“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 quite 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 aspiration, “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, or I would take the dear boys with me. Nobody will be worried by them at the cottage. Oh, Mary, my darling, I never would say anything against poor dear Hugh, or encourage you to keep his 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 Miss Seton; “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 thus put in peril, for she had a few pretty things herself 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 hero, in such a connection. “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 to her gentle spirit. It was righteous 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 with 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 Earlston 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 thoughts 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. But after that he did not do anything to detain Mary in his house. Where one woman was, other women were pretty sure to come, and nobody could tell what unseen visitants might enter along with them, to disturb a man in his occupations, and startle him out of his tranquillity. He never had the heart to resume that monograph on Icelandic art—which was a great loss to the Society of Antiquaries and the æsthetic world in general; and though he had no advice in particular to give to his sister-in-law as to her future movements, he did not say anything further to deter her from leaving Earlston. “I hope you will let me know what your movements are, and where you decide upon settling,” he 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 within, 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 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.
UNT AGATHA’S cottage was very different from Earlston. It was a woman’s house, and bore that character written all over it. The Psyche 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 in 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 Henri II. had ever come in Miss Seton’s way; but she had one or two trifling articles that were real Wedgewood, and she had some bits of genuine Sèvres, and a great deal of pretty rubbish, which answered the purpose 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 air, sound and fragrance, went through and through the little house. It was the same house as that in which 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 cottage 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 glowing 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. Ochterlony 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 yearning for some place of her own. The greatest infidel, the most hard-hearted cynic could not have felt otherwise than at home under such circumstances. The children were taken out of Mary’s hands on the instant, she whose time had been entirely devoted to keeping 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 moving 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 satisfaction 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 nothing but satisfaction in that difficult woman’s countenance. 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 visible 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.