
 "Nothing," said Will; and he got up and went 
 away with an abruptness which made his mother wonder 
 and smile. It was only Willy's way; but it was an 
 exaggerated specimen of Will's way. She thought to 
 herself when he was gone, with regret, that it was a 
 great pity he was so abrupt. It did not matter at home, 
 where everybody knew him; but among strangers, 
 where people did not know him, it might do him so 
 much injury. Poor Will ! but he knew nothing about 
 Percival, and cared nothing, and Mary was ashamed of 
 her momentary fear. 
 
 As for the boy himself, he went out, and took him- 
 self to task, and felt all over him a novel kind of 
 tremor, a sense of strange excitement, the feeling of one 
 who had escaped a great danger. But that was not all 
 the feeling which ought to have been in his mind. He 
 had neglected and lost a great opportunity, and though 
 it was not difficult to make opportunities, Will felt by 
 instinct that his mother's mere presence had defeated 
 him. He could not tell her of the discovery he had 
 made. He might write her a letter about it, or send 
 the news to her at second-hand; but to look in her fiice 
 and tell her, was impossible. To sit down there by 
 her side, and meet her eyes, and tell her that he had
 
 MADONNA MARY. 157 
 
 been making inquiries into her character, and that she 
 was not the woman she Avas supposed to be, nor was 
 the position of her children such as tlie world imagined, 
 was an enterprise which Wilfrid had once and for ever 
 proved impossible. He stood blank before this diffi- 
 culty which lay at the very beginning of his under- 
 taking; he had not only failed, but he saw that he must 
 for ever fail. It amazed him, but he felt it was final. 
 His mouth was closed, and he could not speak. 
 
 And then he thought he would wait until Hugh 
 came home. Hugh was not his mother, nor a woman. 
 He was no more than Will's equal at the best, and per- 
 haps even his inferior; and to him, surely, it could be 
 said. He waited for a long time, and kept lingering 
 about the roads, wondering what train his brother would 
 come by, and feeling somehow reluctant to go in again, 
 so long as his mother was alone. For in Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony's presence Will could not forget that he had a 
 secret — that he had done something out of her know- 
 ledge, and had something of the most momentous 
 character to tell her, and yet could not tell it to her. 
 It would be different with Hugh. He waited loitering 
 about upon the dusty summer roads, biting his nails to 
 the quick, and labouring hard through a sea of thought. 
 This telling was disagreeable, even when it was only 
 Hugh that had to be told — more disagreeable than 
 anything else about the business, far more disagreeable, 
 certainly, than he had anticipated it would be; and 
 Wilfrid did not quite make out how it was that a 
 simple fact should be so difficult to communicate. It 
 enlarged his views so far, and gave him a glimpse into 
 the complications of maturer life., but it did not in any 
 way divert him from his purpose, or change his ideas
 
 158 MADONNA MARY, 
 
 about his riglits. At length the train appeared by 
 which it was certain Hugh must come home. Wilfrid 
 sauntered along the road within sight of the little sta- 
 tion to meet his brother, and yet when he saw Hugh 
 actually approaching, his heart gave a jump in his 
 breast. The moment had come, and he must do it, 
 which was a very different thing from thinking it over, 
 and planning what he was to say. 
 
 "You here, Will!" said Hugh. "I looked for you 
 in Carlisle. Why didn't you go to Mrs. Askell's and 
 wait for me?" 
 
 "I had other things to do," said Will, briefly. 
 
 Hugh laughed. "Very important things, I have 
 no doubt," he said; "but still you might have waited for 
 me, all the same. How is Aunt Winnie? I saw that 
 fellow, — that husband of hers, — at the station. I 
 should like to know what he wants hanging about 
 here." 
 
 "He wants her, perhaps," said Will, though with 
 another jump of his heart. 
 
 "He had better not come and bother her," said 
 Hugh. "She may not be perfect herself, but I won't 
 stand it. She is my mother's sister, after all, and she 
 is a woman. I hope you wont encourage him to hang 
 about here." 
 
 "/.'" cried Will, with amazement and indignation. 
 ' "Yes," said Hugh, with elder-brotherly severity. 
 "Not that I think you would mean any harm by it, 
 Will; it is not a sort of thing you can be expected to 
 understand. A fellow like that should be kept at a 
 distance. When a man behaves badly to a woman 
 — to his wife — to such a beautiful creature as she 
 has been — "
 
 MADONNA MARY. 159 
 
 "I don't see auy thing very beautiful about her," 
 said Will. 
 
 "That doesn't matter," said Hugh, who was hot 
 and excited, having been taken into Winnie's con- 
 fidence. "She has been beautiful, and that's enough. 
 Indeed, she ouglit to be beautiful now, if that fellow 
 hadn't been a brute. And if he means to come back 
 here — " 
 
 "Perhaps it is not her he wants," said Will, whose 
 profound self-consciousness made him play quite a new 
 part in the dialogue. 
 
 "What could he want else?" said Hugh, with scorn. 
 "You may be sure it is no afiection for any of us that 
 brings him here." 
 
 Here was the opportunity, if Will could but have 
 taken it. Now was tlie moment to tell him that some- 
 thing other than Winnie might be in Percival's mind 
 — that it was his own fortune, and not hers, that hung 
 in the balance. But Will was dumb; his lips were 
 sealed; his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. It 
 was not his will that was in fault. It was a rebellion 
 of all his physical powers, a rising up of nature against 
 his purpose. He was silent in spite of himself; he said 
 not anotlier word as they walked on together. He 
 suftered Hugh to stray into talk about the Askells, 
 about the Museum, about anything or nothing. Once 
 or twice he interrupted the conversation abruptly with 
 some half-dozen words, which brought it to a sudden 
 stop, and gave him the opportunity of broaching his 
 own subject. But when he came to that point he was 
 struck dumb. Hugh, all innocent and unconscious, in 
 serene elderly-brotherly superiority, good humoured and 
 condescending, and carelessly affectionate, was as dif-
 
 160 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 ficult to deal with as Mary herself. Without with- 
 drawing from his undertaking, or giving up his "rights," 
 Wilfrid felt himself helpless; he could not say it out. 
 It seemed to him now that so far from giving in to it, 
 as he once imagined, without controversy, Hugh equally 
 without controversy would set it aside as something 
 monstrous, and that his new hope would be extinguished 
 and come to an end if his elder brother had the op- 
 portunity of thus putting it down at once. When they 
 reached home, Will withdrew to his own room, with a 
 sense of being baffled and defeated — defeated before 
 he had struck a blow. He did not come downstairs 
 again, as they remembered afterwards — he did not 
 want any tea. He hjid not a headache, as Aunt Agatha, 
 now relieved from attendance upon Winnie, immediately 
 suggested. All he wanted was to be left alone, for 
 he had something to do. This was the message that 
 came downstairs. "He is working a great deal too 
 much," said Aunt Agatha, "you will see he will hurt 
 his brain or something;" while Hugh, too, whispered to 
 his mother, "You shall see! /never did much, but 
 Will will go in for all sorts of honours," the generous 
 fellow whispered in his mother's ear; and Mary smiled, 
 in her heart thinking so too. If they had seen Will at 
 the moment sitting with his face supported by both his 
 hands, biting his nails and knitting his brows, and 
 pondering more intently than any man ever pondered 
 over classic puzzle or scientific problem, they might 
 have been startled out of those pleasant thoughts. 
 
 And yet the problem he was considering was one 
 that racked his brain, and made his head ache, had he 
 been sufficiently at leisure to feel it. The more im- 
 possible he felt it to explain himself and make his
 
 MADONNA MAIiY. 161 
 
 claim, the more obstinately tletcrmiaed was lie to make 
 it, and Lave what belonged to him. His discourage- 
 ment and sense of defeat did but intensify his resolu- 
 tion. He had fsiilcd to sjDcak, notwithstanding his op- 
 portunities; but he could write, or he could employ an- 
 other voice as his interpreter. With all his egotism 
 and determinatiou, Wilfrid was young, nothing but a 
 boy, and inexpei'ienced, and at a loss what to do. 
 Everything seemed easy to him until he tried to do it; 
 and when he tried, everything seemed impossible. He 
 had thought it the most ordinary affair in the world to 
 tell his discovery to his mother and brother, until the 
 moment came which in both cases proved the commu- 
 nication to be beyond his powers. And now he thought 
 he could write. After long pondering, he got up and 
 opened the little desk upon which he had for years 
 written his verses and exercises, troubled by nothing- 
 worse than a doubtful quantity, and made an endeavour 
 to carry out his last idea. Will's style was not a bad 
 style. It was brief and terse, and to the point, — a 
 remarkable kind of diction for a boy, — but he did 
 not find that it suited his present purpose. He put 
 himself to torture over his letters. He tried it first in 
 one way, and then in another; but however he put it, 
 he felt within himself that it would not do. He had 
 no sort of harsh or unnatural meaning in his mind. 
 They were still his mother and brother to whom he 
 wanted to write, and he had no inclination to wound 
 their feelings, or to be disrespectful or unkind. In 
 short, it only required this change, and his establish- 
 ment in what he supposed his just position, to make 
 him the kindest and best of sons and brothers. He 
 toiled over his letters as he had never toik^d over any- 
 Madonua Mary. II. 11
 
 162 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 thiug in his life. He could not tell how to express 
 himself, nor even what to say. He addressed his 
 mother first, and then Hugh, and then his mother 
 again; but the more he laboured the more impos- 
 sible he found his task. When Mrs. Ochterlony 
 came upstairs and opened his door to see what her boy 
 was about, Wilfrid stumbled up from his seat red and 
 heated, and shut up his desk, and faced her with an 
 air of confusion and trouble which she could not under- 
 stand. It was not too late even then to bring her in 
 and tell her all; and this possibility bewildered Will, 
 and filled him with agitation and excitement, to which 
 naturally his mother had no clue. 
 
 "What is the matter?" she said, anxiously; "are 
 you ill. Will? Have you a headache? I thought you 
 were in bed." 
 
 "No, I am all right," said Will, facing her with a 
 look, which in its confusion seemed sullen. "I am 
 busy. It is too soon to go to bed." 
 
 "Tell me what is wrong," said Mary, coming a 
 step further into the room. "Will, my dear boy, I am 
 sure you are not well. You have not been quarrelling 
 with any one — with Hugh ?" 
 
 "With Hugh!" said Will, with a little scorn; "why 
 should I quarrel with Hugh?" 
 
 "Why, indeed!" said Mrs. Ochterlony, smiling 
 faintly; "but you do not look like yourself. Tell me 
 what you have been doing, at least." 
 
 Will's heart thumped against his breast. He might 
 put her into the chair by which she was standing, and 
 tell her everything, and have it over. This possibility 
 still remained to him. He stood for a second and looked
 
 MADONNA :\rARY. 1C3 
 
 at lier, and grew breatliless with excitement, but then 
 somehow his voice seemed to die away in his throat. 
 
 "If I were to tell you what 1 was doing, you would 
 not understand it," he said, repeating mechanically 
 words which he had used in good faith, with innocent 
 schoolboy arrogance, many a time before. As for 
 Mary, she looked at him wistfully, seeing something in 
 his eyes which she could not interpret. They had never 
 been candid, frank eyes like Hugh's. Often enough 
 before, they had been impatient of her scrutiny, and 
 had veiled their meaning with an apparent blank; but 
 yet there had never been any actual harm hid by the 
 artifice. Mary sighed; but she did not insist, knowing 
 how useless it was. If it was anything, perhaps it was 
 some boyish jealousy about Nelly, — an imaginary 
 feeling which would pass away, and leave no trace be- 
 hind. But, whatever it was, it was vain to think of 
 finding it out by questions; and she gave him her 
 good-night kiss and left him , comforting herself with 
 the thought that most likely it was only one of Will's 
 uncomfortable moments, and would be over by to- 
 morrow. But when his mother went away, Will for 
 his part sank down, with the strangest tremor, in his 
 chair. Never before in his life had this sick and 
 breathless excitement, this impulse of the mind and re- 
 sistance of the flesh, been known to him, and he could 
 not bear it. It seemed to him he never could stand in 
 her presence, never feel his mother's eyes upon him, 
 without feeling that now was the moment that he must 
 and ought to tell her, and yet could not tell her, no 
 more than if he were speechless. He had never felt 
 very deeply all his life before, and the sense of this 
 struggle took all his strength from him. It made his 
 
 11*
 
 164 MADONNA MAliY. 
 
 lieart beat, so that the room and the house and the 
 very solid earth on which he stood seemed to throb 
 and tingle round him; it was like standing for ever on 
 the edge of a precipice over which the slightest move- 
 ment would throw him, and the very air seemed to rush 
 against his ears as it would do if he were falling. He 
 sank down into his chair, and his heart beat, and the 
 pulses thi-obbed in his temples. What was he to do? — 
 he could not speak, he could not write, and yet it must 
 be told, and his rights gained, and the one change 
 made which should convert him into the tenderest son, 
 the most helpful brother, that ever man or woman had. 
 At last, in his despair and pertinacity, there came into 
 his mind that grand expedient which occurs naturally 
 to everything that is young and unreasonable under the 
 pressure of unusual trials. He would go away; — he 
 couH not go on seeing them continually, with this com- 
 munication always ready to break from the lips which 
 Avould not utter it, — nor could he write to them 
 while he was still with them, and when any letter must 
 be followed by an immediate explanation. But he 
 could fly; and when he was at a safe distance, then he 
 could tell them. No doubt it was cowardice to a cer- 
 tain extent; but there were other things as well. Partly 
 it was impatience, and partly the absoluteness and im- 
 perious temper of youth, and that intolerance of every- 
 thing painful which comes natural to it. He sat in his 
 chair, noiseless and thinking , in the stillness of night, 
 a poor young soul, tempted and yielding to temptation 
 sinful, yet, scarcely conscious how sinful he was, and 
 yet at the same time forlorn with that profound forlorn- 
 ness of egotism and ill-doing which is almost pathethic 
 in the young. He could consult nobody, take no one
 
 MADONNA MARV. lOT) 
 
 into his confidcnco. The only counsellors he had known 
 in all his small experience were precisely those upon 
 whom he was about to txu-n. He was alone, and had 
 everything to plan, everything to do for himself. 
 
 And yet was there nobody whom he could take 
 into his confidence? Suddenly, in the stillness of the 
 night a certain prosperous, comfortable figure came into 
 the boy's mind — one who thought it was well to get 
 money and wealth and power, anyhow except dis- 
 honestly, which of course was an impracticable and im- 
 politic way. When that idea came to him like an in- 
 spiration. Will gave a little start, and looked up, and 
 saw the blue dawn making all the bars of his window 
 visible against the white blind that covered it. Night 
 was gone with its dark counsels, and the day had 
 come. What he did after that was to take out his 
 boy's purse, and coiint over carefully all the money it 
 contained. It was not much, but yet it was enough. 
 Then he took his first great final step in life, with a 
 heart that beat in his ears, but not loud enough to be- 
 tray him. He went downstairs softly as the dawn 
 brightened, and all the dim staircase and closed doors 
 grew visible, revealed by the silent growth of the early 
 light. Nobody heard him, jiobody dreamed that any 
 secret step could ever glide down those stairs or out of 
 the innocent honest house. He was the youngest in it, 
 and should have been the most innocent; and he thought 
 he meant no evil. Was it not his right he was going 
 to claim? He went softly out, going through the 
 drawing-room Avindow, which it was safer to leave open 
 than the door, and across the lawn, which made no 
 sound beneath his foot. The air of the summer morn- 
 ing Avas like balm, and sootlmd liini , and the blueness
 
 166 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 briglitened and grew rosy as he went his way among 
 the early dews. The only spot on which, like Gideon's 
 fleece, no dew had fallen, was poor Will's beating 
 heart, as he went away in silence and secrecy from his 
 mother's door. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The breakfast-table in the Cottage was as cheerful 
 as usual next morning, and showed no premonitory 
 shadow. Winnie did not come downstairs early; and 
 perhaps it was all the more cheerful for her absence. 
 And there were flowers on the table, and everything 
 looked bright. Will was absent, it is true, but nobody 
 took much notice of that as yet. He might be late, 
 or he might have gone out; and he was not a boy to 
 be long negligent of the necessities of nature. Aunt 
 Agatha even thought it necessary to order something 
 additional to.be kept hot for him. "He has gone out, 
 I suppose," Miss Seton said; "and it is rather cold this 
 morning, and a long walk in this air will make the 
 boy as hungry as a hunter. Tell Peggy not to cook 
 that trout till she hears him come in." 
 
 The maid looked perturbed and breathless; but she 
 said, "Yes, ma'am," humbly — as if it was she who 
 was in the wrong; and the conversation and the meal 
 were resumed. A minute or two after, however, she 
 appeared once more: "If you please, there's somebody 
 asking for Mr. Hugh," said the frightened girl, stand- 
 ing, nervous and panting, with her hand upon the 
 door. 
 
 "Somebody for me?" said Hugh. "The game-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 167 
 
 keepei", I suppose; he need not Lave been in such a 
 hurry. Let him come in, and wait a little. I'll be 
 ready presently." 
 
 " But, my dear boy," said Aunt Agatha, "you must 
 not waste the man's time. It is Sir Edward's time, yoi; 
 know 5 and he may have quantities of things to do. Go 
 and see what he wants: and your mother will not fill 
 out your cofifee till you come back." 
 
 And Hugh went out, half laughing, half grumbling 
 — but he laughed no more, when he saw Peggy stand- 
 ing severe and pale at the kitchen door, waiting for 
 him. "Mr. Hugh," said Peggy, with the aspect of a 
 chief justice, "tell me this moment, on youi* conscience, 
 is there any quarrel or disagreement between your 
 brother and you?" 
 
 "My brother and me? Do you mean Will?" said 
 Hugh, in amazement. "Not the slightest. What do 
 you mean? We were never better friends in our 
 life." 
 
 "God be thanked!" said Peggy; and then she took 
 him by the arm, and led the astonished young man up- 
 stairs to Will's room. "He's never sleepit in that bed 
 this night. His little bag's gone, with a change in't. 
 He's putten on another pair of boots. Where is the 
 laddie gone? And me that'll have to face his mother, 
 and tell her she's lost her bairn!" 
 
 "Lost her bairn! Nonsense," cried Hugh, aghast; 
 " he's only gone out for a walk." 
 
 "When a boy like that goes out for a Avalk, he 
 does not take a change with him," said Peggy. "He 
 may be lying in Kirtell deeps for anything we can 
 tell. And me that will have to break it to his 
 mother . "
 
 168 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Hugh stood still in consternation for a moment, and 
 then he burst into an agitated laugh. "He would not 
 have taken a change with him, as you say, into Kirtell 
 tleeps," he said. "Nonsense, Peggy! Are you .sure he 
 has not been in bed? Don't you go and frighten 
 my mother. And, indeed, I daresay he does not 
 always go to bed. I see his light burning all the night 
 through, sometimes. Peggy, don't go and put such 
 ridiculous ideas into people's heads. Will has gone 
 out to walk, as usual. There he is, downstairs. I 
 hear him coming in: make haste, and cook his trout." 
 
 Hugh, however, was so frightened himself by all 
 the terrors of inexperience, that he precipitated himself 
 downstairs, to see if it was really Will who had en- 
 tered. It was not Will, however, but a boy from the 
 railway, with a note, in Will's handwriting, addressed 
 to his mother, which took all the colour out of Hugh's 
 cheeks — for he was still a boy, and new to life, and 
 did not think of any such easy demonstration of dis- 
 content as that of going to visit Uncle Penrose. He 
 went into the breakfast-room with so pale a face, that 
 both the ladies got up in dismay, and made a rush at 
 him to know what it was. 
 
 "It is nothing," said Hugh, breathless, waving them 
 off, "nothing — only a note — I have not read it yet 
 — - wait a little. Mother, don't be afraid." 
 
 "What is there to be afraid of?" asked Mary, in 
 amazement and dismay. 
 
 And then Hugh again burst into an unsteady and 
 tremulous laugh. He had read the note, and threw it 
 at his mother with an immense load lifted off his heart 
 and feeling wildly gay in the revulsion. "There's no- 
 thing to be frightened about," said Hugh. "By Jove!
 
 MADONNA MARY. IGO 
 
 to think the feUow has no more taste — gone off to 
 see Uncle Penrose. I wish them joy!" 
 
 "Who is it tliat has gone to visit Mr. Penrose?" 
 said Annt Agatha; and Hugh bui'st into an explana- 
 tion, while IMary, not by any means so much relieved, 
 read her boy's letter. 
 
 "I confess I got a fright," said Hugh. "Peggy 
 dragged me upstairs to show me that he had not slept 
 in his bed, and said his carpet-bag was gone, and in- 
 sinuated — I don't know what — that we had quar- 
 relled, and all sorts of horrors. But he's gone to see 
 Uncle Penrose. It's all right, motlier- I always thought 
 it was all right." 
 
 "And had you quarrelled?" asked Aunt Agatha, in 
 consternation. 
 
 "I am not sure it is all right," said Mary; 
 "why has he gone to see Uncle Penrose? and 
 what has he heard? and Avithout saying a word to 
 me." 
 
 Mary was angry with her boy, and it made her 
 heart sore — it was the first time any of them had 
 taken a sudden step o\it of her knowledge — and then 
 what had he heard? Something worse than any 
 simple offence or discontent might be lurking behind. 
 
 But Hugh, of course, knew nothing at all about 
 that. He sat down again to liis interrupted breakfast, 
 and laughed and talked, and made merry. "I wonder 
 what Uncle Penrose will say to him?" said Hugh. "I 
 suppose he has gone and spent all his money getting 
 to Liverpool; and what could his motive be, odd fellow 
 as he is? The girls arc all married " 
 
 "My dear boy. Will is not thinking of girls as you 
 are," said Mary, l^eguiled into a smile.
 
 170 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 Hugh laughed and grew red, and shook his abun- 
 dant youthful locks. "We are not talking of what I 
 think," he said-, "and I suppose a man may do worse 
 than think about girls — a little: but the question is, 
 what was Will thinking about? Uncle Penrose cannot 
 have ensnared him with his odious talk about money? 
 By-the-way, I must send him some. We can't let an 
 Ochterlony be worried about a few miserable shillings 
 there." 
 
 "I don't think we can let an Ochterlony, at least 
 so young ^ one as Will, stay uninvited," said Mary. 
 "I feel much disposed to go after him and bring him 
 home, or at least find out what he means." 
 
 "No, you shall do nothing of the kind," said Hugh, 
 hastily. "I suppose our mother can trust her sons out 
 of her sight. Nobody must go after him. Why, he is 
 seventeen — almost grown up. He must not feel any 
 want of confidence " 
 
 "Want of confidence!" said Aunt Agatha. "Hugh, 
 you are only a boy yourself. What do you know 
 about it? I think Mary would be very wrong if she 
 let Will throw himself into temptation; and one knows 
 there is every kind of temptation in those large, wicked 
 towns," said Miss Seton, shuddering. It was she who 
 knew nothing about it, no more than a baby, and still 
 less did she know or guess the kind of temptation that 
 was acting upon the truant's mind. 
 
 "If that were all," said Mary, slowly, and then she 
 sighed. She was not afraid of the temptations of a 
 great town. She did not even know what she feared. 
 She wanted to bring back her boy, to hear from his 
 own lips what his motive was. It did not seem pos- 
 sible that there could be any harm meant by his boy-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 171 
 
 isli secrecy. It was even hard for his mother to per- 
 suade herself that Will could think of any harm; but 
 still it was sti-ange. Wlien she thought of Percival's 
 visit and Will's expedition to Carlisle, her heart flut- 
 tered within her, though she scarcely knew why. Will 
 was not like other boys of his age; and then it was 
 "something he had heard." "I think," she said, with 
 hesitation, "that one of us should go — either you or 
 I " 
 
 "No," said Hugh. "No, mother, no; don't think 
 of it; as if he were a girl or a Frenchman! Why it's 
 Will! What harm can he do? If he likes to visit 
 Uncle Penrose, let him; it will not be such a wonderful 
 delight. I'll send him some money to-day." 
 
 This, of course, was how it was settled; for Mary's 
 terrors were not strong enough to contend with her 
 natural English prejudices against surveillavice and re- 
 straint, backed by Hugh's energetic remonstrances. 
 When Winnie heard of it, she dashed immediately at 
 the idea that her liusband's influence had something to 
 do with Will's strange flight, and was rather pleased 
 and flattered by the thought. "I said he would strike 
 me through my friends," she said to Aunt Agatha, who 
 was bewildered, and did not know what this could mean. 
 
 "My dear love, what good could it do him to inter- 
 fere with Will?" said Miss Seton. "A mere boy, and 
 who has not a penny. If he had wanted to injure us, 
 it would have been Hugh that he would have tried to 
 lead away." 
 
 "To lead away?" said Winnie scornfully. "What 
 does he care for leading away? He wants to do harm, 
 real harm. He thinks he can strike me through my 
 friends."
 
 172 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 When Aunt Agfitlia heard this she tiu'ned round to 
 Mary, who had just come into the room, and gave a 
 little deprecating shake of her head, and a pathetic 
 look. Poor Winnie! She could think of nothing but 
 her husband and his intentions; and how could he do 
 this quiet household real harm? Mary said nothing, 
 but her uneasiness increased more and more. She could 
 not sit down to her work, or take up any of her 
 ordinary occupations. She went to Will's room and 
 examined it througliout, and looked through his ward- 
 robe to see what he had taken with him, and searched 
 vainly for any evidence of his meaning; and then she 
 wrote him a long letter of questions and appeals, which 
 would have been full of pathetic eloquence to anybody 
 who knew what was in her mind, but would have appeared 
 simply amazing and unintelligible to anybody ignorant 
 of her history, as she herself perceived, and burnt it, 
 and wrote a second, in which there was still a certain 
 mystery. She reminded him that he might have gone 
 away comfortably with everybody's knowledge, instead 
 of making the household uneasy about him; and she 
 coiild not but let a little wonder creep through, that of 
 all people in the Avorld it was Uncle Penrose whom he 
 had elected to visit; and then she made an appeal to 
 him: "Wliat have I done to forfeit my boy's confidence? 
 what can you have heard, oh Will, my dear boy, that 
 you could not tell to your mother?" Her mind was 
 relieved by writing, but still she was uneasy and dis- 
 quieted. If he had been severely kept in, or had any 
 reason to fear a refusal; — but to steal away when he 
 might have full leave and every facility; this was one 
 of the things which appeared tlie most strange. 
 
 The servants, for their part, set it down to a qnarrel
 
 MADONNA MAKY. l7o 
 
 with |liis brother, and jcahjusy about Nelly, aud took 
 Hugh's part, who was alwjiys the favourite. Aud as 
 for Hugh himself, he sent his brother a che({ue (his 
 privilege of drawing che([ues being still new, and very 
 agreeable), aud asked why he was such an ass as to 
 run away, and bade him enjoy himself. The house 
 was startled — but after all, it was no such great 
 matter ; and nobody except Mary wasted much con- 
 sideration upon Will's escapade after that first morning. 
 lie was but a boy; and it was natural, everybody 
 thought, that boys should do something foolish now 
 and then. ^ 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 In a curious state of mind. Will was Hying along 
 towards Li\'er])ool , while this commotion arose in the 
 Cottage. Not even now had the matter taken any 
 moral aspect to him. He did not feel that he had gone 
 skulking off to deliver a cowardly blow. All that he 
 was conscious of was the fact, that having something 
 to tell which he could somehow persuade himself to 
 tell, he was going to make the communication from a 
 distance under Uncle I'enrose's advice. Aud yet the 
 boy was not comfortable. It had become apparent to 
 him vaguely, that after this communication was made, 
 the relations existing between himself aud his family 
 must be changed. That his mother might be "angry," 
 which was his boyish term for any or every displeasure 
 that miglit cloud Mrs. Ochtcrlony's mind; that Hugh 
 might take it badly — and that after all it was a
 
 174 MADONNA MARV. 
 
 troublesome business, and he would be pleased to get 
 it over. He was travelling in tlie cheapest way, for his 
 money was scanty, but he was not the kind of boy to 
 be beguiled from his own thoughts by the curious third- 
 class society into which he was thus brought, or even 
 by the country, which gradually widened and expanded 
 under his eyes from the few beaten paths he knew so 
 well, into that wide unknown stretch of hill and plain 
 which was the world. A vague excitement, it is true, 
 came into his mind as he felt himself to have passed 
 out of the reach of everything he knew, and to have 
 •entered upon the undiscovered ; but this, excitement did 
 not draw him out of his own thoughts. It did but 
 mingle with them, and put a quickening thrill of life 
 into the strange maze. The confused country people 
 at the stations, who did not know which carriage to 
 take, and wandered, hurried and disconsolate, on the 
 platforms, looking into all — the long swift moment 
 of passage over the silent country, in which the train, 
 enveloped in its own noise, made for itself a distinct 
 atmosphere — and then again a shriek, a pause, and 
 another procession of faces looking in at the window — 
 this was Will's idea of the long journey. He was not 
 imaginative; but still everybody appeared to him hur- 
 ried, and downcast, and pre-occupied. Even the harm- 
 less country folks had the air of having something on 
 their minds. And through all he kept on pondering 
 what his mother and what Hugh would say. Poor 
 boy! his discovery had given him no advantage as yet; 
 but it had put a cross upon his shoulders — it had 
 bound him so hard and fast that he could not escape 
 from it. It had brought, if not guilt, yet the punish- 
 snent of guilt into all his thoughts.
 
 MADOXXA MARY. 175 
 
 Mr. Penrose had a liandsome bouse at some distance 
 from Liverpool, as was natural. And Will found it a 
 very tedious and troublesome business to get there, not 
 to speak of the calls for sixpences from omnibuses and 
 porters, and everybody (he thought) who looked at 
 him, which were very severe on his slender purse. And 
 when he arrived, his uncle's servants looked upon him 
 with manifest suspicion; he had never been there before, 
 and Mr. Penrose was now living alone, his wife being dead, 
 and all his children married, so that there was nobody 
 in the house who could identify the unknown nephew. 
 The Cottage was not much bigger than Mr. Penrose's 
 porter's lodge, and yet that small tenement had looked 
 down upon the great mansion all its life, and been 
 partly ashamed of it, which sentiment gave Will an un- 
 conscious sense that he was doing Uncle Penrose an 
 honour in going to visit him. But when he was met at 
 the door by the semipolite suspicion of the butler, who 
 proposed that he should call again, with an evident re- 
 ference in his mind to the spoons, it gave the boy the 
 forloruest feeling that can be conceived. He was alone, 
 and they thought him an impostor, and nobody here 
 knew or cared whether he was shut out from the house or 
 not. His heart went back to his home with that revul- 
 sion which everybody knows. There, everybody would 
 have rushed to open the door to him, and welcome him 
 back; and though his errand here was simply to do 
 that home as much injury as possible, his heart swelled 
 at the contrast. While he stood, however, insisting 
 upon admittance in his dogged way, without showing 
 any feelings, it happened that Mr. Penrose drove up to 
 the door, and hailed his nephew with much surprise. 
 "You here, Will?" i\[r. Penrose said. "I hope nothing
 
 176 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 has gone wrong at the Cottage?" and his man's hand 
 instantly, and as by magic, relaxed from the door. 
 
 "There is nothing Avrong, sir,'' said Will, "but I 
 wanted to speak to you;" and he entered triumphantly, 
 not without a sense of victory, as the subdued servant 
 took his bag out of his hand. Mr. Penrose was, as we 
 have said, alone. He had shed, as it were, all in- 
 cumbrances, and was ready, ixnfettered by any ties or 
 prejudices, to grow richer and Aviscr and more en- 
 lightened every day. His children were all married, 
 and his Avife having fulfilled all natural offices of this 
 life, and married all her daughters, had quietly taken 
 her dismissal when her duties were over, and had a 
 very handsome tombstone, which he looked at on Sun- 
 day. It occun-ed to very few people, however, to 
 lament over Mr. Penrose's loneliness. He seemed to 
 have been freed from all impediments, and left at 
 liberty to grow rich, to get fat, and to believe in his 
 own greatness and wisdom. Nor did it occur to him- 
 self to feel his great house lonely, lie liked eating a 
 luxurious dinner by himself, and knoAving how much 
 it had cost, all for his single lordly appetite — the 
 total would have been less grand if Avife and children 
 had shared it. And then he had other things to think 
 of — substantial things, about interest and investments, 
 and not mere visionary reflections about the absence of 
 other chairs or other faces at his table. But he had a 
 natural interest in Wilfrid, as in a youth Avho had 
 evidently come to ask his advice, which was an article 
 he was not disinclined to give away. And then "the 
 Setons," as he called his sister's family and descendants, 
 had generally shut their ears to his advice, and shown 
 an active absence of all political qualities, so that Will's
 
 MADONNA MARY. 177 
 
 visit was a compliment of the highest character, some- 
 thing like an unexpected act of homage from Mordecai 
 in the gate. 
 
 But even Sir. Penrose was struck dumb by Will's 
 communication. He put up his hand to his cravat and 
 gasped, and thumped himself on the breast, staring at 
 the boy with round, scared, apoplectic eyes — like the 
 eyes of a boiled fish. He stared at Will, — who told 
 the story calmly enough, with a matter-of-fact concise- 
 ness — and looked as if he M'as disposed to ring the 
 bell and send for a doctor, and get out of the difficulty 
 by concluding his nephew to be mad. But there was 
 no withstanding the evidence of plain good faith and 
 sincerity in Will's narration. Mr. Penrose remained silent 
 longer than anybody had ever known him to remain 
 silent before , and he was not even very coherent when 
 he had regained the faculty of speech. 
 
 "That woman was present, was she?" he said, "and 
 Winnie's husband — good Lord! And so you mean to 
 tell me Mary has been all this time — When I asked 
 her to my house, and my wife intended to make a 
 party for her, and all that — and when she preferred 
 to visit at Eai'lston, and that old fool, Sir Edward, who 
 never had a penny — except what he settled on Winnie 
 — and all that time, you know, Mary was — good 
 Lord!" 
 
 "I don't see what difference it makes to my mother," 
 said Will. "She is just what she always was — the 
 difference it makes is to me — and of course to Hugh." 
 
 But this was not a view that Mr. Penrose could 
 take, who knew more about the world than Will could 
 be supi)osed to know — though his thoughts were 
 usually so preoccupied by what he called the practical 
 
 Madotmu Mary, 11. 12
 
 178 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 aspect of everything. Yet lie was disturbed in this 
 case by reflections wliicli were almost imaginative, and 
 which utterly amazed Will. He got up, though he was 
 still in the middle of dessert, and walking about the 
 room, making exclamations. "That's what she has 
 been, you know, all this time — - Mary, of all people 
 in the world! Good Lord! That's what she was, when 
 we asked her here." These were the exclamations that 
 kept bursting from Uncle Penrose's amazed lips — and 
 Will at last grew angry and impatient, and hurried 
 into the practical matter on his own initiative. 
 
 "When you have made up your mind about it. 
 Uncle, I should be glad to know what you think best 
 to be done," said Will, in his steady way, and he 
 looked at his adviser with those sceptical, clear-sighted 
 eyes, which, more than anything else, make a practical 
 man ashamed of having indulged in any momentary 
 aberration. 
 
 Mr. Penrose came back to his chair and sat down, 
 and looked with respect, and something that was almost 
 awe, in Will's face. Then the boy continued, seeing 
 his advantage: "You must see what an important thing 
 it is between Hugh and me," he said. "It is a matter 
 of business, of course, and it would be far better to 
 settle it at once. If I am the right heir, you know, 
 Earlston ought to be mine. I have heard you say, 
 feelings had nothing to do with the right and wrong." 
 
 "No," said Mr. Penrose, with a slight gasp; "that 
 is quite true; but it is all so sudden, you know — and 
 Mary — I don't know what you want me to do " 
 
 "I want you to write and tell them about it," said 
 Will. 
 
 Mr. Penrose put his lips into the shape they would
 
 MADONNA MARY. 179 
 
 naturally have taken had he been whistling as usual; 
 but he was not capable of a whistle. "It is all very 
 easy to talk," he said, "and naturally business is business, 
 and I am not a man to think too much about feelings. 
 Biit Mary — the fact is, it must be a matter of ar- 
 rangement, "Will. There can't be any trial, you know, 
 or publicity to expose her " 
 
 "I don't see that it would matter much to her," 
 said Will. "She would not mind; it would only be 
 one of her sons instead of the other, and I suppose 
 she likes me the same as Hugh. ' 
 
 "I was not thinking of Hugh, or you either. I was 
 thinking of your mother," said Mr. Penrose, thnxstiug 
 his hands into the depths of his pockets, and staring 
 with vacant eyes into the air before him. He was 
 matter-of-fact himself, but he could not comprehend 
 the obtuseuess of ignorance and self-occupation and 
 youth. 
 
 "Well?" said Will. 
 
 "Well," cried the uncle, turning upon him, "are 
 you blind, or stupid, or what? Don't you see it never 
 can come to publicity, or she will be disgraced? I don't 
 say you are to give up your rights, if they are your 
 rights, for that. I dare-say you'll take a deal better 
 care of everything than that fellow Hugh, and wont 
 be so confounded saucy. But if you go and make a 
 row about it in public, she can never hold up her 
 head again, you know. I don't mind talk myself in a 
 general way; but talk about a woman's marriage — 
 good Lord! There must be no public row, whatever 
 you do." 
 
 "1 don't see why there should be any public row," 
 
 1"2*
 
 180 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 said Will; "all that has to be done is to let them 
 know." 
 
 "I suppose you think Hugh will take it quite com- 
 fortable," said Mr. Peiuose, "and lay down everything 
 like a lamb. He's not a business man, nor good for 
 much; but he will never be such an idiot as that; and 
 then you would need to have your witnesses very 
 distinct, if it was to come to anything. He has pos- 
 session in his favoiir, and that is a good deal, and it 
 is you who would have to prove everything. Are you 
 quite sure that your witnesses would be forthcoming, 
 and that you could make the case clear?" 
 
 "I don't know about making the case clear," said 
 AVill, who began to get confused; "all I know is what 
 I have told you. Percival was there, and Mrs. Kirk- 
 man — they saw it, you know — and she says Hugh 
 himself was there. Of course he was only a child. But 
 she said no doubt he would remember, if it was brought 
 to his mind." 
 
 "Hugh himself!" said Mr. Penrose — again a little 
 startled, though he was not a person of fine feelings. 
 The idea of appealing to the recollection of the child 
 for evidence against the man's rights, struck him as 
 curious at least. He was staggered, though he felt 
 that he ought to have been above that. Of course it 
 was all perfectly just and correct, and nobody could 
 have been more clear than he, that any sort of fan- 
 tastic delicacy coming between a man and his rights 
 would be too absurd to be thought of. And yet it 
 cannot be denied that he was staggered in spite of 
 himself. 
 
 "I think if you told him distinctly, and recalled it 
 to his recollection, and he knew everything that was
 
 MADONNA MARY. 181 
 
 involved," said Will, with calm distinctness, "that Hugh 
 would give in. It is the only thing he could do; and 
 I should not say anything to him about a younger 
 brother's portion, or two thousand pounds," the lad 
 added, kindling up. "He should have everything that 
 the money or the estate could do for him — whatever 
 was best for him, if it cost half or double what Earlston 
 was worth." 
 
 " Then why on earth don't you leave him Earlston, 
 if you are so generous?" said Mr. Penrose. "If you 
 are to spend it all upon him, what good would it do 
 you having the dreary old place?" 
 
 "I should have my rights," said Will with solemnity. 
 It was as if he had been a disinherited prince whom 
 some usurper had deprived of his kingdom; and this 
 strange assumption was so honest in its way, and had 
 such an appearance of sincerity, that Mr. Penrose was 
 struck dumb, and gazed at the boy with a consternation 
 which he could not express. His rights ! Mary's 
 youngest son, whom everybody, up to this moment, 
 had thought of only as a clever, not very amiable boy, 
 of no particular account anywhere. The merchant 
 began to wake up to the consciousness that he had a 
 phenomenon before him — a new development of man. 
 As he recovered from his surprise, he began to ap- 
 preciate Will — to do justice to the straightforward 
 ardour of his determination that business was business, 
 and that feelings had nothing to do with it; and to 
 admire his calm impassibility to every other view of 
 the case but that which concerned himself. Mr. Pen- 
 rose thought it was the result of a great preconcerted 
 plan, and began to awake into admiration and respect. 
 He thought the solemnity, and the calm, and that
 
 182 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 beautiful confideuce in his rights, were features of a 
 subtle and precocious scheme which Will had made for 
 himself; and his thoiights, which had been dwelling for 
 the moment on Mary, with a kind of unreflective sym- 
 pathy, turned towards the nobler object thus presented 
 before him. Here was a true apotheosis of interest 
 over nature. Here was such a man of business, heaven- 
 bern, as had never been seen before. Mr. Penrose 
 warmed and kindled into admiration, and he made a 
 secret vow that such a genius should not be lost. 
 
 As for Will, he never dreamt of speculating as to 
 what were his uncle's thoughts. He was quite content 
 that he had told his own tale, and so got over the first 
 preliminary difficulty of getting it told to those whom 
 it most concerned; and he was very sleepy — - dread- 
 fully tired, and more anxious to curl up his poor, 
 young, weary head under his wing, and get to bed, 
 than for anything else in the world. Yet, notwith- 
 standing, when he laid down, and had put out his 
 light, and had begun to doze, the thought came over 
 him that he saw the glow of his mother's candle shining 
 in under his door, and heard her step on the stairs, 
 which had been such a comfort to him many a night 
 when he was a child, and woke up in the dark and 
 heard her pass, and knew her to be awake and watching, 
 and was not even without a hope that she might come 
 in and stand for a moment, driving away all ghosts and 
 terrors of the night, by his bed. He thovight he saw the 
 light under his door, and heard the foot coming up the 
 stairs. And so probably he did : but the poor boy woke 
 right up under this fancy, and remembered with a com- 
 punction that he was far away from his mother, and 
 that probably she was "angry," and perhaps anxious
 
 MADONNA MARY. 183 
 
 about his sudden departure; and he was very sorry in 
 his heart to have come away so, and never to have 
 told her. But he was not sorry nor much troubled 
 anyhow about the much more important thing he was 
 about to do. 
 
 And Uncle Penrose, under the strange stimulus of 
 his visitor's earnestness, addressed himself to the task 
 required of him, and wrote to Hugh. He, too, thought 
 first of writing to Mrs. Ochterlony; but, excellent busi- 
 ness man as he was, he could not do it; it went against 
 his heart, if he had a heart, — or, if not his heart, 
 against some digestive organ which served him instead 
 of that useful but not indispensable part of the human 
 frame. But he did write to Hugh — that was easier; 
 and then Hugh had been "confounded saucy," and had 
 rejected his advice, not about the Museum only, but in 
 other respects. ]\Ir. Penrose wrote the letter that very 
 night while Will was dreaming about his mother's 
 light; and so the great wheel was set a-going, which 
 none of them could then stop for ever. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Hugh had left the Cottage the day after .Will's 
 departure. He had gone to Earlston, where a good 
 deal of business about the Museum and the estate 
 awaited him; and he had gone off without any parti- 
 cular burden on his mind. As for Will's Hight from 
 home, it was odd, no doubt; but then Will himself was 
 odd, and out-of-the-way acts were to be expected from 
 him. When Hugh, -with careless liberality, had sent
 
 184 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 him the cheque, he dismissed tlie subject from his mind 
 — at least, he thought of his younger brother only 
 with amusement, wondering what he could find to 
 attract him in Uncle Penrose's prosaic house, — trying 
 to form an imagination of Will wandering about the 
 great Liverpool docks, looking at the big ships, and 
 all the noisy traffic; and Hugh laughed within himself 
 to think how very much all that was out of Will's 
 way. No doubt he would come home in a day or two 
 bored to death, and would loathe the very name of 
 Liverpool all his life thereafter. As for Mr. Ochter- 
 lony of Earlston himself, he had a great deal to do. 
 The mayor and corporation of Dalken had come to a 
 final decision about the Museum, and all that had to 
 be done was to prepare the rooms which were to receive 
 Francis Ochterlony's treasures, and to transfer with due 
 tenderness and solemnity the Venus and the Psyche, 
 and all the delicate wealth which had been so dear to 
 the heart of "the old Squire." The young Squire 
 went round and looked at them all, with a great 
 tenderness in his own, remembering his uncle's last 
 progress among them, and where he sat down to rest, 
 and the wistful looks he had given to those marble 
 white creations which stood to him in the place of wife 
 and children; and the pathetic humour with which he 
 had said, "It is all the better for ?/o?/." It was the 
 better for Hugh ; but still the young man in the fulness 
 of his hopes had a tender compunction for the old man 
 who had died without getting the good of his life, and 
 with no treasures but marble and bronze and gold and 
 silver to leave behind him. "My poor uncle!" Hugh 
 said ; and yet the chances were that Francis Ochterlony 
 was not, either in living or dying, sorry for himself.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 185 
 
 Hugh had a kind of reluctance to cliauge the aspect 
 of everything, and make the house his own house, and 
 not Francis Ochterlony's. It seemed almost impious 
 to take from it the character it had home so long, and 
 at the same time it was his uncle's wish. These were 
 Hugh's thoughts at night, but in the fresh light of the 
 morning it would be wrong to deny that another set 
 of ideas took possession of his mind. Then he began 
 to think of the new aspect, and the changes he could 
 make. It was not bright enough for a home for — 
 well, for any lady that might happen to come on a 
 visit or otherwise; and, to be sure, Hugh had no inten- 
 tion of accepting as final his mother's determination 
 not to leave the Cottage. He made up his mind that 
 she would come, and that people — various people, 
 ladies and others — would come to visit her: that there 
 should be flowers and music and smiles about the place, 
 and perhaps some one as fair and as sweet as Psyche 
 to change the marble moonlight into sacred living sun- 
 shine. Now the fact was, that Nelly was not by any 
 means so fair as Psyche — that she was not indeed what 
 you would call a regular beauty at all, but only a fresh, 
 faulty, sweet little human creature, witli warm blood 
 in her veins, and a great many thoughts in her little head. 
 And when Hugh thought of some fair presence coming 
 into these rooms and making a Paradise of them, either 
 it was not Nelly Askell he was thinking of, or else he 
 was thinking like a poet — though he was not poetical, 
 to speak of. However, he did not himself give any 
 name to his imaginations — he could afford to be 
 vague. He went all over the house in the morning 
 not with the regretful, aft'ectionate eye with which he 
 made the same survey the night before, but in a
 
 186 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 practical spirit. At his age, and in his position, the 
 practical was only a pleasauter variation of the ro- 
 mantic aspect of affairs. As he thought of new fur- 
 niture, scores of little pictures flashed into his mind — 
 though in ordinary cases he was not distinguished by 
 a powerful imagination. He had no sooner devised 
 the kind of chair that should stand in a particular 
 corner, than straightway a little figure jumped into it, 
 a whisper of talk came out of it, with a host of 
 imaginary circumstances which had nothing to do with 
 upholstery. Even the famous rococo chair Avhich Islay 
 had broken was taken possession of by that vague, 
 sweet phantom. And he went about the rooms with 
 an unconscious smile on his face, devising and planning. 
 He did not know he was smiling; it was not at any- 
 thing or about anything. It was but the natural ex- 
 pression of the fresh morning fancies and sweet stir of 
 everything hopeful, and bright, and uncertain, which 
 was in his heart. 
 
 And when he went out of doors he still smiled. 
 Earlston was a grey limestone house, as has been 
 described in the earlier part of this history. A house 
 which chilled JVIi's. Ochterlony to the heart when she 
 went there with her little children in the first forlorn- 
 ness of her widowhood. What Hugh had to do now 
 was to plan a flower-garden for — his mother; yes, it 
 was truly for his mother. He meant that she should 
 come all the same. Nothing could make any difference 
 so far as she was concerned. But at the same time, to 
 be sure, he did not mean that his hovise should make 
 the same impression on any other stranger as that 
 house had made upon Mary. He planned how the 
 great hedges should be cut down, and the trees thinned,
 
 MADONNA MARY. 187 
 
 and the little moorland burn should be taken in within 
 the enclosure, and followed to its very edge by the 
 gay lawn with its flower-beds. He planned a different 
 approach — where there might be openings in the dark 
 shrubberies, and views over the hills. All this he did 
 in the morning, with a smile on his face, though the 
 tears had been in his eyes at the thought of any change 
 only the previous night. If Francis Ochterlony had 
 been by, as perhaps he was, no doubt he would have 
 smiled at that tender inconsistency — and there would 
 not have been any bitterness in the smile. 
 
 And then Hugh went in to breakfast. He had 
 already some new leases to sign and other business 
 matters to do, and he was quite pleased to do it — as 
 pleased as he had been to draw his first cheques. He 
 sat down at his breakfast-table, before the little pile of 
 letters that awaited him, and felt the importance of his 
 new position. Even his loneliness made him feel its 
 importance the more. Here were questions of all sorts 
 submitted to him, and it was he who had to answer, 
 without reference to anybody — he whose advice a 
 little while ago nobody would have taken the trouble 
 to ask. It was not that he cared to exercise his privilege 
 — for Hugh, on the whole, had an inclination to be 
 advised — but still the sense of his independence was 
 sweet. He meant to ask Mr. Preston, the attorney, 
 about various things, and he meant to consult his 
 mother, and to lay some special affairs before Sir 
 Edward — but still, at the same time, it was he who 
 had everything to do, and Mr. Ochterlony of Earlston 
 sat down before his letters with a sense of satisfaction 
 which does not always attend the mature mind in that 
 moment of trial. One of the uppermost was from Uncle
 
 188 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Penrose, redirected from tlie Cottage, but it did not 
 cause any thrill of interest to Hugh's mind, who put it 
 aside calmly, knowing of no thunderbolts that might 
 be in it. No doubt it was some nonsense about the 
 Museum, he thought, as if he himself was not a much 
 better judge about the Museum than a stranger and 
 business-man could be. There was, however, a letter 
 from Mary, which directed her son's attention to this 
 epistle. "I send you a letter directed in Uncle Pen- 
 rose's hand," wi'ote Mrs. Ochterlony, "which I have 
 had the greatest inclination to open, to see what he 
 says about Will. I daresay you would not have minded; 
 but I conclude, on the whole, that Mr. Ochterlony of 
 Earlston should have his letters to himself; so I send 
 it on to you uninvaded. Let me know what he says 
 about your brother." Hugh could not but laugh when 
 he read this, half with pleasure, half with amusement. 
 His mother's estimate of his importance entertained 
 him greatly, and the idea of anything private being in 
 Uncle Penrose's letter tickled him still more. Then he 
 drew it towards him lightly, and began to read it with 
 eyes running over with laughter. He was all alone, 
 and there was nobody to see any change of sentiment 
 in his face. 
 
 He was all alone — but yet presently Hugh raised 
 his eyes from the letter which he had taken up so 
 gaily, and cast a scared look round him, as if to make 
 sure that nobody was there. The smile had gone off 
 his face, and the laughter out of his eyes, — and not 
 only that, but every particle of colour had left his face. 
 And yet he did not see the meaning of what he had 
 read. "Will!" he said to himself. "Will!" He was 
 horror-stricken and bewildered, but that was the sole
 
 MADONNA MARY. 189 
 
 idea it conveyed to liim — a sense of treachery — the 
 awful feeling of unreality and darkness round about, 
 with which the young soul for the first time sees itself 
 injured and betrayed. He laid down the letter half 
 read, and paused, and put up his hands to his head as 
 if to convince himself that he was not dreaming. Will ! 
 Good God ! Will ! Was it possible ? Hugh had to make 
 a convulsive effort to grasp this unnatural horror. Will, 
 one of themselves, to have gone off', and put himself 
 into the hands of Uncle Penrose, and set himself against 
 his mother and her sons ! The ground seemed to fail 
 under his feet, the solid world to fall off" round him 
 into bewildering mystery. Will ! xVnd yet he did not 
 apprehend what it was. His mind could not take in 
 more than one discovery at a time. A minute before, 
 and he was ready ty have risked everything on the 
 good faith of any and every human creature he knew. 
 Now, was there anybody to be trusted? His brother 
 had stolen from his side, and was striking at him by 
 another and an unfriendly hand. Will ! Good heavens. 
 Will ! 
 
 It would be difficult to tell how long it was before 
 the full meaning of the letter he had thus received en- 
 tered into Hugh's mind. He sat with the breakfast 
 things still on the table so long, that the housekeeper 
 herself came at last with natural inquisitiveness to sec 
 if anything was the matter, and found Hugh with a 
 face as grey and colourless as that of the old Squire, 
 sitting over his untasted coff'ee, unaware, apparently, 
 what he was about. He started when she came in, 
 and bundled up his letters into his pocket, and gave 
 an odd laugh, and said he had been busy, and had 
 forgotten. And then he sprang up and left the room,
 
 190 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 paying no attention to her ontciy tliat lie had eaten 
 nothing. Hugli was not aAvare he had eaten nothing, 
 or probably in the first horror of his discovery of the 
 treachery in the world, he too would have taken to 
 false pretences and saved appearances, and made be- 
 lieve to have breakfasted. But the poor boy was un- 
 aware, and rushed off to the library, Avhere nobody 
 could have any pretext for disturbing him, and shut 
 himself xip with this first secret — the new, horrible 
 discovery Avhich had changed the face of the world. 
 This was the letter which he had crushed up in his 
 hand as he might have crushed a snake or deadly 
 reptile, but which nothing could crush out of his heart, 
 where the sting had entered and gone deep: — 
 
 "My dear Nephew, — It is Avith pain that I write 
 to you, though it is my clear duty to do so in the in- 
 terests of your brother, who has just put his case into 
 my hands — and I don't doubt that the intelligence I 
 am about to convey will be a great blow, not only to 
 your future prospects but to your pride and sense of 
 importance, which so fine a position at your age had 
 naturally elevated considerably higher than a plain 
 man like myself could approve of. Your brother ar- 
 rived here to-day, and has lost no time in informing 
 me of the singular circumstances iinder which he left 
 home, and of Avhich, so far as I understand him, you 
 and your mother are still in ignorance. Wilfrid's per- 
 ception of the fact that feelings, however creditable to 
 him as an individual, ought not to stand in the way 
 of what is, strictly speaking, a matter of business, is 
 very clear and uncompromising ; but still he does not 
 deny that he felt it difficult to make this communica-
 
 MADONNA MARY. 191 
 
 tion either to you or to his mother. Accident, the na- 
 ture of which I do not at present, before knowing your 
 probable course of action, feel myself at liberty to in- 
 dicate more plainly, has put him in possession of cer- 
 tain facts, Avhich Avould change altogether the relations 
 between him and yourself, as Avell as your (apparent) 
 position as head of the family. These facts, which, 
 for your mother's sake, 1 should be deeply grieved to 
 make known out of the family, are as follows: your 
 father, I\Iajor Ochterlony, and my niece, instead of 
 being married privately in Scotland, as we all believed, 
 in the year 1830, or thereabouts — I forget the exact 
 date — were in reality only married in India in the 
 
 year 1837, by the chaplain, the Rev. Churchill, 
 
 then officiating at the station Avhere your father's regi- 
 ment was. This, as you are aware, was shortly before 
 Wilfrid's birth, and not long before Major Ochterlony 
 died. It is subject of thankfulness that your father 
 did my niece this tardy justice before he was cut off, 
 as may be said, in the flower of his days, but you will 
 see at a glance that it entirely reverses your respective 
 positions — and that in fact Wilfrid is Major Ochter- 
 lony's only lawful son. 
 
 "I am as anxious as you can be that this should 
 be made a matter of family arrangement, and should 
 never come to the public ears. To satisfy your own 
 mind, however, of the perfect truth of the assertion I 
 have made, I beg to refer you to the Kcv. Mr. Churchill, 
 who ])erformed the ceremony, and whose ])resent ad- 
 dress, which Wilfrid had the good sense to secure, you 
 will find below — and to Mrs. Kirkman, who was pre- 
 sent. Indeed, I am informed that you yourself were 
 present -— though jtrobably too young to understand
 
 192 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 what it meant. It is possible that on examining your 
 memory you may find some trace of the occurrence, 
 which though not dependable upon by itself, Avill help 
 to confirm the intelligence to your mind. We are in 
 no hurry, and will leave you the fullest time to satisfy 
 yourself, as well as second you in every effort to pre- 
 vent any painful consequence from falling upon your 
 mother, who has (though falsely)- enjoyed the con- 
 fidence and esteem of her friends so long. 
 
 "For yourself you may reckon upon Wilfrid's 
 anxious endeavours to further your prospects by every 
 means in his power. Of course I do not expect you 
 to take a fact involving so much, either upon his word 
 or mine. Examine it fully for yourself, and the more 
 entirely the matter is cleared up, the more will it be 
 for our satisfaction, as well as your own. The only 
 thing I have to desire for my own part is that you 
 Avill spare your mother — ■ as your brother is most 
 anxious to do. Hoping for an early reply, 
 "I am, 
 "Your aftectionate uncle and sincere friend, 
 
 "J. P. Penrose." 
 
 Hugh sat in Francis Ochterlony's chair, at his table, 
 with his head supported on his hands, looking straight 
 before him, seeing nothing, not even thinking, feeling 
 only this letter spread out upon the table, and the in- 
 telligence conveyed in it, and holding his head, which 
 ached and throbbed with the blow, in his hands. He 
 was still, and his head throbbed and his heart and 
 soul ached, tingling through him to every joint and 
 every vein. He could not even wonder, nor doubt, 
 nor question in any way, for the first terrible interval.
 
 MADONNA jrARY. 193 
 
 All lie could do was to look at the fact and take it 
 fully into his mind, and turn it over and over, seeing 
 it all round on every side, looking- at it this way and 
 that way, and feeling as if somehow heaven and earth 
 were filled witli it, though he had never dreamt of 
 such a ghost until that hour. Not his, after all — nor 
 Earlston, nor his name, nor the position he had been 
 so proud of; nothing his — alas, not even his mother, 
 his spotless mother, the woman whom it had been an 
 honour and glory to come from and belong to. When 
 a groan came from the poor boy's white lips it was 
 that he was thinking of. Madonna Mary! that Avas 
 the name they had called her by — and this was how 
 it really was. He groaned aloud, and made an uncon- 
 scious outcry of his pain when it came to that. "Oh, 
 my God, if it had only been ruin, loss of everything 
 
 — anything in the world but that!" This was the 
 first stage of stu]tefaction and yet of vivid conscious- 
 ness, before the indignation came. He sat and looked 
 at it, and realized it, and took it into his mind, staring 
 at it until every drop of blood ebbed away from his 
 face. This was how it was before the anger came. 
 After a while his countenance and his mood changed 
 
 — the colour and heat came rushing back to his cheeks 
 and lips, and a flood of rage and resentment swept 
 over him like a sudden storm. Will! could it be Will? 
 Liar! coward! traitor! to call her mother, and to tax 
 lier with shame even had it been true — to frame such 
 a Ijnng, cursed, devilish accusation against her ! Then 
 it was that Hugh flashed into a fiery, burning shame 
 to think that he had given credence to it for one sole 
 moment. He turned his eyes upon her, as it were, 
 and looked into her face and glowed Avith a bitter iu- 
 
 Jladonna Maiy. II. l<i
 
 194 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 dignation and fury. His mother's face ! only to think 
 of it and dare to fancy that shame could ever have 
 been there. And then the boy wept, in spite of his 
 manhood — wept a few, hot, stinging tears, that dried 
 up the moment they fell, half for rage, half for tender- 
 ness. — And, oh, my God, was it Will? Then as his 
 mind roused more and more to the dread energency, 
 Hugh got up and went to the window and gazed out, 
 as if that would help him; and his eye lighted on the 
 tangled thicket which he had meant to make into his 
 mother's flower-garden, and upon the sweep of trees 
 through which he had planned his new approach, and 
 once more he groaned aloud. Only this morning so 
 sure about it all, so confidently and carelessly happy 
 — now with not one clear step before him to take, 
 with no future, no past that he could dare look back 
 upon — no name, nor rights of any kind — if this 
 Avere true. And could it be otherwise than true? Could 
 any imagination frame so monstrous and inconceivable 
 a falsehood? — such a horrible impossibility might be 
 fact, but it was beyond all the bounds of fancy, — 
 and then the blackness of darkness descended again 
 upon Hugh's soul. Poor Mary, poor mother ! It came 
 into the young man's mind to go to her and take her 
 in his arms, and carry her away somewhere out of 
 sight of men and sound of their voices — and again 
 there came to his eyes those stinging tears. Fault of 
 hers it could not be ; she might have been deceived ; 
 and then poor Hugh's lips, unaccustomed to curses, 
 quivered and stopped short as they were about to curse 
 the father whom he never knew. Here was the point 
 at which the tide turned again. Could it be Hugh 
 Ochterlony who had deceived his wife? he whose sword
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 195 
 
 bung in Marys room, whose very name made a certain 
 music in her voice when she pronounced it, and whom 
 she had trained her children to reverence with that 
 surpassing honour Avhich belongs to the dead alone. 
 Again a storm of rage and bitter indignation swept in 
 his despair and bewilderment over the young man's 
 mind; an accursed scheme, a devilish, hateful lie — 
 that Avas how it was: and oh, horror! that it should 
 be Will. 
 
 Through all these changes it was one confused tem- 
 pest of misery and dismay that Avas in Hugh's mind. Now 
 and then there would be wild breaks in the clouds — 
 now they would he whirled over the sky in gusts — 
 now settled down into a blackness beyond all reckon- 
 ing. Lives change from joy to misery often enough in 
 this world; but seldom thus in a moment, in the twin- 
 kling of an eye. His careless boat had been taking its 
 sweet course over waters rippled with a favourable 
 breeze, and without a moment's interval it Avas among 
 the breakers; and he knew so little how to manage it, 
 he was so inexperienced to cope with Avinds and waves. 
 And he had nobody to ask counsel from. He was, as 
 Will had been, separated from his natural adviser, tha 
 one friend to whom hitherto he had confided all his 
 difficulties. But Hugh was older than Will, and his 
 mind had come to a higher development, though per- 
 haps he was not so clever as his brother. He had no 
 Uncle Penrose to go to ; no living soul would hear from 
 him this terrible tale; he could consult nobody. Not 
 for a hundred Earlstons, not for all the world, Avould 
 he haA^e discussed with any man in existence his mother's 
 good name. 
 
 Yet Avith that, too, there came another complication 
 
 13*
 
 196 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 into Hugh's mind. Even wliile he actually thought in 
 his despair of going to his mother, and telling her any 
 tender lie that might occur to him, and carrying her 
 away to Australia, or any end of the world where he 
 could work for her, and remove her for ever from 
 shame and pain, a sense of outraged justice and rights 
 assailed was in his mind. He was not one of those 
 who can throw down their arms. Earlston was his, 
 and he could not relinquish it and his position as head 
 of the house without a struggle. And the thought of 
 Mr. Penrose stung him. He even tried to heal one of 
 his deeper wounds by persuading himself that Uncle 
 Penrose was at the bottom of it, and that ])Oor Will 
 was but his tool. Poor Will! Poor miserable boy! 
 And if he ever woke and came to himself, and knew 
 what he had been doing, how terrible would his posi- 
 tion be! Thus Hugh tried to think till, wearied out 
 with thinking, he said to himself that he would put it 
 aside and think no more of it, and attend to his busi- 
 ness*, which vain imagination the poor boy tried to 
 carry out with hands that shook and brain that refused 
 to obey his guidance. And all this change was made 
 in one little moment. His life came to a climax, and 
 passed through a secret revolution in that one day, 
 and yet he had begun it as if it had been an ordinary 
 day — a calm summer morning in the summer of his 
 days. 
 
 This was what Hugh said to his mother of Mr. 
 Penrose's letter: — "The letter you forwarded to me 
 from Uncle Penrose was in his usual business strain — 
 good advice, and that sort of thing. He does not say 
 much about Will; but he has arrived all safe, and I 
 suppose is enjoying himself — as well as he can, there."
 
 MADONNA MARY. 197 
 
 And when he had written and despatched that note he 
 sat down to think again. He decided at last that he 
 wouhl not go on with the flower-garden and the other 
 works — till he saw; bnt that he Avonld settle abont 
 the Museum without any delay. "If it came to the 
 worst they would not recall the gift," he said to him- 
 self, brushing his hand across his eyes. It was his 
 uncle's wish; and it was he, Hugh, and not any other, 
 whom Francis Ochterlony had Avished for his heir. 
 Hugh's hand Avas wet when he took it from his eyes, 
 and his heart was full , and he coiild have wept like a 
 child. Bnt he was a man, and weeping could do no 
 good; and he had nobody in the world to take his 
 trouble to — nobody in the world. Love and pride 
 made a fence round him, and isolated him. He had to 
 make his way out of it as best he could, and alone. 
 He made a great cry to (!od in his trouble; but from 
 nobody in the world could he have either help or hope. 
 And he read the letter over and over, and tried to re- 
 collect and to go back into his dim baby-memory of 
 India, and gather out of the thick mists that scene 
 which they said he had been present at. Wes there 
 really some kind of vague image of it, all broken and 
 indistinct and effaced, on liis mind? 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 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 excite- 
 ment and a trembling dread of the consequences had
 
 198 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 been awakened. Mary, to whom it would be even 
 more momentous tban 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 atten- 
 tion 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 direc- 
 tions; 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 AVilfrid's steady, matter-of-fact counte- 
 nance 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 sen- 
 sible of his power and would certainly exercise it. She 
 Avas 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
 
 MADONNA MARY. 199 
 
 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 in- 
 dications 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. Some- 
 thing 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 responsibi- 
 lity thereby. 
 
 This was why, after she had put up with her 
 anxiety as long as she could, she went oiit 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
 
 200 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 not heai'cl from Will, it is true, and was vexed by liis 
 silence; but yet it was a light vexation. Mrs. Ocbter- 
 lony, however, was not at home when Mrs. Kirkman 
 arrived; and, if anything could have increased her un- 
 easiness 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 re- 
 sentful grandeur when she saw who the visitor was. 
 Now was Winnie's chance to repay that little demon- 
 stration 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 it 
 necessary to say. Even Aunt Agatha was not near to break 
 the violence of the encounter. Mrs. Kirkman sat down 
 in a very imcomfortable 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 re- 
 proof, 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 per- 
 son 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
 
 MADONNA MARY. 201 
 
 of tlic 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 detei'mined opposition to anything that might be 
 adyanced , a soft sense of superiority and pity stole in- 
 to her mind. Poor thing, that did not know the things 
 that belonged to her peace! — was it not a Cliristian 
 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 — employ- 
 ing 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 A^isiting 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 to 
 her shoulders, and turned a little aside. 
 
 "Which is, after all, the only thing that is of any
 
 202 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 importance," said Mrs. Kirkman. "My dear Mrs. Perci- 
 val, I do trust that you agree with me?" 
 
 "I don't see why I should be your dear Mrs. Per- 
 cival," said Winnie. "I was not aware that we knew 
 each other. I think you must be making a mis- 
 take." 
 
 "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 shoul- 
 ders, 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 ten- 
 dencies?" 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 be- 
 tween 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
 
 MADONNA MARY. 203 
 
 been tempted iu tlie same way, but I know too well 
 the deceittulness of the natural heart to take any credit 
 to myself. You have been exposed to many tempta- 
 tions — " 
 
 "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 a liberty with me." 
 
 "Ah, my dear Mrs. Percival, I know a great deal 
 about you," said JMrs. Kirkman. "There is nothing I 
 would not do to make a ftivourable 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 re- 
 pentance " 
 
 "I suppose what you want is to drive me out of the 
 room," said Winnie, looking at her fiercely, with crim- 
 son 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 oppor- 
 tunity, 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.
 
 204 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "How dare you! how dare you!" she said, clench- 
 ing her hands, — but Mrs. Kirkman's benevolent pur- 
 pose 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 with- 
 draw from tlie evil and seek good, to come while it is 
 called to-day," said the Evangelist, with much stead- 
 fastness, "1 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 mis- 
 take," 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, fortify- 
 ing herself by the presence of the mild little woman 
 who was her protector. It was a strange reversal of
 
 MADONNA MARY. 205 
 
 positions, l)ut yet that was Iioav it was. The passionate 
 creatnre had now no other protector Lut Aunt Agatha, 
 and even while she felt herself assured and strengthened 
 hy her presence, it gave her a pang to think it was so. 
 Noliody but Aunt Agatha to stand between her and 
 impertinent intrusion — nobody to take her part be- 
 fore 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 hus- 
 band, 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 Hee! 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.
 
 206 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "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 any one 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 
 Avould think Avhile it is called to-day — while there is 
 still a place of repentance " 
 
 "Winnie, my dear love," said Aunt Agatha, trem- 
 bling 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
 
 MADONNA MARY. 207 
 
 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, thpugh 
 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 
 lierself — 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.
 
 208 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 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 lister had said to her long ago, and her own de- 
 cision: wex'e it for misery, were it for ruin, rather to 
 choose ruin and misery with Jiim^ 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. 
 "Maiy, 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.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 209 
 
 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. 
 
 All 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 
 ajjpeal to a sinner's perverse heart. And she thought 
 it would be right to point out to Mary, hoAV any trouble 
 that might be about to overwhelm her was for her good, 
 and tliat 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 IMajor'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 in- 
 
 Mailonnii Mm>). It. 1 «
 
 210 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 ordinate affections. "It will keep her from trusting to 
 a creature," slie 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 down- 
 stairs, in Mrs. Ochterlony's room. 
 
 Mary went in with her fair 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 and 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
 
 MADONNA MARY. 211 
 
 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 fol- 
 lowed 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. Kirk- 
 man 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 down- 
 stairs 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. Ochter- 
 lony's face that she had a palpitation which took away 
 her breatli, 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 
 
 11*
 
 212 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 could conceal tlie 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 with- 
 out 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 
 Yimst see Will. If llugh 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 com- 
 fort; 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 mat- 
 ter. "Something must have happened to Will," said 
 Aunt Agatha. 
 
 "It is that woman who has brought her bad news,"
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 213 
 
 cried Winnie; ami then both together they cried out, 
 "AVhat is it, Mary? have you bad news'?" 
 
 "Notliing- tliat 1 liave not known for years," said 
 Mrs. Ochterlony, and she kissed them both, as if she 
 was kissing them for the last time, and disengaged her- 
 self, 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 
 oyesight, 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 oft' on the road, going 
 steady and swift Avith her bag in her hand. In the 
 midst of her anxiety and suspicion, Miss Setou 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, Avhatever 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 
 (juict words which made Winnie's veins tingle, and the 
 blood rusli to her face? All these quiet years was it 
 })ossible 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 liave broken his leg — he might have got 
 into trouble witli his uncle. It might be something 
 about Islay. Oh! Winnie, my darling, Avhat do you 
 think it can be? Something that she had known for 
 years!
 
 214 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 This was wliat 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. Wliy 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 woixld 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
 
 MADONNA MARV. 215 
 
 boy, and if was hard to associate evil or iinkinduess 
 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 When Mary went away, she left the two ladies at 
 the Cottage in a singular excitement and perplexity. 
 They were tingling with the blows which they had 
 themselves received, and yet at the same time they 
 were luished and put to shame, as it were, for any se- 
 condary pang they might be feeling, by the look in 
 Mrs. Ochterlony's face, and by her sudden departure. 
 Aunt Agatha, who knew of few mysteries in life, and 
 thought that where neither sickness nor death was, nor 
 any despairs of blighted love or disappointed hope, 
 there could not be anything very serious to suffer, 
 would have got over it, and set it down as one of 
 Mary's ways, had she been by herself. But Winnie 
 was not so easily satisfied; her mind was possessed by 
 the thought, in which no doubt there was a consider- 
 able mingling of vanity, that her husband would strike 
 her through her friends. It seemed as if he had done 
 so now; Winnie did not know precisely what it was 
 that Pei'cival knew about her sister, but only that it
 
 216 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 was something discreditable, something that would bring 
 Mary down from her pinnacle of honour and purity. 
 And now he had done it, and driven Mrs. Ochterlony 
 to despair; but what was it about Will? Or was Will 
 a mere pretence on the part of the outraged and terri- 
 fied woman to get away? Something she had known 
 for years! This was the thought which had chiefly 
 moved Winnie, going to her heart. She herself had 
 lived a stormy life-, she had done a great many things 
 which she ought not to have done; she had never been 
 absolutely wicked or false, nor forfeited her reputation ; 
 but she knew in her heart that her life had not been 
 a fair and spotless life; and when she thought of its 
 strivings, and impatience, and selfwill, and bitter dis- 
 content, and of the serene course of existence which 
 her sister had led in the quietness, her heart smote her. 
 Perhaps it was for her sake that this blow, which Mary 
 had known of for years, had at last descended upon 
 her head. All the years of her own stormy career, her 
 sister had been living at Kirtell, doing no harm, doing 
 good, serving God, bringing up her children, covering 
 her sins, if she had sinned, with repentance and good 
 deeds; and yet for Winnie's sake, for her petulance, 
 and fury, and hotheadedness , the angel (or was it the 
 demon?) had lifted his fiery sword and driven Mary 
 out of Paradise. All this moved Winnie strangely; 
 and along with these were other thoughts — thoughts 
 of her own strange miserable unprotectedness , with 
 only Aunt Agatha to stand between her and the world, 
 while she still had a husband in the world, between 
 whom and herself there stood no deadly shame nor 
 fatal obstacle, and whose presence would shield her 
 from all such intrusions as that she had just suffered
 
 MADONNA MAUY. 217 
 
 from, lie had Hiiuicd against her, but that a womau 
 can forgive — and she had not sinned against him, 
 not to such an extent as is unpardonable in a woman. 
 Perhaps there might even be something in the fact that 
 Winnie had found Kirtell and quiet not the medicine 
 suited to her mind, and tliat even Mary's flight into 
 the world had brought a tingling into her wings, a 
 longing to mount into freer air, and rush back to her 
 fate. Thus a host of contradictory feelings joined in 
 (ine great flame of excitement, which rose higher and 
 higher all through the night. To fly forth upon him, 
 and controvert his wicked plans, and save the sister 
 who was being sacrificed for her sake; and yet to take 
 possession of him back again, and set him up before 
 her, her shield and buckler against the world; and at 
 the same time to get out and break loose from this 
 flowery cage, and rush back into the big world, where 
 there would be air and space to move in — such were 
 Winnie's thoughts. In the morning, when she came 
 downstairs, which was an hour earlier than usual, to 
 Aunt Agatha's great amazement, she wore her travelling 
 dress, and had an air of life and movement in her, 
 which startled Miss Seton, and which, since her return 
 to Kirtell, had never been seen in Winnie's looks 
 before. 
 
 "It is very kind of you to come down, AVinnie, 
 my darling, when you knew I was alone," said Aunt 
 Agatha, giving her a tender embrace. 
 
 "I don't think it is kind in me," said Winnie; and 
 then she sat down, and took her sister's office upon 
 her, to Miss Seton's still greater bewilderment, and 
 made the tea, without quite knowing what she was 
 doing. "I suppose Mary has been travelling all night,"
 
 218 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 she said; "I cam going into Carlisle, Aunt Agatlia, to 
 that woman, to know what it is all about." 
 
 "Oh, my darling, you were always so generous," 
 cried Aunt Agatha, in amaze; "but you must not do 
 it. She might say things to you, or you might meet 
 people — " 
 
 "If I did meet people, I hope I know how to take 
 care of myself," said Winnie; and that flush came to 
 her face, and that light to her eye, like the neigh of 
 the war-horse when he hears the sound of battle. 
 
 Aunt Agatha was struck dumb. Terror seized her, 
 as she looked at the kindling cheeks and rapid gesture, 
 and saw the Winnie of old, all impatient and triumphant, 
 dawning out from under the cloud. 
 
 "Oh, Winnie, you are not going away," she cried, 
 with a thrill of presentiment. "Mary has gone, and 
 they have all gone. You are not going to leave me all 
 by myself here?" 
 
 "I?" said Winnie. There was scorn in the tone, 
 and yet what was chiefly in it was a bitter affectation 
 of humility. "It will be time enough to fear my going, 
 when any one wants me to go." 
 
 Miss Seton was a simple woman, and yet she saw 
 that there lay more meaning under these words than 
 the plain meaning they bore. She clasped her hands, 
 and lifted her appealing eyes to Winnie's face — and 
 she was about to speak, to question, to remonstrate, to 
 importune, when her companion suddenly seized her 
 hands tight, and silenced her by the sight of an emo- 
 tion more earnest and violent than anything Aunt 
 Agatha knew. 
 
 "Don't speak to me," she said, with her eyes blaz- 
 ing, and clasped the soft old hands in hers till she hurt
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 219 
 
 them. "Don't speak to me; I don't know what I am 
 going to do — but don't talk to me, don't look at me, 
 Aunt Agatha. Perhaps my life — and Mary's — may 
 be fixed to-day." 
 
 "Oh, Winnie, I don't understand you," cried Aunt 
 Agatha, ti'embling, and freeing her poor little crushed 
 soft hands. 
 
 "And I don't understand myself," said Winnie. 
 "Don't let us say a word more." 
 
 "What did it mean, that flusli in her face, that 
 thrill of purpose and meaning in her words, and her 
 step, and her whole figure? — - and what had Mary to 
 do with it? — and how could their fate be fixed one 
 way or other?" Aunt Agatha asked herself these ques- 
 tions vainly, and could make nothing of them. But 
 after breakfast she went to her room and said her 
 prayers — which was the best thing to do ; and in that 
 moment Winnie, poor Winnie, whose prayers wei'e few 
 though her wants were countless, took a rose from the 
 trellis, and pinned it in with her brooch, and went 
 softly away. I don't know what connexion there was 
 between the rose and Aunt Agatha's prayers, but some- 
 how the faint perfume softened the wild, agitated, 
 stormy heart, and suggested to it that sacrifice was 
 'ijeing made and supplications offered somewhere for its 
 sins and struggles. Thus, when his sons and daughters 
 went out to their toils and pleasures, Job drew near 
 the altar lest some of them might curse God in their 
 hearts. 
 
 It was strange to see her sallying forth by herself, 
 she who had been shielded from every stranger's eye; 
 and yet there was a sense of freedom in it — freedom, 
 and danger, and exhilaration, which was sweet to Win-
 
 220 MADONNA MVRY. 
 
 nie. She went rusliiiig in to Carlisle in the express 
 train, flying as it were on the wings of the wind. But 
 Mrs. Kirkmau was not at home. She was either work- 
 ing in her district, or she was teaching in the infant 
 school, or giving out work to the poor women, or per- 
 haps at the mothers' meeting, which she always said 
 was the most precious opportunity of all-, or possibly 
 she might be making calls — which, however, was an 
 liypothesis which lier maid rejected as unworthy of her. 
 Mrs. Percival found herself brought to a sudden stand- 
 still when she heard this. The sole audible motive 
 Avliich she had proposed to herself for her expedition 
 was to see Mrs. Kirkman, and for the moment she did 
 not know what to do. After a while, however, she 
 turned and went slowly yet eagerly in another direc- 
 tion. She concluded she would go to the Askells, who 
 might know something about it. They were Percival's 
 friends; they might be in the secret of his plans — they 
 might convey to him the echo of her indignation and 
 disdain; possibly even he might himself But Win- 
 nie would not let herself consider that thought. Cap- 
 tain Askell's house was not the same cold and ne- 
 glected place where Mary had first seen Emma after 
 their return. They had a little more money — and 
 that was something; and Nelly was older — which 
 was a great deal more; but even Nelly could not alto- 
 gether abrogate the character which her mother gave to 
 her house. The maid who opened the door had bright 
 ribbons in her cap, but yet was a sloven, half-sup- 
 pressed; and the carpets on the stairs were badly fitted, 
 and threatened here and there to entangle the unwary 
 foot. And there was a bewildering multiplicity of 
 sounds in the house. You could hear the maids in the
 
 MADONNA MARY. 221 
 
 kitchen, and the chihlren in the nxirsery — and even 
 as Winnie ap])roachcd the drawing-room she coukT hear 
 voices thrilling Avith an excitement which did not be- 
 come that calm retreat. There was a sound as of a 
 sob, and tliere was a broken voice a little lond in its 
 accents. Winnie went on with a quicker throb of her 
 
 heart — perhaps he himself But Avhen the door 
 
 opened, it was upon a scene she had not thought of. 
 ]\Irs. Kirkman was there, seated high as in a throne, 
 looking with a sad but touching resignation upon the 
 disturbed household. And it was Emma who was sob- 
 bing — sobbing and crying out, and launching a 
 furious little soft incapable clenched hand into the air 
 — while Nelly, all glowing red, eyes lit up with in- 
 dignation, soft lips quivering with distress, stood by, 
 with a gaze of horror and fury and disgust fixed on 
 the visitor's face. Winnie went in, and they all 
 stopped short and stared at her, as if she had dropped 
 from the skies. Her appearance startled and dismayed 
 them, and yet it was evidently in perfect accordance 
 with the spirit of the scene. She could see that at the 
 first glance. She saw they were already discussing this 
 event, whatever it might be. Thei'efore Winnie did not 
 hesitate. She offered no ordinary civilities hei'self, nor 
 required any. She went straight up to where Mrs, 
 Kirkman sat, not looking at the others. "I have come 
 to ask you what it means," she said; and Winnie felt 
 tliat they all stopped and gave way to her as to one 
 who had a right to know. 
 
 "That is what I am asking," cried Emma, "what 
 docs it mean? We have all known it for ages, and 
 none of us said a word. And she that sets up for 
 being a Christian! As if there was no honour left in
 
 222 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 the regiment, and as if we were to talk of everything 
 that happens! Ask her, Mrs. Percival. I don't believe 
 half nor a quarter what they say of any one. When 
 they dare to raise up a scandal about Madonna Mary, 
 none • of us are safe. And a thing that we have all 
 known for a hundred years!" 
 
 "Oh, mamma!" said Nelly, softly, under her 
 breath. The child knew everything about everybody, 
 as was to have been expected; every sort of tale had 
 been told in her presence. But what moved her to 
 shame was her mother's share. It was a murmured 
 compunction, a vicarious acknowledgment of sin. "Oh, 
 mamma!" 
 
 "It is not I that am saying it," cried Emma, again 
 resuming her sob. "I would have been torn to pieces 
 first. Me to harm her that was always a jewel! Oh, 
 ask her, ask her! What is going to come of it, and 
 what does it mean?" 
 
 "My dear, perhaps Nelly had better retire before 
 we speak of it any more," said Mrs. Kirkman, meekly. 
 "I am not one that thinks it right to encourage de- 
 lusions in the youthful mind, but still, if there is much 
 more to be said — " 
 
 And then it was Nelly's turn to speak. "You have 
 talked about everything in the world without sending 
 me away," cried the girl, " till I wondered and wondered 
 you did not die of shame. But I'll stay now. One is 
 safe," said Nelly, with a little cry of indignation and 
 youthful rage, "when you so much as name Mrs. Och- 
 terlony's name." 
 
 All this time Winnie was standing upright and 
 eager before Mrs. Kirkman's chair. It was not from 
 incivility that they offered her no place among them.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 223 
 
 No one thought of it, and neither did she. The con- 
 flict around her had sobered Winnie's tlioughts. There 
 was no trace of her husband in it, nor of that striking 
 her through her friends which had excited and ex- 
 hihiratcd her mind; but the family instinct of mutual 
 defence awoke in her. "My sister has heard some- 
 thing which has — which has had a singular effect 
 upon her," said "Winnie, pausing instinctively, as if 
 she had been about to betray something. "And it is 
 you who have done it; I want to know what it 
 means." 
 
 "Oh, she must be ill!" wailed poor Emma; "I 
 knew she would be ill. If she dies it will be your 
 fault. Oh, let me go up and see her. I knew she 
 must be ill." 
 
 As for Mrs. Kirkman, she shook her head and her 
 long curls, and looked compassionately upon her 
 agitated audience. And then Winnie heard all the 
 long-hoarded well-remembered tale. The only difference 
 made in it was that by this time all confidence in the 
 Gretna Green marriage, which had once been allowed, 
 at least as a matter of courtesy, had faded out of the 
 story. Even Mrs. Askell no longer thought of that. 
 When the charm of something to tell began to work, 
 the Captain's wife chimed in with the narrative of her 
 superior officer. All the circumstances of that long- 
 past event were revealed to the Avonder-stricken hearers. 
 Mary's distress, and Major Ochterlony's anxiety, and 
 the consultations he had with everybody, and the won- 
 derful indulgence and goodness of the ladies at the 
 station, who never made any difference, and all their 
 benevolent hopes that so uncomfortable an incident was 
 buried in the past, and could now have no painful re-
 
 224 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 suits; — all this was told to Wiunie in detail; and in 
 tlie confidential committee thus formed, her own pos- 
 sible deficiencies and shortcomings were all passed over. 
 "Nothing would have induced me to say a syllable on 
 the subject if you had not been dear Mary's sister," 
 Mrs. Kirkman said; and then she relieved her mind 
 and told it all. 
 
 Winnie, for her part, sat dumb and listened. She 
 was more than struck dumb — she was stupefied by 
 the news. She had thought that Mary might have 
 been "foolish," as she herself had been "foolish;" even 
 that Mary might have gone further, and compromised 
 herself; but of a dishonour which involved such conse- 
 quences she had never dreamed. She sat and heard it 
 all in a bewildered horror, with the faces of Hugh and 
 Will floating like spectres before her eyes. A woman 
 gone astray from her duty as a wife was not, Heaven 
 help her! so extraordinary an object in poor Winnie's 
 eyes — but, good heavens! Mary's marriage, Mary's 
 boys, the very foundation and beginning of her life! 
 The room went round and round with her as she sat 
 and listened. A public trial, a great talk in the papers, 
 one brother against anotlier, and Mary, Mary, the chief 
 figure in all! Winnie put her hands up to her ears, 
 not to shut out the sound of this incredible story, but 
 to deaden the noises in her head , the throbbing of all 
 her pulses, and stringing of all her nerves. She was 
 so stupefied that she could make no sort of stand 
 against it, no opposition to the evidence, which, indeed, 
 was crushing, and left no opening for unbelief. She 
 accepted it all, or rather, was carried away by the 
 bewildering, overwhelming tide. And even Emma 
 Askell got excited, and woke up out of her crying, and
 
 MADONNA IN[ARY. 225 
 
 added her contribution of details. Poor little Nelly, 
 who had heard it all before, had retired to a corner 
 and taken up her work, and might be seen in the 
 distance working furiously , with a hot flush on her 
 cheek, and now and then wiping a furtive tear from 
 lier eye. Nelly did not know what to say, nor how to 
 meet it — - but there was in her little woman's soul a 
 conviction that something unknown must lie behind, 
 and that the inference at least was not true. 
 
 "And you told Will'?" said Winnie, rousing up at 
 last. "You knew all the horrible harm it might do, 
 and you told AVill." 
 
 "It was not I who told him," said Mrs. Kirkman; 
 and then there was a pause, and the two ladies looked 
 at each other, and a soft, almost imperceptible flutter, 
 ^■isible only to a female eye, revealed that there might 
 be something else to say. 
 
 "Who told him?" said Winnie, perceiving the in- 
 dications, and feeling her heart thrill and beat high 
 unce more. 
 
 "I am very sorry to say anything, I am sure, to 
 make it worse," said Mrs. Kirkman. "It was not I 
 who told him. 1 suppose you are aware that — that 
 Major Percival is here? He was present at the mar- 
 riage as well as I. I wonder he never told you. It 
 was he who told Will. He only came to get the ex- 
 planations from me." 
 
 They thought she would very probably faint, or 
 make some demonstration of distress, not knowing that 
 this was what })Oor Winnie had been waiting, almost 
 hoping for; and on the contrary, it seemed to put new 
 force into her, and a kind of beauty, at which her com- 
 panions gazed aghast. The blood rushed into her 
 
 Mmlouun Muiij. 11. lO
 
 226 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 faded cheek, and light came to lier eyes. She could 
 not speak at first, so overwhelming was the tide of 
 energy and new life that seemed to ponr into her veins. 
 After all, she had been a true prophet. , It was all for 
 her sake. He had struck at her through her friends, 
 and she could not be angry with him. It was a way 
 like another of showing love, a way hard upon other 
 people, no doubt, but carrying a certain poignant sweet- 
 ness to her for whose sake the blow had fallen. But 
 Winnie knew she was in the presence of keen ob- 
 servers, and put restraint upon herself 
 
 "Where is Major Percival to be found?" she said, 
 with a measured voice, which she thought concealed 
 her excitement, but which was overdone, and made it 
 visible. They thought she was meditating something 
 desperate when she spoke in that unnatural voice, and 
 drew her shawl round her in that rigid way. She 
 might have been going to stab him, the bystanders 
 thought, or do him some grieA'ous harm. 
 
 "You would not go to him for that?" said Emma, 
 with a little anxiety, stopping short at once in her 
 tears and in her talk. "They never will let you talk 
 to them about what they have done; and then they 
 always say you take part with your own friends." 
 
 Mrs. Kirkman, too, showed a sudden change of in- 
 terest, and turned to the new subject with zeal and 
 zest: "If you are really seeking a reconciliation with 
 your husband — " she began; but this was more than 
 Winnie could bear. 
 
 "I asked where Major Percival was to be found," 
 she said; "I was not discussing my own affairs: but 
 Nelly will tell me. If that is all about Mary, I will 
 go away."
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 227 
 
 "1 will ^o with you," cried Emma 5 "only wait till 
 I get my things. I knew she would be ill; and she 
 must not think that we are going to forsake her now. 
 As if it could make any difference to us that have 
 known it for ever so long! Only wait till I get my 
 things." 
 
 "Poor Mary! she is not in a state of mind to be 
 benefited by any visit," said Mrs. Kirkman, solemnly. 
 "If it were not for that, / would go." 
 
 As for AVinnie, she was trembling with impatience, 
 eager to be free and to be gone, and yet not content 
 to go until she had left a sting behind her, like a true 
 woman. "How you all talk!" she cried; "as if your 
 making any difi'crence could matter. You can set it 
 going, but all you can do will nCA^er stop it. Mary 
 has gone to AVill, whom you have made her enemy. 
 Perhaps she has gone to ask her boy to save her 
 honour; and you think she will mind about your 
 making a difference, or about your visits — when it is 
 a thing of life or death!" 
 
 And she went to the door all trembling, scarcely 
 able to support herself, shivering with excitement and 
 wild anticipation. Now she must see him — now it 
 was her duty to go to him and ask him why — She 
 rushed away, forgetting even that she had not obtained 
 the information she came to seek. She had been speak- 
 ing of ]\Iary, but it Avas not of Mary she was thinking. 
 Mary went totally out of her mind as she hurried down 
 the stairs. Now there was no longer any choice; she 
 mi;st go to him, must see him, must renew the inter- 
 rupted but never-ended struggle. It filled her with an 
 excitement which she could not subdue nor resist. Her 
 heart beat so loud that she did not hear tlie sound of 
 
 15-^
 
 228 MADONXA MAUY. 
 
 ]ier own step on the stairs, but seemed somehow to be 
 carried down by tlie air, whicli encircled her like a soft 
 Avhirlwind; and she did not hear Nelly behind her 
 calling her, to tell her where he lived. She had no 
 recollection of that. She did not wait for any one to 
 open the door for her, but rushed out, moved by her 
 own purpose as by a supernatural influence; and but 
 for the violent start he gave, it would have been into 
 his arms she rushed as she stepped out from the Askells' 
 door. 
 
 This was how their meeting happened. Percival 
 ]iad been going there to ask some questions about the 
 Cottage and its inmates, when his wife, with that look 
 he knew so well, with all the coming storm in her 
 eyes, and the breath of excitement quick on her parted 
 lips — stepped out almost into his arms. He was fond 
 of her, notwithstanding all their mutual sins-, and their 
 spirits rushed together, though in a different way from 
 that rush which accompanies the meeting of the lips. 
 They rushed together with a certain clang and spark; 
 and the two stood facing each other in the street, de- 
 fying, hating, stx'uggling, feeling that they belonged to 
 each other once more. 
 
 "I must speak with you," said Winnie, in her 
 haste; "take me somewhere that I may speak. Is this 
 your revenge? I know what you have done. When 
 everything is ended that you can do to me, you strike 
 me through my friends." 
 
 "If you choose to think so — " said Percival. 
 
 "If I choose to think so? What else can I think?" 
 said the hot combatant; and she went on by his side 
 Avith hasty steps and a passion and force which she 
 had not felt in her since the day when she fled from
 
 MADONNA MARY. 229 
 
 biin. She felt the new tide in her veins, the new 
 strength in her lieart. It was not the calm of union, it 
 was the heat of conflict; but still, such as it was, it 
 was her life. She went on with him, never looking or 
 thinking where they were going, till they reached the 
 rooms where he was living, and then, all by them- 
 selves, the husband and wife looked each other in the 
 face. 
 
 "Why did you leave me, Winnie?" he said. "I 
 might be wrong, but what does it matter? I may be 
 wrong again, but I have got what I wanted. I would 
 not have minded much killing the boy for the sake of 
 seeing you and having it out. Let them manage it 
 their own way, it is none of our business. Come back 
 to me, and let them settle it their own way." 
 
 "Never!" cried Winnie, though there was a struggle 
 in her heart. "After doing all the harm you could do 
 to me, do you think you can recall me by ruining my 
 sister? How dare you venture to look me in the 
 face?" 
 
 "And I tell you I did not mind what I did to get 
 to see you and have it out with you," said Percival; 
 "and if that is why you are here, I am glad I did it. 
 What is Mary to me? She must look after herself. 
 But I cannot exist without my wife." 
 
 "It was like that, your conduct that drove me 
 away," said Winnie, with a quiver on her lips. 
 
 "It was like it," said he, "only that you never did 
 me justice. My wife is not like other men's wives. I 
 might drive you away, for you were always impatient; 
 but you need not think I would stick at anything that 
 had to be done to get you back."
 
 230 MADONNA l\rARY. 
 
 "You will never get me back," said Winnie, witli 
 flashing eyes. All lier beauty bad come back to her 
 in that moment. It was the warfare that did it, and 
 at the same time it was the homage and flattery which 
 were sweet to her, and which she could see in every- 
 thing he said. He would have stuck at nothing to get 
 her back. For that object he would have ruined, or 
 killed, or done anything wicked. What did it matter 
 about the other people? There was a sort of magnifi- 
 cence in it that took her captive; for neither of the two 
 had pure motives or a high standard of action, or 
 enough even of conventional goodness to make them 
 hypocrites. They both acknowledged, in a way, that 
 themselves, the two of them, were the chief objects in 
 the universe, and everything else in the world faded 
 into natural insignificance when they stood face to face, 
 and their great perennial conflict was renewed. 
 
 "I do not believe it," said Percival. "I have told 
 you I will stick at nothing. Let other people take care 
 of their own affairs. What have you to do in that 
 weedy den with that old woman? You are not good 
 enough, and you never were meant for that. I knew 
 you would come to me at the last." 
 
 "But you are mistaken," said Winnie, still brea- 
 thing fire and flame. "The old woman, as you call 
 her, is good to me, good as nobody ever was. She 
 loves me, though you may think it strange. And if I 
 have come to you it is not for you; it is to ask what 
 you have done, what your horrible motive could be, 
 and why, now yoii have done every injury to me a 
 man could do, you should try to strike me through my 
 friends." 
 
 "I do not care that for your friends," said Percival.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 231 
 
 "It was to force you to see me, and Lave it out. Let 
 them take care of themselves. Neither man nor woman 
 has any right to interfere in my affairs." 
 
 "Nobody was interfering in your affairs," cried 
 Winnie; "do you tliink they had anything to do witli 
 it? — coiihl they have kept me if I wanted to go? It 
 is me you are fighting against. Leave Mary alone, 
 and put out your strength on me. I hai'med you, per 
 liaps, when I gave in to you and let you marry me. 
 But she never did you any harm. Leave Mary, at 
 least, alone." 
 
 Percival turned away with a disdainful shrug of 
 his shoulders. He was familiar enough with the taunt. 
 "If you harmed me by that act, I harmed you still 
 more, I suppose," he said. ""We have gone over that 
 ground often enough. Let us have it out now. Are 
 you coming back to your duty and to me?" 
 
 "I came to speak of Maiy," said Winnie, facing 
 him as he turned. "Set those right first who have 
 never done you any harm, and then we can think of 
 the others. The innocent come first. Strike at me 
 like a man, but not through my friends." 
 
 She sat down as she spoke, without quite knowing 
 Avhat she did. She sat down, because, though the 
 spirit was moved to passionate energy, the flesh was 
 weak. Perhaps something in the movement touched 
 the man who hated and loved her, as she loved and 
 hated him. A sudden pause came to the conflict, such 
 as does occur capriciously in such struggles; in the 
 midst of their fury a sudden touch of softness came 
 over them. They were alone — nothing but mists of 
 l)assion were between them, and though they were 
 fighting like foos, still their perverse souls were one.
 
 232 .MADONNA :\rARY. 
 
 He came up to Ler suddenly and seized her hands, not 
 tenderly, but rudely, as was natural to his state of mind. 
 
 "Winnie," he said, "this will not do; come away 
 with me. You may struggle as you please, but you 
 are mine. Don't let us make a laughing-stock of our- 
 selves! What are a set of old women and children 
 between you and me? Let them fight it out; it will 
 all come right. What is anything in the world be- 
 tween you and me? Come! I am not going to be 
 turned off or put away as if you did not mind. I 
 know you better than that. Come! I tell you, nothing 
 can stand between you and me." 
 
 "Never!" said Winnie, blazing with passion; but 
 even while she sj)oke the course of the torrent changed. 
 It leaped the feeble boundaries, and went into the other 
 channel — the channel of love which runs side by side 
 with that of hate. "You leave me to be insulted by 
 everybody who has a mind — and if 1 were to go Avith 
 you, it is you who would insult me!" cried Winnie. 
 And the tears came pouring to her eyes suddenly like 
 a thunder-storm. It was all over in a moment, and 
 that was all that was said. What were other people 
 that either he or she should postpone their own affairs 
 to any secondary consideration? Their spirits rushed 
 together with a flash of fire, and roll of thunder. The 
 suddenness of it was the thing that made it effectual. 
 Something "smote the chord of self, that trembling" 
 burst into a tumult of feeling and took to itself the 
 semblance of love ; no matter how it had been brought 
 about. Was not anything good that set them face to 
 face, and showed the two that life could not continue 
 for them apart? Neither the tears, nor the reproaches, 
 nor the passion were over, but it changed all at once
 
 MADONNA S[ARY. 233 
 
 into sucli a quarrel as had happened often enough 
 before then. As soon as "Winnie came back to her 
 warfare, she had gone back, so to speak, to her duties 
 according to her conception of them. Thus the con- 
 flict swelled, and rose, and fluctuated, and softened, 
 like many another; but no more thoughts of the Cot- 
 tage, or of Aunt Agatha, or of Mary's sudden calamity 
 drew Winnie from her own subject. After all, it was, 
 as she had felt, a pasteboard cottage let down upon 
 her for the convenience of the moment — a thing to 
 disappear by pulleys when the moment of necessity 
 was over. And when they had had it out, she went 
 off with her husband the same evening, sending a rapid 
 note of explanation to Aunt Agatha — and not with 
 any intention of unkindness, bi;t only with that superior 
 sense of the importance of her OAvn concerns which 
 was natural to her. She hoped Mary would come back 
 soon, and that all would be comfortably settled, she 
 said. "And Mary is more of a companion to you than 
 I ever could be," Winnie added in her letter, with a 
 touch of that strange jealousy which was always latent 
 in her. She was glad that Mary should be Miss Seton's 
 companion, and yet was vexed that anybody should 
 take her place with her aunt, to whom she herself had 
 once been all in all. Thus Winnie, who had gone into 
 Carlisle that morning tragically bent upon the con- 
 founding of her husband's plans, and the formation of 
 one eternal wall of separation between them, eloped 
 with him in the evening as if he had been her lover. 
 And there was a certain thrill of pride and tenderness 
 in her bosom to think that to win her back he would 
 stick at nothing, and did not hesitate to strike her 
 through her friends.
 
 2^4 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 There is sometliing- wonderful in the ease with 
 which the secondary actors in a great crisis can shake 
 tliemselves free of the event, and return to their own 
 affairs, however exciting the moment may be at which 
 it suits them to strike off. The bystanders turn away 
 from the most horrible calamity, and sit down by their 
 own tables and talk about their own trivial business 
 before the sound of the guns has ceased to vibrate on 
 the air, or the smoke of the battle has dispersed which 
 has brought ruin and misery to their dearest friends. 
 The principle of human nature, that every man should 
 bear his own burden , lies deeper than all philosophy. 
 AVinnie, though she had been excited about her sister's 
 mysterious misfortune and roused by it, and was ready, 
 to her own inconvenience, to make a great effort on 
 Mary's behalf, yet coiild turn off on her way without 
 any struggle, with that comfortable feeling that all must 
 come right in the end which is so easy for the lookers- 
 on. But the real sufferers could not entertain so charm- 
 ing a confidence. That same day rose heavily over 
 poor Hugh, who, all alone in Earlston, still debated 
 with himself. He had written to his uncle to express 
 his amazement and dismay, and to ask for time to give 
 full consideration to the terrible news he had heard. 
 "You need not fear that I will do anything to wound 
 my mother," the poor boy had written, with a bitter 
 pang in his heart. But after that he had sunk into a 
 maze of questions and discussions with himself, and of
 
 MADONNA MARY. 235 
 
 miserable uncertainty as to what he ought to do. The 
 idea of asking anybody for information about it seemed 
 almost as bad to him as owning the fact at once; asking 
 about his mother — about facts in her life which she 
 had never herself disclosed — inquiring if, perhaps, 
 she was a woman dishonoured and unworthy of her 
 children's confidence! It seemed to Hugh as if it would 
 be far easier to give up Earlston, and let Will or any 
 one else who pleased have it. He had tried more than 
 once to write to Mr. Churchill , the chaplain , of whom 
 he had heard his mother speak, and of whom he had 
 even a faint traditional sort of recollection; but the 
 effort always sickened him, and made him rush away 
 in disgust to the open air, and the soothing sounds of 
 nature. He was quite alone during those few days. 
 His neighbours did not know of his return, for he had 
 been so speedily overtaken by this news as to have had 
 no heart to go anywhere or sliow himself among them. 
 Thus he was left to his own thoughts, and they were 
 bitter. In the very height of his youthful hopes and 
 satisfaction, just at the moment when he was most full 
 of plans, and taking the most perfect pleasure in his 
 life, this bewildering cloud had come on him. He did 
 not even go on with his ])reparations for the transfer 
 of the Museiim, in the sickness of his heart, notwith- 
 standing the eagerness he felt whenever he thought of 
 it to complete that arrangement at least, and secure his 
 uncle's will to that extent, if no more. But it did not 
 seem possible to exert himself about one thing without 
 exerting himself about all, and he who had been so 
 fresh and full of energy, fell supine into a kind of utter 
 wretchedness, "^riie course of his life was stopped when 
 it liad been in full career. He was suddenly thrown
 
 23G MADONNA MAUV. 
 
 out of all he bad been doing, all be bad been plan- 
 ning. Tbe scbeme of bis existence seemed all at once 
 turned into folly and made a lie of. What could be do? 
 His lawyer wrote to say tbat be meant to come to 
 Earlston on some business connected witb tbe estate, 
 but Hugb put bim off, and deferred every tbing. How 
 could be discuss affairs wbicb possibly were not bis 
 affairs, but bis brother's? How could be enter into any 
 arrangements, or tbink of anytbing, however reasonable 
 or necessary, with this sword hanging over his bead? 
 He got up early in the morning, and startled tbe ser- 
 vants before they were up, by opening doors and shutters 
 in bis restlessness; and he sat up at night thinking it 
 all over, for ever thinking of it and never coming to 
 any result. How could he inquire, bow could be prove 
 or disprove the horrible assertioii? Even to think of 
 it seemed a tacit injury to bis mother. The only way 
 to do his duty by her seemed to be to give up all and 
 go away to the end of the world. And yet he was a 
 man, and right and justice were dear to bim, and be 
 revolted against doing that. It was as if he bad been 
 caught by some gigantic iron band of fate in tbe sweet- 
 ness of bis fearless life. He had never heard nor read 
 of, be thought, anything so cruel. By times bitter tears 
 came into bis eyes, wrung from him by tbe intolerable 
 pressure. He could not give up bis own cause and his 
 mother's cause without a struggle. He could not re- 
 linquish his life and rights to another; and yet bow 
 could be defend himself by means that would bring one 
 question to careless lips, one light laugh to the curious 
 world, over bis mother's name? Such an idea bad 
 never so much as entered into bis bead. It made bis 
 life miserable.
 
 MADONNA MARV. 237 
 
 He read over Mr. Penrose's letter a dozen times in 
 tlie day, and lie sat at niglit with liis eyes fixed on the 
 ilame of his lamp, calling back his childhood and its 
 events. It was as vague as a dream, and he could not 
 identify his broken recollections. If he could have gone 
 to Mrs. Ochterlony and talked it over with her, Hugh 
 might have remembered many things, but wanting that 
 thread of guidance he lost himself in the misty maze. 
 Jiy dint of thinking it over and over, and representing 
 the scene to his mind in every possible way, it came to 
 him finally to believe that some faint impression of 
 the event which he was asked to remember did linger 
 in his memory, and that thought, which he could not 
 })Ut away, stung him like a serpent. Was it really true 
 that he remembered it? Then the accusation must be 
 
 true, and he nameless and without rights, and Mary . 
 
 Not much wonder that the poor boy, sick to the heart, 
 turned his face from the light and hid himself, and felt 
 that he would be glad if he could only die. Yet dying 
 would be of no use, for there was Islay avIio would 
 come next to him, who never would have dreamt of 
 dispossessing him, but who, if this was true, would need 
 to stand aside in his turn and make room for Will. 
 Will ! — It was hard for Hugh not to feel a thrill of 
 rage and scorn and amaze mixing with his misery when 
 lie thought of the younger brother to whom he had 
 been so continually indulgent and affectionate. He who 
 had been always the youngest, the most guarded and 
 tended, whom Hugh could remember in his mother's 
 arms, on her knee, a part of lier as it were; he to turn 
 upon them all, and stain her fame, and ruin the family 
 honour for his own base advantage! These thoughts 
 came surging up one after another, and tore Hugh's
 
 238 MADONNA MARV. 
 
 mind to pieces and made liim as helpless as a child, 
 now with one suggestion, now with another. Wliat 
 could he do? And accordingly he did nothing but fall 
 into a lethargy and maze of despair, did not sleep, did 
 not eat, filled the servants' minds with the wildest sur- 
 mises, and shut himself up, as if that could have de- 
 ferred the course of events, or shut out the coming 
 fate. 
 
 This had la"sted only a day or two, it is true, but 
 it might have been for a century, to judge by Hugh's 
 feelings. He felt indeed as if he had never been other- 
 wise, never been light-hearted or happy, or free to take 
 pleasure in his life; as if he had always been an im- 
 postor expecting to be found out. Nature itself might 
 have awakened him from his stupor had he been left 
 to himself; but, as it happened, there came a sweeter 
 touch. He had become feverishly anxious about his 
 letters ever since the arrival of that one which had 
 struck him so unlooked-for a blow; and he started when 
 something was brought to him in the evening at an 
 hour when letters did not arrive, and a little note with 
 a little red seal, very carefully folded that no curious 
 eye might be able to penetrate. Poor Hugh felt a 
 certain thrill of fright at the innocent-seeming thing, 
 coming insidiously at this moment when he thought 
 himself safe, and bringing, for anything he could tell, 
 the last touch to his misery. He held it in his hand 
 while it was explained to him that one of the servants 
 had been to Carlisle with an order given before the 
 Avorld had changed — - an order made altogether anti- 
 quated and out of course by having been issued three 
 days before; and that he had brought back this note. 
 Only when the door closed vipon the man and his ex-
 
 .MADU.NJSA ilAlli'. 239 
 
 planation did Hugh break the tiny seal. It was not a 
 letter to be alarmed at. It was written as it were witli 
 tears, sweet tears of" sympathy and help and tender 
 succour. This was what Nelly's little letter said: — 
 
 "Dear Mr. HuGir, — I want to let you know of 
 something that has happened to-day, and at which you 
 may perhaps be surprised. Mrs. Percival met Major 
 Percival here, and I think they have made friends*, 
 and she has gone away with him. I think you ought 
 to know, because she told us dear Mrs. Ochterlony had 
 gone to Liverpool; and Miss Seton will be left alone. 
 I should have asked mamma to let me go and stay 
 with her, but I am going into Scotland to an old friend 
 of papa's, who is living at Gretna. I remember hearing 
 long ago that it was at Gretna dear Mrs. Ochterlony 
 was married — and perhaps there is somebody there 
 who remembers her. If you see Aunt Agatha, would 
 you please ask her when it happened? I should so 
 like to see the i)lace, and ask the people if they re- 
 member her. I think she must have been so beautiful 
 then; she is beautiful now • — - I never loved any1)ody 
 so much in my life. And I am afraid she is anxious 
 about Will. I should not like to trouble you, for I 
 am sure you must have a great deal to occupy your 
 mind, but I should so like to know how dear Mrs. 
 ( )chterluny is, and if there is anything the matter with 
 Will. He ahvays was very funny, you know, and then 
 he is only a boy, and does not know what he means. 
 Mamma sends her kind regards, and I am, dear Mr. 
 Hugh, 
 
 "Very sincerely yom-s, 
 
 "Nelly."
 
 240 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 This was the letter. Hugh read it slowly over, 
 every word — and then he read it again ; and two great 
 globes of dew got into his eyes, and Nelly's sweet 
 name grew big as he read through them, and wavered 
 over all the page; and when he had come to that signa- 
 ture the second time he put it down on the table, and 
 leant his face on it, and cried. Yes, cried, though he 
 Avas a man — Avept hot tears over it, few but great, 
 that felt to him like the opening of a spring in his 
 soul, and drew the heat and the horror out of his 
 brain. His young breast shook with a few great sobs 
 — the passion climbing in his throat burst forth, and 
 liad iitterance; and then he rose up and stretched his 
 young arms, and drew himself up to the fulness of his 
 lieight. What did it matter, after all? What Avas 
 money, and lands, and every good on earth, compared 
 to the comfort of living in the same world Avith a crea- 
 ture such as this , who Avas as sweet as the flowers, and 
 as true as the sky? She had done it by instinct, not 
 knowing, as she herself said, Avliat she meant, or 
 kuoAving only that her little heart swelled Avith kind 
 impulses, tender pity, and indignation, and yet pity 
 oA'er all; pity for Will, too, aa'Iio, perhaps, Avas going 
 to make them all miserable. But Nelly could not have 
 understood the effect her little letter had upon Hugh. 
 He shook himself free after it, as if from chains that 
 had been upon him. He ga\'e a groan, poor boy, at 
 the calamity which Avas not to be ignored, and then he 
 said to himself, "After all!" After all, and in spite of 
 all, while there was Nelly liA^ing, it was not unmingled 
 ill to live. And when he looked at it again, a more 
 reasonable kind of comfort seemed to come to him out 
 of the girl's letter; his eye was caught by the word
 
 MADONNA MARY. 241 
 
 struck out, which yet was not too carefully struck out, 
 "where dear Mrs. Ochterlony was first married." He 
 gave a cry wheu tliis new light entered into his mind. 
 He roused himself up from his gloom and stupor, and 
 thought and thought until his very brain ached as with 
 labour, and his limbs began to tlu-ill as with new vigour 
 coming back. And a glimmering of the real truth sud- 
 denly nashed, all vague and dazzling, upon Hugh's 
 darkness. There had been no hint in Mr. Penrose's 
 letter of any such interpretation of the mystery. Mr. 
 Penrose himself had received no such hint, and even 
 Will, poor boy, had heard of it only as a fable, to 
 which he gave no attention. They two, and Hugh 
 himself in his utter misery, had accepted as a probable 
 fact the calumny of which Nelly's pure mind instinc- 
 tively demanded an explanation. They had not known 
 it to be impossible that Mary should be guilty of such 
 sin; but Nelly had known it, and recognised the in- 
 credible mystery, and demanded the reason for it, which 
 everybody else had ignored or forgotten. He seemed 
 to see it for a moment, as the watchers on a sinking 
 ship might see the gleam of a light-house; — and then 
 it disappeared from him in the wild waste of ignorance 
 and wonder, and then gleamed out again, as if in 
 Nelly's eyes. That was why she was going, bless her! 
 She who never went upon visits, she who knew better, 
 and had insight in her eyes, and saw it could not be. 
 These thoughts passed through Hugh's mind in a flood, 
 and changed heaven and earth round about him , and 
 set him on solid gi'ound, as it were, instead of chaos. 
 He was not wise enough, good enough, pure enough, 
 to know the trutli of himself — but Nelly could see it, 
 as witli angel eyes. He was young, and he loved 
 
 Madonna Mari). 11. 16
 
 242 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Nelly, and tLat was Low it appeared to liim. SLame 
 that had been brooding over him in the darkness, fled 
 away. He rose up and felt as if he were yet a man, 
 and had still his life before him, whatever might liap- 
 pen; and that he was there not only to comfort and 
 protect his mother, but to defend and vindicate her; 
 not to run away and keep silent like the guilty, but to 
 face the pain of it, and the shame of it, if such bitter 
 need was, and establish the truth. All this came to 
 Hugh's mind from the simple little letter, which Nelly, 
 crying and burning with indignation and pity, and an 
 intolerable sense of wrong, had written without know- 
 ing what she meant. For anything Hugh could tell, 
 his mother's innocence and honour, even if intact, might 
 never be proved, - — might do no more for him than 
 had it been guilt and shame. The difference was that 
 he had seen this accusation, glancing through Nelly's 
 eyes, to be impossible; that he had found out that there 
 was an interpretation somewhere, and the load was 
 taken off his soul. 
 
 The change was so great, and his relief so im- 
 mense, that he felt as if even that night he must act 
 upon it. He could not go away, as he longed to do, 
 for all modes of communication with the world until 
 the morning were by that time impracticable. But he 
 did what eased his mind at least. He wrote to Mr. 
 Penrose a very grave, almost solemn letter, with neither 
 horror nor even anger in it. "I do not know what the 
 circumstances are, nor what the facts may be," he 
 wrote, "but whatever they are, I do not doubt that my 
 mother will explain — and I shall come to you imme- 
 diately, that the truth may be made clearly apparent." 
 And he wrote to Mr. Churchill as he had never yet had
 
 MADONNA MARV. 243 
 
 tlie courage to do, asking to be told how it was. When 
 lie had done this, he rose up, feeling himself still more 
 his own master. Hugh did not deceive himself-, he did 
 not think, because Nelly had communicated to his eyes 
 her own divine simplicity of sight, that therefore it was 
 certain that everything would be made clear and mani- 
 fest to the law or the world. It might be otherwise: 
 Mrs. Ochterlouy might never be .able to establish her 
 own spotless fame, and her elder children's rights. It 
 might be, by some horrible conspiracy of circumstances, 
 that his name and position should be taken from him, 
 and his honour stained beyond remedy. Such a thing 
 was still possible. But Hugh felt that even then all 
 would not be lost, that God would still be in heaven, 
 and justice and mercy to some certain extent on the 
 earth, and duty still before him. The situation was 
 not changed, but only the key-note of his thoughts 
 was changed, and his mind had come back to itself. 
 He rose up, though it was getting late, and rang the 
 bell for Francis Ochterlony's favourite servant, and 
 began to arrange about the removal of the Museum. 
 He might not be master long — in law; but he was 
 master by right of nature and his uncle's will, and he 
 would at least do his duty as long as he remained 
 there. 
 
 Mrs. Gilsland, the housekeeper, was in the hall as 
 he went out, and she curtseyed and stood before him, 
 rustling in her black silk goAvn, and eyeing him doubt- 
 fully. She was afraid to disturb the Squire, as she 
 said, but there was a poor soul there, if so be as he 
 would speak a word to her. It annoyed Hugh to be 
 drawn away from his occupations just as he had been 
 roused to return to them ; but Nelly's letter and the in-
 
 244 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 fluence of profound emotion had given a certain soft- 
 ness to his soul. He asked what it was, and heard it 
 was a poor woman who had come with a petition. She 
 had come a long way, and had a child with her, but 
 nobody had liked to disturb the young Squire: and 
 now it was providential, Mrs. Gilsland thought, that 
 he should have passed just at that moment. "She has 
 been gone half her lifetime, Mr. Hugh — I mean Sir," 
 said the housekeeper, "though she was born and bred 
 here; and her poor man is that bad with the paralytics 
 that she has to do everything, which she thought if 
 perhaps you would give her the new lodge " 
 
 "The new lodge is not built yet," said Hugh, with 
 a pang in his heart, feeling, notwithstanding his new 
 courage, that it was hard to remember all his plans 
 and the thousand changes it might never be in his 
 power to make-, "and it ought to be some one who has 
 a claim on the family," he added, with a half-conscious 
 sigh. 
 
 "And that's what poor Susan has," said Mrs. Gils- 
 land. "Master would never have said no if it had 
 been in his time; for he knew as he had been unjust 
 to them poor folks; and a good claim on you, Mr. 
 Hugh. She is old Sommerville's daughter, as you may 
 have heard talk on , and as decent a woman " 
 
 "Who was old Sommerville?" said Hugh. 
 
 "He was one as was a faithful servant to your^ 
 poor papa," said the housekeeper. "I've heard as he 
 lost his place all for the Captain's sake, as was Captain 
 Ochterlony then, and as taking a young gentleman as 
 ever was. If your mother was to hear of it. Mi*. Hugh, 
 she is not the lady to forget. A poor servant may be 
 most a friend to his master — I've heard many and
 
 MADONNA MAKY. 245 
 
 mauy a one say so that was real quality — and your 
 mamma being a trne lady " 
 
 "Yes," said Hngh, "a good servant is a friend; 
 and if she had any claims upon my father, I will cer- 
 tainly see her; bnt I am busy now. I have not been 
 — well. I have been neglecting a great many things, 
 and now that I feel a little better, I have a great deal 
 to do." 
 
 "Uh, sir, it isn't lost time as makes a poor creature's 
 heart to sing for joy!" said Mrs. Gilsland. She was a 
 formidable housekeeper, but she was a kind woman; 
 and somehow a subtle perception that their young 
 master had been in trouble had crept into the mind of 
 the household. "Which it's gi'ieved as we've all been 
 to see as you was not — well," she added, with a 
 curtsey; "it's been the watching and the anxiety; and 
 so good as you was, sir, to the Squire. But poor 
 Susan has five mile to go, and a child in arms, as is a 
 load to carry; and her poor sick husband at home. 
 And it was borne in upon them as perhaps for old 
 Sommerville's sake — " 
 
 "Well, who was he?" said Hugh, with languid 
 interest, a little fretted by the interruption, yet turning 
 his steps towards the housekeeper's room, from which 
 a gleam of firelight shone, at the end of a long cor- 
 ridor. He did not know anything about old Som- 
 merville; the name awakened no associations in his 
 mind, and even the housekeeper's long narrative as she 
 followed him caught his attention only by intervals. 
 She was so anxious to produce an elfect for her protegee's 
 sake that she began with an elaborate description of 
 old Sommerville's place and privileges, which whizzed 
 past Hugh's ear Avithout ever touching his mind. But
 
 246 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 he was too good-liearted to resist the picture of the 
 poor woman who had five miles to go, and a baby and 
 a sick husband. She was sitting basking before the 
 fire in Mrs. Gilsland's room, poor soul, thinking as 
 little about old Sommerville as the young Squire Avas; 
 her heart beating high with anxiety about the new 
 lodge — beating as high as if it was a kingdom she 
 had hopes of conquering-, with excitement as profound 
 as that which moved Hugh himself when he thought of 
 his own fortune hanging in the balance, and of the 
 name and place and condition of which perhaps he was 
 but an usurper. It was as much to poor Susan to have 
 the lodge as it was to him to have Earlston, or rather 
 a great deal more. And he went in, putting a stop to 
 Mrs. Gilsland's narrative, and began to talk to the poor 
 suitor; and the firelight played pleasantly on the young 
 man's handsome face, as he stood full in its ruddy il- 
 lumination to hear her story, Avith his own anxiety 
 lying at his heart like a stone. To look at this scene, 
 it looked the least interesting of all that Avas going on 
 at that moment in the history of the Ochterlony family 
 — less important than Av^hat was taking place in Liver- 
 pool, where Mary was — or eA^en than poor Aunt 
 Agatha's solitary tears over Winnie's letter, which had 
 just been taken in to her, and which Avent to her heart. 
 The new lodge might neA^er be built, and Hugh Ochter- 
 lony might never have it in his power to do anything 
 for poor Susan, who was old Sommerville's daughter. 
 But at least he was not hard-hearted, and it was a kind 
 of natural grace and duty to hear what the poor soul 
 had to say.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 247 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 It was morning when Mary arrived in Liverpool, 
 early morning, chilly and grey. She had been detained 
 on the road by the tronblesome delays of a cross route, 
 and the fresh breath of the autumnal morning chilled 
 her to the heart. And she had not come with any 
 distinct plan. She did not know what she was going 
 to do. It had seemed to her as if the mere sight of 
 her would set her boy right, had there been evil in his 
 mind; and she did not know that there was any evil 
 in his mind. She knew nothing of what was in Mr. 
 Penrose's letter, which had driven Hugh to such despair. 
 She did not even know whether Will had so much as 
 mentioned his discovery to Uncle Penrose, or whether 
 he might not have fled there, simply to get away from 
 the terrible thought of his mother's disgrace. If it 
 were so, she had but to take her boy in her arms, to 
 veil her face with sliame, yet raise it with conscious 
 honour, and tell him how it all was. This, perhaps, 
 was what she most thought of doing — to show him 
 the rights of the story, of which he had only heard the 
 evil-seeming side, and to reconcile him to herself and 
 the world, and his life, on all of which a shadow must 
 rest, as Mary thought, if any shadow rested on his 
 mother. By times she was grieved with AVill — "angry," 
 as he would have said — to think he had gone away 
 in secret without unfolding his troubles to the only 
 creature who could clear them up; but by times it 
 seemed to her as though it was only his tenderness of
 
 248 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 her, his delicacy for her, that had driven him away. 
 That he could not endure the appearance of a stain 
 upon her, that he was unable to let her know the pos- 
 sibility of any suspicion — this was chiefly what Mrs. 
 Ochterlony thought. And it made her heart yearn to- 
 wards the boy. Anything about Earlston, or Hugh, or 
 the property, or Will's rights, had not crossed her 
 mind; even Mrs. Kirkman's hints had proved useless, 
 so far as that was concerned. Such a thing seemed to 
 her as impossible as to steal or to murder. When they 
 were babies, a certain thrill of apprehension had moved 
 her whenever she saw any antagonism between the 
 brothers; but when the moment of realizing it came, 
 she was unable to conceive of such a horror. To think 
 of Will harming Hugh ! It was impossible — - more than 
 impossible; and thus as she drove through th« unknown 
 streets in the early bustle of the morning, towards the 
 distant suburb in which Mr. Penrose lived, her thoughts 
 rejected all tragical suppositions. The interview would 
 be painful enough in any case, for it was hard for a 
 mother to have to defend herself, and vindicate her 
 good fame, to her boy; but still it could have been no- 
 thing but Will's horror at such a revelation — his 
 alarm at the mere idea of such a suspicion ever be- 
 coming known to his mother — his sense of disenchant- 
 ment in the entire world following his discovery, that 
 made him go away: and this she had it in her power 
 to dissipate for ever. This was how she Avas thinking 
 as she approached Mr. Penrose's great mansion, looking 
 out eagerly to see if any one might be visible at the 
 windows. She saw no one, and her heart beat high as 
 she looked up at the blank big house, and thought of 
 the young heart that would flutter and perhaps sicken
 
 MADONNA MARY. 249 
 
 at the sight of her, and then expand into an infinite 
 content. For by this time slie liad so reasoned herself 
 into reassurance, and the light and breath of the morn- 
 ing had so invigorated her mind, that she had no more 
 doubt that her explanations would content him, and 
 clear away every cloud from his thoughts, than she had 
 of his being her son, and loyal as no sou of hers could 
 fail to be. 
 
 Tlie servants did not make objections to her as 
 they had done to Will. They admitted her to the cold, 
 uninhabited drawing-room, and informed her that Mr. 
 Penrose was out, but that young Mr. Ochterlony was 
 certainly to be found. "Tell him it is his mother," 
 said Mary, with her heart yearning over him ; and then 
 she sat doA^ni to wait. There was nothing after all in 
 the emergency to tremble at. She smiled at herself 
 when she thought of her own horrible apprehensions, 
 and of the feelings with which she had hurried from 
 the Cottage. It would be hard to speak of the suspicion 
 to which she was subjected, but then she could set it 
 to rest for ever: and Avhat did the pang matter? Thus 
 she sat with a wistful smile on her face, and waited. 
 The moments passed , and she heard sounds of steps 
 outside, and something that sounded like the hurried 
 shutting of the great door; but no eager foot coming to 
 meet her — no rapid entrance like that she had looked 
 for. She sat still until the smile became rigid on her lip, 
 and a wonderful depression came to her soul. Was he 
 not coming? Could it bo that he judged her without 
 hearing her, and would not see his mother? Then her 
 heart woke up again when she heard some one ap- 
 proaching, but it was only the servant who had opened 
 the door.
 
 250 MADONNA MAUY. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, ma'am," said the man, with 
 hesitation, "but it appears I made a mistake. Young 
 Mr. Ochterlony was not — I mean he has gone out. 
 Perhaps, if it was anything of importance, you could 
 wait." 
 
 "He has gone out? so early? — - surely not after he 
 knew I was here?" said Mary, wildly; and then she 
 restrained herself with an effort. "It is something of 
 importance," she said, giving a groan in her heart, 
 which Avas not audible. "I am his mother, and it is 
 necessary that I should see him. Yes, I will wait; and 
 if you could send some one to tell him , if you know 
 where he is — " 
 
 "I should think, ma'am, he is sure to be home to 
 luncheon," said the servant, evading this demand. To 
 luncheon — and it was only about ten o'clock in the 
 morning now. Mary clasped her hands together to 
 keep herself from crying out. Could he have been out 
 before she arrived — could he have fled to avoid her? 
 She'asked herself the question in a kind of agony; but 
 Mr. Penrose's man stood blank and respectful at the 
 door, and offered no point of appeal. She could not 
 take him into her counsel, or consult him as to what it 
 all meant; and yet she was so anxious, so miserable, 
 so heart-struck by this suspense, that she could not let 
 him go without an effort to find something out. 
 
 "Has he gone with his uncle?" she said. "Perhaps 
 I might find him at Mr. Penrose's office. No? Or 
 perhaps you can tell me if there is any place he is in 
 the habit of going to, or if he always goes out so 
 early. I want very much to see him; 1 have been 
 travelling all night; it is very important," Mary added, 
 wistfully looking in the attendant's face.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 2.51 
 
 Mr. Penrose's butler was very solemn and precise, 
 but yet there was somethin/i," in the sight of her re- 
 strained distress which moved him. "I don't know as 
 I have remarked what time the young gentleman goes 
 out," he said. "He's early this morning — mostly he 
 varies a bit — but I don't make no doubt as he'll be 
 in to luncheon." When he had said this the man did 
 not go away, but stood with a mixture of curiosity and 
 sympathy, sorry for the new-comer, and wondering 
 what it all meant. If JMary herself could bxit have 
 made out what it all meant! She turned away, with 
 the blood, as she thought, all going back upon her 
 heart, and the currents of life flowing backward 
 to their source. Had he fled from her? What did it 
 mean? 
 
 In this state of suspense Mrs. Ochterlony passed the 
 morning. She had a maid sent to her, and was shown, 
 though with a little wonder and hesitation, into a sleep- 
 ing room, where she mechanically took off" her travel- 
 ling wraps and assumed her indoor appeai-ance so far as 
 that was possible. It was a great, still, empty, resound- 
 ing house; the rooms were large, coldly furnished, still 
 looking new for want of use, and vacant of any kind 
 of occupation or interest. Mary came downstairs again, 
 and placed herself at one of the great windoAvs in the 
 drawing-room. She would not go out, even to seek 
 Will, lest she might miss him by the way. She went 
 and sat down by the window, and gazed out upon the 
 strip of suburban road which was visible through the 
 shrubberies, feeling her heart beat when any figure, 
 however unlike her boy, appeared upon it. It might 
 be he, undiscerniblc in the distance, or it might be 
 some one from him, some messenger or ambassador. It
 
 252 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 was wliat might be called a handsome room, but it was 
 vacant, destitute of everything which could give it 
 interest, with some trifling picture-books on the table 
 and meaningless knick-nacks. When Mrs. Ochterlony 
 was sick of sitting watching at the window she would 
 get up and walk round it, and look at the well-bound 
 volumes on the table, and feel herself grow wild in the 
 excess of her energy and vehemence, by conti-ast with 
 the deadly calm of her surroundings. "What was it to 
 this house, or its master, or the other human creatures 
 in it, that she was beating her Avings thus, in the 
 silence, against the cage? Thus she sat, or stood, or 
 walked about, the whole long morning, counting the 
 minutes on the time-piece or on her watch, and feeling 
 every minute an hour. Where had he gone? had he fled 
 to escape? or was his absence natural and accidental? 
 These questions went through her head, one upon an- 
 other, with increasing commotion and passion, until she 
 found herself unable to rest, and felt her veins tingling 
 and her pulses throbbing in a wild harmony. It seemed 
 years since she bad arrived wlien one o'clock struck, 
 and a few minutes later the sound of a gong thrilled 
 through the silence. This was for luncheon. It was 
 not a bell, which might be heard outside and quickened 
 the steps of any one Avho might be coming. Mary 
 stood still and w^atched at her window, but nobody 
 came. And then the butler, whose curiosity was more 
 and more roused, came ixpstairs with steady step, and 
 shoes that creaked in a deprecating, apologetic way, to 
 ask if she would go down to luncheon, and to regret 
 respectfully that the young gentleman had not yet come 
 in. "No doubt, ma'am, if he had known you were 
 coming, he'd have been here," the man said, not
 
 MADONNA MARY. 253 
 
 without an inquiring look at her, which IMi'S. Ochterlony 
 was vaguely conscious of. She went downstairs with a 
 kind of mechanical obedience, feeling it an ease to go 
 into another room, and find another window at which 
 she could look out. She could see another bit of road 
 further off, and it served to fill her for the moment 
 with renewed hope. There, at least, she must surely 
 see him coming. But the moments still kept going 
 on, gliding off the steady hand of the time-piece like 
 so many months or years. And still Will did not 
 come. 
 
 It was all the more dreadful to her, because she 
 had been totally unprepared for any such trial. It had 
 never occun-ed to her that her boy, though he had run 
 away, would avoid her now. By this time even the 
 idea that he could be avoiding her went out of her 
 mind, and she began to think some accident had hap- 
 pened to him. He was yoixng and careless, a country 
 boy — and there was no telling what temble thing 
 might have happened on those thronged streets, which 
 had felt like Pandemonium to Mary's unused faculties. 
 And she did not know where to go to look for him, or 
 what to do. In her terror she began to question the 
 man, who kept coming and going into the room, some- 
 times venturing to invite her attention to the dishes, 
 which were growing cold, sometimes merely looking at 
 her, as he went and came. She asked about her boy 
 — what he had been doing since he came — if he 
 were not in the habit of going to his uncle's office — 
 if he had made any acquaintances — if there was 
 anything that could account for his absence? "Perhaps 
 he wont out sight-seeing," said Mary, "pcrliaps he is 
 with his uncle at the office. He was always very fond
 
 254 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 of shipping." But slie got very doiibtfnl and hesitat- 
 ing replies — replies which were so uncertain that 
 fear blazed up within her-, and the slippery docks 
 and dangerous Avater, the great carts in the streets 
 and the string of carriages, came up before her eyes 
 again. 
 
 Thus the time passed till it was evening. Mary 
 could not, or rather would not, believe her own senses, 
 and yet it was true. Shadows stole into the corners, 
 and a star, which it made her heart sick to see, peeped 
 out in the green-blue sky — and she Avent from one 
 room to another, Avatching the two bits of road. First 
 the one opening, which was fainter and farther off, then 
 the other, which was overshadowed by the trees, yet 
 visible and near. Every time she changed the point of 
 watching, she felt sure that he must be coming. But 
 yet the stars peeped out, and the lamps were lighted on 
 the road, and her boy did not appear. She was a wo- 
 man used to self-restraint, and. but for her flitting up 
 and down stairs, and the persistent way she kept by 
 the window, the servants might not have noticed any- 
 thing remarkable about her; but they had all possession 
 of one fact which quickened their curiosity — and the 
 respectable butler prowled about watching her, in a 
 way which would have u-ritated Mrs. Ochterlony, had 
 she been at sufficient leisure in her mind to remark 
 him. When the time came that the lamp must be 
 lighted and the windows closed, it went to her heart 
 like a blow. She had to reason to herself that her 
 watch could make no difference — could not bring him 
 a moment sooner or later — and yet to be shut out 
 from that one point of interest was hard. They told 
 her Mr. Penrose was expected immediately, and that
 
 MADONNA MARY. 255 
 
 no doubt the youug gentleman woukl be with him. To 
 .see Will only in his uncle's presence was not what 
 ]\Iaiy had been thinking of — but yet it was better 
 than this suspense-, and now that her eyes could serve 
 her no longer, she sat listening, feeling every sound 
 echo in her brain, and herself surrounded, as it were, 
 by a rustle of passing feet and a roll of carriages that 
 came and passed and brought nothing to her. And the 
 house was so still and vacant, and resounded with 
 every movement — even with her own foot, as she 
 changed her seat, though her foot had always been so 
 light. That day's watching had made a change upon 
 her, which a year under other circumstances would not 
 have made. Her brow was contracted with lines un- 
 known to its broad serenity, her eyes looked out ea- 
 gerly from the lids which had grown curved and trian- 
 gular with anxiety, her mouth was drawn together and 
 colourless. The long, speechless, vacant day, with no 
 occupation in it but that of watching and listening, 
 with its sense of time lost and opportunity deferred, 
 with its dreadful suggestion of other things and thoughts 
 which might be making progress and nourishing harm, 
 while she sat here impeded and helpless, and unable to 
 jirevent it, was perhaps the severest ordeal Mary could 
 have passed through. It was the same day on which 
 Winnie went to Carlisle — it was the same evening 
 on which Hugh received Nelly's letter, which found 
 his mother motionless in Mr. Penrose's drawing-room, 
 waiting. This was the hardest of all, and yet not so 
 hard as it might have been. For she did not know, 
 what all the servants in the house knew, that Will had 
 seen her an-ive — that he liad rushed out of the house, 
 begging the man to deceive her — that he had kept
 
 256 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 away all day, not of necessity, but because he did not 
 dare to face her. Mary knew nothing of this; but it 
 was hard enough to contend with the thousand spectres 
 that surrounded her, the fears of accident, the miser- 
 able suspense, the dreary doubt and darkness that 
 seemed to hang over everything, as she waited ever 
 vainly in the silence for her boy's retixrn. 
 
 When some one arrived at the door, her heart 
 leaped so into her throat that she felt herself suffocated; 
 she had to put her hands to her side and clasp them 
 there to support herself as footsteps came up the stair. 
 She grew sick, and a mist came over her eyes; and 
 then all at once she saw clearly, and fell back, fainting 
 in the body, horribly conscious and alive in the mind, 
 when she saw it was Mr. Penrose, who came in alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 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 impor- 
 tance 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 tAvcnty times harder now, when he
 
 MADONNA MARY. 257 
 
 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 broth- 
 er'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 
 nijthing 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 pre- 
 sent 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 sj^eed out of the 
 
 Miuloiina Mary. II. 1 '
 
 258 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 very district in wliicli Mr. Penrose's house was situated. 
 Because his mother woukl be "angry" — because she 
 might find fault with him for going away or insist up- 
 on 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, think- 
 ing 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 suc- 
 ceeded in feeling himself a little ill-used; but inhisheax't he 
 knew that he did not mean that, and that Mrs. Ochter- 
 lony 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 mid- 
 day 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, ajjpalling, 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
 
 MADONNA MAPvY. 259 
 
 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 him- 
 self gone over to the enemy, and was not on his na- 
 tural 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. Pen- 
 rose; 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 
 tlie 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 coiild 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 becaiise his mother was angiy, and he did not 
 
 17*
 
 260 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 feel able to face her and return home. And very for- 
 lorn 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 thrust- 
 ing 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 hardly 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 re- 
 turn 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 unob- 
 served, 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 be- 
 fore 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 afi'air 
 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,
 
 MADONNA MARY. 261 
 
 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. Pen- 
 rose'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 
 have happened 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 diflerent ■ — 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 satis- 
 factory 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 even- 
 ing, 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 dis-
 
 262 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 agreeable siibjects. Mary had to take lier 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 com- 
 panionship as he had always been of old, came with 
 terrible eifect 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 de- 
 fence, 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. Peni-ose took particular
 
 MADONNA MARY. 263 
 
 notice of it, and hoped that she was not allowing her- 
 self 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 just 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 me, uncle? It is necessary 
 I should know." 
 
 "My dear Mary, these are very unpleasant affairs 
 to talk about," said Mr. Penrose. "Yoii 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
 
 264 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 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. Pen- 
 rose, between the sips of his wine. 
 
 "Angry!" said Mary, and then her heart melted at 
 the childish fear. "Oh, uncle, you should have ad- 
 vised him better," she said, "he is only a boy; and you 
 know that whatever happened , he had better have con- 
 sulted 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 con- 
 cerned, 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 up 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 relin- 
 quish his rights and give up such a fine succession 
 merely out of consideration to your feelings. I am
 
 MADONNA MARY. 265 
 
 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 cir- 
 cumstances 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 1 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 Och- 
 terlony 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
 
 266 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Gretna died, and liis 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 Am." 
 
 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, mar- 
 velling 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. Pen- 
 rose, when he caught her eye. "But I don't see what 
 I can say. All that you have told me just amounts
 
 MADONXA MAKY. 267 
 
 to this, tliat your first mai'riage 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 ad- 
 viser, 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 swal- 
 lowing his glass of wine. 
 
 Mary looked at him aghast; she did not under- 
 stand him. It seemed to her as if some delusion had 
 taken possession of her mind, and that the words con- 
 veyed 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 circum- 
 stances 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
 
 268 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 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 only 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 
 stupefied 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, fan- 
 ciful, possible danger of her life had developed into a 
 real danger, more dreadful, more appalling than any- 
 thing 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 indig- 
 nation, mattered nothing. It was in this merciless
 
 MADONNA MARY. 269 
 
 man's band, 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 — Grod 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 /, for the sake of pain or exposure, would give
 
 270 MADONNA MAKY. 
 
 them all up? It must be that you have gone out of 
 your senses , and don't know what you say. /, to save 
 myself at my son's expense!" 
 
 "But Wilfrid is your son too," said Mr. Penrose, 
 slu-inking 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 ach- 
 ing flesh. She thought no more of seeing Will, or of 
 telling him her story, or delivering him from his delu- 
 sion. 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?
 
 MADONNA MARY. 271 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 So very late it was when Will came in, that he 
 crept lip to his room with a silent stealth which felt 
 more like ill-doing to him than any other sin he had 
 been guilty of. He crept to his room, though he would 
 have been glad to have lingered, and warmed himself 
 and been revived with food. But, at the end of this 
 long, wretched day, he was more than ever unfit to 
 face his mother, who he felt sure must be watching for 
 him, watchful and unwearied as she always had been. 
 It did not occur to him that Mrs. Ochterlony, insensible 
 for the moment to all sounds, was lying enveloped in 
 darkness, with her eyes open, and all her faculties at 
 work, and nothing but pain, pain, ever, forever, in her 
 mind. That she could be wound up to a pitch of emo- 
 tion so great that she would not have heard whatever 
 noise he might have made, that she would not have 
 heeded him, that he was safe to go and come as he 
 liked, so far as Mary was concerned, was an idea that 
 never entered Will's mind. He stole in, and went 
 softly up the stairs, and swallowed the glass of wine the 
 butler compassionately brought him, without even say- 
 ing a word of thanks. He was chilled to his bones, 
 and his head ached, and a sense of confused misery was 
 in all his frame. He crept into his bed like a savage, 
 in the dark, seeking warmth, seeking forgctfulness, and 
 hiding; so long as he could be hid, it did not matter. 
 His mother could not come in with the light in her 
 hand to stand by his bedside, and drive all ghosts and
 
 272 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 terrors away., for he had locked the door in his panic. 
 No deliverance could come to him , as it seemed , any 
 way. If she was "angry" before, what must she be 
 now when he had fled and avoided her? and poor Will 
 lay breathing hard in the dark, wondering within him- 
 self why it was he dared not face his mother. What 
 had he done? Instead of having spent the day in his 
 usual fashion, why was he weary, and footsore, and ex- 
 hausted , and sick in body and in mind? He had 
 meant her no harm, he had done no wrong he knew of. 
 It was only a confused, unintelligible weight on his 
 conscience, or rather on his consciousness, that bowed 
 him down, and made him do things which he did not 
 understand. He went to sleep at last, for he was young 
 and weary, and nothing could have kept him from 
 sleeping; but he had a bad night. He dreamed dread- 
 ful dreams, and in the midst of them all saw Mary, 
 always Mary, threatening him, turning away from him, 
 leaving him to fall over precipices and into perils. He 
 started up a dozen times in the course of that troubled 
 night, waking to a confused sense of solitude, and pain, 
 and abandonment, which in the dark and the silence 
 were very terrible to bear. He was still only a boy, 
 and he had done wrong, dreadful wrong, and he did 
 not know what it was. 
 
 In the morning when Will woke things were not 
 much better. He was utterly unrefreshed by his night's 
 rest — if the partial unconsciousness of his sleep could 
 be called rest; and the thought he woke to was, that 
 however she might receive him, to-day he must see 
 his mother. She might be, probably was, "angry," 
 beyond anything he could conceive; bixt however that 
 mio:ht be. he must see her and meet her wrath. It was
 
 MADONNA MARV. 273 
 
 not iintil he liad fully realized that, thought, that a 
 letter was brought to Will, Avhich increased his excite- 
 ment. It was a very unusual thing for him to get 
 letters, and he was startled accordingly. He turned it 
 over and over before he opened it, and thought it must 
 be from Hugh. Hugh, too, must have adopted the 
 plan of pouring out his Avrath against his brother for 
 want of any better defence to make. But then he per- 
 ceived that the writing was not Hugh's. When he 
 opened it Will grew pale, and then he grew red. It 
 was a letter which Nelly Askell had written before she 
 wrote the one to Hugh, which had roused him out of 
 his despondency. Something had inspired the little girl 
 that day. She had written this too, like the other, 
 without very much minding what she meant. This is 
 what Will read upon the morning of the day which he 
 already felt to be in every description a day of fate: — 
 
 "Will! 
 "1 don't think I can ever call yon dear Will again, 
 or think of you as I used to do — oh, Will, what are 
 you doing? If I had been you I would have been tied 
 to the stake, torn with wild horses, done anything to 
 that used to be done to people, rather than turn against 
 my mother. / would have done that for my mother, 
 and if I had had yours! Oh, Will, say you don't 
 mean it! I think sometimes you can't mean it, but 
 have got deluded somehow, for you know you have a 
 bad temper. How coiild you ever believe it? She is 
 not my mother, but I know she never did any wrong. 
 She may have sinned perhaps, as people say everybody 
 sins, but she could never have done any wron(/\ look in 
 her face, and just try whether you can believe it. It 
 
 Madonna Mart/. 11. 18
 
 274 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 is one comfort to me that if you mean to be so wicked 
 (which I cannot believe of you), and were to win (which 
 is not possible), you would never more have a day's 
 happiness again. I hoye you would never have a day's 
 happiness. You would break her heart, for she is a 
 woman, and though you would not break his heart , you 
 would put his life all wrong, and it would haunt you, 
 and you would pray to be poor, or a beggar, or any- 
 thing rather than in a place that does not belong to 
 you. You may think I don't know, but I do know. I 
 am a woman, and understand things better than a boy 
 like you. Oh, Will! we used to be put in the same 
 cradle, and dear Mrs. Ochterlony used to nurse us both 
 when we were babies. Sometimes I think I should have 
 been your sister. If you will come back and put away 
 all this which is too dreadful to think of, I will never 
 more bring it up against you. I for one will forget it, 
 as if it had never been. Nobody shall put it into your 
 mind again. We will forgive you, and love you the 
 same as ever; and when you are a man, and understand 
 and see what it is you have been saved from, you will 
 go down on your knees and thank God. 
 
 "If I had been old enough to travel by myself, or 
 to be allowed to do what I like, I should have gone to 
 Liverpool too, to have given yoix no excuse. It is not 
 so easy to write-, but oh. Will, you know what I mean. 
 Come back, and let us forget that you were ever so 
 foolish and so wicked. I could cry when I think of you 
 all by yourself, and nobody to tell you what is right. Come 
 back, and nobody shall ever bring it ixp against you. Dear 
 Will! don't you love us all too well to make us unhappy? 
 "Still your affectionate 
 
 "Nelly."
 
 MADONNA MARV. 275 
 
 This letter startled the poor boy, and aflfected him 
 in a strange way. It brought the tears to his eyes. It 
 touched him somehow, not by its reproaches, but by 
 the thought that Nelly cared. She had gone over to 
 Hugh's side like all the rest — and yet she cared and 
 took ujjon her that right of reproach and accusation 
 which is more tender than praise. And it made Will's 
 heart ache in a dull way to see that they all thought 
 him wicked. What had he done that was wicked? He 
 ached, poor boy, not only in his heart but in his head, 
 and all over him. He did not get up even to read his 
 letter, but lay in a kind of sad stupor all the morning, 
 wondering if his mother was still in the house — won- 
 dering if she would come to him — v/ondering if she 
 was so angry that she no longer desired to see him. 
 The house was more quiet than usual, he thought — 
 there was no stir in it of voices or footsteps. Perhaps 
 Mrs. Ochterlony had gone away again — perhaps he 
 was to be left here, having got Uncle Penrose on his 
 side, to his sole company — excommunicated and cast 
 off by his own. Wilfrid lay pondering all these thoughts 
 till he could bear it no longer; instead of his pain and 
 shrinking a kind of dogged resistance came into his 
 mind-, at least he would go and face it, and see what 
 was to happen to him. He would go downstairs and 
 find out, to begin with, what this silence meant. 
 
 Perhaps it was just because it was so much later 
 than usual that he felt as if he had been ill when he 
 got up — felt his limbs trembling under him, and 
 shivered, and gre"\v hot and cold — or perhaps it was 
 the fatigue and mental commotion of yesterday. By 
 this time he felt snrc that his mother must be gone. 
 Had she been in the house she would have come to 
 
 18*
 
 276 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 see him. She would have seized the opportunity when 
 he could not escape from her. No doubt she was gone, 
 after waiting all yesterday for him, — gone either 
 hating him or scorning him, casting him oft" from her; 
 and he felt that he had not deserved that. Perhaps he 
 might have deserved that Hugh should turn his enemy 
 — notwithstanding that, even for Hugh he felt him- 
 self ready to do anything — but to his mother he had 
 done no harm. He had meditated nothing but good to 
 her. Jle would not have thought of marrying, or giv- 
 ing to any one but her the supreme place in his house. 
 He would never have asked her or made any doubt 
 about it, but taken her at once to Earlston, and showed 
 her everything there arranged according to her liking. 
 This was what Will had always intended and settled 
 upon. And his mother, for whom he would have done 
 all this, had gone away again, offended and angry, 
 abandoning him to his own devices. Bitterness took 
 possession of his soul as he thought of it. He meant 
 it only for their good — for justice and right, and to 
 have his own; and this was the cruel way in which 
 they received it, as if he had done it out of unkind 
 feelings — even Nelly! A sense that he was wronged 
 came into Wilfrid's mind as he dressed himself, and 
 looked at his pale face in the glass; and smoothed his 
 brown long hair. And yet he stepped out of his room 
 with the feelings of one who ventures upon an undis- 
 covered country, a new region, in which he does not 
 know whether he is to meet with good or evil. He 
 had to support himself by the rail as he went down- 
 stairs. He hesitated and trembled at the drawing-room 
 door, which was a room Mr. Penrose never occupied. 
 Breakfast must be over long ago. If there was any
 
 MADONNA MARY. 277 
 
 lady in the house, no doubt she would be found 
 there. 
 
 He put his hand on the door, but it was a minute 
 or more before he could open it; and he heard no 
 sound within. No doubt she had gone away. He had 
 walked miles yesterday to avoid her, but yet his heart 
 was sore and bled, and he felt deserted and miserable 
 to think that she was gone. But when Will had opened 
 the door, the sight he saw was more wonderful to him 
 than if she had been gone. Mary was seated at the 
 table writing: she was pale, but there was something 
 in her face which told of unusual energy and resolution, 
 a kind of inspiration which gave character to every 
 movement she made. And she was so much pre-occupied, 
 that she showed no special excitement at sight of her 
 boy, she stopped and put away her pen, and rose up 
 looking at him with pitiful eyes. "My poor boy!" 
 she said, and kissed him in her tender way. And then she 
 sat down at the table, and went back to her letters again. 
 
 It was not simple consternation which struck ^Yill; 
 it was a mingled pang of wonder and humiliation and 
 sharp disappointment. Only her poor boy! — only the 
 youngest, the child as he had always been, not the 
 young revolutionary to whom Nelly had written that 
 letter, whom Mrs. Ochterlony had come anxious and in 
 haste to seek. She was more anxious now about her 
 letters apparently than about him, and there was no- 
 thing but tenderness and sorrow in her eyes; and when 
 she did raise her head again, it was to remark his 
 paleness and ask if he was tired. "Go and get some 
 breakfast, "Will," she said; but he did not care for 
 breakfast. He had not the heart to move — he sat in 
 the depths of boyish mortification and looked at her
 
 278 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 writing lier letters. Was that all that it mattered? or 
 was she only making a pretence at indifference? But 
 Mary was too much occupied evidently for any pre- 
 tence. Her whole figure and attitude were full of 
 resolution. Notwithstanding the pity of her voice as 
 she addressed him, and the longing look in her eyes, 
 there was something in her which Wilfrid had never 
 seen before, which revealed to him in a kind of dull 
 way that his mother was wound up to some great emer- 
 gency, that she had taken a great resolution, and was 
 occupied by matters of life and death. 
 
 "You are very busy, it seems," he said, peevishly, 
 when he had sat for some time watching her, wonder- 
 ing when she would speak to him. To find that she 
 Avas not angry, that she had something else to think 
 about, was not half so great a relief as it appeared. 
 
 "Yes, I am busy," said Mary. "I am writing to 
 your brother. Will, and to some people who know all 
 about me, and I have no time to lose. Your uncle 
 Penrose is a hard man, and I am afraid he will be 
 hard on Hugh." 
 
 "No, mother," said Will, feeling his heart beat 
 quick; "he shall not be hard upon Hugh. I want to 
 tell you that. I want to have justice; but for anything 
 else — Hugh shall have whatever he wishes; and as 
 for you — " 
 
 "Oh, Will," said Mrs. Ochterlony; and somehow 
 it seemed to poor Will's disordered imagination that she 
 and his letter were speaking together — "I had almost 
 forgotten that you had anything to do with it. If you 
 had but come first and spoken to me — " 
 
 "Why should I have come and spoken to you?" 
 said Will, growing into gradual excitement; "it will
 
 MADONNA MARY. 279 
 
 not do you any liarm. I am youi* son as well as Hugh 
 — if it is his or if it is mine, what does it matter? I 
 knew you would be angry if I stood up for myself; 
 but a man must stand up for himself when he knows 
 what are his rights." 
 
 "Will, you must listen to me," said Mary, putting 
 away her papers, and turning round to him. "It is 
 Mr. Penrose who has put all this in your head : it could 
 not be my boy that had such thoughts. Uh, Will! my 
 poor child! And now we are in his pitiless hands," 
 said Mary, with a kind of cry, "and it matters nothing 
 what you say or what I say. You have put yourself 
 in his hands." 
 
 "Stop, mother," said Will; "don't make such a dis- 
 turbance about it. Uncle Penrose has nothing to do 
 with it. It is my doing. I will do anything in the 
 world for you, whatever you like to tell me; but I 
 wont let a fellow be there who has no right to be there. 
 I am the heir, and I will have my rights." 
 
 "You are not the heir," said Mrs. Ochterlony, 
 frightened for the moment by his tone and his vehe- 
 mence, and his strange looks. 
 
 "I heard it from two people that were both there,"" 
 said Will, with a gloomy composure. "It was not 
 without asking about it. I am not blaming you, mo- 
 ther — you might have some reason; — but it was I 
 that was born after that thing that happened in India. 
 What is the use of struggling against it? And if it is 
 I that am the heir, why should you try to keep me 
 out of my rights?" 
 
 "Will," said Mary, suddenly driven back into re- 
 gions of personal emotion, which she thought she had 
 escaped from, and falling by instinct into those wild
 
 280 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 weaknesses of personal argument to which women resort 
 when they are thus suddenly stung. "Will, look me 
 in the face and tell me, Can you believe your dear 
 father, who was true as — as heaven itself; can you 
 believe me, who never told you a lie, to have been 
 such wretched deceivers? Can you think we were so 
 wicked? Will, look me in the face!" 
 
 "Mother," said Will, whose mind was too little 
 imaginative to be moved by this kind of argument, 
 except to a kind of impatience. "What does it matter 
 my looking you in the face? what does it matter about 
 my father being true? You might have some reason 
 for it. I am not blaming you; but so long as it was a 
 fact what does tJiat matter? I don't want to injure 
 any one — I only want my rights." 
 
 It was Mary's turn now to be struck dumb. She 
 had thought he was afraid of her, and had fled from 
 her out of shame for what he had done; but he looked 
 in her face as she told him with unhesitating frankness, 
 and even that touch of impatience as of one whose 
 common sense was proof to all such appeals. For her 
 own part, when she was brought back to it, she felt 
 the effect of the dreadful shock she had received ; and 
 she could not discuss this matter reasonably with her 
 boy. Her mind fell off into a mingled anguish and 
 horror and agonized sense of his sin and pity for him. 
 "Oh, Will, your rights," she cried; "your rights! 
 Your rights are to be forgiven and taken back, and 
 loved and pitied, though you do not understand what 
 love is. These are all the rights you have. You are 
 young, and you do not know what you are doing. You 
 have still a right to be forgiven." 
 
 "I was not asking to be forgiven," said Will,
 
 MADONNA MARY. 281 
 
 dogo^eclly. "I have done no harm. I never said a 
 word against you. I will give Hugh whatever he likes 
 to get himself comfortably out in the world. I don't 
 want to make any fuss or hurry. It can be quietly 
 managed, if he will ; but it's me that Earlston ought to 
 come to-, and I am not going to be driven out of it by 
 talk. I should just like to know what Hugh would do 
 if he was in my place." 
 
 "Hugh could never have been in your place," cried 
 Mary, in her anguish and indignation. "I ought to 
 have seen this is what it would come to. I ought to 
 have known when I saw your jealous temper, even 
 when you were a baby. Oh, my little Will! How will 
 you ever bear it when you come to your senses, and 
 know what it is you have been doing? Slandering 
 your dear father's name and mine, though all the world 
 knoAvs different — and trying to supplant your brother, 
 your elder brotlier, Avho has always been good to you. 
 God forgive them that have brought my boy to this," 
 said Mary, witli tears. She kept gazing at him, even 
 with her eyes full. It did not seem possible that he 
 could be insensible to her look, even if he was insensible 
 to her words. 
 
 Wilfrid, for his part, got up and began to walk 
 about the room. It ivas hard, very hard to meet his 
 mother's eyes. "When she is vexed, she gives a fellow 
 such a look." He remembered those words which he 
 had said to Uncle Penrose only yesterday with a vague 
 sort of recollection. But when he got up his own 
 bodily sensations somehow gave him enough to do. He 
 half forgot about his mother in the strange feeling he 
 had in his physical frame, as if his limbs did not 
 belong to him, nor his head either fur that piu't, which
 
 282 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 seemed to be floating about in the air, without any 
 particular connexion with the rest of him. It must be 
 that he was so very tired, for when he sat down and 
 clutched at the arms of his chair, he seemed to come 
 out of his confusion and see Mrs. Ochterlony again, 
 and know what she had been talking about. He said, 
 with something that looked like sullenness: "Nobody 
 brought me to this — I brought myself," in answer to 
 what she had said, and fell, as it were, into a moody 
 reverie, leaning upon the arms of his chair. Mary saw 
 it, and thought it was that attitude of obstinate and 
 immovable resolve into which she had before seen him 
 fall; and she dried her eyes with a little flash of in- 
 dignation, and turned again to the half-finished letter 
 which trembled in her hands, and which she could not 
 force her mind back to. She said to herself in a kind 
 of despair, that the bitter cup must be drunk — that 
 there was nothing for it but to do battle for her son's 
 rights, and lose no time in vain outcries, but forgive 
 the unhappy boy when he came to his right mind and 
 returned to her again. She turned away, with her 
 heart throbbing and bleeding, and made an effort to 
 recover her composiare and finish her letter. It was a 
 very important letter, and required all her thoughts. 
 But if it had been hard to do it before, it was twenty 
 times harder now. 
 
 Jvist at that moment there was a commotion at the 
 door, and a sound of some one entering below. It 
 might be only Mr. Penrose coming back, as he some- 
 times did, to luncheon. But every sound tingled through 
 Mrs. Ochterlony in the excitement of her nerves. Then 
 there came something that made her spring to her feet 
 — a single tone of a voice struck on her ear, which
 
 MADONNA MARY. 283 
 
 she thouo^lit could only be lier own fancy. But it was 
 not her fancy. Some one came rushing up the stairs, 
 and dashed into the room. Mary gave a great cry, and 
 ran into his arms, and Will, startled and rovised up 
 from a sudden oblivion which he did not understand, 
 drew his hand across his heavy eyes, and looked up 
 doubting, and saw Hugh — Hugh standing in the 
 middle of the room holding his mother, glowing with 
 iVesh air, and health, and gladness. — Hugh! How did 
 he come there V Poor Will tried to rise from his chair, 
 but witli a feeling that he was fixed in it for ever, 
 like the lady in the fable. Had he been asleep? and 
 where was he? Had it been but a bad dream, and was 
 this the Cottage, and Hugh come home to see them 
 all? These were the questions that rose in Will's 
 darkened mind, as he woke up and drew his hand 
 across his heavy eyes, and sat as if glued in Mr. Pen- 
 rose's chair. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 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 
 liighest 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 
 Avas something to explain; and Mary in her heart felt
 
 284 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 a pang of momentary anguish as acute as if the ac- 
 cusation 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 per- 
 ceptions; 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 Avrong?" 
 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 hesita- 
 tion 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, 
 dont 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 down his mother 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 as if her natural protector 
 had come back, whose coming would clear away the
 
 MADONNA MARY. 285 
 
 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, hut giving 
 her assurance, a pledge of sudden safety as it were. It 
 was this that made Mary drop hack, 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 pre- 
 paration 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 be- 
 lieve you know who old Sommerville or his daughter
 
 286 MADONNA MAUY. 
 
 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 no- 
 body 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 weej) 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 under- 
 stand 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 ex- 
 planation. 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 com- 
 fort 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 be- 
 came as his mother had never seen it before. He took 
 no notice of what she said, he only bent over her, and
 
 MADOiSNA MARY. 287 
 
 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, w^hich 
 came strange to him, as if it came from another world, 
 he too stumbled up xipon his feet, though in the eftbrt 
 ceiling and Hoor 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 walketl straight to as if he could have passed
 
 288 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 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 punish- 
 ment 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 dis- 
 ordered 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 un- 
 conscious, deserted as it were by all consolation. She 
 went to him and put her hand upon 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 — some- 
 thing 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 wander- 
 ing about all yesterday, not to see me, and I was hard
 
 MADONNA MARY. 289 
 
 upon liim. Oli, Uugli, iny poor boy! Ami in tins 
 Louse." 
 
 Tliis 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 
 Ave can come to some satisfactory ai-rangement. 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. Pem-ose 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 sup- 
 porting him, holding his hands, gazing down in anxiety 
 beyond all woi'ds upon the colourless face, witli its 
 heavy eyelids closed, and lips a little apart, and quick 
 irregular breath. She Avas speaking to him softly Avith- 
 out knoAving it, saying, "Will, my darling — Will, 
 my poor boy — Oh, Will, speak to me;" while he lay 
 back unconscioxis now, no longer able to struggle against 
 the weight that oppressed him, sleeping heavily on her 
 breast. Mr. Penrose drew near and looked Avonderingly, 
 AA'ith his hand in his pocket and a sense that it Avas 
 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 yester- 
 day; let him sleep and hell be all right. Btit don't 
 
 ^adoMi'i M'li/i. IT. 19
 
 290 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 stand there and tire yourself. Hollo, 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." 
 
 ]VIi*. 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,
 
 MADONNA MARY. 291 
 
 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 de- 
 cided. 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 
 
 19*
 
 292 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 lier startled mind leapt forward to all tragic possibilities 
 — to calamity and death. It was a dull day, wbicli, 
 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 di'ove 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 anything 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 Avhat we were talking 
 of," he said; "i)erhaps, after all, in case anything were 
 to happen, it might still be hushed up." 
 
 "What we were talking of?" asked Mary, vaguely, 
 not knowing whether it was the old subject or the ncAv 
 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,
 
 MADONNA MARY. 293 
 
 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 sepa- 
 rated from each other, nature had stepped in and they 
 were all one. It was strange, but so it was, Mr. Pen- 
 rose 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 shoiild die , perhaps , it could yet be hushed 
 tip. This was the last idea in Mr. Penrose's mind, as 
 he went in and shut behind him the resounding door. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 The illness of Will took a bad turn. Instead of 
 being a mere accumulation of cold and fatigue, it de- 
 veloped into fever, and of the most dangerous kind. 
 Perhaps he had been bringing it on for a long time liy 
 his careless ways, by his long vigils and over thought; 
 and that day of wretched wandering, and all the con- 
 fused agittition of his mind had brought it to a climax. 
 This at least was all that coidd be said. He was very 
 ill; he lay for six weeks between life and death; and 
 Mrs. Ochterlony, in his sick-room, had no mind nor 
 understanding for anything but the care of him. Aunt 
 Agatha would have come to help her, but she wanted 
 no help. She lived as women do live at such times, 
 without knowing how — without sleep, without food, 
 without air, without rest to her mind or comfort to her
 
 294 MADONNA MARV. 
 
 heart. Except, indeed, in Hugh's face, which was as 
 anxious as her own, but looked in upon her watching, 
 from time to time like a face out of heaven. She had 
 been made to understand all about it — how her prayer 
 had been granted, and the cup had passed from her, 
 and her honour and her children's had been vindicated 
 for ever. She had been made to understand this, and 
 had given God thanks, and felt one weight the less 
 upon her soul; but yet she did not understand it any 
 more than Will did, who in his wanderings talked 
 without cease of the looks his mother gave him; and 
 what had he done? He would murmur by the hour 
 such broken unreason as he had talked to Mary the 
 morning before he was taken ill — that he meant to 
 injure nobody — that all he wanted was his rights — 
 that he would do anything for Hugh or for his mother 
 — only he must have his rights; and why did they all 
 look at him so, and what did Nelly mean, and Avhat 
 had he done? Mrs. Ochterlony sitting by his bedside 
 with tears on her pale cheeks came to a knowledge of 
 his mind which she had never possessed before — as 
 clear a knowledge as was possible to a creature of so 
 different a nature. And she gave God thanks in her 
 heart that the danger had been averted, and remem- 
 bered, in a confused way, the name of old Sommer- 
 ville, which had been engraved on her memory years 
 before, when her husband forced her into the act which 
 had cost her so much misery. Mary could not have 
 explained to any one how it was that old Sommerville's 
 name came back with the sense of deliverance. For 
 the moment she would scarcely have been surprised to 
 know that he had come to life again to remedy the 
 wrongs his death had brought about. All that she
 
 MADONNA MARY, 295 
 
 knew was that his name was involved in it, and that 
 Hugh was satisfied, and the danger over. She said it 
 to herself sometimes in an apologetic way as if to ac- 
 count to herself for the suddenness with which all in- 
 terest on the subject had passed out of her thoughts. 
 The danger was over. Two dangers so appalling could 
 not exist together. The chances are that Will's im- 
 mediate and present peril would have engrossed her all 
 the same, even had all not been well for Hugh. 
 
 When he had placed his mother and brother in the 
 rooms he had taken for them, and had seen poor Will 
 laid down on the bed he was not to quit for long, 
 Hugh went back to see ]\Ir. Penrose. He was agitated 
 and excited, and much melted in his heart by his bro- 
 ther's illness; but still, though he might forgive Will, 
 he had no thought of forgiving the elder man, who 
 ought to have given the boy better counsel: but he was 
 very cool and collected, keeping his indignation to 
 himself, and going very fully into detail. Old Sommer- 
 viUe's daughter had been married, and lived with her 
 husband at the border village where Mary's marriage 
 had taken place. It was she who had waited on the 
 bride, with all the natural excitement and interest be- 
 longing to the occasion ; and her husband and she, 
 young themselves, and full of sympathy with the hand- 
 some young couple, had stolen in after them into the 
 homely room where the marriage ceremony, such as it 
 was, was performed. The woman who told Hugh this 
 story had not the faintest idea that suspicion of any 
 kind rested upon the facts she was naiTating, neither 
 did her hearer tell her of it. He had listened with what 
 eagerness , with what wonder and delight may be 
 imagined, while she went into all the details. "She
 
 296 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 mayn't miud me, but I mind her," tlie anxious histo- 
 rian had said, her thoughts dwelling" not on the run- 
 away marriage she was talking of, as if that could be 
 of importance , but on the unbuilt lodge , and the 
 chances of getting it if she could but awake the interest 
 of the young squire. "She had on but a cotton gown, 
 as was not for the likes of her on her wedding-day, and 
 a bit of a straw-bonnet; and it was me as took off her 
 shawl , her hands being trembly a bit , as was to be ex- 
 pected; I took her shawl off afore she came into the room, 
 and I slipped in after her, and made Rob come, though 
 he was shy. Bless your heart, sir, the Captain and the 
 young lady never noticed him nor me." 
 
 Hugh had received all these details into his mind 
 with a distinctness which only the emergency could 
 have made possible. It seemed to himself that he saw 
 the scene — more clearly, far more clearly, than that 
 dim vision of the other scene in India, which now he 
 ventured in his heart to believe that he recollected too. 
 He told everything to Mr. Penrose, who sat with glum 
 countenance, and listened. "And now, uncle," he said, 
 "I will tell yoii what my mother is ready to do. I 
 don't think she understands what I have told her about 
 my evidence; but I found this letter she had been 
 writing when Will was taken ill. You can read it if 
 you please. It will show you at least how wrong 
 you were in thinking she would ever desert and 
 abandon me." 
 
 "I never thought she would desert and abandoji 
 you," said Mr. Penrose; "of course every one must 
 see that so long as you had the property it was her 
 interest to stick to you — as well as for her own sake. 
 I don't see why I should read the letter; I daresay it
 
 MADONNA MARY. 297 
 
 is some bombastical appeal to somebody — she appealed 
 to me last night — to believe her; as if personal 
 credibility was to be built upon in the absence of all 
 proofs." 
 
 "But read it all tlie same," said Hugh, whose face 
 was flushed with excitement. 
 
 Mr. Penrose put on his spectacles, and took the 
 half-finished letter reluctantly into his hand. He turned 
 it round and all over to see who it was addressed to; 
 but there was no address; and when he began to read 
 it, he saw it was a letter to a lawyer, stating her case 
 distinctly, and asking for advice. Was there not a 
 way of getting it tried and settled , Mary had written ; 
 was there not some court that could be appealed to at 
 once, to examine all the evidence, and make a decision 
 that would be good and stand, and could not be re- 
 opened? "I am ready to appear and be examined, to 
 do anything or everything that is necessary," were the 
 last Avords Mrs. Ochterlony had written; and then she 
 had forgotten her letter, forgotten her resolution and 
 her fear, and everything else in the world but her boy 
 who was ill. Her other boy, after he had set her heart 
 free to devote itself to the one who now wanted her 
 most, had found the letter; and he, too, had been set 
 free in his turn. Up to that very last moment he had 
 feared and doubted what Mr. Penrose called the "ex- 
 posure" for his mother; he had been afraid of wounding 
 her, afraid of making any suggestion that could imply 
 publicity. And upon the letter which Mr. Penrose 
 turned thus about in his hand was at least one large 
 round blister of a tear — a big drop of compunction, 
 and admiration, and love, which had dro])[)ed upon it 
 out of Hugh's proud and joyful C}'es.
 
 298 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 "Ah," said Uncle Penrose, who was evidently 
 staggered: and he took off his spectacles and put them 
 back in their case. "If she were to make up her mind 
 to thai^'' he continued slowly, "I would not say that 
 you might not have a chance. It would have the look 
 of being confident in her case. I'll tell you what, 
 Hugh," he went on, changing his tone. "Does the 
 doctor give much hope of Will?" 
 
 "Much hope!" cried Hugh, faltering. "Good 
 heavens! uncle, what do you mean? Has he told 
 you anything? Why, there is every chance — every 
 hope," 
 
 "Don't get excited," said Mr. Penrose. "I hope 
 so I am sure. But what I have to say is this: if any- 
 thing were to happen to Will, it would be some distant 
 Ochterlonys, I suppose, that would come in after him 
 — supposing you were put aside, you know. I don't 
 mind working for Will, but I'd have nothing to do 
 with that. / could not be the means of sending the 
 property out of the family. And I don't see now, in 
 the turn things have taken, that there would be any 
 particular difficulty between ourselves in hushing it 
 all up." 
 
 "In hushing it up?" said Hugh, with an astonished 
 look. 
 
 "Yes, if we hold our tongues. I daresay that is 
 all that would be necessary," said Mr. Penrose. "If 
 you only would have the good sense all of you to hold 
 your tongues and keep your counsel, it might be easily 
 hushed up." 
 
 But Uncle Penrose was not prepared for the shower 
 of indignation that fell upon him. Hugh got up and 
 made him an oration, which the young man poured
 
 MADONNA MARY. 299 
 
 forth out of the fuhiess of his heart; and said, God 
 forgive him for the harm he had done to one of them, 
 for the harm he had tried to do to all — in a tone 
 very little in harmony with the prayer; and shook off, 
 as it were, the dust off his feet against him, and rushed 
 from the house, carrying, folded up carefully in his 
 pocket-book, his mother's letter. It was she who had 
 found out what to do — she whose reluctance, whose 
 hesitation, or shame, was the only thing that Hugh 
 would have feared. And it was not only that he was 
 touched to the heart by his mother's readiness to do 
 all and everything for him; he was proud, too, with 
 that sweetest of exultation which recognises the abso- 
 lute lest in its best beloved. So he went through the 
 suburban streets carrying his head high, with moisture 
 in his eyes, but the smile of hope and a satisfied heart 
 upon his lips. Hush it up! when it was all to her 
 glory from the first to the last of it. Rather write it 
 up in letters of gold, that all the world might see it. 
 This was how Hugh, being still so young, in the pride 
 and emotion of the moment, thought in his heart. 
 
 And Mrs. Ochterlony, by her boy's sick-bed, knew 
 nothing of it all. She remembered to ask for her 
 blotting-book with the letters in it which she had been 
 Avriting, but was satisfied when she heard Hugh had 
 it; and she accepted the intervention of old Sommer- 
 ville, dead or living, without demanding too many ex- 
 planations. She had now something else more absorbing, 
 more engi-ossing, to occupy her, and two supreme emo- 
 tions cannot hold place in the mind at the same time. 
 Will required constant care, an attention that never 
 slumbered, and she would not have any one to share 
 her watch with her. She found time to write to Aunt
 
 300 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Agatha, who wanted to come, giving the cheerfullest 
 view of matters that was possible, and dedaring that 
 she was qnite able for what she had to do. And Mary 
 had another offer of assistance which touched her, and 
 yet brought a smile to her face. It was from Mrs. 
 Kirknian, offering to come to her assistance at once, 
 to leave all her responsibilities for the satisfaction of 
 being with her friend and svistaining her strength and 
 being "useful" to the poor sufferer. It was a most 
 anxious letter, full of the warmest entreaties to be 
 allowed to come, and Mary was moved by it, though 
 she gave it to Hugh to read with a faint smile on 
 her lip. 
 
 "I always told you she was a good woman," said 
 Mrs. Ochterlony. "If I were to let her come, I know 
 she would make a slave of herself to serve us both." 
 
 "But you will not let her come," said Ilugh, with 
 a little alarm; "I don't know about your good woman. 
 She would do it, and then tell everybody how glad she 
 was that she had been of so much use." 
 
 "But she is a good woman in spite of her talk," 
 said Mary, and she wrote to Mrs. Kirkman a letter 
 which filled the soul of the colonel's wife with many 
 thoughts. Mrs. Ochterlony wrote to her that it would 
 be vain for her to have any help, for she could not 
 leave her boy — could not be apart from him while 
 he was so ill, was what Mary said — but that her 
 friend knew how strong she was, and that it would not 
 hurt her, if God would but spare her boy. "Oh, my 
 poor Will! don't forget to think of him," Mary said, 
 and the heart which was in Mrs. Kii-kmau's wordy 
 bosom knew what was meant. And then partly, per- 
 haps, it Avas her fault; she might have been wise, she
 
 MADONNA MARV. 301 
 
 mij^lit have held her peace wlien Will came to ask 
 tliat fatal information. And yet, perhaps, it might he 
 for his good — or perhaps — perhaps , God help him, 
 lie might die. And then Mrs. Kirkman's heart sank 
 within her, and she was softer to all the people in her 
 district, and did not feel so sure of taking npon her the 
 part of Providence. She could not but rememher how 
 she had prayed that Mary should not be let alone, and 
 how Major Ochtevlony had died after it, and she had 
 felt that that was not what she meant, and that God, 
 so to speak, had gone too far. If the same thing were 
 to happen again! She was humble and softened to all 
 her people that day, and she spent hours of it upon 
 her knees, praying with tears streaming down her 
 cheeks for Will. And it was not till full twenty-foiir 
 hours after that she could take any real comfort from 
 the thought that it must be for all their good-, whicli 
 shows that Mrs. Ochterlony's idea of her after all was 
 right. 
 
 These were but momentary breaks in the long 
 stretch of pain, and terror, and lingering and sickening 
 hope. Day after day went and came, and Mary took 
 no note of them, and knew nothing more of them than 
 as they grew light and dark upon the pale face of her 
 boy. Hugh had to leave her by times, but there was 
 no break to her in the long-continued vigil. His aft'airs 
 had to go on, his work to be resumed, and his life to 
 proceed again as if it had never come to that full stop. 
 But as for Mary, it began to appear to her as if she 
 had lived all her life in that sick room. Then Islay 
 came, always steady and trustworthy. This was to- 
 wards the end, when it was certain that the crisis must 
 be approaching for good or for evil. And poor Aunt
 
 302 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 Agatha in her anxiety and her loneliness had fallen ill 
 too, and wrote plaintive, suflfering letters, which moved 
 Mary's heart even in the great stupor of her own 
 anxiety. It was then that Hugh went, much against 
 his will, to the Cottage, at his mother's entreaty, to 
 carry comfort to the poor old lady. He had to go to 
 Earlston to see after his own business, and from thence 
 to Aunt Agatha, whose anxiety was no less great at a 
 distance than theirs was at hand; and Hugh was to be 
 telegraphed for at once if there was "any change." 
 Any change! — that was the way they had got to 
 speak, saying it in a whisper, as if afraid to trust the 
 very air with words which implied so mvich. Hugh 
 stole into the sick room before he went away, and saw 
 poor Will, or at least a long white outline of a face, 
 with two big startling eyes, black and shining, which 
 must be Will's, lying back on the pillows; and he 
 heard a babble of weary words about his mother and 
 Nelly, and what had he done? and withdrew as noise- 
 lessly as he entered, with the tears in his eyes, and 
 that poignant and intolerable anguish in his heart with 
 which the young receive the first intimation that one 
 near to them must go away. It seemed an offence to 
 Hugh, as he left the house to see so many lads in the 
 streets, who were of Will's age, and so many children 
 encumbering the place everywhere, unthought of, un- 
 cared for, unloved, to whom almost it would be a 
 benefit to die. But it was not one of them who was to 
 be taken, but Will, poor Will, the youngest, who had 
 been led astray, and had still upon his mind a sense of 
 guilt. Hugh was glad to go to work at Earlston to 
 get the thought out of his mind, glad to occupy him- 
 self about the museum, and to try to forget that his
 
 MADONNA MARY. 303 
 
 brother was slowly approaching the crisis, after which 
 perhaps there might be no hope; and his heart beat 
 loud in his ears eveiy time he heard a sound, dreading 
 that it might be the promised summons, and that "some 
 change" — dreadful intimation — had occurred; and 
 it was in the same state of mind that he went on to 
 the Cottage, looking into the railway people's faces at 
 every station to see if, perhaps, they had heard some- 
 thing. He was not much like carrying comfort to any- 
 body. He had never been within reach of the shadow 
 of death before, except in the case of his uncle; and 
 his uncle was old, and it was natural he should die — 
 but Will! Whenever he said, or heard, or even thought 
 the name his heart seemed to swell, and grow "grit," 
 as the Cumberland folks said, and climb into his 
 throat. 
 
 But yet there was consolation to Hugh even at 
 such a moment. When he arrived at the Cottage he 
 found Nelly there in attendance upon Aunt Agatha; 
 and Nelly was full of wistful anxiety, and had a world 
 of silent questions in her eyes. He had not written to 
 her in answer to her letter, though it had done so much 
 for him. Nobody had written to the girl, who was 
 obliged to stay quiet at home, and ask no questions, 
 and occupy herself about other matters. And no doubt 
 Nelly had suffered and might have made herself very 
 unhappy, and felt herself deeply neglected and injured, 
 had she been of that manner of nature. She had heard 
 only the evident facts which everybody knew of — that 
 Will had been taken ill, and that Hugh was in Liver- 
 pool, and even Islay had been sent for; but whether 
 Will's illness was anything more than ordinary disease, 
 or how the family affairs, which lay underneath, were
 
 304 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 being settled, Nelly could not tell. Nobody knew, not 
 Aunt Agatha, nor Mrs. Jvirkman, though it was her 
 hand which had helped to set eveiything in motion. 
 Sometimes it occurred to Nelly that Mr. Hugh might 
 have written to her; sometimes she was disposed to 
 fear that he might be angry — might think she had no 
 right to interfere. Men did not like people to interfere 
 with their affairs, she said to herself sometimes, even 
 wlien they meant — oh! the very kindest; and Nelly 
 dried her eyes and would acknowledge to herself that 
 it was just. But when Hugh came, and was in the 
 same room with her, and sat by her side, and was just 
 the same — nay , perhaps , if that could be , more than 
 just the same — then it was more than Nelly's strengtli 
 of mind could do to keep from questioning him with 
 her eyes. She gave little glances at him which asked 
 — "Is all well?" — in language plainer than words; 
 and Hugh's eyes, overcast as they were by that shadow 
 of death which was upon them, could not answer 
 promptly — "All is well." And Aunt Agatha knew 
 nothing of this secret which lay between them; so far 
 as Miss Seton had been informed as yet, Will's running 
 away had been but a boyish freak, and his illness an 
 ordinary fever. And yet somehow it made Hugh take 
 a brighter view of everything — made him think less 
 drearily of Will's danger, and be less alarmed about 
 the possible arrival of a telegram, when he read the 
 question in Nelly Askell's eyes. 
 
 But it was the morning after his arrival before he 
 could make any response. Aunt Agatha, who was an 
 invalid, did not come downstairs early, and the two 
 young ereatxires were left to each other's company. 
 Then there ensued a little interval of repose to Hugh's
 
 MADONNA MARY. 305 
 
 mind, which had been so much disturbetl ol' kite, which 
 he did not feel willing to break even by entering iipon 
 matters which might produce a still greater confidence 
 and rapiwochement. All that had been passing lately 
 had given a severe shock to his careless youth, which, 
 before that, had never thought deeply of anything. 
 And to feel himself thus separated as it were from the 
 world of anxiety and care he had been living in, and 
 floated in to this (juiet nook, and seated here all tran- 
 quil in a nameless exquisite happiness, with Nelly by 
 him, and nobody to interfere with him, did him good, 
 poor fellow. He did not care to break the spell even 
 to satisfy her, nor perhaps to produce a more exquisite 
 delight for himself. The rest, and the sweet unex- 
 pressed sympathy, and the soft atmosphere that was 
 about him, gave Hugh all the consolation of which at 
 this moment he Avas capable-, and he was only a man 
 — and he was content to be thus consoled without in- 
 quiring much whether it was as satisfactory for her. It 
 was only when the ordinary routine of the day began, 
 and disturbed the tete-a-tete^ that he bethought him of 
 how much remained to be explained to Nelly; and then 
 he asked her to go out with him to the garden. "Come 
 and show me the roses we used to water," said Hugh; 
 "you remember?" And so they went out together, 
 with perhaps, if that were possible, a more entire pos- 
 session of each other's society — a more complete sepa- 
 ration from everybody else in the world. 
 
 They went to see the roses, and though they were 
 fading and shabby, with the last flowers overblown and 
 disconsolate, and the leaves dropping off the branches, 
 that melancholy sight made little impression on Nelly 
 and Hugh. The two indulged in certain reminiscences 
 
 Madonna Mary. II. 20
 
 306 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 of wliat had been, "you remember?" — comings back 
 of the sweet recent untroubled past, such as give to 
 the pleasant present and fair future their greatest charm. 
 And then all at once Hugh stopped short, and looked 
 in his companion's face. He said it without the least 
 word of introduction, leaping at once into the heart of 
 the subject, in a way which gave poor Nelly no warn- 
 ing, no time to prepare. 
 
 "Nelly," he said, all at once, "I never thanked 
 you for joxir letter." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Hugh!" cried Nelly, and her heart gave 
 a sudden thump, and the water sprang to her eyes. 
 She was so much startled that she put her hand to her 
 side to relieve the sudden panting of her breath. "I 
 was going to ask you if you had been angry?" she 
 added, after a pause. 
 
 "Angry! How could I be angiy?" said Hugh. 
 
 "You might have thought it was very impertinent 
 of me talking of things I had no business with," said 
 Nelly, with downcast eyes. 
 
 "Impertinent! Perhaps you suppose I would think 
 an angel impertinent if it came down from heaven for 
 a moment, and showed a little interest in my con- 
 cerns?" said Hugh. "And do you really think you 
 have no business with me, Nelly? I did not think 
 you were so indifferent to your friends." 
 
 "To be sure we are very old friends," said Nelly, 
 with a blush and a smile; but she saw by instinct that 
 such talk was dangerous. And then she put on her 
 steady little face and looked up at him to put an end 
 to all this nonsense. — "I want so much to hear about 
 dear Mrs. Ochterlouy," she said. 
 
 "And I have never told you that it had come all
 
 MADONNA MAUY. 307 
 
 right," said IIu;2;li. "I was so busy at first I Lad no 
 time for writing letters; and last night there was Aunt 
 Agatha, who knows nothing about it; and this morning 
 
 — well this morning you know, I was thinking of 
 nothing but you — " 
 
 "Oh, thank you," said Nelly, with a little con- 
 fusion, "but tell me more, please. You said it was 
 all right — " 
 
 "Yes," said Hugh, "but I don't know if it ever 
 would have come right but for your letter; I was down 
 as low as ever a man could be; I had no heart for 
 anything; I did not know what to think even about 
 
 my about anything. And then your dear little 
 
 letter came. It was that that made me something of a 
 man again. And I made up my mind to face it and 
 not to give in. And then all at once the proof came 
 
 — some people who lived at Gretna and had seen the 
 maiTiage. l)id you go there?" 
 
 "No," said Nelly, with a tremulous voice; and now 
 whatever might come of it, it would have been quite 
 impossible for her to raise her eyes. 
 
 "Ah, I see," said Hugh, "it was only to show me 
 what to do — but all the same it was your doing. If 
 you had not written to me like that, I was more likely 
 to have gone and hanged myself, than to have minded 
 my business and seen the people. Nelly, I will always 
 say it was you." 
 
 "No — no," said Nelly, withdrawing, not without 
 some difficulty, her hand out of his. "Never mind 
 me; I am so glad — I am so very glad; but then I 
 don't know about dear Mrs. Ochterlony — and oh, poor 
 Will!" 
 
 His brother's name made Hugh fall back a little. 
 
 20*
 
 308 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 He had very nearly forgotten everything just then ex- 
 cept Nelly herself. But when he remembered that his 
 brother, perhaps, might be dying 
 
 "You know how ill he is," he said, with a little 
 shudder. "Nelly, it must be selfish to be happy. I 
 had almost forgotten about poor Will." 
 
 "Oh, no, no," cried Nelly; "We must not forget 
 about him; he never could mean it — he would have 
 come to himself one day. Oh, Mr. Hugh " 
 
 "Don't call me that," cried the young man; 
 "You say Will — why should I be different. Nelly? 
 If I thought you cared for him more than for 
 me 
 
 "Oh, hush!" said Nelly, "how can you think of 
 such things when he is so ill, and Mrs. Ochterlony in 
 such trouble. And besides, you are different," she 
 added hastily; and Hugh saw the quick crimson going 
 up to her hair, over her white brow and her pretty 
 neck, and again forgot Will, and everything else in the 
 world. 
 
 "Nelly," he said, "you must care for me most. I 
 don't mind about anything without that. I had rather 
 be in poor Will's place if you think of somebody else 
 just as the same as of me. Nelly, look here — there 
 is nobody on earth that I can ever feel for as I feel 
 for you." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Hugh!" cried Nelly. She had only one 
 hand to do anything with, for he held the other fast, 
 and she put that up to her eyes, to which the 
 tears had come, though she did not very well know 
 why. 
 
 "It is quite true," cried the eager young man. 
 "You may think I should not say it now; but Nelly,
 
 MADONNA MARY. 300 
 
 if there are ill news shall I not want you to comfort 
 me? aud if there are good news you will he as glad as 
 I am. Oh, Nelly, don't keep silent like that, and turn 
 your head away — you know there is nobody in the 
 world that loves you like me." 
 
 "Oh, please don't say any more jiist now," said 
 Nelly, through her tears. "When I think of poor Will 
 who is perhaps And he and I were babies to- 
 gether; it is not right to be so happy when poor 
 
 Will Yes, oh yes — another time I will not 
 
 mind." 
 
 And even then poor Nelly did not mind. They 
 were both so young, and the sick boy was far away 
 from them, not under their eyes as it were; and even 
 whatever might happen, it could not be utter despair 
 for Hugh and Nelly. They were selfish so far as they 
 could not help being selfish — they had their moment 
 of delight .'itauding there under the faded roses, with 
 the dead leaves dropping at their feet. Neither autumn 
 nor any other chill — neither anxiety nor suspense, 
 nor even the .shadow of death could keep them asunder. 
 Had not they the more need of each other if trouble 
 was coming? That was Hugh's philosophy, and Nelly's 
 heart could not say him nay. 
 
 But when that moment was over Aunt Agatha's 
 voice was heard calling from an u})per window. "Hugh, 
 Hugh!" the old lady called. "1 see a man leaving the 
 station with a letter in his hand — It is the man 
 who brings the telegraph — Oh, Hngh, my dear 
 boy!" 
 
 Hi;gh did not stop to hear any more. He woke up 
 in a moment out of himself, and rushed forth upon the 
 road to meet the messenger, leaving Nelly and his joy
 
 3lO MADONNA MARY. 
 
 behind him. He felt as if he had been guilty then, 
 but as he flew along the road he had no time to think. 
 As for poor Nelly, she took to walking up and down 
 the lawn, keeping him in sight, with limbs that trembled 
 under her, and eyes half blind with tears and terror. 
 Nelly had suffered to some extent from the influence of 
 Mrs. Kirkman's training. She could not feel sure that 
 to be very haippy, nay blessed, to feel one's self full of 
 joy and unmingled content, was not something of an 
 offence to God. Perhaps it was selfish and wicked at 
 that moment, and now the punishment might be com- 
 ing. If it should be so, would it not be her fault. She 
 who had let herself be persuaded, who ought to have 
 known better. Aunt Agatha sat at her window, sob- 
 bing, and saying little prayers aloud without knowing 
 it. "God help my Mary! Oh God, help my poor 
 Mary! give her strength to bear it!" was what Aunt 
 Agatha said. And poor Nelly for her pait jnit up an- 
 other prayer, speechless, in an agony — "God forgive 
 us," she said, in her innocent heart. 
 
 But all at once both of them stopped praying, 
 stopped weeping, and gave one simultaneous cry, that 
 thrilled through the whole grey landscape. And this 
 was Avhy it was; — Hugh, a distant figure on the 
 road, had met the messenger, had torn open the pre- 
 cious dispatch. It was too far off to tell them in 
 words, or make any other intelligible sign. What he 
 did was to fling his hat into the air and give a wild 
 shout, which they saw rather than heard. Was it all 
 well? Nelly went to the gate to meet him, and held 
 by it, and Aunt Agatha came tottering downstairs. 
 And what he did next was to tear down the road like 
 a racehorse, the few country folks about it staring at
 
 MADONNA MARY. 311 
 
 him as if he were mad, — and to seize Nelly in his 
 arms in open day, on the open road, and kiss ker 
 publicly before Aunt Agatha, and Peggy, and all the 
 world. "She said she would not mind," cried Hugh, 
 breathless, coming headlong into the garden, "as soon 
 as we heard that Will was going to get well; and 
 there's the despatch. Aunt Agatha, and Nelly is to be 
 my wife." 
 
 I'his was how two joyful events in the Ochterlony 
 family intimateil themselves at the same moment to 
 Miss Seton and her astonished house
 
 312 MADONNA IWATfV. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 And this was how it all eucled, so far as any end 
 can be said to have come to any episode in human 
 history. While Will was still only recovering — 
 putting his recollections slowly together — and not 
 very certain about them, what they were, Hugh and 
 his mother went through the preliminaries necessary to 
 have Mrs. Ocherlony's early marriage proved before the 
 proper court — a proceeding which Mary did not 
 shrink from when the time came that she could look 
 calmly over the whole matter, and decide upon the 
 best course. She was surjjrised to see her own un- 
 finished letter preserved so carefully in Hugh's pocket- 
 book. "Put it in the fire," she said to him, "it will 
 only put VIS in mind of painful things if you keep it;" 
 and it did not occur to Mary why it was that her son 
 smiled, and put it back in its place, and kissed her 
 hand, which had grown thin and white in her long se- 
 clusion. And then he told her of Nelly, and Mrs. 
 Ochterlony was glad — glad to the bottom of her heart, 
 and yet touched by a momentary pang for which she 
 was angry with herself He had stood by her so in all 
 this time of trial, and now he was about to remove 
 himself a little, ever so little further off from her, 
 though he was her first-born and her pride; but then 
 she despised herself, who could grudge, even for half a 
 moment, his reward to Hugh, and made haste to make
 
 MADONNA MART. 313 
 
 amends for it, even though he was unconscious of the 
 offence. 
 
 "I always thought she shoukl have been my child," 
 Mary said, "the very first time I saw her. I had once 
 one like her-, and I hungered and thirsted for Nelly 
 when I saw her first. I did not think of getting her 
 like this. I will love her as if she were my own, 
 Hugh." 
 
 "And so she will be your own," said Hugh, not 
 knowing the difference. And he was so happy that the 
 sight of him made his mother happy, though she had 
 care enough in the meantime for her individual share. 
 
 For it may be supposed that Will, such a youth as 
 lie was, did not come out of his fever changed and 
 like a little child. Such changes are few in this world, 
 and a great sickness is not of necessity a moral agent. 
 Wlien the first languor and comfort of his convalescence 
 was over, his mind began to revive and to join things 
 together, as was natural — and he did not know where 
 or how he had broken off in the confused and darkling 
 story that returned to his brain as he pondered. He had 
 forgotten, or never understood about all that happened 
 on the day he was taken ill, but yet a dreamy im- 
 pression that some break had come to his plans, that 
 there was some obstacle, something that made an end 
 of his rights, as he still called them in his mind, 
 hovered about his recollections. He was as frank and 
 open as it was natural to his character to be, for the 
 first few days after he began to recover, before he had 
 made much progress with his recollections; and then he 
 became moody and thoughtful and perplexed, not know- 
 ing how to piece the story out. This was perhaps, next 
 to death itself, the thing which Mary had most dreaded,
 
 314 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 and she saw that though his sickness had been all but 
 death, it had not changed the character or identity of 
 the pale boy absorbed in his own thoughts, uncoin- 
 municating and unyielding, whose weakness compelled 
 him to obey her like an infant in everything external, yet 
 whose heart gave her no such obedience. It was as unlike 
 Hugh's frank exuberance of mind, and Islay's steady 
 but open soul, as could be conceived. But yet he was 
 her boy as much as either; as dear, perhaps even more 
 bound to her by the evil he had tried to do, and by 
 the suffering he himself had borne. And now she had 
 to think not only how to remedy the wrong he had 
 attempted, and to put such harm out of his and every- 
 body's power, but to set the discord in himself at rest, 
 and to reconcile the jangled chords. It was this that 
 gave her a preoccupied look even while Hugh spoke 
 to her of all his plans. It was more difficult than ap- 
 pearing before the court, harder work perhaps than 
 anything she had yet had in her hands to do — and 
 hard as it was, it was she who had to seek the occasion 
 and begin. 
 
 She had been sitting with her boy, one winterly 
 afternoon, when all was quiet in the house — they 
 were still in the lodging in Liverpool, not far from 
 Mr. Penrose's, to which Will had been removed when 
 his illness began; he was not well enough yet to be 
 moved, and the doctors were afraid of cold, and very 
 reluctant to send him, in his weak state, still further 
 to the north. She had been reading to him, but he 
 was evidently paying no attention to the reading, and 
 she had left off and began to talk, but he had been 
 impatient of the talk. He lay on the sofa by the fire, 
 with his pale head against the pillow, looking thin,
 
 MADONNA MARY. 315 
 
 spectral, aiul .shadowy, and yet with a weight of weary 
 thought upon his overhanging brow, and in his close 
 compressed lips, which grieved his mother's iieart. 
 
 "Will," she said suddenly, "I should like to speak 
 to you frankly about what you have on your mind. 
 You are thinking of what happened before you were 
 taken ill?" 
 
 "Yes," lie said, turning qnickly upon her liis great 
 lioUow eyes, shining with interest and surprise; and 
 then he stopped sliort, and compressed his upper lip 
 again, and looked at her with a watchful eye, conscious 
 of the imperfection of liis own memory, and unwilling 
 to commit himself. 
 
 "I will go over it all, that we may understand each 
 other," said Maiy, though the effort made her own 
 cheek pale. "You were told that I had been married 
 in India just before you were born, and you Avere led 
 to believe that your bx'others were — were — illegiti- 
 mate, and that you were your fatlier's heir. I don't 
 know if they ever told you, my poor boy, that 1 hatl 
 been married in Scotland long before ; at all events, 
 they made you believe — " 
 
 "Made me believe!" said Will, with feverish haste; 
 " do people generally marry each other more than once ? 
 I don't see how you can say 'made me believe.'" 
 
 "Well, Will, perhaps it seemed very clear as it was 
 told to you," said Mary, with a sigh; "and you have 
 even so much Avarrant for your mistake, that your 
 father too took fright, and thought because everybody 
 Avas dead that saw us married that we ought to be 
 married again; and I yielded to his wish, though I 
 knew it was Avrong. But it appears everybody was not 
 dead; two people who were present have come to light
 
 316 MADONNA MARY. 
 
 very unexpectedly, and we have applied to that Court 
 — that new Court, you know, where they treat siich 
 things — to have my marriage proved, and Hugh's 
 legitimacy declared. It will cost some money, and it 
 will not be pleasant to me •, but better that than that 
 such a mistake should ever be possible again." 
 
 Will looked in his mother's face, and knew and 
 saw beyond all question that what she told him was 
 absolute fact; not even truth, but fact; the sort of 
 thing that can be proved by witnesses and established 
 in law. His mouth which had been compressed so 
 close , relaxed ; his under lip drooped , his eyes hid 
 themselves, as it were, under their lids. A sudden 
 lilank of mortification and humbled pride came over 
 his soul. A mistake, simply a mistake, such a blunder 
 as any fool might make, an error about simple facts 
 which he might have set right if he had tried. And 
 now for ever and ever he was nothing but the youngest 
 son; doubly indebted to everybody belonging to him; 
 indebted to them for forgiveness, forbearance, tender- 
 ness, and services of every kind. He saw it all, and 
 his heart rose up against it ; he had tried to wrong 
 them, and it was his punishment that they forgave him. 
 It all seemed so hopeless and useless to struggle against, 
 that he turned his face from the light, and felt as if it 
 would be a relief if he could be able to be ill again, 
 or if he had wounds that he could have secretly un- 
 bound; so that he might get to die, and be covered 
 over and abandoned, and have no more to bear. Such 
 thoughts were about as foreign to Mrs. Ochterlony's 
 mind as any human cogitations could be, and yet she 
 divined them, as it were, in the greatness of her pity 
 and love.
 
 MADONNA MARY. 317 
 
 "Will," shesaiil, speaking softly in the silence which 
 Lad been unbroken for long, "I want you to think if 
 this had been otherwise, what it would have been for 
 me. I would h-Ave been a woman shut out from all 
 good women. I would have been only all the more 
 wicked and wretched that I had succeeded in conceal- 
 ing my sin. You would have blushed for your mother 
 whenever you had to name her name. You could not 
 have kept me near you, because my presence would 
 have shut against you every honest house. You would 
 have been obliged to conceal me and my shame in the 
 darkness — to cover me over in some grave with no 
 name on it — to banish me to the ends of the earth — " 
 
 "Mother!" said Will, rising up in his gaunt length 
 and paleness on tlie sofa. He did not understand it. 
 He saw her figure expanding, as it were, her eyes 
 sliining in the twilight like two great mournful stars, 
 the hot colour rising to her face, her voice labouring 
 with an excitement Avhich had been long pent up and 
 found no channel; and the thrill and jar in it of sup- 
 pressed passion, made a thrill in his heart. 
 
 "And your father!" she went on, always with 
 growing emotion, "whom you are all proud of, who 
 died for his duty and left his name Avithout a blot ; — 
 he would have been an impostor like me, a man who 
 had taken base advantage of a woman, and deceived 
 all his friends, and done the last wrong to his children, 
 — we two that never wronged man nor woman, that 
 would have given our lives any day for any one of 
 you, — that is what you would have made us out!" 
 
 "Mother!" said Will. He could not bear it any 
 longer. His heart was up at last, and spoke. He 
 came to her, crept to her in his weakness, and laid his
 
 318 MADONNA MARY, 
 
 long fecLlc arms round lier as she sat liiJing lier face. 
 " Mother ! don't say that. I must have l^een mad. Not 
 what / would have made you out — " 
 
 "Oh, my poor Will, my boy, my darling!" said 
 Mary, "not you — 1 never meant you!" 
 
 And she clasped her hoy close, and held him to 
 her, not knowing what she meant. And then she 
 roused herself to sudden recollection \of his feebleness, 
 and took him back to his sofa, and brooded over him 
 like a bird over her nest. And after awhile Islay came 
 in, bringing fresh air and news, and a breath from the 
 outer Avorld. And poor Will's heart being still so young, 
 and liaving at last touched the depths, took a rebound 
 and came up, not like, and yet not unlike the heart of 
 a little child. From that time his moodiness, his heavy 
 brow, his compressed lip, grew less apparent, and out 
 of his long ponderings Avith himself thei'e came sweeter 
 fi'uits. He had been on the edge of a precipice, and 
 he had not knoAvn it ; and now that after the danger 
 Avas over he had discoA^ered that danger, such a thrill 
 came over him as comes sometimes upon those who 
 ai'e the most foolhardy in the moment of peril. He 
 had not seen the blackness of the pit nor the terror of 
 it until he had escaped. 
 
 But prob.ably it Avas a relief to all, as it was a 
 great relief to poor Will, when his doctor proposed a 
 complete change for him, and a winter in the South. 
 Mary had moA'ed about very little since she brought 
 her children home from India, and her spirit sank be- 
 fore the thought of traA'el in foreign parts, and among 
 unknoAvn tongues. But she Avas content when she saw 
 the light come back to her boy's eye. And when he
 
 M\no\NA jrARY. 319 
 
 Avas well enough tu uh)\c, tbey went away* together, 
 Will and his mother, Mavy and her boy. He was the 
 one who needed her most. 
 
 And when Hugh and Nelly were married, the Per- 
 civals sent the little bride a present, very pretty, and 
 of some value, which the (Jchterlonys in general ac- 
 cepted as a peace-offering. Winnie's letter which ac- 
 companied it was not, however, very ])eaceful in its 
 tone. "I daresay you think yourself very happy, my 
 dear," Winnie wrote, "but I would not advise you to 
 calculate upon too much happiness. I don't know if 
 we were ever meant for that. Mary, who is the best 
 woman among us, has had a terrible deal of trouble; 
 and I, whom perhaps you will think one of the worst, 
 have not been let off any more than Mary. I wonder 
 often, for my part, if there is any meaning at all in it. 
 I am not sure that I think there is. And you may 
 <ell ^frs. Kirkman so if you like. My love to Aunt 
 Agatha, and if you like you can kiss Hugh for me. 
 He always was my favourite among all the boys." 
 
 Poor Aunt Agatha heard this letter with a sigh. 
 She said, "My dear love, it is only Winnie's way. She 
 always liked to say strange things, but she does not 
 (hink like that." And perhaps on the whole it was 
 Aunt Agatha that was worst off in the end. She was 
 left alone when the young creatures paired, as was na- 
 tural, in the spring; and when the mother Mary went 
 away with her boy. Aunt Agatha had no child left to 
 devote herself to; and it was very silent in the Cottage, 
 
 * They went to San R(,mo, if any one would liko to know, for no par- 
 ticular reason that I can toll, except tliat the bnloverl physician, Dr. An- 
 tonio, has thrown the shield of his protection over that picfiirosfiiie little 
 place, with its goUIca orange groves and its delicious si-a.
 
 320 MADOKNA MARV= 
 
 where she sat for liours Avith nothing more companion 
 ahle than the Ilenri-Deux ware, Francis Ochterlony'.s 
 gift, before her eyes. And Sir Edward was very infirm 
 that year. But yet Miss Seton found a consolation 
 that few people would liavo thought of in the Henri 
 Deux, and before the next winter Mary was to come 
 home. And she had always lier poor people and her 
 letters, and the Kirtell singing softly under its dewy 
 braes. 
 
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