“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——”
“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 Ochterlony thought it necessary to do you justice at the last?”