Madonna Mary

by Mrs. Oliphant

“Oh, Winnie, I don’t understand you,” cried Aunt Agatha, trembling, and freeing her poor little soft crushed hands.

“And I don’t understand myself,” said Winnie. “Don’t let us say a word more.”

What did it mean, that flush 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 questions 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, whose prayers were 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 connection there was between the rose and Aunt Agatha’s prayers, but somehow the faint perfume softened the wild, agitated, stormy heart, and suggested to it that sacrifice was being 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 Winnie. She went rushing in to Carlisle in the express train, flying as it were on the wings of the wind. But Mrs. Kirkman was not at home. She was either working in her district, or she was teaching the infant school, or giving out work to the poor women, or perhaps 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 hypothesis which her maid rejected as unworthy of her. Mrs. Percival found herself brought to a sudden standstill when she heard this. The sole audible motive which 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 and yet eagerly in another direction. 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 Winnie would not let herself consider that thought. Captain Askell’s house was not the same cold and neglected place where Mary had 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 altogether 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-suppressed; 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 kitchen, and the children in the nursery—and even as Winnie approached the drawing-room she could hear voices thrilling with an excitement which did not become that calm retreat. There was a sound as of a sob, and there was a broken voice a little loud in its accents. Winnie went on with a quicker throb of her heart—perhaps he himself—— But when the door opened, it was upon a scene she had not thought of. Mrs. Kirkman was there, seated high as on a throne, looking with a sad but touching resignation upon the disturbed household. And it was Emma who was sobbing—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 indignation, 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. Therefore Winnie did not hesitate. She offered no ordinary civilities herself, nor required any. She went straight up to where Mrs. Kirkman sat, not looking at others. “I have come to ask you what it means,” she said; and Winnie felt that 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 does 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 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 delusions 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. Ochterlony’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. No one thought of it, and neither did she. The conflict around her had sobered Winnie’s thoughts. There was no trace of her husband in it, nor of that striking her through her friends which had excited and exhilarated her mind; but the family instinct of mutual defence awoke in her. “My sister has heard something 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.”