UGH, however, it is quite true, was very inexperienced. He did not even notice that his uncle was very ill. He sat with him at dinner and saw that he did not eat anything, and yet never saw it; and he went with him sometimes when he tottered about the garden in the morning, and never found out that he tottered; and sat with him at night, and was very kind and attentive, and was very fond of his uncle, and never remarked anything the matter with his breathing. He was very young, and he knew no better, and it never seemed to him that short breathing and unequal steps and a small appetite were anything remarkable at Mr. Ochterlony’s age. If there had been a lady in the house it might have made a wonderful difference; but to be sure it was Francis Ochterlony’s own doing that there was not a lady in the house. And he was not himself so shortsighted as Hugh. His own growing weakness was something of which he was perfectly well aware, and he knew, too, how his breath caught of nights, and looking forward into the future saw the shadow drawing nearer to his door, and was not afraid of it. Probably the first thought went chill to his heart, the thought that he was mortal like other people, and might have to die. But his life had been such a life as to make him very much composed about it, and not disinclined to think that a change might be for the better. He was not very clear about the unseen world—for one thing, he had nobody there in particular belonging to him except the father and mother who were gone ages ago; and it did not seem very important to himself personally whether he was going to a long sleep, or going to another probation, or into pure blessedness, which of all the three was, possibly, the hypothesis which he understood least. Perhaps, on the whole, if he had been to come to an end altogether he would not have much minded; but his state of feeling was, that God certainly knew all about it, and that He would arrange it all right. It was a kind of pagan state of mind; and yet there was in it something of the faith of the little child which was once set up as the highest model of faith by the highest authority. No doubt Mr. Ochterlony had a great many thoughts on the subject, as he sat buried in the deep chair in his study, and gazed into the little red spark of fire which was lighted for him all that summer through, though the weather was so genial. His were not bright thoughts, but very calm ones; and perhaps his perfect composure about it all was one reason why Hugh took it as a matter of course, and went on quite cheerily and lightly, and never found out there was anything the matter with him until the very last.
It was one morning when Mr. Ochterlony had been later than usual of coming downstairs. When he did make his appearance it was nearly noon, and he was in his dressing-gown, which was an unheard-of thing for him. Instead of going out to the garden, he called Hugh, and asked him to give him his arm while he made a little tour of the house. They went from the library to the dining-room, and then upstairs to the great drawing-room where the Venus and the Psyche were. When they had got that length Mr. Ochterlony dropped into a chair, and gasped for breath, and looked round upon his treasures. And then Hugh, who was looking on, began to feel very uneasy and anxious for the first time.
“One can’t take them with one,” said Mr. Ochterlony, with a sigh and a smile; “and you will not care for them much, Hugh. I don’t mean to put any burden upon you: they are worth a good deal of money; but I’d rather you did not sell them, if you could make up your mind to the sacrifice.”
“If they were mine I certainly should not sell them,” said Hugh; “but as they are yours, uncle, I don’t see that it matters what I would do.”
Mr. Ochterlony smiled, and looked kindly at him, but he did not give him any direct answer. “If they were yours,” he said—“suppose the case—then what would you do with them?”
“I would collect them in a museum somewhere, and call them by your name,” said Hugh, on the spur of the moment. “You almost ought to do that yourself, uncle, there are so few people to see them here.”
Mr. Ochterlony’s languid eyes brightened a little. “They are worth a good deal of money,” he said.
“If they were worth a mint of money, I don’t see what that matters,” said Hugh, with youthful extravagance.
His uncle looked at him again, and once more the languid eye lighted up, and a tinge of colour came to the grey cheek.
“I think you mean it, Hugh,” he said, “and it is pleasant to think you do mean it now, even if—— I have been an economical man, in every way but this, and I think you would not miss it. But I won’t put any bondage upon you. By the way, they would belong to the personalty. Perhaps there’s a will wanted for that. It was stupid of me not to think of it before. I ought to see about it this very day.”
“Uncle,” said Hugh, who had been sitting on the arm of a chair looking at him, and seeing, as by a sudden revelation, all the gradual changes which he had not noticed when they began: the shortened breath, the emaciated form, and the deep large circle round the eyes,—“Uncle, will you tell me seriously what you mean when you speak to me like this?”
“On second thoughts, it will be best to do it at once,” said Mr. Ochterlony. “Hugh, ring the bell—— What do I speak like this, for, my boy? For a very plain reason; because my course is going to end, and yours is only going to begin.”
“But, uncle!” cried Hugh.
“Hush—the one ought to be a kind of continuation of the other,” said Mr. Ochterlony, “since you will take up where I leave off; but I hope you will do better than that. If you should feel yourself justified in thinking of the museum afterward—— But I would not like to leave any burden upon you. John, let some one ride into Dalken directly, and ask Mr. Preston, the attorney, to come to me—or his son will do. I should like to see him to-day—— And stop,” said Mr. Ochterlony, reluctantly, “he may fetch the doctor, too.”
“Uncle, do you feel ill?” said Hugh. He had come up to his uncle’s side, and he had taken fright, and was looking at him wistfully as a woman might have done—for his very inexperience which had prevented him from observing gave him a tender anguish now, and filled him full of awe and compunction, and made him in his wistfulness almost like a woman.
“No,” said Mr. Ochterlony, holding out his hand. “Not ill, my boy, only dying—that’s all. Nothing to make a fuss about—but sit down and compose yourself, for I have a good deal to say.”
“Do you mean it, uncle?” asked Hugh, searching into the grey countenance before him with his suddenly awakened eyes.
Mr. Ochterlony gave a warm grasp to the young hand which held his closely yet trembling. “Sit down,” he said. “I’m glad you are sorry. A few years ago there would have been nobody to mind—except the servants, perhaps. I never took the steps I might have done, you know,” he added, with a certain sadness, and yet a sense of humour which was curious to see, “to have an heir of my own—— And speaking of that, you will be sure to remember what I said to you about the Henri Deux. I put it away in the cabinet yonder, the very last day they were here.”
Then Mr. Ochterlony talked a great deal, and about many things. About there being no particular occasion for making a will—since Earlston was settled by his father’s will upon his own heirs male, or those of his brother—how he had bethought himself all at once, though he did not know exactly how the law stood, that there was some difference between real and personal property, and how, on the whole, perhaps, it was better to send for Preston. “As for the doctor, I daren’t take it upon me to die without him, I suppose,” Mr. Ochterlony said. He had never been so playful before, as long as Hugh had known him. He had been reserved—a little shy, even with his nephew. Now his own sense of failure seemed to have disappeared. He was going to make a change, to get rid of all his old disabilities, and incumbrances, and antecedents, and no doubt it would be a change for the better. This was about the substance of Mr. Ochterlony’s thoughts.
“But one can’t take Psyche, you know,” he said. “One must go alone to look into the face of the Immortals. And I don’t think your mother, perhaps, would care to have her here—so if you should feel yourself justified in thinking of the museum—— But you will have a great deal to do. In the first place your mother—I doubt if she’ll be so happy at the Cottage, now Mrs. Percival has come back. I think you ought to ask her to come here. And I shouldn’t wonder if Will gave you some trouble. He’s an odd boy. I would not say he had not a sense of honour, but—— And he has a jealous, dissatisfied temper. As for Islay, he’s all safe, I suppose. Always be kind to them, Hugh, and give Will his education. I think he has abilities; but don’t be too liberal. Don’t take them upon your shoulders. You have your own life to think of first of all.”
All this Mr. Ochterlony uttered, with many little breaks and pauses, but with very little aid from his companion, who was too much moved to do more than listen. He was not suffering in any acute way, and yet, somehow, the sense of his approaching end seemed to have loosened his tongue, which had been to some extent bound all his life.
“For you must marry, you know,” he said. “I consider that a bargain between us. Don’t trust to your younger brother, as I did—not but what it was the best thing for you. Some little bright thing like that—that was with your mother. You may laugh, but I can remember when Agatha Seton was as pretty a creature——”
“I think she is pretty now,” said Hugh, half because he did think so, and half because he was anxious to find something he could say.
Then Mr. Ochterlony brightened up in the strangest pathetic way, laughing a little, with a kind of tender consciousness that he was laughing at himself. He was so nearly separated from himself now that he was tender as if it was the weakness of a dear old familiar friend at which he was laughing. “She is very pretty,” he said. “I am glad you have the sense to see it,—and good; and she’ll go now and make a slave of herself to that girl. I suppose that is my fault, too. But be sure you don’t forget about the Henri Deux.”
And then all of a sudden, while his nephew was sitting watching him, Mr. Ochterlony fell asleep. When he was sleeping he looked so grey, and worn, and emaciated, that Hugh’s heart smote him. He could not explain to himself why it was that he had never noticed it before; and he was very doubtful and uncertain what he ought to do. If he sent for his mother, which seemed the most natural idea, Mr. Ochterlony might not like it, and he had himself already sent for the doctor. Hugh had the good sense finally to conclude upon doing the one thing that was most difficult—to do nothing. But it was not an enlivening occupation. He went off and got some wraps and cushions, and propped his uncle up in the deep chair he was reclining in, and then he sat down and watched him, feeling a thrill run through him every time there was a little drag in the breathing or change in his patient’s face. He might die like that, with the Psyche and the Venus gleaming whitely over him, and nobody by who understood what to do. It was the most serious moment that had ever occurred in Hugh’s life; and it seemed to him that days, and not minutes, were passing. When the doctor arrived, it was a very great relief. And then Mr. Ochterlony was taken to bed and made comfortable, as they said; and a consciousness crept through the house, no one could tell how, that the old life and the old times were coming to a conclusion—that sad change and revolution hung over the house, and that Earlston would soon be no more as it had been.
On the second day Hugh wrote to his mother, but that letter had not been received at the time of Sir Edward’s visit. And he made a very faithful devoted nurse, and tended his uncle like a son. Mr. Ochterlony did not die all at once, as probably he had himself expected and intended—he had his spell of illness to go through like other people, and he bore it very cheerfully, as he was not suffering much. He was indeed a great deal more playful and at his ease than either the doctor or the attorney, or Mrs. Gilsland, the housekeeper, thought quite right.
The lawyer did not come until the following day; and then it was young Mr. Preston who came, his father being occupied, and Mr. Ochterlony had a distaste somehow to young Mr. Preston. He was weak, too, and not able to go into details. All that he would say was, that Islay and Wilfrid were to have the same younger brother’s portion as their father had, and that everything else was to go to Hugh. He would not suffer himself to be tempted to say anything about the museum, though the suggestion had gone to his heart—and to make a will with so little in it struck the lawyer almost as an injury to himself.
“No legacies?” he said—“excuse me, Mr. Ochterlony—nothing about your beautiful collection? There ought to be some stipulation about that.”
“My nephew knows all my wishes,” Mr. Ochterlony said, briefly, “and I have no time now for details. Is it ready to be signed? Everything else of which I die possessed to my brother, Hugh Ochterlony’s eldest son. That is what I want. The property is his already, by his grandfather’s will. Everything of which I die possessed, to dispose of according as his direction and circumstances may permit.”
“But there are other friends—and servants,” pleaded Mr. Preston; “and then your wonderful collection——”
“My nephew knows all my wishes,” said Mr. Ochterlony; and his weakness was so great that he sank back on his pillows. He took his own way in this, while poor Hugh hung about the room wistfully looking on. It was to Hugh’s great advantage, but he was not thinking of that. He was asking himself could he have done anything to stop the malady if he had noticed it in time? And he was thinking how to arrange the Ochterlony Museum. If it could only have been done in his lifetime, so that its founder could see. When the doctor and the attorney were both gone, Hugh sat down by his uncle’s bedside, and, half afraid whether he was doing right, began to talk of it. He was too young and too honest to pretend to disbelieve what Mr. Ochterlony himself and the doctor had assured him of. The room was dimly lighted, the lamp put away on a table in a corner with a shade over it, and the sick room “made comfortable,” and everything arranged for the night. And then the two had an hour of very affectionate, confidential, almost tender talk. Mr. Ochterlony was almost excited about the museum. It was not to be bestowed on his college, as Hugh at first thought, but to be established at Dalken, the pretty town of which everybody in the Fells was proud. And then the conversation glided off to more familiar subjects, and the old man who was dying gave a great deal of very sound advice to the young man who was about to begin to live.
“Islay will be all right,” said Mr. Ochterlony; “he will have what your father had, and you will always make him at home in Earlston. It is Will I am thinking about. I am not fond of Will. Don’t be too generous to him, or he will think it is his right. I know no harm of the boy, but I would not put all my affairs into his hands as I put them into yours.”
“It will not be my fault if I don’t justify your confidence, uncle,” said Hugh, with something swelling in his throat.
“If I had not known that, I would not have trusted you, Hugh,” said Mr. Ochterlony. “Take your mother’s advice—always be sure to take your mother’s advice. There are some of us that never understand women; but after all it stands to reason that the one-half of mankind should not separate itself from the other. We think we are the wisest; but I am not so sure——”
Mr. Ochterlony stopped short and turned his eyes, which were rather languid, to the distant lamp, the one centre of light in the room. He looked at it for a long time in a dreamy way. “I might have had a woman taking care of me like the rest,” he said. “I might have had the feeling that there was somebody in the house; but you see I did not give my mind to it, Hugh. Your father left a widow, and that’s natural—I am leaving only a collection. But it’s better for you, my boy. If you should ever speak to Agatha Seton about it, you can tell her that——”
Then there was a pause, which poor young Hugh, nervous, and excited, and inexperienced, did not know how to break, and Mr. Ochterlony continued to look at the lamp. It was very dim and shaded, but still a pale ray shone sideways between the curtains upon the old man who lay a-dying, and cast an enlarged shadow of Hugh’s head upon the wall. When Mr. Ochterlony turned round a little, his eye caught that, and a tender smile came over his face.
“It looks like your father,” he said to Hugh, who was startled, and did not know what he meant. “It is more like him than you are. He was a good fellow at the bottom—fidgety, but a very good fellow—as your mother will tell you. I am glad it is you who are the eldest, and not one of the others. They are fine boys, but I am glad it is you.”
“Oh, uncle,” said Hugh, with tears in his eyes, “you are awfully good to me. I don’t deserve it. Islay is a far better fellow than I am. If you would but get well again, and never mind who was the eldest——”
Mr. Ochterlony smiled and shook his head. “I have lived my day,” he said, “and now it is your turn; and I hope you’ll make Earlston better than ever it was. Now go to bed, my boy; we’ve talked long enough. I think if I were quiet I could sleep.”
“And you’ll call me, uncle, if you want me? I shall be in the dressing-room,” said Hugh, whose heart was very full.
“There is no need,” said Mr. Ochterlony, smiling again. “But I suppose it pleases you. You’ll sleep as sound as a top wherever you are—that’s the privilege of your age; but John will be somewhere about, and nothing is going to happen before morning. Good night.”
But he called Hugh back before he reached the door. “You’ll be sure to remember about the Henri Deux?” he said, softly. That was all. And the young man went to the dressing-room, and John, who had just stolen in, lay down on a sofa in the shadow, and sleep and quiet took possession of the room. If Mr. Ochterlony slept, or if he still lay looking at the lamp, seeing his life flit past him like a shadow, giving a sigh to what might have been, and thinking with perhaps a little awakening thrill of expectation of what was so soon to be, nobody could tell. He was as silent as if he slept—almost as silent as if he had been dead.
But Aunt Agatha was not asleep. She was in her room all alone, praying for him, stopping by times to think how different it might have been. She might have been with him then, taking care of him, instead of being so far away; and when she thought of that, the tears stood in her eyes. But it was not her fault. She had nothing to upbraid herself with. She was well aware whose doing it was—poor man, and it was he who was the sufferer now; but she said her prayers for him all the same.
When a few days had passed, the event occurred of which there had never been any doubt. Francis Ochterlony died very peaceably and quietly, leaving not only all of which he died possessed, but his blessing and thanks to the boy who had stood in the place of a son to him. He took no unnecessary time about his dying, and yet he did not do anything hastily to shock people. It was known he was ill, and everybody had the satisfaction of sending to inquire for him, and testifying their respect before he died. Such a thing was indeed seen on one day as seven servants, all men on horseback, sent with messages of inquiry, which was a great gratification to Mrs. Gilsland, and the rest of the servants. “He went off like a lamb at the last,” they all said; and though he was not much like a lamb, there might have been employed a less appropriate image. He made a little sketch with his own hands as to how the Museum was to be arranged, and told Hugh what provision to make for the old servants; and gave him a great many advices, such as he never had taken himself; and was so pleasant and cheery about it, that they scarcely knew the moment when the soft twilight sank into absolute night. He died an old man, full of many an unexpressed philosophy, and yet, somehow, with the sentiment of a young one: like a tree ripe and full of fruit, yet with blossoms still lingering on the topmost branches, as you see on orange-trees—sage and experienced, and yet with something of the virginal and primal state. Perhaps it was not a light price to give for this crowning touch of delicacy and purity—the happiness (so to speak) of his own life and of Aunt Agatha’s. And yet the link between the old lovers, thus fancifully revived, was very sweet and real. And they had not been at all unhappy apart, on the whole, either of them. And it is something to preserve this quintessence of maidenhood and primal freshness to the end of a long life, and leave the visionary perfume of it among a community much given to marrying and giving in marriage. It was thus that Francis Ochterlony died.
Earlston, of course, was all shut up immediately, blinds drawn and shutters closed, and what was more unusual, true tears shed, and a true weight, so long as it lasted, upon the hearts of all the people about. The servants, perhaps, were not quite uninfluenced by the thought that all their legacies, &c., were left in the hands of their new master, who was little more than a boy. And the Cottage, too, was closed, and the inmates went about in a shadowed atmosphere, and were very sorry, and thought a little of Mr. Ochterlony—not all as Aunt Agatha did, who kept her room, and shed many tears; but still he was thought of in the house. It is true that Mary could not help remembering that now her Hugh was no longer a boy, dependent upon anybody’s pleasure, but the master of the house of his fathers—the house his own father was born in; and an important personage. She could not help thinking of this, nor, in spite of herself, feeling her heart swell, and asking herself if it was indeed her Hugh who had come to this promotion. And yet she was very sorry for Mr. Ochterlony’s death. He had been good to her children, always courteous and deferential to herself; and she was sorry for him as a woman is sorry for a man who has nobody belonging to him—sorrier far, in most cases, than the man is for himself. He was dead in his loneliness, and the thought of it brought a quiet moisture to Mary’s eyes; but Hugh was living, and it was he who was the master of all; and it was not in human nature that his mother’s grief should be bitter or profound.
“Hugh is a lucky boy,” said Mrs. Percival; “I think you are all lucky, Mary, you and your children. To come into Earlston with so little waiting, and have everything left in his own hands.”
“I don’t think he will be thinking of that,” said Mary. “He was fond of his uncle; I am sure he will feel his loss.”
“Oh, yes, no doubt; I ought not to have said anything so improper,” said Winnie, with that restrained smile and uncomfortable inference which comes so naturally to some people. She knew nothing and cared nothing about Francis Ochterlony; and she was impatient of what she called Aunt Agatha’s nonsense; and she could not but feel it at once unreasonable and monstrous that anything but the painful state of her own affairs should occupy people in the house she was living in. Yet the fact was that this event had to a certain extent eclipsed Winnie. The anxiety with which everybody looked for a message or letter about Mr. Ochterlony’s state blinded them a little to her worn looks and listless wretchedness. They did not neglect her, nor were they indifferent to her; for, indeed, it would be difficult to be indifferent to a figure which held so prominent a place in the foreground of everything; but still when they were in such a state of suspense about what was happening at Earlston, no doubt Winnie’s affairs were to a certain extent overlooked. It is natural for an old man to die: but it is not natural for a young woman—a woman in the bloom and fulness of life—one who has been, and ought still to be, a great beauty—to be driven by her wrongs out of all that makes life endurable. This was how Winnie reasoned; and she was jealous of the attention given to Mr. Ochterlony as he accomplished the natural act of dying. What was that in comparison with the terrible struggles of life?
But naturally it made a great difference when it was all over, and when Hugh, subdued and very serious, but still another man from the Hugh who the other day was but a boy, came to the Cottage “for a little change,” and to give his mother all the particulars. He came all tender in his natural grief, with eyes ready to glisten, and a voice that sometimes faltered; but, nevertheless, there was something about him which showed that it was he who was Mr. Ochterlony of Earlston now.