And then it was Mrs. Ochterlony’s turn to speak.
“I did not come to seek a shelter,” she said; “though I know they would have given it me all the same. I came to seek love and kindness, uncle, which you cannot buy with money: and if there was nothing more than want of money between Winnie and Captain Percival——”
“Mary!” cried Winnie, impetuously, “go in and don’t say any more. You shall not be insulted while I am here; but don’t say anything about Edward. Leave me to have it out with Uncle Penrose, and go away.”
And somehow Mary obeyed. She would not have done it a month ago; but she was wearied of contention, and broken in spirit, and, instead of standing still and defending herself, she withdrew from the two belligerents, who were both so ready to turn their arms against her, and went away. She went to the nursery, which was deserted; for her boys were still outside in the lingering daylight. None of them were able to advise, or even to sympathize with their mother. They could give her their childish love, but nothing else in the world. The others had all some one to consult, some one to refer to, but Mary was alone. Her heart beat dull and low, with no vehement offence at the bitter words she had just heard, but with a heavy despondency and sense of solitude, which her very attitude showed—for she did not sit down, or lie down, or try to find any fictitious support, but stood up by the vacant fire-place with her eyes fixed upon nothing, holding unconsciously the little chain which secured her watch, and letting its beads drop one by one from her fingers. “Mary has come home to be a burden on her friends,” said Uncle Penrose. She did not resent it wildly, as she might have done some time before, but pondered with wondering pain and a dull sense of hopelessness. How did it happen that she, of all women, had come to such a position? what correspondence was there between that and all her past? and what was the future to be? which, even now, she could make no spasmodic changes in, but must accept and endure. This was how Mary’s mind was employed, while Winnie, reckless and wilful, defied Uncle Penrose in the garden. For the time, the power of defying any one seemed to have died out of Mary’s breast.
CHAPTER XXI.
R. PENROSE, however, was not a man of very lively feelings, and bore no malice against Winnie for her defiance, nor even against Mary, to whom he had been so cruel, which was more difficult. He was up again, cheerful and full of energy in the morning, ready for his mission. If Winnie began the world without something to live upon, or with any prospect of ever being a burden on her friends, at all events it would not be his fault. As it happened, Aunt Agatha received at the breakfast-table the usual invariable letter containing a solemn warning against Captain Percival, and she was affected by it, as she could not help always being affected; and the evident commotion it excited in the party was such that Mr. Penrose could not but notice it. When he insisted upon knowing what it was, he was met by what was, in reality, very skilful fencing on Miss Seton’s part, who was not destitute altogether of female skill and art; but Aunt Agatha’s defence was made useless by the impetuosity of Winnie, who scorned disguise.
“Oh, let us hear it, please,” she said, “let us hear. We know what it is about. It is some new story—some lie, about my poor Edward. They may save themselves the trouble. I would not believe one of them, if it was written on the wall like Belshazzar’s feast; and if I did believe them I would not care,” said Winnie, vehemently; and she looked across, as she never could help looking, to where her sister sat.
“What is it?” said Mr. Penrose, “something about your Captain? Miss Agatha, considering my interest in the matter, I hope you will let me hear all that is said.”
“It is nothing, absolutely nothing,” said Aunt Agatha, faltering. “It is only some foolish gossip, you know—garrison stories, and that sort of thing. He was a very young man, and was launched upon life by himself—and—and—I think I may say he must have been imprudent. Winnie, my dear love, my heart bleeds to say it, but he must have been imprudent. He must have entangled himself and—and—— And then there are always so many designing people about to lead poor young men astray,” said Aunt Agatha, trembling for the result of her explanation; while Winnie divided her attention between Mr. Penrose, before whom this new view of the subject was unfolded for the first time, and Mary, whom she regarded as a natural enemy and the probable origin of it all.