“I never thought she would desert and abandon 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 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 the 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 words 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 “exposure” 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 dropped upon it out of Hugh’s proud and joyful eyes.
“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 that,” 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 anything 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. I 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 forth out of the fulness 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 absolute best 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 writing, but was satisfied when she heard Hugh had it; and she accepted the intervention of old Sommerville, dead or living, without demanding too many explanations. She had now something else more absorbing, more engrossing, to occupy her, and two supreme emotions 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 Agatha, who wanted to come, giving the cheerfullest view of matters that was possible, and declaring that she was quite 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. Kirkman, offering to come to her assistance at once, to leave all her responsibilities for the satisfaction of being with her friend and sustaining 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.