Madonna Mary

by Mrs. Oliphant

HAT night was a painful night for Winnie. The girl was self-willed and self-loving, as has been said. But she was not incapable of the more generous emotions, and when she looked at her sister she could no more suspect her of any wrong or treachery than she could suspect the sun shining over their heads. And her interest in the young soldier had gone a great length. She thought he loved her, and it was very hard to think that he was kept apart from her by a reason which was no reason at all. She roved about the garden all the evening in an unsettled way, thinking he would come again—thinking he could not stay away—explaining to herself that he must come to explain. And when she glanced indoors at the lamp which was lighted so much earlier than it needed to be, for the sake of Mary’s sewing, and saw Mary seated beside it, in what looked like perfect composure and quietness, Winnie’s impatience got the better of her. He was to be banished, or confined to a formal morning call, for Mary’s sake, who sat there so calm, a woman for whom the fret and cares of life were over, while for Winnie life was only beginning, and her heart going out eagerly to welcome and lay claim to its troubles. And then the thought that it was the same Mrs. Ochterlony came sharp as a sting to Winnie’s heart. What could he have had to do with Mrs. Ochterlony? what did she mean coming home in the character of a sorrowful widow, and shutting out their visitors, and yet awakening something like agitation and unquestionable recognition in the first stranger she saw? Winnie wandered through the garden, asking herself those questions, while the sweet twilight darkened, and the magical hour passed by, which had of late associated itself with so many dreams. And again he did not come. It was impossible to her, when she looked at Mary, to believe that there could be anything inexplainable in the link which connected her lover with her sister—but still he ought to have come to explain. And when Sir Edward’s windows were lighted once more, and the certainty that he was not coming penetrated her mind, Winnie clenched her pretty hands, and went crazy for the moment with despite and vexation. Another long dull weary evening, with all the expectation and hope quenched out of it; another lingering night; another day in which there was as much doubt as hope. And next week he was going away! And it was all Mary’s fault, however you took it—whether she had known more of him than she would allow in India, or whether it was simply the fault of that widow’s cap which scared people away? This was what was going on in Winnie’s agitated mind while the evening dews fell upon the banks of Kirtell, and the soft stars came out, and the young moon rose, and everything glistened and shone with the sweetness of a summer night. This fair young creature, who was in herself the most beautiful climax of all the beauty around her, wandered among her flowers with her small hands clenched, and the spirit of a little fury in her heart. She had nothing in the world to trouble her, and yet she was very unhappy, and it was all Mary’s fault. Probably if Mary could but have seen into Winnie’s heart she would have thought it preferable to stay at Earlston, where the Psyche and the Venus were highly indifferent, and had no hearts, but only arms and noses that could be broken. Winnie was more fragile than the Etruscan vases or the Henri II. porcelain. They had escaped fracture, but she had not; but fortunately this thought did not occur to Mrs. Ochterlony as she sat by the lamp working at Hugh’s little blouses in Aunt Agatha’s chair.

And Aunt Agatha, more actively jealous than Winnie herself, sat by knitting little socks—an occupation which she had devoted herself to, heart and soul, from the moment when she first knew the little Ochterlonys were coming home. She was knitting with the prettiest yarn and the finest needles, and had a model before her of proportions so shapely as to have filled any woman’s soul with delight; but all that was eclipsed for the time by the doubt which hung over Mary, and the evident unhappiness of her favourite. Aunt Agatha was less wise than Winnie, and had not eyes to perceive that people were characteristic even in their wrong-doing, and that Captain Percival of himself could have nothing to do with the shock which Mary had evidently felt at the sight of him. Probably Miss Seton had not been above a little flirtation in her own day, and she did not see how that would come unnatural to a woman of her own flesh and blood. And she sat accordingly on the other side of the lamp and knitted, with a pucker of anxiety upon her fair old brow, casting wistful glances now and then into the garden where Winnie was.

“And I suppose, my dear, you know Captain Percival very well?” said Aunt Agatha, with that anxious look on her face.

“I don’t think I ever saw him but once,” said Mary, who was a little impatient of the question.

“But once, my dear love! and yet you both were so surprised to meet,” said Aunt Agatha, with reasonable surprise.

“There are some moments when to see a man is to remember him ever after,” said Mary. “It was at such a time that I saw Sir Edward’s friend. It would be best to tell you about it, Aunt Agatha. There was a time when my poor Hugh——”

“Oh, Mary, my darling, you can’t think I want to vex you,” cried Aunt Agatha, “or make you go back again upon anything that is painful. I am quite satisfied, for my part, when you say so. And so would Winnie be, I am sure.”

“Satisfied?” said Mary, wondering, and yet with a smile; and then she forgot the wonder of it in the anxiety. “I should be sorry to think that Winnie cared much for anything that could be said about Captain Percival. I used to hear of him from the Askells who were friends of his. Do not let her have anything to do with him, Aunt Agatha; I am sure he could bring her nothing but disappointment and pain.”

“I—Mary?—Oh, my dear love, what can I do?” cried Miss Seton, in sudden confusion; and then she paused and recovered herself. “Of course if he was a wicked young man, I—I would not let Winnie have anything to do with him,” she added, faltering; “but—do you think you are sure, Mary? If it should be only that you do not—like him; or that you have not got on—or something——”