MRS. OCHTERLONY was almost as much confused and as uncertain of her own feelings as Will was. Her heart gave a leap towards her son; but yet there was that between them which put pain into even a meeting with Hugh. When she had seen him last, she had been all that a spotless mother is to a youth—his highest standard, his most perfect type of woman. Now, though he would believe no harm of her, yet there had been a breath across her perfection; there was something to explain; and Mary in her heart felt a pang of momentary anguish as acute as if the accusation had been true. To have to defend herself; to clear up her character to her boy! She took him into her arms almost that she might not have to look him in the face, and held to him, feeling giddy and faint. Will was younger, and he himself had gone wrong, but Hugh was old enough to understand it all, and had no consciousness on his own side to blunt his perceptions; and to have to tell him how it all was, and explain to him that she was not guilty was almost as hard as if she had been obliged to confess that she was guilty. She could not encounter him face to face, nor meet frankly the wonder and dismay which were no doubt in his honest eyes. Mary thought that to look into them and see that wondering troubled question in them, “Is it so—have you done me this wrong?” would be worse than being killed once for all by a straightforward blow.

But there was no such thought in Hugh’s mind. He came up to his mother open-hearted, with no hesitation in his looks. He saw Will was there, but he did not even look at him; he took her into his arms, holding her fast with perhaps a sense that she clung to him, and held on by him as by a support. “Mother, don’t be distressed,” he said, all at once, “I have found a way to clear it all up.” He spoke out loud, with his cheery voice which it was exhilarating to hear, and as if he meant it, and felt the full significance of what he said. He had to put his mother down very gently on the sofa after, and to make her lie back and prop her up with cushions; her high-strung nerves for an instant gave way. It was if her natural protector had come back, whose coming would clear away the mists. Her own fears melted away from her when she felt the warm clasp of Hugh’s arms, and the confident tone of his voice, not asking any questions, but giving her assurance, a pledge of sudden safety as it were. It was this that made Mary drop back, faint though not fainting, upon the friendly pillows, and made the room and everything swim in her eyes.

“What is it, Hugh?” she said faintly, as soon as she could speak.

“It is all right, mother,” said Hugh; “take my word, and don’t bother yourself any more about it. I came on at once to see Uncle Penrose, and get him out of this mess he has let himself into. I could be angry, but it is no good being angry. On the whole, perhaps showing him his folly and making a decided end to it, is the best.”

“Oh, Hugh, never mind Uncle Penrose. Will, my poor Will! look, your brother is there,” said Mary, rousing up. As for Hugh, he took no notice; he did not turn round, though his mother put her hand on his arm; perhaps because his mind was full of other things.

“We must have it settled at once,” he said. “I hope you will not object, mother; it can be done very quietly. I found them last night, without the least preparation or even knowing they were in existence. It was like a dream to me. Don’t perplex yourself about it, mother dear. It’s all right—trust to me.”

“Whom, did you find?” said Mary eagerly; “or was it the lines—my lines?”

“It was old Sommerville’s daughter,” said Hugh with an unsteady laugh, “who was there. I don’t believe you know who old Sommerville or his daughter are. Never mind; I know all about it. I am not so simple as you were when you were eighteen and ran away and thought of nobody. And she says I am like my father,” said Hugh, “the Captain, they called him—but not such a bonnie lad; and that there was nobody to be seen like him for happiness and brightness on his wedding-day. You see I know it all, mother—every word; and I am like him, but not such a bonnie lad.”

“No,” said Mary, with a sob. Her resolution had gone from her with her misery. She had suddenly grown weak and happy, and ready to weep like a child, “No,” she said, with the tears dropping out of her eyes, “you are not such a bonnie lad; you are none of you so handsome as your father. Oh, Hugh, my dear, I don’t know what you mean—I don’t understand what you say.”

And she did not understand it, but that did not matter—she could not have understood it at that moment, though he had given her the clearest explanation. She knew nothing, but that there must be deliverance somehow, somewhere, in the air, and that her firstborn was standing by her with light and comfort in his eyes, and that behind, out of her sight, his brother taking no notice of him, was her other boy.

“Will is there,” she said, hurriedly. “You have not spoken to him—tell me about this after. Oh, Hugh, Will is there!”

She put her hand on his arm and tried to turn him round; but Hugh’s countenance darkened, and became as his mother had never seen it before. He took no notice of what she said, he only bent over her, and began to arrange the cushions, of which Mary now seemed to feel no more need.

“I do not like to see you here,” he said; “you must come out of this house. I came that it might be all settled out of hand, for it is too serious to leave in vain suspense. But after this, mother, neither you nor I, with my will, shall cross this threshold more.”

“But oh, Hugh! Will!—speak to Will. Do not leave him unnoticed;” said Mary, in a passionate whisper, grasping his hand and reaching up to his ear.

Hugh’s look did not relent. His face darkened while she looked at him.

“He is a traitor!” he said, from out his closed lips. And he turned his back upon his brother, who sat at the other side of the room, straining all his faculties to keep awake, and to keep the room steady, which was going round and round him, and to know something of what it all meant.

“He is your brother,” said Mary; and then she rose, though she was still weak. “I must go to my poor boy, if you will not,” she said. “Will!”

When Will heard the sound of her voice, which came strange to him, as if it came from another world, he too stumbled up on his feet, though in the effort ceiling and floor and walls got all confused to him and floated about, coming down on his brain as if to crush him.

“Yes, mamma,” he said; and came straight forward, dimly guiding himself, as it were, towards her. He came against the furniture without knowing it, and struck himself sharply against the great round table, which he walked straight to as if he could have passed through it. The blow made him pause and open his heavy eyes, and then he sank into the nearest chair, with a weary sigh; and at that crisis of fate—at that moment when vengeance was overtaking him—when his cruel hopes had come to nothing, and his punishment was beginning—dropped asleep before their eyes. Even Hugh turned to look at the strange spectacle. Will was ghastly pale. His long brown hair hung disordered about his face; his hands clung in a desolate way to the arms of the chair he had got into; and he had dropped asleep.

At this moment Mrs. Ochterlony forgot her eldest son, upon whom till now her thoughts had been centred. She went to her boy who needed her most, and who lay there in his forlorn youth helpless and half unconscious, deserted as it were by all consolation. She went to him and put her hand on his hot forehead, and called him by his name. Once more Will half opened his eyelids; he said “yes, mamma,” drearily, with a confused attempt to look up; and then he slept again. He slept, and yet he did not sleep; her voice went into his mind as in the midst of a dream—something weighed upon his nerves and his soul. He heard the cry she gave, even vaguely felt her opening his collar, putting back his hair, putting water to his lips—but he had not fainted, which was what she thought in her panic. He was only asleep.

“He is ill,” said Hugh, who, notwithstanding his just indignation, was moved by the pitiful sight; “I will go for the doctor. Mother, don’t be alarmed, he is only asleep.”

“Oh, my poor boy!” cried Mary, “he was wandering about all yesterday, not to see me, and I was hard upon him. Oh, Hugh, my poor boy! And in this house.”

This was the scene upon which Mr. Penrose came in to luncheon with his usual cheerful composure. He met Hugh at the door going for a doctor, and stopped him; “You here, Hugh,” he said, “this is very singular. I am glad you are showing so much good sense; now we can come to some satisfactory arrangement. I hardly hoped so soon to assemble all the parties here.”

“Good morning, I will see you later,” said Hugh, passing him quickly and hurrying out. Then it struck Mr. Penrose that all was not well. “Mary, what is the matter?” he said; “is it possible that you are so weak as to encourage your son in standing out?”

Mary had no leisure, no intelligence for what he said. She looked at him for a moment vaguely, and then turned her eyes once more upon her boy. She had drawn his head on to her shoulder, and stood supporting him, holding his hands, gazing down in anxiety beyond all words upon the colourless face, with its heavy eyelids closed, and lips a little apart, and quick irregular breath. She was speaking to him softly without knowing it, saying, “Will, my darling—Will, my poor boy—Oh, Will, speak to me;” while he lay back unconscious now, no longer able to struggle against the weight that oppressed him, sleeping heavily on her breast. Mr. Penrose drew near and looked wonderingly, with his hand in his pocket and a sense that it was time for luncheon, upon this unexpected scene.

“What is the matter?” he said, “is he asleep? What are you making a fuss about, Mary? You women always like a fuss; he is tired, I daresay, after yesterday; let him sleep and he’ll be all right. But don’t stand there and tire yourself. Hallo, Will, wake up and lie down on the sofa. There goes the gong.”

“Let us alone, uncle,” said Mary piteously; “never mind us. Go and get your luncheon. My poor boy is going to be ill; but Hugh is coming back, and we will have him removed before he gets worse.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Penrose; but still he looked curiously at the pale sleeping face, and drew a step further off—“not cholera, do you think?” he asked with a little anxiety—“collapse, eh?—it can’t be that?”

“Oh, uncle, go away and get your luncheon, and leave us alone,” said Mary, whose heart fainted within her at the question, even though she was aware of its absurdity. “Do not be afraid, for we will take him away.”

Mr. Penrose gave a “humph,” partly indignant, partly satisfied, and walked about the room for a minute, making it shake with his portly form. And then he gave a low, short, whistle, and went downstairs, as he was told. Quite a different train of speculation had entered into his mind when he uttered that sound. If Wilfrid should die, the chances were that some distant set of Ochterlonys, altogether unconnected with himself, would come in for the estate, supposing Will’s claim in the meantime to be substantiated. Perhaps even yet it could be hushed up; for to see a good thing go out of the family was more than he could bear. This was what Mr. Penrose was thinking of as he went downstairs.

It seemed to Mary a long time before Hugh came back with the doctor, but yet it was not long: and Will still lay asleep, with his head upon her shoulder, but moving uneasily at times, and opening his eyes now and then. There could be no doubt that he was going to be ill, but what the illness was to be, whether serious and malignant, or the mere result of over-fatigue, over-tension and agitation of mind, even the doctor could not tell. But at least it was possible to remove him, which was a relief to all. Mary did not know how the afternoon passed. She saw Hugh coming and going as she sat by her sick boy, whom they had laid upon the sofa, and heard him downstairs talking to uncle Penrose, and then she was aware by the sound of carriage-wheels at the door that he had come to fetch them; but all her faculties were hushed and quieted as by the influence of poor Will’s sleep. She did not feel as if she had interest enough left in the great question that had occupied her so profoundly on the previous night as to ask what new light it was which Hugh had seemed to her for one moment to throw on it. A momentary wonder thrilled through her mind once or twice while she sat and waited; but then Will would stir, or his heavy eyelids would lift unconsciously and she would be recalled to the present calamity, which seemed nearer and more appalling than any other. She sat in the quiet, which, for Will’s sake, had to be unbroken, and in her anxiety and worn-out condition, herself by times slept “for sorrow,” like those disciples among the olive-trees. And all other affairs fell back in her mind, as into a kind of twilight—a secondary place. It did not seem to matter what happened, or how things came to be decided. She had had no serious illness to deal with for many, many years—almost never before in her life since those days when she lost her baby in India; and her startled mind leapt forward to all tragic possibilities—to calamity and death. It was a dull day, which, no doubt, deepened every shadow. The grey twilight seemed to close in over her before the day was half spent, and the blinds were drawn down over the great staring windows, as it was best they should be for Will, though the sight of them gave Mary a pang. All these conjoined circumstances drove every feeling out of her mind but anxiety for her boy’s life, and hushed her faculties, and made her life beat low, and stilled all other interests and emotions in her breast.

Then there came the bustle in the house which was attendant upon Will’s removal. Mr. Penrose stood by, and made no objection to it. He was satisfied, on the whole, that whatever it might be—fever, cholera, or decline, or any thing fatal, it should not be in his house; and his thoughts were full of that speculation about the results if Will should die. He shook hands with Mary when she followed her boy into the carriage, and said a word to comfort her:

“Don’t worry yourself about what we were talking of,” he said; “perhaps, after all, in case anything were to happen, it might still be hushed up.”

“What were we talking of?” asked Mary, vaguely, not knowing whether it was the old subject or the new one which he meant; and she made him no further answer, and went away to the lodging Hugh had found for her, to nurse her son. Uncle Penrose went back discomfited into his commodious house. It appeared, on the whole, that it did not matter much to them, though they had made so great a fuss about it. Hugh was the eldest son, even though, perhaps, he might not be the heir; and Will, poor boy, was the youngest, the one to be guarded and taken care of; and whatever the truth might be about Mary’s marriage, she was their mother; and even at this very moment, when they might have been thought to be torn asunder, and separated from each other, nature had stepped in and they were all one. It was strange, but so it was. Mr. Penrose had even spoken to Hugh, but had drawn nothing from him but anxiety about the sick boy, to find the best doctor, and the best possible place to remove him to; not a word about the private arrangement he had, no doubt, come to make, or the transfer of Earlston; and if Will should die, perhaps, it could yet be hushed up. This was the last idea in Mr. Penrose’s mind, as he went in and shut behind him the resounding door.