THE present writer has already lamented1 her inability to convey to the readers of this history any clear account of an Indian bungalow2, or the manner in which life goes on in that curious kind of English home: so that it would be vain to attempt any detailed3 description of Mary Ochterlony’s life at this period of her career. She lived very much as all the others lived, and gave a great deal of attention to her two little boys, and wrote regularly by every mail to her friends in England, and longed for the day when the mail came in, though the interest of her correspondence was not absorbing. All this she did like everybody else, though the other ladies at the station had perhaps more people belonging to them, and a larger number of letters, and got more good of the eagerly looked-for mail. And she read all the books she could come by, even Miss Sorbette’s novels, which were indeed the chief literary nourishment4 of the station; and took her due share in society, and was generally very popular, though not so superior as Miss Sorbette for example, nor of remarkable5 piety6 like Mrs. Kirkman, nor nearly so well off as Mrs. Hesketh. Perhaps these three ladies, who were the natural leaders of society, liked Mary all the better because she did not come in direct contact with their claims; though if it had ever entered into Mrs. Ochterlony’s head to set up a distinct standard, no doubt the masses would have flocked to it, and the peace of the station might have been put in jeopardy7. But as no such ambitious project was in her mind, Mary kept her popularity with everybody, and gained besides that character of “She could an if she would,” which goes a great deal farther than the limited reputation of any actual achievement. She was very good to the new people, the young people, the recent arrivals, and managed to make them feel at home sooner than anybody else could, which was a very useful gift in such society; and then a wife who bore her husband’s fidgets so serenely8 was naturally a model and example for all the new wives.
“I am sure nobody else in the station could do so well,” Mrs. Kirkman said. “The most experienced Christian10 would find it a trying task. But then some people are so mercifully fitted for their position in life. I don’t think she feels it as you or I should.” This was said, not as implying that little Mrs. Askell—to whom the words were ostensibly addressed—had peculiarly sensitive feelings, or was in any way to be associated with the Colonel’s wife, but only because it was a favourite way Mrs. Kirkman had of bringing herself down to her audience, and uniting herself, as it were, to ordinary humanity; for if there was one thing more than another for which she was distinguished11, it was her beautiful Christian humanity; and this was the sense in which she now spoke12.
“Please don’t say so,” cried the ensign’s wife, who was an unmanageable, eighteen-year-old, half-Irish creature. “I am sure she has twenty thousand times more feeling than you and—than both of us put together. It’s because she is real good; and the Major is an old dear. He is a fidget and he’s awfully13 aggravating14, and he puts one in a passion; but he’s an old dear, and so you would say if you knew him as well as I.”
Mrs. Kirkman regarded the creature by her side, as may be supposed, with the calm contempt which her utterance15 merited. She looked at her, out of those “down-dropt,” half-veiled eyes, with that look which everybody in the station knew so well, as if she were looking down from an infinite distance with a serene9 surprise which was too far off and elevated to partake of the nature of disgust. If she knew him as well as this baby did! But the Colonel’s wife did not take any notice of the audacious suggestion. It was her duty, instead of resenting the impertinence to herself, to improve the occasion for the offender’s own sake.
“My dear, there is nobody really good,” said Mrs. Kirkman. “We have the highest authority for that. I wish I could think dear Mary was possessed16 of the true secret of a higher life; but she has so much of that natural amiability17, you know, which is, of all things, the most dangerous for the soul. I would rather, for my part, she was not so ‘good’ as you say. It is all filthy18 rags,” said Mrs. Kirkman, with a sigh. “It might be for the good of her soul to be brought low, and forced to abandon these refuges of lies——”
Upon which the little Irish wild-Indian blazed up with natural fury.
“I don’t believe she ever told a lie in her life. I’ll swear to all the lies she tells,” cried the foolish little woman; “and as for rags—it’s horrible to talk so. If you only knew—if you only could think—how kind she was to me!”
For this absurd little hapless child had had a baby, as might have been expected, and would have been in rags indeed, and everything that is miserable19, but for Mary, who had taken her in hand; and being not much more than a baby herself, and not strong yet, and having her heart in her mouth, so to speak, she burst out crying, as might have been expected too.
This was a result which her companion had not in the least calculated upon, for Mrs. Kirkman, notwithstanding her belief in Mary’s insensibility, had not very lively feelings, and was not quick at divining other people. But she was a good woman notwithstanding all her talk. She came down off her mountain top, and soothed20 her little visitor, and gave her a glass of wine, and even kissed her, to make matters up.
“I know she has a way, when people are sick,” said the Colonel’s wife; and then, after that confession21, she sighed again. “If only she does not put her trust in her own works,” Mrs. Kirkman added.
For, to tell the truth, the Chaplain of the regiment22 was not (as she thought) a spiritual-minded man, and the Colonel’s wife was troubled by an abiding23 consciousness that it was into her hands Providence24 had committed the souls of the station. “Which was an awful responsibility for a sinful creature,” she said, in her letters home; “and one that required constant watch over herself.”
Perhaps, in a slightly different way, Mrs. Ochterlony would have been similarly put down and defended in the other two centres of society at the station. “She is intelligent,” Miss Sorbette said; “I don’t deny that she is intelligent; but I would not say she was superior. She is fond of reading, but then most people are fond of reading, when it’s amusing, you know. She is a little too like Amelia in ‘Vanity Fair.’ She is one of the sweet women. In a general way, I can’t bear sweet women; but I must confess she is the very best specimen25 I ever saw.”
As for Mrs. Hesketh, her opinion was not much worth stating in words. If she had any fault to find with Mrs. Ochterlony, it was because Mary had sometimes a good deal of trouble in making the two ends meet. “I cannot endure people that are always having anxieties,” said the rich woman of the station, who had an idea that everybody could be comfortable if they liked, and that it was an offence to all his neighbours when a man insisted on being poor; but at the same time everybody knew that she was very fond of Mary. This had been the general opinion of her for all these years, and naturally Mrs. Ochterlony was used to it, and, without being at all vain on the subject, had that sense of the atmosphere of general esteem26 and regard which surrounded her, which has a favourable27 influence upon every character, and which did a great deal to give her the sweet composure and serenity28 for which she was famed.
But from the time of that first conversation with her husband, a change came upon the Madonna of the station. It was not perceptible to the general vision, yet there were individual eyes which found out that something was the matter, though nobody could tell what. Mrs. Hesketh thought it was an attack of fever coming on, and Mrs. Kirkman hoped that Mrs. Ochterlony was beginning to occupy herself about her spiritual state; and the one recommended quinine to Mary, and the other sent her sermons, which, to tell the truth, were not much more suitable to her case. But Mary did not take any of the charitable friends about her into her confidence. She went about among them as a prince might have gone about in his court, or a chief among his vassals29, after hearing in secret that it was possible that one day he may be discovered to be an impostor. Or, if not that,—for Mary knew that she never could be found out an impostor,—at least, that such a charge was hanging over her head, and that somebody might believe it; and that her history would be discussed and her name get into people’s mouths and her claims to their regard be questioned. It was very hard upon her to think that such a thing was possible with composure, or to contemplate30 her husband’s restless ways, and to recollect31 the indiscreet confidences which he was in the habit of making. He had spoken to Colonel Kirkman about it, and even quoted his advice about the marriage lines; and Mary could not but think (though in this point she did the Colonel injustice) that Mrs. Kirkman too must know; and then, with a man of Major Ochterlony’s temperament32, nobody could make sure that he would not take young Askell, the ensign, or any other boy in the station, into his confidence, if he should happen to be in the way. All this was very galling33 to Mary, who had so high an appreciation34 of the credit and honour which, up to this moment, she had enjoyed; and who felt that she would rather die than come down to be discussed and pitied and talked about among all these people. She thought in her disturbed and uneasy mind, that she could already hear all the different tones in which they would say, “Poor Mary!” and all the wonders, and doubts, and inquiries35 that would rise up round her. Mrs. Kirkman would have said that all these were signs that her pride wanted humbling36, and that the thing her friends should pray for, should be some startling blow to lead her back to a better state of mind. But naturally this was a kind of discipline which for herself, or indeed for anybody else, Mary was not far enough advanced to desire.
Perhaps, however, it was partly true about the pride. Mrs. Ochterlony did not say anything about it, but she locked the door of her own room the next morning after that talk with the Major, and searched through all her repositories for those “marriage lines,” which no doubt she had put away somewhere, and which she had naturally forgotten all about for years. It was equally natural, and to be expected, that she should not find them. She looked through all her papers, and letters, and little sacred corners, and found many things that filled her heart with sadness and her eyes with tears—for she had not come through those ten years without leaving traces behind her where her heart had been wounded and had bled by the way—but she did not find what she was in search of. She tried hard to look back and think, and to go over in her mind the contents of her little school-girl desk, which she had left at Aunt Agatha’s cottage, and the little work-table, and the secretary with all its drawers. But she could not recollect anything about it, nor where she had put it, nor what could have become of it; and the effect of her examination was to give her, this time in reality, a headache, and to make her eyes heavy and her heart sore. But she did not say a syllable37 about her search to the Major, who was (as, indeed, he always was) as anxiously affectionate as a man could be, and became (as he always did) when he found his wife suffering, so elaborately noiseless and still, that Mary ended by a good fit of laughing, which was of the greatest possible service to her.
“When you are so quiet, you worry me, Hugh,” she said. “I am used to hear you moving about.”
“My dear, I hope I am not such a brute38 as to move about when you are suffering,” her husband replied. And though his mind had again begun to fill with the dark thoughts that had been the occasion of all Mary’s annoyance39, he restrained himself with a heroic effort, and did not say a syllable about it all that night.
But this was a height of virtue40 which was quite impossible any merely mortal powers could keep up to. He began to make mysterious little broken speeches next day, and to stop short and say, “My darling, I mustn’t worry you,” and to sigh like a furnace, and to worry Mary to such an extremity42 that her difficulty in keeping her temper and patience grew indescribable. And then, when he had afflicted43 her in this way till it was impossible to go any further—when he had betrayed it to her in every look, in every step, in every breath he drew—which was half a sigh—and in every restless movement he made; and when Mrs. Ochterlony, who could not sleep for it, nor rest, nor get any relief from the torture, had two red lines round her eyes, and was all but out of her senses—the stream burst forth44 at last, and the Major spoke:
“You remember, perhaps, Mary, what we were talking of the other day,” he said, in an insidiously45 gentle way, one morning, early—when they had still the long, long day before them to be miserable in. “I thought it very important, but perhaps you may have forgot—about old Sommerville who died?”
“Forgot!” said Mary. She felt it was coming now, and was rather glad to have it over. “I don’t know how I could forget, Hugh. What you said would have made one recollect anything; but you cannot make old Sommerville come alive again, whatever you do.”
“My dear, I spoke to you about some—about a—paper,” said the Major. “Lines—that is what the Scotch46 call them—though, I daresay, they’re very far from being poetry. Perhaps you have found them, Mary?” said Major Ochterlony, looking into her face in a pleading way, as if he prayed her to answer yes. And it was with difficulty that she kept as calm as she wished to do, and answered without letting him see the agitation47 and excitement in her mind.
“I don’t know where I have put them, Hugh,” she said, with a natural evasion48, and in a low voice. She did not acknowledge having looked for them, and having failed to find them; but in spite of herself, she answered with a certain humility49, as of a woman culpable50. For, after all, it was her fault.
“You don’t know where you put them?” said the Major, with rising horror. “Have you the least idea how important they are? They may be the saving of you and of your children, and you don’t know where you have put them! Then it is all as I feared,” Major Ochterlony added, with a groan51, “and everything is lost.”
“What is lost?” said Mary. “You speak to me in riddles52, Hugh. I know I put them somewhere—I must have put them somewhere safe. They are, most likely, in my old desk at home, or in one of the drawers of the secretary,” said Mary calmly, giving those local specifications53 with a certainty which she was far from feeling. As for the Major, he was arrested by the circumstance which made her faint hope and supposition look somehow like truth.
“If I could hope that that was the case,” he said; “but it can’t be the case, Mary. You never were at home after we were married—you forget that. We went to Earlston for a day, and we went to your guardian’s; but never to Aunt Agatha. You are making a mistake, my dear; and God bless me, to think of it, what would become of you if anything were to happen to me?”
“I hope there is nothing going to happen to you; but I don’t think in that case it would matter what became of me,” said Mary in utter depression; for by this time she was worn out.
“You think so now, my love; but you would be obliged to think otherwise,” said Major Ochterlony. “I hope I’m all right for many a year; but a man can never tell. And the insurance, and pension, and everything—and Earlston, if my brother should leave it to us—all our future, my darling. I think it will drive me distracted,” said the Major, “not a witness nor a proof left!”
Mary could make no answer. She was quite overwhelmed by the images thus called before her; for her part, the pension and the insurance money had no meaning to her ears; but it is difficult not to put a certain faith in it when a man speaks in such a circumstantial way of things that can only happen after his death.
“You have been talking to the doctor, and he has been putting things into your head,” she said faintly. “It is cruel to torture me so. We know very well how we were married, and all about it, and so do our friends, and it is cruel to try to make me think of anything happening. There is nobody in the regiment so strong and well as you are,” she continued, taking courage a little. She thought to herself he looked, as people say, the picture of health, as he sat beside her, and she began to recover out of her prostration54. As for spleen or liver, or any of those uncomfortable attributes, Major Ochterlony, up to this moment, had not known whether he possessed them—which was a most re-assuring thought, naturally, for his anxious wife.
“Thank God,” said the Major, with a little solemnity. It was not that he had any presentiment55, or thought himself likely to die early; but simply that he was in a pathetic way, and had a naïf and innocent pleasure in deepening his effects; and then he took to walking about the room in his nervous manner. After a while he came to a dead stop before his wife, and took both her hands into his.
“Mary,” he said, “I know it’s an idea you don’t like; but, for my peace of mind; suppose—just suppose for the sake of supposing—that I was to die now, and leave you without a word to prove your claims. It would be ten times worse than death, Mary; but I could die at peace if you would only make one little sacrifice to my peace of mind.”
“Oh, Hugh, don’t kill me—you are not going to die,” was all Mary could say.
“No, my darling, not if I can help it; but if it were only for my peace of mind. There’s no harm in it that I can see. It’s ridiculous, you know; but that’s all, Mary,” said the Major, looking anxiously into her face. “Why, it is what hosts of people do every day. It is the easiest thing to do—a mere41 joke, for that matter. They will say, you know, that it is like Ochterlony, and a piece of his nonsense. I know how they talk; but never mind. I know very well there is nothing else you would not do for my peace of mind. It will set your future above all casualties, and it will be all over in half an hour. For instance, Churchill says——”
“You have spoken to Mr. Churchill, too?” said Mary, with a thrill of despair.
“A man can never do any harm speaking to his clergyman, I hope,” the Major said, peevishly56. “What do you mean by too? I’ve only mentioned it to Kirkman besides—I wanted his advice—and to Sorbette, to explain that bad headache of yours. And they all think I am perfectly57 right.”
Mary put her hands up to her face, and gave a low but bitter cry. She said nothing more—not a syllable. She had already been dragged down without knowing it, and set low among all these people. She who deserved nothing but honour, who had done nothing to be ashamed of, who was the same Madonna Mary whom they had all regarded as the “wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best.” By this time they had all begun to discuss her story, and to wonder if all had been quite right at the beginning, and to say, “Poor Mary!” She knew it as well as if she had heard the buzz of talk in those three houses to which her husband had confided58 his difficulty. It was a horrible torture, if you will but think of it, for an innocent woman to bear.
“It is not like you to make such a fuss about so simple a thing,” said Major Ochterlony. “You know very well it is not myself but you I am thinking of; that you may have everything in order, and your future provided for, whatever may happen. It may be absurd, you know; but a woman mustn’t mind being absurd to please her husband. We’ll ask our friends to step over with us to church in the morning, and in half an hour it will be all over. Don’t cover your face, Mary. It worries me not to see your face. God bless me, it is nothing to make such a fuss about,” said the Major, getting excited. “I would do a great deal more, any day, to please you.”
“I would cut off my hand to please you,” said Mary, with perhaps a momentary59 extravagance in the height of her passion. “You know there is no sacrifice I would not make for you; but oh, Hugh, not this, not this,” she said, with a sob60 that startled him—one of those sobs61 that tear and rend62 the breast they come from, and have no accompaniment of tears.
His answer was to come up to her side, and take the face which she had been covering, between his hands, and kiss it as if it had been a child’s. “My darling, it is only this that will do me any good. It is for my peace of mind,” he said, with all that tenderness and effusion which made him the best of husbands. He was so loving to her that, even in the bitterness of the injury, it was hard for Mary to refuse to be soothed and softened63. He had got his way, and his unbounded love and fondness surrounded her with a kind of atmosphere of tender enthusiasm. He knew so well there was none like her, nobody fit to be put for a moment in comparison with his Mary; and this was how her fate was fixed64 for her, and the crisis came to an end.
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1
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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8
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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12
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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vassals
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| n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 )；（封建时代）诸侯；从属者；下属 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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humbling
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| adj.令人羞辱的v.使谦恭( humble的现在分词 )；轻松打败（尤指强大的对手）；低声下气 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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41
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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42
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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45
insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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46
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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47
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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48
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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49
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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50
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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51
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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52
riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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53
specifications
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| n.规格；载明；详述；（产品等的）说明书；说明书( specification的名词复数 )；详细的计划书；载明；详述 | |
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54
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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58
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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59
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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60
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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61
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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62
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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63
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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