MR. PENROSE, however, was not a man of very lively feelings, and bore no malice1 against Winnie for her defiance2, 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 prospect3 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 affected4 by it, as she could not help always being affected; and the evident commotion5 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 skilful6 fencing on Miss Seton’s part, who was not destitute7 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, vehemently8; 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, faltering9. “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 entangled10 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.
“Wild, I suppose?” said Mr. Penrose, with sublime11 calm. “They’re all alike, for that matter. So long as he doesn’t bet or gamble—that’s how those confounded young fellows ruin themselves.” And then he dismissed the subject with a wave of the hand. “I am going up to the Hall to talk it all over with Sir Edward, and see what can be done. This sort of penniless nonsense makes me sick,” the rich man added; “and you women are the most unreasonable12 creatures—one might as well talk to a stone wall.”
Thus it was that for once in their lives the two Miss Setons, Agatha and Winnie, found Uncle Penrose for the moment half divine; they looked at him with wide open eyes, with a wondering veneration13. They were only women after all, and had been giving themselves a great deal of trouble about Captain Percival’s previous history; but it all sank in mere14 contemptible15 gossip under the calm glance of Mr. Penrose. He was not enthusiastic about Edward, and therefore his impartial16 calm was all the more satisfying. He thought nothing of it at all, though it had been driving them distracted. When he went away on his mission to the Hall, Winnie, in her enthusiasm, ran into Aunt Agatha’s arms.
“You see he does not mind,” said Winnie,—though an hour before she had been far from thinking Mr. Penrose an authority. “He thinks it is all gossip and spite, as I always said.”
And Aunt Agatha for her part was quite overcome by the sudden relief. It felt like a deliverance, though it was only Mr. Penrose’s opinion. “My dear love, men know the world,” she said; “that is the advantage of having somebody to talk to; and I always said that your uncle, though he is sometimes disagreeable, had a great deal of sense. You see he knows the world.”
“Yes, I suppose he must have sense,” said Winnie; and in the comfort of her heart she was ready to attribute all good gifts to Mr. Penrose, and could have kissed him as he walked past the window with his hand in his pocket. She would not have forsaken17 her Edward whatever had been found out about him, but still to see that his wickedness (if he had been wicked) was of no consequence in the eyes of a respectable man like Uncle Penrose, was such a consolation18 even to Winnie as nothing can express. “We are all a set of women, and we have been making a mountain out of a molehill,” she said, and the tears came to her bright eyes; and then, as Mary was not moved into any such demonstrations19 of delight, Winnie turned her arms upon her sister in pure gaiety of heart.
“Everybody gets talked about,” she said. “Edward was telling me about Mary even—that she used to be called Madonna Mary at the station; and that there was some poor gentleman that died. I supposed he thought she ought to be worshipped like Our Lady. Didn’t you feel dreadfully guilty and wretched, Mary, when he died?”
“Poor boy,” said Mrs. Ochterlony, who had recovered her courage a little with the morning light. “It had nothing to do with Our Lady as you say; it was only because he had been brought up in Italy, poor fellow, and was fond of the old Italian poets, and the soft Italian words.”
“Then perhaps it was Madonna Mary he was thinking of,” said Winnie, with gay malice, “and you must have felt a dreadful wretch20 when he died.”
“We felt very sad when he died,” said Mary,—“he was only twenty, poor boy; but, Winnie dear, Uncle Penrose is not an angel, and I think now I will say my say. Captain Percival is very fond of you, and you are very fond of him, and I think, whatever the past may have been, that there is hope if you will be a little serious. It is of consequence. Don’t you think that I wish all that is best in the world for you, my only little sister? And why should you distrust me? You are not silly nor weak, and I think you might do well yet, very well, my dear, if you were really to try.”
“I think we shall do very well without trying,” said Winnie, partly touched and partly indignant; “but it is something for you to say, Mary, and I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good advice all the same.”
“Winnie,” said Mrs. Ochterlony, taking her hands, “I know the world better than you do—perhaps even better than Uncle Penrose, so far as a woman is concerned. I don’t care if you are rich or poor, but I want you to be happy. It will not do very well without trying. I will not say a word about him, for you have set your heart on him, and that must be enough. And some women can do everything for the people they love. I think, perhaps, you could, if you were to give your heart to it, and try.”
It was not the kind of address Winnie had expected, and she struggled against it, trying hard to resist the involuntary softening21. But after all nature was yet in her, and she could not but feel that what Mary was saying came from her heart.
“I don’t see why you should be so serious,” she said; “but I am sure it is kind of you, Mary. I—I don’t know if I could do—what you say; but whatever I can do I will for Edward!” she added hastily, with a warmth and eagerness which brought the colour to her cheek and the light to her eye; and then the two sisters kissed each other as they had never done before, and Winnie knelt down by Mary’s knee, and the two held each other’s hands, and clung together, as it was natural they should, in that confidence of nature which is closer than any other except that between mother and daughter—the fellow-feeling of sisters, destined22 to the same experience, one of whom has gone far in advance, and turning back can trace, step by step, in her own memory, the path the other has to go.
“Don’t mistrust me, Winnie,” said Mrs. Ochterlony. “I have had a little to bear, though I have been very happy, and I could tell you many things—though I will not, just now; but, Winnie dear, what I want is, that you should make up your mind to it; not to have everything you like, and live in a fairy tale, but to keep right, and to keep him right. If you will promise to think of this, and to take it bravely upon you, I will still hope that all may be well.”
Her look was so serious that for the first time Winnie’s heart forgave her. Neither jealousy23, nor ill-temper, nor fear of evil report on her own side could have looked out of Mary’s eyes at her little sister with such a wistful longing24 gaze. Winnie was moved in spite of herself, and thrilled by the first pang25 of uncertainty26 that had yet touched her. If Mary had no motive27 but natural affection, was it then really a hideous28 gulf29 of horrible destruction, on the verge30 of which she was herself tripping so lightly? Something indefinable came over Winnie’s face as that thought moved her. Should it be so, what then? If it was to save him, if it was to perish with him, what did it matter? the only place in the world for her was by his side. She had made her choice, and there was no other choice for her, no alternative even should see the gulf as Curtius did, and leap conscious into it in the eye of day. All this passed through her mind in a moment, as she knelt by Mary’s side holding her hands—and came out so on her face that Mary could read something like it in the sudden changing of the fair features and expansion of the eyes. It was as if the soul had been startled, and sprang up to those fair windows, to look out upon the approaching danger, making the spectator careless of their beauty, out of regard to the nobler thing that used them for the moment. Then Winnie rose up suddenly, and gave her sister a hearty31 kiss, and threw off her sudden gravity as if it had been a cloud.
“Enough of that,” she said; “I will try and be good, and so I think will—we all. And Mary, don’t look so serious. I mean to be happy, at least as long as I can,” cried Winnie. She was the same Winnie again—gay, bold, and careless, before five minutes had passed; and Mary had said her say, and there was now no more to add. Nothing could change the destiny which the thoughtless young creature had laid out for herself. If she could have foreseen the distinctest wretchedness it would have been all the same. She was ready to take the plunge32 even into the gulf—and nothing that could be said or done could change it now.
In the meantime, Mr. Penrose had gone up to the Hall to talk it over with Sir Edward, and was explaining his views with a distinctness which was not much more agreeable in the Hall than it had been in the Cottage. “I cannot let it go on unless some provision can be made,” he said. “Winnie is very handsome, and you must all see she might have done a great deal better. If I had her over in Liverpool, as I have several times thought of doing, I warrant you the settlements would have been of a different description. She might have married anybody, such a girl as that,” continued Mr. Penrose, in a regretful business way. It was so much capital lost that might have brought in a much greater profit; and though he had no personal interest in it, it vexed33 him to see people throwing their chances away.
“That may be, but it is Edward Percival she chooses to marry, and nobody else,” said Sir Edward testily34; “and she is not a girl to do as you seem to think, exactly as she is told.”
“We should have seen about that,” said Mr. Penrose; “but in the meantime, he has his pay and she has a hundred a year. If Mrs. Percival will settle three hundred on him, and you, perhaps, two——”
“I, two!” cried Sir Edward, with sudden terror; “why should I settle two? You might as well tell me to retire from the Hall, and leave them my house. And pray, Mr. Penrose, when you are so liberal for other people, what do you mean to give yourself?”
“I am a family man,” said Uncle Penrose, taking his other hand out of his pocket, “and what I can give must be, in justice to my family, very limited. But Mrs. Percival, who has only four sons............