Маргарет Олифант
Madonna Mary
CHAPTER XLIII
IT was morning when Mary arrived in Liverpool, early morning, chilly and grey. She had been detained on the road by the troublesome 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 shame, 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 Will – “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 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 possibility of any suspicion – this was chiefly what Mrs. Ochterlony thought. And it made her heart yearn towards 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 the 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 nothing but Will’s horror at such a revelation – his alarm at the mere idea of such a suspicion ever becoming known to his mother – his sense of disenchantment 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 was 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 at the sight of her, and then expand into an infinite content. For by this time she had so reasoned herself into reassurance, and the light and breath of the morning 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 son of hers could fail to be.
The 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 down 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 what 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 be that he judged her without hearing her, and would not see his mother? Then her heart woke up again when she heard some one approaching, but it was only the servant who had opened the door.
“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 was not audible. “I am his mother, and it is necessary 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 it 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; I have been travelling all night; it is very important,” Mary added, wistfully looking in the attendant’s face.
Mr. Penrose’s butler was very solemn and precise, but yet there was something in the sight of her restrained 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 Mary herself could but 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 sleeping room, where she mechanically took off her travelling wraps and assumed her indoor appearance so far as that was possible. It was a great, still, empty, resounding 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 windows 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, undiscernible in the distance, or it might be some one from him, some messenger or ambassador. It was what 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 contrast 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 wings thus, in the silence, against the cage? Thus she sat, 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 another, 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 had arrived when 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 who might be coming. Mary stood still and watched at her window, but nobody came. And then the butler, whose curiosity was more and more roused, came upstairs 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 without an inquiring look at her, which Mrs. 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 occurred 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 happened to him. He was young and careless, a country boy – and there was no telling what terrible 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, sometimes 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 went out sight-seeing,” said Mary; “perhaps he is with his uncle at the office. He was always very fond of shipping.” But she got very doubtful and hesitating replies – replies which were so uncertain that fear blazed up within her; and the slippery docks and dangerous water, 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 went from one room to another, watching the two bits of road. First the one opening, which was fainter and farther off than 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 woman used to self-restraint, and but for her flitting up and downstairs, and the persistent way she kept by the window, the servants might not have noticed anything 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 irritated 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 no doubt the young gentleman would be with him. To see Will only in his uncle’s presence was not what Mary 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 unknown to its broad serenity; her eyes looked out eagerly from the lids which had grown curved and triangular 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 prevent 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 arrive – that he had rushed out of the house, begging the man to deceive her – that he had kept 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 miserable suspense, the dreary doubt and darkness that seemed to hang over everything, as she waited ever vainly in the silence for her boy’s return.
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 XLIV
WILL had seen his mother arrive. He was coming downstairs at the moment, and he heard her voice, and could hear her say, “Tell him it is his mother,” and fright had seized him. If only three days could have been abrogated, and he could have gone to her in his old careless way, to demand an account of why she had come! – but there stood up before him a ghost of what he had been doing – a ghost of uncomprehended harm and mischief, which now for the first time showed to him, not in its real light, but still with an importance it had never taken before. If it had been hard to tell her of the discovery he had made before he left the Cottage, it was twenty times harder now, when he had discussed it with other people, and taken practical steps about it. He went out hurriedly, and with a sense of stealth and panic. And the panic and the stealth were signs to him of something wrong. He had not seen it, and did not see it yet, as regarded the original question. He knew in his heart that there was no favouritism in Mrs. Ochterlony’s mind, and that he was just the same to her as Hugh – and what could it matter which of her sons had Earlston? – But still, nature was stronger in him than reason, and he was ashamed and afraid to meet her, though he did not know why. He hurried out, and said to himself that she was “angry,” and that he could not stay in all day long to be scolded. He would go back to luncheon, and that would be time enough. And then he began to imagine what she would say to him. But that was not so easy. What could she say? After all, he had done no harm. He had but intimated to Hugh, in the quietest way, that he had no right to the position he was occupying. He had made no disturbance about it, nor upbraided his brother for what was not his brother’s fault. And so far from blaming his mother, it had not occurred to him to consider her in the matter, except in the most secondary way. What could it matter to her? If Will had it, or if Hugh had it, it was still in the family. And the simple transfer was nothing to make any fuss about. This was how he reasoned; but Nature held a different opinion upon the subject. She had not a word to say, nor any distinct suggestion even, of guiltiness or wrong-doing to present to his mind. She only carried him away out of the house, made him shrink aside till Mary had passed, and made him walk at the top of his speed out of the very district in which Mr. Penrose’s house was situated. Because his mother would be “angry” – because she might find fault with him for going away or insist upon his return, or infringe his liberty. Was that why he fled from her? – But Will could not tell – he fled because he was driven by an internal consciousness which could not find expression so much as in thought. He went away and wandered about the streets, thinking that now he was almost a man, and ought to be left to direct his own actions; that to come after him like this was an injury to him which he had a right to resent. It was treating him as Hugh and Islay had never been treated. When he laid himself out for these ideas they came to him one by one, and at last he succeeded in feeling himself a little ill-used; but in his heart he knew that he did not mean that, and that Mrs. Ochterlony did not mean it, and that there was something else which stood between them, though he could not tell what it was.
All this time he contemplated going in facing his mother, and being surprised to see her, and putting up with her anger as he best could. But when midday came, he felt less willing than ever. His reluctance grew upon him. If it had all come simply, if he had rushed into her presence unawares, then he could have borne it; but to go back on purpose, to be ushered in to her solemnly, and to meet her when her wrath had accumulated and she had prepared what to say – this was an ordeal which Will felt he could not bear. She had grown terrible to him, appalling, like the angel with the flaming sword. His conscience arrayed her in such effulgence of wrath and scorn, that his very soul shrank. She would be angry beyond measure. It was impossible to fancy what she might say or do; and he could not go in and face her in cold blood. Therefore, instead of going home, Will went down hastily to his uncle’s office, and explained to him the position of affairs. “You go and speak to her,” said Will, with a feeling that it was his accomplice he was addressing, and yet a pang to think that he had himself gone over to the enemy, and was not on his natural side; “I am not up to seeing her to-night.”
“Poor Mary,” said Uncle Penrose, “I should not be surprised to find her in a sad way; but you ought to mind your own business, and it is not I who am to be blamed, but you.”
“She will not blame you,” said Will; “she will be civil to you. She will not look at you as she would look at me. When she is vexed she gives a fellow such a look. And I’m tired, and I can’t face her to-day.”
“It is mail-day, and I shall be late, and she will have a nice time of it all by herself,” said Mr. Penrose; but he consented at the end. And as for Will, he wandered down to the quays, and got into a steam-boat, and went off in the midst of a holiday party up the busy river. He used to remember the airs that were played on the occasion by the blind fiddler in the boat, and could never listen to them afterwards without the strangest sensations. He felt somehow as if he were in hiding, and the people were pointing him out to each other, and had a sort of vague wonder in his mind as to what they could think he had done – robbed or killed, or something – when the fact was he was only killing the time, and keeping out of the way because his mother was angry, and he did not feel able to face her and return home. And very forlorn the poor boy was; he had not eaten anything, and he did not know what to get for himself to eat, and the host of holiday people filled up all the vacant spaces in the inn they were all bound for, where there were pretty gardens looking on the river. Will was young and alone, and not much in the way of thrusting himself forward, and it was hard to get any one to attend to him, or a seat to sit upon, or anything to eat; and his forlorn sense of discomfort and solitude pressed as hard upon him as remorse could have done. And he knew that he must manage to make the time pass on somehow, and that he could not return until he could feel himself justified in hoping that his mother, tired with her journey, had gone to rest. Not till he felt confident of getting in unobserved, could he venture to go home.
This was how it happened that Mr. Penrose went in alone, and that all the mists suddenly cleared up for Mary, and she saw that she had harder work before her than anything that had yet entered into her mind. He drew a chair beside her, and shook hands, and said he was very glad to see her, and then a pause ensued so serious and significant, that Mary felt herself judged and condemned; and felt, in spite of herself, that the hot blood was rushing to her face. It seemed to her as she sat there, as if all the solid ground had suddenly been cut away from under her, that her plea was utterly ignored and the whole affair decided upon; and only to see Uncle Penrose’s meekly averted face made her head swim and her heart beat with a kind of half-delirious rage and resentment. He believed it then – knew all about it, and believed it, and recognised that it was a fallen woman by whose side he sat. All this Mrs. Ochterlony perceived in an instant by the downcast, conscious glance of Mr. Penrose’s eye.
“Will has been out all day, has he?” he said. “Gone sight-seeing, I suppose. He ought to be in to dinner. I hope you had a comfortable luncheon, and have been taken care of. It is mail-day, that is why I am so late.”
“But I am anxious, very anxious, about Will,” said Mary. “I thought you would know where he was. He is only a country boy, and something may happen to him in these dreadful streets.”
“Oh no, nothing has happened to him,” said Uncle Penrose, “you shall see him later. I am very glad you have come, for I wanted to have a little talk with you. You will always be quite welcome here, whatever may happen. If the girls had been at home, indeed, it might have been different – but whenever you like to come you know – I am very glad that we can talk it all over. It is so much the most satisfactory way.”
“Talk what over?” said Mary. “Thank you, uncle, but it was Will I was anxious to see.”
“Yes, to be sure – naturally,” said Mr. Penrose; “but don’t let us go into anything exciting before dinner. The gong will sound in ten minutes, and I must put myself in order. We can talk in the evening, and that will be much the best.”
With this he went and left her, to make the very small amount of toilette he considered necessary. And then came the dinner, during which Mr. Penrose was very particular, as he said, to omit all allusion to disagreeable subjects. Mary had to take her place at table, and to look across at the vacant chair that had been placed for Will, and to feel the whole weight of her uncle’s changed opinion, without any opportunity of rising up against it. She could not say a word in self-defence, for she was in no way assailed; but she never raised her eyes to him, nor listened to half-a-dozen words, without feeling that Mr. Penrose had in his own consciousness found her out. He was not going to shut his doors against her, or to recommend any cruel step. But her character was changed in his eyes. A sense that he was no longer particular as to what he said or did before her, no longer influenced by her presence, or elevated ever so little by her companionship as he had always been of old, came with terrible effect upon Mary’s mind. He was careless of what he said, and of her feelings, and of his own manners. She was a woman who had compromised herself, who had no longer much claim to respect, in Uncle Penrose’s opinion. This feeling, which was, as it were, in the air, affected Mary in the strangest way. It made her feel nearly mad in her extreme suppression and quietness. She could not stand on her own defence, for she was not assailed. And Will who should have stood by her, had gone over to the enemy’s side, and deserted her, and kept away. Where was he? where could he have gone? Her boy – her baby – the last one, who had always been the most tenderly tended; and he was avoiding —avoiding his mother. Mary realized all this as she sat at the table; and at the same time she had to respect the presence of the butler and Mr. Penrose’s servants, and make no sign. When she did not eat Mr. Penrose took particular notice of it, and hoped that she was not allowing herself to be upset; and he talked, in an elaborate way, of subjects that could interest nobody, keeping with too evident caution from the one subject which was in his mind all the while.
This lasted until the servants had gone away, and Mr. Penrose had poured out his first glass of port, for he was an old-fashioned man. He sat and sipped his wine with the quietness of preparation, and Mary, too, buckled on her armour, and made a rapid inspection of all its joints and fastenings. She was sitting at the table which had been so luxuriously served, and where the purple fruit and wine were making a picture still; but she was as truly at the bar as ever culprit was. There was an interval of silence, which was very dreadful to her, and then, being unable to bear it any longer, it was Mary herself who spoke.
“I perceive that something has been passing here in which we are all interested,” she said. “My poor boy has told you something he had heard – and I don’t know, except in the most general way, what he has heard. Can you tell, uncle? It is necessary I should know.”
“My dear Mary, these are very unpleasant affairs to talk about,” said Mr. Penrose. “You should have had a female friend to support you – though, indeed, I don’t know how you may feel about that. Will has told me all. There was nobody he could ask advice from under the circumstances, and I think it was very sensible of him to come to me.”
“I want to know what he wanted advice for,” said Mary, “and what it is you call all; and why Will has avoided me? I cannot think it is chance that has kept him out so long. Whatever he has heard, he must have known that it would be best to talk it over with me.”
“He thought you would be angry,” said Mr. Penrose, between the sips of his wine.
“Angry!” said Mary, and then her heart melted at the childish fear. “Oh, uncle, you should have advised him better,” she said, “he is only a boy; and you know that whatever happened, he had better have consulted his own mother first. How should I be angry? This is not like a childish freak, that one could be angry about.”
“No,” said Mr. Penrose; “it is not like a childish freak; but still I think it was the wisest thing he could do to come to me. It is impossible you could be his best counsellor where you are yourself so much concerned, and where such important interests are at stake.”
“Let me know at once what you mean,” said Mary faintly. “What important interests are at stake?”
She made a rapid calculation in her mind at the moment, and her heart grew sicker and sicker. Will had been, when she came to think of it, more than a week away from home, and many things might have happened in that time – things which she could not realize nor put in any shape, but which made her spirit faint out of her and all her strength ooze away.
“My dear Mary,” said Mr. Penrose, mildly, “why should you keep any pretence with me? Will has told me all. You cannot expect that a young man like him, at the beginning of his life, would relinquish his rights and give up such a fine succession merely out of consideration to your feelings. I am very sorry for you, and he is very sorry. Nothing shall be done on our part to compromise you beyond what is absolutely necessary; but your unfortunate circumstances are not his fault, and it is only reasonable that he should claim his rights.”
“What are his rights?” said Mary; “what do you suppose my unfortunate circumstances to be? Speak plainly – or, stop; I will tell you what he has heard. He has heard that my husband and I were married in India before he was born. That is quite true; and I suppose he and you think – ” said Mary, coming to a sudden gasp for breath, and making a pause against her will. “Then I will tell you the facts,” she said, with a labouring, long-drawn breath, when she was able to resume. “We were married in Scotland, as you and everybody know; it was not a thing done in secret. Everybody about Kirtell – everybody in the county knew of it. We went to Earlston afterwards, where Hugh’s mother was, and to Aunt Agatha. There was no shame or concealment anywhere, and you know that. We went out to India after, but not till we had gone to see all our friends; and everybody knew – ”
