“IAM going with you, Mary,” said Mrs. Kirkman, coming suddenly in upon the morning of the day which was to give peace to Major Ochterlony’s mind, and cloud over with something like a shadow of shame (or at least she thought so) his wife’s fair matron fame. The Colonel’s wife had put on her last white bonnet1, which was not so fresh as it had been at the beginning of the season, and white gloves which were also a little the worse for wear. To be sure the marriage was not like a real marriage, and nobody knew how the unwilling2 bride would think proper to dress. Mrs. Kirkman came in at a quicker pace than ordinary, with her hair hanging half out of curl on either side of her face, as was always the case. She was fair, but of a greyish complexion3, with light blue eyes à fleur de la tête, which generally she kept half veiled within their lids—a habit which was particularly aggravating4 to some of the livelier spirits. She came in hastily (for her), and found Mary seated disconsolate5, and doing nothing, which is, in such a woman, one of the saddest signs of a mind disturbed. Mrs. Ochterlony sat, dropped down upon a chair, with her hands listlessly clasped in her lap, and a hot flush upon her cheek. She was lost in a dreary6 contemplation of the sacrifice which was about to be exacted from her, and of the possible harm it might do. She was thinking of her children, what effect it might have on them—and she was thinking bitterly, that for good or evil she could not help it; that again, as on many a previous occasion, her husband’s restless mind had carried the day over her calmer judgment7, and that there was no way of changing it. To say that she consented with personal pain of the most acute kind, would not be to say all. She gave in, at the same time, with a foreboding utterly8 indistinct, and which she would not have given utterance9 to, yet which was strong enough to heighten into actual misery10 the pain and shame of her position. When Mrs. Kirkman came in, with her eyes full of observation, and making the keenest scrutiny11 from beneath the downcast lids, Mrs. Ochterlony was not in a position to hide her emotions. She was not crying, it is true, for the circumstances were too serious for crying; but it was not difficult to form an idea of her state of mind from her strangely listless attitude, and the expression of her face.
“I have come to go with you,” said Mrs. Kirkman. “I thought you would like to have somebody to countenance12 you. It will make no difference to me, I assure you, Mary; and both the Colonel and I think if there is any doubt, you know, that it is by far the wisest thing you could do. And I only hope——”
“Doubt!” said Mary, lighting13 up for the moment. “There is no more doubt than there is of all the marriages made in Scotland. The people who go there to be married are not married again afterwards that I ever heard of. There is no doubt whatever—none in the world. I beg your pardon. I am terribly vexed14 and annoyed, and I don’t know what I am saying. To hear any one talk of doubt!”
“My dear Mary, we know nothing but what the Major has told us,” said Mrs. Kirkman. “You may depend upon it he has reason for what he is doing; and I do hope you will see a higher hand in it all, and feel that you are being humbled15 for your good.”
“I wish you would tell me how it can be for my good,” said Mrs. Ochterlony, “when even you, who ought to know better, talk of doubt—you who have known us all along from the very first. Hugh has taken it into his head—that is the whole matter; and you, all of you know, when he takes a thing into his head——”
She had been hurried on to say this by the rush of her disturbed thoughts; but Mary was not a woman to complain of her husband. She came to a sudden standstill, and rose up, and looked at her watch.
“It is about time to go,” she said, “and I am sorry to give you the trouble of going with me. It is not worth while for so short a distance; but, at least, don’t say anything more about it, please.”
Mrs. Kirkman had already made the remark that Mary was not at all “dressed.” She had on her brown muslin, which was the plainest morning dress in her possession, as everybody knew; and instead of going to her room, to make herself a little nice, she took up her bonnet, which was on the table, and tied it on without even so much as looking in the glass. “I am quite ready,” she said, when she had made this simple addition to her dress, and stood there, looking everything that was most unlike the Madonna of former days—flushed and clouded over, with lines in her forehead, and the corners of her mouth dropped, and her fair large serene16 beauty hidden beneath the thunder-cloud. And the Colonel’s wife was very sorry to see her friend in such a state of mind, as may be supposed.
“My dear Mary,” Mrs. Kirkman said, taking her arm as they went out, and holding it fast. “I should much wish to see you in a better frame of mind. Man is only the instrument in our troubles. It must have been that Providence17 saw you stood in need of it, my dear. He knows best. It would not have been sent if it had not been for your good.”
“In that way, if I were to stand in the sun till I got a sunstroke, it would be for my good,” said Mary, in anger. “You would say, it was God’s fault, and not mine. But I know it is my fault; I ought to have stood out and resisted, and I have not had the strength; and it is not for good, but evil. It is not God’s fault, but ours. It can be for nobody’s good.”
But after this, she would not say any more. Not though Mrs. Kirkman was shocked at her way of speaking, and took great pains to impress upon her that she must have been doing or thinking something God punished by this means. “Your pride must have wanted bringing down, my dear; as we all do, Mary, both you and I,” said the Colonel’s wife; but then Mrs. Kirkman’s humility18 was well known.
Thus they walked together to the chapel19, whither various wondering people, who could not understand what it meant, were straying. Major Ochterlony had meant to come for his wife, but he was late, as he so often was, and met them only near the chapel-door; and then he did something which sent the last pang20 of which it was capable to Mary’s heart, though it was only at a later period that she found it out. He found his boy with the Hindoo nurse, and brought little Hugh in, ’wildered and wondering. Mr. Churchill by this time had put his surplice on, and all was ready. Colonel Kirkman had joined his wife, and stood by her side behind the “couple,” furtively21 grasping his grey moustache, and looking out of a corner of his eyes at the strange scene. Mrs. Kirkman, for her part, dropt her eyelids22 as usual, and looked down upon Mary kneeling at her feet, with a certain compassionate23 uncertainty24, sorry that Mrs. Ochterlony did not see this trial to be for her good, and at the same time wondering within herself whether it had all been perfectly25 right, or was not more than a notion of the Major’s. Farther back Miss Sorbette, who was with Annie Hesketh, was giving vent26 in a whisper to the same sentiments.
“I am very sorry for poor Mary: but could it be all quite right before?” Miss Sorbette was saying. “A man does not take fright like that for nothing. We women are silly, and take fancies; but when a man does it, you know——”
And it was with such an accompaniment that Mary knelt down, not looking like a Madonna, at her husband’s side. As for the Major, an air of serenity27 had diffused28 itself over his handsome features. He knelt in quite an easy attitude, pleased with himself, and not displeased29 to be the centre of so interesting a group. Mary’s face was slightly averted30 from him, and was burning with the same flush of indignation as when Mrs. Kirkman found her in her own house. She had taken off her bonnet and thrown it down by her side; and her hair was shining as if in anger and resistance to this fate, which, with closed mouth, and clasped hands, and steady front, she was submitting to, though it was almost as terrible as death. Such was the curious scene upon which various subaltern members of society at the station looked on with wondering eyes. And little Hugh Ochterlony stood near his mother with childish astonishment31, and laid up the singular group in his memory, without knowing very well what it meant; but that was a sentiment shared by many persons much more enlightened than the poor little boy, who did not know how much influence this mysterious transaction might have upon his own fate.
The only other special feature was that Mary, with the corners of her mouth turned down, and her whole soul wound up to obstinacy32, would not call herself by any name but Mary Ochterlony. They persuaded her, painfully, to put her long disused maiden33 name upon the register, and kind Mr. Churchill shut his ears to it in the service; but yet it was a thing that everybody remarked. When all was over, nobody knew how they were expected to behave, whether to congratulate the pair, or whether to disappear and hold their tongues, which seemed in fact the wisest way. But no popular assembly ever takes the wisest way of working. Mr. Churchill was the first to decide the action of the party. He descended34 the altar steps, and shook hands with Mary, who stood tying her bonnet, with still the corners of her mouth turned down, and that feverish35 flush on her cheeks. He was a good man, though not spiritually-minded in Mrs. Kirkman’s opinion; and he felt the duty of softening36 and soothing37 his flock as much as of teaching them, which is sometimes a great deal less difficult. He came and shook hands with her, gravely and kindly38.
“I don’t see that I need congratulate you, Mrs. Ochterlony,” he said, “I don’t suppose it makes much difference; but you know you always have all our best wishes.” And he cast a glance over his audience, and reproved by that glance the question that was circulating among them. But to tell the truth, Mrs. Kirkman and Miss Sorbette paid very little attention to Mr. Churchill’s looks.
“My dear Mary, you have kept up very well, though I am sure it must have been trying,” Mrs. Kirkman said. “Once is bad enough; but I am sure you will see a good end in it at the last.”
And while she spoke39 she allowed a kind of silent interrogation, from her half-veiled eyes, to steal over Mary, and investigate her from head to foot. Had it been all right before? Might not this perhaps be in reality the first time, the once which was bad enough? The question crept over Mrs. Ochterlony, from the roots of her hair down to her feet, and examined her curiously40 to find a response. The answer was plain enough, and yet it was not plain to the Colonel’s wife; for she knew that the heart is deceitful above all things, and that where human nature is considered it is always safest to believe the worst.
Miss Sorbette came forward too in her turn, with a grave face. “I am sure you must feel more comfortable after it, and I am so glad you have had the moral courage,” the doctor’s sister said, with a certain solemnity. But perhaps it was Annie Hesketh, in her innocence41, who was the worst of all. She advanced timidly, with her face in a blaze, like Mary’s own, not knowing where to look, and lost in ingenuous42 embarrassment43.
“Oh, dear Mrs. Ochterlony, I don’t know what to say,” said Annie. “I am so sorry, and I hope you will always be very, very happy; and mamma couldn’t come——” Here she stopped short, and looked up with candid44 eyes, that asked a hundred questions. And Mary’s reply was addressed to her alone.
“Tell your mamma, Annie, that I am glad she could not come,” said the injured wife. “It was very kind of her.” When she had said so much, Mrs. Ochterlony turned round, and saw her boy standing45 by, looking at her. It was only then that she turned to the husband to whom she had just renewed her troth. She looked full at him, with a look of indignation and dismay. It was the last drop that made the cup run over; but then, what was the good of saying anything? That final prick46 however, brought her to herself. She shook hands with all the people afterwards, as if they were dispersing47 after an ordinary service, and took little Hugh’s hand and went home as if nothing had happened. She left the Major behind her, and took no notice of him, and did not even, as young Askell remarked, offer a glass of wine to the assistants at the ceremony, but went home with her little boy, talking to him, as she did on Sundays going home from church; and everybody stood and looked after her, as might have been expected. She knew they were looking after her, and saying “Poor Mary!” and wondering after all if there must not have been a very serious cause for this re-marriage. Mary thought to herself that she knew as well what they were saying as if she had been among them, and yet she was not entirely48 so correct in her ideas of what was going on as she thought.
In the first place, she could not have imagined how a moment could undo49 all the fair years of unblemished life which she had passed among them. She did not really believe that they would doubt her honour, although she herself felt it clouded; and at the same time she did not know the curious compromise between cruelty and kindness, which is all that their Christian50 feelings can effect in many commonplace minds, yet which is a great deal when one comes to think of it. Mrs. Kirkman, arguing from the foundation of the desperate wickedness of the human heart, had gradually reasoned herself into the belief that Mary had deceived her, and had never been truly an honourable51 wife; but notwithstanding this conclusion, which in the abstract would have made her cast off the culprit with utter disdain52, the Colonel’s wife paused, and was moved, almost in spite of herself, by the spirit of that faith which she so often wrapped up and smothered53 in disguising talk. She did not believe in Mary; but she did, in a wordy, defective54 way, in Him who was the son of a woman, and who came not to condemn55; and she could not find it in her heart to cast off the sinner. Perhaps if Mrs. Ochterlony had known this divine reason for her friend’s charity, it would have struck a deeper blow than any other indignity56 to which she had been subjected. In all her bitter thoughts, it never occurred to her that her neighbour stood by her as thinking of those Marys who once wept at the Saviour’s feet. Heaven help the poor Madonna, whom all the world had heretofore honoured! In all her thoughts she never went so far as that.
The ladies waited a little, and sent away Annie Hesketh, who was too young for scenes of this sort, though her mamma was so imprudent, and themselves laid hold of Mr. Churchill, when the other gentlemen had dispersed57. Mr. Churchill was one of those mild missionaries58 who turn one’s thoughts involuntarily to that much-abused, yet not altogether despicable institution of a celibate59 clergy60. He was far from being celibate, poor man! He, or at least his wife, had such a succession of babies as no man could number. They had children at “home” in genteel asylums61 for the sons and daughters of the clergy, and they had children in the airiest costume at the station, whom people were kind to, and who were waiting their chance of being sent “home” too; and withal, there were always more arriving, whom their poor papa received with mild despair. For his part, he was not one of the happy men who held appointments under the beneficent rule of the Company, nor was he a regimental chaplain. He was one of that hapless band who are always “doing duty” for other and better-off people. He was almost too old now (though he was not old), and too much hampered62 and overlaid by children, to have much hope of anything better than “doing duty” all the rest of his life; and the condition of Mrs. Churchill, who had generally need of neighbourly help, and of the children, who were chiefly clothed—such clothing as it was—by the bounty63 of the Colonel’s and Major’s and Captain’s wives, somehow seemed to give these ladies the upper hand of their temporary pastor64. He managed well enough among the men, who respected his goodness, and recognised him to be a gentleman, notwithstanding his poverty; but he stood in terror of the women, who were more disposed to interfere65, and who were kind to his family and patronised himself. He tried hard on this occasion, as on many others, to escape, but he was hemmed66 in, and no outlet67 was left him. If he had been a celibate brother, there can be little doubt it would have been he who would have had the upper hand; but with all his family burdens and social obligations, the despotism of the ladies of his flock came hard upon the poor clergyman; all the more that, poor though he was, and accustomed to humiliations, he had not learned yet to dispense68 with the luxury of feelings and delicacies69 of his own.
“Mr. Churchill, do give us your advice,” said Miss Sorbette, who was first. “Do tell us what all this means? They surely must have told you at least the rights of it. Do you think they have really never been married all this time? Goodness gracious me! to think of us all receiving her, and calling her Madonna, and all that, if this be true! Do you think——”
“I don’t think anything but what Major Ochterlony told me,” said Mr. Churchill, with a little emphasis. “I have not the least doubt he told me the truth. The witnesses of their marriage are dead, and that wretched place at Gretna was burnt down, and he is afraid that his wife would have no means of proving her marriage in case of anything happening to him. I don’t know what reason there can be to suppose that Major Ochterlony, who is a Christian and a gentleman, said anything that was not true.”
“My dear Mr. Churchill,” said Mrs. Kirkman, with a sigh, “you are so charitable. If one could but hope that the poor dear Major was a true Christian, as you say. But one has no evidence of any vital change in his case. And, dear Mary!—I have made up my mind for one thing, that it shall make no difference to me. Other people can do as they like, but so far as I am concerned, I can but think of our Divine Example,” said the Colonel’s wife. It was a real sentiment, and she meant well, and was actually thinking as well as talking of that Divine Example; but still somehow the words made the blood run cold in the poor priest’s veins70.
“What can you mean, Mrs. Kirkman?” he said. “Mrs. Ochterlony is as she always was, a person whom we all may be proud to know.”
“Yes, yes,” said Miss Sorbette, who interrupted them both without any ceremony; “but that is not what I am asking. As for his speaking the truth as a Christian and a gentleman, I don’t give much weight to that. If he has been deceiving us for all these years, you may be sure he would not stick at a fib to end off with. What is one to do? I don’t believe it could ever have been a good marriage, for my part!”
This was the issue to which she had come by dint71 of thinking it over and discussing it; although the doctor’s sister, like the Colonel’s wife, had got up that morning with the impression that Major Ochterlony’s fidgets had finally driven him out of his senses, and that Mary was the most ill-used woman in the world.
“And I believe exactly the contrary,” said the clergyman, with some heat. “I believe in an honourable man and a pure-minded woman. I had rather give up work altogether than reject such an obvious truth.”
“Ah, Mr. Churchill,” Mrs. Kirkman said again, “we must not rest in these vain appearances. We are all vile72 creatures, and the heart is deceitful above all things. I do fear that you are taking too charitable a view.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Churchill, but perhaps he made a different application of the words; “I believe that about the heart; but then it shows its wickedness generally in a sort of appropriate, individual way. I daresay they have their thorns in the flesh, like the rest; but it is not falsehood and wantonness that are their besetting73 sins,” said the poor man, with a plainness of speech which put his hearers to the blush.
“Goodness gracious! remember that you are talking to ladies, Mr. Churchill,” Miss Sorbette said, and put down her veil. It was not a fact he was very likely to forget; and then he put on his hat as they left the chapel, and hoped he was now free to go upon his way.
“Stop a minute, please,” said Miss Sorbette. “I should like to know what course of action is going to be decided74 on. I am very sorry for Mary, but so long as her character remains75 under this doubt——”
“It shall make no difference to me,” said Mrs. Kirkman. “I don’t pretend to regulate anybody’s actions, Sabina; but when one thinks of Mary of Bethany! She may have done wrong, but I hope this occurrence will be blessed to her soul. I felt sure she wanted something to bring her low, and make her feel her need,” the Colonel’s wife added, with solemnity; “and it is such a lesson for us all. In other circumstances, the same thing might have happened to you or me.”
“It could never have happened to me,” said Miss Sorbette, with sudden wrath76; which was a fortunate diversion for Mr. Churchill. This was how her friends discussed her after Mary had gone away from her second wedding; and perhaps they were harder upon her than she had supposed even in her secret thoughts.
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1
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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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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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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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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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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descended
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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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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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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celibate
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| adj.独身的，独身主义的；n.独身者 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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61
asylums
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| n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 )；庇护；政治避难；精神病院 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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