the end, – Mary thought perhaps it might be true, and that God her Father might be lying in wait for her somewhere to crush her to the ground for having too much pleasure in his gift, – which was the state of mind which her friend, who was at the bottom of her heart a good woman, would have liked to bring about.
“I think it is simply because we are in India,” said Mrs. Ochterlony, recovering herself; “it is one of the conditions of our lot. It is a very hard condition, but of course we have to bear it. I think, for my part, that God, instead of doing it to punish me, is sorry for me, and that He would mend it and spare us if something else did not make it necessary. But perhaps it is you who are right,” she added, faltering again, and wondering if it was wrong to believe that God, in a wonderful supreme way, must be acting, somehow as in a blind ineffective way, she, a mother, would do to her children. But happily her companion was not aware of that profane thought. And then, Mrs. Hesketh had come in, who looked at the question from entirely a different point of view.
“We have all got to do it, you know,” said that comfortable woman, “whether we idolize them or not. I don’t see what that has to do with it; but then I never do understand you. The great thing is, if you have somebody nice to send them to. One’s mother is a great comfort for that; but then, there is one’s husband’s friends to think about. I am not sure, for my own part, that a good school is not the best. That can’t offend anybody, you know; neither your own people, nor his; and then they can go all round in the holidays. Mine have all got on famously,” said Mrs Hesketh; and nobody who looked at her could have thought anything else. Though, indeed, Mrs. Hesketh’s well-off-ness was not nearly so disagreeable or offensive to other people as her husband’s, who had his balance at his banker’s written on his face; whereas in her case it was only evident that she was on the best of terms with her milliner and her jeweller, and all her tradespeople, and never had any trouble with her bills. Mary sat between the woman who had no children, and who thought she made idols of her boys – and the woman who had quantities of children, and saw no reason why anybody should be much put out of their way about them; and neither the one nor the other knew what she meant, any more than she perhaps knew exactly what they meant, though, as was natural, the latter idea did not much strike her. And the sole strengthening which Mrs. Ochterlony drew from this talk was a resolution never to say anything more about it; to keep what she was thinking of to herself, and shut another door in her heart, which, after all, is a process which has to be pretty often repeated as one goes through the world.
“But Mary has no friends – no female friends, poor thing. It is so sad for a girl when that happens, and accounts for so many things,” the Colonel’s wife said, dropping the lids over her eyes, and with an imperceptible shake of her head, which brought the little chapel and the scene of her second marriage in a moment before Mary’s indignant eyes; “but there is one good even in that, for it gives greater ground for faith; when we have nothing and nobody to cling to – ”
“We were talking of the children,” Mrs. Hesketh broke in calmly. “If I were you I should keep Hugh until Islay was old enough to go with him. They are such companions to each other, you know, and two children don’t cost much more than one. If I were you, Mary, I would send the two together. I always did it with mine. And I am sure you have somebody that will take care of them; one always has somebody in one’s eye; and as for female friends – ”
Mary stopped short the profanity which doubtless her comfortable visitor was about to utter on the subject. “I have nothing but female friends,” she said, with a natural touch of sharpness in her voice. “I have an aunt and a sister who are my nearest relatives – and it is there Hugh is going,” for the prick of offence had been good for her nerves, and strung them up.
“Then I can’t see what you have to be anxious about,” said Mrs. Hesketh; “some people always make a fuss about things happening to children; why should anything happen to them? mine have had everything, I think, that children can have, and never been a bit the worse; and though it makes one uncomfortable at the time to think of their being ill, and so far away if anything should happen, still, if you know they are in good hands, and that everything is done that can be done – And then, one never hears till the worst is over,” said the well-off woman, drawing her lace shawl round her. “Good-by, Mary, and don’t fret; there is nothing that is not made worse by fretting about it; I never do, for my part.”
Mrs. Kirkman threw a glance of pathetic import out of the corners of her down-dropped eyes at the large departing skirts of Mary’s other visitor. The Colonel’s wife was one of the people who always stay last, and her friends generally cut their visits short when they encountered her, with a knowledge of this peculiarity, and at the same time an awful sense of something that would be said when they had withdrawn. “Not that I care for what she says,” Mrs. Hesketh murmured to herself as she went out, “and Mary ought to know better at least;” but at the same time, society at the station, though it was quite used to it, did not like to think of the sigh, and the tender, bitter lamentations which would be made over them when they took their leave. Mrs. Hesketh was not sensitive, but she could not help feeling a little aggrieved, and wondering what special view of her evil ways her regimental superior would take this time – for in so limited a community, everybody knew about everybody, and any little faults one might have were not likely to be hid.
Mrs. Kirkman had risen too, and when Mary came back from the door the Colonel’s wife came and sat down beside her on the sofa, and took Mrs. Ochterlony’s hand. “She would be very nice, if she only took a little thought about the one thing needful,” said Mrs. Kirkman, with the usual sigh. “What does it matter about all the rest? Oh, Mary, if we could only choose the good part which cannot be taken away from us!”
“But surely, we all try a little after that,” said Mary. “She is a kind woman, and very good to the poor. And how can we tell what her thoughts are? I don’t think we ever understand each other’s thoughts.”
“I never pretend to understand. I judge according to the Scripture rule,” said Mrs. Kirkman; “you are too charitable, Mary; and too often, you know, charity only means laxness. Oh, I cannot tell you how those people are all laid upon my soul! Colonel Kirkman being the principal officer, you know, and so little real Christian work to be expected from Mr. Churchill, the responsibility is terrible. I feel sometimes as if I must die under it. If their blood should be demanded at my hands!”
“But surely God must care a little about them Himself,” said Mrs. Ochterlony. “Don’t you think so? I cannot think that He has left it all upon you – ”
“Dear Mary, if you but give me the comfort of thinking I had been of use to you,” said Mrs. Kirkman, pressing Mary’s hand. And when she went away she believed that she had done her duty by Mrs. Ochterlony at least; and felt that perhaps, as a brand snatched from the burning, this woman, who was so wrapped up in regard for the world and idolatry of her children, might still be brought into a better state. From this it will be seen that the painful impression made by the marriage had a little faded out of the mind of the station. It was there, waiting any chance moment or circumstance that might bring the name of Madonna Mary into question; but in the meantime, for the convenience of ordinary life, it had been dropped. It was a nuisance to keep up a sort of shadowy censure which never came to anything, and by tacit consent the thing had dropped. For it was a very small community, and if any one had to be tabooed, the taboo must have been complete and crushing, and nobody had the courage for that. And so gradually the cloudiness passed away like a breath on a mirror, and Mary to all appearance was among them as she had been before. Only no sort of compromise could really obliterate the fact from anybody’s recollection, or above all from her own mind.
And Mary went back to little Hugh’s wardrobe when her visitors were gone, with that sense of having shut another door in her heart which has already been mentioned. It is so natural to open all the doors and leave all the chambers open to the day; but when people walk up to the threshold and look in and turn blank looks of surprise or sad looks of disapproval upon you, what is to be done but to shut the door? Mrs. Ochterlony thought as most people do, that it was almost incredible that her neighbours did not understand what she meant; and she thought too, like an inexperienced woman, that this was an accident of the station, and that elsewhere other people knew better, which was a very fortunate