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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4f2b170 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65934 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65934) diff --git a/old/65934-0.txt b/old/65934-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 357398d..0000000 --- a/old/65934-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7969 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of For love of life; vol. 1 of 2, by Mrs. -Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: For love of life; vol. 1 of 2 - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: July 28, 2021 [eBook #65934] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - available at The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOR LOVE OF LIFE; VOL. 1 OF 2 *** - - - - - COLLECTION - - OF - - BRITISH AUTHORS - - TAUCHNITZ EDITION. - - VOL. 1419. - - FOR LOVE AND LIFE BY MRS. OLIPHANT. - - IN TWO VOLUMES. - - VOL. I. - -“The device on his shield was a young oak tree pulled up by the roots, - with the Spanish word _Desdichado_, signifying Disinherited.” - - - - - FOR LOVE AND LIFE. - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT, - - AUTHOR OF - “CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” “OMBRA,” “MAY,” ETC. - - _COPYRIGHT EDITION._ - - IN TWO VOLUMES. - - VOL. I. - - - LEIPZIG - BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ - 1874. - - _The Right of Translation is reserved._ - - - - - FOR LOVE AND LIFE. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -On the Shores of Loch Arroch. - - -Three people were walking slowly along together by the side of the -water. One of them an invalid, as was apparent by the softly measured -steps of her companions, subdued to keep in harmony with hers. These two -attendants were both young; the girl about twenty, a little light -creature, with the golden hair so frequent in Scotland, and a face of -the angelic kind, half-childish, half-visionary, over-brimming with -meaning, or almost entirely destitute of it, according to the eyes with -which you happened to regard her. Both she and the invalid, a handsome -old woman of about seventy, were well and becomingly dressed in a homely -way, but they had none of the subtle traces about them which mark the -“lady” in conventional parlance. They were not in the smallest degree -what people call “common-looking.” The girl’s beauty and natural grace -would have distinguished her anywhere, and the old lady was even -dignified in her bearing. But yet it was plain that they were of a caste -not the highest. They moved along the narrow path, skirting the -newly-cut stubble, with the air of people entirely at home, amid their -natural surroundings. The homely farm-house within sight was evidently -their home. They belonged to the place and the place to them. -Notwithstanding the angelic face of the one, and the natural stateliness -of the other, they were farmer folk, of a kind not unusual on that proud -half-Highland soil. I will not even pretend to say that good blood gave -a grace to their decayed fortunes; I do not believe their race had ever -held a more exalted position than it did now. They were independent as -queens, proud yet open-hearted, sociable, courteous, hospitable, -possessed of many of the special virtues which ought to belong to the -nobly born; but they were only farmer folk of Loch Arroch, of a family -who had lived for ages on that farm, and nothing more. - -It would have been unnecessary to dwell on this particular, had not the -appearance of the young man upon whose arm the invalid leant, been so -different. As distinctly as they were native to the place, and to the -position, was he stranger to them. He was not so handsome by nature as -they, but he had about him all those signs of a man “in good society” -which it is impossible to define in words, or to mistake in fact. His -dress was extremely simple, but it was unmistakeably that of a -gentleman. Not the slightest atom of pretension was in his aspect or -manner, but his very simplicity was his distinction. The deferential way -in which he bent his head to hear what his companion was saying, the -respect he showed to them both, was more than a son or brother in their -own rank would ever have dreamed of showing. He was kind in all his -words and looks, even tender; but the ease of familiarity was wanting to -him; he was in a sphere different from his own. He showed this only by a -respect infinitely more humble and anxious than any farmer-youth or -homely young squire would have felt; yet to his own fastidious taste it -was apparent that he did show it; and the thought made him condemn -himself. His presence introduced confusion and difficulty into the -tranquil picture; though there was nothing of the agitation of a lover -in his aspect. Love makes all things easy; it is agitating, but it is -tranquillizing. Had he been the lover of the beautiful young creature by -his side, he would have been set at his ease with her old mother, and -with the conditions of her lot. Love is itself so novel, so -revolutionary, such a break-down of all boundaries, that it accepts with -a certain zest the differences of condition; and all the embarrassments -of social difference such as trouble the acquaintance, and drive the -married man wild, become in the intermediate stage of courtship -delightful auxiliaries, which he embraces with all his heart. But Edgar -Earnshaw was not pretty Jeanie Murray’s lover. He had a dutiful -affection for both of the women. Mingled with this was a certain -reverential respect, mingled with a curious painful sense of wrong, for -the elder; and a pitying and protecting anxiety about the girl. But -these sentiments were not love. Therefore he was kind, tender, -respectful, almost devoted, but not at his ease, never one with them; -in heart as in appearance, there was a difference such as could not be -put into words. - - * * * * * - -“I cannot accept it from you,” said old Mrs. Murray, who was the -grandmother of both. She spoke with a little vehemence, with a -glimmering of tears in the worn old eyes, which were still so bright and -full of vital force. She was recovering from an illness, and thus the -tears came more easily than usual. “Of all that call kin with me, Edgar, -my bonnie lad, you are the last that should sacrifice your living to -keep up my auld and weary life. I canna do it. It’s pride, nothing but -pride, that makes me loth to go away--loth, loth to eat other folk’s -bread. But wherefore should I be proud? What should an old woman like me -desire better than a chair at my ain daughter’s chimney-corner, and a -share of what she has, poor woman? I say to myself it’s her man’s bread -I will eat, and no hers; but Robert Campbell will be kind--enough. He’ll -no grudge me my morsel. When a woman has been a man’s faithful wife for -thirty years, surely, surely she has a right to the gear she has helped -to make. And I’ll no be that useless when I’m weel; there’s many a thing -about a house that an old woman can do. Na, na, it’s nothing but pride.” - - * * * * * - -“And what if I had my pride too?” he asked. “My dear old mother, it goes -against me to think of you as anywhere but at Loch Arroch. Mr. Campbell -is an excellent man, I have no doubt, and kind--enough, as you say; and -his wife very good and excellent--” - -“You might say your aunt, Edgar,” said the old lady, with a -half-reproach. - -He winced, though almost imperceptibly. - -“Well,” he said with a smile, “my aunt, if you prefer it. One thing I -don’t like about you proud people is, that you never make allowance for -other people’s pride. Mine demands that my old mother should be -independent in her own old house; that she should have her pet companion -with her to nurse her and care for her.” Here he laid his hand kindly, -with a light momentary touch, upon the girl’s shoulder, who looked up at -him with wistful tender eyes. “That she should keep her old servants, -and continue to be the noble old lady she is--” - -“Na, na, Edgar; no lady. You must not use such a word to me. No, my -bonnie man; you must not deceive yourself. It’s hard, hard upon you, and -God forgive me for all I have done to make my good lad unhappy! We are -decent folk, Edgar, from father to son, from mother to daughter; but I’m -no a lady; an old country wife, nothing more--though you are a -gentleman.” - -“We will not dispute about words,” said Edgar, with a shrug of his -shoulders. “What would become of Jeanie, grandmother, if you went to -your daughter, as you say?” - -“Ah!” cried the old woman, pausing suddenly, and raising both her hands -to her face, “that’s what I canna bear--I canna bear it! Though I -must,” she added hurriedly, drying her eyes, “if it’s God’s will.” - -“I would go to my uncle in Glasgow,” said Jeanie; “he’s not an ill man. -They would take me in if I was destitute; that’s what they aye said.” - -“If you were destitute!” cried Edgar. “My poor little Jeanie destitute, -and you, my old mother, eating the bread of dependence, watching a -coarse man’s look to see if you are welcome or not! Impossible! I have -arranged everything. There is enough to keep you both comfortable -here--not luxuriously, as I should wish; not with the comfort and the -prettiness I should like to spread round you two; but yet enough. Now -listen, grandmother. You must yield to me or to some one else; to me or -to--Mr. Campbell. I think I have the best right.” - -“He has the best right,” said little Jeanie, looking in her -grandmother’s face. “Oh, granny, he would like to be good to you and -me!” - -“Yes; I should like to be good to you,” said Edgar, turning to the girl -gratefully. “That is the truth. It is the highest pleasure you could -give me.” - -“To heap coals of fire,” said the old woman in her deep voice. - -“I know nothing about coals,” said Edgar, laughing; “they should be more -in Mr. Campbell’s way, who trafficks in them. Come, Jeanie, we must take -her in, the wind grows cold. I shall go off to Loch Arroch Head to get -the newspaper when the boat comes, and you must persuade her in the -meantime. You are my representative. I leave it all to you.” - -A flush ran over Jeanie’s angelic little countenance. She looked at him -with eyes full of an adoring admiration as he led the old woman -carefully to the door of the farm-house. He patted her pretty shoulder -as she followed, looking kindly at her. - -“Take care of the old mother, Jeanie,” he said, smiling. “I make you my -representative.” - -Poor little innocent Jeanie! There was no one like him in all her -sphere. She knew no other who spoke so softly, who looked so kindly, who -was so thoughtful of others, so little occupied with himself. Her little -heart swelled as she went into the low, quaint room with its small -windows, where the grandmother had already seated herself. To be the -parlour of a farm-house, it was a pretty room. The walls were greenish; -the light that came in through foliage which overshadowed the small -panes in the small windows was greenish too; but there were book-cases -in the corners, and books upon the table, for use, not ornament, and an -air of wellworn comfort and old respectability were about the place. It -was curiously irregular in form; two windows in the front looked out -upon the loch and the mountains, a prospect which a prince might have -envied; and one on the opposite side of the fire-place, in the gable end -of the house, in a deep recess, looked straight into the ivied walls of -the ruin which furnished so many stories to Loch Arroch. This window was -almost blocked up by a vast fuchsia, which still waved its long flexile -branches in the air laden with crimson bells. In front of the house -stood a great ash, dear northern tree which does not disdain the rains -and winds. Its sweeping boughs stood out against the huge hill opposite, -which was the background of the whole landscape. The blue water gleamed -and shone beneath that natural canopy. Mrs. Murray’s large high-backed -easy-chair was placed by the side of the fire, so that she had full -command of the view. The gable window with its fuchsia bush was behind -her. Never, except for a few months, during her whole seventy years of -life, had she been out of sight of that hill. She seated herself in the -stillness of age, and looked out wistfully upon the familiar scene. Day -by day through all her lifetime, across her own homely table with its -crimson cover, across the book she was reading or the stocking she was -knitting, under the green arch of the ash-branches, she had seen the -water break, sometimes with foaming wrath, sometimes quietly as a summer -brook, upon the huge foot of that giant hill. Was this now to be over? -The noiseless tears of old age came into her eyes. - -“We’ll aye have the sky, Jeanie, wherever we go,” she said, softly; “and -before long, before long, the gates of gold will have to open for me.” - -“But no for me,” said Jeanie, seating herself on a stool by her -grandmother’s side. The little girlish face was flashing and shining -with some illumination more subtle than that of the firelight. “We canna -die when we will, Granny, you’ve often said that; and sometimes,” the -girl added shyly, “we might not wish if we would.” - -This brought the old woman back from her momentary reverie. - -“God forbid!” she cried, putting her hand on Jeanie’s golden locks; -“though Heaven will scarce be Heaven without you, Jeanie. God forbid! -No, my bonnie lamb, I have plenty there without you. There’s your -father, and _his_ mother, and my ain little angel Jeanie with the gold -locks like you ---- her that I have told you of so often. She was younger -than you are, just beginning to be a blessing and a comfort, when, you -mind?--oh, so often as I have told you!--on the Saturday after the new -year--” - -“I mind,” said Jeanie softly, holding the withered hand in both of hers; -“but, granny, even you, though you’re old, you cannot make sure that -you’ll die when you want to die.” - -“No; more’s the pity; though it’s a thankless thing--a thankless thing -to say.” - -“You canna die when you will,” repeated Jeanie. “Wasna your father -ninety, granny, and Aunty Jean a hundred? Granny, listen to me. You must -do what _he_ says.” - -“_He_, Jeanie?” - -“Ay, he. I might say his name if there were two like him in the world,” -said Jeanie, with enthusiasm. “It’s your pride that will not let him -serve you as he says. It would make him happy. I saw it in his kind -e’en. I was watching him while he was speaking to you. It was like the -light and the shadows over Benvohrlan. The brightness glinted up when -he spoke, and when you said ‘No,’ granny, the cloud came over. Oh, how -could you set your face against him? The only one of us a’ (you say) you -ever did an ill turn to; and him the only one to bring you back good, -and comfort, and succour.” - -“Jeanie, you must not blame the rest,” said the old woman. “They have no -siller to give me. They would take me into their houses. What more could -they do? No, Jeanie; you may be just to him, and yet no cruel to them. -Besides, poor lad,” said Mrs. Murray with a sigh, “he has a rich man’s -ways, though he’s rich no more.” - -“He has the kindest ways in all the world,” cried Jeanie. “Granny, -you’ll do what he says.” - -The old woman leant back in her chair, crossing her thin hands in her -lap; her musing eyes sought the hills outside and the gleam of the -water, her old, old counsellors, not the anxious face of the child at -her feet. She was but a farmer’s wife, a farmer herself, a lowly, homely -woman; but many a princess was less proud. She sat and looked at the -blue loch, and thought of the long succession of years in which she had -reigned as a queen in this humble house, a centre of beneficence, giving -to all. She had never shut her heart against the cry of the poor, she -who was poor herself; she had brought up children, she had entertained -strangers, she had done all that reigning princesses could do. For forty -years all who had any claim on her kindness had come to her -unhesitatingly in every strait. Silver and gold she had little, but -everything else she gave, the shelter of her house, her best efforts, -her ready counsel, her unfailing help. All this she had bestowed -munificently in her day; and now--had she come to the point when she -must confess that her day was over, when she must retire from her place, -giving way to others, and become dependent--she who had always been the -head of her house? I do not say that the feelings in the mind of this -old Sovereign about to be dethroned were entirely without admixture of -ignoble sentiment. It went to her heart to be dethroned. She said to -herself, with a proud attempt at philosophy, that it was the natural -fate, and that everything was as it ought to be. She tried to persuade -herself that a chair in the chimney-corner was all the world had -henceforth for her, and that her daughter and her daughter’s husband -would be kind--enough. But it went to her heart. She was making up her -mind to it as men make up their minds to martyrdom; and the effort was -bitter. I do not know whether it ever occurred to her painfully that she -herself, had she been in the fulness of her powers, would never have -suffered her old mother to be driven from that homely roof which she -loved--or if something whispered in her soul that she had done better by -her children than they were doing by her; but if such thoughts arose in -her mind, she dismissed them unembodied, with an exercise of her will, -which was as proud as it was strong. Her very pride prevented her from -assuming even to herself the appearance of a victim. “It is but the -natural end,” she said, stoically, trying to look her trouble in the -face. She was ready to accept it as the inevitable, rather than own to -herself that her children failed in their duty--rather than feel, much -less admit, that she had expected more of them than they were willing to -give. - -The cause of this deep but undisclosed pain was, that things had been -going badly for some time with the Castle Farm. Mrs. Murray herself was -growing old, and less strong than is necessary for a farmer, and she had -been absent for some time, a few years before, an absence which had -wrought much trouble in the homestead. These misfortunes had been -complicated, as was inevitable, by one or two cold springs and wet -autumns. It was October now, and the harvest was but accomplishing -itself slowly even on the level fields on the loch side. The higher -lying acres of corn land still lay in sickly yellow patches on the braes -behind the house, half-ripened, damp and sprouting, sodden with many a -rain-storm; a great part of the corn would be fit for nothing but -fodder, and what remained for the woman-farmer, unable to cope with -these difficulties as she once had done, before strength and courage -failed--what remained for her to do? She had made up her mind to abandon -the old house she loved--to sell all her belongings, the soft-eyed cows -whom she called by their names, and who came at her call like -children--and the standing crops, the farm implements, even her old -furniture, to denude herself of everything, and pay her debts, and -commit the end of her life to Providence. This had been the state of -affairs when she fell ill, and Edgar Earnshaw was summoned to come to -her, to receive her blessing and farewell. But then, in contradiction to -all her wishes, to all that was seemly and becoming, she did not die. -When she knew she was to get better, the old woman broke forth into -complainings such as had never been heard from her lips in her worst -moments. “To lead me forth so far on the way, and then to send me back -when the worst was over--me that must make the journey so soon, that -must begin all over again, maybe the morn!” she cried, with bitter tears -in her eyes. But Heaven’s decree is inexorable, whether it be for life -or death, and she had to consent to recover. It was then that Edgar, her -grandson, had made the proposal to settle upon her a little income which -he possessed, and which would secure her a peaceful end to her days in -her old home. That he should do this had filled her with poignant -emotions of joy and shame. The only one of her kith and kin whom she had -wronged, and he was the one to make her this amends. If she accepted it, -she would retain all that she desired--everything that was personally -important to her in this life. But she would denude him of his living. -He was young, learned (as she thought), accomplished (as she thought), -able “to put his hand to anything,” doubtless able to earn a great deal -more than that, did he choose to try. It might even be for his -advantage, as he said, to have the spur of necessity to force him into -exertion. All this was mingled together in her mind, the noble and -generous feeling that would rather suffer than harm another, rather die -than blame, mixed with sharp stings of pride and some sophistries of -argument by which she tried to persuade herself against her conscience -to do what she wished. The struggle was going on hotly, as she sat by -her homely fireside and gazed out at the loch, and the shadow of the big -ash, which seemed to shadow over all Benvohrlan; things which are close -at hand are so much bigger and more imposing than things afar. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -Edgar. - - -Edgar set off on a brisk walk up the loch when he parted from the two -women at the door of the farmhouse. The previous history of this young -man had been an extraordinary one, and has had its record elsewhere; but -as it is not to be expected that any--even the gentlest reader--could -remember a story told them several years ago, I will briefly -recapitulate its chief incidents. Till he was five-and-twenty, this -young man had known himself only as the heir of a great estate, and of -an old and honourable name, and for some few months he had been in -actual possession of all the honours he believed his own. He was a great -English squire, one of the most important men in his district, with an -only sister, to whom he was deeply attached, and no drawback in his life -except the mysterious fact, which no longer affected him except as a -painful recollection, that his father, during his lifetime, had banished -him from his home, and apparently regarded him with a sentiment more -like hatred than affection. But Clare his sister loved him, and Edgar, -on coming to his fortune, had begun to form friendships and attachments -of his own, and had been drawn gently and pleasantly--not fallen wildly -and vehemently--into love with the daughter of one of his near -neighbours, Augusta (better known as Gussy) Thornleigh, whom he was on -the very eve of asking to be his wife, when his whole existence, name, -and identity were suddenly altered by the discovery that he was an -innocent impostor, and had no right to any of the good things he -enjoyed. I do not attempt to repeat any description of the change thus -made, for it was beyond description--terrible, complete, and -overwhelming. It plunged him out of wealth and honours into indigence -and shame--shame not merited, but yet clinging to the victim of a -long-continued deception. It not only took from him all his hopes, but -it embittered his very recollections. He lost past, and present, and -future, all at a blow. His identity, and all the outward apparel of life -by which he had known himself, were taken from him. Not only was the -girl whom he loved hopelessly lost to him, but she who had been his -sister, his only relative, as he supposed, and his dearest companion, -became nothing to him--a stranger, and worse than a stranger--for the -man whom she loved and married was his enemy. And in place of these -familiar figures, there came a crowd of shadows round him who were his -real relations, his unknown family, to whom, and not to the Ardens, he -now belonged. This fatal and wonderful change was made all the harder to -him from the fact that he was thus transplanted into an altogether lower -level, and that his new family was little elevated above the class from -which he had been in the habit of drawing his servants, not his -friends. Their habits, their modes of speech, their ways of thinking, -were all strange to him. It is true that he accommodated himself readily -to these differences, as exhibited in the old grandmother whom I have -just presented to the reader, and the gentle, soft-voiced, poetic -Jeanie; but with the other members of his new family, poor Edgar had -felt all his powers of self-control fail him. Their presence, their -contact, their familiarity, and the undeniable fact that it was to them -and their sphere that he actually belonged was terrible to the young -man, who, in his better days, had not known what pride meant. Life is in -reality so much the same in all classes that no doubt he would have come -to perceive the identity of substance notwithstanding the difference of -form, had he not been cast so suddenly into this other phase of -existence without preparation, without anything to break the fall; but -as it was, he had no preparation, and the blow went to his heart. - -This fall had taken place nearly three years before the time at which -this story opens, and poor Edgar, stunned by his overthrow, repelled by -his new relatives, vaguely wretched, notwithstanding the stoutness of -heart with which he had braced himself to meet calamity, had done but -little with his life for these two years. A small provision had been -secured for him from his successor in the estates of Arden, the rightful -heir whom he had unwittingly wronged, and to whom he did instant justice -as soon as he heard of the wrong; and this little provision had been -augmented by the small property of the Rector of Arden, Mr. Fielding, -who had left him everything he possessed. He had thus enough to support -him, that most dangerous of all endowments for a young man. Poor fellow! -he had made his sacrifice with great bravery, and had wrenched himself -away from all he cared for with the smile of a hero, neither sinking -under the blow, nor exaggerating its force. “Courage!” he had said to -himself, when he lost the place where he had been lord and master, and -went forth poor, humble, and nameless, to face the world. He meant -nothing less than to make a new life for himself better than the last, -to assert the superiority of a guiltless heart and free conscience over -fate. But, alas, it is so easy to do this in the general, so difficult -in detail! “We will make our lives sublime,” says the poet, with such -cheap magniloquence--and how many an enthusiast youth has delighted -himself with the thought! - -Edgar was a very sensible, reasonable young fellow, but yet it was a -consolation to him, in his sudden fall, to reflect that every man may -conquer circumstances, and that will and energy are better than riches. -He had dreamt of “doing something,” if not to make himself known and -famous, at least to be of use in this life to his fellow-creatures and -to himself. He meant it firmly up to the day when he left everything he -knew or cared for, and he meant it the next day, and the day after, and -even the next year; but up to this moment he had done nothing. For after -all what was there to do? - -Young Paladins cannot kill fiery dragons, cannot meet giants in single -combat, cannot deliver a whole district now-a-days by the stroke of a -sword. To be sure, a man whose tastes lie that way may tackle the giant, -Sewage, or attack the dragon, Ignorance; but that is slow work, seldom -of a primitive, straightforward kind, and leading the fighter into many -entanglements, dubious company, and very uncertain results. So the -consequence was that poor Edgar meaning to do much, did nothing--not -because he loved idleness, but because he did not know what to do. He -wandered off abroad very soon disgusted with everything; with his -downfall and his inability to surmount that downfall; with the meanness -of estimating worth by rank and wealth, and the still greater meanness -of his own incapacity to get quite free from that standard, which, so -long as he was himself rich and great, he had disowned manfully. -Cheerily he had laughed at the frivolity of the young men of fashion -surrounding him when he was as they, but his laugh now had a certain -bitterness, and he felt himself turn with a sickening of the heart from -intercourse with a lower class, and then deeply and bitterly despised -himself for this ignoble sentiment. His state of mind, indeed, though -strange and miserable to himself, was no more than was natural and to be -looked for in a man forcibly transplanted from the place of his natural -growth, and from all the habits and traditions of his previous life. - -Therefore, these three years had been a failure with Edgar. He had done -nothing with them, he who had gone out of his old existence firmly -determined to do so much. He had wandered about over the face of the -earth, to and fro, an unquiet spirit--but no good had come from any of -his wanderings. He could not help being kind and charitable; it was no -virtue on his part, but “just a carnal inclination;” and except this -inevitable goodness, which was an affair of temperament, nothing had -come of him, nothing had come from him, in these years. - -Thus, probably, he would have continued, if not always, until weariness -had come on, and his vital strength was broken. He would have become, -without vice, one of the thousand English vagabonds of quality who haunt -every thoroughfare in Europe; and what a downfall would this have been -for Edgar!--a greater downfall even than that which circumstances had -brought upon him. The sudden summons which had brought him to Mrs. -Murray’s sick-bed, the sudden call upon his charity, so -characteristically adapted to move him, arrested him in the painful -insignificance of this career. He had resolved to make the sacrifice -which was involved, before it even occurred to him how much that -sacrifice would involve; for he was of that species of humankind which, -bestowing help and succour does first and considers afterwards. It cost -him no struggle, no conflict with himself, to decide that everything he -had must go at once to the aid of his mother’s mother, to her -preservation in comfort--notwithstanding that she had wronged him, and -that the tragic confusion and aimlessness of his life was her fault. He -had taken all the steps at once which were necessary to carry out this -transfer, and it was only now, when he had fully resolved upon it, that -the cost to himself occurred to him. He counted that cost as he walked, -stepping out as if he trod on air to the head of the loch. - -What would it cost him? It would take away all his certain living, every -penny he had; it would force him to work one way or another in order to -maintain himself. After his brief experience of wealth and its ways, and -after the vague and unsatisfactory existence which he had led when he -had just “enough to live on,” he must make a fresh start again, like any -country lad setting forth to seek his fortune. The third start, he said -to himself, with a certain rueful amusement; for Edgar was one of those -who could laugh at his own misfortunes. I cannot tell how it was that -this prospect did not discourage him, but certainly it did not; a -certain exhilaration crept into his soul as he faced the wind, walking -fast with joyous defiance. The third time of beginning must be lucky at -last; was it not a mystical number, acknowledged by the very children in -their games? He had heard an urchin assuring another that very morning -that “the third ca’ was canny.” It was poor Edgar’s third trial. The -first time he had been foiled by no fault of his--by arbitrary -circumstances. The second time he had foiled himself by want of purpose, -absence of anything direct to do, and languor of motive for attempting -anything. But the third ca’ would be canny--nature and necessity would -help him. He would be driven to work by infallible potency of need, and -he would make something of it; so he said to himself. - -There was something exhilarating in the day, or else he thought so. The -high wind was of itself a blessing after days of that weary rain, which -is so common in the west of Scotland. The damp corn out on the fields, -the still damper corn which stood in faint whiteness upon the hillside -was shaking off some part of its superabundant moisture in the cheerful -breeze. The white clouds were scudding over the mountains, throwing a -poetic and perpetual interchange of light and shade over those silent -spectators who occupied so large a share in the landscape, and whose -sudden glories and brightness gave a human aspect to their everlasting -strength. The deep blue of the distance, deep, and dark, and dreamy, -against the open of the lighter sky; the thousand soft tones of purple, -of grey, of brown, and soft green; the whiteness of a sudden peak -starting into sunshine; the dark unfathomable depth of water, across -which a sudden shadow would fall dramatically like an event, made even -the silent country a partaker in the commotion which filled the young -man’s mind. - -In this dramatic tumult of the elements, there was no knoll, no hollow, -no tree, which had not its share. And in the midst of the animated -scene, a sudden rush of alien sound, the rustle and sputter and -commotion of the little steamer fretting its busy, fussy way to the head -of the loch, which was the chief medium of communication with the -outside world, struck upon Edgar’s ear with not unpleasant discord. It -was work, it was life, it was the labour by which a man could live and -serve his generation, that was embodied to him in this little noisy -interruption which he had so often condemned as alien to the scene. Yes, -it was alien to the scene. But to be reminded of the world without, of -the noise, and movement, and high-pressure of life, was pleasant to -Edgar at this moment of his existence; it helped to stimulate the thrill -of new energy which seemed to be rising in his heart. - -There was, however, a motive less elevated which, I am bound to admit, -affected the young man in his toleration of the steamer and its discord. -He was eager to get away from Loch Arroch back into the world, where, at -least, he would escape from the contemplation of that contrast between -his present and his past, which was forced upon him here. All the -confusion of his life, its conflicts between the sentiments which he -felt he ought to entertain and those which, in spite of him, came -uppermost in his mind, were kept painfully and constantly before his -eyes. Every detail of the homely farmhouse existence brought them before -him. The chief sting in all this was his vexation with himself for -feeling these details to be of importance. Had he retained his original -position, so little affected was he really by external circumstances, -that I believe he would have found the life at the Castle Farm -infinitely more reasonable, sensible, and natural than that which, as a -man of fortune and fashion, he would himself have been compelled to -lead, The simple fare, the plain rooms, the absence of luxuries, and -even some of those everyday luxuries which we call comforts, did not -really distress him; it was the sense of missing them, the quick and -vivid consciousness of this and that a-wanting, which made the young man -sore, and bitter, and ashamed of himself. And he felt in his heart that -everything would be easier to him when he could but get away. I must -add, however, that Edgar never showed his consciousness of the change of -sphere to others, deeply as he felt it. The farmhouse servant, and -little Jeanie, and even old Mrs. Murray herself, who had more insight, -considered him much more “easy to please” than any other man of the -kindred. “He gives just nae trouble,” Bell said, “and aye a ‘thank you, -Bell,’ for every hand’s turn I do for him. Eh! when it’s Johnnie -Campbell that’s i’ the house, ye can see the difference. It’s Bell here, -and Bell there, like as I had nothing a do but wait upon him. But it’s a -pleasure to serve Mr. Edgar, night or day.” - -This was the testimony of one very clear-sighted witness; and even Mrs. -Murray concluded, with a relief which it would have been impossible to -put into words, that the change had passed lightly over her grandson’s -head without affecting him. “He has one of those blessed natures that -are aye content, and take everything easy from the hand of God,” she -said to herself, with a mixture of joy and disappointment; for this -blessed nature, blessed as it is, is secretly looked down upon by -persons conscious of more acute feeling. I believe my good Edgar had -thus something in his character of what is commonly called humbug. He -deceived people as to his own feelings by very consideration for their -feelings. It was so absolutely indispensable to his being to set his -companions at their ease, and make them comfortable so far as he could, -that he took them in habitually, to use another vulgar expression, and -was believed by everybody to be as happy as the day was long at Loch -Arroch, while all the while he was secretly longing to get away. I -believe that in some respects this kind of nature (not a very common -one) is less good, being less honest, than that more general disposition -which, when uncomfortable or dissatisfied itself, loses no opportunity -of making others so, and states its sentiments frankly, whether they are -likely to please its companions or not. I allow that Edgar’s special -peculiarities had their disadvantages. I do not attempt to excuse him, I -only state what they were. - -Just as he came in sight of Loch Arroch head--the village which, seated -at the extremity of the loch, was the post town and general centre of -the district--Edgar was joined by Robert Campbell, the husband of his -eldest aunt, a man to whom he was expected to give the title of uncle, -and who regarded him with a mingled feeling of rough amity, respect -(for, was he not independent, with an income of his own, and able to -live like a gentleman?), and conscientious conviction that something -might be got out of him. He was a land-agent, in not a very great way, a -factor for some of the less important land-owners of the district, a man -not without education and information in his way, with considerable -practical knowledge of law, and still greater of agriculture, racy of -the soil, the sort of person whom a great landed proprietor from -England, such as poor Edgar had been a few years before, would have -appreciated mightily, and quoted for months after their meeting. But to -enjoy the shrewdness and profit by the conversation of such an -individual, when you are elevated a whole world above him,--and to take -him into your heart as one of your own relatives, are very different -things. Edgar shrank with a whimsical sense of moral cowardice as he saw -this personage approaching. He laughed ruefully at himself. “Oh, why are -uncles made so coarse, and nephews made so fine?” he said. But to see -the fun of a situation does not always enable you to bear it with -equanimity. He would have been very glad to get out of Robert Campbell’s -way had that been possible; but as it was not possible he did his best -to meet him with a smile. - -“How’s the auld leddy the day?” said Campbell, stretching out a huge -hand to grasp Edgar’s; “living, and like to live, I’ll be bound. We -maunna grumble, for she’s given an aixcellent constitution to her -descendants, of which my lad is one as well as you. But, puir body, if -it had been the Almighty’s will--lang life’s a grand thing when you’re -well provided for,” Mr. Campbell concluded, with a sigh. - -“I hope none of her descendants will grudge her the little she wants,” -Edgar began-- - -“Saftly, saftly, my man! nobody grudges her the little she wants. The -difficulty is, wha’s to provide that little,” said Campbell. “We’re all -decently well off in one sense, with no scrimping of meal or milk and a -good suit of black for a Sunday or a funeral, and a silk gown for the -wife. But to keep up a farm upon our joint contributions, as I hear is -what you’re thinking of--a farm, the chanciest thing in creation!--I -allow I canna see my way to that. Excuse me, Mr. Edgar, for speaking my -mind, but you’re young, and your notions are too grand for the like of -us--I’m no saying it’s your fault. We maun cut our coat according to our -cloth. I’m no fond of relations in the house; but she’s a harmless body, -and I’ll stretch a point for once: and John Bryce, in Sauchiehall St., -will take Jeanie. He’s a man in a very decent way of business, and I’ve -no doubt he could make her useful in the shop.” - -“But cannot you see,” cried Edgar, with a start and sudden wince, -interrupting him, “that my poor old grandmother would be wretched -without Jeanie? And Jeanie herself is too delicate a creature for any -such life. They must stay together. Surely, surely,” cried the young -man, “when she is helpless who has done so much for everybody, it is not -too much that we should provide for something beyond her mere -existence--her happiness as well.” - -Campbell had watched him very closely while he made this speech. The -generous feeling with which he spoke brought the colour to Edgar’s -cheek; he was unsuspicious of the meaning of the close scrutiny to which -he was thus subjected, and made no effort to conceal this glow of -natural emotion. - -“If it’s Jeanie you’re meaning,” said Campbell, with a laugh and -significant look, “no doubt there are other arrangements that might be -thought of; and a good man’s aye the best thing, especially when he has -enough to live on. If that’s your thought, my lad, I am not the one to -say you nay.” - -“If what is my thought?” said Edgar, bewildered. - -I do not think the idea had ever occurred to him before, and I cannot -describe the thrill of wounded pride with which he received this shock. -Jeanie! A child--a creature altogether out of his sphere. Jeanie! with -her pretty peasant manners, and poetic homely dialect, a little girl -whom he could be kind to, as he would be kind to the maid who milked the -cows, or the child who ran his errands! In all the course of the three -painful years that were past, I do not think Edgar had received any such -cutting and sudden blow. He realized all his own humiliation when he saw -himself placed in the imagination of the neighbourhood by little -Jeanie’s side--her cousin, her often companion, her so-possible wooer! -The thought stiffened him up all at once to stone. He forgot even his -usual consideration for the feelings of others. - -“I have no thought of any kind in respect to Jeanie,” he said, coldly, -“except in so far as concerns my grandmother. The two ought not to be -separated. I cannot indeed allow them to be separated,” he added, still -more proudly. “I have a little money, as you know, and if nobody else -will do it, I must do it. I will make over to my grandmother my little -income, such as it is. She can live and keep her favourite with her, if -she has that.” - -“Your--income!” Mr. Campbell could scarcely gasp out the words, so -breathless was he and dumb-foundered. “Your--income! And what will you -do yoursel’? But you mean an allowance; that’s a different matter,” he -added, recovering himself. “You’ll give in proportion to what the rest -of us give? Ay, ay. I can understand that.” - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -Jeanie. - - -Edgar did not come home till the evening was considerably advanced. He -went with Campbell to his house, and partook of the substantial family -tea in the best parlour, which Mrs. Campbell, his aunt, called the -drawing-room--so that it was late before he returned home. - -“There’s a moon,” Campbell said. “Ye need be in no hurry. A young fellow -in certain states of mind, as we a’ know, takes to moonlight walks like -a duck to the water.” - -At which speech Mrs. Campbell laughed, being evidently in the secret; -but John, the only son, who was a student at the University of Glasgow, -and just about to set out for the winter session, looked black and -fierce as any mountain storm. These inferences of some supposed -sentiment, which he was totally ignorant of, might have passed quite -innocuously over Edgar only a day before, but they filled him now with -suppressed rage and deep mortification. Perhaps unreasonably; but there -is nothing which a man resents so much as to be supposed “in love” with -some one whom he considers beneath him. Even when there is truth in the -supposition, he resents the discovery which brings all the -inappropriateness of the conjunction before his mind; and if there is no -truth in it, he feels himself injured in the tenderest point--ill-used, -humbled, wronged. Edgar’s impulse was to leave the house where he was -thus insulted by inference; but partly pride, partly his usual deference -to other people’s feelings, and partly the necessity which was now -stronger than ever of carrying out his intentions and leaving the place -where he was subject to such an insane suggestion triumphed over his -first impulse. - -Even Campbell was staggered in his vulgar notion that only Jeanie and -her fresh beauty could account for the young man’s prolonged stay and -unusual devotion, when he began to perceive the munificence of Edgar’s -intentions. A young man who wanted to marry might indeed be guilty of a -great many foolishnesses; he might be ready, Mr. Campbell thought, to -burden himself with the old mother for the sake of the pretty child; but -to alienate a portion of his income (for Edgar did not enter fully into -his plan) was a totally different and quite impossible sort of -sacrifice. What could be his motive? Was it that Jeanie might be -educated and made a lady of before he should marry her? As for pure duty -towards the old mother, honour of her long and virtuous life, compassion -for the downfall of so proud a spirit, being motives strong enough for -such a sacrifice, at this the worthy man guffawed loudly. - -“I’m no the man to be taken in with fine words,” he said, with a broad -smile. - -While these jokes and discussions were going on in the best parlour at -Loch Arroch Head, Jeanie, unconscious of any debate in which her name -could be involved, went about her usual occupations at home. She got the -tea ready, coming and going with soft steps from the parlour to the -kitchen, carrying in the tray, and “masking” the tea with her own hands. -As for Bell, she was “suppering” the kye, and looking after the outdoor -work, and had no time for such daintier service. Jeanie would steal a -moment now and then, while she prepared this simple meal, to step -noiselessly to the ever open door, and cast a wistful look up the -loch-side to see “if he was coming.” The gloaming grew darker and -darker, the stars came out over the hill, the moon rose, and still -Jeanie strained her eyes to see if any figure approached on the long -line of almost level road by the side of the loch. Once her heart leaped -up, thinking she saw him; but it was only a shearer taking his way home -from the West Park, where, taking advantage of a good day, the harvest -had gone on as long as the light permitted. Poor Jeanie! what a -difference there was between this heavy rustic form as it drew near, -relieved against the dark yet gleaming water of the loch, and the erect, -light-footed, elastic figure she looked for! As she washed the old china -cups brought out in his honour, and put the tea-things away, she -wondered with a pang in her kind little heart what could have kept him? -Had he met some of his grand friends, sportsmen arriving by the boat, or -those tourists whom the natives looked upon with mingled admiration and -scorn? or could any accident have happened? a thought which blanched her -pretty cheek with fear. - -She would have liked to talk to her grandmother about Edgar, but she did -not venture to do more than wonder “what could be keeping him?” a -question to which Mrs. Murray responded placidly that no doubt he was -“drinking tea” with somebody at Loch Arroch Head. The old lady was not -discomposed by Edgar’s absence as Jeanie was; and poor Jeanie, in the -flutter and warmth of her feelings, could have cried with vexation at -the contrast between her own agitated heart and this calm, which she -thought indifference. Her grandmother “did not care.” “Oh, how could she -help caring, and him so good to her!” poor Jeanie said to herself. And -Bell went about her work out of doors, cheerily singing, in her full -rustic voice, as she prepared the supper for the kye, and carried it out -to the byre, coming and going in her strong shoes, with clink of pails, -and loud talking now and then to Sandy, who was helping. Nobody cared -but Jeanie that he was so late of coming home. - -Then she went upstairs with her grandmother, who was still an invalid, -and helped her to bed, and read “the chapter” with which the day was -always concluded; and put a great old stick, with a gold head, which had -belonged to some ancestor, by the bedside, in order that Mrs. Murray, if -she wanted anything, should “knock down,” for there were not many bells -in the little farmhouse. The sitting-room was immediately below, and -this was the recognised way at the Castle Farm of calling for the -attendants. When this last duty was done, Jeanie was free for the night -to “take her book” or “her seam,” and do as she pleased, for she had -never had anything to do with “the beasts” or outdoor matters. - -By this time Bell had finished with her clinking pails. She was in the -kitchen, still moving about, frying the cold potatoes into a savoury -mess, with which Sandy and she were about to regale themselves. Where -Bell’s strong shoes were, and her hearty voice, not to speak of Sandy’s, -which was very deep bass, there could scarcely be stillness in the -house; but when the kitchen door was closed, and the two (who were -sweethearts) talked lower, the spell of the quiet grew strong upon -Jeanie. She put down her seam, and stole out very quietly to the door, -which still stood innocently open; for at the Castle Farm they feared no -evil. If you could but have seen her, no prettier figure ever watched -for a tardy lover. She was dressed in a plain little brown frock, -without any furbelows, with a little rim of white collar round her neck. -Her golden hair was fastened up with a large tortoise-shell comb, -thought “very old-fashioned” by all the girls about Loch Arroch, which -had belonged to Jeanie’s mother, and of which, as a valuable article, -costing originally “more than a pound-note,” as her grandmother had -often told her, Jeanie was proud. The comb was scarcely visible in the -soft bright mass of hair, which Jeanie had not neglected to twist up in -its abundance into some semblance of “the fashion.” She leant against -the doorway with her chin propped in the hollow of her hand, and one -folded arm supporting the elbow of the other. - -The stars shone high over head, high up above the big summit of -Benvohrlan, which shut out from her half the heavens. The moon was -behind, silvering over the red roof of the house, and falling glorious -upon the dark water, making it one sheet of silver from where it opened -out of the bigger loch up to the very foot of the mountain. The side of -Benvohrlan was almost as light as in the day-time, and Loch Long on the -other turn of the gigantic corner formed by the hill, went gleaming away -into invisible space, betraying itself in undefinable distance by here -and there a line or speck of silver. All up the loch side, at Jeanie’s -left hand, the path lay clear and vacant, without a shadow on it. On the -other side, the glimmering lightness of the stubble field, with its -sheaves looking like strange animals in the moonlight, extended to the -water edge, rounding out to where it too gained the margin of the parent -loch. I do not know any finer combination of hill and water. The level -fields of the Castle Farm on one side, and Big Benvohrlan on the other, -form the doorway by which the lesser loch enters the greater; on one -side an angle of cultivated land: on the other a gigantic angle of -mountain. But little Jeanie thought little of the familiar scene around -her. The moon, newly risen, cast a soft shadow of her little figure, the -same way as her heart went, upon the road from the loch-head by which -Edgar was coming. He saw this shadow with a little impatient vexation as -he approached the house, but not till long after little Jeanie’s heart -had jumped to perceive him. - -Poor little gentle soul! her large eyes made larger and softer still by -her wistful anxiety and longing for his presence, had watched with -patience unwavering for more than an hour. She had not minded the chill -wind nor the weariness of standing so long, with no support but the -doorway. The attitude, the strained look, the patience, were all -characteristic of Jeanie. She was the kind of being which in all -second-rate poetry, and most second-rate imaginations, is the one sole -type of woman. Looking for some one who was the lord of her life, or -looking to some one--with soft eyes intent, with quick ears waiting, -with gentle heart ready to receive whatever impression he wished to -convey, the soft soul turned to the man who had caught her heart or her -imagination as the flower turns to the sun. To use the jargon of the -day, poor little Jeanie was receptive to the highest degree. She never -originated anything, nor advised anything, nor took any part as an -individual being in the conduct of life, either her own or that of -others. Hers were not those eager youthful opinions, those harsh -judgments, those daring comments which belong as much to youth as its -bloom. She was too artless to know anything of the prettiness of her -uplifted eyes, or the delicious flattery which lay in her absolute -submissiveness. Poor Jeanie did not know that these were charms much -more potent than the talents which she was aware she did not possess. -She listened, and looked, and watched for those signs of guidance, which -she obeyed by instinct with the docility of a dumb creature, because it -was her nature. She did not even intend to please; though she was happy -beyond description when she found that she had pleased, she did but act -as she could not help acting, according as her disposition moved her. -Edgar, who had not been used to this kind of woman, had been half -annoyed, half amused by her powerlessness to advise or help, her soft -devotion of look, now addressed to himself, now to Mrs. Murray. He had -wondered at it, and objected to it; yet he had been moved like any other -man to a softening sense of protection and almost tenderness. He was -flattered too in spite of himself to find her thus watching for him. It -made him more than half angry, but yet it pleased him involuntarily. - -“You will catch cold standing out here in the night air,” he said -pettishly at the first moment. Then he added with compunction, “It is -kind of you to look for me, Jeanie; but you should not stand out in the -cold without a shawl.” - -“I’m glad you’re come home,” said Jeanie, with instinctive policy -ignoring this reproof. “Grannie is in her bed, and it is lonely without -you. Will I make you some tea? or will you have your supper? You’ve been -long away.” - -“Not so very long,” said Edgar, touched by the soft complaint, “but I -ought to have recollected that you were alone. Are you afraid, Jeanie, -at night with no one but Bell and the granny to take care of you? It is -a lonely house.” - -“Oh, no,” said Jeanie, looking brightly round upon him, as he followed -her into the low parlour, where two candles were flickering on the table -before the fire. - -“But it is a lonely house?” - -“Oh, yes,” she repeated softly, “but what o’ that? Nobody would meddle -with us. Granny is as well known as Loch Arroch Kirk. Nobody dares -meddle with us. I’m never lonely, except when granny is ill and goes to -her bed, and I can hear Bell and Sandy in the kitchen. That makes me -think I would like somebody to speak to, too.” - -“But Bell and Sandy,”--Edgar began: if he was going to be so incautious -as to add,--“are sweethearts,” I don’t know what would have become of -him; but happily Jeanie, with a sudden blush interposed. - -“I was not meaning Bell and Sandy; any voices have the same sound. They -make you feel how lone you are.” - -“That is true,” said Edgar, seating himself by the fire, which Jeanie -had kept bright, with a clean-swept hearth, and a clear red glow for his -coming. He sat down meditatively in the old mother’s chair. “That is -true,” he repeated slowly, “I have felt it often of winter nights when I -have gone upstairs to my chilly room, and heard the people chatting -together as I passed their doors.” - -“_You_ have felt that, too?” said Jeanie timidly, with reverential -wonder, “but you need never be your lane unless you like.” - -“I assure you I have often been ‘my lane,’ as you call it, when I did -not like at all,” said Edgar smiling, “you have much too high an -opinion, Jeanie, of what I can do ‘if I like.’” - -“Oh, no,” said Jeanie, “you are not the same as the like of us; you are -a man, which is a great difference,--and then you’re a grand gentleman.” - -“Jeanie, my foolish little Jeanie! I am your cousin and your granny’s -child like you,” he cried, putting his hand upon hers, to stop her in -the little outburst of innocent enthusiasm, which was, he felt, for an -ideal Edgar--not for him. - -“It’s very hard to understand,” said Jeanie shaking her head softly with -a little sigh, “why you should be yonder the greatest of the land, and -now only granny’s son, like me. I’ll no try. When I think, I get back a -pain in my head like what I had--when I was ill.” - -“You must not think,” said Edgar, “but, Jeanie, tell me, did you do my -commission? Did you persuade granny to let me do what I wish?” - -“Yes,” said Jeanie eagerly; she came forward and stood by him in the -pleasure of making this report of her own faithfulness,--and the -cheerful ruddy gleam of the firelight flickered about her, shining in -her hair and eyes, and adding a tint to the colour on her cheek, which -was pale by nature. “I told her a’ you said, I did not miss a word. I -said it would be fine for her, but better for you; that you would do -something then, and now you were doing nothing; and that you would be -glad aye to think of Loch Arroch, and that there was a house there where -you were thought upon day and night, and named in a’ the prayers, and -minded, whatever you did, and whatever we did.” - -“That was your own, Jeanie,” said Edgar, taking her hand, and looking up -at her with gratified tenderness. She was to him as a little sister, and -her affectionate half-childish enthusiasm brought a suffusion to his -eyes. - -“If it was, may I no say what I think--me too?” said Jeanie, with modest -grace. “I told her that you couldna bear the thought of her away in -another man’s house, after so long keeping her own over a’ our heads, -that the siller was nothing to you, but that her--and me--were something -to you, your nearest friends in this world. Eh, I’m glad we’re your -nearest friends! though it’s strange, strange to think of,” said Jeanie, -in a parenthesis. “I told her that though she couldna work and I couldna -work, you could work, and win a fortune if you liked. I did not forget a -single word,” cried the girl, “not a word! I told her all you said.” - -For a moment Edgar made no reply. He listened with a half smile, -wonderingly endeavouring to put himself in the place of this limited yet -clear intelligence, which was capable of stating his own generous -arguments so fully, yet incapable, as it seemed, of so much reflection -as would make her hesitate to expound them. Jeanie, so far as her -personal sentiment went, accepted his sacrifice with matter-of-fact -simplicity, without ever thinking of his side of it, or of the -deprivations involved. She took his offer to denude himself of -everything he had, with the same absolute pleasure and satisfaction with -which a child would accept a present. Was it her unbounded confidence in -his power to win a fortune if he liked? Or was it her simple instinct -that this was natural, and that the weak and helpless had a right to the -services of the strong? Edgar was bewildered by this question which -never entered into Jeanie’s mind. He was almost glad of her incapacity -to see beyond the surface of things, and yet wondered at it with -something between amusement and pain. Here was the primitive nature, -commonplace, unsophisticated, he said to himself, which believed what -was said to it simply demanding without motive or reason. No second -thoughts troubled the limpid surface of Jeanie’s gentle mind. She -believed unhesitatingly not only that he meant what he said (which was -true), but that the arguments she repeated were infallible, without -perceiving the sophistry of which Edgar himself, the author of them, was -fully conscious. Truly and sincerely she made as light of his -self-renunciation as he himself had made--a thing which is bewildering -to the self-sacrificer, though it may be the thing which is most -desirable to him and suits his purpose best. I do not know if Jeanie was -aware of the half tone of descent in the moral scale which made itself -apparent in Edgar’s voice. - -“You have been a clever advocate, Jeanie,” he said with a smile, “and I -hope a successful one,” and with that he dropped her hand and took out -his newspaper. Was there anything amiss, or was it merely his lordly -pleasure to end the conversation? With a momentary sense of pain, Jeanie -wondered which it was, but accepted the latter explanation, got her -seam, and sat down within reach of the pleasant warmth of the fire, -happy in the silence, asking nothing more. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -A Family Consultation. - - -A few days after, various members of the family arrived at the Castle -Farm, with the intention of deciding what was to be done. An arrangement -had been partially made with a young farmer of the district, who was -ready to enter upon the remainder of the lease, and whom the factor on -the part of the Duke was ready to accept as replacing Mrs. Murray in the -responsibilities of the tenancy. This, of course, everybody felt was the -natural step to be taken, and it left the final question as to how the -old lady herself was to be disposed of, clear and unembarrassed. Even -Edgar himself was not sufficiently Quixotic to suppose that Mrs. -Murray’s feelings and pride should be so far consulted as to keep up the -farm for her amusement, while she was no longer able to manage its -manifold concerns. - -Mr. and Mrs. Campbell arrived first in their gig, which was seated for -four persons, and which, indeed, Mr. Campbell called a phaeton. Their -horse was a good steady, sober-minded brown horse, quite free from any -imaginativeness or eccentricity, plump and sleek, and well-groomed; and -the whole turnout had an appearance of comfort and well-being. They -brought with them a young man whom Edgar had not yet seen, a Dr. Charles -Murray, from the East-country, the son of Mrs. Murray’s eldest son, who -had arrived that morning by the steamboat at Loch Arroch Head. From -Greenock by the same conveyance--but not in Mr. Campbell’s gig--came -James Murray, another of the old lady’s sons, who was “a provision -merchant” in that town, dealing largely in hams and cheeses, and full of -that reverential respect for money which is common with his kind. Lastly -there arrived from Kildarton on the other side of Loch Long, a lady who -had taken the opportunity, as she explained to Edgar, of indulging her -young people with a picnic, which they were to hold in a little wooded -dell, round the corner of the stubble field, facing Loch Long, while she -came on to join the family party, and decide upon her mother’s destiny. -This was Mrs. MacKell, Mrs. Murray’s youngest daughter, a good-looking, -high-complexioned woman of forty-five, the wife of a Glasgow “merchant” -(the phrase is wide, and allows of many gradations), who had been living -in sea-side quarters, or, as her husband insisted on expressing it, “at -the saut water,” in the pleasant sea-bathing village of Kildarton, -opposite the mouth of Loch Arroch. The boat which deposited her at the -little landing-place belonging to the Castle Farm, was a heavy boat of -the district, filled with a bright-coloured and animated party, and -provided with the baskets and hampers necessary for their party of -pleasure. Mrs. MacKell stood on the bank, waving her hand to them as -they hoisted the sail and floated back again round the yellow edge of -the stubble field. - -“Mind you keep your warm haps on, girls, and don’t wet your feet,” she -called to them; “and oh, Andrew, my man, for mercy’s sake take care of -that awful sail!” - -This adjuration was replied to by a burst of laughter in many voices, -and a “Never fear, mother,” from Andrew; but Mrs. MacKell shook her -good-looking head as she accepted Edgar’s hand to ascend the slope. All -the kindred regarded Edgar with a mixture of curiosity and awe, and it -was, perhaps, a slight nervous shyness in respect to this stranger, so -aristocratical-looking, as Mrs. MacKell expressed herself, which gave a -little additional loudness and apparent gaiety to that excellent woman’s -first address. - -“I’m always afraid of those sails. They’re very uncanny sort of things -when a person does not quite understand the nature of our lochs. I -suppose, Mr. Edgar, you’re in that case?” said Mrs. MacKell, looking at -him with an ingratiating smile. - -He was her nephew, there could be no doubt of it, and she had a right to -talk to him familiarly; but at the same time he was a fine gentleman and -a stranger, and made an impression upon her mind which was but -inadequately counter-balanced by any self-assurances that he was “just -an orphan lad--no better--not to say a great deal worse off than our own -bairns.” Such representations did not affect the question as they ought -to have done, when this strange personage, “no better, not to say a -great deal worse” than themselves, stood with his smile which made them -slightly uncomfortable, before them. It was the most open and genial -smile, and in former times Edgar had been supposed a great deal too much -disposed to place himself on a level with all sorts of people; but -now-a-days his look embarrassed his humble relations. There was a -certain amusement in it, which bore no reference to them, which was -entirely at himself, and the quaintly novel position in which he found -himself, but which nevertheless affected them, nobody could have told -why. He was not laughing at them, respectablest of people. They could -not take offence, neither could they divine what he was laughing at; but -the curious, whimsical, and often rueful amusement which mingled with -many much less agreeable feelings, somehow made itself felt and produced -an effect upon which he had never calculated. It was something they did -not understand, and this consciousness partially irritated, partially -awed these good people, who felt that the new man in their midst was a -being beyond their comprehension. They respected his history and his -previous position, though with a little of that characteristic contempt -which mingles so strangely in Scotland with many old prejudices in -favour of rank and family; they respected more honestly and entirely his -little property, the scraps of his former high estate which made him -still independent; but above all they now respected, though with some -irritation, what seemed to them the unfathomableness of his character, -the lurking smile in his eyes. It confirmed the superiority which -imagination already acknowledged. - -“I have not had much experience of the lochs,” said Edgar, following -with his eyes the clumsy but gay boat, with its cargo of laughter, and -frankly gay, if somewhat loud, merry-making. - -Mrs. MacKell saw his look and was gratified. - -“You’ll not know which are your cousins among so many,” she said; “and, -indeed, the girls have been plaguing me to write over and ask you to -come. They were all away back in Glasgow when my mother took ill, and -just came down last week on my account. It’s late for sea-bathing -quarters in Scotland; and, indeed, when they took it into their heads -about this pic-nic, I just raged at them. A pic-nic in October, and on -the loch! But when children set their hearts on a thing the mother’s aye -made to give way; and they had to be kept quiet, you see, while my -mother was ill, not knowing how it might end.” - -“That is true,” said Edgar; “otherwise, so far as my poor grandmother is -concerned, this cannot be called a very joyful occasion.” - -“I don’t see that for my part,” cried Mrs. MacKell, feeling herself -attacked, and responding with instant readiness. “Dear me! if I were in -my mother’s position, to see all my children about me, all that remain, -would aye be a joyful occasion, whatever was the cause; and what better -could she do at her age than go up the loch to my sister Jean’s -comfortable house, where she would be much made of, and have all her old -friends about her? My mother has been a good mother. I have not a word -to say against that; but she’s always been a proud woman, awfully proud, -holding her head as high as the Duchess, and making everybody stand -about. I’ll not say but what it has been very good for us, for we’ve -never fallen among the common sort. But still, you know, unless where -there’s siller that sort of thing cannot be kept up. Of course, I would -like it better,” added Mrs. MacKell, “to have my mother near, where I -could send the bairns--excuse me for using the words of the place.” - -“Oh, I like the words,” said Edgar, with a laugh, which he could not -quite restrain--better than the sentiments, he would have said. - -“Where I could send any of my young folk that happened to be looking -white, at any moment,” she went on; “far different from what I could do -with Jean, who has the assurance to tell me she always invites her -friends when she wants them, though her son has his dinner with us every -Sunday of his life during the Session! Therefore it’s clear what my -interest is. But you see, Mr. Edgar,” she continued, softening, “you -have the ways of a rich man. You never think of the difficulties. Oh! -Charles, is that you? I’m glad to see you looking so well; and how are -things going in the East country? and how is your sister Marg’ret, and -little Bell? If my young folk had known you were here, they would have -wanted you away with them in the boat. But I must go ben and see my -mother before all the folk come in. I suppose you are going to look -over the farm, and the beasts, with the rest.” - -The young doctor--upon whom as a man of his own age, and one more like -the people he had been accustomed to than those he now found around him, -Edgar had looked, with more interest than any of his other relations had -called from him--came up to him now with a face overcast with care. - -“May I speak to you about this painful subject,” he said, “before the -others come in?” - -“Why a painful subject?” asked Edgar, with a smile, which was half -tremulous with feeling, and half indignant, too proud for sympathy. - -“It may not be so to you,” said the young man. “She brought us up, every -one of my family; but what can I do? I have a brother in Australia, too -far off to help, and another a clerk in London. As for me, I have the -charge of my eldest sister, who is a widow with a child. You don’t know -what a hard fight it is for a young medical man struggling to make his -way.” - -“No, not yet,” said Edgar, with a smile. - -“Not yet? How can you know? If I were to take my grandmother home with -me, which I would do gladly, she would be far from everything that she -knows and cares for--in a new place, among strangers. Her whole life -would be broken up. And I could not take Jeanie,” the young man added, -with a thrill of still greater pain in his voice. “There would be other -dangers. What can we do? I cannot bear to think that she must leave this -place. But I have so little power to help, and consequently so little -voice in the matter.” - -“I have not very much,” said Edgar; “but yet enough, I think, to decide -this question. And so long as I have a shilling, she shall not be driven -away from her home. On that I have made up my mind.” - -His new cousin looked at him with admiration--then with a sigh: - -“What a thing money is,” he said; “ever so little of it. You can take a -high hand with them, having something; but I, to whom Robert Campbell -and Mr. MacKell have both lent money to set me going--” - -Edgar held out his hand to his companion. - -“When this is settled I shall be in the same position,” he said; “worse, -for you have a profession, and I have none. You must teach me how I can -best work for daily bread.” - -“You are joking,” said the young doctor, with a smile. - -Like the others, he could not believe that Edgar, once so rich, could -ever be entirely poor; and that he should denude himself altogether of -his living for the sake of the old mother, whom they were all quite -ready to help--in reason, was an idea impossible to be comprehended, and -which nobody believed for a moment. He said nothing in reply, and the -two stood together before the door waiting for the other men of the -party, who were looking over “the beasts” and farm implements, and -calculating how much they would bring. - -James Murray, the provision merchant, was the typical Scotchman of -fiction and drama--a dry, yellow man, with keen grey eyes, surrounded by -many puckers, scrubby sandy hair, and a constant regard for his own -interest. The result had been but indifferent, for he was the poorest of -the family, always in difficulties, and making the sparest of livings by -means of tremendous combinations of skill and thought sufficient to have -made the most fabulous fortune--only fortune had never come his way. He -had been poking the cows in the ribs, and inspecting the joints of every -plough and harrow as if his life depended upon them. As he came forward -to join the others, he put down in the note-book which he held in his -hand, the different sums which he supposed they would bring. Altogether, -it was a piece of business which pleased him. If he had ever had any -sentimental feeling towards his old home, that was over many a long year -ago; and that his mother, when she could no longer manage the farm, -should give it up, and be happy and thankful to find a corner at her -daughter’s fireside, was to him the most natural thing in life. The only -thing that disturbed him, was the impossibility of making her seek a -composition with her creditors, and thus saving something “for an -emergency.” - -“James has aye an eye to what may come after,” Mr. Campbell said, with -his peculiar humour, and a laugh which made Edgar long to pitch him into -the loch; “he’s thinking of the succession. Not that I’m opposed to -compounding with the creditors in such a case. She’s well-known for an -honest woman that’s paid her way, and held up her head with the best, -and we all respect her, and many of us would have no objection to make a -bit small sacrifice. I’m one myself, and I can speak. But your mother is -a woman that has always had a great deal of her own way.” - -“More than was good for her,” said James Murray, shaking his head. -“She’s as obstinate as an auld mule when she takes a notion. She’s been -mistress and mair these forty year, and like a women, she’ll hear no -reason. Twelve or fifteen shillings in the pound is a very fine -composition, and touches no man’s credit, besides leaving an old wife -something in her pocket to win respect.” - -“And to leave behind her,” said Campbell, laughing and slapping his -brother-in-law on the back. - -This was at the door of the farm-house, where they lingered a moment -before going in. The loud laugh of the one and testy exclamation of the -other, sounded in through the open windows of the parlour, where the -mistress of the house sat with her daughters; probably the entire -conversation had reached them in the same way. But of that no one took -any thought. This meeting and family consultation was rather “a ploy” -than otherwise to all the party. They liked the outing, the inspection, -the sense of superiority involved. The sons and the daughters were -intent upon making their mother hear reason and putting all nonsense out -of her head. She had been foolish in these last years of her life. She -had brought up Tom’s bairns, for instance, in a ridiculous way. It was -all very well for Robert Campbell’s son, who was able to afford it, to -be sent to College, but what right had Charlie Murray to be made a -gentleman of at the expense of all the rest? To be sure his uncles and -aunts were somewhat proud of him now that the process was completed, and -liked to speak of “my nephew the doctor;” but still it was a thing that -a grandmother, all whose descendants had an equal right to her favours, -had no title to do. - -“My bairns are just as near in blood, and have just as good a right to a -share of what’s going; and when you think how many there are of them, -and the fight we have had to give them all they require,” Mrs. MacKell -said to Mrs. Campbell. - -“Many or few,” said Mrs. Campbell to Mrs. MacKell, “we have all a right -to our share. I’ve yet to learn that being one of ten bairns gives more -claim than being an only child. Johnnie ought to be as much to his -grandmother as any grand-bairn she has--as much as Charlie Murray that -has cost her hundreds. But she never spent a pound note on my Johnnie -all his life.” - -“There have been plenty pound-notes spent on him,” said the younger -sister, “but we need not quarrel, for neither yours nor mine will get -anything from their grandmother now. But I hope the men will stand fast, -and not yield to any fancies. My mother’s always been a good mother to -us, but very injudicious with these children. There’s Jeanie, now, -never taught to do a hand’s turn, but encouraged in all her fancies.” - -“I would like to buy in the china,” said Mrs. Campbell. “Auld china is -very much thought of now-a-days. I hear the Duchess drinks her tea out -of nothing else, and the dafter-like the better. You’ll be surprised -when you see how many odds and ends there are about the house, that -would make a very good show if they were rightly set out.” - -“My mother has some good things too, if all the corners were cleared, -that are of no use to her, but that would come in very well for the -girls,” said Mrs. MacKell; and with these kind and reverential thoughts -they met their mother, who perhaps also--who knows?--had in her day been -covetous of things that would come in for the girls. This was the easy -and cheerful view which the family took of the circumstances altogether. -Not one of them intended to be unkind. They were all quite determined -that she should “want for nothing;” but still it was, on the whole, -rather “a ploy” and pleasant expedition, this family assembly, which had -been convened for the purpose of dethroning its head. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -The Family Martyr. - - -I need not say that the feelings with which the old woman awaited the -decision of her fate were of a very different character. She had lain -awake almost the whole night, thinking over the long life which she had -spent within those walls. She had been married at eighteen, and now she -was seventy. I wonder whether she felt in herself one tithe of the -difference which these words imply. I do not believe she did; except at -special moments we never feel ourselves old; we are, to ourselves, what -we always were, the same creature, inexhaustible, unchangeable, -notwithstanding all vulgar exterior transformation. Poor old Mrs. Murray -at seventy, poor, aged, ruined, upon whom her children were to sit that -day and give forth her sentence of banishment, her verdict of -destitution, never more to call anything her own, to lodge in the house -of another, to eat a stranger’s bread--was to her own knowledge the same -girl, eighteen years old, who had opened bright eyes in that chamber in -those early summer mornings fifty years ago when life was so young. -Fifty years passed before her as she lay with her eyes turned to the -wall. How many joys in them, how many sorrows! how tired she had lain -down, how lightly risen up, how many plans she had pondered there, how -many prayers she had murmured unheard of by any but God, prayers, many -of them never answered, many forgotten even by herself, some, which she -remembered best, granted almost as soon as said. How she had cried and -wept in an agony, for example, for the life of her youngest child, and -how it had been better almost from that hour! The child was her -daughter, Mrs. MacKell, now a virtuous mother of a family; but after all -to her own mother, perhaps it would not now have mattered very much had -that prayer dropped unheard. How many recollections there are to look -back on in seventy years, and how bewildering the effort to remember -whether the dreamer lying there is eighteen, or forty, or seventy! and -she to be judged and sentenced and know her doom to-day. - -She did not shed any tear or make any complaint, but acknowledged to -herself with the wonderful stoicism of the poor that it was natural, -that nothing else was to be looked for. Jean and her husband would be -kind--enough; they would give the worn-out mother food and shelter; they -would not neglect nor treat her cruelly. All complaint was silent in her -heart; but yet the events of this day were no “ploy” to her. She got up -at her usual time, late now in comparison to the busy and active past, -and came down with Jeanie’s help to the parlour, and seated herself in -the arm-chair where she had sat for so many years. There she passed the -morning very silent, spending the time with her own thoughts. She had -told Jeanie what to do, to prepare for the early dinner, which they were -all to eat together. - -“You would be a good bairn,” she had said with a smile, “if you would -take it upon you to do all this, Jeanie, and say nothing to me.” - -Jeanie had sense enough to take her at her word, and thus all the -morning she had been alone, sitting with eyes fixed on Benvohrlan, often -with a strange smile on her face, pondering and thinking. She had her -stocking in her hands, and knitted on and on, weaving in her musing soul -with the thread. When her daughters came in she received them very -kindly with a wistful smile, looking up into their faces, wondering if -the sight of the mother who bore them had any effect upon these women. -Still more wistfully she looked at the men who followed. Many a volume -has been written about the love of parents, the love of mothers, its -enthusiasms of hope and fancy, its adorations of the unworthy, its agony -for the lost; but I do not remember that anyone has ventured to touch -upon a still more terrible view of the subject, the disappointment, for -example, with which such a woman as I have attempted to set before the -reader--a woman full of high aspirations, noble generosities, and -perhaps an unwarrantable personal pride, all intensified by the homely -circumstances of life around her--sometimes looks upon the absolutely -commonplace people whom she has brought into the world. She, too, has -had her dreams about them while they were children and all things seemed -possible--while they were youths with still some grace and freshness of -the morning veiling their unheroic outlines. But a woman of seventy can -cherish no fond delusions about her middle-aged sons and daughters who -are to all intents and purposes as old as she is. What a dismal sense of -failure must come into such a woman’s heart while she looks at them! -Perhaps this is one reason why grandfathers and grandmothers throw -themselves so eagerly into the new generation, by means of which human -nature can always go on deceiving itself. Heavens! what a difference -between the ordinary man or woman at fifty, and that ideal creature -which he, or she, appeared to the mother’s eyes at fifteen! The old -people gaze and gaze to see our old features in us; and who can express -the blank of that disappointment, the cruel mortification of those old -hopes, which never find expression in any words? - -Mrs. Murray, from the household place where she had ruled so long, where -she had brought up upon her very life-blood like the pelican, those same -commonplace people--where she had succoured the poor, and entertained -strangers, and fed from her heart two generations--looked wistfully, -half wonderingly at them as they all entered, and sat down round her, to -decide what was to be done with her. Something of a divine despair, like -that God Himself might have felt when the creation he had pronounced -good, turned to evil--but with a more poignant thrill of human anguish -in the fact of her own utter powerlessness to move to good or to evil -those independent souls which once had seemed all hers, to influence as -she would--swept through her like a sudden storm. But to show any -outward sign of this was impossible. Theirs now was the upper hand; they -were in the height of life, and she was old. “When thou wast young, thou -girdedst thyself, and walkedst whither thou wouldest; but when thou -shalt be old, thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and another shall gird -thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldest not;” she said these words to -herself with a piteous patience and submission; but unheard by any -soul,--unless, indeed, it was by those sympathisers in Heaven, who hear -so much, yet make no sign that we can hear or see. - -They came in quite cheerfully all of them, full of the many and -diversified affairs which, for the moment, they were to make the -sacrifice of laying aside to settle the fate of their mother, and held -over her body, as it were, a pleasant little family palaver. - -“The children have gone down the loch for a pic-nic; they would have -come in to see Granny, but I said you would have no time for them -to-day. The weather is just wonderful for this time of the year, or I -never would have allowed such a thing.” - -“It’s all very well for you town-folk to praise up a good day,” said Mr. -Campbell, “which is no doubt pleasant when it comes to them that have no -interest in the land--but a kind of an insult to us after all the soft -weather that has ruined the corn. What’s the use of one good day except -for your pic-nics and nonsense? nothing but to make the handful of -wheat sprout the faster. And the glass is down again--We’ll have more -rain the morn.” - -“You’ll find it very dry in the East country, Chairles,” said Mrs. -Campbell; “more pleasant for walking, but very stour and troublesome to -keep a house clean, and a great want of water. Your sister Marg’ret was -aye ill to please about the weather; but after a’ that’s come and gone, -I hope she’s no so fanciful now?” - -“You’ll be setting up a gig soon?” said James Murray, “or, perhaps, -you’ve done it already? It’s expensive, but it’s a kind of necessity for -a doctor.” - -“Indeed I cannot see that; a strong young man like Charles that’s well -able to walk! but some folk are always taking care of themselves,” said -Mrs. MacKell. “In Glasgow, the richest men in the place think nothing of -a walk, wet or dry--and my bairns, I assure you, are never spoiled with -such luxuries.” - -“A gig to a doctor is like a spade to a labouring man,” said Robert -Campbell, sententiously; “that’s an expense that I approve. Keep you up -appearances, Charles--that’s as long as you can do it out of your own -pocket,” he said with a laugh, thrusting his hand deep into his own. - -“I know where you could lay your hand on a very decent machine, cheaper, -I answer for’t, than anything you’ll get in the East country,” said -James. - -“And I am sure you have plenty of old harness that could be cleaned up, -Robert,” said Mrs. Campbell, “if it’s thought necessary. To be sure, if -he was sent for in a hurry to some country place, perhaps, or the other -side of the town--” - -“Thank you all,” said the young doctor, “but I have a--conveyance. I -could not do without it. I took it from my predecessor, along with the -house and the goodwill.” - -“Did you hear what he said?” said Mrs. MacKell, aside, to Mrs. Campbell, -“a conveyance, not a gig, as we were all saying. Depend upon it, it’s -some grand landau, or something, where Marg’ret can lie and take her -ease. To think how my mother spoiled these bairns!” - -Mrs. Murray took no part in all their talk. She sat with her old eyes -sadly turned upon them, eyes that were clear with the pallid liquid -light of a sky just cleared from rain. I think the only one who was at -all interested in the old woman, beyond the matter-of-fact interest -which belonged to her as the cause of the meeting, was Edgar, who had -seated himself close to her, and who now laid his hand, in a silent -sympathy which nobody else felt, upon the hand with which she held the -arm of her chair. Her hand was grey-white, the colour of old age, with -all the veins visible on the wrinkled surface. When he put his young -warm hand upon it, it felt almost as cold as death. - -“Don’t you think,” he said, with some abruptness, “that my grandmother’s -concerns ought to be settled before we talk of anything else?” - -They had all, as I have said, a respect for Edgar, and his voice had an -immediate effect. - -“That’s true,” said Mr. Campbell, “it would be better to settle -everything before dinner;” and with this comfortable levity they all -gathered more closely round the table. The drawing in of chairs and the -little noise of coughing and clearing throats which heralded the -commencement of a new subject, occupied the first minute; then James -Murray edged slightly away from the table the chair which he had drawn -close to it, and prepared to speak. But before he had opened his lips an -unforeseen interruption arose; Mrs. Murray herself took the initiative, -a thing entirely unexpected by her children, who had felt, with a sense -of security, that they had her fairly in hand. - -“Bairns,” she said slowly, and at first in a low tone, while they all -turned upon her with surprise, “bairns, I am leaving you to settle -everything. I am old; I would fain have gone to them that’s passed -before me, but the Lord hasna been of my mind. Things have gone badly -with the farm, partly by His providence, partly by my fault--you know -that as well as I do. In my time, I’ve commanded you and done what I -thought best. Now the power has gone out of my hands; settle as ye will, -and I’ll no complain, so long as every man has his ain, and no debt is -left, nor any person to rise up against me and call me an unjust dealer. -I’ve done my best for you while it was in my power. Now, do your best, -I’ll no complain. Beggars should not be choosers. It’s all in your -hands.” - -“Mother, you shouldna speak like that! as if you doubted that we could -think of anything but your good,” cried both her daughters in a breath; -“and as for beggars--not one of us would use such a word.” - -“It’s what I am,” said the old woman firmly. “And there’s but one word I -have to say. You ken all of you what I would like best; that’s all I’ll -say; every one of you kens what I would like best. But, failing that, -I’ll do whatever’s settled on. I’ll no complain.” - -“What you would like, we all know very well,” said James Murray, -hastily; “but it’s impossible, mother, impossible. You canna afford the -farm, you canna afford to keep up a house, doing nothing for it, or to -keep up a family. There’s _you_, and we’ll do our best.” - -She made a little gesture with her hands, and relapsed into the -stillness which she had not broken when they talked of other affairs. -The discrowned monarch sat still to let whoever would take her sceptre -from her. She took up the stocking she had laid in her lap, and began -knitting again, looking at them with eyes out of which the wistfulness -had faded. An almost stern submission had replaced the wondering anxious -look with which she had looked round to see if anyone would understand -her, if any would deal with her as she had dealt by them. - -“For you see,” continued James Murray, doggedly, “mother, we are none of -us rich, to be guided by your fancies. If we were great ones of this -earth, and you the auld Duchess, say, for example’s sake, you might have -your will, whatever it cost. But we’re all poor folk--or comparatively -poor folk. We may give you a welcome to our houses, such as they are, -and a share of what we have; but as for siller we have not got it, and -we cannot give you what we have not got to give.” - -“That’s just about the real state of the case,” said Robert Campbell. -“There are many things more rife among us than siller. We’ve all sense -enough to see what’s for our advantage, and we’re all industrious folk, -doing our best; but siller is not rife. As for us, Jean and me have long -made up our minds what to do. It’s our duty, or at least it’s her duty, -as the eldest of the daughters; and your mother was always a kind -guid-mother to me, and never interfered or made mischief; so I would -never oppose Jean’s righteous desire. We’ll take the old leddy in. She -shall have a room to herself, and nothing to do, one way or other, more -than she pleases. If she likes to do any small turn in the house, in the -way of helping, well and good; but nothing will be asked from her. And -anything that the rest of you think that you could spare--I’m not a man -to haggle about my good-mother’s board. She shall have her share of all -that’s going the same as one of ourselves; but if any of you have -anything to spare----” - -“Would it not be more satisfactory to us all, and more agreeable to my -grandmother,” said Edgar, suddenly, “if, without charging Mr. Campbell -above the rest, we were to make up a little income for her, to enable -her to keep her own house?” - -This suggestion fell like a sudden cannon-ball into the group. There was -a universal movement. - -“Well, well, I’m no forcing myself on anybody. Try what you can do,” -cried Campbell, offended, pushing his chair from the table. - -“It’s just all stuff and nonsense!” cried his wife, reddening with -anger. - -The other two elder people regarded Edgar with a mixture of disapproval -and dismay. And the young doctor, the only one of the party who showed -some sympathy for him, grew very red, and hesitated and cleared his -throat as if to speak--but said nothing. After a moment’s pause, James -Murray turned upon the inconsiderate speaker with a certain solemnity. - -“Who are you, young man,” he said, “that you should put in your word and -do what you can to unsettle a well-considered family arrangement? You -heard me say not ten minutes since that just the thing we were wanting -in was money. We’re no in a position to make up incomes either for auld -wives or young lads. We’re all ready to acknowledge our duty to my -mother, and to pay it in kind according to our ability. If she tires of -Jean, she may come to me; none of us would shut our houses against her; -but as for an income, and to leave her free to make her house a refuge -for the destitute, as she has aye done, more’s the pity--” - -“Mother,” cried Mrs. MacKell, suddenly, “what for are you looking so at -me? Do you think I wouldna rather, far rather, see you in your own -house? But I’m no an independent woman as you’ve been a’ your days. I’m -a man’s wife that has plenty to do with his siller. I brought him not a -sixpence, as ye well know, but a large expensive family, that wants a -great deal mair than ever _we_ got, as I often tell them. And what can I -do? I went to my man without a penny, and how can I ask him to spend his -siller on my folk? Mother,” and here Mrs. MacKell burst into hasty -sudden crying, half-vexation, half-shame, “it’s awfu’ unkind, when you -ken how I am situate, to give such looks at me!” - -“I gave you no looks, Agnes,” said the old woman. “Oh, Sirs, hold all -your tongues. I’m the mother that bore you, and never counted the cost -for aught that was in my power to get for you. But I will have no strife -of tongues over me. Ye shall not quarrel what you’re to give, or how -little you’re to give. I canna bear it. Edgar, my bonnie man, you mean -well, but every word is another stab. Robert Campbell, I take your offer -kindly. I’ll no be much trouble. I canna promise that I’ll no last long, -for _that’s_ in the Lord’s hand, and waes me, I canna cut it short, no -by an hour. But it’s little I want, and I’ll give little trouble--” - -She paused, with a piteous smile upon her face, gulping down something -which rose in her throat. With this smile she made her abdication, -looking round upon them with an anguish of submission and endurance so -curiously compounded of a hundred different ingredients of pain, each -giving sharpness and poignancy to the others, that to describe them all -exceeds my power. - -“We’ll go ben and get our dinner,” she added hurriedly; “we’ll say no -more about it. I take it a’ for granted, and the rest you can settle -among yourselves.” - -“But I cannot take it for granted,” said Edgar. “Stop a little. I will -not give any stabs, my old mother. Look here, my aunts and uncles.” He -said this with a momentary hesitation, with the half-smile which they -resented; but still they listened, having a respect for him and his -independence. “I am not like you,” said Edgar, still with that -half-smile. “The only thing I have is money, a little, not worth -speaking of, but still it is mine to do what I like with it. Is it not -true that there is some talk of building a new farmhouse for the new -farmer, as this one is old and in want of repair? I think I heard you -say so the other day.” - -“It’s true enough--what’s about it?” said Campbell, shortly. - -“Then my grandmother shall stay here,” said Edgar, decisively; “she -shall not be turned out of her home, either by her creditors, or--by her -sons and daughters. I have nobody to stop me, neither wife, nor sister, -nor child, nor duty. Thank heaven, I have enough left for that! If you -will take the trouble to settle all about it, Mr. Campbell, I shall be -grateful; it is all we will ask you for, not your hospitality, only a -little trouble. I don’t suppose the Duke will make any difficulties, nor -the young farmer whom I saw yesterday. Thank you for your kind -intentions. My grandmother will not be able to set up a refuge for the -destitute, but no doubt she will serve you all when you require her -services, as she has been used to do all her life,” said Edgar, with -some excitement. “Mother, not a word; it is all done, past my power of -changing as well as yours.” - -They all sat and looked at him with momentary stupefaction, staring, -turning to give questioning looks at each other. Was the young man mad? -When Edgar ended by pushing some papers across the table to Campbell, -they all drew close to look, James Murray taking out eagerly, and -putting on with hands that trembled, a large pair of clumsy spectacles. -All the four heads of the elder people clustered about these documents; -they read the papers each over the other’s shoulder. - -“It’s all in order--all in order. Young idiot! he’s bound himself as -long as she lives,” Campbell muttered in an undertone. “Why the deevil -didn’t ye let us know your intentions and save us a’ this trouble?” he -exclaimed aloud, putting away the women from behind him with a gesture, -and turning with well-put-on indignation to the young man, whose -excitement had not yet calmed down. - -“Saftly, saftly,” said James Murray, “we must not let ourselves be -carried away by our feelings. I approve the lad; it’s just what I would -have done myself had I been without the burden of a family, and plenty -of siller to come and go upon. I’ll shake hands with you, Edgar, my lad; -it’s well done and well thought! Robert, here, may have a little feeling -on the subject, as being the one that offered his house; but for my -part, I’ve no hesitation in saying it’s well done, Edgar--well -done--just what, in your circumstances, I would have done myself!” - -“By George! you’re a clever fellow, Jamie Murray!” cried Campbell, with -a loud laugh. - -The two women did not say anything; they looked at each other, and Mrs. -MacKell, who was the most soft-hearted, began to cry. - -“It’s what we would all have liked to have done,” she said feebly, after -an interval. - -Her sister turned round sharply and scolded Jeanie, who had been sitting -behind backs looking on, and who now looked up at Edgar with a face so -radiant that it struck her aunt with sharp offence--more sharp than the -real offence of the stranger’s superior generosity, of which it was a -reflection. - -“What are you doing there,” she said, “you little idle cutty? Did not -Granny tell you to see after the dinner? It may be good for her, but -it’s ruination to you, if you had the sense to see it. Dinna let me see -you sit there, smil--smiling at a young lad! I wonder you dinna think -shame! It’s all my mother’s fault,” she added bitterly, placing herself -in the chair by the window, which Jeanie, in dismay and tears, hastily -evacuated; “_we_ were kept to our work and kept in order, in our day; -but she’s spoiled every creature that’s come near her since. I’m glad -I’ve nae girls mysel that she can ruin as she’s ruined Jeanie!” - -“Poor thing, she has nae mother to keep her right,” said the softer -sister. - -I think, for my part, that the sharp offence and bitterness of the -women at the sudden turn that things had taken, showed a higher moral -sense than the eager satisfaction with which, after the first moment, -the men received it. Murray and Campbell both felt the immediate relief, -as far as they themselves were concerned. The women felt first the shame -and stigma of not having attempted to do for their mother what this -stranger was so ready to do. The result was much less pleasant and less -amiable to witness, but it showed, I think, a higher feeling of right -and wrong. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -A Party in a Parlour. - - -The dinner which followed was not, the first part of it at least, a very -comfortable meal. Mrs. Murray herself was profoundly shaken by the -conference altogether. She was unable to say anything to her grandson -except the almost wild “No, lad; no, Edgar, my bonnie man!” with which -she had endeavoured to stop him at first. After this she had not uttered -a word. She had taken his hand between her old and worn hands, and -raised her face as if to God--praying for blessings on him? No--I do not -think her mind was capable of such an effort--she was looking up to the -Divine Friend who had been her refuge in everything these seventy years, -in a strange rapture of surprise and joy. How much part the sudden -change in her circumstances had to do with the joy, I cannot tell--very -little I think, infinitesimally little. “I have one son, one true son, -after all; heart of my heart, and soul of my soul!” This was the -predominating thought in her mind, the half-ecstatic feeling which -flooded her old being like sudden sunshine. Amid all the griefs and -disappointments to which such a soul is liable, there remains to one now -and then the tender and generous delight of seeing others do by her as -she would have done by them. How sweet it is; before all delight in -gifts, or even in affection! We think of the golden rule more often in -the way of a command, employing it to touch our own souls to languid -duty; but there are occasions when it is given back to us, so to speak, -in the way of recompense, vivified and quickened into rapture. This old -woman had practised it as she could all her life, and others had not -done to her as she had done to them; but here, at the end of her -existence, came one--her reward, one heir of her nature, one issue of -her soul. Thus she had her glimpse of heaven in the very moment -of her lowest humiliation. She had done little personally for -him--little--nothing--except to harm him; but she had done much for -others, sacrificing herself that they might live, and the stranger, in -whose training she had had no hand, who had with her no link of union -but the mystic tie of blood, gave back to her full measure, heaped up, -and running over. I must leave to the imagination of the reader the keen -satisfaction and joy, sharp and poignant almost as pain, with which this -aged soul, worn out and weary, received full in her heart, all at once, -as by a shot or thunderbolt, the unthought of, unhoped-for recompense. - -The men, as I have said, were the first to reconcile themselves to the -sudden revolution. If any thrill of shame came over them, it was -instantly quenched, and ceased to influence the hardened mail, beaten by -much vicissitude of weather, which covered them. The women were -thinner-skinned, so to speak, more easily touched in their pride, and -were sensible of the irony with which, half-consciously to himself, -Edgar had spoken. But, perhaps, the person most painfully affected of -all was the young doctor, who had listened to Edgar with a painful flush -on his face, and with a pang of jealous pain and shame, not easy to -bear. He went up to the old lady as soon as the discussion was over, and -sat down close by her, and held a long conversation in an undertone. - -“Grandmother,” he said, the flush returning and covering his face with -painful heat, “you do not think me ungrateful or slow to interfere? You -know it is not want of will, but want of means. You know--” - -“Charlie, was I asking anything, that you speak so to me? I know you -could not interfere. You are in their debt still, poor lad?” - -“Yes, I am in their debt still. I don’t know how to get out of it; it -grinds me to the ground!” cried the young man. “But what can I do?” - -Mrs. Murray patted his hand softly with her old worn fingers; but she -was silent, with that silence which the weak nature, eager for -approbation, but unable to make a bold effort after good, feels so -profoundly. - -“You don’t say anything,” said Dr. Charles, with a mixture of petulance. -“You think I might have done more?” - -“No, Charlie, no,” said the old woman; “as you say not. I would be glad -to see you free of this bondage; but you must know best yourself.” - -“There is so much to do,” said the young doctor. “I must get a position. -I must make an appearance like others in my profession. So many things -are necessary that you never think of here in a country place; and you -know Margaret has no health to speak of. There is so much expense in -every way.” - -“She was always handless,” said Mrs. Murray. “She should come to me with -little Bell, and let you take your chance. Living costs but little here, -and what is enough for one is enough for two,” said the old woman, with -her perennial and instinctive liberality of heart. - -“Enough for one! Jeanie is going to leave you then, as the Campbells -told me,” said the young man hastily. “He is to marry her as they said?” - -“I ken nothing about marrying or giving in marriage,” said the -grandmother, with some severity of tone. “If that is still in your mind, -Charlie--” - -“It is not in my mind--it was never in my mind,” he said with an -eagerness which was almost passionate. “She has a lovely face, but she -never was or could be a fit wife for a man in my position. There never -was anything in that.” - -“Charlie, my man, you think too much of your position,” said the old -woman, shaking her head; “and if there was nothing in it, why should you -gloom and bend your brows at the _thought_ that Edgar might care for the -bonnie face as well as you? He does not, more’s the pity.” - -“And why should you say more’s the pity? Do you want to be rid of -Jeanie? Do you want to be left alone?” - -“I’m but a bruised reed for anyone to trust to,” she said. “Soon, soon -I’ll have passed away, and the place that now knows me will know me no -more. I would be glad to see my poor bairn in somebody’s hand that would -last longer than me.” - -A momentary flush of strong feeling passed over the young man’s face. - -“Grandmother,” he said, “you were too good to me. If I had been bred a -farmer like yourself--” - -“You would have made but a weirdless farmer, Charlie, my man. It’s not -the trade that does it,” said Mrs. Murray, with some sadness. “But -Marg’ret had better come to me. She may hinder you, but she’ll no help -you. The bairns are maybe right; I was injudicious, Charlie, and grieved -for you that were all delicate things without a mother. I should have -known better. You are little able to fend for yourselves in this world, -either Marg’ret or you.” - -“I don’t know why you should say so, grandmother. I am making my way in -my profession,” said Dr. Charles, not without offence, “and Margaret is -very greatly thought of, and asked to the best houses. If you have -nothing more to blame yourself with than you have in our case--” - -Mrs. Murray sighed, but she made no answer. It was not for nothing that -her daughters had reproached her. Charles Murray and his sister Margaret -had been the two youngest of the flock, her eldest son Tom’s children, -whom the brave old woman had taken into her house, and brought up with -the labour of her own hands. The others were scattered about the world, -fighting their way in all regions; but Charlie and Margaret had been as -apples of her eye. She had done everything for them, bringing up the son -to a learned profession, and “making a lady of” the gentle and pretty -girl, who was of a stock less robust than the other Murrays. And as Mrs. -Murray had no patent of exemption from the failures that follow -sometimes the best efforts, she had not succeeded in this case. Charles -Murray, without being absolutely unsuccessful, had fulfilled none of the -high hopes entertained concerning him; and Margaret had made a foolish -marriage, and had been left in a few years a penniless widow dependent -upon her brother. No one knew exactly what the two were doing now. They -were “genteel” and “weirdless,” living, it was feared, above their -means, and making no attempt to pay back the money which had been lent -by their wealthier friends to set the young doctor afloat. - -This was why the children she had trained so carefully could give their -old mother no help. Margaret had cried bitterly when she heard that the -old home was about to be broken up, and Charles’s heart was torn with a -poignant sense of inability to help. But the tears and the pain would -have done Mrs. Murray little good, and they were not of any profound -importance to the brother and sister, both of whom were capable of some -new piece of extravagance next day by way of consoling themselves. But -though Mrs. Murray was not aware of it, the sharp shock of Edgar’s -unlooked-for munificence towards her, and the jealousy and shame with -which Dr. Charles witnessed it, was the most salutary accident that had -happened to him all his life. The contrast of his own conduct, he who -was so deeply indebted to her, and that of his unknown cousin, gave such -a violent concussion to all his nerves as the young man had never felt -before; and whatever might be the after result of this shock, its -present issue was not agreeable. A sullen shadow came over him at the -homely dinner to which they all sat down with such changed feelings. He -had been the only one to whom Edgar had turned instinctively for -sympathy, and Edgar was the first to feel this change. James Murray and -Robert Campbell were the only two who kept up the languid conversation, -and their talk, we need not add, was not of a very elevated kind. - -“The mutton’s good, mother,” said James; “you’ve aye good mutton at Loch -Arroch; not like the stuff that’s vended to us at I canna tell how much -the pound. That’s a great advantage you have in the country. Your own -mutton, or next thing to it; your own fowls and eggs, and all that. You -should go on keeping poultry; you were a very good henwife in the old -days, when we were all young; and there’s nothing that sells better than -new-laid eggs and spring chickens. Though you give up the farm, I would -advise you to keep them on still.” - -“And I would not wonder but you might have grass enough for a cow,” said -Campbell. “A cow’s a great thing in a house. There’s aye the milk -whatever happens, and a pickle butter is never lost. It sells at as much -as eighteen pence a pound on the other side of the loch, when those -Glasgow people are down for the saut water. Asking your pardon, Agnes, I -was not meaning the like of you; there are plenty Glasgow people that -are very decent folk, but it cannot be denied that they make everything -very dear.” - -“And what is that but an advantage to everybody as long as we can pay, -aye, the double if we like?” cried Mrs. MacKell, forgetting her previous -plea of comparative poverty. “We like everything of the best, I don’t -deny it; and who has a better right, seeing our men work hard for every -penny they make?” - -“For that matter so do the colliers and that kind of cattle, that -consume all they earn in eating and drinking,” said Campbell. “I like a -good dinner myself; but the way you Glasgow folk give yourselves up to -it, beats me. That’s little to the purpose, however, in the present -case. James’s advice is very good advice, and so you’ll find is mine. I -would not object to being at the expense of buying in that bonnie brown -cow, the one you fancied, Jean--women are aye fanciful in these -matters--if there will be anybody about the house that could supper and -milk a cow?” - -He looked doubtfully at Jeanie as he spoke, and they all looked at her, -some suspiciously, some contemptuously. They all seemed to Jeanie to -reproach her that she was not a strong, robust “lass” ready to help her -grandmother. - -“I can milk Brounie; she’s so gentle,” said Jeanie, half under her -breath, looking wistfully at her critics. James Murray uttered a -suppressed “humph!” - -“A bonnie young woman for a farm-house!” he said, “that can milk a cow -when it’s gentle. I hope you’ll save the lad’s siller as much as -possible, mother; no running into your old ways, taking folk into your -bosom, or entertaining strangers on the smallest provocation, as you -used to do.” - -“I hope my grandmother will do precisely as she likes--in the way that -pleases her best,” said Edgar with emphasis. - -“I am saying,” said Campbell with emphasis, “a cow; and the cocks and -hens, according to James. An honest penny is aye a good thing, however -it’s got. If young Glen gets the farm, as is likely, he’ll be wanting a -lodging till the new house is built. I would take the lad in and give -him accommodation, if it was me. In short, there’s a variety of things -that would be little trouble, and would show a desire to make the best -of what’s given you; and any assistance that I can be of, or Jean--” - -“Oh my mother’s above my help or yours either,” said Mrs. Campbell, with -some bitterness. “You need not push yourself in, Rob, when neither you -nor me are wanted.” - -Mrs. Murray listened to all this with grave patience and forbearance. -She smiled faintly at her daughter’s petulance, and shook her head. -“Bairns,” she said, gently, “I guided my own concerns before you were -born.” It was the only reproof she attempted to administer, and it was -followed by a pause, during which the sound of knives and forks was very -audible, each individual of the party plying his as for a wager, in the -sudden stillness which each affronted person thought it doubly incumbent -on him and her to keep up. Mrs. Murray looked round upon them all with a -smile, which gradually softened into suppressed but genial humour. “I -hope you are all making a good dinner,” she said. - -The afternoon after this passed as a Sunday afternoon often passes in a -family gathering. They all stood a little on their defence, but, with a -keen appreciation of the fact, that the mother, whom they all intended -to advise and lecture, had certainly got the upper hand, and had been on -the verge of laughing at them, if she had not actually done so, were -prudent, and committed themselves no further. They all went out after -dinner to see the site where the new farm-house was to be built, and to -speculate on the way in which young Glen would manage the farm, and -whether he would succeed better than its previous occupant. The women of -the party visited “the beasts,” as the men had done before dinner, and -the men strolled out to the fields, and weighed in their hands the damp -ears of corn, and shook their heads over the length of the straw, and -pointed out to each other how badly the fields were arranged, and how -the crops had been repeated year after year. “It’s time it was all in -other hands,” they said to each other. As for Dr. Charles, he avoided -the other members of the party--the uncles who might ask for the money -they had lent him, and the aunts who might inquire with an undue -closeness of criticism into his proceedings and those of his sister. He -sat and talked with his grandmother in the parlour, answering her -questions, and making conversation with her in a way which was somewhat -formal. In short, it was very like a Sunday afternoon--and the sense of -being in their best clothes, and having nothing to do, and being, as it -were, bound over to keep the peace, was very wearisome to all these good -people. The little excitement of pulling to pieces, so to speak, the -house which had sheltered and reared them, was over, and thus a certain -flat of disappointment and everyday monotony mingled with the sense of -something unusual which was in their meeting. Their purpose was foiled -altogether, and the business _manqué_, yet they could not but profess -pleasure in the unexpected turn that things had taken. It was very like -a Sunday afternoon. - -And it is impossible to tell what a relief it was to all, when the big -fishing-boat came heavily round the corner with the picnic party, and -Jeanie, in her plain brown frock, ran down to the landing to bid her -cousins come into tea. There were some six or seven in the boat, -slightly damp and limp, but in high spirits; three of whom were girls, -much more gaily dressed than Jeanie, yet with a certain general -resemblance to her. They all rushed fluttering in their gay ribbons up -to the farm-house, glad of the novelty, and threw themselves upon -“Granny,” whom they admired without the criticism in which their mother -indulged less than her brothers and sisters. They did not take much -notice of Jeanie, but Dr. Charles was full of interest for them, and the -unknown Edgar, who was still more emphatically “a gentleman,” excited -their intensest curiosity. “Where is he? which is him?” they whispered -to each other; and when Bell, the youngest, exclaimed with -disappointment, that he was just like Charlie Murray, and nothing -particular after all, her two elder sisters snubbed her at once. “If you -cannot see the difference you should hold your tongue,” said Jeanie -MacKell, who called herself Jane, and had been to a school in England, -crowning glory of a Scotch girl on her promotion. “Not but what Charles -is very nice-looking, and quite a gentleman,” said Margaret, more -meekly, who was the second daughter. The presence of these girls, and of -the young men in attendance upon them, to wit Andrew, their brother, and -two friends of his own class, young men for whom natural good looks did -not do so much as for the young women, and who were, perhaps, better -educated, without being half so presentable--made the tea-table much -merrier and less embarrassed than the dinner had been. The MacKells -ended by being all enthralled by Edgar, whose better manners told upon -them, (as a higher tone always tells upon women,) whose superiority to -their former attendants was clear as daylight, and who was not stiff -and afraid to commit himself like Charles Murray; “quite a gentleman,” -though they all held the latter to be. As for Edgar himself, he was so -heartily thankful for the relief afforded by this in-road of fresh -guests, that he was willing to think the very best of his cousins, and -to give them credit--that is the female part of them--for being the best -of the family he had yet seen. He walked with them to their boat, and -put them in, when sunset warned them to cross the loch without delay, -and laughingly excused himself from accepting their eager invitations, -only on the ground that “business” demanded his departure on the next -day. Mrs. MacKell took him aside before she embarked, and shook his hand -with tears gathering in her eyes. - -“I could not say anything before them all,” she said, with an emotion -which was partly real; “but I’ll never forget what you’ve done for my -mother--and oh, what a comfort it is to me to think I leave her in her -ain old house! God bless you for it!” - -“Good-bye,” said Edgar, cheerily, and he stood on the banks and watched -the boat with a smile. True feeling enough, perhaps, and yet how oddly -mingled! He laughed to himself as he went back to the house with an -uneasy, mingling of pain and shame. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -Gentility. - - -Charles Murray did not return to the Campbells’ house for the night as -he had originally intended. The relatives were all out of sorts with -each other, and inclined to quarrel among themselves in consequence of -the universal discomfiture which had come upon them, not from each -others’ hands, but from the stranger in their midst. And as it was quite -possible that Campbell, being sore and irritable, might avenge himself -by certain inquiries into Dr. Charles’s affairs, the young man thought -it wiser on the whole to keep out of his way. And the grandmother’s -house was common property. Although only a few hours before they had all -made up their minds that it was to be no longer hers, and that she -thenceforward was to be their dependent, the moment that she became -again certain of being mistress in her own house, that very moment all -her family returned to their ancient conviction that they had a right to -its shelter and succour under all and every kind of circumstances. - -James Murray went away arranging in his own mind that he would send his -youngest daughter “across” before the winter came on, “to get her -strength up.” “One bairn makes little difference in the way of meals, -and she can bring some tea and sugar in a present,” he said to himself; -while Dr. Charles evidenced still more instantaneously the family -opinion by saying at once that he should stay where he was till -to-morrow. - -“It seems much more natural to be here than in any other house,” he said -caressingly to his grandmother. - -She smiled, but she made no reply. Even, she liked it, for the position -of a superior dispensing favours had been natural to her all her life, -and the power to retain this position was not one of the least -advantages that Edgar’s liberality gave her. But even while she liked -it, she saw through the much less noble sentiment of her descendants, -and a passing pang mingled with her pleasure. She said nothing to Dr. -Charles; but when Edgar gave her his arm for the brief evening walk -which she took before going to rest, she made to him a curious apology -for the rest. Charles was standing on the loch-side looking out, -half-jealous that it was Edgar who naturally took charge of the old -mother, and half glad to escape out of Edgar’s way. - -“We mustna judge them by ourselves,” she said, in a deprecating tone. -“Charlie was aye a weak lad, meaning no harm--and used to depend upon -somebody. Edgar, they are _not_ to be judged like you and me.” - -“No,” said Edgar, with a smile; then rapidly passing from the subject -which he could not enter on. “Does he want to marry Jeanie?” he asked. - -“That I canna tell--that I do not know. He cannot keep his eyes off her -bonnie face; but, Edgar, the poor lad has strange fancies. He has taken -it into his head to be genteel--and Marg’ret, poor thing, is genteel.” - -“What has that to do with it?” said Edgar, laughing. - -“We are not genteel, Jeanie and me,” said the old woman, with a gleam of -humour. “But, Edgar, my man, still you must not judge Charlie. You are a -gentleman, that nobody could have any doubt of; but the danger of being -a poor man’s son, and brought up to be a gentleman, is that you’re never -sure of yourself. You are always in a fear to know if you are behaving -right--if you are doing something you ought not to do.” - -“Then, perhaps,” said Edgar, “my cousin would have been happier if he -had not been brought up, as you say, to be a gentleman.” - -“What could I make him? Farming’s but a poor trade for them that have -little capital and little energy. Maybe you will say a Minister? but -it’s a responsibility bringing up a young man to be a Minister, when -maybe he will have no turn that way but just seek a priest’s office for -a piece of bread. A good doctor serves both God and man; and Charlie is -not an ill doctor,” she added, hurriedly. “His very weakness gives him a -soft manner, and as he’s aye on the outlook whether he’s pleasing you or -not, it makes him quick to notice folk’s feelings in general. Sick men, -and still more sick women, like that.” - -“You are a philosopher, grandmother,” said Edgar. - -“Na, na, not that,” said the old woman; “but at seventy you must ken -something of your fellow-creature’s ways, or you must be a poor creature -indeed.” - -Meanwhile Charles Murray had gone back to the house, and was talking to -Jeanie, who for some reason which she did not herself quite divine, had -been shy of venturing out this special evening with the others. Perhaps -the young doctor thought she was waiting for him. At all events it was a -relief to go and talk to one in whom no criticism could be. - -“You feel quite strong and well again, Jeanie?” he said. - -“Oh yes, quite strong and well--quite better,” she said, looking up at -him with that soft smile of subjection and dependence which most people -to whom it is addressed find so sweet. - -“You should not say quite better,” he said, smiling too, though the -phrase would by times steal even from his own educated lips. “I wonder -sometimes, Jeanie, after passing some months in England as you did, that -you should still continue so Scotch. I like it, of course--in a way.” - -Here Jeanie, whose face had overcast, brightened again and smiled--a -smile which this time, however, did not arrest him in his critical -career. - -“I like it, in a way,” said Charles, doubtfully. “Here on Loch Arroch -side it is very sweet, and appropriate to the place; but if you were -going out--into the world, Jeanie.” - -“No fear of that,” said Jeanie, with a soft laugh. - -“On the contrary, there is much fear of it--or much hope of it, I -should say. There are many men who would give all they have in the world -for a smile from your sweet face. I mean,” said the young man, -withdrawing half a step backward, and toning himself down from this -extravagance, “I mean that there is no doubt you could marry -advantageously--if you liked to exert yourself.” - -“You should not speak like that to me,” cried Jeanie, with a sudden hot -flush; “there is nothing of the kind in my head.” - -“Say your mind, not your head, Jeanie; and like the dear good girl you -are, say head, not _heed_,” said Dr. Charles with a curious mixture of -annoyance and admiration; and then he added, drawing closer. “Jeanie, do -you not think you would like to go to school?” - -“To school? I am not a little bairn,” said Jeanie with some indignation, -“I have had my schooling, all that Granny thought I wanted. Besides,” -she continued proudly, “I must look after Granny now.” - -“She has asked Margaret to come to her,” said the young man, “and don’t -you think, Jeanie, if you could be sent to a school for a time--not to -learn much you know, not for lessons or anything of that kind; but to -get more used to the world, and to what you would have to encounter if -you went into the world--and perhaps to get a few accomplishments, a -little French, or the piano, or something like that?” - -“What would I do, learning French and the piano?” said Jeanie; her -countenance had over-clouded during the first part of his speech, but -gradually gave way to wonder and amusement as he went on. “Are you -thinking of Jeanie MacKell who can play tunes, and speak such fine -English? Granny would not like that, and neither would I.” - -“But Granny is not the only person in the world,” he said, “there are -others who would like it. Men like it, Jeanie; they like to see their -wife take her place with anyone, and you cannot always be with -Granny--you will marry some day.” - -Jeanie’s fair soft countenance glowed like the setting sun, a bright and -tender consciousness lit up her features; her blue eyes shone. Dr. -Charles, who had his back to the loch, as he stood at the farm-house -door, did not perceive that Edgar had come into sight with Mrs. Murray -leaning on his arm. - -“May-be all that may be true,” said Jeanie, “I cannot tell; but in the -meantime I cannot leave Granny, for Granny has nobody but me.” - -“She has asked my sister Margaret, as I told you--” - -“Margaret instead of me!” said Jeanie, with a slight tone of wonder. - -“It is strange how disagreeable you all are to my sister,” said Dr. -Charles with some impatience. “It need not be instead of you; but Granny -has asked Margaret, and she and the little one will come perhaps before -winter sets in--the change would do them good. I should be left alone -then,” he said, softening, “and if Margaret stays with Granny, I should -be left always alone. Jeanie, if you would but get a little education -and polish, and make yourself more like what a man wishes his wife to -be--” - -Jeanie was looking behind him all the time with a vague dreamy smile -upon her face. “If that is a’ he wants!” she said dreamily to herself. -She was thinking not of the man before her, whose heart, such as it was, -was full of her image; but of the other man approaching, who did not -think of Jeanie except as a gentle and affectionate child. If that was -a’ he wanted! though even in her imaginative readiness to find -everything sublime that Edgar did, there passed through Jeanie’s mind a -vague pang to think that he would pay more regard to French and the -piano, than to her tender enthusiast passion, the innocent adoration of -her youth. - -“If you would do that, Jeanie--to please me!” said the unconscious young -Doctor, taking her hand. - -“Here is Granny coming,” said Jeanie hastily, “and--Mr. Edgar. Go ben -the house, please, and never mind me. I have to see that the rooms are -right and all ready. Are you tired, Granny? You have had a sore day. Mr. -Edgar, say good night to her now, she ought to go to her bed.” - -Thus Dr. Charles was thrust aside at the moment when he was about to -commit himself. Jeanie put him away as if he had been a ploughman, or -she a fine lady used to the fine art of easy impertinence. So little -thought had she of him at all, that she was not aware of the -carelessness with which she had received his semi-declaration, and while -he withdrew stung all over as by mental nettles, abashed, insulted, and -furious, she went innocently upstairs, without the faintest idea of the -offence she had given. And Edgar went into the parlour after his cousin -humming an air, with the freshness of the fields about him. The -_insouciance_ of the one who had that day given away his living, and the -disturbed and nervous trouble of the other, self-conscious to his very -finger points, irritated by a constant notion that he was despised and -lightly thought of, made the strangest possible contrast between them, -notwithstanding a certain family resemblance in their looks. - -“I am staying to-night,” said Dr. Charles, with a certain abruptness, -and that tone of irritated apology which mingled more or less in all he -said, “because it is too late for me to get home.” - -“And I am staying,” said Edgar, “because it is too late to start, I must -go to-morrow. I suppose our road lies so far in the same direction.” - -“You can get the London express at Glasgow, or even Greenock. I am going -to Edinburgh.” - -“I have business in Edinburgh too,” said Edgar. He was so good-humoured, -so friendly, that it was very hard to impress upon him the fact that his -companion regarded him in no friendly light. - -“You will leave the loch with very pleasant feelings,” said Dr. Charles, -“very different to the rest of us. Fortune has given you the -superiority. What I would have done and couldn’t, you have been able to -do. It is hard not to grudge a little at such an advantage. The man who -has nothing feels himself always so inferior to the man who has -something, however small.” - -“Do you think so?” said Edgar, “my experience would not lead me to that -conclusion; and few people can have greater experience. Once I supposed -myself to be rather rich. I tumbled down from that all in a moment, and -now I have nothing at all; but it seems to me I am the same man as when -I was a small potentate in my way, thinking rather better than worse of -myself, if truth must be told,” he added with a laugh. - -“I wish I had your nothing at all,” said Dr. Charles, bitterly; “to us -really poor people that is much, which seems little to you.” - -“Well,” said Edgar, with a shrug of his shoulders, “my poverty is -absolute, not comparative now. And you have a profession, while I have -none. On the whole, whatever there may be to choose between us, you must -have the best of it; for to tell the truth I am in the dismal position -of not knowing what to do.” - -“To do! what does it matter? you have enough to live upon.” - -“I have nothing to live upon,” said Edgar, with a smile. - -The young men looked at each other, one with a half-amusement in his -face, the other full of wonder and consternation. “You don’t mean to -say,” he asked, with a gasp, “that you have given her all?” - -“I have no income left,” said Edgar. “I have some debts, unfortunately, -like most men. Now a man who has no income has no right to have any -debts. That is about my sole maxim in political economy. I must pay them -off, and then I shall have fifty pounds or so left.” - -“Good heavens!” said the other, “and you take this quite easily without -anxiety----” - -“Anxiety will not put anything in my pocket, or teach me a profession,” -said Edgar. “Don’t let’s talk of it, ‘Sufficient unto the day is the -evil there-of.’” - -“But,” cried the other, almost wildly, “in that case all of us--I too--” - -“Don’t say anything more about it,” said Edgar. “We all act according to -impulses. Perhaps it is well for those who have no impulses; but one -cannot help one’s self. I should like to start by the early boat -to-morrow morning, and before I go I have something to say to Jeanie.” - -“I fear I am in your way,” cried Dr. Charles, rising hastily, with the -feeling, which was rather pleasant to him than otherwise, that at last -he had a real reason for taking offence. - -“Oh, dear no, not at all. It is only to give her some advice about our -old mother,” said Edgar; but they both reddened as they stood fronting -each other, Charles from wild and genuine jealousy--Edgar, from a -disagreeable and impatient consciousness of the silly speeches which had -associated his name with that of Jeanie. He stood for a moment -uncertain, and then his natural frankness broke forth, “Look here,” he -said, “don’t let us make any mistake. I don’t know what your feelings -may be about Jeanie, but mine are those of an elder brother--a very much -elder brother,” he went on, with a laugh, “to a child.” - -“Every man says that, until the moment comes when he feels differently,” -said Charles, in his uneasy didactic way. - -“Does he? then that moment will never come for me,” said Edgar, -carelessly. - -Poor little Jeanie! she had opened the door, the two young men not -observing her in their preoccupation, and Edgar’s words came fully into -her heart like a volley of musketry. She stood behind them for a moment -in the partial gloom--for they were standing between her and the light -of the feeble candles--unnoticed, holding the door. Then noiselessly she -stole back, closing it, her heart all riddled by that chance discharge, -wounded and bleeding. Then she went to the kitchen softly, and called -Bell. “My head’s sair,” she said, which on Loch Arroch means, my head -aches. “Will you see if they want anything in the parlour, Bell?” - -“My poor lamb!” said Bell, “I wish it beena your heart that’s sair. Ye -are as white as a ghost. Go to your bed, my bonnie woman, and I’ll see -after them, Lord bless us, what a bit white face! Go to your bed, and -dinna let your Granny see you like that. Oh ay! I’ll see to the two -men.” - -Jeanie crept up-stairs like a mouse, noiseless in the dark staircase. -She needed no light, and to hide herself seemed so much the most natural -thing to do. White! Jeanie felt as if her face must be scorched as her -heart seemed to be. Why should he have volunteered this profession of -indifference? It seemed so much the worse because it was uncalled for. -Did anyone say he cared for her? Had any one accused him of being “fond” -of Jeanie? Shame seemed to take possession of the little soft creature. -Had she herself done anything to put such a degrading idea into his -mind? Why should he care for her? “I never asked him--I never wanted -him,” poor Jeanie cried to herself. - -Edgar never knew the second great effect he had produced on this -eventful day. When Jeanie appeared at the early breakfast before he set -out next morning, he was honestly concerned to see how pale she looked. -“My poor dear child, you are ill,” he cried, drawing her towards him, -and his look of anxious kindness struck poor Jeanie like a blow. - -“I’m not ill. It’s my head. It’s nothing,” she said, starting away from -him. Edgar looked at her with mild astonished eyes. - -“You are not vexed with me this last morning? Take care of the dear old -mother, Jeanie--but I know you will do that--and write to me sometimes -to say she is well; and talk of me sometimes, as you promised--you -remember?” - -His kind friendly words broke Jeanie’s heart. “Oh, how can you look so -pleased and easy in your mind!” she said, turning, as was natural, the -irritation of her personal pain into the first possible channel, “when -you know you are going away without a penny, for our sake--for her -sake----” - -“And yours,” Edgar added cheerily. “That is what makes me easy in my -mind.” - -And he smiled, and took both her hands, and kissed her on the forehead, -a salutation which made little Scotch Jeanie--little used to such -caresses--flame crimson with shame. Charles Murray looked on with sullen -fury. He dared not do as much. This way of saying farewell was not -cousinly or brotherly to him. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -A Railway Journey: The Scotch Express. - - -The two young men set out together from Loch Arroch. The old lady whose -children they both were, waved her handkerchief to them from her window -as the steamer rustled down the loch, and round the windy corner of the -stubble field into Loch Long. They stood on the deck, and gazed at the -quiet scene they were leaving till the farmhouse and the ruin died out -of sight. How peaceful it all looked in the bright but watery sunshine! -The ivy waving softly from the walls of the ruin, the smoke rising blue -from the roof of the farmhouse, which nestled under the shadow of the -old castle, the stooks standing in the pale field glistening with -morning dew. Bell stood at the door in her short petticoats, shading her -eyes with one hand as she watched them, and old Mrs. Murray showed a -smiling, mournful face at her window, and the long branches of the -fuchsias waved and made salutations with all their crimson bells. Even -Bell’s shadow had a distinct importance in the scene, which was so -still--still as the rural country is between mountain and water, with -mysterious shadows flitting in the silence, and strange ripples upon the -beach. The scene was still more sweet from the shore, though not so -entirely enveloped in this peaceable habitual calm; for great Benvohrlan -was kept in constant life with moving clouds which crossed the sunshine; -and the eyes of the spectators on the land did not disdain the bright, -many-coloured boat, floating, as it seemed, between three elements--the -water, the mountain, and the sky. The shadow-ship floated over the side -of the shadow-hill among all the reflected shades; it floated double -like the swan on St. Mary’s Lake, and it was hard to tell which was the -reality and which the symbol. Such were the variations of the scene from -the loch and from the shore. - -But though Bell was visible and Bell’s mistress, Jeanie was not to be -seen. She had disappeared within the ruins of the Castle, and watched -the boat from behind an old block of masonry, with eyes full of longing -and sadness. Why had she been so harsh, so hard? Why had she not parted -with him “friends?” What did it matter what he said, so long as he said -that he looked upon her as an elder brother? Was it not better to be -Edgar’s sister than any other man’s beloved? She cried, reflecting sadly -that she had not been so kind, so gentle as she ought to this man who -was so unlike all others. Like an elder brother--what more could she -wish for? Thus poor little Jeanie began to dree her fate. - -The day was fine, notwithstanding the prophecy of “saft weather” with -which all the observers of sea and sky in the West of Scotland keep up -their character as weather prophets as Edgar and Charles Murray -travelled to Edinburgh. There was no subject of quarrel between them, -therefore they did not quarrel; indeed Edgar, for his part, was amused, -when he was not pained, by his cousin’s perpetual self-consciousness and -painful desire to keep up his profession of gentleman, and conduct -himself in all details of behaviour as a gentleman should. The young -Doctor nervously unbuttoned his over-coat, which was much more spruce -and glossy than Edgar’s, when he observed that his companion, never a -model of neatness or order, wore his loose. He looked with nervous -observation at Edgar’s portmanteau, at the shape and size of his -umbrella. Edgar had lived in the great world; he had been (or so at -least his cousin thought) fashionable; therefore Dr. Charles gave a -painful regard to all the minutiæ of his appearance. Thus a trim poor -girl might copy a tawdry duchess, knowing no better--might, but seldom -does, having a better instinct. But if any one had breathed into Charles -Murray’s ear a suggestion of what he was consciously (yet almost against -his will) doing, he would have forgiven an accusation of crime more -readily. He knew his own weakness, and the knowledge made him wretched; -but had any one else suspected it, that would have been the height of -insult, and would have roused him to desperate passion. - -Thus they travelled together, holding but little communication. The -young Doctor’s destination was one of the smaller stations before they -reached Edinburgh, where Edgar saw, as the train approached, a graceful -young woman, with that air of refinement which a slim and tall figure -gives, but too far off to be recognizable, accompanied by a little -girl--waiting by the roadside in a little open carriage, half phaeton, -half gig. - -“Is that your sister?” he asked, taking off his hat, as the lady waved -her hand towards them. - -“Yes,” said Dr. Charles, shortly, and he added, in his usual tone of -apology, “a doctor can do nothing without a conveyance, and as I had to -get one, and Margaret is so delicate, it was better to have something in -which she could drive with me.” - -“Surely,” said Edgar, with some wonder at the appealing tone in which -this half statement, half question was made. But a little sigh came from -his heart, against his will, as he saw Charles Murray’s welcome, and -felt himself rolled away into the cold, into the unknown, without any -one to bear him company. He too had once had, or thought he had, a -sister, and enjoyed for a short time that close, tender, and familiar -friendship which only can exist between a young man and woman when they -are thus closely related. Edgar, who was foolishly soft-hearted, had -gone about the world ever since, missing this, without knowing what it -was he missed. He was fond of the society of women, and he had been shut -out from it; for he neither wished to marry, nor was rich enough so to -indulge himself, and people with daughters, as he found, were not so -anxious to invite a poor man, nor so complacent towards him as they had -been when he was rich. To be sure he had met women as he had met men at -the foreign towns which he had chiefly frequented during the aimless -years just past; but these were chiefly old campaigners, with all the -freshness dried out of them, ground down into the utmost narrowness of -limit in which the mind is capable of being restrained, or else at the -opposite extreme, liberated in an alarming way from all the decorums and -prejudices of life. Neither of these classes were attractive, though -they amused him, each in its way. - -But somehow the sight of his two cousins, brother and sister, gave him a -pang which was all the sharper for being entirely unexpected. It made -him feel his own forlornness and solitude, how cut off he was from all -human solace and companionship. Into his ancient surroundings he could -not return; and his present family, the only one which he had any claim -upon, was distasteful beyond description. Even his grandmother and -Jeanie, whom he had known longest, and with whom he felt a certain -sympathy, were people so entirely out of his sphere, that his -intercourse with them never could be easy nor carried on on equal terms. -He admired Mrs. Murray’s noble character, and was proud to have been -able to stand by her against her sordid relations; he even loved her in -a way, but did not, could not adopt the ways of thinking, the manners -and forms of existence, which were natural and seemly in the little -farm-house. - -As for Jeanie, poor, gentle, pretty Jeanie! A slight flush came over -Edgar’s face as her name occurred to him; he was no lady-killer, proud -to think that he had awakened a warmer feeling than was safe for her in -the girl’s heart. On the contrary, he was not only pained, but ashamed -of himself for the involuntary consciousness which he never put into -words, that perhaps it was better for Jeanie that he should go away. He -dismissed the thought, feeling hot and ashamed. Was it some latent -coxcombry on his part that brought such an idea into his head? - -His business in Edinburgh was of a simple kind, to see the lawyer who -had prepared the papers for the transfer of his little income, and who, -knowing his history, was curious and interested in him, asked him to -dinner, and would have made much of the strange young man who had -descended from the very height of prosperity, and now had denuded -himself of the last humble revenue upon which he could depend. - -“I have ventured to express my disapproval, Mr. Earnshaw,” this good man -had said; “but having done so, and cleared my conscience if--there is -anything I can be of use to you in, tell me.” - -“Nothing,” said Edgar; “but a thousand thanks for the goodwill, which is -better than anything.” - -Then he went away, declining the invitation, and walked about Edinburgh -in the dreamy solitude which began to be habitual to him, friendly and -social as his nature was. In the evening he dined alone in one of the -Princes Street hotels, near a window which looked out upon the Castle -and the old town, all glimmering with lights in the soft darkness, which -was just touched with frost. The irregular twinkle of the lights -scattered about upon the fine bank of towers and spires and houses -opposite; the dark depth below, where dark trees rustled, and stray -lights gleamed here and there; the stream of traffic always pouring -through the street below, notwithstanding the picturesque landscape on -the other side--all attracted Edgar with the charm which they exercise -on every sensitive mind. When the bugle sounded low and sweet up in -mid-air from the Castle, he started up as if that visionary note had -been for him. The darkness and the lights, the new and the old, seemed -to him alike a dream, and he not less a dream pursuing his way between -them, not sure which was real and which fictitious in his own life; -which present and which past. The bugle called him--to what? Not to the -sober limits of duty, to obedience and to rest, as it called the -unwilling soldiers out of their riots and amusements; but perhaps to as -real a world still unknown to him, compassed--like the dark Castle, -standing deep in undistinguishable, rustling trees--with mists and -dream-like uncertainty. Who has ever sat at a dark window looking out -upon the gleaming, darkling crest of that old Edinburgh, with the crown -of St. Giles hovering over it in the blue, and the Castle half way up to -heaven, without feeling something weird and mystical beyond words, in -the call of the bugle, sudden, sweet, and penetrating, out of the -clouds? What Edgar had to do after the call of this bugle was no deed of -high emprise. He had no princess to rescue, no dragon to kill. He got up -with that half-laugh at himself and his own fancies which was habitual -to him, and paid his bill and collected his few properties, and went to -the railway. Other people were beginning to go to bed; the shop windows -were closing; the lights mounting higher from story to story. But a -stream of people and carriages was pouring steadily down into the -hollow, bound like himself, for the London Express. Edgar walked up -naturally, mechanically to the window at which firstclass tickets were -being issued. But while he waited his turn, his eye and his ear were -attracted by a couple of women in the dress of an English Sisterhood, -who were standing in front of him, holding a close conversation. One of -them, at least, was in the nun’s costume of severe black and white; the -other, a young slim figure, wore a black cloak and close bonnet, and was -deeply veiled; but was not a “Sister,” though in dress closely -approaching the garb. Edgar’s eyes however were not clever enough to -make out this difference. The younger one seemed to him to have made -some timid objection to the second class. - -“Second class, my dear!” said the elder. “I understand first class, and -I understand third; but second is neither one thing nor another. No, my -dear. If we profess to give up forms and ceremonies and the pomps of -this world, let us do it thoroughly, or not at all. If you take second -class, you will be put in with your friend’s maid and footman. No, no, -no; third class is the thing.” - -“To be sure. What am I thinking of?” said Edgar to himself, with his -habitual smile. “Of course, third class is the thing.” - -It had been from pure inadvertence that he had been about to take the -most expensive place, nothing else having occurred to him. I do not know -whether I can make the reader understand how entirely without -bitterness, and, indeed, with how much amusement Edgar contemplated -himself in his downfall and penniless condition, and what a joke he -found it. For the moment rather a good joke--for, indeed, he had -suffered nothing, his _amour propre_ not being any way involved, and no -immediate want of a five-pound note or a shilling having yet happened to -him to ruffle his composure. He kept the two Sisters in sight as he went -down the long stairs to the railway with his third-class ticket. He -thought it possible that they might be exposed to some annoyance, two -women in so strange a garb, and in a country where Sisterhoods have not -yet developed, and where the rudeness of the vulgar is doubly rude, -perhaps in contrast with, perhaps in consequence of (who knows?) the -general higher level of education on which we Scotch plume ourselves. -They had given him his first lesson in practical contempt of the world; -he would give them the protection of his presence, at least, in case of -any annoyance. Not to give them any reason, however, to suppose that he -was following them, he waited for some minutes before he took his seat -in a corner of the same carriage in which they had established -themselves. He took off his hat, foreign fashion, as he went into the -railway carriage (Edgar had many foreign fashions). At sight of him -there seemed a little flutter of interest between the Sisters, and when -he took his seat they bent their heads together, and talked long in -whispers. The result of this was that the two changed seats, the younger -one taking the further corner of the same seat on which he had placed -himself; while the elder, a cheerful middle-aged woman, whose comely -countenance became the close white cap, and whose pleasant smile did it -honour, sat opposite to her companion. - -I cannot say that this arrangement pleased Edgar, for the other was -young--a fact which betrayed itself rather by some subtle atmosphere -about her than by any visible sign--and his curiosity was piqued and -himself interested to see the veiled maiden. But, after all, the -disappointment was not great, and he leaned back in the hard corner, -saying to himself that the third class might be the thing, but was not -very comfortable, without any particular dissatisfaction. - -Two other travellers, a woman and a boy, took their places opposite to -him. They were people from London, who had gone to Scotland for the -boy’s holidays after some illness, and they brought a bag of sandwiches -with them and a bottle of bad sherry, of which they ate and drank as -soon as the train started, preparing themselves for the night. Then -these two went to sleep and snored, and Edgar, too, went partially to -sleep, dozing between the stations, lying back in the corner which was -so hard, and seeing the dim lamp sway, and the wooden box in which he -was confined, creak, and jolt, and roll about as the train rushed on, -clamping and striding like a giant through the dark. What a curious, -prolonged dream it was--the dim, uncertain light swaying like a light at -sea, the figures dimly seen, immoveable, or turning uneasily like -spectres in a fever, veiled figures, with little form visible under the -swaying of the lamp; and now and then the sudden jar and pause, the -unearthly and dissipated gleam from some miserable midnight station, -where the porters ran about pale and yawning, and the whole sleepy, -weary place did its best to thrust them on, and get rid of the intruder. - -Just before morning, however, in the cold before the dawning, Edgar had -a real dream, a dream of sleep, and not of waking, so vivid that it came -into his mind often afterwards with a thrill of wonder. He dreamt that -he saw standing by him the figure of her who had touched his heart in -his earlier years, of Gussy, who might have been his wife had all gone -well, and of whom he had thought more warmly and constantly, perhaps, -since she became impossible to him, than when she was within his reach. -She seemed to come to him out of a cloud, out of a mist, stooping over -him with a smile; but when he tried to spring up, to take the hand which -she held out, some icy restraint came upon him--he could not move, -chains of ice seemed to bind his hands and arrest even his voice in his -throat. While he struggled to rise, the beautiful figure glided away, -saying, “After, after--but not yet!” and--strange caprice of -fancy--dropped over her face the heavy veil of the young sister who had -excited his curiosity, and who was seated in the other corner of this -same hard wooden bench, just as Edgar, struggling up, half awake, found -that his railway wrapper had dropped from his knees, and that he was -indeed almost motionless with cold. - -The grey dawn was breaking, coldest and most miserable hour of the -twenty-four, and the other figures round him were nodding in their -sleep, or swayed about with the jarring movement of the carriage. -Strange, Edgar thought to himself, how fancy can pick up an external -circumstance, and weave it into the fantastic web of dreams! How -naturally his dream visitor had taken the aspect of the last figure his -musing eyes had closed upon! and how naturally, too, the physical chill -of the moment had shaped itself into a mental impossibility--a chain of -fate. He smiled at the combination as he wrapped himself shivering in -his rug. The slight little figure in the other corner was, he thought, -awake too, she was so perfectly still. The people on the other side -dozed and nodded, changing their positions with the jerking movement of -restless sleep, but she was still, moving only with the swaying of the -carriage. Her veil was still down, but one little white hand came forth -out of the opening of her black cloak. What a pity that so pretty a hand -should not be given to some man to help him along the road of life, -Edgar thought to himself with true English sentiment, and then paused to -remember that English sisterhoods could take no irrevocable vows, at -least, in law. He toyed with this idea, he could not tell why, giving -far more attention to the veiled figure than half-a-dozen unveiled women -would have procured from him. - -Foolish and short-sighted mortal! He dreamed and wondered at his dream, -and made his ingenious little theory and amused explanation to himself -of the mutual reaction of imagination and sensation. How little he knew -what eyes were watching him from behind the safe shelter of that heavy -black veil! - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -Alone. - - -Edgar did not well know where to go on his arrival in London. He knew -nothing about London except in its most expensive regions, and the only -place to which he could direct the driver of the cab into which he -jumped, was the chambers in Piccadilly which he had occupied in his -earlier days. He said to himself “For a day or two it cannot matter -where I live;” and, besides, the season was over and everything cheap, -or so, at least, Edgar thought. - -The first thing he had to do was to see that his lawyers had carried out -his directions and paid his debts--the number of which appalled him--out -of his capital. Decidedly it was time that he should do something, and -should shake himself out of those habits of a rich man, which had, in -these three years, though he had no idea of it, compromised him to the -extent of half his little fortune. This debt he felt he could not trifle -with. The more indifferent he was about money, and the better able he -was to do without it, the more necessity was there for the clearing off -to begin with, of everything in the shape of debt. After all was paid, -and the residue settled on the old lady at Loch Arroch, there remained -to him about a hundred pounds in the bank, besides the two ten-pound -notes which he had in his pocket-book. “I must not touch the money in -the bank,” he said to himself, with a prudence which contrasted -beautifully with his other extravagances, “that must remain as something -to fall back upon. Suppose, for instance, I should be ill,” Edgar -reasoned with himself, always with a delicious suppressed consciousness -of the joke involved under the utter gravity and extreme reasonableness -of his own self-communings, “how necessary it would be to have something -to fall back upon!” When he had made this little speech to himself, he -subsided into silence, and it was not until half-an-hour later that he -permitted himself to laugh. - -Both of his own suggestions seemed so oddly impossible to him. To be -ill--he, in whose veins the blood ran so lightly, so tunefully, his -pulse beating with the calm and continued strength of perfect harmony; -or to want a pound or two--he who had possessed unlimited credit and -means which he had never exhausted all his life. The change was so great -that it affected him almost childishly--as a poor man might be affected -by coming into a sudden fortune, or as a very young wife is sometimes -affected by the bewildering and laughable, yet certain fact, that she, -the other day only a little girl in pinafores, is now at the head of a -house, free to give as many orders as she pleases, and sure to be -obeyed. The extreme humour of the situation is the first thing that -strikes a lively girl, under these circumstances, and it was the humour -of it which struck Edgar: a fact, perhaps, which may lower his character -in the reader’s eyes. But that, alas, I cannot help, for such as he was, -such I must show him, and his character had many defects. Often had he -been upbraided that he did not feel vicissitudes which looked like ruin -and destruction to minds differently constituted. He did not--he was the -most _insouciant_, the most care-hating of men. Up to this period of his -life he had found the means, somehow, of getting a smile, or some gleam -of fun, out of everything that happened. When he could not manage this -the circumstances were very strange indeed, and I suppose he felt it; -but at all events, in such cases, he kept his failure to himself. - -As soon as he had refreshed himself and breakfasted, he went out to see -his lawyer, who received him with that air of melancholy disappointment -which distinguishes all agents who are compelled to carry out what they -think the foolish will of their principals: but who submitted the -accounts to him, which showed that his directions had been obeyed, -explaining everything in a depressed and despondent voice, full of the -sense of injury. - -“I am compelled to say, Mr. Earnshaw,” said this good man, “that, as you -have paid so little attention to our wishes, I and my firm would -hence-forward have declined to take charge of your business -transactions, if it had been the least likely that you would have had -any more business to do; but as this is not possible, or at least -probable--” - -“You will continue to do it,” said Edgar, laughing. “I hope so; it would -be kind of you. No, I don’t suppose I shall have much more business to -do.” - -“And may I ask without offence,” said Mr. Parchemin, who was an old -friend of Edgar’s old friend, Mr. Farqakerley, and had taken up the -foolish young fellow on the recommendation of that excellent and -long-established family solicitor. “May I ask how, now you have given -away all your money, you mean to live?” - -“I must work,” said Edgar, cheerfully. - -“Clearly; but what can you work at?” - -“You have hit the difficulty exactly,” said Edgar, laughing. “To tell -the truth, I don’t know. What do you suppose I could do best? There must -be many men in my position, left in the lurch by circumstances--and they -must have some way of providing for themselves. What do they generally -do?” - -“Go to the dogs,” said Mr. Parchemin, succinctly, for he was still -offended, and had not yet forgiven his impracticable client. - -“I sha’n’t do that,” said Edgar as briefly--and with, for the first -time, and for one of the first times in his life, a shade of offence on -his face. - -“There are a good many other things they try to do,” said Mr. Parchemin; -“for instance they take pupils--most men feel themselves capable of that -when they are driven to it; or they get into a public office, if they -have interest and can pass the examination; or they read for the bar if -they have friends who can support them for a dozen years; or they write -for the papers--” - -“Stop a little,” said Edgar; “I have no friends to support me--I can’t -write--I don’t think I could pass an examination--” - -“After twenty, and unless you’ve been crammed for the purpose, I don’t -know anyone who could,” said Mr. Parchemin, solemnly. - -“And I doubt whether I could teach anything that any man in his senses -would wish to know.” - -“I doubt it also,” said the lawyer, “judging, if you will pardon me for -saying so, by your guidance of your own affairs.” - -“But a tutor does not teach boys how to guide their own affairs,” said -Edgar, recovering his sense of the joke. - -“That is true too. A man may be very wise in giving good advice, and -admirable on paper, and yet be fool enough in other respects. There was -Goldsmith, for instance. But why shouldn’t you write? Plenty of stupid -fellows write in the papers. You are not stupid--” - -“Thanks,” cried Edgar, laughing. - -“Of course, you have read what Thackeray says on that subject--in -‘Pendennis,’ you know--how it is all a knack that anybody can learn; and -it pays very well, I have always heard. There is no sort of nonsense -that people will not read. I don’t see why you should not try the -newspapers; if you know any one on the staff of the _Times_, for -instance--that is a splendid opening--or even the _News_ or the -_Telegraph_.” - -“But, alas, I don’t know anyone.” - -“Do you mean to say you never met any of those press fellows? when you -were a great man, you know, when you were fashionable? At your club, for -instance? You must have met some of them. Think! Why, they go -everywhere, it’s their trade; they must have news. And, by the way, they -have made their own of you first and last; the Arden estate, and the -law-suit that was to be, and the noble behaviour of the unfortunate -gentleman, &c., &c. You have figured in many a paragraph. Some of them -you must know.” - -“Newmarch used to dabble in literature,” said Edgar, doubtfully. - -“Newmarch--Lord Newmarch! Why, that is better still. He’s in the -Ministry, a rising young fellow, with the Manchester interest, and a few -hundred thousands a-year behind him. He’s your very man; he’ll get you -something; a school-inspectorship, or something of that sort, at the -very least. What is he, by-the-bye? Education and that sort of thing is -his hobby, so, of course, he’s put somewhere, like Dogberry, where there -shall be no occasion for such vanities. Ah! I thought so; Foreign -Office. He knows about as much of foreign politics, my dear Sir, as my -office boy. That’s why he’s put in; that’s the present people’s way.” - -“I don’t think I should like to ask a favour of Newmarch,” said Edgar, -with hesitation; and there suddenly rose in his mind a spiritual -presence which he had never before recognised nor expected to see, a -something which was Pride. He himself was so unaffectedly surprised by -the apparition that he did not know how to encounter it; but sat silent, -wondering, and unable to understand the new dilemma in which he found -himself. No; Newmarch was the last person of whom he should like to ask -a favour, he said to himself. - -“Is there any one else whom you would like better?” said Mr. Parchemin, -somewhat satirically. “So far as we have got, Lord Newmarch’s is much -the most practicable aid you could get. Would you prefer to ask your -favour from anyone else?” - -“You are quite right,” said Edgar, rousing himself. “The fact is, I -don’t like asking favours at all. I suppose I expected the world to come -to me and offer me a living, hat in hand. Of course, it is absurd.” - -“Lord Newmarch is probably too high and mighty to prefer a friend unless -he is sure it will be for the public interest, etc.,” said Mr. -Parchemin. “He will say as much, at least, you may be sure of that. And -I advise you to be prepared for a great deal of this sort of lofty -rubbish; but don’t pay any attention to it. Don’t take offence.” - -Edgar laughed; but the laugh was unexplainable to anyone but himself. He -had not been in the habit of taking offence; he had never borne anybody -a grudge, so far as he knew, in his life; but along with the new-born -pride which had arisen in him, was the faculty of offence coming too? -These were the first fruits of poverty, spectres which had never -crossed his sunny pathway before. And though he laughed, not with -amusement, but in a kind of dazed acknowledgment of the incongruity of -things, the sense of the joke began to fail in Edgar’s mind. The -whimsical, pleasant fun of the whole proceeding disappeared before those -apparitions of Anger and Pride. Alas, was it possible that such a vulgar -material change as the loss of money could bring such evil things into -being? His friendly, gentle soul was appalled. He laughed with pain, not -with amusement, because of the strange unlikeness of this new state of -mind to anything he had known before. - -“Newmarch, I suppose, is not in town; he can’t be in town at this time -of the year,” he said, with a momentary hope of postponing his -sufferings at least. - -“Ah, my dear Sir,” said the lawyer, “he is one of the new brooms that -sweep clean. Besides, there is something going on between Russia and -Prussia that wants watching, and it’s Lord Newmarch’s business to be on -the spot. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll see him at once. Before the -season begins he can’t have so many applicants. Go, if you’ll take my -advice, at once.” - -Edgar winced, as a man cannot but wince who is thrown into the class of -“applicants” at a blow. Why shouldn’t he be an applicant? he said to -himself as he went out. Better men than he had been obliged to kick -their heels in great men’s anterooms; but fortunately the reign of -patrons was so far over now. Was it over? While human nature continued -could it ever be over? or would it not be necessary as long as the world -lasted that there should be some men holding out the hand to ask, and -others to give? Not so very long ago Lord Newmarch had come to him, -Edgar, hat in hand, so to speak, wanting not place or living, but the -good graces of a rich and fair young lady with whom her brother might -advance him. Her brother! There gleamed up before Edgar, as he walked -through the dusty October streets, the sudden glimpse he had seen at the -roadside station of Margaret waiting for her brother. Alas, yes! Most -people had sisters, if not something still dearer, to greet them, to -hear the account of all they had done, and consult what remained to do. -I do not know how it was that at this moment something brought into -Edgar’s mind the two ladies who had travelled with him from Scotland. -Probably the mere word Sister was enough; or perhaps it was because one -of them, the elder, was just turning the corner of the street, and met -him two minutes after. She smiled with a momentary hesitation (she was -forty at the least), and then stopped to speak. - -“I had not a chance to thank you for getting our cab and looking after -our luggage. It was very kind; but my young friend was in a great -hurry.” - -“She was, I suppose, of your sisterhood, too,” said Edgar, with a -curiosity which was quite unjustifiable, and for which he could not -account. - -“Who? Miss ----. Oh! dear no,” said the good-humoured Sister. “She is -what we call an associate, and does what she can for our charges, the -poor people--in something like our dress; but it is far from being the -dress of a professed sister,” the excellent woman added, adjusting her -cross and collar. “I daresay you will meet her some day in society, and -you need not tell her great friends that a Sister of the Charity House -made her travel third class. We always do it; but fine people do not -like to know.” - -“I should have to betray myself,” said Edgar laughing, “if I betrayed -you.” - -“That is true,” said the Sister. “If you ever pass by the Charity House -at Amerton ask for Sister Susan, and I shall be glad to show you over -it. I assure you it is something to see.” - -“I shall come some day or other,” said Edgar, not quite knowing what he -said. Who was she then, the girl with the veil who kept herself shrouded -from him? She had not seemed _farouche_ or unfriendly. She had waited -quietly while he did what he could for them at the railway station. She -had even touched his hand lightly as he put her into the cab; but there -had seemed to be three or four veils between him and her countenance. -During all the long journey he had seen of her nothing but the little -white hand stealing from under the cover of her cloak; but somehow his -dream came back to him, and wove itself in with the semblance of this -veiled stranger. Absurd! but sometimes an absurdity is pleasant and -comforting, and so it was in this case. He could not have said what -fancies came into his head, or if he had any fancies. No, he was past -dreaming, past all that kind of boyish nonsense, he said to himself. But -yet the recollection of the veiled maiden was pleasant to him, he could -scarcely have told why. - -Lord Newmarch was at his office, and he was ready after some time to see -his visitor, whom he greeted with sufficient friendliness and good -feeling. Lord Newmarch had been very democratic in his day; he had taken -workmen in their working clothes to dine with him at his club in his hot -youth, and had made them very uncomfortable, and acquired a delightful -reputation himself for advanced ideas; which was a very great thing for -a new lord, whose grandfather had been a small shopkeeper, to do. But -somehow he was a great deal more at his ease with the working men than -with his former friend and equal, now reduced to a perfectly incredible -destitution of those ordinary circumstances which form the very clothing -and skin of most men. Edgar was in soul and being, no doubt, exactly the -same as ever; he had the same face, the same voice, the same thought and -feelings. Had he lost only his money Lord Newmarch would not have felt -the difficulty half so great, for indeed a great many people do -(whatever the world may say) lose their money, without being dropped or -discredited by society. But something a great deal more dreadful had -happened in Edgar’s case. He had lost, so to speak, himself; and how to -behave towards a man who a little while ago had been his equal, nay his -superior, and now was not his equal, nor anybody’s, yet the same man, -puzzled the young statesman beyond expression. This is a very different -sort of thing from entertaining a couple of working men to the much -astonishment (delightful homage to one’s peculiarities) of one’s club. -The doctrine that all men are brothers comes in with charming piquancy -in the one case, but is very much less easy to deal with in the other. -Lord Newmarch got up with some perturbation from his seat when Edgar -came in. He shook him warmly by the hand, and said, - -“Oh, Arden--ah, Earnshaw,” looking at the card. “I beg your pardon. I am -delighted to see you.” - -And then they both sat down and looked at each other after the warmth of -this accost, and found, as so often happens, that they had nothing more -to say. I do not know a more embarrassing position in ordinary -circumstances, even when there is no additional and complicating -embarrassment. You meet your old friend, you shake hands, you commit -yourself to an expression of delight--and then you are silent. He has -sailed away from you and you from him since you last met, and there is -nothing to be said between you, beyond that first unguarded and uncalled -for warmth of salutation, the emblem of an intimacy past. This is how -Lord Newmarch accosted Edgar; and Edgar accepted the salutation with a -momentary glow at his breast. And then they sat down and looked at each -other; they had given forth all the feeling they had toward each other, -and how could they express sentiments which had no existence? They had -to glide involuntarily into small talk about the empty state of town, -and the new Minister’s devotion to business, and the question between -Prussia and Russia which he had to keep at his post to watch. Lord -Newmarch allowed, with dignified resignation, that it was hard upon him, -and that an Under Secretary of State has much that is disagreeable to -bear; and then he added politely, but thinking to himself--oh, how much -easier were two, nay half-a-dozen working-men, than this!--an inquiry as -to the nature of his old friend’s occupation. “What,” said the -statesman, crossing and uncrossing his legs two or three times in -succession to get the easiest position, and with a look at his shoes -which expressed eloquently all the many events that had passed since -their last meeting, “What are you doing yourself?” - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -A Noble Patron. - - -When two men who have met in careless intercourse, without any -possibility of obliging or being obliged, except so far as interchange -of courtesy goes, come suddenly together in relations so changed, the -easy question, “what are you doing?” spoken by the one whose position -has not altered, to the one who has suffered downfall, has a new world -of significance in it, of tacit encouragement or repulsion of kindly or -adverse meaning. It means either “Can I help you?” or, “Don’t think of -asking me for help.” If the downfallen one has need of aid and -patronage, the faintest inflection of voice thrills him with expectation -or disappointment--and even if he is independent, it is hard if he does -not get a sting of mortification out of the suspected benevolence or -absence of it. Edgar listened to Lord Newmarch’s questions, with a -sudden rising in his mind of many sentiments quite unfamiliar to him. He -was ashamed--though he had nothing to be ashamed of--angry, though no -offence had been given him--and tingled with excitement for which there -was no reason. How important it had become to him all at once that this -other man, for whom he felt no particular respect, should be favourable -to him, and how difficult to reconcile himself to the process of asking, -he who had never done anything but give! - -“I am doing nothing,” he said, after a momentary pause, which seemed -long to him, but which Lord Newmarch did not so much as notice, “and to -tell the truth, I had a great mind to come cap in hand to you, to ask -for something. I want occupation--and to speak frankly, a living at the -same time. Not pay without work, but yet pay.” - -“To be sure,” said Lord Newmarch; but his countenance fell a little. A -new applicant cannot but appear a natural enemy to every official -personage noted for high-mindedness, and a sublime superiority to jobs. -“I should think something might be found for you--in one department or -other. The question is what would you like--or perhaps--what could you -do?” - -“I can do anything a man can usually do, who has never done anything in -his life,” said Edgar, trying to laugh. “You know how little that is--a -great deal that is absolutely useless--nothing that is much good.” - -“Yes,” said Lord Newmarch, looking much more grave than his applicant -did, whose levity he had always disapproved of. “It is very unfortunate -that what we call the education of a gentleman should be so utterly -unpractical. And, as you are aware, all our clerkships now-a-days are -disposed of by competitive examination. I do not commit myself as to its -satisfactory character as a test of capacity--there are very different -opinions I know on that subject; but the fact is one we must bow to. -Probably you would not care at your age to submit to such an ordeal?” - -“I don’t care what I submit to,” said Edgar, which was totally untrue, -for his blood was boiling in the most irrational way, at the thought -that this man whom he had laughed at so often, should be a Minister of -State, while he himself was weighing the probabilities of securing a -clerkship in the great man’s office. Nothing could be more wrong or -foolish, for to be sure Lord Newmarch had worked for his position, and -had his father’s wealth and influence behind him; but he had not -generally impressed upon his acquaintances a very profound respect for -his judgment. “But I don’t think I could pass any examination,” he added -with an uneasy laugh. - -“Few men can, without special preparation,” said the Under Secretary, -whose face grew gradually longer and longer. “Do you know I think the -best thing I can do will be to give you a note to the Home Secretary, -who is a very good friend of mine, Lord Millboard. You must have met him -I should think--somewhere--in--” - -“Better days,” said Edgar, struck by a sudden perception of the -ludicrous. Yes, that was the phrase--he had seen better days; and his -companion felt the appropriateness of it, though he hesitated to employ -the word. - -“Yes, indeed; I am sure no one was ever more regretted,” said Lord -Newmarch, spreading before him a sheet of note-paper with a huge -official stamp. “I don’t think Arden half fills your place. All his -interest goes to the other side. You hear I suppose sometimes from your -sis--I mean from Mrs. Arden? What kind of post shall I say you wish to -have?” - -“Say out the word you were going to say,” said Edgar, “my sister! I have -not seen anyone who knew her for ages. No, I thought it best not to keep -up any correspondence. It might have grown a burden to her; but it does -me good to hear you say my sister. How is she looking? Is she happy? It -is so long since I have heard even the name of Clare.” - -“Mrs. Arden is quite well, I believe,” said Lord Newmarch doubtfully, -not knowing whether “the family” might quite like inquiries to be made -for her by her quondam brother. He felt almost as a man does who is -caught interfering in domestic strife, and felt that Clare’s husband -might possibly take it badly. “She has a couple of babies of course you -know. She looked very well when I saw her last. Happy! yes, I suppose -so--as everybody is happy. In the meantime, please, what must I say to -Lord Millboard? Shall I recall to him your--former position? And what -shall I say you would like to have? He has really a great deal of -patronage; and can do much more for you if he likes than I.” - -“Tell him I have seen better days,” said Edgar with forlorn gaiety, “I -have met him, but I never ventured to approach so great a potentate. -Tell him I am not very particular what kind of work I do, so long as it -is something to live by. Tell him--but to be sure, if you introduce me -to him I can do all that myself.” - -“That is true,” said Lord Newmarch with a little sigh of relief, and he -began to write his note. When, however, he had got two or three lines -written in his large hand, he resumed talking, though his pen still ran -over the paper. “You have been abroad I heard. Perhaps you can tell me -what is the feeling in Germany about the proposed unification? I am -rather new to my post, and to tell the truth it is not the post I should -have chosen; but in the service of the country one cannot always follow -one’s favourite path. ‘A gentleman of high breeding and unblemished -character, whose judgment could be relied upon,’ that will do, I think. -Millboard should find something to suit you if any one can. But to -return to what we were talking about. I should very much like to have -your opinion as an impartial observer, of the attitude of Bavaria and -the rest, and how they take Bismarck’s scheme?” - -“Does not the principle of competitive examination exist in Lord -Millboard’s department?” said Edgar. - -“Not to the same extent,” said Newmarch. “He has always a great deal in -his power. A word from Millboard goes a long way; he has a hand -officially or non-officially in a great many things. For instance, I -like to consult him myself before making an important appointment; he -knows everything. He might get you some commissionership or other. Some -of them are very good things; a literary man got one just the other day, -by Millboard’s influence. Did you read for the bar? No? Ah, that’s a -pity. But you might, perhaps, be made an inspector of schools; very high -qualifications are not required for such an appointment. By-the-by, now -that I think of it,” he continued, pausing after he had folded his -letter, and looking up, “you were brought up abroad? You can speak all -the modern languages; you don’t object to travel. I believe, after all, -you are the very man I want.” - -Here he paused, and Edgar waited too, attentive and trying to be amused. -As what did the great man want him? As courier for a travelling party? -While Lord Newmarch pondered, Edgar, puzzled and not very much delighted -with his position, had hard ado to keep just as quiet and respectful as -became a man seeking his living. At last the Minister spoke. - -“What I was thinking of,” he said, “was the post of Queen’s Messenger. -You know what that is? It is not badly paid, and the life is amusing. I -cannot tell you how important it would be to me to have a man I could -thoroughly trust in such a position. You would be simply invaluable to -me; I could rely upon you for telling me how people were really thinking -in foreign capitals. I cannot, of course, in my position, travel about -as a private person can, and there are a great many things I am most -anxious to get up.” - -Here he paused for some reply; but what could Edgar reply? Lord Newmarch -was not thinking of him, but of his own need of information. Should the -applicant distract the Minister’s thoughts back from this greater -channel to that of his own private case? or should he throw his own -case, as it were, overboard, and give all his sympathy to the -Under-Secretary’s elevated needs? The position was comical, but perhaps -Edgar was not sufficiently at ease in his mind to see its comic side. - -“You see how important it is,” Lord Newmarch said, very gravely, looking -at Edgar for sympathy; “everything depends upon genuine -information--what the people are thinking, not the _on dits_ that fly -about in diplomatic circles. My dear--eh?--Earnshaw,” he cried, with -enthusiasm, and a glance at Edgar’s card, “I can’t tell you how much use -you might be to me.” - -Edgar could not restrain a hasty laugh, which, however, had not much -enjoyment in it. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said. - -“Your name shall be put upon the list directly,” said Lord Newmarch. -“One of our men, I know, talks of resigning; and the very first vacancy, -I think I may almost say, without further reflection, shall be yours. -What are you going to do with yourself for the autumn? I leave town next -week, I hope, but I shall be back before Christmas; and if you don’t -hear from me by that time----” - -“Before Christmas!” cried Edgar; he could not prevent his voice from -expressing a little dismay. What was he to do till Christmas? Live upon -his two ten-pound notes? or break into his precious little capital? -or---- The situation appalled him. I suppose he thought, having once -found something which he could be so very useful in, that it was in -Newmarch’s power to give him an appointment at once. - -“Of course,” said Newmarch, benignantly, “if you are in the country, -don’t come to town on purpose. Any time in spring would probably do; but -if you don’t hear from me in a few months, come and see me. When so much -important business is passing through one’s hands, a little thing--and -especially a personal matter--is apt to slip out of one’s head.” - -“To be sure,” said Edgar, rising hastily, “and I am taking up, about a -mere personal matter, your valuable time, which belongs to the nation.” - -“Oh, don’t apologise. I am delighted to see you. And you can’t think of -how much use you might be to me,” said the great man, earnestly, shaking -hands with the small one, impressing upon him, almost with tears in his -eyes, the importance he might come to, “if this man will only be so good -as to resign.” - -Edgar went away with a singing in his ears, which he could scarcely -understand at first. In all his kindly careless life there had been so -little occasion for that thrilling of the blood to the brain, in defence -of the Self assailed, which now at once stimulated, and made him dizzy. -He scarcely knew what it meant, neither could he realize the bitterness -that came into his heart against his will, a most unusual guest. He went -out from Lord Newmarch’s office, and walked long and far before he -quite came to himself. Walking has often a similar effect to that which -the poet tells us rhyme has, “the sad mechanic exercise, like dull -narcotics numbing pain.” When he gradually emerged from the haze and -heat of this first disagreeable encounter, Edgar took characteristic -refuge in the serio-comic transformation which the whole matter -underwent in Lord Newmarch’s hands. Instead of a simple question of -employment for Edgar Earnshaw, it became the great man’s own business, a -way of informing him as to the points in which his education was -defective. Finding employment for Edgar interested him moderately; but -finding information for himself, fired his soul;--the comical part of -the whole being that he expected the other, whose personal interests -were so closely concerned, to feel this superior view of the question as -deeply as he himself did, and to put it quite above the vulgar -preliminary of something to live by. To serve Lord Newmarch, and through -him the Government, and through the Government the country, was not -that, Edgar asked himself at last, feeling finally able to laugh again, -a much more important matter than securing bread and butter for our -thriftless man? As soon as he had laughed he was himself again, and the -after processes of thought were more easy. - -By-and-by he persuaded himself that on the whole Newmarch had behaved -quite naturally, and not unkindly. “As a matter of course,” he said to -himself, “every man’s own affairs are more interesting to him than any -other man’s.” It was quite natural that Newmarch should think of his -own business as most important. It _was_ the most important, Edgar -continued, in his ingenious and peculiar style of reasoning, since it -was the business of the country--whereas Edgar’s business was only his -own, and of importance to nobody but himself. Equally, of course, it was -more important to secure a good public servant, even in the humble -capacity of a Queen’s Messenger, than to secure bread and butter for -Edgar Earnshaw; and, on the whole, there was a great deal to be said for -Newmarch, who was a good fellow, and had been generally friendly, and -not too patronizing. The only wormwood that remained in his thoughts by -the time evening approached, and he turned his steps towards his club in -search of dinner, concerned the long delay which apparently must occur -before this promised advancement could reach him. Before Christmas; -Edgar had very little idea how much a man could live upon in London; but -he did not think it very likely that he could get through two months -upon twenty pounds. And even if that should be possible, with his little -knowledge and careless habits, what should he do in the meantime? Should -he linger about town, doing nothing, waiting for this possible -appointment, which might, perhaps, never come to anything? This was a -course of procedure which prudence and inclination, and so much -experience as he possessed, alike condemned. Hanging on, waiting till -something should turn up! Was this all he was good for? he asked -himself, with a flush on his face. If only the other man would be so -obliging as to resign, or to be killed in a railway accident, or -swamped in a steamboat, or to take some foreign fever or other, of the -well-known kinds, which haunt those places to which Queen’s Messengers -are habitually sent! This was a lugubrious prayer, and I don’t think the -actual Queen’s Messenger against whom the anathema was addressed would -have been much the worse for Edgar’s ill-wishes. - -These virulent and malignant sentiments helped him to another laugh, and -this was one of the cases in which for a man of his temperament to laugh -was salvation. What a good thing it is in all circumstances! and from -how many troubles, angers and ridiculousnesses this blessed power of -laughter saves us! Man, I suppose, among the fast narrowing list of his -specialities, still preserves that of being the only animal who laughs. -Dogs sometimes sneer; but the genial power of this humorous expression -of one’s sense of all life’s oddities and puzzles belongs only to man. - -There were few people about at the club where he dined alone, and the -few acquaintances who recognised him were very shy about his name, not -knowing how to address him, and asking each other in corners, as he -divined, what the deuce was his real name, now it had been found out -that he was not Arden? for it must be remembered that he had gone abroad -immediately after his downfall, and had never been known in society -under his new name, which by this time had become sufficiently familiar -to himself. His dinner, poor fellow, was rather a doleful one, and -accompanied by many thoughts. He went to one of the theatres -afterwards, where the interregnum between one season and another still -lasted, and foolishness more foolish even than that which is permitted -at other periods, reigned riotous. Edgar came away wearied and disgusted -before the performance was over, and had walked about aimlessly for some -time before he recollected that he had travelled all night, and had a -right to be tired--upon which recollection his aimless steps changed -their character, and he went off briskly and thankfully through the -bustling streets under the stars, which were sharp with night frost as -they had been at Loch Arroch. Looking up at them as they glowed and -sparkled over the dark house-tops in London, it was natural to think -what was going on at Loch Arroch now. The kye would be “suppered,” and -Bell would have fastened the ever open door, and little Jeanie upstairs -would be reading her “chapter” to her grandmother before the old lady -went to bed. He had seen that little, tender, pious scene more than -once, when Granny was feeble, and he had gone to her room to say -good-night. How sweet the low Scotch voice, with its soft broad vowels, -had sounded, reading reverently those sacred verses, better than -invocation of angels to keep the house from harm! What a peaceful, -homely little house! all in it resting tranquil and untroubled beneath -the twinkling stars. He went home to his rooms, through streets where -very different scenes were going on, hushed by the thought of the rural -calm and stillness, and half thinking the dark shadows he felt around -him must be the dew-breathing shadows of the hills. And when Edgar got -up to his bachelor refuge in Piccadilly, which he called home for the -nonce for lack of a better, he did the very wisest thing a tired man -could do, he went to bed; where he slept the moment his head touched the -pillow, that sleep which does not always attend the innocent. The morn, -as says our homely proverb in Scotland, would bring a new day. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -Waiting for a Situation. - - -Edgar’s calculations, which he began next morning, and carried on for a -great many days after, were of a kind which many men have made before -him, that it would be foolish to call them original. He made elaborate -calculations upon various pieces of paper, by which he made out that -with economy, he could perfectly well live upon his twenty pounds for -two months. To be sure his rent in these rooms in Piccadilly was -preposterously high, and could not by any means be brought within that -calculation. But then he reflected to himself that moving is always -expensive--(he possessed two portmanteaus, a box of books, and a -dressing-case, all of which could have gone in a cab)--and that very -probably he might fall among thieves, and get into the hands of one of -those proverbial landladies who steal the tea, and drink the brandy, in -which case it would be no economy at all to save a few shillings on -rent. In short, Edgar said to himself, loftily, these petty little -savings never tell. You are much less comfortable, and it is just as -expensive. For the same reason, he felt it was much the best way to -continue dining at the club. “It may be sixpence dearer, but it is so -infinitely more comfortable,” he said to himself; and, after all, -comfort was worth an additional sixpence. By striking off the rent of -his rooms altogether from the calculation, it seemed to him that he -could afford his dinners at the club; and if he got his appointment by -Christmas, as he certainly must, it would be so easy to pay the lodgings -in a lump. He jotted down these calculations so often, and upon so many -bits of paper, that he grew to believe in them as if they had been a -revelation. By this it will appear that his doubts about hanging on, and -waiting for the possible Queen’s Messengership which he had at first set -down as out of the question, did not continue to appear so impracticable -as time went on. He said to himself every morning that it was absurd, -but still he did nothing else, and gradually the Queen’s Messengership -grew to be a certain thing to him, upon which he was to enter at -Christmas, or a little later. After all, what did it matter how he spent -a week or two of his time? At eight-and-twenty, life does not appear so -short as some people have found it. A week or two, a month or two, were -neither here nor there. - -I can scarcely tell how Edgar occupied himself during these wintry days. -For one thing, he had not been accustomed to regular occupation, and the -desultory life was familiar to him. The days glided past he scarcely -knew how. He did a great many perfectly virtuous and laudable actions. -He went to the British Museum, and to all the collections of pictures; -he even, in sheer absence of anything else to do, went to the Charity -House, which was a little way out of London, and was taken over it by -Sister Susan, his travelling companion, and for an hour or so was seized -upon by the charity fever, which is very contagious, and for some days -kept thinking, as he went about the streets, of all the miserable -souls--not to say bodies--consuming there, in dirt, and disease, and -ignorance. I do not mean to give any account of the Charity-House--at -least, not here and at this moment. But Sister Susan undeniably -exercised a powerful attraction over the young man, as she discoursed in -her cheery voice of her orphans, and her patients, and her penitents, -all of which classes were collected round and in “the House.” She was -not “the Mother,” who was rather a great personage, but she was one of -the elders in the Sisterhood, and her conventual talk was very amusing -to Edgar, who was not used to it. He did all he could to make her talk -of the journey in which they had been fellow-travellers, and of her -young companion; and Sister Susan was cunningly open in certain -particulars: - -Yes, she had been in Scotland, in the North, where it was thought things -were ripening for a great work, and where it had been suggested a -Sisterhood might be of use in helping to restore a benighted people to -Christian unity in the bosom of the afflicted Church of Scotland, the -only real representative of Apostolic Christianity among the -Presbyterians, who usurp even that faithful remnant’s name. But it did -not carry out their expectations, Sister Susan allowed. The -Presbyterians were very obstinate and bigoted. Poor creatures, they -preferred their own way, though it could lead to nothing but darkness; -and the idea had to be resigned. - -“Was your companion with you on your mission? Miss ---- I forget what you -said was her name,” said deceitful Edgar. - -Sister Susan shook her head. - -“She has not sufficient experience for that,” she said, decidedly. “No, -no, no. We must not employ new beginners in such delicate work. She was -on a visit, and was anxious to get home. I took charge of her at Lady--I -mean at the request of a relation of hers; and I made her do a little -bit of self-denial, as you saw,” said Sister Susan, laughing, “which is -an excellent thing always--not very comfortable for the body, perhaps, -but excellent for the soul.” - -“Do you think so?” said Edgar, whose present experience was not much in -that way, whose givings up had hitherto cost him little, and who had -begun to suspect that, notwithstanding all that had happened to him, and -all that he had bestowed upon others, he had not even begun yet to find -out what self-denial meant. - -“Not a doubt of it,” said Sister Susan. She was so sure of everything -that it was a pleasure to see her nod her confident little head, and -cross her hands. “She laughs about it now, and makes a great joke; -though, after all, she says it was a cheat, and the third class was -quite as good as the first--no originals in it, nor genuine poor -people--only you.” - -“Did she know me?” - -The question burst from him in spite of himself, and it had a somewhat -uncomfortable effect on Sister Susan. - -“Know you?” she said. “What--what--a curious question, Mr. Earnshaw! -Now, how could she know you? You never saw her before.” - -“I suppose not,” said Edgar, doubtfully. - -“Why, you know you never did,” said Sister Susan, with her usual -confident tone, and indeed Edgar felt that she must be right. “You took -her for a Sister,” she added, with a merry laugh. - -“How should I know the difference?” asked piteously the young man. - -“Why, she had not this, nor this, nor this,” said the Sister, -triumphantly touching one part of her dress after another. “She had on a -simple black dress, and cloak, and veil--that was all. A good little -girl,” she continued, “our orphans are all fond of her, and she is very -nice to those young sisters of hers, who are much more taken out -now-a-days than she is, and carry everything before them--especially -since she went off so much, poor dear.” - -“Has she gone off?” Edgar asked, more and more interested, he could -scarcely tell why. - -“Oh, dreadfully; lost her pretty colour, and her hair used to come out -in handfuls; she has been obliged to have it cut off to save it. She is -not like what she was, poor thing; but I hope,” added Sister Susan -devoutly, “that thinking so much more seriously than she used to do, -the change will be of great benefit to her soul.” - -“Poor Miss--! You have not told me her name,” said Edgar. - -“Haven’t I?” said Sister Susan. “Dear, dear, there is the bell for -chapel, and I can’t stay with you any longer. There are a few benches -near the door where strangers are allowed to go, if you wish to stay for -evensong.” - -Edgar stayed, chiefly, I fear, out of mere listlessness, and took his -place in the corner by the door allotted to Philistines of the male -gender, with much submission and docility. The little chapel was very -richly decorated, the light intercepted by small painted windows, the -walls one mass of mural ornament. He compared it in his imagination, -with a smile, to the bare little convent chapels he had seen and heard -of in countries where the institution appeared more natural. Here there -was a profusion of ecclesiastical luxury, an absolute parade of -decoration. It struck him with a double sense of incongruity, but there -was no one to whom he could express this evil sentiment: Sister Susan -did not appear again as he had hoped, and he wended his way back to town -with some additional information, which he had not possessed when he -left. Why should he be so curious about Miss ----, the nameless one? He -had thought her another Sister, and entertained no profuse curiosity in -respect to her at first; but now it seemed to him that only a little -more light might make her visible to him. There was no reason why he -should find her out, or why he should wish to do so; but great is the -perversity of human nature--perhaps this was the special reason why the -thought occupied him so much. - -It was very strange to so friendly a soul to have no friends whom he -could go to, whom he could talk to, no friendly house where the door -would open to him, and faces smile at his sight. It is true that for -three years he had been severed, to a great degree, from domestic -pleasures, which do not thrive at foreign centres of cosmopolitan -resort--but yet he had never been without a large circle of -acquaintances, and had occasionally seen the old friends of his boyhood -here and there; but in London, in October and November, whom could he -expect to see? The stray man who dropped in now and then at the club, -was on the wing between two country houses, or was going to join a party -somewhere, or home to his people. Some men, of course, must live in -London, but these men, I presume, did not go much to their club, or else -they were so little among the number of Edgar’s friends that they did -not count. Now and then one would join him at dinner, or in one of the -long walks he took, and he made a friend or two at the Museum, among the -books and prints. But he was like an Australian emigrant, or other exile -in savage places. These were all men, and he never saw the face of a -woman except in the streets or shops, unless it was his landlady, who -did not interest him. - -How strangely different from the old days, in which so many fair women -would smile and listen to the young man who was at once so rich and so -original, a great landed proprietor, with the opinions of a -revolutionary. It was not his downfall, however, which had made all the -difference, which was a comfort to him; for, indeed, the families whom -he had once visited were out of London. Sometimes it occurred to him -that if the Thornleighs had been in town, he would have gone to them and -asked leave to be admitted just once or twice, for pure charity, and he -had walked several times past their house in Berkeley Square, and gazed -at its closed shutters with half a notion of calling on the housekeeper, -at least, and asking to see the place in which he had spent so many -pleasant hours. He used to live all over again his first visit to -London, with an amused pleasure in recalling all his own puzzles and -difficulties. He seemed to himself to have been a boy then, almost a -child, playing with fate and his life, and understanding nothing of all -that was around him. To have ten thousand a year one time, and no income -at all the next, but only a hundred pounds in the bank “to fall back -upon,” and the vague promise of a post as Queen’s Messenger at -Christmas--what a change it was! Though to be sure, even now, Edgar said -to himself, there were more people in London worse off than he, than -there were people who were better off. A hundred pounds in the bank is, -in reality, a fortune--as long as you can keep it there; and a man who -has the post of Queen’s Messenger is independent, which is as much as -any prince can be. - -All these philosophisings were wonderfully true, but they did not take -away the uncomfortable, desolate, profitless sensation of living alone -in London without friends, doing nothing except live, which, when you -live for the mere sake of living, and because you can’t help it, is, -perhaps, the dreariest occupation on earth. And in November--when London -is at its worst, and the year at its worst, when the gloomy daylight is -short, and the weary nights are long, and when everything that bears the -guise of amusement palls upon the man who has nothing to do but amuse -himself. - -Sometimes Edgar, in momentary desperation, thought of rushing off to his -former haunts abroad, sometimes of turning back to Loch Arroch, helping -in whatever might be doing, getting some share in human life, and some -place among his fellows; but then the remembrance would strike him that, -now-a-days, he could not do what he pleased, that he had no money but -that hundred pounds in the bank, and no way of getting any now till the -appointment came. - -By-and-by, however, his opinion began to change about the hundred pounds -in the bank. It changed by slow degrees after he had changed his second -ten-pound note, and saw those last precious sovereigns slipping out of -his grasp, which they did with a strange noiseless celerity -inconceivable to him. How did they go? When he counted up all he had -spent, every sixpence seemed so modest, so natural! and yet they were -gone, he knew not how; vanished even, he thought, while he was looking -at them. Then the thought arose in his mind, why keep a hundred pounds -in the bank? It was a waste of capital, money which brought in no -return; and for that matter, if it was merely to secure something to -“fall back upon,” fifty pounds were just as good as a hundred. The -income of a Queen’s Messenger was good, he said to himself (he had not, -in reality, the least idea what it was!), and when he got his -appointment it would be very easy to put back the other fifty pounds if -he found it expedient. But the more he thought of it the less he saw any -need for keeping so much money lying useless. He never could get any -income from so small a sum, and the fifty pounds was quite enough for -any sudden emergency. Or supposing, he said, seventy-five? Seventy-five -pounds was magnificent as a fund to fall back upon; and it was with a -feeling that twenty-five pounds had been somehow added, not taken from -his capital, that he went to the bank one day in December and drew out -the quarter, not the half, of his little stock of money. With -twenty-five pounds in his pocket and seventy-five in the bank, he felt -much richer than with the poor little undivided hundred. And somehow -every day as he grew poorer, he became more convinced that it would be -the most short-sighted economy to remove from his Piccadilly lodgings, -or to relinquish his dinners at the club. Why, they were cheap, -absolutely cheap, both the one and the other, in comparison with the -nasty meals and wretched lodgings for which, no doubt, he might pay a -little less money. He even became slightly extravagant and disposed to -buy little knick-knacks, and to consume little delicacies as his means -grew smaller and smaller. - -I cannot tell what produced this curious state of feeling in Edgar’s -mind. There is a kind of giddiness and desperation of poverty which -seizes a man when he is in the act of spending his last parcel of coin. -It must all go so soon that it seems worse than useless to _ménager_ the -little remnant, and a kind of _vertige_, a rage to get it all over, -comes upon the mind. Perhaps it is the same feeling which makes men in a -sinking ship leap wildly into the water to meet their fate instead of -waiting for it; and as time went on the impulse grew stronger and -stronger. The seventy-five pounds of capital seemed magnificent in -December; but after Christmas it seemed to Edgar that even his fifty -pounds was too much to be lying useless; and he had a little bottle of -champagne with his dinner, and resolved that, as soon as the bank was -open, he would draw, say ten pounds. After all, what was the use of -being so particular about “something to fall back upon?” Probably he -would never want it. If he fell ill, being a Queen’s Messenger, it was -much more likely that he should fall ill in Berlin or Vienna, or Rome or -Naples, than at home--and then it would be some one’s duty to mind him -and take care of him. And if it should be his fate to die, there would -be an end of the matter. Why should he save even forty pounds?--he had -no heir. - -Poor Edgar! it was a kind of intoxication that had seized him, an -intoxication caused by idleness, loneliness, and the separation of his -life from that of every one else around him. Somehow, though Christmas -came and passed and he heard nothing, he could not pluck up courage to -go to Downing Street again. Of course the appointment would come some -day, most likely to-morrow. He was not going to worry Newmarch to death -by going to him every day. He could wait till to-morrow. And so things -went on till it ran very hard with the solitary young man. It occurred -to him one day that his clothes were getting shabby. To be sure he had -unlimited credit with his tailor, having just paid a large bill without -inquiry or question; but the fact of feeling yourself shabby when you -have very little money is painful and startling, and gives the -imagination a shock. After this his mind lost the strange ease which it -had possessed up to this moment, and he grew troubled and restless. “I -must go to Newmarch again,” he acknowledged at last to himself, and all -at once wondered with a sudden pang whether his Messengership was as -certain as he had hoped. “I must go to Newmarch to-morrow,” he said over -and over again as, somewhat dazed and giddy with this sudden thought, he -went along the pavement thoughtfully towards the club, which had become -a second home to him. It was the end of January by this time, and a few -more people were beginning to appear again in these regions. He went in -to his dinner, saying the words to himself mechanically and half aloud. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -Disappointment. - - -It is very curious how often the unintentional movements of other men -concur in making a crisis in an individual life. When Edgar went to his -club that evening he knew no reason why anything unusual should happen -to him. His mind had been roused by sudden anxiety, that anxiety which, -seizing a man all at once upon one particular point, throws a veil over -everything by so doing, and showed yellowness or blackness into the -common light; but he had no reason to suspect that any new light would -come to him, or any new interest into his life, when he went dully and -with a headache to his habitual seat at his habitual table and ate his -dinner, which was not of a very elaborate character. There were more men -than usual in the club that evening, and when Edgar had finished his -dinner he went into the library, not feeling disposed for the long walk -through the lighted streets with which he so often ended his evening. He -took a book, but he was not in the mood to read. Several men nodded to -him as they came and went; one, newly arrived, who had not seen him -since his downfall, came up eagerly and talked for ten minutes before he -went out. The man was nobody in particular, yet his friendliness was -consolatory, and restored to Edgar some confidence in his own identity, -which had seemed to be dropping from him. He put up his book before him -when he was left again alone, and behind this shield looked at his -companions, of whom he knew nothing or next to nothing. - -One of the people whom he thus unconsciously watched was a man whom he -had already noted on several evenings lately, and as to whose condition -he was in some perplexity. The first evening Edgar had half stumbled -over him with the idea that he was one of the servants, and in the -glance of identification with which he begged pardon, decided that, -though not one of the servants, he must be a shopkeeper, perhaps well -off and retired, whom somebody had introduced, or who had been admitted -by one of those chances which permit the rich to enter everywhere. Next -evening when he saw the same man again, he rubbed out as it were with -his finger the word shopkeeper, which he had, so to speak, written -across him, and wrote “city-man” instead. A city-man may be anything; he -may be what penny-a-liners call a merchant prince, without losing the -characteristic features of his class. This man was about forty-five, he -had a long face, with good but commonplace features, hair getting scanty -on the top, and brown whiskers growing long into two points, after the -fashion of the day. The first time he was in evening dress, having come -in after dinner, which was the reason why Edgar took him for one of the -attendants. The next time he was in less elaborate costume, and looked -better; for evening dress is trying to a man who has not the _air noble_ -which christianizes those hideous garments. The third night again, -Edgar, in imagination, drew a pen through the word “city-man,” and -wondered whether the stranger could be a successful artist, a great -portrait-painter, something of that description, a prosperous man to -whom art had become the most facile and most lucrative of trades. On -this particular night he again changed his opinion, crossed the word -artist and put man about town, indefinitest of designations, yet -infinitely separated from all the others. Thus blurred and overwritten -by so many attempts at definition, the new-comer attracted his -attention, he could scarcely tell why. There was nothing remarkable -about the man; he had grey eyes, a nose without much character, loose -lips disposed to talk, an amiable sort of commonness, eagerness, -universal curiosity in his aspect. He knew most people in the room, and -went and talked to them, to each a little; he looked at all the papers -without choice of politics; he took down a great many books, looked at -them and put them back again. Edgar grew a little interested in him on -this special evening. He had a long conversation with one of the -servants, and talked to him sympathetically, almost anxiously, ending by -giving him an address, which the man received with great appearance of -gratitude. Might he be a physician perhaps? But his bearing and his -looks were alike against this hypothesis. “Benevolent,” Edgar said to -himself. - -His attention, however, was quite drawn away from this stranger by the -sudden entrance of Lord Newmarch, who like himself was a member of the -club, and who came in hurriedly, accompanied by some one less dignified -but more eager than himself, with whom he was discussing some subject -which required frequent reference to books. Edgar felt his heart stir as -he perceived the great man enter. Was it possible that his fate -depended, absolutely depended, upon the pleasure of this man--that two -words from him might make his fortune secure, or plunge him into a -deeper and sickening uncertainty which could mean only ruin? Good -heaven, was it possible? A kind of inertness, moral cowardice, he did -not know what to call it--perhaps the shrinking a doomed man feels from -actual hearing of his fate--had kept him from going to the office to put -the arbiter of his destinies in mind of his promise. Now he could not -let this opportunity slip; he must go to him, he must ask him what was -to be the result. Up to this morning he had felt himself sure of his -post, now he felt just as sure of rejection. Both impressions no doubt -were equally unreasonable; but who can defend himself against such -impressions? Gradually Edgar grew breathless as he watched that -discussion which looked as if it would never end. What could it be -about? Some vague philanthropico-political question, some bit of -doctrinarianism of importance to nobody--while his was a matter of death -and life. To be sure this was his own fault, for he might, as you will -perceive, dear reader, have gone to Lord Newmarch any day, and found -him at his office, where probably, amid all the sublime business there, -Edgar’s affairs had gone entirely out of his head. But if you think the -suggestion that it was his own fault made the suspense now a -straw-weight more easy to him, this is a point on which I do not agree -with you. The consequences of our own faults are in all circumstances -the most difficult to bear. - -Oddly enough, the stranger whom Edgar had been watching, seemed anxious -to speak to Lord Newmarch too. Edgar’s eyes met his in their mutual -watch upon the Minister, who went on disputing with his companion, -referring to book after book. It was some military question of which I -suppose Lord Newmarch knew as much as his grandmother did, and the other -was a hapless soldier endeavouring in vain to convey a lucid description -and understanding of some important technical matter to the head of the -Secretary of State. In vain; Lord Newmarch did not try to understand--he -explained; to many people this method of treating information is so much -the most natural. And the stranger watched him on one side, and Edgar on -the other. Their eyes met more than once, and after a while the humour -of the situation struck Edgar, even in his trouble, and he smiled; upon -which a great revolution made itself apparent in the other’s -countenance. He smiled too; not with the sense of humour which moved -Edgar, but with a gleam of kindness in his face, which threw a certain -beauty over it. Edgar was struck with a strange surprise: he was taken -aback at the same time, he felt as if somehow he must have appealed to -the kindness, the almost pity in the other’s face. What had he done to -call forth such an expression? His newborn pride jumped up in arms; and -yet there was no possibility of offence meant, and nothing to warrant -offence being taken. Edgar, however, averted his eyes hastily, and -watched Lord Newmarch no more. And then he took himself to task, and -asked himself, Was it an offence to look at him kindly? Was he offended -by a friendly glance? Good heavens! what was he coming to, if it was so. - -Presently Edgar’s heart beat still higher, for Lord Newmarch’s companion -rose to go, and he, having caught sight of the stranger, remained, and -went up to him holding out his hand. Edgar could but wait on, and bide -his time; his book was still before him, at which he had never looked. A -sickening sense of humiliation crept over him. He felt all the misery of -dependence; here was he, so lately this man’s equal, waiting, sickening -for a word from him, for a look, wondering what he would say, -questioning with himself, while his heart beat higher and higher, and -the breath came quickly on his lips. Good heavens, wondering what -Newmarch would say! a man whom he had so laughed at, made fun of, but -who was now to be the very arbiter of his fate, whose word would make -all the difference between a secure and useful and worthy future, and -that impoverishment of hope, and means, and capability altogether, which -some call ruin--and justly call. - -While Edgar sat thus waiting, excitement gradually gaming upon him, he -saw with some surprise that the man to whom he had given so many -different descriptions, was drawing back and pushing Lord Newmarch -towards him; and seeing this, he got up, with a half-shrinking from his -fate, half-eagerness to hear it. - -“All right,” said the unknown, “your turn first. The great man must give -us all audience in turn;” and with a little nod he went to the other end -of the room and took up a newspaper, of which he probably made as little -use as Edgar had been doing of his book. - -“Droll fellow!” said Newmarch, “how d’ye do, eh, Earnshaw? I have been -in town this month past, but you have never looked me up.” - -“I feared to bore you,” said Edgar, hastily. - -“It is my business never to be bored,” said Lord Newmarch, with a -certain solemnity, which was natural to him. “Where have you been--in -the country? what here all this time! I wish I had known; I seldom come -here, except for the library, which is wonderfully good, as perhaps you -know. That was Cheeseman that was arguing with me--Cheeseman, you know, -one of those practical people--and insists upon his own way.” - -“I wonder,” said Edgar, uneasily, “whether you have ever thought again -of a small matter I went to you about?” - -“What, the messengership?” said Lord Newmarch, “what do you take me -for--eh, Earnshaw? Of course I have thought of it; there is never a -week that I do not hope something may happen to old Runtherout; I don’t -mean anything fatal of course; but there he sticks from month to month, -and probably so he will from year to year.” - -Edgar felt his countenance falling, falling. He felt, or thought he -felt, his jaw drop. He felt his heart go down, down, like a stone. He -put a miserable smile upon his miserable face. “Then I suppose there is -no chance for me,” he said. - -“Oh yes, my dear fellow, certainly there is a chance--as much chance as -there ever was,” said Lord Newmarch, cheerfully, “these things, of -course, cannot be altered all at once, but as soon as old Runtherout -gives up, which cannot be long--I do not mind for my part what anyone -says, I shall put you in. If you only knew what it would have been to me -to have you in Berlin now! You speak German quite fluently, don’t you? -Good heavens, what a loss to me!” - -And, good heavens what a loss to me! Edgar felt disposed to say. As much -chance as there ever was! then what had the chance been at first, for -which he had wasted so much time and all his little stock of money. God -help him! he had to receive the news with a smile, the best he could -muster, and to listen to Lord Newmarch’s assurance that a few months -could make very little difference. “Oh, very little difference!” echoed -poor Edgar, with that curious fictitious brassy (why he thought it was -brassy I cannot tell, but that was the adjective he used to himself) -brassy imitation of a smile; and Lord Newmarch went on talking somehow -up in the air beside him, about a number of things, to which he said -yes and no mechanically with some certain kind of appropriateness, I -suppose, for nobody seemed to find out the semi-consciousness in which -he was--until the great man suddenly recollected that he must speak a -few words to Tottenham, and fell back upon the man with worn grey eyes -and loose lips, who sprang up from behind his newspaper like a jack in a -box. Edgar, for his part, dropped down in his chair something like the -same toy when shut up in its hiding-place. There was a buzzing in his -ears again as there had been when he had his first interview with the -Minister--but this time the giddiness was more overpowering; a hundred -thoughts passed through his mind in a moment, each crowding upon each, a -noiseless, breathless crowd. What was he to do? Everything seemed to be -shown to him in the space of a moment, as fable says, a whole lifetime -is shown in a moment to those who die suddenly. Good God! a few months! -what was he to do? - -Some people can face the prospect of living for a few months on nothing -quite pleasantly, and some people do it habitually (without being at all -bad people), and get through somehow, and come to no tragical end. But -Edgar was young and unaccustomed to poverty. He was even unaccustomed to -live from hand to mouth, as so many of us do, light-hearted wretches, -without taking thought for the morrow. It was some time, it was true, -before he was roused to think of the morrow at all, but, when he did, it -seized upon him like a vulture. He sank back into his chair, and sat -there like a log, with vacant eyes, but mind preternaturally busy and -occupied. What was he to do? - -He was roused from this outward stupor, but inner ferment, by seeing -Newmarch again come up accompanied by the stranger, whose very existence -he had forgotten. “Mr. Tottenham, Mr. Edgar Earnshaw,” said the -Under-Secretary, “one of my best friends. Come and see me, won’t you, in -Eaton Place. I must go now; and come to the office soon, and let us talk -your affair over. The moment old Runtherout will consent to take himself -out of the way--As for you, Tottenham, I envy you. All your schemes in -your own hands, no chief to thwart you, no office to keep on -recommending this man and that, when they know you have a man of your -own. You may thank heaven that you have only your own theories to serve, -and not Her Majesty. Good night, good night.” - -“Good night,” said Edgar, absently. - -Mr. Tottenham said nothing, but he gave Lord Newmarch a finger to shake, -and turned to his new companion, who sat with his head down, and paid -little attention to his presence. He fixed his eyes very closely on -Edgar, which is a thing that can scarcely be done without attracting -finally the notice of the person looked at. When he had caught Edgar’s -wondering but dazed and dreamy look, he smiled--the same smile by which -Edgar had already been half pleased, half angered. - -“Mr. Earnshaw,” he said, “you have a story, and I know it. I hope I -should have tried to behave as well myself; but I don’t know. And I -have a story too. Will you come into the smoking-room if you have -nothing better to do, and I’ll tell it you? I call it the history of a -very hard case. Newmarch left you to me as his substitute, for he knew I -wanted to talk. I like the exchange. He’s a profound blockhead, though -he’s Secretary of State. Come and smoke a cigar.” - -Edgar rose mechanically, he scarcely knew why; he was pale; he felt his -legs almost give way under him as he moved across the passage to the -smoking-room. He did not want to smoke, nor to know Mr. Tottenham’s -story; but he had not strength of mind to resist what was asked of him. - -“A few months,” he kept saying to himself. It seemed to him that a -sudden indifference to everything else, to all things greater and more -distant, had come into his mind. For the first time in his life he was -self-engrossed, self-absorbed, able to think of nothing but his own -necessities, and what he was to do. So strange was this to Edgar, so -miserable did he feel it, that even on the short journey from one room -to another he made an effort to shake off the sudden chains with which -this sudden necessity had bound him, and was appalled by his own -weakness, almost by a sense of guilt, when he found that he could take -no interest whatever in Mr. Tottenham, that he could think of nothing -but himself. For the first time, there was nobody but himself involved; -no justice to be done, no kindness to be shown to others. Wherever other -people are concerned, a certain breadth, a certain freedom and -largeness, come into the question, even though the other people may be -poor and small enough; but how mean the generous man feels, how petty -and miserable, when he, and he only, becomes by any twist of fortune the -centre of all his thoughts! - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -A new Friend. - - -“I hope I should have done exactly as you did in that Arden business,” -said Mr. Tottenham; “but I can’t tell. The amount of meanness and -falseness to all one’s own rules which one feels in one’s self in a -great emergency is wonderful. I never put any dependence on myself. Now -I will tell who, or rather what I am. The pronoun Who is inappropriate -in my case. I am nobody; but when you know what I am--if, indeed, my -name does not tell you--” - -“No,” said Edgar, forcing himself into attention. - -“It is not a bad name; there are fine people, I believe, who bear it, -and who hold up their heads with the best. But if you belonged to a -middle-class London family, and had a mother and sisters, you would have -no difficulty in identifying me. I am not a Tottenham with a Christian -name like other people. I am Tottenham’s, in the possessive case.” - -“I begin to understand,” said Edgar. - -What an effort it was to him! But he grew more capable of making the -effort as he tried to make it, and actually looked up now with a gleam -of intelligence in his eye. - -“You begin to realize me,” said his companion. “I am Tottenham’s. I have -been Tottenham’s all my life. My father died when I was only a small -boy. I hope, though I don’t know, that he might have had sense enough to -habituate me to my fate from the beginning, which would have made it -much easier. But my mother, unfortunately, was a lady, or thought -herself so. She brought me up as if there was not such a thing as a shop -in the world. She buys everything at Howell and James’s of set purpose -and malice prepense, when she could get all she wants at cost price in -our own place; to be sure she can afford it, thanks to the shop. I never -knew anything about this said shop till I was at Eton, when I denied the -connection stoutly, and fought for it, and came off triumphant, though -the other fellow was the biggest. When I went home for the holidays, I -told the story. ‘You were quite right not to give in to it, my dear,’ -said my mother. ‘But is it true?’ said I. Poor dear, how she -prevaricated! She would not have told a lie for the world, but a tiny -little bit of a fib did not seem so bad. Accordingly I found it out, and -had to go back to Eton, and beg the fellow’s pardon, and tell him it -wasn’t a lie he told, but the truth, only I had not known it. I don’t -think any of them thought the worse of me for that.” - -“I should think not,” cried Edgar, beginning to rouse up. - -“No, I don’t suppose they did; but from that day I became thin-skinned, -as people call it, and scented the shop afar off in everything people -said. My mother’s contempt for it, and shame of it, got deep into my -mind. I grew sensitive. I did not like to give my name when I went -anywhere. I felt sure some one would say, ‘Oh, Tottenham’s!’ when my -card was taken in. I can’t tell you the misery this gave me all through -school and college. I hated the shop, and was afraid of it. I was -morbidly ashamed of my name. I went and wandered about in vacation, -wearing other men’s names as I might have borrowed their coats. Not -without their consent, mind you,” he added, sharply. “I did nothing -dishonourable; but I had a horror of being Tottenham, a horror which I -cannot describe.” - -“That was strange!” - -“You think so? Well, so do I _now_; and it was very unfortunate for me. -It got me into many scrapes; it almost cost me my wife. You don’t know -my wife? I must take you out to see her. I was introduced to her under -somebody else’s name--not a very distinguished name, it is true, Smith, -or Brown, or something, and under that name she accepted me; but when I -told her how things really were, her countenance flamed like that of the -angel, do you remember? in Milton, when Adam says something caddish--I -forget what exactly. How she did look at me! ‘Ashamed of your name!’ she -said, ‘and yet ask _me_ to share it!’ There is pride and pride,” said -Mr. Tottenham to himself with musing admiration. “The poor dear mother -thought she was proud; Mary _is_ so; that makes all the difference. I -got into such trouble as I never was in all my life. She sent me right -away; she would have nothing to say to me; she cast me off as you might -cast away that cinder with that pair of tongs. For a time I was the most -miserable fellow on the face of the earth. I wandered about the place -where she lived night and day; but even then, if you will believe me, it -cost me a very hard struggle indeed to get to the shop. When I was -desperate, I did.” - -“Why is he telling _me_ all this, I wonder?” said Edgar to himself; but -he was interested, he could not tell how, and had raised his head, and -for the moment shaken off something of the burden from his own back. - -“I made up my mind to it, and went at last,” said this odd man, puffing -at his cigar with a vehemence that made it evident he felt it still. “I -found that nobody wanted me there; that everybody preferred not to be -interfered with; that the managers had fallen each into his own way, and -had no desire for me to meddle. But I am not the sort of man that can -stand and look on with his hands in his pockets. You will wonder, and -perhaps you will despise me, when I tell you that I found Tottenham’s on -the whole a very interesting place.” - -“I neither wonder nor despise,” said Edgar. “What did you do?” - -“What didn’t I do?” said Mr. Tottenham, with rueful humour. “I did all -the mischief possible. I turned the whole place upside down. I -diminished the profits for that year by a third part. I changed the -well-known good order of Tottenham’s into confusion worse confounded. -The old managers resigned in a body. By-the-way, they stayed on all but -one afterwards, when I asked them. As for the assistants, there was -civil war in the place, and more than one free fight between the -different sides; for some sided with me, perhaps because they approved -of me, perhaps because I was the master, and could do what I liked; but -the end was that I stayed there three months, worked there, and then -wrote to Mary; and she took me back.” - -“I am very glad to hear it,” said Edgar; and he smiled and sighed with -natural sympathy. - -He had become quite interested in the story by this time, and totally -forgotten all about his own miseries. He came out of his cloud finally -just at this point, and took, at last, the cigar which his new friend -had from time to time offered him. - -“Ah! come now, this is comfortable,” said Tottenham. “Up to that moment -mine had been a very hard case, don’t you think so? I don’t pretend to -have anything more to grumble about. But, having had a hard case myself, -I sympathize with other people. Yours was a horribly hard case. Tell me -now, that other fellow, that Arden scamp! I know him--as proud as -Lucifer, and as wicked as all the rest of the evil spirits put -together--do you mean to say he allowed you to go away, and give him up -all that fine property, and save him thousands of pounds in a lawsuit, -without making some provision for you? Such a thing was never heard of.” - -“No,” said Edgar; “don’t be unjust to him. It was a bitter pill for me -to take a penny from him; but I did, because they made me.” - -“And you’ve spent it all!” - -Edgar laughed; he could not help it. His elastic nature had mounted up -again; he began to feel sure that he could not be ruined so completely -after all; he must be able to do something. He looked up at his -questioner with eyes full of humour. Mr. Tottenham, who was standing in -front as grave as a judge, looked at him, and did not laugh. - -“I don’t see the fun,” he said. “You shouldn’t have done it. You have -let yourself drop half out of recollection before you asked for -anything, whereas you should have got provided for at once. Hang it all! -I suppose there are some places yet where a man in office may place a -friend--and some opportunities left to put a good man in by means of a -job, instead of putting in a bad man by competition, or seniority, or -some other humbug. You should have done that at first.” - -“Possibly,” said Edgar, who had been amused, not by the idea of having -spent all his money, but by that of making a clean breast to this man, -whom he had never spoken to before, of the most private particulars of -his life. - -Mr. Tottenham made a few turns about the room, where there was for the -moment nobody but themselves. He said then suddenly, - -“I take an interest in you. I should like to help you if I could. -Tottenham’s is no end of a good property, and I can do what I like----” - -“I am sure I am very much obliged,” said Edgar, laughing. “I should -thank you still more warmly if it were not so funny. Why should you take -an interest in me?” - -“It is odd, perhaps,” said the other; but he did not laugh. A smile ran -over his face, that was all, and passed again like a momentary light. -Then he added, “It is not so odd as you think. If I could conceal from -you who my wife was, I might be tempted to do so; but I can’t, for -though I’m only Tottenham’s, she’s in the peerage. My Mary is sister to -Augusta Thornleigh, who--well, who _knew_ you, my dear fellow. Look -here! She’s fashionable and all that; she would not let you see her -daughters, at present, if she could help it; but she’s a good woman, -mind. I have heard her tell your story. If ever there was a hard case, -that was one; and when I heard of it, I resolved, if I ever had the -chance, to stand by you. You behaved like a gentleman. Since we have -been made acquainted, Earnshaw, we have not shaken hands yet!” - -They did it now very heartily; and in those restless grey eyes, which -were worn by sheer use and perpetual motion, there glimmered some -moisture. Edgar’s eyes were dry, but his whole heart was melted. There -was a pause for a minute or more, and the ashes fell softly on the -hearth, and the clock ticked on the mantel-piece. Then Edgar asked, “How -are they all?” with that sound in his utterance which the French in -their delicate discrimination call tears in the voice. - -“Quite well, quite well!” said Tottenham hurriedly; and then he added, -“We didn’t come here to speak of them. Earnshaw, I want you to come to -my house.” - -“It is very kind of you,” said Edgar. “I think I have seen Lady Mary. -She is very sweet and lively, like--some one else; with fair hair----” - -“Isn’t she?” cried Lady Mary’s admiring husband; and his eyes glowed -again. “I want you to come and stay with us while this business with -Newmarch gets settled.” - -“Why?” said Edgar, with genuine surprise; and then he added, “You are a -great deal too good. I should like to go for a day or two. I haven’t -spoken to a lady for months.” - -“Poor fellow!” said Mr. Tottenham, taking no notice of the “Why?” “We -live only a little way out of town, on account of the shop. I have never -neglected the shop since the time I told you about. She would not let me -for that matter. Nobody, you see, can snub _her_, in consequence of her -rank; and partly for her sake, partly because I’m rich, I suppose, -nobody tries to snub me. There are many of my plans in which you could -help me very much--for a time, you know, till Newmarch comes off.” - -“You are very kind,” said Edgar; but his attention wandered after this, -and other thoughts came into his mind, thoughts of himself and his -forlorn condition, and of the profound uncertainty into which he and all -his ways had been plunged. He scarcely paid any attention to the -arrangements Mr. Tottenham immediately made, though he remembered that -he promised to go out with him next day to Tottenham’s, as his house was -called. “The same as the shop,” he said, with a twinkle in the corner of -his grey eye. Edgar consented to these arrangements passively; but his -patience was worn out, and he was very anxious to get away. - -And so this strange evening came to an end, and the morning after it. -The new day arose, a smoky, foggy, wintry morning, through which so many -people went to work; but not Edgar. He looked out upon the world from -his window with a failing heart. Even from Kensington and Brompton, -though these are not mercantile suburbs, crowds of men were jolting -along on all the omnibuses, crowds pouring down on either side of the -street--to work. The shop people went along the road getting and -delivering orders; the maid-servants bustled about the doors in the -foggy, uncertain light; the omnibuses rushed on, on, in a continuous -stream; and everybody was busy. Those who had no work to do, pretended -at least to be busy too; the idlers had not come out yet, had not -stirred, and the active portion of the world were having everything -their own way. Edgar had revived from his depression, but he had not -regained his _insouciance_ and trust in the future. On the contrary, he -was full of the heaviest uncertainty and care. He could not wait longer -for this appointment, which might keep him hanging on half his life, -which was just as near now as when he began to calculate on having it -“about Christmas;” probably the next Christmas would see it just as -uncertain still. He must, he felt, attempt something else, and change -his tactics altogether. He must leave his expensive lodgings at once; -but alas! he had a big bill for them, which he had meant to pay off his -first quarter’s salary. He had meant to pay it the moment that blessed -money for which he should have worked came; and now there was no -appearance, no hope of it ever coming--at least, only as much hope as -there had always been, no more. - -Poor Edgar! he might have rushed out of doors and taken to the first -manual work he could find as his heart bade him; but to go and solicit -somebody once more, and hang on and wait, dependent upon the -recollection or the caprice of some one or other who could give -employment, but might, out of mere wantonness, withhold it--this was -harder than any kind of work. He could dig, he felt, and would dig -willingly, or do any other thing that was hard and simple and -straightforward; but to beg for means of working he was ashamed; and -there seemed something so miserable, so full of the spirit of dependence -in having to wait on day by day doing nothing, waiting till something -might fall into his hands. How infinitely better off working men were, -he said to himself; not thinking that even the blessed working man, who -is free from the restraints and punctilios which bind gentlemen, has yet -to stand and wait, and ask for work too, with the best. - -He went back to Mr. Parchemin that morning. - -“I have been waiting for Lord Newmarch,” he said; “he promised me a post -about Christmas, and now he tells me there is just as much hope as -ever, but no more. I must do something else. Could you not take me in as -clerk in your own office? I should not mind a small salary to start -with; anything would do.” - -Mr. Parchemin laughed, a dry and echoing “Ha, ha!” which was as dusty -and dry as his office. - -“A strange clerk you would make,” he said, looking over his shoulder to -conceal his amusement. “Can you engross?” - -“Of course not. How should I? But if a man were to try--” - -“Do you know anything about the law? Of what possible use could you be -to us? No; you are a fancy article, entirely a fancy article. -Government,” said the old lawyer, “Government is the thing for you.” - -“Government does not seem to see it in that light,” said Edgar. “I have -waited since October.” - -“My dear Sir! October is but three months off. You can’t expect, like a -child, to have your wants supplied the moment you ask for anything. A -slice of cake may be given in that way, but not an appointment. You must -have patience, Mr. Earnshaw, you must have patience,” said the old man. - -“But I have spent the half of my hundred pounds,” Edgar was about to -say; but something withheld him; he could not do it. Should he not -furnish the old lawyer by so doing with an unquestionable argument -against himself? Should he not expose his own foolishness, the -foolishness of the man who thought himself able to give up everything -for others, and then could do nothing but run into debt and ruin on his -own account? Edgar could not do it; he resolved rather to struggle on -upon nothing, rather to starve, though that was a figure of speech, than -to put himself so much in anyone’s power; which was pride, no doubt, but -a useful kind of pride, which sometimes keeps an erring man out of -further trouble. He went back at once, and paid his landlord a portion -of what he owed him, and removed his goods to a small upstairs room -which he found he could have cheap, and might have had all the time had -he been wise enough to ask. It was the room in which his own servant had -slept when he travelled with such an appendage; but the new-born pride -which had struggled into existence in Edgar’s mind had no such ignoble -part in it as to afflict him on this account. He was quite happy to go -up to his man’s room, where everything was clean and homely, and felt no -derogation of his personal dignity. Thank Heaven, this was one thing -done at least--a step taken, though nothing could be gained by it, only -something spared. - -In the afternoon Mr. Tottenham met him at his club, driving a pair of -handsome horses in a smart phaeton, such a turnout as only a rich man’s -can be, everything about it perfect. Edgar had not indulged in any -luxurious tastes during his own brief reign; it had been perhaps too -short to develop them; but he recognised the perfect appointments of the -vehicle with a half sigh of satisfaction and reminiscence. He did not -say, why should this man be lucky enough to have all this when I have -nothing? as so many people do. He was not given to such comparisons, to -that ceaseless contrast of self with the rest of the world, which is so -common. He half smiled at himself for half sighing over the day when he -too might have had everything that heart could desire, and smiled more -than half at the whimsical thought that he had not taken the good of his -wealth half so much then as he would have done now, had he the chance. -He seemed to himself--knowing how short Edgar Arden’s tenure was--to be -aware of a hundred things which Edgar might have done to amuse and -delight him, which indeed Edgar Arden, knowing nothing of his own short -tenure, and believing life to be very long and much delight awaiting -him, never dreamt of making any haste to procure. A curious sense of -well-being seemed to take hold of him as he bowled along the suburban -roads by Mr. Tottenham’s side, wrapped in one of the fur coats which the -chill and foggy evening made comfortable, watching the long lines of -lamps that twinkled and stretched out like a golden thread, and then -were left behind as in the twinkling of an eye. To hear of Lady Mary -Tottenham, who was Lady Augusta’s sister, and aunt to all the young -Thornleighs, seemed somehow like being wafted back to the old -atmosphere, to the state of affairs which lasted so short a time and -ended so suddenly; but which was, notwithstanding its brevity, the most -important and influential moment of his life. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -The Enchanted Palace. - - -Tottenham’s was about five miles from London on the Bayswater side. It -was a huge house, standing upon a little eminence, and surrounded by -acres of park and clouds of thick but leafless trees, which looked -ghostly enough in the Winter darkness. The fog had faded away from them -long before they got so far, and had been replaced by the starlight -clearness of a very cold evening; the sky was almost black, the points -of light in it dead white, and all the landscape, so far as it was -perceptible, an Indian ink landscape in faintly differing shades of -black and deepest grey. Nevertheless it was a relief to breathe the -fresh country air, after the damp fog which had clung to their throats -and blinded their eyes. The roads were still hard, though there were -signs of the breaking up of the frost, and the horses’ hoofs rang as -they dashed along. - -“It’s a nice place,” Mr. Tottenham said, “though I, of course, only -bought it from the old people, who fortunately were not very venerable -nor very desirable. It had a fine name before, and it was Mary’s idea to -call it Tottenham’s. As we cannot ignore the shop, it is as well to take -the full advantage of it. The worst thing is,” he added lowering his -voice, “it hurts the servants’ feelings dreadfully. We have at last -managed to get a butler who sees the humour of it, and acknowledges the -shop with a condescending sense that the fact of _his_ serving a -shopkeeper is the best joke in the world. You will notice a -consciousness of this highly humorous position at once in his face; but -it is a bitter pill to the rest of the household. The housemaids and our -friend behind us, cannot bear any reference to the degradation. You will -respect their feelings, Earnshaw? I am sure you will take care to show a -seemly respect for their feelings.” - -Edgar laughed, and Mr. Tottenham went on. He was a very easy man to talk -with; indeed he did most of the conversation himself, and was so -pleasantly full of his home and his wife and his evident happiness, that -no one, or at least no one so sympathetic as Edgar, could have -stigmatized with unkind names the lengthened monologue. There was this -excuse for it on the other hand, that he was thus making himself and his -belongings known to a stranger whom he had determined to make a friend -of. Few people dislike to talk about themselves when they can throw off -all fear of ridicule, and have a tolerable excuse for their fluency. We -all like it, dear reader; we know it sounds egotistical, and the wiser -we are the more we avoid exposing our weakness; but yet when we can feel -it is safe and believe that it is justified, how pleasant it is to tell -some fresh and sympathetic listener all about ourselves! Perhaps this is -one of the reasons why youth is so pleasant a companion to age, because -the revelations on each side can be full and lengthened without -unsuitability or fear of misconstruction. Edgar, too, possessed many of -the qualities which make a good listener. He was in a subdued state of -mind, and had no particular desire to talk in his own person; he had no -history for the moment that would bear telling; he was glad enough to be -carried lightly along upon the stream of this other man’s story, which -amused him, if nothing else. Edgar’s life had come to a pause; he lay -quiescent between two periods, not knowing where the next tide might -lift him, or what might be the following chapter. He was like a -traveller in the night, looking in through a hospitable open window at -some interior all bright with firelight and happiness, getting to -recognise which was which in the household party round the fire, and -listening with a gratitude more warm and effusive than had the service -been a greater one, to the hospitable invitation to enter. As well might -such a traveller have censured the openness which drew no curtains and -closed no shutters, and warmed his breast with the sight of comfort and -friendliness, as Edgar could have called Mr. Tottenham’s talk -egotistical. For had not he too been called in for rest and shelter out -of the night? - -He felt as in a dream when he entered the house, and was led through the -great hall and staircase, and into the bright rooms to be presented to -Lady Mary, who came forward to meet her husband’s new friend with the -kindest welcome. She was a little light woman with quantities of fair -hair, lively, and gay, and kind, with nothing of the worn look which -distinguished her husband, but a fresh air, almost of girlhood, in her -slight figure and light movements. She was so like _some one else_, that -Edgar’s heart beat at sight of her, as it had not beat for years before. -Gussy Thornleigh had gone out of his life, for ever, as he thought. He -had given her up completely, hopelessly--and he had not felt at the time -of this renunciation that his love for her had ever reached the length -of passion, or that this was one of the partings which crush all -thoughts of possible happiness out of the heart. But, notwithstanding, -her idea had somehow lingered about him, as ideas passionately cherished -do not always do. When he had been still and musing, the light little -figure, the pretty head with its curls, the half laughing, half wise -look with which this little girl would discourse to him upon everything -in earth and heaven, had got into a way of coming up before him with the -most astonishing reality and vividness. “I was not so very much in love -with Gussy,” he had said to himself very often at such moments, with a -whimsical mixture of surprise and complaint. No, he had not been so very -much in love with her; yet she had haunted him all these three years. -Lady Mary was only her aunt, which is not always an attractive -relationship; generally, indeed, the likeness between a pretty girl and -a middle-aged woman is rather discouraging to a lover, as showing to -what plump and prosaic good condition his ethereal darling may come, -than delightful; but Edgar had no sham sentiment about him, and was not -apt to be assailed by any such unreal disgusts, even had there been -anything to call them forth. Lady Mary, however, was still as -lightfooted and light-hearted as Gussy herself. She had the same -abundant fair hair, the same lively sweet eyes, never without the -possibility of a laugh in them, and never anything but kind. She came up -to Edgar holding out both her hands. - -“You are not a stranger to me,” she said, “don’t introduce him, Tom. The -only difficulty I have about you, is how to address you as Mr. -Earnshaw--but that is only for the first moment. Sit down and thaw, both -of you, and I will give you some tea--that is if you want tea. We have -nobody with us for a day or two fortunately, and you will just have time -to get acquainted with us, Mr. Earnshaw, and know all our ways before -any one else comes.” - -“But a day or two ought to be the limit--” Edgar began, hesitating. - -“What! you have said nothing?” said Lady Mary, hastily turning to her -husband. He put his finger on his lip. - -“You are a most impetuous little person, Mary,” he said, “you don’t know -the kind of bird we have got into the net. You think he will let you -openly and without any illusion put salt upon his tail. No greater -mistake could be. Earnshaw,” he added calmly, “come and let me show you -your room. We dine directly, as we are alone and above ceremony. You can -talk to my wife as much as you like after dinner--I shall go to sleep. -What a blessing it is to be allowed to go to sleep after dinner,” he -went on as he led the way upstairs, “especially on Saturday night--when -one is tired and has Sunday to look forward to.” - -“Why should it be especially blessed on Saturday night?” - -“My dear fellow,” said the host solemnly, ushering his guest into a -large and pleasant room, brilliant with firelight, “it is very clear -that you have never kept a shop.” - -And with these words he disappeared, leaving Edgar, it must be allowed, -somewhat disturbed in his mind as to what it could all mean, why he had -been thus selected as a visitor and conducted to this fairy palace; what -it was that the wife wondered her husband had not said--and indeed what -the whole incident meant? As he looked round upon his luxurious -quarters, and felt himself restored as it were to the life he had so -long abandoned, curious dreams and fancies came fluttering about Edgar -without any will of his own. It was like the adventure (often enough -repeated) in the Arabian nights, in which the hero is met by some -mysterious mute and blindfolded, and led into a mysterious hall, all -cool with plashing fountains and sweet with flowers. These images were -not exactly suited to the wintry drive he had just taken, though that -was pleasant enough in its way, and no bed of roses could have been so -agreeable as the delightful glimpse of the fire, and all the warm and -soft comfort about him. But had he been blindfolded--had he been brought -unawares into some beneficent snare? Edgar’s heart began to beat a -little quicker than usual. He did not know and dared not have whispered -to himself what the fancies were that beset him. He tried to frown them -down, to represent to himself that he was mad, that the curious freak of -his new friend, and his own long fasting from all social intercourse had -made this first taste of it too much for his brain. But all that he -could do was not enough to free him from the wild fancies which buzzed -about him like gnats in Summer, each with its own particular hum and -sting. He dressed hurriedly and took a book by way of escaping from -them, a dry book which he compelled himself to read, rather than go -crazy altogether. Good heavens, was he mad already? In that mysterious -palace where the hero is brought blindfold, where he is waited on by -unseen hands, and finds glorious garments and wonderful feasts magically -prepared for him, is there not always in reserve a princess more -wonderful still, who takes possession of the wayfarer? “Retro, Satanas!” -cried poor Edgar, throwing the book from him, feeling his cheeks flush -and burn like a girl’s, and his heart leap into his throat. No greater -madness, no greater folly could be. It was no doing of his, he protested -to himself with indignation and dismay. Some evil spirit had got hold of -him; he refused to think, and yet these dreamy mocking fancies would get -into his head. It was a relief beyond description to him when the dinner -bell rang and he could hurry downstairs. When he went into the -drawing-room, however, all the buzzing brood of thoughts which fluttered -within him, grew still and departed in a moment; his heart ceased to -thump, and an utter quiet and stillness took the place of the former -commotion. Why? Simply because he found Lady Mary and Mr. Tottenham -awaiting him calmly, without a vestige of any other _convive_, except a -boy of twelve and a girl two years younger, who came up to him with a -pretty demure frankness and put out their hands in welcome. - -“My boy and my girl,” said Mr. Tottenham; “and Molly, as your mother is -going in with Mr. Earnshaw, you must try to look very grown up for the -nonce, and take my arm and walk with me.” - -“And poor Phil must come alone!” said the little girl with mingled -regret and triumph. No, it was very clear to Edgar that he himself was -not only a fool of the first water, but a presumptuous ass, a coxcomb -fool, everything that was worst and vainest. And yet it had not been his -doing; it was not he who had originated these foolish thoughts, which -had assailed, and swarmed, and buzzed about him like a crowd of gnats or -wasps--wasps was the better word; for there was spitefulness in the way -they had persisted and held their own; but now, thank heaven, they were -done with! He came to himself with a little shudder, and gave Lady Mary -his arm, and walked through the ordinary passage of an ordinary house, -into a room which was a handsome dining-room, but not a mystic hall; and -then they all sat down at table, the two children opposite to him, in -the most prosaic and ordinary way. - -“You think it wrong to have the children, Mr. Earnshaw?” said Lady Mary, -“and so do I--though I like it. It is only when we are alone, and it is -all their father’s doing. I tell him it will spoil their digestion and -their manners--” - -“If it spoils Molly’s manners to associate with her mother the more’s -the pity,” said Mr. Tottenham, “we shall try the experiment anyhow. What -we call the lower classes don’t treat their children as we do; they -accept the responsibility and go in for the disagreeables; therefore, -though we hate having those brats here, we go in for them on principle. -Earnshaw, have you considered the matter of education? Have you any -ideas on the subject? Not like your friend Lord Newmarch, who has the -correct ideas on everything, cut and dry, delivered by the last post. I -don’t want that. Have you any notions of your own?” - -“About education?” said Edgar, “I don’t think it. I fear I have few -ideas on any abstract subject. The chances are that I will easily agree -with you whatever may be your opinions; heaven has preserved me from -having any of my own.” - -“Then you will just suit each other,” said Lady Mary, “which he and -I--forgive me for letting you into our domestic miseries, Mr. -Earnshaw--don’t do at all, on this point; for we have both ideas, and -flourish them about us unmercifully. How happy he will be as long as he -can have you to listen to him! not that I believe you will be half as -good as your word.” - -“Ideas are the salt of life,” said Mr. Tottenham; “that of course is -what has made you look so languid for some time past.” - -Edgar looked up in surprise. “Have I been looking languid? Have you been -observing me?” he cried. “This is after all a fairy palace where I have -been brought blindfolded, and where every action of my life is known.” - -Upon this, Mr. Philip Tottenham, aged twelve, pricked up his ears. “Were -you brought here blindfolded?” he said. “What fun! like the Arabian -Nights. I wish somebody would take me like that into a fairy palace, -where there would be a beautiful lady--” - -“Phil, you are talking nonsense,” said his mother. - -“Where the dinner would come when you clapped your hands, and sherbets -and ices and black servants, who would cross their arms on their breasts -and nod their heads like images--It was he began it,” cried Philip, -breathless, getting it all out in a burst before anyone could interpose. - -“You see how these poor children are spoilt,” said Lady Mary; “yes, he -has been observing you, Mr. Earnshaw. I sent him into town three days in -succession, on purpose.” - -“You have looked as languid as a young lady after the season,” said Mr. -Tottenham calmly, “till I saw there was nothing for you but the country, -and a sharp diet of talks and schemes, and the ideas you scorn. When a -man is happy and prosperous, it is all very well for him to do nothing; -but if you happen to be on the wrong side of the hill, my dear fellow, -you can’t afford to keep quiet. You must move on, as Policeman X would -say; or your friends must keep you moving on. To-morrow is Sunday, -unfortunately, when we shall be obliged to keep moderately quiet--” - -“Is it wrong to talk on Sunday?” said the little girl, appealing gravely -to Edgar, whom for some time she had been gazing at. - -“Not that I know of,” Edgar replied with a smile; but as he looked from -one to the other of the parent pair, he said to himself that there was -no telling what theory upon this subject these excellent people might -have. They might be desperate Sabbatarians for anything he could tell. - -“Why do you ask Mr. Earnshaw, Molly?” said Lady Mary. - -“Because,” said Molly, “I saw his picture once. I knew him whenever I -saw him, and when I asked who it was, they said it was a very good man. -So I knew it must be quite right to ask him. Papa talks more on Sunday -than on other days, though he always talks a great deal; and yet just -now he said because it is Sunday we must be quiet. Then I said to -myself, why must we be quiet on Sunday? is it wrong?” - -“This child is too logical for our peace of mind,” said Mr. Tottenham; -“if it were Phil it would not matter so much, for school would soon -drive that out of him.” - -“But he is not going to school,” said Lady Mary quickly. - -“Not yet, perhaps--but some time or other, I hope; a boy has not half -lived who has not been to school. I suppose politics are your strong -point, Earnshaw? Foreign politics, to judge from what I heard Newmarch -saying. That fellow wants to pick your brains. I should not think it a -subject that would pay, unless you made it your _cheval de bataille_, -like Gordon Grant, who knows everything that happens abroad better than -the people themselves do--who never, he tells us, see half what is going -on.” - -“Quite true,” said Lady Mary, “they never do; one doesn’t in one’s own -experience. One finds out all the little incidents afterwards, and -pieces them into their places.” - -“Only it is Earnshaw who is to find out the little incidents, and -Newmarch who is to piece them into their places,” said her husband; -“hard work for the one, great fun, and great glory besides, for the -other. I don’t think I should care to be jackal to Newmarch; especially -as he means all this to be done, not by a Secretary of Legation, but by -a Queen’s Messenger. Do you know what kind of life that is?” - -Edgar shook his head. He knew nothing about it, and at this moment he -did not care very much. The buzzing and persecution of those thoughts -which were none of his, which had a separate existence of their own, and -tortured him for admission into his mind, had recommenced. What had he -been brought here for? Why did they attempt to disgust him with the only -career open before him? What did they intend to do with him? The father -and his boy might be ordinary beings enough, with whom he could have -kept up an ordinary intercourse; but Lady Mary and her little daughter -had the strangest effect upon the young man. One of them was full grown, -motherly, on the border of middle age--the other was but a child; yet -the tone of their voices, the turn of their heads, all suggested to him -some one else who was not there. Even little Molly had the family -gestures, the throwing back of the light locks, the sweet brightness of -the eyes, which were so playful and soft, yet so full of vivacious -spirit and life. Poor Edgar was kept in a kind of confused rapture -between the mother and the child; both of them reflected another face, -and echoed another voice to him; between them they seemed to be stealing -all the strength out of him, the very heart from his bosom. He had been -absent three years and had it all come to this, that the soft strain of -enchantment which had charmed him so softly, so lightly, never to any -height of passion, had grown stronger with time, and moved him now more -deeply than at first? These persecuting thoughts made a swoop upon him -like a flight of birds, sweeping down through the air and surrounding -him, as he sat there helpless. Why had he been brought to this -magician’s palace? What did they mean to do with him now? The child had -seen his portrait, the father had been sent to watch him, the mother -asked had anything been said. What was about to be said? What were they -going to do with him? Poor Edgar looked out as from a mist, gradually -overwhelmed by his own excitement, and finally left the doors of his -helpless heart open, as it were, making it a highway through which any -kind of futile supposition might flit and dance. He sat helpless, -excited and wondering. What were they going to do with him? He did not -know. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -Reality. - - -The frost hardened again in the night, and Tottenham’s was all white and -shining when Edgar looked out from his window in the morning. The house -was square and somewhat ugly, but the great semi-circle of trees which -swept round it was made into something magical by the feathery silvering -of the rime which coated every branch and every twig. He made an -exclamation of pleasure when he looked out. The grass, the trees, the -glistening pinnacles of the great conservatory which stretched to the -south, just catching a glimpse of frosty and wavering sunlight upon -their metallic tops, were all virgin white, though here and there it -began to melt in the sun. Edgar had been far from thinking himself happy -when he fell asleep on the previous night; he was still confused and -harassed by his thoughts, keeping up a hopeless struggle against them; -but he woke up in a state of causeless exhilaration, he did not know -why. The hoar frost and the red sunshine went to his head. His heart -beat more lightly than usual, the blood coursed pleasantly through his -veins. He was like most imaginative people, often glad, and sorry he did -not know why, and a certain unreasonable capricious confidence in his -fate came over him to-day. Something good was coming to him he felt -sure. - -The breakfast table at Tottenham’s was lively enough. Lady Mary and her -husband were in full and animated discussion about something or other, -with a shoal of opened letters lying before them, and all the newspapers -that could be had, when Edgar made his appearance somewhat late. The -children who were present on the previous night were flanked by another -small pair, too small to be restrained by mamma, who chattered and -crowed, and made themselves very happy. A bright fire was burning, and -the red sunshine shone in, glinting over the white covered table and its -shining dishes. - -“Mr. Earnshaw will agree with me,” Lady Mary cried as he went in, -appealing to him. - -“Come along, Earnshaw, you will take my side,” said Mr. Tottenham. - -They were both eager to claim his help, and the elder children looked up -at him with the freedom of perfect ease and intimacy. - -“Nobody can ever call Molly the late one, now Mr. Earnshaw is here,” -cried Phil exulting. They all received him as one of themselves, and in -everything they said there was a silent suggestion that he belonged to -them, that he was to remain with them, which bewildered him beyond -words. The letters on the table were about every subject under heaven. -They had their domestic correspondence, I suppose, and family affairs of -their own; but these epistles were all about “schemes” of one kind and -another, plans for the reformation of heaven knows how many classes of -society, and for the improvement of the world altogether, which indeed -has great need of improvement. I cannot tell what the special question -might be that morning; there were so many of them that it was difficult -for a stranger to discriminate; and as Lady Mary had told him, she and -her husband very seldom agreed. They were both intensely in earnest, and -both threw themselves with all their might into everything they did. -Edgar, however, was not in a mood to utter any oracles, or to associate -himself with one scheme or another. He was disposed to enjoy the strange -holiday which had come to him, he could not tell how. He left the father -and mother to themselves, and addressed himself to the children. - -“Phil,” he said, “you and I are ignoramuses, we don’t know about these -deep matters. Talk to me of something within my capacity; or Molly, if -Phil will not talk, do you.” - -The reply to this was that both children talked together. - -“Mr. Earnshaw, the ice is bearing; what an awful pity it’s Sunday!” said -the boy, “I wanted to tell you whenever you came in--” and “Oh, Mr. -Earnshaw, come to church with us, and I’ll show you the village and my -pet old woman who tells us stories,” said the little girl. - -Edgar was delighted. He asked about the ice, what it was, an ornamental -piece of water, or the village pond; and told Molly he would go and see -her village, and try whether he or she could remember most of the -sermon. Phil interfered when he heard this bargain. He shook his head -over the rashness of his new friend. - -“She has an awful good memory,” he said, “I wouldn’t try against her, -Mr. Earnshaw, if I was you. She remembers what people said ages and ages -ago, and comes down upon you after you have forgotten all about it. I -wouldn’t go in against Moll.” - -“But I haven’t such an awfully good memory for sermons,” said Molly, -with modest deprecation of the excessive praise, “though I do remember -most things pretty well.” - -“Molly will win of course; but I shall try my best,” said Edgar. The -children suited him best on this day of exhilaration when his heart was -so foolishly free. He caught the father and mother looking at him, with -significant glances to each other, while this conversation was going on, -and was bewildered to think what they could mean. What did they mean? It -was altogether bewildering and perplexing. The man who attended him that -morning had informed him that he had been told off for his especial -service, and had looked somewhat offended when Edgar laughed and -declared he required no particular tending. “I ’ad my horders, Sir,” -said the man. Everybody seemed to have their orders; and if that curious -insanity of thought which had assailed him yesterday, a running riot of -imagination, for which he did not feel himself to be responsible--if -that came back again, tearing open the doors of his heart, and pouring -through them, was it his fault? - -The village lay at the park gates; but villages so near London are not -like villages in the depths of the country. This was one where there was -a number of smaller gentlefolks, tributaries on all great occasions of -Tottenham’s; but when they had a chance, very glad to note any -deficiency on the part of the man whom they called a _nouveau riche_, -and even a shopkeeper, which was the title of deepest reproach they -could think of. Indeed if Mr. Tottenham had not married Lady Mary, I -believe he would have had many little pricks and stings from his poor -yet well-born neighbours; but a Lady Mary in English village society -cannot do wrong. It was a pleasant walk to church, where they all went -together, the children walking demurely in honour of Sunday, though -Phil’s eye and heart were tempted by the long expanse of white which -showed between two lines of green at the right side of the road. - -“It is hard enough to bear the big town carriage,” he said -confidentially to Edgar, “or one of the farmer’s huge carts.” - -“We’ll go and see it after church,” said Edgar in the same tone; and so -the little procession moved on. Perhaps Lady Mary was the one who cared -for this family progress to church the least. Mr. Tottenham, though he -was given over to schemes of the most philosophical description, was the -simplest soul alive, doing his duty in this respect with as light a -heart as his children. But Lady Mary was very “viewy.” She was an -advanced liberal, and read the “Fortnightly,” and smiled at many things -that were said out of the pulpit once a week. Sometimes even she would -laugh a little at the “duty” of going to church, and hearing old Mr. -Burton maunder for half an hour; but all the same she respected her -husband’s prejudices, and the traditions of the superior class, which, -even when it believes in natural equality, still feels it necessary to -set an example to its neighbours. Lady Mary professed sentiments which -were inclined towards republicanism and democracy; but nevertheless she -knew that she was one of the gods, and had to conduct herself as became -that regnant position among men. - -“There goes the shopkeeper and his family,” said Mrs. Colonel -Witherington from her window, which looked out on the village green. -“Girls, it is time to put on your bonnets. A man like that is bred up to -be punctual; he comes to church as he goes to the shop, as the hour -strikes. There he goes--” - -“As ostentatiously humble as ever,” said one of the girls. - -“And he has got one of the shopmen with him, mamma,” said Myra, who was -the wit of the family. “Not a bad looking draper’s assistant; they -always have the shopmen out on Sundays. Poor fellows, it is their only -day.” - -“Poor fellows, indeed! I suppose Lady Mary thinks because she is an -earl’s daughter she can do whatever she likes; introducing such people -as these into the society of gentle-folks,” cried the mother. “Myra, -don’t stand laughing there, but put on your things.” - -“We need not go into their society unless we please,” said Myra. - -“And to be sure an Earl’s daughter _can_ do whatever she likes; no -nonsense of that description will make _her_ lose caste,” said the -eldest Miss Witherington, turning away from the window with a sigh. This -poor young lady, not being an Earl’s daughter, had not been able to do -as she liked, or to marry as she liked, and she felt the difference far -more keenly than her mother did, who was affected only in theory. This -was one of the many scraps of neighbourly talk which went on at Harbour -Green when the party from Tottenham’s were seen walking through the -village to church. Lady Mary was an Earl’s daughter, and she _did_ take -it upon her to do precisely as she liked; but her neighbours directed -most of their indignation upon her husband who had no such privileges, a -man who was civil to everybody, and whom they all confessed, whenever -they wanted anything of him, to be the best-natured fellow in the world. - -The service in the little church was not so well-conducted as it might -have been, had Lady Mary taken more interest in it; but still the lesser -authorities had done something for the training of the choir, and a -gentle Ritualism, not too pronounced as yet, kept everything in a -certain good order. Lady Mary herself did not take the same honest and -simple part in the devotions as her husband and children did; various -parts of the service went against her views; she smiled a little as she -listened to the sermon. A close observer might have noticed that, though -she behaved with the most perfect decorum, as a great lady ought, she -yet felt herself somewhat superior to all that was going on. I cannot -say that Edgar noticed this on his first Sunday at Harbour Green, though -he may have remarked it afterwards; but Edgar’s mind was not at the -present moment sufficiently free to remark upon individual peculiarity. -The sense of novelty or something else more exciting still worked in -him, and left him in a state of vague agitation; and when the service -being over, Lady Mary hurried on with the children, on pretence of -calling on some one, and left Mr. Tottenham with Edgar, the young man -felt his heart beat higher, and knew that the moment at last had come. - -“Well, Earnshaw! you have not had much time to judge, it is true; but -how do you think you like us?” said Mr. Tottenham. The question was odd, -but the questioner’s face was as grave as that of a judge. “We are hasty -people, and you are hasty,” he added, “so it is not so absurd as it -might be; how do you think you shall like us? Now speak out, never mind -our feelings. I am not asking you sentimentally, but from a purely -business point of view.” - -“I am so hasty a man,” said Edgar, laughing, with a much stronger sense -of the comic character of the position than the other had, “that I made -up my mind at sight, as one generally does; but since then you have so -bribed me by kindness--” - -“Then you do like us!” said Mr. Tottenham, holding out his hand, “I -thought you would. Of course if you had not liked us our whole scheme -would have come to nothing, and Mary had rather set her heart on it. You -will be sure not to take offence, or to think us impertinent if I tell -you what we thought?” - -“One word,” said Edgar with nervous haste. “Tell me first what it has -been that has made you take such a warm interest in me?” - -Mr. Tottenham winced and twisted his slim long person as a man in an -embarrassing position is apt to do. “Well,” he said, “Earnshaw, I don’t -know that we can enter into it so closely as that. We have always taken -an interest in you, since the time when you were a great friend of the -Thornleigh’s and we were always hearing of you; and when you behaved so -well in that bad business. And then some months ago we heard that you -had been seen coming up from Scotland--travelling,” Mr. Tottenham added, -with hesitation, “in the cheap way.” - -“Who told you that?” Edgar’s curiosity gave a sharpness which he had not -intended to his voice. - -“Come, come,” said Mr. Tottenham good-humouredly; “that is just the -point which I cannot enter into. But you may permit us to be interested, -though we can’t describe in full detail how it came about. Earnshaw, -Mary and I are fanciful sort of people, as you perceive; we don’t always -keep to the beaten path; and we want you to do us a favour. What I am -going to ask may be a little irregular; it may sound a little -obtrusive; you may take it amiss; though I hope not--” - -“I shall not take it amiss in any case,” Edgar managed to say; but his -heart was beating very loudly, and an agitation for which he could not -account had got possession of his whole being. His mind went wildly over -a whole world of conjecture, and I need not add that he was utterly -astray in everything he thought of, and did not reach to the faintest -notion of what his companion meant to be at. - -“In the first place,” said Mr. Tottenham nervously, “it is evident that -you must wait till there is an opening in that business with Newmarch. I -don’t doubt in the least that he wants to have you, and that he’ll give -you the first vacancy; but he can’t kill off a man on purpose, though I -dare say he would if he could. I don’t go on to say in the second place, -as I might perhaps, that a Queen’s Messenger has a very wearisome life, -and not much to make amends for it--” - -Here he paused to take breath, while Edgar watched and wondered, getting -more and more bewildered every moment in the maze of conjecture through -which he could not find his way. - -“Of course,” said Mr. Tottenham, himself displaying a certain amount of -rising excitement, “I don’t mean to say that you ought not to accept -such an appointment if it was offered. But in the meantime, what are you -to do? Live in London, and waste your resources, and break your spirit -with continual waiting? I say no, no, by no means; and this is what put -it into my head to say what I am going to say to you, and to insist -upon your coming here.” - -What was he going to say? Still Edgar, subdued by his own excitement, -could make no reply. Mr. Tottenham paused also, as if half fearing to -take the plunge. - -“What we meant, Earnshaw,” he said abruptly, at last, “what Mary and I -want, if you will do it, is--that you should stay with us and take -charge of our boy.” - -The last words he uttered hastily, and almost sharply, as if throwing -something out that burned him while he held it. And oh! dear reader, how -can I express to you the way in which poor Edgar fell, fell, low down, -and lower down, as into some echoing depth, when these words fell upon -his dismayed and astonished ears! Take charge of their boy! God help -him! what had he been thinking about? He could not himself tell; -nothing, a chimera, the foolishest of dreams, some wild fancy which -involved the future in a vain haze of brightness with the image of the -veiled maiden in the railway carriage, and of Gussy, who was never -veiled. Oh, Heaven and earth! what a fool, what a fool he was! She had -nothing to do with it; he himself had nothing to do with it. It was but -a benevolent scheme of people with a great many benevolent schemes about -them, for the relief of a poor young fellow whom they knew to be in -trouble. That was all. Edgar went on walking as in a dream, feeling -himself spin round and round and go down, as to the bottom of some well. -He could hear that Mr. Tottenham went on speaking, and the hum of his -voice made, as it were, a running accompaniment to his own hubbub of -inarticulate thoughts; Edgar heard it, yet heard it not. When he woke up -from this confusion, it was quite suddenly, by reason of a pause in the -accompanying voice. The last words his bewildered intelligence caught up -were these: - -“You will think it over, and tell me your decision later. You will -understand that we both beg you to forgive us, if we have said or done -anything which is disagreeable to you, Earnshaw. You promise me to -remember that?” - -“Disagreeable!” Edgar murmured half consciously. “Why should it be -disagreeable?” but even his own voice seemed to be changed in his own -ear as he said it. He was all changed, and everything about him. “I must -go across to the pond before I go in,” he added, somewhat abruptly. “I -promised Philip to look at the ice;” and with scarcely any further -excuse, set off across the grass, from which the whiteness and crispness -of the morning frosts had been stolen away by the sun. He could not get -free of the physical sensation of having fallen. He seemed to himself to -be bruised and shaken; he could do nothing with his mind but realize and -identify his state; he could not discuss it with himself. It did not -seem to him even that he knew what he had been thinking of, what he had -been hoping; he knew only that he had fallen from some strange height, -and lay at the bottom somewhere, aching and broken in heart and -strength, stunned by the fall, and so confused that he did not know what -had happened to him, or what he must do next. In this state of mind he -walked mechanically across the grass, and gazed at the frozen pond, -without knowing what he was doing, and then strode mechanically away -from it, and went home. (How soon we begin to call any kind of a place -home, when we have occasion to use it as such!). He went home, back to -his room, the room which surely, he thought to himself, was too good for -Mr. Tottenham’s tutor, which was the post he had been asked to occupy. -Mr. Tottenham’s boy’s tutor, that was the phrase. - -It was his own repetition of these words which roused him a little; the -tutor in the house; the handy man who was made to do everything; the one -individual among the gentlemen of the house whom it was possible to -order about; who was an equal, and yet no equal. No, Edgar said to -himself, with a generous swelling of his heart, it was not thus that a -dependent would be treated in Mr. Tottenham’s house; but the very idea -of being a dependent struck him with such sharp poignancy of surprise, -as well as pain, that he could not calm himself down, or make the best -of it. He had never tasted what this was like yet. When he had made his -application to Lord Newmarch, the experience had not been a pleasant -one; but it was short at least, and the position he had hoped for had -been independent at least. In it, he would have been no man’s servant, -but the Queen’s, whom all men delight to serve. Mr. Tottenham’s tutor -was a very different thing. - -He sat at his window, and heard without knowing the great luncheon-bell -peal out through all the echoes. He felt that he could not go downstairs -to confront them all, while still in the confusion and stupor of his -downfall; for he had sustained a downfall more terrible than anyone -knew, more bewildering than he could even realize himself; from vague, -strange, delicious suspicions of something coming which might change all -his life, down to a sickening certainty of something come, which would -indeed change everything in every way, in the estimation of the world -and of himself. - -Mr. Tottenham walked home very seriously on his side, after this -interview. He had some sort of comprehension that the proposal he had -just made was one which, at the first hearing, would not delight his new -friend; and he was sufficiently friendly and large-minded to permit the -young man a little moment of ruffled pride, a little misery, even a -little offence, before he could make up his mind to it, notwithstanding -that it was, on the part of the Tottenhams, an impulse of almost pure -and unmixed charity and kindness which had suggested it. They were -impulsive people both, and fond of making themselves the Providence of -poorer people; and the very best thing that can be said of them, better -even than their universal and crotchety willingness to serve everybody -who came in their way, was their composure when the intended recipients -of their bounty hesitated, or, as sometimes happened, kicked at it -altogether. Their kindnesses, their bounties, their crotchets, and their -theories were all mixed up together, and might occasionally be less -good, and do less good than they were meant to do; but the toleration -which permitted a prospective _protégé_ to weigh the benefit offered, -without any angry consciousness of his want of gratitude, was admirable, -and much more unusual in this world than even the kindness itself. Mr. -Tottenham hurried off to his wife, and told her all about it; and the -two together waited for Edgar’s decision with sympathetic excitement, -almost as much disturbed in their minds as he was, and with no indignant -feeling that their good intentions were having scanty justice. On the -contrary, they discussed the matter as they might have done something in -which their _amour propre_ was not at all engaged. - -“I hope he will see it is the best thing for him,” said Mr. Tottenham. - -“Of course it is the best thing for him, and he must see it,” said the -more impetuous Lady Mary; but neither one nor the other declared that he -would be a fool or ungrateful if he neglected this opening, as so many -intending benefactors would. They discussed it all the afternoon, taking -their Sunday stroll together through the greenhouses, which were -splendid, and talking of nothing but Edgar. - -“He must do it; we must insist upon it, Tom,” Lady Mary cried, growing -more and more eager. - -“I cannot make him, dear, if he don’t see it,” said the husband, shaking -his head. - -Thus both upstairs and downstairs there was but one subject of -consideration. The ugly things about dependence, about domestic slavery, -about the equal who would not be an equal, which Edgar was saying to -himself, found no echo in the talk of the good people, full of wealth -and power to benefit others, who puckered their brows on the subject -downstairs. In this respect the thoughts of the poor man whom they -wanted to befriend, were much less generous than theirs who wanted to -befriend him. He judged them harshly, and they judged him kindly. He -attributed intentions and motives to them which they were guiltless of, -and thought of himself as degraded in their eyes by the kindness they -had offered; while, in fact, he had become a most important person to -them, solely on that account--a person occupying a superior position, -with power to decide against or for them, to honour or discredit their -judgment. Indeed, I am bound to allow that Edgar was not generous at all -at this moment of his career, and that his hosts were. But ah me! it is -so much easier to be generous, to be tolerant, to think the best, when -you are rich and can confer favours; so difficult to keep up your -optimist views, and to see the best side of everything, when you are -poor! - -“He will either come down and tell us that he accepts, or he will pack -his things and go off to-night,” said Lady Mary as they waited. They -were seated in the conservatory, in the centre circle under the -glittering glass dome, which had been built to give room for the great -feathery branches of a palm tree. This was the favourite spot in which -all the pretty luxury of these conservatories culminated. Some -bright-coloured Persian rugs were laid on the floor, here and there, -upon which were some half-dozen chairs, half rustic and wholly -luxurious. All the flowers that art can extract or force from nature in -the depth of Winter were grouped about, great moon-discs of white -camellias, heaths covered with fairy bells, spotless primulas rising -from out the rough velvet of their leaves. The atmosphere was soft as a -moderate gentle Summer, and the great palm leaves stirred now and then -against the high dome of glass. Mr. Tottenham lounged on a rustic sofa, -with a cloud of anxiety on his face, and Lady Mary, too anxious to -lounge, sat bolt upright and listened. Why were those good people -anxious? I cannot tell; they wanted, I suppose, to succeed in this good -action which they had set their hearts on doing; they did not want to be -foiled; and they had set their hearts upon delivering Edgar from his -difficulties, and making him comfortable. Along with their other -sentiments there was mixed a certain generous fear lest they should have -been precipitate, lest they should have hurt the feelings and wounded -the pride of their friend whom they wished to serve. I wish there were -more of such people, and more of such susceptibilities in the world. - -They sat thus, until the twilight grew so deep and shadowy that they -could scarcely see each other. It was very cold outside, where -everything began again to congeal and whiten, and all the world resigned -itself with a groan to the long, long interval of dead darkness, -hopelessness, and cold which must deepen before day. At the end of a -vista of shrubs and great evergreen plants, the red glow of the -drawing-room fire shone out, shining there like a ruddy star in the -distance. Lady Mary drew her shawl round her with a little shiver, and -her husband got up and yawned in the weariness of suspense. Had he gone -away without giving an answer? Had they done nothing but harm, though -they had wished so much to do good. They both started like a couple of -guilty conspirators when at length a step was heard approaching, and -Edgar appeared, half hesitating, half eager, against the glow of the -distant fire. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -A Pair of Philanthropists. - - -I need not describe the many struggles of feeling which Edgar went -through on that memorable Sunday, before he finally made up his mind to -accept Mr. Tottenham’s proposal, and do the only thing which remained -possible for him, his only alternative between work of some sort and -idleness--between spending his last little remnant of money and -beginning to earn some more--a thing which he had never yet done in his -life. It was very strange to the young man, after so long an interval of -a very different life, to return vicariously, as it were, not in his own -right, to the habits and surroundings of luxury. He felt a whimsical -inclination at first to explain to everybody he encountered that he was, -so to speak, an impostor, having no right to all the good things about -him, but being only Mr. Tottenham’s upper servant, existing in the -atmosphere of the drawing-room only on sufferance and by courtesy. -People in such circumstances are generally, I believe, very differently -affected, or so at least one reads in story. They are generally pictured -as standing perpetually on the defensive, looking out for offence, -anticipating injury, and in a sore state of compulsory humility or -rather humiliation. I do not know whether Edgar’s humorous character -could ever have been driven by ill-usage to feel in this way, but as he -had no ill-usage to put up with, but much the reverse, he took a totally -different view. After the first conflict with himself was over, which we -have already indicated, he came to consider his tutorship a good joke, -as indeed, I am sorry to say, everybody else did--even Phil, who was in -high glee over his new instructor. - -“I don’t know what I am to teach him,” Edgar had said to the boy’s -parents when he came down to the conservatory on the memorable Sunday I -have already described, and joined the anxious pair. - -“Teach him whatever you know,” Lady Mary had answered; but Edgar’s half -mirthful, half dismayed sense of unfitness for the post they thrust upon -him was not much altered by this impulsive speech. - -“What do I know?” he said to himself next morning when, coming down -early before any one else, he found himself alone in the library, with -all the materials for instruction round him. Edgar had not himself been -educated in England, and he did not know whether such knowledge as he -possessed might not suffer from being transmitted in an unusual way -without the orthodox form. “My Latin and Greek may be good enough, -though I doubt it,” he said, when Mr. Tottenham joined him, “but how if -they are found to be quite out of the Eton shape, and therefore no good -to Phil?” - -“Never mind the Eton shape, or any other shape,” said Mr. Tottenham, -“you heard what Mary said, and her opinion may be relied upon. Teach him -what you know. Why, he is only twelve, he has time enough for mere -shape, I hope.” - -And thus Edgar was again silenced. He was, however, a tolerably good -scholar, and as it happened, in pure idleness had lately betaken himself -again to those classical studies which so many men lay aside with their -youth. And in the library at Tottenham’s there was a crowd of books -bearing upon all possible theories of education, which Edgar, with a -private smile at himself, carried to his room with him in detachments, -and pored over with great impartiality, reading the most opposite -systems one after another. When he told Lady Mary about his studies, she -afforded immediate advice and information. She knew a great deal more -about them than he did. She had tried various systems, each antagonistic -to the other, in her own pet schools in the village, and she was far -from having made up her mind on the subject. - -“I confess to you frankly, Mr. Earnshaw,” said Lady Mary, “sometimes I -think we have nothing in the world to trust to but education, which is -the rational view; and sometimes I feel that I put no faith in it at -all.” - -“That is something like my own opinion,” said Earnshaw, “though I have -permitted you to do yourselves the injustice of appointing me tutor to -Phil.” - -“Education, like everything else, depends so much on one’s theory of -life,” said Lady Mary, “Mr. Tottenham and I think differently on the -subject, which is a great pity, though I don’t see that it does us much -harm. My husband is content to take things as they are, which is by much -the more comfortable way; but that too is a matter of temperament. Phil -will be sure to get on if you will bring him into real correspondence -with your own mind. Molly gives me a great deal more trouble; a man can -get himself educated one way or another, a woman can’t.” - -“Is it so?” said Edgar, “pardon my ignorance. I thought most ladies were -terribly well educated.” - -“Ah, I know what you mean!” said Lady Mary, “educated in nothings, -taught to display all their little bits of superficial information. It -is not only that women get no education, Mr. Earnshaw, but how are we to -get it for them? Of course an effort may be made for a girl in Molly’s -position, with parents who fully appreciate the difficulties of the -matter; but for girls of the middle classes for instance? they get a -little very bad music, and worse French, and this is considered -education. I dare say you will help me by and by in one of my pet -schemes. Some of my friends in town have been so very good as to join me -in a little effort I am making to raise the standard. The rector here, a -well-meaning sort of man, has been persuaded to join, and to give us a -nicish sort of schoolroom which happens to be unoccupied, and his -countenance, which does us good with old fashioned people. I have spent -a good deal of time on the scheme myself, and it is one of my chief -interests. I quite reckon upon you to help.” - -“What must I do?” said Edgar with a plaintive tone in his voice. Alas, -worse had happened to him than falling into the hands of thieves who -could only rob him--no more. He had fallen into the hands of good -Samaritans who could do a great deal worse. He thought of ragged-schools -and unruly infants; his thoughts went no further, and to this he -resigned himself with a sigh. - -“Then you will really help?” cried Lady Mary delighted, “I knew from the -first you would be the greatest acquisition to us. My plan is to have -lectures, Mr. Earnshaw, upon various subjects; they last only during the -winter, and a great number of girls have begun to attend. One of my -friends takes Latin, another French. Alas, our German lecturer has just -failed us! if you could supply his place it would be perfect. Then we -have history, mathematics, and literature; we cannot do much of course, -but even a little is better than nothing. It would not take up very much -of your time; an hour and a half a week, with perhaps a moment now and -then to look after exercises, &c.” - -“Am I expected to teach German to anybody in an hour and a half a week?” -said Edgar, laughing. “It is a small expenditure for so great a result.” - -“Of course you think it can only be a smattering--and that a smattering -is a bad thing?” said the social reformer, “but we really do produce -very good results--you shall see if you will but try.” - -“And what branch, may I ask, do you take?” said the ignorant neophyte. - -“_I_, Mr. Earnshaw! why I learn!” cried Lady Mary; “if I could I would -go in for all the studies, but that is impossible. I follow as many as I -can, and find it an admirable discipline for the mind, just that -discipline which is denied to women. Why do you look at me so strangely? -Why do you laugh? I assure you I mean what I say.” - -“If I must not laugh, pray teach me some more philosophical way of -expressing my feelings,” said Edgar, “I fear I should laugh still more -if you did me the honour to select me as one of your instructors. A year -hence when I have been well trained by Phil, I may have a little more -confidence in myself.” - -“If you mean,” said Lady Mary, somewhat offended, “that instructing -others is the best way to confirm your own knowledge, I am sure you are -quite right; but if you mean to laugh at my scheme--” - -“Pray pardon me,” said Edgar, “I can’t help it. The idea of teaching you -is too much for my gravity. Tell me who the other learned pundits are -from whom Lady Mary Tottenham learns--” - -“Lady Mary Tottenham would learn from any man who had anything to teach -her,” she answered with momentary anger; then added with a short laugh, -extorted from her against her will, “Mr. Earnshaw, you are very -impertinent and unkind; why should you laugh at one’s endeavour to help -one’s fellow-creatures to a little instruction, and one’s self--” - -“Are you quarrelling?” said Mr. Tottenham, stalking in suddenly, with -his glass in his eye. “What is the matter? Earnshaw, I want to interest -you in a very pet scheme of mine. When my wife has done with you, let me -have a hearing. I want him to drive in with me to Tottenham’s, Mary, and -see what is doing there.” - -“I hope Mr. Earnshaw will be kinder to you than he has been to me,” said -Lady Mary; “at me he does nothing but laugh. He despises women, I -suppose, like so many other men, and thinks us beneath the range of -intellectual beings.” - -“What a cruel judgment,” said Edgar, “because I am tickled beyond -measure at the thought of having anything to teach you, and at the -suggestion that you can improve your mind by attending lectures, and are -undergoing mental discipline by means of mathematics and history--” - -“Oh, then it is only that you think me too old,” said Lady Mary, with -the not unagreeable amusement of a pretty woman who knows herself to be -not old, and to look still younger and fresher than she feels; and they -had an amiable laugh over this excellent joke, which entirely restored -the friendly relations between them. Mr. Tottenham smiled reflectively -with his glass in his eye, not looking into the matter. He was too -seriously occupied with his own affairs to enter into any unnecessary -merriment. - -“Come along, Earnshaw,” he said, “I want you to come into Tottenham’s -with me, and on the way I will tell you all about my scheme, which my -wife takes a great interest in also. You will come to the next evening, -Mary? It is always so much more successful when you are there.” - -“Surely,” said Lady Mary with a vague smile, as she gathered up a bundle -of papers which she had produced to show Edgar. She shook her head over -them as she turned away. Her husband’s schemes she patronized with a -gentle interest; but her own occupied her a great deal more warmly as -was natural. “You have not given me half the consideration my plan -deserves,” she said half pathetically, “but don’t think I mean to let -you off on that account,” and with a friendly smile to both the -gentlemen she went to her own concerns. The library had been the scene -of the conversation, and Lady Mary now withdrew to her own special -table, which was placed in front of a great bay-window overlooking the -flower-garden. It was a very large room, and Mr. Tottenham’s table had a -less favourable aspect, with nothing visible but dark shrubberies from -the window behind him, to which he judiciously turned his back. - -“Mary prefers to look out, and I to look in,” he said; “to be sure I -have her to look at, which makes a difference.” - -This huge room was the centre of their morning occupations, and the -scene of many an amiable controversy. The two tables which belonged to -the pair individually were both covered with papers, that of Lady Mary -being the most orderly, but not the least crowded, while a third large -table, in front of the fire, covered with books and newspapers, offered -scope for any visitor who might chance to join them in their viewy and -speculative seclusion. As a matter of fact, most people who came to -Tottenham’s, gravitated sooner or later towards this room. It was the -point of meeting in the morning, just as the palm-tree in the -conservatory was the centre of interest in the afternoon. - -“I am writing to Lyons to come to my next evening,” said Mr. Tottenham, -taking his place at his own table, while Lady Mary with her back towards -the other occupants of the room scribbled rapidly at hers. - -“Do you think they will care for Lyons?” asked Lady Mary without turning -round, “you forget always that amusement and not information is what -they want--” - -“Amusement is what we all want, my dear,” said her husband, with -apologetic mildness. “We approach the subject in different ways. You -call in the same man to instruct as I do to amuse. We agree as to the -man, but we don’t agree as to the object; and yet it comes to the very -same thing at last.” - -“You think so,” said Lady Mary, still with her back turned; “but we -shall see by the results.” - -“Yes, Lyons is coming,” said Mr. Tottenham. “I don’t know if you have -heard him, Earnshaw. He has been in Africa, and all over the world. My -own opinion is that he is rather a stupid fellow; but, so long as other -people don’t think so, what does that matter? He is coming; and, my -dear fellow, if you would listen to what I am going to tell you, and -take an interest in my people--” - -“What would happen?” said Edgar, as the other paused. He was half amused -and half alarmed by the turn that things were taking, and did not know -what strange use he might be put to next. - -“Ah, I don’t know what might not happen,” said Mr. Tottenham, yielding -for a moment to the influence of Edgar’s distressed but humorous -countenance. “However, don’t be frightened. You shall not be forced to -do anything. I don’t approve of over-persuasion. But supposing that you -should be interested, as I expect, a great deal more than you think--” - -This he said in a deprecatory, propitiatory way, looking up suddenly -from the letter he was writing. Edgar stood in front of the fire, -contemplating both parties, and he was half touched as well as more than -half amused by this look. He did not even know what it was he was called -upon to interest himself in; but the eagerness of his companions, about -their several plans, went to his heart. - -“You may be sure, if there is anything I can do--” he said, impulsively. - -“You should not allow Mr. Earnshaw to commit himself till he has seen -what it is,” said Lady Mary, from the opposite table; and then she, too, -turned half round, pen in hand, and fixed an earnest gaze upon him. “I -may write to my people and tell them the German class will be resumed -next week?” she said, with much the same entreating look as her husband -had put on. It was all Edgar could do to preserve his gravity, and not -reply with indecorous gaiety, like that which had provoked her before; -for Lady Mary, on this point at least, was less tolerant and more easily -affronted than her husband. - -“If you think I can be of any use,” he said, trying to look as serious -as possible; and thus, before he knew, the double bargain was made. - -It would be impossible to describe in words the whimsical unreality of -the situation in which Edgar thus found himself when he got into Mr. -Tottenham’s phaeton to be driven back to town, in order to be made -acquainted with the other “Tottenham’s.” Only a few days had passed -since the wintry evening when he arrived a stranger at the hospitable -but unknown house. He was a stranger still according to all rules, but -yet his life had suddenly become entangled with the lives which a week -ago he had never heard of. He was no visitor, but a member of the -family, with distinct duties in it; involved even in its eccentricities, -its peculiarities, its quaint benevolences. Edgar felt his head swim as -they drove from the door which he had entered for the first time so very -short a while ago. Was he in a dream? or had he gone astray out of the -ordinary workday world into some modern version of the Arabian Nights? - -“You remember what I told you, Earnshaw, about the shop?” said his -companion. “It is for the shop that I bespeak your interest now. I told -you that my wife had no false pride on the subject, and how she cured -me of my absurdity. I draw a great deal of money out of it, and I employ -a great number of people. Of course, I have a great responsibility -towards these people. If they were labourers on an estate, or miners in -a coal-pit, everybody would acknowledge this responsibility; but being -only shopmen and shopwomen, or, poor souls, as they prefer to have it, -assistants in a house of business, the difficulty is much increased. Do -I have your attention, Earnshaw?” - -“I am listening,” said Edgar; “but you must excuse me if my attention -seems to wander a little. Consider how short an acquaintance ours is, -and that I am somewhat giddy with the strange turn my life has taken. -Pure selfishness, of course; but one does rank more highly than is fit -in one’s own thoughts.” - -“To be sure, it is all novel and strange,” said Mr. Tottenham, in a -soothing and consolatory tone. “Never mind; you will soon get used to -our ways. For my own part, I think a spinning mill is nothing to my -shop. Several hundreds of decently dressed human creatures, some of the -young women looking wonderfully like ladies, I can tell you, is a very -bewildering sort of kingdom to deal with. The Queen rules in a vague -sort of way compared to me. She has nothing to do with our private -morals or manners; so long as we don’t rob or steal, she leaves us to -our own guidance. But, in my dominions, there is all the minuteness of -despotism. My subjects live in my house, eat my bread, and have to be -regulated by my pleasure. I look after them in everything, their -religious sentiments, their prudential arrangements, their amusements. -You don’t listen to me, Earnshaw.” - -“Oh, yes, I do. But if Phil’s lessons and Lady Mary’s lectures come in -to disturb my attention, you won’t mind just at first? This is the same -road we drove down on Saturday. There is the same woman standing at the -same door.” - -“And here are the same horses, and the same man with the same sentiments -driving you.” - -“Thanks; you are very kind,” said Edgar, gratefully; “but my head goes -round notwithstanding. I suppose so many ups and downs put one off one’s -balance. I promise you to wake up when we come to the field of battle.” - -“You mean the shop,” said Mr. Tottenham; “don’t be afraid of naming it. -I am rather excited, to tell the truth, about the effect it may have -upon you. I am like a showman, with something quite original and out of -the common to show.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -The Shop. - - -Tottenham’s is situated in one of the great thoroughfares which lead out -of the heart of London, towards one of its huge suburbs. It consists of -an immense square pile of building, facing to four different streets, -with frontage of plate-glass windows, and masses of costly shawls and -silks appearing through. To many people, but these were mostly ladies, -Tottenham’s was a kind of fairyland. It represented everything, from -substantial domestic linen to fairy webs of lace, which money could buy. -In the latter particular, it is true, Tottenham’s was limited; it -possessed only the productions of modern fingers, the filmy fabrics of -Flanders and France; but its silks, its velvets, its magnificences of -shawl and drapery, its untold wealth in the homelier shape of linen and -cambric, were unsurpassed anywhere, and the fame of them had spread -throughout London, nay, throughout England. The name of this great -establishment caused a flutter of feeling through all the Home Counties, -and up even to the Northern borders. People sent their orders to -Tottenham’s from every direction of the compass. The mass of its clients -were, perhaps, not highly fashionable, though even the _crême de la -crême_ sometimes made a raid into the vast place, which was reported -cheap, and where fashionable mothers were apt to assure each other that -people, who knew what was what, might often pick up very nice things -indeed at half the price which Élise would ask, not to speak of Worth. -Persons who know what Worth has last invented, and how Élise works, have -an immense advantage in this way over their humble neighbours. But the -humble neighbours themselves were very good customers, and bought more -largely, if with less discrimination. And the middle class, like one -man, or rather like one woman, patronized Tottenham’s. It bought its -gowns there, and its carpets and its thread and needles, everything that -is wanted, in a house. It provided its daughters’ _trousseaux_, and -furnished its sons’ houses out of this universal emporium; not the -chairs and tables, it is true, but everything else. The arrangements of -the interior were so vast and bewildering as to drive a stranger wild, -though the _habitués_ glided about from counter to counter with smiling -readiness. There were as many departments as in the Home Office, but -everybody looked after his own department, which is not generally the -case in the Imperial shop; and the hum of voices, the gliding about of -many feet, the rustle of many garments, the vague sound and sentiment of -a multitude pervaded the alleys of counters, the crowded passages -between, where group was jostled by group, and not an inch of space left -unoccupied. - -Edgar’s entrance into this curious unexplored world, which he had been -brought here expressly to “take an interest” in, was made through a -private way, through the counting-house, where many clerks sat at their -desks, and where all was quiet and still as in a well-ordered merchant’s -office. Mr. Tottenham had a large room, furnished with the -morocco-covered chairs and writing-tables consecrated to such places, -but with more luxury than usual; with Turkey carpets on the floor, and -rich crimson curtains framing the great window, which looked into a -small court-yard surrounded with blank walls. Here Mr. Tottenham paused -to look over a bundle of business letters, and to hear some reports that -were brought to him by the heads of departments. These were not entirely -about business. Though the communications were made in a low voice, -Edgar could not help hearing that Mr. So-and-So was in question here, -and Miss Somebody there. - -“If something is not done, I don’t think the other young ladies will -stand it, Sir,” said a grave elderly gentleman, whom Edgar, eyeing him -curiously, felt that he would have taken at least for a Member of -Parliament. - -“I will look into it, Robinson. You may make your mind quite easy. I -will certainly look into it,” said Mr. Tottenham, with such a look as -the Chancellor of the Exchequer may put on when he anticipates a failure -in the revenue. - -“You see, Sir,” added Mr. Robinson, “a piece of scandal about any of the -young ladies is bad enough; but when it comes to be the head of a -department, or at least, one of the heads--and you remember it was all -our opinions that Miss Lockwood was just the fit person for the place. -I had a little difficulty myself on the point, for Miss Innes had been -longer in the establishment; but as for being ladylike-looking, and a -good figure, and a good manner, there could, of course, be no -comparison.” - -“I will look into it, I will look into it,” said Mr. Tottenham, -hurriedly. - -The head of a State has to bear many worries, in small things as well as -in great; and the head of Tottenham’s was less a constitutional than a -despotic ruler. Limited Monarchies do not answer, it must be allowed, on -a small scale. The respectable Mr. Robinson withdrew to one side, while -other heads of departments approached the Sultan of the Shop. Edgar -looked on with some amusement and a good deal of interest. Mr. Tottenham -was no longer speculative and viewy. He went into all the business -details with a precision which surprised his companion, and talked of -the rise in silks, and the vicissitudes in shirtings, with very much -more apparent perception of the seriousness of the matter than he had -ever evidenced in the other Tottenham’s, the wealthy house in which the -shopkeeper lived as princes live. Edgar would have retired when these -business discussions, or rather reports and audiences, began; but Mr. -Tottenham restrained him with a quick look and gesture, motioning him to -a seat close to his own. - -“I want you to see what I have to do,” he said in a rapid interjection -between one conference and another. - -The last of all was a young man, studiously elegant in appearance, and -in reality, as Edgar found out afterwards, the fine gentleman of the -establishment, who had charge of the recreations of “the assistants,” or -rather the _employés_, which was the word Mr. Watson preferred. Mr. -Tottenham’s face lighted up when this functionary approached him with a -piece of paper, written in irregular lines, like a programme, in his -hand--and it was the programme of the next evening entertainment, to be -given in the shop and for the shop. Mr. Watson used no such vulgar -phraseology. - -“Perhaps, Sir, you will kindly look over this, and favour us with any -hint you may think necessary?” he said. “Music is always popular, and as -we have at present a good deal of vocal talent among us, I thought it -best to utilize it. The part-songs please the young ladies, Sir. It is -the only portion of the entertainment in which they can take any active -share.” - -“Then by all means let us please the ladies,” said Mr. Tottenham. “Look, -Earnshaw; this is an entertainment which we have once a month. Ah, -Watson, you are down, I see, for a solo on your instrument?” - -“I find it popular, Sir,” said Mr. Watson, with a smirk. “The taste for -music is spreading. The young ladies, Sir, are anxious to know whether, -as you once were good enough to promise, her Ladyship is likely this -time to do us the honour--” - -“Oh, yes, Watson; you may consider that settled; my wife is coming,” -said Mr. Tottenham. “Trial Scene in Pickwick? Yes; very well, very -well. Duet, Mr. Watson and Miss Lockwood. Ah! I have been just hearing -something about Miss Lockwood--” - -“She has enemies, Sir,” said Mr. Watson, flushing all over. He was a -fair young man, and the colour showed at once in his somewhat pallid -complexion. “In an establishment like this, Sir--a little world--where -there are so many _employés_, of course, she has her enemies.” - -“That may be,” said Mr. Tottenham, musing. “I have not inquired into it -yet; but in the meantime, if there is any latent scandal, wouldn’t it be -better that she took no public part?” - -“Oh, of course, Sir!” cried Watson, bundling up his papers; “if she is -to be condemned unheard--” - -Robinson, the respectable Member of Parliament, approached anxiously at -this. - -“I assure you, Mr. Tottenham,” he cried, with a warmth of sincerity -which appeared to come from the bottom of his heart, “I don’t want to -judge Miss Lockwood, or any other young lady in the establishment; but -when things come to my ears, I can’t but take notice of them. The other -young ladies have a right to be considered.” - -“It is jealousy, Sir; nothing but jealousy!” cried Watson; “because -she’s a deal more attractive than any of ’em, and gets more attention--” - -“Softly, softly,” said Mr. Tottenham. “This grows serious. I don’t think -I am apt to be moved by jealousy of Miss Lockwood, eh, Watson? You may -go now, and if you know anything about the subject, I’ll see you -afterwards.” - -“I know as she’s the best saleswoman, and the most ladylike-looking -young lady in the house,” cried Watson; and then he perceived his slip -of grammar, and blushed hotter than ever; for he was an ambitious young -man, and had been instructed up to the point of knowing that his native -English stood in need of improvement, and that bad grammar was against -his rising in life. - -“That will do then; you can go,” said Mr. Tottenham. “Opinion is not -evidence. Come, Robinson, if it’s making a feud in the house, I had -better, I suppose, go into it at once.” - -“And I, perhaps, had better withdraw too,” said Edgar, whom this strange -and sudden revelation of human tumults going on in the great house of -business had interested in spite of himself. - -“Stay; you are impartial, and have an unbiassed judgment,” said Mr. -Tottenham. “Now, Robinson, let us hear what you have got to say.” - -Robinson approached with a world of care upon his face. Edgar having -allowed his fancy to be taken possession of by the Member-of-Parliament -theory, could not help the notion that this good worried man had risen -to call for a Committee upon some subject involving peril to the nation, -some mysterious eruption of Jesuits or Internationalists, or Foreign -Office squabble. He was only the head of the shawl and cloak department -in Tottenham’s; but it is quite marvellous how much humanity resembles -itself, though the circumstances were so unlike. - -Mr. Robinson had not much more than begun his story. He was in the -preamble, discoursing, as his prototype in the House of Commons would -have done, upon the general danger to society which was involved in -carelessness and negligence of one such matter as that he was about to -bring before the House--when a tap was heard at the door, a little sharp -tap, half defiant, half coquettish, sounding as if the applicant, while -impatient for admittance, might turn away capriciously, when the door -was opened. Both the judge and the prosecutor evidently divined at once -who it was. - -“Come in,” said Mr. Tottenham; “Come in!” for the summons was not -immediately obeyed. - -Then there entered a--person, to use the safe yet not very respectful -word which Mr. J. S. Mill rescued from the hands of flunkeys and -policemen--a female figure, to speak more romantically, clad in elegant -black silken robes, very well made, with dark hair elaborately dressed; -tall, slight, graceful, one of those beings to be met with everywhere in -the inner recesses of great shops like Tottenham’s, bearing all the -outward aspect of ladies, moving about all day long upon rich carpets, -in a warm luxurious atmosphere, “trying on” one beautiful garment after -another, and surveying themselves in great mirrors as they pass and -repass. The best of feminine society ebbs and flows around these -soft-voiced and elegant creatures--duchesses, princesses, who look like -washerwomen beside them, and young girls often not more pretty or -graceful. They are the Helots of the female fashionable world, and, at -the same time, to some degree, its despots; for does not many a dumpy -woman appear ridiculous in the elegant garb which was proved before her -eyes so beautiful and becoming upon the slim straight form of the “young -person” who exhibited and sold if? - -Miss Lockwood entered, with her head well up, in one of the attitudes -which are considered most elegant in those pretty coloured pictures of -the “Modes,” which, to her class of young ladies, are as the Louvre and -the National Gallery thrown into one. She was no longer, except from a -professional point of view, to be considered absolutely as a “young -lady.” Her face, which was a handsome face, was slightly worn, and her -age must have been a year or two over thirty; but, as her accuser -admitted, and as her defender asserted, a more “ladylike-looking” -person, or a better figure for showing off shawl or mantle had never -been seen in Tottenham’s or any other house of business. This was her -great quality. She came in with a little sweep and rustle of her long -black silken train; her dress, like her figure, was her stock-in-trade. - -“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said in an abrupt yet airy tone, angry yet -sensible withal of those personal advantages which made it something of -a joke that anyone should presume to find fault with her. “I hear my -character is being taken away behind my back, and I have come, please, -to defend myself.” - -Edgar looked at this kind of being, which was new to him, with a mixture -of feelings. She had the dress and appearance of a lady, and she was -unquestionably a woman, though she would have scorned so common a name. -He rose from his seat when she came in with the intention of getting a -chair for her, as he would have done to any other lady, but was -deterred, he could scarcely tell why, by her own air and that of the -other two men who looked at her without budging. - -“Sit down, sit down,” said Mr. Tottenham hastily, aside to him, “of -course I know what you mean, but that sort of thing does not do. It -makes them uncomfortable; sit down; she will give us trouble enough, you -will see.” - -Edgar, however, could not go so far as to obey. He kept standing, and he -saw the new-comer look at him, and look again with a lighting up of her -face as though she recognised him. So far as he was aware he had never -seen her before in his life. - -“Miss Lockwood, I do not think this is how you should speak,” said her -employer, “you know whether I am in the habit of permitting anybody’s -character to be taken away, without giving the accused full opportunity -to defend themselves.” - -“Oh yes, Sir, to defend themselves,” she said with a toss of her head, -“after all the harm’s done, and things has been said that can’t be -unsaid. You know as well as I do, Sir, it’s all up with a young lady -the moment things has been spoke of publicly against her.” - -“I hope not so bad as that,” said Mr. Tottenham mildly. He was a little -afraid of the young lady, and so was the worthy parliamentary Robinson, -who had withdrawn a step behind backs, when interrupted in his speech. - -“Well, Mr. Tottenham! and what does it mean, Sir, when you put a stop to -my duet, me and Mr. Watson’s duet, and say it’s best I shouldn’t take -part publicly? Isn’t that judging me, Sir, before ever hearing me--and -taking all the stories as is told against me for true?” - -“I know none of the stories yet,” said Mr. Tottenham, “pray compose -yourself. Mr. Robinson was going to explain to me; but as you are here, -if it will at all save your feelings, I am quite ready to hear your -story first.” - -“Mr. Tottenham, Sir!” said Mr. Robinson, roused to speech. - -“Well! you can have no motive, and I can have no motive, but to come to -the truth. Take a seat, Miss Lockwood, I will not keep you standing; and -begin-- - -“Begin what?” the young woman faltered. “Oh, I am not going to be the -one to begin,” she said saucily, “nobody’s obliged to criminate himself. -And how can I tell what my enemies are saying against me? They must -speak first.” - -“Then, Robinson, do you begin,” said the master; but it was easier in -this case to command than to obey. Robinson shifted from one foot to the -other, he cleared his throat, he rubbed his hands. “I don’t know that I -can, before her,” he said hoarsely, “I have daughters of my own.” - -“I knew,” said the culprit in triumphant scorn, “that you daren’t make -up any of your stories before my face!” - -Robinson restrained himself with an effort. He was a good man, though -the fuss of the incipient scandal was not disagreeable to him. -“It’s--it’s about what is past, Sir,” he said hurriedly, “there is no -reflection on Miss Lockwood’s conduct now. I’d rather not bring it all -up here, not before strangers.” - -“You may speak before as many strangers as you please, I sha’n’t mind,” -said the accused, giving Edgar a glance which bewildered him, not so -much for the recognition which was in it, as for a certain confidence -and support which his appearance seemed to give her. Mr. Tottenham drew -him aside for a moment, whispering in his ear. - -“She seems to know you, Earnshaw?” - -“Yes; but I don’t know how. I never saw her before.” - -“I wonder--perhaps, if I were to take Robinson away and hear his -story--while you might hear what she has to say?” - -“I? But indeed I don’t know her, I assure you I have never seen her -before,” said Edgar in dismay. - -“Never mind, she knows you. She is just the sort of person to prefer to -confide in one whom she does not see every day. I’ll leave you with -her, Earnshaw. Perhaps it will be best if you step this way, Robinson; -I shall hear what you have to say here.” - -Robinson followed his superior promptly into a smaller room. Edgar was -left with the culprit; and it is scarcely possible to realize a less -comfortable position. What was he to do with her? He was not acquainted -either with her or her class; he did not know how to address her. She -looked like a lady, but yet was not a lady, and for the present moment -she was on her trial. Was he to laugh, as he felt inclined to do, at the -shabby trick his friend had played him, or was he to proceed gravely -with his mission? Miss Lockwood solved this question for herself. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -Two Culprits on their Trial. - - -“You’re surprised, Sir, that a stranger should be so ready to speak up -to you,” said Miss Lockwood, “you don’t know me from Adam? but I know -you. You are the gentleman that was in the great Arden case, the -gentleman as gave up. You wouldn’t think it, but I am mixed up with the -Ardens too; and as soon as I set eyes upon you, I said to myself, ‘Here -is one that will help me to my rights.’” - -“Have you, too, rights that involve the Ardens?” said Edgar, startled -yet half amused. “Alas, I fear I cannot help you. If you know my story -you must know I am no Arden, and have no influence with the family one -way or another.” - -“You mightn’t have influence, Sir, but you might hate ’em--as I do,” she -said, with a gleam in her eyes which changed the character of her -otherwise commonplace though handsome countenance. - -“Hate them!” cried Edgar, still more startled. “Why, this is a tragical -way of approaching the subject. What have the Ardens done to you that -you should hate them?” - -“That’s my story,” said Miss Lockwood, meeting him full with a steadfast -look in her eyes, which bewildered Edgar still more. She had taken a -seat, and the two sat looking at each other across Mr. Tottenham’s -writing table. Edgar had not even heard the name of Arden for years -past, and nothing was further from his thoughts on entering this most -commonplace of scenes, the great shop, than to be thrown back into his -own past life, by the touch of one of the young ladies in the shawl and -mantle department. His curiosity was awakened, but not in any high -degree, for it was absurd to suppose that a shopwoman in Tottenham’s -could have any power to affect the Ardens one way or another. He felt -that this must be a tempest in a teacup, some trifling supposed -injustice, something, perhaps, about a cottage on the estate, or the -rancour of a dismissed servant; for he had heard vaguely that there had -been considerable changes. - -“I am afraid I cannot sympathize with you in hating the Ardens,” he -said; “if you know so much about me, you must know that I was brought up -to regard Mrs. Arden as my sister, which I still do, notwithstanding the -change of circumstances; and no one connected with her can be to me an -object of hate.” - -“_Mrs._ Arden, indeed!” said Miss Lockwood with contemptuous emphasis, -tossing her handsome head. - -“Yes. What has Mrs. Arden done to you?” said Edgar, half angry, half -amused with what seemed to him the impotent spitefulness; the absurdity -of the woman’s scorn struck him with ludicrous effect; and yet a certain -uneasiness was in the puzzle. Clare Arden had never possessed that -natural instinctive courtesy which makes dependents friends. Probably -she had wounded the _amour propre_ of the shopwoman; but then no doubt -shopwomen have to make up their minds to such wounds, and Mrs. Arden was -much too well bred and much too proud to have gone out of her way to -annoy a young lady at Tottenham’s--any offence given or taken must have -been a mere inadvertence, whatever it was. - -“Done to me? Oh, she haven’t done nothing to me, not meaningly, poor -creature,” said Miss Lockwood. “Poor thing! it’s me that has that in my -power, not her.” - -“I wish you would tell me,” said Edgar seriously, leaning across the -table towards her with deepened interest and a certain alarm, “I entreat -you to tell me what you mean. You are right in thinking that no subject -could be more interesting to me.” - -“Ah! but it ain’t, perhaps, the kind of interest I expected,” said Miss -Lockwood with coquettish familiarity, pushing back her chair. She -belonged to the class of women who delight to make any conversation, -however trivial or however important, bear the air of a flirtation. She -was quite ready to play with her present companion, to excite and -tantalize his curiosity, to laugh at him, and delude him, if fortune -favoured her. But a chance altogether unforeseen interrupted this not -unpleasant operation, and threw Miss Lockwood and her mystery into, the -shade. When the conversation had advanced thus far, a new personage -suddenly appeared on the scene. With a little preliminary knock, but -without waiting for any invitation, a lady opened the door, the sight of -whom drove even Clare Arden out of Edgar’s mind. She was no longer -young, and her days of possible beauty were over. At sight of her Edgar -rose to his feet, with a sudden cry. - -For a moment the new-comer stood still at the door, looking at the -unexpected scene. Her face was care-worn, and yet it was kind, revealing -one of those mixtures of two beings which are to be seen so often in -society--the kind, genial, gentle woman made by nature, with the -conventional great lady, formed for her position, and earnestly striving -as her highest duty to shape herself into the narrowness and worldliness -which it demanded. This curious development of mingled good and evil has -not, perhaps, had so much notice as it deserves from the observer. We -are all acquainted with characters in which a little germ of goodness -strives against natural dispositions which are not amiable; but the -other compound is not less true, if perhaps more rare. Lady Augusta -Thornleigh, who was Lady Mary Tottenham’s sister, was born one of the -kindest souls that ever drew breath. She had it in her even to be -“viewy” as Lady Mary was, or to be sentimentally yielding and eager for -everybody’s happiness. But all her canons of duty bound her to regard -these dispositions as weakness, almost as guilt, and represented -worldliness to her as the highest of virtues. She sighed after this as -the others sigh after the higher heights of self-denial. Her searchings -of heart were all directed (unconsciously) to make the worse appear the -better cause; she tried to be worldly, believing that was right, as -other people try to be unworldly. But I do wrong to keep Lady Augusta -standing at the door of Mr. Tottenham’s room, while I describe her -characteristics to the reader. She came in, calmly unexpectant of any -sight but that of her brother-in-law; then starting to see two people, -man and woman, seated on either side of the table with every appearance -of being engaged in interesting conversation, made a step back again, -bewildered. - -“I beg your pardon, I thought Mr. Tottenham was here,” she said, -dropping her veil, which she had raised on entering. Miss Lockwood -sprang up from her chair which she pushed back with an appearance of -flurry and excitement, which was either real or very well counterfeited; -while Edgar, deeply vexed, he could scarcely have told why, to be found -thus, rose too, and approached his old friend. He would have liked to -put himself at her feet, to kiss her hand, to throw himself upon her old -kindness, if not like a son with a mother, at least like a loyal servant -of one of those queens of nature whom generous men love to serve like -sons. But he dared not do this--he dared not exceed the bounds of -conventional acquaintance. He went forward eagerly but timidly, holding -out his hands. I cannot find words to say how bewildered Lady Augusta -was by the sight of Edgar, or with what consternation she recognised -him. Whatever the motive had been which had drawn to him the attention -of the Tottenhams, Lady Augusta Thornleigh was altogether ignorant of -it. She had no expectation of seeing him, no idea that he could cross -her path again. The profound surprise, the rush of kindly feeling which -the first sight of him called forth, the thrill of terror and sense of -danger which accompanied it, made her tremble with sudden agitation. -Good heavens! what was she to do? She could not decline to recognise -him; her heart indeed yearned to him, the subject of so much misfortune; -but all the new complications that his presence would produce, rose up -before her as he approached and made her heart sick. Oh, if he would -only take the hint given in her hesitating look, and the veil which she -had dropped over her face! But Edgar was fond of his old friend. She was -the sister of his hostess, and he had felt ever since he went to -Tottenham’s that one day or other he must meet her. He tried even at -that moment to forget that she was anything beyond an old friend and -Lady Mary’s sister; he tried to put the thought out of his mind that she -was the mother of Gussy, his only love; he tried to forget the former -relations between them. He had not seen her since the day when, leaving -his former home, a nameless being, without either future or past to -console him, he had been touched to the heart by her hurried farewell. -He was then in all the excitement of a great sacrifice; he was a hero, -admired and pitied everywhere; he had been almost her son, and she had -called him Edgar, and wept over him. What a difference! he was a -stranger now, in a totally different sphere, fallen out of knowledge, -out of sympathy, no longer a hero or representing any exciting break in -the ordinary level of life; but a common man probably desirous of asking -some favour, and one for whom all his former friends must have the -troublesome sensation of feeling something ought to be done for--I do -not know if this occurred to Edgar’s mind, who was little apt to make -such claims, but it did occur to Lady Augusta. - -“Is it you?--Mr. ----?” she said faltering. She was not even sure of his -new name. - -“Earnshaw,” he said; “Edgar Earnshaw; you recollect me even after all -these years?” - -“Oh, surely. Of course I cannot but recollect you,” she said; “but I am -taken by surprise. I did not know you were in England. I never could -have expected to find you here.” - -“No,” said Edgar, chilled by her tone, and letting the hand drop which -she had given him, he felt, with hesitation. “It seems to myself the -last place in the world where I could be; but Mr. Tottenham is so kind -as to wish--” - -What was Mr. Tottenham so kind as to wish? I cannot describe Lady -Augusta’s perplexity. Did it mean that Edgar had been so far reduced as -to require employment in the shop? Had he come to that--he who was all -but engaged to Gussy once? The idea gave her an indescribable shock; but -then, how foolish of Mr. Tottenham, knowing all he did of Gussy and her -obstinacy, and how she had all but broken her parents’ hearts by -refusing the best of offers, and threatened to go into a sisterhood, -and came constantly to this very place to visit and influence the “young -ladies” of the establishment! Lady Augusta grew red and grew pale in the -agitation of her feelings; but what could she say? She could not ask him -point-blank if this were so; she could not, after all these years, throw -herself once more upon his chivalry, as she had done before, and implore -him to keep out of her daughter’s way. The only way of outlet she found -for her excitement and confusion was to look severely at Miss Lockwood, -who stood with her hands folded, and an ingratiating smile on her face, -stooping slightly forward, as who should say, What can I have the -pleasure of showing your ladyship? - -Lady Augusta gave this “person” a withering glance. She was indignant -with her for appearing to be on intimate terms with this man, whom, had -Lady Augusta been wise, she would have gladly married off at once to -anybody, so that he might be got out of her child’s way. But, being a -very natural woman, with a great many tender prejudices and motherly -feelings, she was a little haughty and offended that, having known -Gussy, he should decline to such a level as Miss Lockwood. Gussy was not -for him, and his very existence was a danger for her; but still, that he -should be inconstant to Gussy, was to her mother a wrong and offence. - -“I fear,” she said, in her stateliest tone, “that I am interrupting -you--that you were particularly engaged.” - -“Oh no, your Ladyship, nothing but what can wait,” murmured Miss -Lockwood, gliding off with a curtsey, and adding a sidelong half nod of -leave-taking to Edgar, which made him hot with anger, yet was too absurd -in its impertinence to be resented. Lady Augusta drew herself up more -and more. - -“I can’t tell you how sorry I am to have interrupted a--conversation--an -interview. I expected to find my brother-in-law here.” - -“Indeed, you have interrupted nothing,” said Edgar. “Mr. Tottenham, I -don’t know why, left me here with this--lady, while he went to make some -inquiries about her; he will return directly. She had offered to explain -her case, of which I knew nothing, to me,” he continued, with an -embarrassed laugh, feeling himself grow red against his will. What did -it matter to Lady Augusta whom he might converse with? But, -notwithstanding, her manner was as that of a woman offended, and forming -an unfavourable judgment, and Edgar was affected by this unspoken -judgment in spite of himself. - -Then a pause ensued. Miss Lockwood had glided out of the room with her -long train rustling, but no other sound, and Lady Augusta, like other -less exalted persons, did not know what to say to carry on this curious -conversation. She was not sufficiently in friendship with Edgar to say -anything further to him on this subject, either as warning or reproving, -and there was an awkward pause. He would have liked to put a hundred -questions, but did not know how to begin. - -“I hope all are well,” he said at last, with some timidity. - -“Oh, quite well. There have been various changes in the family, as no -doubt you have heard; and more are in prospect,” Lady Augusta said -pointedly: “That is the worst of grown-up sons and daughters. After -twenty, their father and mother have very little enjoyment of them. I -was not aware you knew my brother-in-law.” - -This she said with something of a jerk, having forestalled all possible -inquiry on Edgar’s side, as she thought. - -“I only met him a few days ago,” said Edgar. “Perhaps I had better tell -you at once my position in respect to him. He has offered me the post of -tutor to his boy; and having nothing to do for the moment, poor as my -qualifications are, I have accepted it. I need not tell you, who know -them, how kind to me both he and Lady Mary have been.” - -“Tutor to--his boy!” Lady Augusta repeated the words, thunderstruck. -This was something more terrible, more alarming than she had conceived -possible. “Tutor to Phil?” She did not seem able to do more than repeat -the words. - -“You may well be surprised,” said Edgar, trying to laugh; “no one could -be more so than myself; but as they were so good as to overlook my -deficiencies, what could I say?” - -“I was not thinking of your deficiencies. Oh! Mr. Earnshaw, oh! Edgar, -could not your old friends have helped you to something better than -this?” - -Poor Lady Augusta! she was unfeignedly grieved and sorry to think of him -as a dependent. And at the same time she was struck with terror -unbounded to think that he would now be always in her way, in Gussy’s -way, never to be got rid of. She was not fond of exercising what -influence she possessed lavishly, for she had many sons and nephews; but -she began to reflect immediately what she could do to promote Edgar’s -interests. A tutor, and in Tottenham’s, for ever; or in Berkeley Square, -always at hand, never to be got rid of-- - -“Dear me!” she cried, “tell me whom I should speak to. We must not let -you vegetate in such a post as this.” - -I don’t think Edgar had much difficulty in divining what she meant, or -which branch of the subject had most effect on her mind. And, perhaps, -he was slightly irritated by his insight, though this effect very soon -went off. - -“Thank you,” he said, “for the moment I am well enough pleased with my -position. Everybody is very kind to me; and, after so long abstinence, a -little pleasant society is an agreeable change.” - -He was sorry after he had said this, for he liked Lady Augusta. Her -countenance fell. She gave an alarmed glance at the door, where there -was a passing sound as of some one approaching. - -“I should not have thought you would have liked it,” she said, with a -little sigh. “Do you know where Mr. Tottenham is? I want to speak to -him just for a moment. Thanks so much. I will wait here till he comes.” - -“I shall attend to it--you may be sure I will attend to it,” said Mr. -Tottenham’s voice, making itself audible before he himself appeared. -“You were quite right, Robinson, quite right, and you may be sure I will -pay every attention. Ah, Lady Augusta, you here. What! and you have -found out our friend? I meant that for a little surprise to you. Yes, -here he is, and I hope to hold him fast, at least till something very -much better turns up--a thing which will happen, I am afraid, quite too -soon for us.” - -“Let us hope so, for Mr. Earnshaw’s sake,” said Lady Augusta, with a -little solemnity. How different her tone was from that of her -brother-in-law! Perhaps, on the whole, her personal liking for Edgar was -stronger than his was; but there were so many things mingled with it -which made this liking impossible. Her very person seemed to stiffen as -she spoke, and she made a little pause, as Lord Newmarch had done before -pronouncing his name. “Mr.--Earnshaw.” To be sure it must be difficult, -having known him by one name to speak to him by another; but somehow -this little pause seemed to Edgar another painful reminder that he was -not as he had once been. - -And then there ensued another embarrassed pause. Edgar could not say -anything, for his feelings at the moment were somewhat bitter; and as -for good Mr. Tottenham, he was perplexed and perturbed, not perceiving -any reason why his sister-in-law should put on so solemn an expression. -He had expected nothing less than to please her and all her family, by -his kindness to the man whom he persisted in considering their friend. -He was profoundly perplexed by this stiffness and air of solemnity. Had -there been some quarrel, of which he knew nothing, between them? He was -dumb in his bewilderment, and could not think of anything to say. - -“Did Miss Lockwood tell you much? or was she frightened?” he said. “It -is a troublesome story, and I wish people would not be so horribly -officious in reporting everything. Did she open her heart at all to -you?” - -Mr. Tottenham looked at him with calm matter-of-fact seriousness, and -Lady Augusta looked at him with suspicious disapproval. To the woman of -the world the question seemed absurd, to the man of ideas it was as -simple as daylight; between them they embarrassed the altogether -innocent third party, who had a clue to both their thoughts. - -“She told me nothing,” said Edgar, “as indeed how should she, never -having spoken to me before to-day? She had seen me, she says, three -years ago, at the time of the arrangement about Arden, and she chose to -talk to me of that, heaven knows why.” - -“Was that what you were talking about when I came in?” said Lady -Augusta, with a cold ring of unbelief in her tone, a tone which -irritated Edgar deeply in spite of himself. - -“It was what we were talking of,” he said, concisely; and then Mr. -Tottenham felt sure there had been some previously existing quarrel of -which he knew nothing, and that his attempt to give pleasure had been so -far a failure. This momentarily discouraged him--for to do harm, where -you would fain have done good, is confusing to every well-intentioned -soul. - -“Mary will be glad to hear something of your movements,” he said. “She -has been anxious for some time past to know what you were going to do.” - -“I came to tell you,” said Lady Augusta. “We are in town for a few -weeks, chiefly about business, for my little Mary has made up her mind -to leave me; and as it has all been made up in a hurry, there will be a -great deal to do.” - -“Made up her mind to leave you?” - -“Yes, don’t you understand? She is going to marry Lord Granton, the -Marquis of Hautville’s son. Yes, you may congratulate me; it is very -pleasant, and just such a match as one could have wished; and after -Helena’s sad business,” said Lady Augusta, with a sigh, “we wanted -something to console us a little.” - -“I think Helena’s was a very sensible marriage,” said Mr. Tottenham; -“just the man for her; but I am glad your pride is going to have this -salve all the same, and I daresay Mary will be delighted, for she is a -dreadful little aristocrat, notwithstanding her own foolish marriage, -and all she says.” - -“If every foolish marriage ended as well as Mary’s--” said Lady -Augusta. - -“Ah! you mean if every _parvenu_ was rich?” said Mr. Tottenham; “but -that, unfortunately, is past hoping for. So you have come to town for -the trousseau? I hope your Ladyship means to patronise the shop.” - -“My dear Tom--” Lady Augusta began, her face clouding over. - -“Before your sister’s time, I too was ashamed of the shop,” he said, “if -I am not now, it is Mary’s doing. And so her little godchild is to be a -great lady! I am very glad for your sake, Augusta, and I hope the little -thing will be happy. Does she know her own mind? I suppose Thornleigh is -very much pleased.” - -“Delighted!” cried Lady Augusta, “as we all are; he is a charming -fellow, and she is as happy as the day is long.” - -“Ah, we are all charming fellows, and everybody makes the best of us at -that period of our lives,” said Mr. Tottenham; “all the same I am glad -to hear everything is so pleasant. And Gussy? What does Gussy say?” - -“Mr. Tottenham!” Lady Augusta cried in an indignant whisper; and then -she added, “tell Mary I shall come and tell her all about it. I must not -detain you any longer from your business. Good-bye, Mr. Earnshaw.” - -“Earnshaw will see you to your carriage,” said Mr. Tottenham, “I am very -busy--don’t think me careless; and I know,” he added in a lower tone, -“you will like, when you are happy yourself, to say a kind word to an -old friend.” - -Happy herself! does a woman ever inquire whether she is personally happy -or not when she has come to Lady Augusta’s age, and has a large family -to care for? She took the arm which Edgar could not but offer with an -impatient sigh. - -“Mr. Earnshaw does not require to be told that I wish him everything -that is good,” she said, and allowed him to lead her out, wondering how -she should manage to warn Beatrice, her youngest daughter, who had come -with her, and who was looking at something in one of the many -departments. The young Thornleighs were all fond of Edgar, and Lady -Augusta dared not trust a young firebrand of nineteen to go and spread -the news all over the family, without due warning, that he had appeared -upon the scene again. Edgar’s short-lived anger had before this floated -away, though his heart ached at the withdrawal from him of the -friendship which had been sweet to his friendly soul. His heart melted -more and more every step he walked by her side. - -“Lady Augusta,” he said at last hurriedly, “you were once as kind as an -angel to me, when I wanted it much. Don’t be afraid of me; I shall never -put myself in your way.” - -“Oh, Mr. Earnshaw!” she cried, struck by compunction; “I ought to ask -your pardon, Edgar; I ought to know you better; don’t judge me harshly. -If you only knew--” - -“I don’t ask to know anything,” he said, though his heart beat high, “my -sphere henceforth is very different from yours; you need have no fear of -me.” - -“God bless you, whatever is your sphere! you are good, and I am sure you -will be happy!” she cried with tears in her eyes, giving him her hand as -he put her into her carriage; but then she added, “will you send some -one to call Beatrice, little Beatrice, who came with me? No, don’t go -yourself, pray don’t go--I would not give you so much trouble for the -world!” - -Edgar did not feel sure whether he was most inclined to burst into rude -laughter, or to go aside to the nearest corner and dry his glistening -eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -Schemes and Speculations. - - -Edgar went home in the evening, feeling a degree of agitation which he -had scarcely given himself credit for being capable of. He had been on -so low a level of feeling all these years, that he believed himself to -have grown duller and less capable of emotion, though he could not -explain to himself how it should be so. But now the stormwinds had begun -to blow, and the tide to rise. The mere sight of Lady Augusta was enough -to have brought back a crowd of sensations and recollections, and there -had lately been so many other touches upon the past to heighten the -effect of this broad gleam of light. Even the curious recognition of -him, and the apparently foolish enmity against the Ardens, which the -young lady at Tottenham’s had shown, had something to do with the -ferment of contending feelings in which he found himself. Hate them! no, -why should he hate them? But to be thus called back to the recollection -of them, and of all that he had been, had a strangely disturbing -influence upon his mind. In his aimless wanderings alone over Europe, -and in his sudden plunge into a family life quite new to him in -Scotland, he had believed himself utterly set free from all the -traditions and associations of the former existence, which was indeed -more like a chapter out of a romance than a real episode in life. Taking -it at the most, it was nothing but an episode. After years of neglected -youth, a brief breathless moment of power, independence, and a kind of -greatness, and then a sharp disruption from them all, and plunge into -obscurity again. Why should that short interval affect him more than all -the long tracts of less highly coloured life, from which it stood out -like a bit of brilliant embroidery on a sombre web? Edgar could not -tell; he felt that it did so, but he could not answer to himself why. -Mr. Tottenham talked all the way back about one thing and another, about -Miss Lockwood, and the scandal which had suddenly shocked the -establishment, about little Mary Thornleigh and her brilliant marriage, -about the evening entertainment to be given in the shop, which was quite -as important to him. Fortunately for Edgar, his companion was capable of -monologue, and went on quite pleasantly during their drive without need -of anything more than a judicious question or monosyllable of assent. - -“I’ll tell you one thing, Earnshaw,” he said, “in such undertakings as -mine the great thing is never to be discouraged; never allow yourself -to be discouraged; that is my maxim; though I am not always able -to carry it out. I hope I never shall give in to say that because -things go wrong under my management, or because one meets with -disappointments--therefore things must always go wrong, and nothing -good ever come of it. Of course, look at it from a serious point of -view, concerts and penny readings, and so forth are of no importance. -That is what Gussy always tells me. She thinks religion is the only -thing; she would like to train my young ladies to find their chief -pleasure in the chapel and the daily service, like her Sisters in their -convent. I am not against Sisterhoods, Earnshaw; I should not like to -see Gussy go into one, it is true--” - -“Is there any likelihood of that?” Edgar asked with a great start, which -made the light waggon they were driving in, swerve. - -“Hallo! steady!” cried Mr. Tottenham, “likelihood of it? I don’t know. -She wished it at one time. You see, Earnshaw, we don’t sufficiently -understand, seeing how different they are, how much alike women are to -ourselves. I suppose there comes a time in a girl’s life, as well as in -a man’s, when she wants to be herself, and not merely her father’s -daughter. You may say she should marry in that case; but supposing she -doesn’t want to marry, or, put the case, can’t marry as she would wish? -What can she do? I think myself they overdo the devotional part; but a -Sisterhood means occupation, a kind of independence, a position of her -own--and at the same time protection from all the folly we talk about -strong-minded women.” - -“But does it mean all this?” said Edgar surprised, “that is not the -ordinary view?” - -“My dear fellow, the ordinary view is all nonsense. I say it’s -protection against idiotic talk. The last thing anyone thinks of is to -bring forward the strong-minded abuse in respect to a Sisterhood. But -look here; I know of one, where quite quietly, without any fuss, there’s -the Sister Doctor in full practice, looking after as many children as -would fill a good-sized village. She’s never laughed at and called Dr. -Mary, M.D.; and there’s the Sister Head-Master, with no Governing Body -to make her life miserable. They don’t put forward that view of the -subject. Possibly, for human nature is very queer, they think only of -the sacrifice, &c.; but I don’t wonder, for my part, that it’s a great -temptation to a woman. Gussy Thornleigh is twenty-five, too old to be -only her mother’s shadow; and if nothing else that she likes comes in -her way--” - -Mr. Tottenham made a pause. Did he mean anything by that pause? Poor -Edgar, who felt himself to be a sport to all the wild imaginations that -can torture a man, sat silent, and felt the blood boiling in his veins -and his heart leaping in his throat. It was as well that his companion -stopped talking, for he could not have heard any voice but that of his -own nerves and pulses all throbbing and thrilling. Heaven and earth! -might it be possible that this should come about, while he, a man, able -and willing to work, to slave, to turn head and hands to any occupation -on the earth, should be hanging on helpless, unable to interfere? And -yet he had but this moment told Gussy’s mother that she need not fear -him! A strong impulse came upon him to spring down from the waggon and -walk back to town and tell Lady Augusta to fear everything, that he -would never rest nor let her rest till he won her daughter back to a -more smiling life. Alas, of all follies what could be so foolish? he, -the tutor, the dependent, without power to help either himself or her. -The waggon rushed along the dark country road, making a little circle of -light round its lamps, while the sound of the horses’ feet, and the roll -of the wheels, enveloped them in a circle of sound, separating, as it -were, this moving speck of light and motion from all the inanimate -world. It would have been as easy to change that dark indifferent sphere -suddenly into the wide and soft sympathy of a summer evening, as for -Edgar, at this period of his life, to have attempted from this hopeless -abstraction, in which he was carried along by others, to have interfered -with another existence and turned its course aside. Not now--if ever, -not yet--and, ah, when, if ever? It was a long time before he was able -to speak at all, and his companion, who thus wittingly or unwittingly, -threw such firebrands of thought into his disturbed mind was silent too, -either respectful of Edgar’s feelings, or totally unconscious of them, -he could not tell which. - -“May I ask,” he inquired, after a long pause, clearing his throat, which -was parched and dry, “what was meant by ‘Helena’s sad business?’ What -has become of that Miss Thornleigh?” - -“What has become of her is, that she’s married,” said Mr. Tottenham. “A -very natural thing, though Helena, I believe, was a little ashamed of -herself for giving into it. She married a man who has nothing but his -brains to recommend him--no family to speak of, and no money, which, -between ourselves, is a good deal worse. He is a professor, and a -critic, and that sort of thing--too clever for me, but he suits her -better than anyone I know. Helena is a totally different sort of person, -sure to have her own way, whatever she takes into her head. Now Gussy, -on the contrary----” - -“Mr. Tottenham,” said Edgar, hoarsely, “for God’s sake, don’t say any -more.” - -“Ah!” said the other; and then he added, “I beg your pardon, I beg your -pardon,” and flourished his whip in the air by way of a diversion. This -manœuvre was so successful that the party had quite enough to think of -to keep their seats, and their heads cool in case of an accident, as the -spirited beasts plunged and dashed along the remaining bit of way. “That -was as near a spill as I remember,” Mr. Tottenham said, as he threw the -reins to the groom, when, after a tearing gallop up the avenue, the bays -drew up at the door. He was flushed with the excitement and the -struggle; and whether he had put Edgar to the torture in ignorance, or -with any occult meaning, the sufferer could not discover. The momentary -gleam of danger at the end had however done even Edgar good. - -Lady Mary met them at dinner, smiling and pretty, ready to lend an ear -to anything interesting that might be said, but full of her own projects -as when they left her. She had carried out her plans with the -business-like despatch which women so often excel in, and Edgar, whose -mind had been so remorselessly stirred and agitated all day, found -himself quite established as an active coadjutor in her great scheme at -night. - -“I have sent a little circular to the printers,” said Lady Mary, “saying -when the German lectures would be resumed. You said Tuesday, I think, -Mr. Earnshaw? That is the day that suits us best. Several people have -been here this afternoon, and a great deal of interest has been excited -about it; several, indeed, have sent me their names already. Oh, I told -them you were working half against your will, without thinking very much -of the greatness of the object; indeed, with just a little -contempt--forgive me, Mr. Earnshaw--for this foolish fancy of women -trying to improve their minds.” - -“No, only for the infinitely odd fancy of thinking I can help in the -process,” said Edgar, dragging himself, as it were, within this new -circle of fantastic light. His own miseries and excitements, heaven help -him, were fantastic enough; but how real they looked by the side of this -theoretical distress! or so at least the young man thought. I cannot -tell with what half-laughing surprise, when his mind was at ease--but -half-irritated dismay when he was troubled--he looked at this lady, -infinitely more experienced in men and society and serious life than -himself, who proposed to improve her mind by means of his German -lessons. Was she laughing at him and the world? or was it a mere fashion -of the time which she had taken up? or, most wonderful of all, was she -sincere and believing in all this? He really thought she was, and so did -she, not perceiving the curious misapprehension of things and words -involved. It is common to say that a sense of humour saves us from -exposing ourselves in many ways, yet it is amazing how little even our -sense of humour helps us to see our own graver absurdities, though it -may throw the most unclouded illumination upon those of other people. - -“That is a polite way of concealing your sentiments,” said Lady Mary; -“but never mind, I am not angry. I am so sure of the rightness of the -work, and of its eventual success, that I don’t mind being laughed at. -To enlarge the sphere of ideas ever so little is an advantage worth -fighting for.” - -“Very well,” said Edgar, “I am proud to be thought capable of enlarging -somebody’s sphere. What do lectures on German mean? Before I begin you -must tell me what I have to do.” - -“You must teach them the language, Mr. Earnshaw.” - -“Yes, but where shall we begin? with the alphabet? Must I have a -gigantic black board to write the letters on?” - -“Oh, not so rudimentary as that; most of the ladies, in fact, know a -little German,” said Lady Mary. “I do myself, just enough to talk.” - -“Enough to talk! I don’t know any more of English, my native tongue,” -said Edgar, “than just enough to talk.” - -“Don’t laugh at me, Mr. Earnshaw. I know nothing of the grammar, for -instance. We are never taught grammar. We get a kind of knowledge of a -language, just to use it, like a tool; but what is the principle of the -tool, or how it is put together, or in what way it is related to other -tools of the same description, I know no more than Adam did.” - -“She knows a great deal more than I do,” said Mr. Tottenham, admiringly. -“I never could use that sort of tool, as you call it, in my life. A -wonderfully convenient thing though when you can do it. I never was much -of a hand at languages; you should learn all that when you are quite -young, in the nursery, when it’s no trouble--not leave it till you have -to struggle with verbs, and all that sort of thing; not to say that you -never can learn a foreign language by book.” - -Mr. Tottenham uttered these sentiments in a comfortable leisurely, -dressing-gown and slippers sort of way. He did not give in to these -indulgences in reality, but when he came upstairs to the drawing-room, -and stretched himself in his great chair by the fire, and felt the -luxurious warmth steal through him, after the chill of the drive and the -excitement of its conclusion, he felt that inward sense of ease and -comfort which nerves a man to utter daring maxims and lay down the law -from a genial height of good-humour and content. - -“Tom!” cried Lady Mary, with impatience; and then she laughed, and -added, “barbarian! don’t throw down all my arguments in your sleepy way. -If there is anything of what you call chivalry left in the world, you -men, who are really educated and whom people have taken pains with, -ought to do your best to help us who are not educated at all.” - -“O! that is the state of the case? Am I so very well educated? I did not -know it,” said Mr. Tottenham, “but you need not compel us to follow -Dogberry’s maxim, and produce our education when there’s no need for -such vanities. I have pledged you to come to the shop, Mary, on -Wednesday week. They think a great deal of securing my lady. They are -going to give the trial scene from Pickwick, which is threadbare enough, -but suits this sort of business, and there’s a performance of Watson’s -on the cornet, and a duet, and some part songs, and so forth. I daresay -it will bore you. This affair of Miss Lockwood’s is very troublesome,” -Mr. Tottenham continued, sitting upright in his chair, and knitting his -brows; “everything was working so well, and a real desire to improve -showing itself among the people. These very girls, a fortnight since, -were as much interested in the glacier theory, and as much delighted -with the snow photographs as it was possible to be; but the moment a -private question comes in, everything else goes to the wall.” - -“I suppose,” said Edgar, “the fact is that we are more interested about -each other, on the whole, than in any abstract question, however -elevating.” - -“Why, that is as much as to say that everything must give place to -gossip,” said Lady Mary, severely, “a doctrine I will never give in to.” - -“And, by the way,” said Mr. Tottenham, sinking back into dreamy ease, -“that reminds me of your sister’s great news. What sort of a family is -it? I remember young Granton well enough, a good-looking boy in the -Guards, exactly like all the others. Little Mary is, how old? -Twenty-one? How those children go on growing. It is the first good -marriage, so to speak, in the family. I am glad Augusta is to have the -salve of a coronet after all her troubles.” - -“What a mixture of metaphors!” cried Lady Mary, “the salve of a -coronet!” - -“That comes of my superior education, my dear,” said Mr. Tottenham. “She -doesn’t deny it’s a comfort to her. Her eyes, poor soul, had a look of -satisfaction in them. And she has had anxiety enough of all kinds.” - -“We need not discuss Augusta’s affairs, Tom,” said Lady Mary, with a -glance at Edgar, so carefully veiled that the aroused and exciting state -in which he was, made him perceive it at once. She gave her husband a -much more distinct warning glance; but he, good man, either did not, or -would not see it. - -“What, not such a happy incident as this?” said Mr. Tottenham; “the -chances are we shall hear of nothing else for some time to come. It will -be in the papers, and all your correspondents will send you -congratulations. After all, as Earnshaw says, people are more interested -about each other than about any abstract question. I should not wonder -even, if, as one nail knocks out another, little Mary’s great marriage -may banish the scandal about Miss Lockwood from the mind of the shop.” - -Lady Mary for some seconds yielded to an impulse quite unusual to her. -“What can the shop possibly have to do--” she began, hastily, “with the -Thornleigh affairs?” she added, in a subdued tone. “If it was our own -little Molly, indeed, whom they all know--” - -“My dear Mary, they interest themselves in all your alliances,” said Mr. -Tottenham, “and you forget that Gussy is as well known among them as you -are. Besides, as Earnshaw says--Don’t go, Earnshaw; the night is young, -and I am unusually disposed for talk.” - -“So one can see,” said Lady Mary, under her breath, with as strong an -inclination to whip her husband as could have been felt by the most -uncultivated of womankind. “Come and look at my prospectus and the -course of studies we are arranging for this winter, Mr. Earnshaw. Some -of the girls might be stirred up to go in for the Cambridge -examinations, I am sure. I want you so much to come to the village with -me, and be introduced to a few of them. There is really a great deal of -intelligence among them; uneducated intelligence, alas! but under good -guidance, and with the help which all my friends are so kindly willing -to give--” - -“But please remember,” cried Edgar, struggling for a moment on the edge -of the whirlpool, “that I cannot undertake to direct intelligence. I can -teach German if you like--though probably the first German governess -that came to hand would do it a great deal better.” - -“Not so, indeed; the Germans are, perhaps, better trained in the theory -of education than we are; but no woman I have ever met had education -enough herself to be competent to teach in a thoroughly effective way,” -cried Lady Mary, mounting her steed triumphantly. Edgar sat down humbly -by her, almost forgetting, in his sense of the comical position which -fate had placed him in, the daily increasing embarrassments which filled -his path. All the Universities put together could scarcely have made up -as much enthusiasm for education as shone in Lady Mary’s pretty eyes, -and poured from her lips in floods of eloquence. Mr. Tottenham, who -leaned back in his chair abstractedly, and pondered his plans for the -perfection of the faulty and troublesome little society in the shop, -took but little notice, being sufficiently occupied with views of his -own; but Edgar felt his own position as a superior being, and -representative of the highest education, so comical, that it was all he -could do to keep his gravity. To guide the eager uneducated -intelligence, to discipline the untrained thought, nay, to teach women -to think, in whose hands he, poor fellow, felt himself as a baby, was -about the most ludicrous suggestion, he felt, that could have been made -to him. But nothing could exceed the good faith and earnestness with -which Lady Mary expounded her plans, and described the results she hoped -for. This was much safer than the talk about little Mary Thornleigh’s -marriage--or the unexplainable reasons which kept Gussy Thornleigh from -marrying at all--or any other of those interesting personal problems -which were more exciting to the mind, and much less easily discussed. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -The Village. - - -The next afternoon was appointed by Lady Mary as the time at which Edgar -should accompany her to Harbour Green, and be made acquainted with at -least a portion of his future pupils. As I have said, this was a safe -sort of resource, and he could not but feel that a compassionate -understanding of his probable feelings, and difficulties of a more -intimate kind, had something to do with Lady Mary’s effort to enlist him -so promptly and thoroughly in the service of her scheme. Both husband -and wife, however, in this curious house were so thoroughly intent upon -their philanthropical schemes, that it was probably mere supererogation -to add a more delicate unexpressed motive to the all-sufficing -enthusiasm which carried them forward. Shortly, however, before the hour -appointed, a little twisted note was brought to him, postponing till the -next day the proposed visit to the village, and Edgar was left to -himself to pursue his own studies on Phil’s behalf, whose education he -felt was quite enough responsibility for one so little trained in the -art of conveying instruction as he was. Phil had already favoured him -with one of those engrossing and devoted attachments which are so -pleasant, yet sometimes so fatiguing to the object. He followed Edgar -about wherever he went, watched whatever he did with devout admiration, -and copied him in such minute matters as were easily practicable, with -the blindest adoration. The persistence with which he quoted Mr. -Earnshaw had already become the joke of the house, and with a devotion -which was somewhat embarrassing he gave Edgar his company continually, -hanging about him wherever he was. As Edgar read Lady Mary’s note which -the boy brought to him, Phil volunteered explanations. - -“I know why mamma wrote you that note,” he said, “it’s because Aunt -Augusta is there. I heard them saying-- - -“Never mind what you heard them saying,” said Edgar; and then he yielded -to a movement of nature. “Was your aunt alone, Phil?” he asked--then -grew crimson, feeling his weakness. - -“How red your face is, Mr. Earnshaw, are you angry? No, I don’t think -she was alone; some of the girls were with her. Mamma said she was -engaged to you, and they made her give it up.” - -“Naturally,” said Edgar, “any day will do for me. What do you say now, -Phil, as I am free for the afternoon, to a long walk?” - -“Hurrah!” cried the boy, “I wanted so much to go up to the gamekeeper’s, -up through the woods to see the last lot of puppies. Do you mind -walking that way? Oh, thanks, awfully! I am so much obliged to Aunt -Augusta for stopping mamma.” - -“Come along then,” said Edgar. He was glad to turn his back on the -house, though he could not but look back as he left, wondering whether, -at any moment at any door or window, the face might appear which he had -not seen for so long--the face of his little love, whom he had once -loved but lightly, yet which seemed to fix itself more vividly in his -recollection every day. He could not sit still and permit himself to -think that possibly she was in the same house with him, within reach, -that he might hear at any moment the sound of her voice. No, rather, -since he had given his voluntary promise to her mother, and since he was -so far separated from her by circumstances, rather hurry out of the -house and turn his back upon a possibility which raised such a tumult in -his heart. He breathed more freely when he was out of doors, in the damp -wintry woods, with Phil, who kept close by his side, carrying on a -monologue very different in subject, but not so different in character -from his father’s steady strain of talk. There is a certain charm in -these wintry woods, the wet greenness of the banks, the mournful -stillness of the atmosphere, the crackle of here and there a dropping -branch, the slow sailing through the air now and then of a leaf, falling -yellow and stiff from the top of a bough. Edgar liked the covert and the -companionship of trees, which were denuded like himself of all that had -made life brave and fair. The oaks and beeches, stiffening in their -faded russet and yellow, stood against the deep green of the pine and -firs, like forlorn old beauties in rustling court dresses of a worn-out -fashion; the great elms and spare tall poplars spread their intricate -lacework of branches against the sky; far in the west the sun was still -shining, giving a deep background of red and gold to the crowded groups -of dry boughs. The rustle of some little woodland animal warmly furred -among the fallen leaves and decaying husks, the crackling of that branch -which always breaks somewhere in the silence, the trickle of water, -betraying itself by the treacherous greenness of the mossy grass--these -were all the sounds about, except their own footsteps, and the clear -somewhat shrill voice of the boy, talking with cheerful din against -time, and almost making up for the want of the birds, so much did his -cheerful aimless chatter resemble their sweet confusion of song and -speech, the ordinary language of the woods. - -“I could hit that squirrel as easy as look at him. I bet you a shilling -I could! only just look here, cocking his shining eye at us, the cheeky -little brute! Here goes!” - -“Don’t,” said Edgar, “how should you like it if some Brobdingnagian -being took a shot at you? What do you think, Phil--were those ladies -going to stay?” - -“Those ladies?” cried Phil in amazement, for indeed they were dragged in -without rhyme or reason in the middle of the woods and of their walk. -“Do you mean Aunt Augusta and the girls? Oh, is that all? No, I don’t -suppose so. Should you mind? They’re jolly enough you know, after all, -not bad sort of girls, as girls go.” - -“I am glad you give so good an account of them,” said Edgar, amused in -spite of himself. - -“Oh, not half bad sort of girls! nicer a great deal than the ones from -the Green, who come up sometimes. But, I say, Myra Witherington’s an -exception. She _is_ fun; you should see her do old Jones, or the Rector; -how you would laugh! Once I saw her do papa. I don’t think she meant it; -she just caught his very tone, and the way he turns his head, all in a -moment; and then she flushed up like fire and was in such a fright lest -we should notice. Nobody noticed but me.” - -“Your cousins, I suppose, are not so clever as that,” said Edgar, -humouring the boy, and feeling himself as he did so, the meanest of -household spies. - -“It depends upon which it is. Mary is fun, the one that’s going to be -married,” said Phil, “I suppose _that_ will spoil her; and Bee is not -bad. She ain’t so clever as Mary, but she’s not bad. Then there’s Gussy, -is a great one for telling stories; she’s capital when it rains and one -can’t get out. She’s almost as good as the lady with the funny name in -the Arabian Nights.” - -“Does she often come here?” said Edgar with a tremble in his voice. - -“They say she’s going to be a nun,” said Phil; “how funny people are! I -can’t fancy Cousin Gussy shut up in a convent, can you? I’d rather -marry, like Mary, some great swell; though they are never any fun after -they’re married,” Phil added parenthetically with profound gravity. As -for Edgar he was in no humour to laugh at this precocious wisdom. He -went straight on, taking the wrong way, and scarcely hearing the shouts -of the boy who called him back. “This is the way to the gamekeeper’s,” -cried Phil, “Mr. Earnshaw, where were you going? You look as if you had -been set thinking and could not see the way.” - -How true it was; he had been set thinking, and he knew no more what road -he was going than if he had been blindfolded. Years after, the damp -greenness of the fading year, the songless season, the bare branches -against the sky, would bring to Edgar’s mind the moment when he shot off -blankly across the path in the wood at Tottenham’s, not knowing and not -caring where he went. - -Next day Lady Mary fulfilled her promise. She drove him down in her own -pony carriage to the village, and there took him upon a little round of -calls. They went to the Rectory, and to Mrs. Witherington’s, and to the -Miss Bakers who were great authorities at Harbour Green. The Rector was -a large heavy old man, with heavy eyes, who had two daughters, and had -come by degrees (though it was secretly said not without a struggle) to -be very obedient to them. He said, “Ah, yes, I dare say you are right,” -to everything Lady Mary said, and gave Edgar a little admonition as to -the seriousness of the work he was undertaking. “Nothing is more -responsible, or more delicate than instructing youth,” said the Rector, -“for my part I am not at all sure what it is to come to. The maids know -as much now as their mistresses used to do, and as for the mistresses I -do not know where they are to stop.” - -“But you would not have us condemned to ignorance, papa,” said one of -his daughters. - -“Oh, no, I should not take it upon me to condemn you to anything,” said -the old man with his quavering voice, “I hope only that you may not find -you’ve gone further than you had any intention of going, before you’ve -done.” - -This somewhat vague threat was all he ventured upon in the way of -remonstrance; but he did not give any encouragement, and was greatly -afraid of the whole proceeding as revolutionary, and of Lady Mary -herself, as a dangerous and seditious person sowing seeds of rebellion. -Mrs. Witherington, to whom they went next, was scarcely more -encouraging. Her house was a large Queen Anne house, red brick, with a -pediment surmounting a great many rows of twinkling windows. It fronted -to the Green, without any grassplot or ornamental shrubs in front; but -with a large well-walled garden behind, out of which rich branches of -lilac and laburnum drooped in spring, and many scents enriched the air. -The rooms inside were large, but not very lofty, and the two -drawing-rooms occupied the whole breadth of the house, one room looking -to the Green and the other to the garden. There were, or ought to have -been folding doors between, but these were never used, and the opening -was hung with curtains instead, curtains which were too heavy, and -over-weighted the rooms. But otherwise the interior was pretty, with -that homely gracefulness, familiar and friendly, which belongs to the -dwelling of a large family where everyone has his, or rather her, -habitual concerns and occupations. The front part was the most cheerful, -the back the finest. There a great mirror was over the mantelpiece, but -here the late Colonel’s swords, crossed, held the place of honour. The -visitors entered through this plainer room, which acted as ante-chamber -to the other, and where Mrs. Witherington was discovered, as in a scene -at the theatre, seated at a writing table with a pile of tradesmen’s -books before her. She was a tall spare woman, having much more the -aspect which is associated with the opprobrious epithet, old maid, than -that which traditionally ought to belong to the mother of nine -children--all except the four daughters who remained at home--out and -about in the world. She had three sons who were scattered in the -different corners of the earth, and two daughters married, one of whom -was in India, and the other a consul’s wife in Spain. The young ladies -at home were the youngest of the family, and were, the two married -daughters said to each other when they met, which was very seldom, “very -differently brought up from what we were, and allowed a great deal too -much of their own way.” Neither of these ladies could understand what -mamma could be thinking of to indulge those girls so; but Mrs. -Witherington was by no means an over-indulgent person by nature, and I -think she must have made up her mind that to indulge the vagaries of -the girls was safest on the whole and most conducive to domestic peace. - -Fortunately each of these young women had a “way” of her own, except -Myra, the youngest, who was the funny one, whom Phil and most boys -admired. The others were--Sissy, who was understood to have a suspended -love affair, suspended in consequence of the poverty of her lover, from -which she derived both pain and pleasure, so to speak; for her sisters, -not to speak of the other young ladies of the Green, undoubtedly looked -up to her in consequence, and gave her a much more important place in -their little world than would have been hers by nature; and Marian, who -was the musical sister, who played “anything” at sight, and was good for -any amount of accompaniments, and made an excellent second in a duet; -and Emma, who was the useful one of the family, and possessed the -handsome little sewing-machine in the corner, at which she executed -yards upon yards of stitching every day, and made and mended for the -establishment. Sissy, in addition to having a love affair, drew; so that -these three sisters were all well defined, and distinct. Only Myra was -good for nothing in particular. She was the youngest, long the baby, the -pet of the rest, who had never quite realized the fact that she was no -longer a child. Myra was saucy and clever, and rather impertinent, and -considered a wit in her own family. Indeed they all had been accustomed -to laugh at Myra’s jokes, almost as long as they could recollect, and -there is nothing that establishes the reputation of a wit like this. -Mrs. Witherington was alone in the ante-room, as I have said, when Lady -Mary entered, followed by Edgar. She rose somewhat stiffly to meet her -visitors, for she too being of the old school disapproved of Lady Mary, -who was emphatically of the new school, and a leader of all innovations; -though from the fact of being Lady Mary, she was judged more leniently -than a less distinguished revolutionary would have been. Mrs. -Witherington made her greetings sufficiently loud to call the attention -of all the daughters, who came in a little crowd, each rising from her -corner to hail the great lady. One of them drew the cosiest chair near -the fire for her, another gave her an embroidered hand-screen to shield -her face from its glow, and the third hung about her in silent -admiration, eagerly looking for some similar service to render. Myra -followed last of all, rushing audibly downstairs, and bursting into the -room with eager exclamations of pleasure. - -“I saw the pony-carriage at the Rectory gate, and I hoped you were -coming here,” cried Myra; who stopped short suddenly, however, and -blushed and laughed at sight of the stranger whom she had not perceived. - -“This is Mr. Earnshaw, Myra,” said Lady Mary, “whom I told you of--who -is going to be so good as to teach us. I am taking him to see some of -the ladies whom he is to help to educate.” - -“Please don’t convey a false impression,” said Edgar. “You are all a -hundred times better educated than I am. I don’t make any such -pretensions.” - -“We are not educated at all,” said Sissy Witherington, folding her -hands, with a soft sigh. She said it because Lady Mary said it, and -because soft sighs were the natural expression of a young heart -blighted; but I don’t think she would have liked to hear the same -sentiment from any one else. - -“Indeed, I think it is extremely disagreeable of you all to say so,” -said Mrs. Witherington, “and a reflection on your parents, who did the -very best they could for you. I am sure your education, which you -despise so, cost quite as much, at least for the last year or two, as -the boys’ did. I beg your pardon, Lady Mary--but I do think it is a -little hard upon the older people, all these fine ideas that are being -put into the girls’ heads.” - -“But, dear Mrs. Witherington, how could you help it?” said the rebel -chief. “The very idea of educating women is a modern invention; nobody -so much as thought of it in the last generation. Women have never been -educated. My mother thought exactly the same as you do. There was -absolutely _no_ education for women in her day.” - -“Well,” said Mrs. Witherington, more erect than ever, “I had an idea -once that I myself was an educated person, and I daresay so had the -countess--till my children taught me better.” - -“I declare it is hard on mamma,” cried Myra; “the only one among us who -can write a decent hand, or do anything that’s useful.” - -“Of course nobody means that,” said Lady Mary. “What I say is that every -generation ought to improve and make progress, if there is to be any -amelioration in the world at all; and as, fortunately, there has sprung -up in our day an increased perception of the advantages of education--” - -Here Emma’s sewing-machine came to a little knot, and there was a sharp -click, and the thread broke. “Oh, that comes of talking!” said Emma, as -she set herself to pull out the ravelled thread and set it right again. -She was not accustomed to take much share in the conversation, and this -was her sole contribution to it while the visitors remained. - -“Well, a sewing-machine is a wonderful invention,” said Mrs. -Witherington; “don’t you think so, Mr. Earnshaw? Not that I like the -work much myself. It is always coarse and rough on the wrong side, and -you can’t use it for fine things, such as baby’s things, for instance; -but certainly the number of tucks and flounces that you can allow -yourself, knowing that the machine will do dozens in a day, is -extraordinary. And in a house where there are so many girls!--Emma does -a great deal more with her machine, I am sure, than ever Penelope did, -who was one of your classical friends, Lady Mary.” - -“And she can undo her work still more quickly,” cried Myra, with an -outburst of laughter, “as it’s only chain-stitch. What a pity Penelope -did not know of it.” - -“But then the question is,” said Sissy, “whether we are so very much -the better for having more tucks and flounces. (By the way, no one wears -tucks now, mamma.) The good of a sewing machine is that it leaves one -much more time for improving one’s mind.” - -“In my day,” said Mrs. Witherington, going on with her private argument, -“we had our things all made of fine linen, instead of the cotton you -wear now, and trimmed with real lace instead of the cheap imitation -trash that everybody has. We had not so much ornament, but what there -was, was good. My wedding things were all trimmed with real Mechlin -_that_ broad--” - -“That must have been very charming,” said Lady Mary; “but in the -meantime we must settle about our work. Mr. Earnshaw is willing to give -us an hour on Tuesdays. Should you all come? You must not undertake it, -if it will interfere with other work.” - -“Oh yes, I want to know German better,” said Sissy. “It would be very -nice to be able to speak a little, especially if mamma goes abroad next -summer as she promises. To know a language pretty well is so very -useful.” - -Lady Mary made a little gesture of despair with her pretty hands. “Oh, -my dear girls,” she said, “how are you ever to be thoroughly educated if -you go on thinking only of what’s useful, and to speak a little German -when you go abroad? What is wanted is to make you think--to train your -minds into good methods of work--to improve you altogether mentally, and -give you the exactness of properly cultivated intellects; just the -thing that we women never have.” - -Myra was the only one who had courage enough to reply, which she did -with such a good hearty ringing peal of laughter as betrayed Edgar out -of the gravity becoming the situation. Myra thought Lady Mary’s address -the best joke in the world. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -Wisdom and Foolishness. - - -“It is astonishing,” said Lady Mary, mournfully, “how entirely one is -misunderstood in all one’s deeper meanings--even by those one has, so to -speak, trained one’s self.” - -“Yes,” said Edgar, hesitating, with the modesty that became his humble -pretensions; “but, after all, to desire a piece of knowledge because it -is useful, is not an unworthy sentiment.” - -“Oh, no, not at all an unworthy sentiment; indeed, very right in its -way; but totally subversive,” said Lady Mary, sadly, “of the highest -principle of education, which aims at thorough cultivation of the mind -rather than at conferring certain commonplace matter-of-fact -acquirements. Considered in that point of view, professional education -would be the highest, which I don’t think it is. Unless education is -prized for itself, as a discipline of the mind, and not merely as -teaching us some things we don’t know, we can never reach the highest -level; and that truth, alas!” Lady Mary sighed, still more sadly, with -all the disappointment of a baffled reformer, “women have not even begun -to perceive. You laugh, Mr. Earnshaw, but, for my part, I cannot -laugh.” - -Edgar made the best apology he could for his untimely merriment. He was -very much inclined to adopt the primitive Adamic argument, and declare -that it was Myra’s fault; but either high principle, or terror of Lady -Mary (I think the latter) intervened, and he refrained from thus -committing himself. They walked along the sunny side of the Green -together, the ponies having been sent home on account of the cold. It -was a pretty place, like a village of romance, a succession of irregular -houses surrounding a large triangular green, which was very green, and -very well kept, and almost entirely appropriated to the gentry, though -now and then a ragged donkey of the lower classes would graze peaceably -in a corner, to the great advantage, pictorially, of the scene. Some of -the houses were, like Mrs. Witherington’s, of Queen Anne’s time, not -antique, but pleasantly old-fashioned and characteristic; others were -white cottages, half hid in shrubberies. In one, which was very red, and -very close upon the road, and had its rows of windows still more crowded -than the others--a thin house, only one room in depth, with a very -brightly polished brass knocker, and very white steps--there were signs -of confusion which caught Lady Mary’s eye. She explained to Edgar that -it was the doctor’s house, that he was going away, which was not much -loss, as he was an old-fashioned man of the old school, and did not keep -pace with the times; and that she trusted the new man, who was coming -from Scotland, would be better. Edgar listened politely, without paying -much attention, for, in his ignorance, he did not feel much interest in -the new doctor. - -“I must ask Miss Annetta about him,” said Lady Mary, as she led the way -into a house which turned only its gable to the Green, and possessed a -carriage drive and a wilderness of lofty shrubs. The cottage itself was -damp and weedy, and rather dark, with blinds and curtains half drawn -over the little windows, and a sort of dim religious light, green in -tone, and very limited in degree, pervading the place. When Edgar’s eyes -became accustomed to it, he saw that the little drawing-room was -plastered over with corner cupboards, and velvet-covered shelves, and -brackets, laden with old china and other curious things. The room was so -crowded with these ornaments, and with old furniture, that it was -scarcely possible to move without displacing something--a drawback which -was all the more apparent, as both the Miss Bakers were large persons, -many sizes too big for their house. They were not a well-matched pair. -The eldest was a harsh-featured woman, looking fully forty-five, and -calling herself so, with a total disregard to the feelings of Miss -Annetta, who, all the world knew, was but two years younger. Miss Baker -was clever, and the other was silly; but yet Miss Annetta was the most -calculated to attract the attention of the sympathetic spectator, who -could either laugh at her, or weep over her, as his nature prompted. She -had no remnant of youth in the foolish face that had once been pretty -enough; but her entire development, mental and moral, seemed to have -been arrested when she was about seventeen, at the age when croquet (if -croquet existed--I am afraid it did not exist at so early a period) and -new patterns for worsted work, and crochet, were the furthest limits of -her desires. Poor soul! to look at her, she was forty-three, _bien -sonnés_, but to listen to her soft little voice and its prattle, she was -seventeen, not a day more. This curious fossilised girl was left to -Edgar’s share in the heat of the conversation, which immediately ensued -between Lady Mary and Miss Baker--who sympathised deeply on the -educational question, and had a great deal to say to each other. - -After Edgar had been introduced as being “so good as to be disposed to -help” in the great work, he was for the moment forgotten, while the two -ladies talked of committees and schemes of lectures, and a great many -things which he felt to be quite above his humble intelligence. Miss -Annetta was exactly in the same position. The talk was a great deal too -old and too serious for her. She sat silent for a minute or two, feeling -somewhat coy of addressing that wonder and mystery, “a gentleman,” -giving him little looks, half-saucy, half-timid, and betraying an -inclination to go off into giggles of laughter, which filled Edgar with -the gravest surprise. Finally, she made a bold step, and addressed him, -giving the curls which she wore on each side of her face a little shake -and toss of conscious attractiveness before she began. - -“You have not been long in the neighbourhood, Mr. Earnshaw? Do say you -like it. Dear Lady Mary makes Tottenham so charming, _so_ charming! It -is such an acquisition having her. Have you had nice skating lately? I -hear some of the young ladies from the Green have been at the pond. I -have not gone yet myself, for I don’t skate, though everybody does -now-a-days. They tell me I should learn directly if I only had the -courage to try; but I am such a little coward, I really daren’t venture. -Of course you will laugh at me; but I dare not. I really haven’t the -courage.” - -“I am not at all surprised that you have not the courage,” said Edgar, -looking at her smiling face, and much disturbed in his mind as to what -to say. “One must make up one’s mind to a good many tumbles; which are -all very well for boys and girls--” - -“Oh, I shouldn’t like that,” cried Miss Annetta; “children, as you say, -don’t mind. What a pity you did not come in the summer, Mr. Earnshaw. It -is such a sociable neighbourhood. We had a garden party somewhere, at -least twice a week, and they are such nice things for bringing young -people together--don’t you think so? Better than evening parties; you -can see so much more of people, going at four or five o’clock--and if -you’re intimate, staying for high tea and a little music after. It is a -delightful way of spending the day. There is nothing can take the same -place in winter. To be sure if a girl is bold and knows how to -skate--but I really daren’t try, I haven’t the courage;--and you don’t -give me much encouragement, Mr. Earnshaw, it must be allowed.” - -Edgar looked on in dismay while Miss Annetta shook her curls at him, and -giggled as she had done when she was pretty and seventeen, just -twenty-six years ago. What could he say? He was trying to find something -polite and pleasant with which to carry on the conversation, when Lady -Mary suddenly turned from her grave interview with the elder sister, and -interfered for his salvation. - -“Miss Annetta,” said Lady Mary, suddenly, “I am sure I can get -information from you about the doctor. Has he gone? and has the new one -come? and who is he? I hope he is not a mere stupid country -practitioner. I saw a great commotion at the house.” - -“Oh, poor Mrs. Franks,” said Miss Annetta, “they were just preparing to -go; but she, poor thing, though I don’t like to speak of such things -before gentlemen, went and had a baby this morning. It has put them all -out so dreadfully! and she had nothing ready, not so much as a little -cap. Just like her, you will say; and of course they can’t go away now -for ever so long.” - -“Poor soul,” said Lady Mary, “I must send and ask if we can do -anything.” - -“Indeed, I think it wicked to encourage such people,” said Miss Baker. -“How dare she go on having babies, knowing she can’t afford it? I have -no pity for such a woman. Of course she brings it all on herself; and if -she were the only one to suffer, I shouldn’t mind. But just fancy a -woman of my age, subject to bronchitis, left to the tender mercies of -her ninny of a husband, probably for six weeks longer, just the worst -time of the year--not to speak of Annetta, who is a perfect martyr to -rheumatism.” - -“Oh, Jane!” exclaimed Miss Annetta, feebly. - -“Though I think it’s gout,” said Miss Baker. “When gout is in a family, -I believe it never lets you go much beyond forty without entering an -appearance; which is my great reason for hoping I shall escape -scot-free, seeing I’m forty-five.” - -“You must not believe all my sister says; she is so fond of her fun,” -said Miss Annetta, in an aside to Edgar. “Oh, I have heard a great deal -about the new doctor, Lady Mary. He is quite young, and very handsome -and nice, people say. He is coming straight from Scotland, so I suppose -he must be very clever, for so many new medical things are found out -there. I hear he has dark hair and eyes, and tall, and a very nice -manner.” - -“Well I suppose these are interesting details,” said Lady Mary; “but I -should have liked to know a little more of his qualifications, I -confess.” - -“And he has a charming sister, a widow, who keeps his house; so that he -will be able to ask people, which a bachelor never is, except men, and -they don’t count as society;” cried Miss Annetta, continuing with -breathless haste her report; for if Lady Mary had a fault, it was that -she was too ready to interrupt uninteresting speeches. “The Franks are -so poor, and they have so many children, they never were any good, not -even for a garden party; but you must not think from what I say that I -don’t love children, Mr. Earnshaw. I adore them! When are Phil and -little Mary coming for a romp, and to see all our curiosities? I do feel -so much at home with them, Lady Mary, you can’t think. Jane there says -we are three romps all together, and she doesn’t know which is the -worst.” - -“They will be delighted to come,” said Lady Mary, rising. - -“Oh, but I suppose I must ask permission of Mr. Earnshaw now?” said Miss -Annetta. “If you will come too, you will see that your charge does not -get into mischief, Mr. Earnshaw, and I am sure you will be quite an -addition. You are not one of the stern tutors that frighten poor little -things like me.” - -“Indeed I must carry Mr. Earnshaw off. We have no time to spare,” said -Lady Mary. “Little fool!” she cried, severely, as soon as they had left -the cottage. “I hope you don’t mind her impertinent chatter? I am sure -nothing could be further from my intention than to subject you to any -such disagreeable comment.” - -“Disagreeable! to call me what I am, Phil’s tutor?” said Edgar. “Why, -what a mean-spirited wretch you must think me. To accept a post, and be -ashamed of the name of it--” - -“But, Mr. Earnshaw, you know that is not how we think. We consider you -only as a friend--and take it as the greatest kindness you can do us.” -Then Lady Mary, with a flush of generous sentiment, took a warm little -hand out of her muff, and gave it to Edgar, who was a great deal more -touched by the _amende_ than he had been hurt by Miss Annetta’s innocent -assault. - -“Thanks,” he said, with moisture in his eyes, “so much the better for -me, and so much the less reason for being ashamed of my post. If you -snubbed me, I might have some excuse perhaps for making a fool of -myself.” - -“Mr. Earnshaw!” said Lady Mary again, but this time with hesitation, and -almost timidity. “I wonder if you will think I mean to snub you--if I -say something which I am almost bound to say?” - -“Say it!” said Edgar, smiling. He felt in a moment that he knew what was -coming, and looked into her tremulous countenance with all the superior -calm of a man prepared for pain, and prescient of what was to come. - -“You will not be angry? Oh, Mr. Earnshaw! if you only knew how I fret at -such restrictions--how I wish we could put aside mercenary -considerations, and acknowledge ourselves all to be equal, as I am sure -we are by nature!” - -“I don’t think we are equal by nature,” said Edgar; “but never mind the -abstract question. I promise not even to be wounded. And I think I know -what you are going to say.” - -“It is just this,” said Lady Mary, hurriedly, “Forgive me! The young -Thornleighs, Mr. Earnshaw, have always been very much with us. I am fond -of them, and so is Mr. Tottenham, and they are always coming and going. -It would be ungenerous to you as well as unkind to them, if we were to -send them away because you are here.” - -Edgar did no more than bow in assent. A certain sense of personal -dignity, quite new to him, kept him from doing more. - -“It would be thoroughly ungenerous to you,” said Lady Mary, warmly, “and -contrary to the perfect trust we feel--both my husband and I--in you, -our friend.” - -“Just one word, Lady Mary,” said Edgar, “and pardon me if it seems -harsh. Why did you not think of this before? I came here in a mist, not -knowing very well what was to happen to me; but _you_ knew the whole, -both my side and the other. I need not say send me away, which is the -most natural thing to do, for you were aware of all the circumstances -the other day when you brought me here. Of course, at any moment, I am -ready to go.” - -“That is not quite generous,” said Lady Mary, with an appealing look, -“of course we knew, and trusted you as we trust you now--fully. But, Mr. -Earnshaw, forgive me! I promised to Augusta to say just one word.” - -“I have already said to Lady Augusta all that can be said,” said Edgar; -“that she need not fear me--that I will not put myself in her way.” - -They had, by this time, reached the avenue, and were walking -unconsciously fast in the roused state of feeling which this interview -had called forth, between the long level lines of leafless trees, on the -edge of the sodden, bright green wintry grass, which tempted the feet -with its mossy softness. It was afternoon, and the long slanting lines -of sunshine lighted up, but scarcely had the better of, the creeping -shadows which bided their time in every corner. Lady Mary put out her -hand again suddenly, with an excitement which she did not seem able to -control, and laid it on Edgar’s arm. - -“Mr. Earnshaw!” she said, the tears coming to her eyes. “It is not for -you. Augusta, like myself, trusts you entirely; it is not you.” - -“What then?” said Edgar, suddenly stopping short, and facing her. - -“Mr. Earnshaw! Oh! how can I put into words the strange service--the -thing beyond words, which Augusta thinks she can trust you enough to ask -for. Oh! Mr. Earnshaw, see how absolute is our faith in you! It is not -you she fears. It is the impetuosity--it is the----it is her own -child.” - -Edgar stood still, and did not speak--how could he? In his life he had -had enough to chill him one way or another; now, all at once, there -seemed to burst forth a fountain of warmth and life within him--in his -very heart. The water came to his eyes. If he had been alone I believe -it would have overflowed, so poignant was the touch of this sudden, -scarcely comprehensible happiness. “Ah!” he cried, summing up in that -little syllable, as is done so often, worlds of sudden understanding, of -emotion inexpressible in words; and so stood gazing at the unlucky -emissary, who had put things inconceivable, things unbelievable, all at -once into his throbbing brain. - -“Oh, God forgive me!” cried Lady Mary, with a devoutness quite unusual -to her. “What have I done--what have I done?” - -“Look here,” said Edgar, feeling a strange difficulty of articulation, -and with a consciousness that, instead of being eloquent, as he ought to -have been in the circumstances, his words were homely, almost rude; “So -far as I am myself concerned, nothing will make me swerve from my word. -Lady Augusta need have no fear for me; but if--” and here he paused, “if -the happiness of another were any way involved. It is not my -supposition, pardon me, it is yours. If----then I will be bound by no -word, no promise, nothing but--_her_ will whatever it is. I am ready to -balk myself, to give up the desire of my heart, to say never a word, so -far as I am concerned. But her I will not balk; it is not my place. -_Her_ will she shall have if I can get it for her--at any risk, with any -pains! Lady Mary, bid me go, or take the consequences; this is all I -will say.” - -“Oh, Mr. Earnshaw!” cried Lady Mary, in a burst of injudicious sympathy. -“Oh, Edgar! now I understand them;” and with that, this very foolish, -very clever, little woman sat down upon the stump of a tree, and cried -with all her heart. She was totally taken by surprise. She had believed -him to be so good, so ready to obliterate himself, that she half -despised him through all her generous compassion and liking. I think it -is Mr. Charles Reade who describes, somewhat coarsely perhaps, but very -powerfully, the woman’s surprise at discovering herself to be, for the -first time, face to face with a male of her own species. The surprise, I -believe, is common to both sexes, and as much when love is out of the -question as when it is deeply involved. It is one of the most -penetrating of mental sensations--a sudden revelation. Lady Mary felt -this as she sat down on the stump of the tree, and called Edgar Earnshaw -by his Christian name, and cried, suddenly abandoning her colours, -giving up her cause, owning herself utterly conquered. It was a great -deal to be accomplished by so few words, and Edgar himself was so -entirely moved and shaken by what had occurred, that he was not half -sensible of his own success. All he knew was that Lady Mary felt for -him, understood him; and this gave him comfort, when he suddenly dropped -down after the exaltation of his sudden transport into a sadness which -was its natural consequence. Lady Mary fell too, out of her sudden -enthusiasm into a sense of absolute foolishness and the indiscreetest of -sympathetic ebullitions, and picked herself up and went meekly along -the avenue by Edgar’s side, trying to talk about the children, and -raking up nursery stories of Phil’s cleverness to tell him, in what she -would herself have thought the very imbecility of motherhood. Poor Lady -Mary! she had the additional misery of thinking that Edgar perceived her -utter downfall and change of sides--which he, poor fellow, with his -heart jumping in his throat, was far too much agitated to do. - -But when they came to the great door, and were about to separate, she -“thought it her duty” to leave him with a final word of counsel, “Mr. -Earnshaw,” she said, almost timidly, “you saw that I was carried away by -my feelings--for I feel for you, however I may be obliged to side with -my sister in what she thinks to be best. You will forget all I have been -so foolish as to say--and keep to what you said to her, won’t you? Don’t -let me have done harm instead of good.” - -“I will keep to what I said to her, religiously; she has my word,” said -Edgar, “but don’t think I can ever forget what you have said to me.” - -“Mr. Earnshaw, it was in confidence.” - -“In closest, dearest confidence,” he said, “but not to be -forgotten--never to be forgotten; that is not possible. It will be wiser -to tell Lady Augusta what I have said; and remember, dear Lady Mary, -you, who have been so good to me, that, at a moment’s notice, at a word, -at a look, I am ready to go away.” - -“Not if I can help it,” she said, half crying again, holding out her -hand; and in sight of the biggest of the powdered footmen, and of the -porter, and of one of the under-gardeners, all looking on in -consternation, he kissed it, absolutely indifferent to what any one -might say. To be sure it was only a little glove he kissed, warm out of -her muff. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -The Opposite Camp. - - -The Thornleigh family, or at least the feminine portion of it, was, as -has been indicated to the reader, in town--though it was still very -early in the year--for the purpose of looking after little Mary’s -trousseau, as her wedding was to take place at Easter. Lady Augusta’s -family numbered eight altogether--five girls and three boys; and if I -could tell you half the trouble she had gone through with them, you -would no longer wonder at the wrinkles on her forehead. Her girls had -been as troublesome as her boys, which seldom happens, and that was -saying a great deal. Harry, the eldest son, was a prodigal, constantly -in debt and in trouble; John, the second, who, it was hoped, would have -distinguished himself by his brains, had been plucked for his degree; -and the regiment of which Reginald, the youngest son, was an ornament, -had been sent off to India, contrary to all prognostications. As for the -daughters, though the youngest was nineteen, only one was married--a -terrible thought for an anxious mother, as anxious to do her duty by -her children as Lady Augusta was--and that one! - -The eldest was Ada, who, when her lover, only a poor clergyman at the -best, died of typhus fever, caught in his work, never would look at -another man, but retired meekly into old maidenhood. The second, Helena, -was the clever one of the family. She had more brains than all the rest -put together, everybody said, and so indeed she herself thought--more -than she knew what to do with. If that head could only have been put on -her brother John’s shoulders, what a blessing to everyone concerned! -for, alas! all the good her brains did her, was to betray her into a -marriage with a very clever and very learned professor, painfully -superior to everybody else, but altogether out of “her own class.” The -third was Gussy, who had been always Lady Augusta’s most dearly beloved, -and who, three years ago, had been all but betrothed to the best match -in the county--young Edgar Arden; but when Edgar was ruined, and -disappeared, as it were, off the face of the earth, Gussy, instead of -abandoning him as a sensible girl should have done, clung with the -obstinacy which distinguished the Thornleighs, to the very recollection -of him--which, as he was still living and marriageable, though no match -at all, was a fanaticism much less manageable than Ada’s. For Ada, if -she insisted upon considering herself a widow, was at all events quite -submissive in other matters, and content to be her mother’s right hand -at home; but Gussy, who had by no means given up her personal -possibilities of happiness, and whose hopes were still alive, had been -very restless, and worried her family with many vagaries. Schemes and -crotchets ran, I suppose, in the noble blood which Lady Augusta had -transmitted to her daughters. It showed itself in different ways in the -sisters: Helena’s ways had been all intellectual, but Gussy, who was -benevolent and religious, was more difficult to deal with. The -melancholy seclusion, which to an English mind is the first -characteristic of a convent, has little to do with the busy beehive of a -modern sisterhood; and a young woman connected with such an institution -has claims made upon her which are wonderfully embarrassing to a -fashionable mother. Helena, in her wildest days, when she had all sorts -of committees going on, could be taken to her meetings and lectures in -the carriage, like a Christian, and could be sent for when these -_séances_ were over; but Gussy had to trudge off on foot to all sorts of -places in her long black cloak, and to visit houses in which fever, and -every kind of evil, physical and moral, abounded; and was not to be -shaken by any remonstrances. Indeed, the parents had been glad to -compromise and consent to any amount of Associateship, so as to keep off -the dreaded possibility of a determination on Gussy’s part to enter the -Sisterhood for good and all. I do not think that Gussy herself ever -threatened this, though she thought of it sometimes as her best -alternative, if--; but there was still an if, a living and strong -peradventure in her mind. Other good-natured friends, however, strongly -pressed the possibility on Lady Augusta’s mind; they did all they could -to persuade the anxious mother to take forcible steps in the matter, and -constrain Gussy, on her obedience, to give up her objectionable -charities and devotions. Fortunately Lady Augusta did not belong to that -class of women who take pleasure in worrying their children for their -good. She shook her head when her pretty daughter, still as pretty as in -her first season, went out in her black cloak, and the hideous bonnet, -which the mother would not allow to herself was “becoming,” -notwithstanding its intrinsic hideousness. She moaned over the dirt, the -disease, the evil smells and sights which her child was about to -encounter, and about the risk of infection to which she would expose -herself. - -“Who can tell what you may bring back with you, Gussy?--fever, or one -does not know what,” Lady Augusta said, piteously. “It is so different -with our poor people at home, whom we all know.” - -“I will shut myself up in my room, mamma; or I will go to the House, -when there is anything infectious about; but I cannot give up my work,” -said Gussy, filial, but determined. - -“Oh, work, child! what do you mean by work?” cried Lady Augusta, driven -to her wits’ end. “Home is surely better than the ‘House,’ as you call -it, and I am sure Ada and I find plenty to do at home. Why cannot you do -as we do?” - -“Perhaps because Ada and you do it all,” said Gussy, unmoved by that -despairing appeal which the old is always making to the new. Why cannot -you do as we do? - -Poor Lady Augusta! It was she who had to give in, not her daughter. And -you may easily understand, dear reader, how such a good mother was -affected by the break-down of all her elder hopes--Ada, Helena, Gussy. -Her three eldest children--all failures! What a heart-breaking thought -it was to a woman of fashion, surrounded by contemporaries who had -married their daughters well, and whom no man could reproach as -negligent of their highest duties! She would wake sometimes in the -middle of the night, and ask herself was it her fault? Had she put -foolish notions into the heads of the girls? Certainly on the Thornleigh -side there were no “views” nor “crotchets;” and Lady Augusta was aware -that she herself had accomplished her own fate, not altogether because -she preferred it, and had, perhaps, smothered personal predilections, -which her children showed no inclination to smother. “Why cannot they do -as I did?” she would say in her heart, with a sigh. - -But now at last a moment had come, in which her natural cares were -rewarded. When Lord Granton proposed for Mary, her mother had almost -cried with joy. For the first time here was a satisfactory--a completely -satisfactory conclusion. So unexceptionable a young man, such a title, -such estates, and a family which any girl might be proud to enter! The -delight was all the sweeter from being so long deferred, so sadly -missed. She forgave Helena her bad match, and Gussy and Ada their no -matches at all, in the exhilaration of this happy moment. All her little -grievances and grudges vanished in the sudden flood of sunshine. She was -reconciled to all the world, even to Helena’s husband, the Professor, -over whom, too, a heavenly radiance would be flung, when he was -brother-in-law to a marquis. Poor Lady Augusta! In the full height of -her exhilaration she betook herself to Tottenham’s to send the good news -to her sister, feeling that now at least, perhaps for the first time, -there was no trouble to lessen her happiness; and there she encountered, -without any warning, Edgar! Heaven help her! a man still more -objectionable, because more hopelessly penniless than Helena’s -professor, a man without a name, without a shilling, without a -connection! but whom Gussy, her favourite daughter, was ready, she knew, -to follow to the end of the world. When she drove out to the rural -Tottenham’s after this, to tell her sister the story of Mary’s -engagement, is it wonderful that her agitated mind should have poured -forth all its mingled strain of joy, tribulation, content, and alarm? -The wholly joyful part of her budget was soon swallowed up in the -revelation of her fears about Gussy, and in the reproaches she could not -quite restrain. Why had her sister so added to her burdens, by this -injudicious, this uncalled-for interference in Edgar’s fortunes? He was -not so friendless, Lady Augusta protested, half indignant, half weeping, -that they, of all the world, should have rushed into the breach, and -taken him up--bringing him even into their house, where he could not -fail to see Gussy one time or other. And then the anxious mother cried, -and told her sister that she had no confidence in Gussy. In Edgar she -had every confidence; he had promised never to thrust himself into her -way; but Gussy had made no such promise, and her mother did not even -dare to speak to her on the subject, knowing that she would be met by -unanswerable arguments. Thus the two ladies, talking over the whole -matter, fell into a not unnatural snare, and resolved to confide in -Edgar, and trust to him to keep Gussy, as well as himself, right--not -foreseeing how that confidence would change to him the whole aspect of -affairs. When Ada heard how far her mother’s revelations had gone, and -of the step Lady Mary was commissioned to take, she did not give it her -approval, as Lady Augusta had hoped, but looked very grave, and doubted -much the wisdom of the proceeding. “He promised never to stand in my -way,” Lady Augusta said, much depressed by her privy-councillor’s -disapproval. “But he did not promise for Gussy--what right would he have -to undertake for Gussy?” said Ada, shaking her head. It was an idea -which had not entered her mother’s mind, for Lady Augusta had that kind -of confidence in Edgar, as of a man born to set everything right, which -women, especially when surrounded by practical difficulties, are so -ready to place in an ideal man. He had never objected to her commands -hitherto; why should he now? Nevertheless, when Ada disappeared, Lady -Augusta began to quake lest she should have done more harm than good. - -“We must try to get something for him to do,” she said, faltering, -“something abroad. Notwithstanding all those absurd new arrangements, -people of influence can still command situations abroad, I hope, if they -choose to take the trouble. I shall speak to Lord Millboard, Ada; and I -am sure Granton, dear fellow, would take any trouble, if he knew how -important it was.” - -“Because he is happy himself, to prevent poor Gussy from being happy?” -said Ada. “Oh, I am not saying anything against it, mamma. I suppose it -will have to be.” - -“Of course it will have to be,” said her mother, “you are all very -unkind--you girls. Not one of you has exerted herself as I had a right -to expect. Do you think that I thought of nothing but pleasing myself -when I married? And who has lost the most in losing Edgar? Well, Gussy, -you may say, in one way; but I too. What a help he would have been to -me! so kind and so understanding. Oh, Ada! if you knew how much it goes -against my heart to shut him out. But it must be; what would your -father--what would every one say?” - -To this, Ada could return but little answer, except to murmur something -about “leaving it in the hands of Providence,” which was not so -consolatory to Lady Augusta as it was meant to be. - -“It is all very well to say, leave it to Providence!” cried that much -tried mother, “if you had lived as long as I have, Ada, you would have -found that all the most inconvenient things that happen in the world -are said to be brought about by Providence--especially in the way of -marriages. No, we must take precautions; Gussy must not go near -Tottenham’s while he is there; and I’ll tell you what I will do. Harry -is at home doing nothing particular, and probably quarrelling with your -poor papa, who has so much to vex him. I have just been wondering how -they could possibly get on with all of us away. I will write and tell -him to offer himself to your aunt Mary for a visit.” - -“Harry! what good will Harry do?” asked Ada, wondering. - -“Well, my dear, at least he will be on the spot,” said Lady Augusta; and -she breathed a long sigh, as if a weight had been taken off her mind. -Any stop-gap, however imperfect, which takes, or seems to take, a -responsibility off the mind, is enough to give a sense of relief to one -so overborne by many businesses as Lady Augusta was. “And now, my dear, -let us look over Mary’s patterns,” she said, drawing a chair towards -Ada’s table, on which a mass of samples, of linen, silk, muslin, and -every other fabric, known to human ingenuity, were lying, ticketed and -arranged in packets. This was a little bit of pure enjoyment, which -refreshed the anxious mother in the midst of all her cares. - -I need not tell what commotion was made in the household when the news -crept out and stole secretly from one girl to another, that Edgar had -come back. Mary and Beatrice put their curly heads together over it, and -the result was a communication to the young Granton, which effectually -fortified him against making himself a tool of any of poor Lady -Augusta’s schemings to get rid of the danger. These two were the -children of the house, and the elder sisters paid but little attention -to their innocent conspiracies. The elders were more interesting -personages than little Mary and Bee, though Mary was a predestined -marchioness, and there was no knowing what Bee might come to in the way -of matrimonial elevation. There are people, no doubt, who will think the -old maid of the family its least interesting member; but you, dear -unknown friend, my gentle reader, are not of that complexion; and there -may be others who will feel that Ada’s obscure life was a poor enough -thing to settle down to, after all the hopes and all the disappointments -of youth, both of which are more exciting and sustaining than the simple -monotony of such a commonplace existence. I am not sure, however, for my -own part, whether Ada’s soft self-renunciation never expressed in words, -and her constant readiness in trouble, and the numberless frocks she -made for her poor children--and even her mother’s meetings, though the -family laughed at them--were half so bewildering an anti-climax to the -high aspirations of youth as was Helena’s Professor, and the somewhat -humdrum, if highly intellectual routine into which she had dropped with -him. Helena, herself now and then, had a confused and giddy -consciousness that ministering to a man’s comforts, who was not at all a -demi-god, and attending lectures at the Royal Society was a very odd and -sudden downfall from all her dreams of social amelioration and “a great -work;” but fortunately she was happy, a thing which deadens the moral -perception. Ada was happy, too, in her different way; but Gussy was not -happy. She had not the tranquil soul of her elder sister, nor that -curious mixture of sense and talent, and self-confidence and absence of -humour which made Helena what she was. She had not “given up,” as in -various ways both of them had done. She was dissatisfied, for life as -yet had lost none of its possibilities, neither by fulfilment nor -renunciation. All clouds might yet be cleared away from her sky, and -what she considered perfect happiness might yet be waiting for her -somewhere. This remnant of possibility that the soul may still have all -it craves, ought, you might think, to have kept Gussy’s heart alive, and -given her a secret support; but it was in fact a very fire of -restlessness within her. The first step towards attaining the secondary -happinesses of life, is to have given up and recognised as impossible -the primary and greater happiness. Gussy had been compelled to occupy -herself closely, in order to save herself from becoming discontented, -morbid, sour, and miserable, by reason of this sense within her, that -everything might yet come right. - -“Why should you say it was injudicious?” she said to her sister, when -they at length discussed the subject, “why should not they help him, -since he wants it, because of the chance of meeting me? I heard what -mamma said as I came in. If he does meet me, I dare say he has forgotten -all about me by this time, or at least remembers me only as a friend. -It would be hard indeed if any ghost of me, after all these years, were -to come in his way.” - -“And you,” said her sister, “could you meet him as a friend whom you -remembered? Would that be all?” - -Gussy’s lip quivered in spite of herself. “I hope I could do--whatever -was necessary,” she said proudly. But in the midst of uttering these two -or three words, a sudden tear fell unexpectedly out of her eye and -betrayed her. “How silly!” she said, dashing it away; “you forget I did -see him. Oh, Ada, fancy travelling with him all those hours, and never -saying a word! It was as if we were in two different worlds--like -looking into another existence, and seeing those whom one has lost, -without any power to communicate with them.” - -“Ah! but we are not permitted to do even that,” said Ada; “do you think -he did not recognise you? Not at all? That is so strange to me.” - -Gussy shook her head. “I don’t think he did; but you must remember,” she -said humbly, “that he never was what you might call so very much in love -with me. He liked me; he was even fond of me--but not exactly in love. -It is different--I always felt that, even when you all made so sure. And -what he thinks of me now, I don’t know. If I saw him once, I should be -able to tell you; but I shall try not to see him. It is best I should -not see him,” said Gussy very low, “best in every way.” - -“My poor child!” said Ada; but she did not contradict her, as her sister -almost hoped; and Gussy went away immediately after, with her heart -full, to put on her black cloak and close bonnet, and to go forth into -some very unsavoury region indeed, where a serene Sister, so smiling and -cheery that you might be certain her mind was taken up by no possible -happiness, was hard at work. Gussy had some very disagreeable work -allotted to her which gave her full occupation till it was time to -return to “the world,” and as long as she was thus engaged she was able -to forget all about herself and Edgar, and everything else in the other -existence. Thus Rag Fair was good for her, and gave her a certain amount -of strength with which to return to Berkeley Square. - -But the reader will perceive that if Edgar’s mind was disturbed by what -he had heard, a similar, if less violent commotion had been raised, by -the mere intimation of his return, in the opposite camp, where every -member of the family instinctively felt the danger, though the young and -the romantic among them welcomed it as rather an advantage than a peril. -Gussy went about her ordinary work, whether in “the world” or out of it, -with a soft perpetual tremor, feeling that at any moment, round any -corner, she might meet him with whom her youthful thoughts had wandered -all these years. I will not say that she was not somewhat anxious and -uncertain as to the effect which this long interval might have had upon -Edgar’s mind; for women seldom have a very strong faith, unassisted by -evidence, in the fidelity of a long absent lover; but she had no sense -of having given love unsought, or shame in her own secret devotion. She -knew that if Edgar had remained rich and prosperous she would have been -his wife long ere now, and this gave to Gussy’s maiden love that sweet -legitimacy and pride of duty which is so much to a woman, and emboldens -her to give without shame, and with all her heart. - -In the meantime, however, Lady Augusta took that other precautionary -measure which had suddenly occurred to her, to Ada’s great surprise and -consternation, and sent private orders to her son, Harry--who was at -that moment under a cloud, and doing his best to act the part of a good -son to a very irritable father who had just paid his debts for him, and -was taking them out in abuse of every description at Thornleigh, while -the mother and sisters were in town. I don’t believe she had the least -notion what good Harry could do; but it relieved him from a very trying -ordeal, and the young man jumped at it, though Ada shook her head. “He -will be on the spot at least, my dear,” said Lady Augusta, all -unconscious of slang. She explained to her husband that the Tottenhams -had taken one of their fancies to Mr. Earnshaw, whom they had all once -known so well as Edgar Arden, and that she thought it would be well that -one of the family should be there to keep an eye upon him, lest he and -Gussy should meet. “For you know, Gussy has not been the same since that -affair,” wrote the careful mother. Mr. Thornleigh, who had a more than -ordinary contempt at this moment for Harry’s capabilities, wrote her a -rather rude letter in reply, telling her that she was a fool indeed if -she trusted in anything her hopeful son could do; but nevertheless, he -made no objection to the visit. Thus it will be seen how emphatically -their own doing was all the confusion that followed this momentous step, -which the Thornleighs all combined in their ignorance to make Harry -take--and which he accepted as he would have accepted any change, at -that moment; not having the least idea of what was wanted of him, any -more than of what fate had in store for him. Lady Augusta went on more -calmly with her preparations for little Mary’s grand wedding when she -had thus, to her own satisfaction, secured a representative at -Tottenham’s. And Ada studied the patterns indefatigably, and gave the -mother the very best advice as to which was most suitable; and Gussy had -a perfect carnival of work, and spent almost all her time in Rag -Fair--with occasional expeditions to the shop, where Mr. Tottenham had -established a chapel, chiefly to please her, and where one of the -clergymen attached to the Charity-House kept up daily service. This was -much more dangerous, had Lady Augusta been aware of the fact, than the -rural Tottenham’s, where Harry was set to be sentinel without knowing -it. - -And thus the first cold lingering days of spring--spring only in name, -with all winter’s cold, and less than winter’s comfort, dragged -themselves along. Only to Lady Augusta, who was busy with the -trousseau, and little Mary, who was making love, the days were not long -enough for all that had to be put into them; though the others were of a -different mind. - - -END OF VOL. I. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOR LOVE OF LIFE; VOL. 1 OF 2 *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: For love of life; vol. 1 of 2</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 28, 2021 [eBook #65934]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOR LOVE OF LIFE; VOL. 1 OF 2 ***</div> -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" height="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" -style="border:3px double gray;padding:.5em; -margin:1em auto;max-width:30em;"> -<tr><td class="c"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II"> II., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III"> III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"> IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V"> V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"> VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"> VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"> VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX"> IX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X"> X., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI"> XI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII"> XII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII"> XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"> XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV"> XV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI"> XVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII"> XVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII"> XVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX"> XIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX"> XX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI"> XXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII"> XXII. </a> -</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span></p> - -<p class="c"> -COLLECTION<br /><br /> - -OF<br /><br /> - -<big>B R I T I S H A U T H O R S</big><br /><br /> - -TAUCHNITZ EDITION.<br /><br /> - -VOL. 1419.<br /><br /> - -FOR LOVE AND LIFE BY MRS. OLIPHANT.<br /><br /> - -IN TWO VOLUMES.<br /><br /> - -VOL. I. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span></p> - -<p>“The device on his shield was a young oak tree pulled up by the roots, -with the Spanish word <i>Desdichado</i>, signifying Disinherited.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span></p> - -<h1> -FOR LOVE AND LIFE.</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT,<br /> -<br /> -AUTHOR OF<br /><small> -“CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” “OMBRA,” “MAY,” ETC.</small><br /> -<br /> -<i>COPYRIGHT EDITION.</i><br /> -<br /> -I N T W O V O L U M E S.<br /> -<br /> -VOL. I.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -LEIPZIG<br /> -BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ<br /> -1874.<br /> -<br /><small> -<i>The Right of Translation is reserved.</i></small><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> </p> - -<p class="c"><big>FOR LOVE AND LIFE.</big></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>On the Shores of Loch Arroch.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Three</span> people were walking slowly along together by the side of the -water. One of them an invalid, as was apparent by the softly measured -steps of her companions, subdued to keep in harmony with hers. These two -attendants were both young; the girl about twenty, a little light -creature, with the golden hair so frequent in Scotland, and a face of -the angelic kind, half-childish, half-visionary, over-brimming with -meaning, or almost entirely destitute of it, according to the eyes with -which you happened to regard her. Both she and the invalid, a handsome -old woman of about seventy, were well and becomingly dressed in a homely -way, but they had none of the subtle traces about them which mark the -“lady” in conventional parlance. They were not in the smallest degree -what people call “common-looking.” The girl’s beauty and natural grace -would have distinguished her anywhere, and the old lady was even -dignified in her bearing. But yet it was plain that they were of a caste -not the highest. They moved along the narrow path,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> skirting the -newly-cut stubble, with the air of people entirely at home, amid their -natural surroundings. The homely farm-house within sight was evidently -their home. They belonged to the place and the place to them. -Notwithstanding the angelic face of the one, and the natural stateliness -of the other, they were farmer folk, of a kind not unusual on that proud -half-Highland soil. I will not even pretend to say that good blood gave -a grace to their decayed fortunes; I do not believe their race had ever -held a more exalted position than it did now. They were independent as -queens, proud yet open-hearted, sociable, courteous, hospitable, -possessed of many of the special virtues which ought to belong to the -nobly born; but they were only farmer folk of Loch Arroch, of a family -who had lived for ages on that farm, and nothing more.</p> - -<p>It would have been unnecessary to dwell on this particular, had not the -appearance of the young man upon whose arm the invalid leant, been so -different. As distinctly as they were native to the place, and to the -position, was he stranger to them. He was not so handsome by nature as -they, but he had about him all those signs of a man “in good society” -which it is impossible to define in words, or to mistake in fact. His -dress was extremely simple, but it was unmistakeably that of a -gentleman. Not the slightest atom of pretension was in his aspect or -manner, but his very simplicity was his distinction. The deferential way -in which he bent his head to hear what his companion was saying, the -respect he showed to them both, was more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> than a son or brother in their -own rank would ever have dreamed of showing. He was kind in all his -words and looks, even tender; but the ease of familiarity was wanting to -him; he was in a sphere different from his own. He showed this only by a -respect infinitely more humble and anxious than any farmer-youth or -homely young squire would have felt; yet to his own fastidious taste it -was apparent that he did show it; and the thought made him condemn -himself. His presence introduced confusion and difficulty into the -tranquil picture; though there was nothing of the agitation of a lover -in his aspect. Love makes all things easy; it is agitating, but it is -tranquillizing. Had he been the lover of the beautiful young creature by -his side, he would have been set at his ease with her old mother, and -with the conditions of her lot. Love is itself so novel, so -revolutionary, such a break-down of all boundaries, that it accepts with -a certain zest the differences of condition; and all the embarrassments -of social difference such as trouble the acquaintance, and drive the -married man wild, become in the intermediate stage of courtship -delightful auxiliaries, which he embraces with all his heart. But Edgar -Earnshaw was not pretty Jeanie Murray’s lover. He had a dutiful -affection for both of the women. Mingled with this was a certain -reverential respect, mingled with a curious painful sense of wrong, for -the elder; and a pitying and protecting anxiety about the girl. But -these sentiments were not love. Therefore he was kind, tender, -respectful, almost devoted, but not at his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> ease, never one with them; -in heart as in appearance, there was a difference such as could not be -put into words.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>“I cannot accept it from you,” said old Mrs. Murray, who was the -grandmother of both. She spoke with a little vehemence, with a -glimmering of tears in the worn old eyes, which were still so bright and -full of vital force. She was recovering from an illness, and thus the -tears came more easily than usual. “Of all that call kin with me, Edgar, -my bonnie lad, you are the last that should sacrifice your living to -keep up my auld and weary life. I canna do it. It’s pride, nothing but -pride, that makes me loth to go away—loth, loth to eat other folk’s -bread. But wherefore should I be proud? What should an old woman like me -desire better than a chair at my ain daughter’s chimney-corner, and a -share of what she has, poor woman? I say to myself it’s her man’s bread -I will eat, and no hers; but Robert Campbell will be kind—enough. He’ll -no grudge me my morsel. When a woman has been a man’s faithful wife for -thirty years, surely, surely she has a right to the gear she has helped -to make. And I’ll no be that useless when I’m weel; there’s many a thing -about a house that an old woman can do. Na, na, it’s nothing but pride.”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>“And what if I had my pride too?” he asked. “My dear old mother, it goes -against me to think of you as anywhere but at Loch Arroch. Mr. Campbell -is an excellent man, I have no doubt,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> and kind—enough, as you say; and -his wife very good and excellent—”</p> - -<p>“You might say your aunt, Edgar,” said the old lady, with a -half-reproach.</p> - -<p>He winced, though almost imperceptibly.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said with a smile, “my aunt, if you prefer it. One thing I -don’t like about you proud people is, that you never make allowance for -other people’s pride. Mine demands that my old mother should be -independent in her own old house; that she should have her pet companion -with her to nurse her and care for her.” Here he laid his hand kindly, -with a light momentary touch, upon the girl’s shoulder, who looked up at -him with wistful tender eyes. “That she should keep her old servants, -and continue to be the noble old lady she is—”</p> - -<p>“Na, na, Edgar; no lady. You must not use such a word to me. No, my -bonnie man; you must not deceive yourself. It’s hard, hard upon you, and -God forgive me for all I have done to make my good lad unhappy! We are -decent folk, Edgar, from father to son, from mother to daughter; but I’m -no a lady; an old country wife, nothing more—though you are a -gentleman.”</p> - -<p>“We will not dispute about words,” said Edgar, with a shrug of his -shoulders. “What would become of Jeanie, grandmother, if you went to -your daughter, as you say?”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” cried the old woman, pausing suddenly, and raising both her hands -to her face, “that’s what I canna bear—I canna bear it! Though I -must,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span>” she added hurriedly, drying her eyes, “if it’s God’s will.”</p> - -<p>“I would go to my uncle in Glasgow,” said Jeanie; “he’s not an ill man. -They would take me in if I was destitute; that’s what they aye said.”</p> - -<p>“If you were destitute!” cried Edgar. “My poor little Jeanie destitute, -and you, my old mother, eating the bread of dependence, watching a -coarse man’s look to see if you are welcome or not! Impossible! I have -arranged everything. There is enough to keep you both comfortable -here—not luxuriously, as I should wish; not with the comfort and the -prettiness I should like to spread round you two; but yet enough. Now -listen, grandmother. You must yield to me or to some one else; to me or -to—Mr. Campbell. I think I have the best right.”</p> - -<p>“He has the best right,” said little Jeanie, looking in her -grandmother’s face. “Oh, granny, he would like to be good to you and -me!”</p> - -<p>“Yes; I should like to be good to you,” said Edgar, turning to the girl -gratefully. “That is the truth. It is the highest pleasure you could -give me.”</p> - -<p>“To heap coals of fire,” said the old woman in her deep voice.</p> - -<p>“I know nothing about coals,” said Edgar, laughing; “they should be more -in Mr. Campbell’s way, who trafficks in them. Come, Jeanie, we must take -her in, the wind grows cold. I shall go off to Loch Arroch Head to get -the newspaper when the boat comes, and you must persuade her in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> -meantime. You are my representative. I leave it all to you.”</p> - -<p>A flush ran over Jeanie’s angelic little countenance. She looked at him -with eyes full of an adoring admiration as he led the old woman -carefully to the door of the farm-house. He patted her pretty shoulder -as she followed, looking kindly at her.</p> - -<p>“Take care of the old mother, Jeanie,” he said, smiling. “I make you my -representative.”</p> - -<p>Poor little innocent Jeanie! There was no one like him in all her -sphere. She knew no other who spoke so softly, who looked so kindly, who -was so thoughtful of others, so little occupied with himself. Her little -heart swelled as she went into the low, quaint room with its small -windows, where the grandmother had already seated herself. To be the -parlour of a farm-house, it was a pretty room. The walls were greenish; -the light that came in through foliage which overshadowed the small -panes in the small windows was greenish too; but there were book-cases -in the corners, and books upon the table, for use, not ornament, and an -air of wellworn comfort and old respectability were about the place. It -was curiously irregular in form; two windows in the front looked out -upon the loch and the mountains, a prospect which a prince might have -envied; and one on the opposite side of the fire-place, in the gable end -of the house, in a deep recess, looked straight into the ivied walls of -the ruin which furnished so many stories to Loch Arroch. This window was -almost blocked up by a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> vast fuchsia, which still waved its long flexile -branches in the air laden with crimson bells. In front of the house -stood a great ash, dear northern tree which does not disdain the rains -and winds. Its sweeping boughs stood out against the huge hill opposite, -which was the background of the whole landscape. The blue water gleamed -and shone beneath that natural canopy. Mrs. Murray’s large high-backed -easy-chair was placed by the side of the fire, so that she had full -command of the view. The gable window with its fuchsia bush was behind -her. Never, except for a few months, during her whole seventy years of -life, had she been out of sight of that hill. She seated herself in the -stillness of age, and looked out wistfully upon the familiar scene. Day -by day through all her lifetime, across her own homely table with its -crimson cover, across the book she was reading or the stocking she was -knitting, under the green arch of the ash-branches, she had seen the -water break, sometimes with foaming wrath, sometimes quietly as a summer -brook, upon the huge foot of that giant hill. Was this now to be over? -The noiseless tears of old age came into her eyes.</p> - -<p>“We’ll aye have the sky, Jeanie, wherever we go,” she said, softly; “and -before long, before long, the gates of gold will have to open for me.”</p> - -<p>“But no for me,” said Jeanie, seating herself on a stool by her -grandmother’s side. The little girlish face was flashing and shining -with some illumination more subtle than that of the firelight. “We canna -die when we will, Granny, you’ve often said that;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> and sometimes,” the -girl added shyly, “we might not wish if we would.”</p> - -<p>This brought the old woman back from her momentary reverie.</p> - -<p>“God forbid!” she cried, putting her hand on Jeanie’s golden locks; -“though Heaven will scarce be Heaven without you, Jeanie. God forbid! -No, my bonnie lamb, I have plenty there without you. There’s your -father, and <i>his</i> mother, and my ain little angel Jeanie with the gold -locks like you —— her that I have told you of so often. She was younger -than you are, just beginning to be a blessing and a comfort, when, you -mind?—oh, so often as I have told you!—on the Saturday after the new -year—”</p> - -<p>“I mind,” said Jeanie softly, holding the withered hand in both of hers; -“but, granny, even you, though you’re old, you cannot make sure that -you’ll die when you want to die.”</p> - -<p>“No; more’s the pity; though it’s a thankless thing—a thankless thing -to say.”</p> - -<p>“You canna die when you will,” repeated Jeanie. “Wasna your father -ninety, granny, and Aunty Jean a hundred? Granny, listen to me. You must -do what <i>he</i> says.”</p> - -<p>“<i>He</i>, Jeanie?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, he. I might say his name if there were two like him in the world,” -said Jeanie, with enthusiasm. “It’s your pride that will not let him -serve you as he says. It would make him happy. I saw it in his kind -e’en. I was watching him while he was speaking to you. It was like the -light and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> shadows over Benvohrlan. The brightness glinted up when -he spoke, and when you said ‘No,’ granny, the cloud came over. Oh, how -could you set your face against him? The only one of us a’ (you say) you -ever did an ill turn to; and him the only one to bring you back good, -and comfort, and succour.”</p> - -<p>“Jeanie, you must not blame the rest,” said the old woman. “They have no -siller to give me. They would take me into their houses. What more could -they do? No, Jeanie; you may be just to him, and yet no cruel to them. -Besides, poor lad,” said Mrs. Murray with a sigh, “he has a rich man’s -ways, though he’s rich no more.”</p> - -<p>“He has the kindest ways in all the world,” cried Jeanie. “Granny, -you’ll do what he says.”</p> - -<p>The old woman leant back in her chair, crossing her thin hands in her -lap; her musing eyes sought the hills outside and the gleam of the -water, her old, old counsellors, not the anxious face of the child at -her feet. She was but a farmer’s wife, a farmer herself, a lowly, homely -woman; but many a princess was less proud. She sat and looked at the -blue loch, and thought of the long succession of years in which she had -reigned as a queen in this humble house, a centre of beneficence, giving -to all. She had never shut her heart against the cry of the poor, she -who was poor herself; she had brought up children, she had entertained -strangers, she had done all that reigning princesses could do. For forty -years all who had any claim on her kindness had come to her -unhesitatingly in every strait. Silver<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> and gold she had little, but -everything else she gave, the shelter of her house, her best efforts, -her ready counsel, her unfailing help. All this she had bestowed -munificently in her day; and now—had she come to the point when she -must confess that her day was over, when she must retire from her place, -giving way to others, and become dependent—she who had always been the -head of her house? I do not say that the feelings in the mind of this -old Sovereign about to be dethroned were entirely without admixture of -ignoble sentiment. It went to her heart to be dethroned. She said to -herself, with a proud attempt at philosophy, that it was the natural -fate, and that everything was as it ought to be. She tried to persuade -herself that a chair in the chimney-corner was all the world had -henceforth for her, and that her daughter and her daughter’s husband -would be kind—enough. But it went to her heart. She was making up her -mind to it as men make up their minds to martyrdom; and the effort was -bitter. I do not know whether it ever occurred to her painfully that she -herself, had she been in the fulness of her powers, would never have -suffered her old mother to be driven from that homely roof which she -loved—or if something whispered in her soul that she had done better by -her children than they were doing by her; but if such thoughts arose in -her mind, she dismissed them unembodied, with an exercise of her will, -which was as proud as it was strong. Her very pride prevented her from -assuming even to herself the appearance of a victim. “It is but the -natural end,” she said, stoically, trying to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> look her trouble in the -face. She was ready to accept it as the inevitable, rather than own to -herself that her children failed in their duty—rather than feel, much -less admit, that she had expected more of them than they were willing to -give.</p> - -<p>The cause of this deep but undisclosed pain was, that things had been -going badly for some time with the Castle Farm. Mrs. Murray herself was -growing old, and less strong than is necessary for a farmer, and she had -been absent for some time, a few years before, an absence which had -wrought much trouble in the homestead. These misfortunes had been -complicated, as was inevitable, by one or two cold springs and wet -autumns. It was October now, and the harvest was but accomplishing -itself slowly even on the level fields on the loch side. The higher -lying acres of corn land still lay in sickly yellow patches on the braes -behind the house, half-ripened, damp and sprouting, sodden with many a -rain-storm; a great part of the corn would be fit for nothing but -fodder, and what remained for the woman-farmer, unable to cope with -these difficulties as she once had done, before strength and courage -failed—what remained for her to do? She had made up her mind to abandon -the old house she loved—to sell all her belongings, the soft-eyed cows -whom she called by their names, and who came at her call like -children—and the standing crops, the farm implements, even her old -furniture, to denude herself of everything, and pay her debts, and -commit the end of her life to Providence. This had been the state of -affairs when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> she fell ill, and Edgar Earnshaw was summoned to come to -her, to receive her blessing and farewell. But then, in contradiction to -all her wishes, to all that was seemly and becoming, she did not die. -When she knew she was to get better, the old woman broke forth into -complainings such as had never been heard from her lips in her worst -moments. “To lead me forth so far on the way, and then to send me back -when the worst was over—me that must make the journey so soon, that -must begin all over again, maybe the morn!” she cried, with bitter tears -in her eyes. But Heaven’s decree is inexorable, whether it be for life -or death, and she had to consent to recover. It was then that Edgar, her -grandson, had made the proposal to settle upon her a little income which -he possessed, and which would secure her a peaceful end to her days in -her old home. That he should do this had filled her with poignant -emotions of joy and shame. The only one of her kith and kin whom she had -wronged, and he was the one to make her this amends. If she accepted it, -she would retain all that she desired—everything that was personally -important to her in this life. But she would denude him of his living. -He was young, learned (as she thought), accomplished (as she thought), -able “to put his hand to anything,” doubtless able to earn a great deal -more than that, did he choose to try. It might even be for his -advantage, as he said, to have the spur of necessity to force him into -exertion. All this was mingled together in her mind, the noble and -generous feeling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> that would rather suffer than harm another, rather die -than blame, mixed with sharp stings of pride and some sophistries of -argument by which she tried to persuade herself against her conscience -to do what she wished. The struggle was going on hotly, as she sat by -her homely fireside and gazed out at the loch, and the shadow of the big -ash, which seemed to shadow over all Benvohrlan; things which are close -at hand are so much bigger and more imposing than things afar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>Edgar.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Edgar</span> set off on a brisk walk up the loch when he parted from the two -women at the door of the farmhouse. The previous history of this young -man had been an extraordinary one, and has had its record elsewhere; but -as it is not to be expected that any—even the gentlest reader—could -remember a story told them several years ago, I will briefly -recapitulate its chief incidents. Till he was five-and-twenty, this -young man had known himself only as the heir of a great estate, and of -an old and honourable name, and for some few months he had been in -actual possession of all the honours he believed his own. He was a great -English squire, one of the most important men in his district, with an -only sister, to whom he was deeply attached, and no drawback in his life -except the mysterious fact, which no longer affected him except as a -painful recollection, that his father, during his lifetime, had banished -him from his home, and apparently regarded him with a sentiment more -like hatred than affection. But Clare his sister loved him, and Edgar, -on coming to his fortune, had begun to form friendships and attachments -of his own, and had been drawn gently and pleasantly—not fallen wildly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> -and vehemently—into love with the daughter of one of his near -neighbours, Augusta (better known as Gussy) Thornleigh, whom he was on -the very eve of asking to be his wife, when his whole existence, name, -and identity were suddenly altered by the discovery that he was an -innocent impostor, and had no right to any of the good things he -enjoyed. I do not attempt to repeat any description of the change thus -made, for it was beyond description—terrible, complete, and -overwhelming. It plunged him out of wealth and honours into indigence -and shame—shame not merited, but yet clinging to the victim of a -long-continued deception. It not only took from him all his hopes, but -it embittered his very recollections. He lost past, and present, and -future, all at a blow. His identity, and all the outward apparel of life -by which he had known himself, were taken from him. Not only was the -girl whom he loved hopelessly lost to him, but she who had been his -sister, his only relative, as he supposed, and his dearest companion, -became nothing to him—a stranger, and worse than a stranger—for the -man whom she loved and married was his enemy. And in place of these -familiar figures, there came a crowd of shadows round him who were his -real relations, his unknown family, to whom, and not to the Ardens, he -now belonged. This fatal and wonderful change was made all the harder to -him from the fact that he was thus transplanted into an altogether lower -level, and that his new family was little elevated above the class from -which he had been in the habit of drawing his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span> servants, not his -friends. Their habits, their modes of speech, their ways of thinking, -were all strange to him. It is true that he accommodated himself readily -to these differences, as exhibited in the old grandmother whom I have -just presented to the reader, and the gentle, soft-voiced, poetic -Jeanie; but with the other members of his new family, poor Edgar had -felt all his powers of self-control fail him. Their presence, their -contact, their familiarity, and the undeniable fact that it was to them -and their sphere that he actually belonged was terrible to the young -man, who, in his better days, had not known what pride meant. Life is in -reality so much the same in all classes that no doubt he would have come -to perceive the identity of substance notwithstanding the difference of -form, had he not been cast so suddenly into this other phase of -existence without preparation, without anything to break the fall; but -as it was, he had no preparation, and the blow went to his heart.</p> - -<p>This fall had taken place nearly three years before the time at which -this story opens, and poor Edgar, stunned by his overthrow, repelled by -his new relatives, vaguely wretched, notwithstanding the stoutness of -heart with which he had braced himself to meet calamity, had done but -little with his life for these two years. A small provision had been -secured for him from his successor in the estates of Arden, the rightful -heir whom he had unwittingly wronged, and to whom he did instant justice -as soon as he heard of the wrong; and this little provision had been -augmented by the small<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> property of the Rector of Arden, Mr. Fielding, -who had left him everything he possessed. He had thus enough to support -him, that most dangerous of all endowments for a young man. Poor fellow! -he had made his sacrifice with great bravery, and had wrenched himself -away from all he cared for with the smile of a hero, neither sinking -under the blow, nor exaggerating its force. “Courage!” he had said to -himself, when he lost the place where he had been lord and master, and -went forth poor, humble, and nameless, to face the world. He meant -nothing less than to make a new life for himself better than the last, -to assert the superiority of a guiltless heart and free conscience over -fate. But, alas, it is so easy to do this in the general, so difficult -in detail! “We will make our lives sublime,” says the poet, with such -cheap magniloquence—and how many an enthusiast youth has delighted -himself with the thought!</p> - -<p>Edgar was a very sensible, reasonable young fellow, but yet it was a -consolation to him, in his sudden fall, to reflect that every man may -conquer circumstances, and that will and energy are better than riches. -He had dreamt of “doing something,” if not to make himself known and -famous, at least to be of use in this life to his fellow-creatures and -to himself. He meant it firmly up to the day when he left everything he -knew or cared for, and he meant it the next day, and the day after, and -even the next year; but up to this moment he had done nothing. For after -all what was there to do?</p> - -<p>Young Paladins cannot kill fiery dragons, cannot<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> meet giants in single -combat, cannot deliver a whole district now-a-days by the stroke of a -sword. To be sure, a man whose tastes lie that way may tackle the giant, -Sewage, or attack the dragon, Ignorance; but that is slow work, seldom -of a primitive, straightforward kind, and leading the fighter into many -entanglements, dubious company, and very uncertain results. So the -consequence was that poor Edgar meaning to do much, did nothing—not -because he loved idleness, but because he did not know what to do. He -wandered off abroad very soon disgusted with everything; with his -downfall and his inability to surmount that downfall; with the meanness -of estimating worth by rank and wealth, and the still greater meanness -of his own incapacity to get quite free from that standard, which, so -long as he was himself rich and great, he had disowned manfully. -Cheerily he had laughed at the frivolity of the young men of fashion -surrounding him when he was as they, but his laugh now had a certain -bitterness, and he felt himself turn with a sickening of the heart from -intercourse with a lower class, and then deeply and bitterly despised -himself for this ignoble sentiment. His state of mind, indeed, though -strange and miserable to himself, was no more than was natural and to be -looked for in a man forcibly transplanted from the place of his natural -growth, and from all the habits and traditions of his previous life.</p> - -<p>Therefore, these three years had been a failure with Edgar. He had done -nothing with them, he who had gone out of his old existence firmly -de<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span>termined to do so much. He had wandered about over the face of the -earth, to and fro, an unquiet spirit—but no good had come from any of -his wanderings. He could not help being kind and charitable; it was no -virtue on his part, but “just a carnal inclination;” and except this -inevitable goodness, which was an affair of temperament, nothing had -come of him, nothing had come from him, in these years.</p> - -<p>Thus, probably, he would have continued, if not always, until weariness -had come on, and his vital strength was broken. He would have become, -without vice, one of the thousand English vagabonds of quality who haunt -every thoroughfare in Europe; and what a downfall would this have been -for Edgar!—a greater downfall even than that which circumstances had -brought upon him. The sudden summons which had brought him to Mrs. -Murray’s sick-bed, the sudden call upon his charity, so -characteristically adapted to move him, arrested him in the painful -insignificance of this career. He had resolved to make the sacrifice -which was involved, before it even occurred to him how much that -sacrifice would involve; for he was of that species of humankind which, -bestowing help and succour does first and considers afterwards. It cost -him no struggle, no conflict with himself, to decide that everything he -had must go at once to the aid of his mother’s mother, to her -preservation in comfort—notwithstanding that she had wronged him, and -that the tragic confusion and aimlessness of his life was her fault. He -had taken all the steps at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> once which were necessary to carry out this -transfer, and it was only now, when he had fully resolved upon it, that -the cost to himself occurred to him. He counted that cost as he walked, -stepping out as if he trod on air to the head of the loch.</p> - -<p>What would it cost him? It would take away all his certain living, every -penny he had; it would force him to work one way or another in order to -maintain himself. After his brief experience of wealth and its ways, and -after the vague and unsatisfactory existence which he had led when he -had just “enough to live on,” he must make a fresh start again, like any -country lad setting forth to seek his fortune. The third start, he said -to himself, with a certain rueful amusement; for Edgar was one of those -who could laugh at his own misfortunes. I cannot tell how it was that -this prospect did not discourage him, but certainly it did not; a -certain exhilaration crept into his soul as he faced the wind, walking -fast with joyous defiance. The third time of beginning must be lucky at -last; was it not a mystical number, acknowledged by the very children in -their games? He had heard an urchin assuring another that very morning -that “the third ca’ was canny.” It was poor Edgar’s third trial. The -first time he had been foiled by no fault of his—by arbitrary -circumstances. The second time he had foiled himself by want of purpose, -absence of anything direct to do, and languor of motive for attempting -anything. But the third ca’ would be canny—nature and necessity would -help him. He would be driven to work by infallible potency of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> need, and -he would make something of it; so he said to himself.</p> - -<p>There was something exhilarating in the day, or else he thought so. The -high wind was of itself a blessing after days of that weary rain, which -is so common in the west of Scotland. The damp corn out on the fields, -the still damper corn which stood in faint whiteness upon the hillside -was shaking off some part of its superabundant moisture in the cheerful -breeze. The white clouds were scudding over the mountains, throwing a -poetic and perpetual interchange of light and shade over those silent -spectators who occupied so large a share in the landscape, and whose -sudden glories and brightness gave a human aspect to their everlasting -strength. The deep blue of the distance, deep, and dark, and dreamy, -against the open of the lighter sky; the thousand soft tones of purple, -of grey, of brown, and soft green; the whiteness of a sudden peak -starting into sunshine; the dark unfathomable depth of water, across -which a sudden shadow would fall dramatically like an event, made even -the silent country a partaker in the commotion which filled the young -man’s mind.</p> - -<p>In this dramatic tumult of the elements, there was no knoll, no hollow, -no tree, which had not its share. And in the midst of the animated -scene, a sudden rush of alien sound, the rustle and sputter and -commotion of the little steamer fretting its busy, fussy way to the head -of the loch, which was the chief medium of communication with the -outside world, struck upon Edgar’s ear with not un<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span>pleasant discord. It -was work, it was life, it was the labour by which a man could live and -serve his generation, that was embodied to him in this little noisy -interruption which he had so often condemned as alien to the scene. Yes, -it was alien to the scene. But to be reminded of the world without, of -the noise, and movement, and high-pressure of life, was pleasant to -Edgar at this moment of his existence; it helped to stimulate the thrill -of new energy which seemed to be rising in his heart.</p> - -<p>There was, however, a motive less elevated which, I am bound to admit, -affected the young man in his toleration of the steamer and its discord. -He was eager to get away from Loch Arroch back into the world, where, at -least, he would escape from the contemplation of that contrast between -his present and his past, which was forced upon him here. All the -confusion of his life, its conflicts between the sentiments which he -felt he ought to entertain and those which, in spite of him, came -uppermost in his mind, were kept painfully and constantly before his -eyes. Every detail of the homely farmhouse existence brought them before -him. The chief sting in all this was his vexation with himself for -feeling these details to be of importance. Had he retained his original -position, so little affected was he really by external circumstances, -that I believe he would have found the life at the Castle Farm -infinitely more reasonable, sensible, and natural than that which, as a -man of fortune and fashion, he would himself have been compelled to -lead, The simple fare, the plain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> rooms, the absence of luxuries, and -even some of those everyday luxuries which we call comforts, did not -really distress him; it was the sense of missing them, the quick and -vivid consciousness of this and that a-wanting, which made the young man -sore, and bitter, and ashamed of himself. And he felt in his heart that -everything would be easier to him when he could but get away. I must -add, however, that Edgar never showed his consciousness of the change of -sphere to others, deeply as he felt it. The farmhouse servant, and -little Jeanie, and even old Mrs. Murray herself, who had more insight, -considered him much more “easy to please” than any other man of the -kindred. “He gives just nae trouble,” Bell said, “and aye a ‘thank you, -Bell,’ for every hand’s turn I do for him. Eh! when it’s Johnnie -Campbell that’s i’ the house, ye can see the difference. It’s Bell here, -and Bell there, like as I had nothing a do but wait upon him. But it’s a -pleasure to serve Mr. Edgar, night or day.”</p> - -<p>This was the testimony of one very clear-sighted witness; and even Mrs. -Murray concluded, with a relief which it would have been impossible to -put into words, that the change had passed lightly over her grandson’s -head without affecting him. “He has one of those blessed natures that -are aye content, and take everything easy from the hand of God,” she -said to herself, with a mixture of joy and disappointment; for this -blessed nature, blessed as it is, is secretly looked down upon by -persons conscious of more acute feeling. I believe my good Edgar had -thus something in his character of what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> is commonly called humbug. He -deceived people as to his own feelings by very consideration for their -feelings. It was so absolutely indispensable to his being to set his -companions at their ease, and make them comfortable so far as he could, -that he took them in habitually, to use another vulgar expression, and -was believed by everybody to be as happy as the day was long at Loch -Arroch, while all the while he was secretly longing to get away. I -believe that in some respects this kind of nature (not a very common -one) is less good, being less honest, than that more general disposition -which, when uncomfortable or dissatisfied itself, loses no opportunity -of making others so, and states its sentiments frankly, whether they are -likely to please its companions or not. I allow that Edgar’s special -peculiarities had their disadvantages. I do not attempt to excuse him, I -only state what they were.</p> - -<p>Just as he came in sight of Loch Arroch head—the village which, seated -at the extremity of the loch, was the post town and general centre of -the district—Edgar was joined by Robert Campbell, the husband of his -eldest aunt, a man to whom he was expected to give the title of uncle, -and who regarded him with a mingled feeling of rough amity, respect -(for, was he not independent, with an income of his own, and able to -live like a gentleman?), and conscientious conviction that something -might be got out of him. He was a land-agent, in not a very great way, a -factor for some of the less important land-owners of the district, a man -not without education and information in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> way, with considerable -practical knowledge of law, and still greater of agriculture, racy of -the soil, the sort of person whom a great landed proprietor from -England, such as poor Edgar had been a few years before, would have -appreciated mightily, and quoted for months after their meeting. But to -enjoy the shrewdness and profit by the conversation of such an -individual, when you are elevated a whole world above him,—and to take -him into your heart as one of your own relatives, are very different -things. Edgar shrank with a whimsical sense of moral cowardice as he saw -this personage approaching. He laughed ruefully at himself. “Oh, why are -uncles made so coarse, and nephews made so fine?” he said. But to see -the fun of a situation does not always enable you to bear it with -equanimity. He would have been very glad to get out of Robert Campbell’s -way had that been possible; but as it was not possible he did his best -to meet him with a smile.</p> - -<p>“How’s the auld leddy the day?” said Campbell, stretching out a huge -hand to grasp Edgar’s; “living, and like to live, I’ll be bound. We -maunna grumble, for she’s given an aixcellent constitution to her -descendants, of which my lad is one as well as you. But, puir body, if -it had been the Almighty’s will—lang life’s a grand thing when you’re -well provided for,” Mr. Campbell concluded, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“I hope none of her descendants will grudge her the little she wants,” -Edgar began—</p> - -<p>“Saftly, saftly, my man! nobody grudges her the little she wants. The -difficulty is, wha’s to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span> provide that little,” said Campbell. “We’re all -decently well off in one sense, with no scrimping of meal or milk and a -good suit of black for a Sunday or a funeral, and a silk gown for the -wife. But to keep up a farm upon our joint contributions, as I hear is -what you’re thinking of—a farm, the chanciest thing in creation!—I -allow I canna see my way to that. Excuse me, Mr. Edgar, for speaking my -mind, but you’re young, and your notions are too grand for the like of -us—I’m no saying it’s your fault. We maun cut our coat according to our -cloth. I’m no fond of relations in the house; but she’s a harmless body, -and I’ll stretch a point for once: and John Bryce, in Sauchiehall St., -will take Jeanie. He’s a man in a very decent way of business, and I’ve -no doubt he could make her useful in the shop.”</p> - -<p>“But cannot you see,” cried Edgar, with a start and sudden wince, -interrupting him, “that my poor old grandmother would be wretched -without Jeanie? And Jeanie herself is too delicate a creature for any -such life. They must stay together. Surely, surely,” cried the young -man, “when she is helpless who has done so much for everybody, it is not -too much that we should provide for something beyond her mere -existence—her happiness as well.”</p> - -<p>Campbell had watched him very closely while he made this speech. The -generous feeling with which he spoke brought the colour to Edgar’s -cheek; he was unsuspicious of the meaning of the close scrutiny to which -he was thus subjected, and made no effort to conceal this glow of -natural emotion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span></p> - -<p>“If it’s Jeanie you’re meaning,” said Campbell, with a laugh and -significant look, “no doubt there are other arrangements that might be -thought of; and a good man’s aye the best thing, especially when he has -enough to live on. If that’s your thought, my lad, I am not the one to -say you nay.”</p> - -<p>“If what is my thought?” said Edgar, bewildered.</p> - -<p>I do not think the idea had ever occurred to him before, and I cannot -describe the thrill of wounded pride with which he received this shock. -Jeanie! A child—a creature altogether out of his sphere. Jeanie! with -her pretty peasant manners, and poetic homely dialect, a little girl -whom he could be kind to, as he would be kind to the maid who milked the -cows, or the child who ran his errands! In all the course of the three -painful years that were past, I do not think Edgar had received any such -cutting and sudden blow. He realized all his own humiliation when he saw -himself placed in the imagination of the neighbourhood by little -Jeanie’s side—her cousin, her often companion, her so-possible wooer! -The thought stiffened him up all at once to stone. He forgot even his -usual consideration for the feelings of others.</p> - -<p>“I have no thought of any kind in respect to Jeanie,” he said, coldly, -“except in so far as concerns my grandmother. The two ought not to be -separated. I cannot indeed allow them to be separated,” he added, still -more proudly. “I have a little money, as you know, and if nobody else -will do it, I must do it. I will make over to my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span> grandmother my little -income, such as it is. She can live and keep her favourite with her, if -she has that.”</p> - -<p>“Your—income!” Mr. Campbell could scarcely gasp out the words, so -breathless was he and dumb-foundered. “Your—income! And what will you -do yoursel’? But you mean an allowance; that’s a different matter,” he -added, recovering himself. “You’ll give in proportion to what the rest -of us give? Ay, ay. I can understand that.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>Jeanie.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Edgar</span> did not come home till the evening was considerably advanced. He -went with Campbell to his house, and partook of the substantial family -tea in the best parlour, which Mrs. Campbell, his aunt, called the -drawing-room—so that it was late before he returned home.</p> - -<p>“There’s a moon,” Campbell said. “Ye need be in no hurry. A young fellow -in certain states of mind, as we a’ know, takes to moonlight walks like -a duck to the water.”</p> - -<p>At which speech Mrs. Campbell laughed, being evidently in the secret; -but John, the only son, who was a student at the University of Glasgow, -and just about to set out for the winter session, looked black and -fierce as any mountain storm. These inferences of some supposed -sentiment, which he was totally ignorant of, might have passed quite -innocuously over Edgar only a day before, but they filled him now with -suppressed rage and deep mortification. Perhaps unreasonably; but there -is nothing which a man resents so much as to be supposed “in love” with -some one whom he considers beneath him. Even when there is truth in the -supposition, he resents the discovery which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> brings all the -inappropriateness of the conjunction before his mind; and if there is no -truth in it, he feels himself injured in the tenderest point—ill-used, -humbled, wronged. Edgar’s impulse was to leave the house where he was -thus insulted by inference; but partly pride, partly his usual deference -to other people’s feelings, and partly the necessity which was now -stronger than ever of carrying out his intentions and leaving the place -where he was subject to such an insane suggestion triumphed over his -first impulse.</p> - -<p>Even Campbell was staggered in his vulgar notion that only Jeanie and -her fresh beauty could account for the young man’s prolonged stay and -unusual devotion, when he began to perceive the munificence of Edgar’s -intentions. A young man who wanted to marry might indeed be guilty of a -great many foolishnesses; he might be ready, Mr. Campbell thought, to -burden himself with the old mother for the sake of the pretty child; but -to alienate a portion of his income (for Edgar did not enter fully into -his plan) was a totally different and quite impossible sort of -sacrifice. What could be his motive? Was it that Jeanie might be -educated and made a lady of before he should marry her? As for pure duty -towards the old mother, honour of her long and virtuous life, compassion -for the downfall of so proud a spirit, being motives strong enough for -such a sacrifice, at this the worthy man guffawed loudly.</p> - -<p>“I’m no the man to be taken in with fine words,” he said, with a broad -smile.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span></p> - -<p>While these jokes and discussions were going on in the best parlour at -Loch Arroch Head, Jeanie, unconscious of any debate in which her name -could be involved, went about her usual occupations at home. She got the -tea ready, coming and going with soft steps from the parlour to the -kitchen, carrying in the tray, and “masking” the tea with her own hands. -As for Bell, she was “suppering” the kye, and looking after the outdoor -work, and had no time for such daintier service. Jeanie would steal a -moment now and then, while she prepared this simple meal, to step -noiselessly to the ever open door, and cast a wistful look up the -loch-side to see “if he was coming.” The gloaming grew darker and -darker, the stars came out over the hill, the moon rose, and still -Jeanie strained her eyes to see if any figure approached on the long -line of almost level road by the side of the loch. Once her heart leaped -up, thinking she saw him; but it was only a shearer taking his way home -from the West Park, where, taking advantage of a good day, the harvest -had gone on as long as the light permitted. Poor Jeanie! what a -difference there was between this heavy rustic form as it drew near, -relieved against the dark yet gleaming water of the loch, and the erect, -light-footed, elastic figure she looked for! As she washed the old china -cups brought out in his honour, and put the tea-things away, she -wondered with a pang in her kind little heart what could have kept him? -Had he met some of his grand friends, sportsmen arriving by the boat, or -those tourists whom the natives looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> upon with mingled admiration and -scorn? or could any accident have happened? a thought which blanched her -pretty cheek with fear.</p> - -<p>She would have liked to talk to her grandmother about Edgar, but she did -not venture to do more than wonder “what could be keeping him?” a -question to which Mrs. Murray responded placidly that no doubt he was -“drinking tea” with somebody at Loch Arroch Head. The old lady was not -discomposed by Edgar’s absence as Jeanie was; and poor Jeanie, in the -flutter and warmth of her feelings, could have cried with vexation at -the contrast between her own agitated heart and this calm, which she -thought indifference. Her grandmother “did not care.” “Oh, how could she -help caring, and him so good to her!” poor Jeanie said to herself. And -Bell went about her work out of doors, cheerily singing, in her full -rustic voice, as she prepared the supper for the kye, and carried it out -to the byre, coming and going in her strong shoes, with clink of pails, -and loud talking now and then to Sandy, who was helping. Nobody cared -but Jeanie that he was so late of coming home.</p> - -<p>Then she went upstairs with her grandmother, who was still an invalid, -and helped her to bed, and read “the chapter” with which the day was -always concluded; and put a great old stick, with a gold head, which had -belonged to some ancestor, by the bedside, in order that Mrs. Murray, if -she wanted anything, should “knock down,” for there were not many bells -in the little farmhouse. The sitting-room was immediately below, and -this was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> the recognised way at the Castle Farm of calling for the -attendants. When this last duty was done, Jeanie was free for the night -to “take her book” or “her seam,” and do as she pleased, for she had -never had anything to do with “the beasts” or outdoor matters.</p> - -<p>By this time Bell had finished with her clinking pails. She was in the -kitchen, still moving about, frying the cold potatoes into a savoury -mess, with which Sandy and she were about to regale themselves. Where -Bell’s strong shoes were, and her hearty voice, not to speak of Sandy’s, -which was very deep bass, there could scarcely be stillness in the -house; but when the kitchen door was closed, and the two (who were -sweethearts) talked lower, the spell of the quiet grew strong upon -Jeanie. She put down her seam, and stole out very quietly to the door, -which still stood innocently open; for at the Castle Farm they feared no -evil. If you could but have seen her, no prettier figure ever watched -for a tardy lover. She was dressed in a plain little brown frock, -without any furbelows, with a little rim of white collar round her neck. -Her golden hair was fastened up with a large tortoise-shell comb, -thought “very old-fashioned” by all the girls about Loch Arroch, which -had belonged to Jeanie’s mother, and of which, as a valuable article, -costing originally “more than a pound-note,” as her grandmother had -often told her, Jeanie was proud. The comb was scarcely visible in the -soft bright mass of hair, which Jeanie had not neglected to twist up in -its abundance into some semblance of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> “the fashion.” She leant against -the doorway with her chin propped in the hollow of her hand, and one -folded arm supporting the elbow of the other.</p> - -<p>The stars shone high over head, high up above the big summit of -Benvohrlan, which shut out from her half the heavens. The moon was -behind, silvering over the red roof of the house, and falling glorious -upon the dark water, making it one sheet of silver from where it opened -out of the bigger loch up to the very foot of the mountain. The side of -Benvohrlan was almost as light as in the day-time, and Loch Long on the -other turn of the gigantic corner formed by the hill, went gleaming away -into invisible space, betraying itself in undefinable distance by here -and there a line or speck of silver. All up the loch side, at Jeanie’s -left hand, the path lay clear and vacant, without a shadow on it. On the -other side, the glimmering lightness of the stubble field, with its -sheaves looking like strange animals in the moonlight, extended to the -water edge, rounding out to where it too gained the margin of the parent -loch. I do not know any finer combination of hill and water. The level -fields of the Castle Farm on one side, and Big Benvohrlan on the other, -form the doorway by which the lesser loch enters the greater; on one -side an angle of cultivated land: on the other a gigantic angle of -mountain. But little Jeanie thought little of the familiar scene around -her. The moon, newly risen, cast a soft shadow of her little figure, the -same way as her heart went, upon the road<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> from the loch-head by which -Edgar was coming. He saw this shadow with a little impatient vexation as -he approached the house, but not till long after little Jeanie’s heart -had jumped to perceive him.</p> - -<p>Poor little gentle soul! her large eyes made larger and softer still by -her wistful anxiety and longing for his presence, had watched with -patience unwavering for more than an hour. She had not minded the chill -wind nor the weariness of standing so long, with no support but the -doorway. The attitude, the strained look, the patience, were all -characteristic of Jeanie. She was the kind of being which in all -second-rate poetry, and most second-rate imaginations, is the one sole -type of woman. Looking for some one who was the lord of her life, or -looking to some one—with soft eyes intent, with quick ears waiting, -with gentle heart ready to receive whatever impression he wished to -convey, the soft soul turned to the man who had caught her heart or her -imagination as the flower turns to the sun. To use the jargon of the -day, poor little Jeanie was receptive to the highest degree. She never -originated anything, nor advised anything, nor took any part as an -individual being in the conduct of life, either her own or that of -others. Hers were not those eager youthful opinions, those harsh -judgments, those daring comments which belong as much to youth as its -bloom. She was too artless to know anything of the prettiness of her -uplifted eyes, or the delicious flattery which lay in her absolute -submissiveness. Poor Jeanie did not know that these were charms much -more potent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> than the talents which she was aware she did not possess. -She listened, and looked, and watched for those signs of guidance, which -she obeyed by instinct with the docility of a dumb creature, because it -was her nature. She did not even intend to please; though she was happy -beyond description when she found that she had pleased, she did but act -as she could not help acting, according as her disposition moved her. -Edgar, who had not been used to this kind of woman, had been half -annoyed, half amused by her powerlessness to advise or help, her soft -devotion of look, now addressed to himself, now to Mrs. Murray. He had -wondered at it, and objected to it; yet he had been moved like any other -man to a softening sense of protection and almost tenderness. He was -flattered too in spite of himself to find her thus watching for him. It -made him more than half angry, but yet it pleased him involuntarily.</p> - -<p>“You will catch cold standing out here in the night air,” he said -pettishly at the first moment. Then he added with compunction, “It is -kind of you to look for me, Jeanie; but you should not stand out in the -cold without a shawl.”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad you’re come home,” said Jeanie, with instinctive policy -ignoring this reproof. “Grannie is in her bed, and it is lonely without -you. Will I make you some tea? or will you have your supper? You’ve been -long away.”</p> - -<p>“Not so very long,” said Edgar, touched by the soft complaint, “but I -ought to have recollected that you were alone. Are you afraid, Jeanie, -at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> night with no one but Bell and the granny to take care of you? It is -a lonely house.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” said Jeanie, looking brightly round upon him, as he followed -her into the low parlour, where two candles were flickering on the table -before the fire.</p> - -<p>“But it is a lonely house?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” she repeated softly, “but what o’ that? Nobody would meddle -with us. Granny is as well known as Loch Arroch Kirk. Nobody dares -meddle with us. I’m never lonely, except when granny is ill and goes to -her bed, and I can hear Bell and Sandy in the kitchen. That makes me -think I would like somebody to speak to, too.”</p> - -<p>“But Bell and Sandy,”—Edgar began: if he was going to be so incautious -as to add,—“are sweethearts,” I don’t know what would have become of -him; but happily Jeanie, with a sudden blush interposed.</p> - -<p>“I was not meaning Bell and Sandy; any voices have the same sound. They -make you feel how lone you are.”</p> - -<p>“That is true,” said Edgar, seating himself by the fire, which Jeanie -had kept bright, with a clean-swept hearth, and a clear red glow for his -coming. He sat down meditatively in the old mother’s chair. “That is -true,” he repeated slowly, “I have felt it often of winter nights when I -have gone upstairs to my chilly room, and heard the people chatting -together as I passed their doors.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“<i>You</i> have felt that, too?” said Jeanie timidly, with reverential -wonder, “but you need never be your lane unless you like.”</p> - -<p>“I assure you I have often been ‘my lane,’ as you call it, when I did -not like at all,” said Edgar smiling, “you have much too high an -opinion, Jeanie, of what I can do ‘if I like.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” said Jeanie, “you are not the same as the like of us; you are -a man, which is a great difference,—and then you’re a grand gentleman.”</p> - -<p>“Jeanie, my foolish little Jeanie! I am your cousin and your granny’s -child like you,” he cried, putting his hand upon hers, to stop her in -the little outburst of innocent enthusiasm, which was, he felt, for an -ideal Edgar—not for him.</p> - -<p>“It’s very hard to understand,” said Jeanie shaking her head softly with -a little sigh, “why you should be yonder the greatest of the land, and -now only granny’s son, like me. I’ll no try. When I think, I get back a -pain in my head like what I had—when I was ill.”</p> - -<p>“You must not think,” said Edgar, “but, Jeanie, tell me, did you do my -commission? Did you persuade granny to let me do what I wish?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Jeanie eagerly; she came forward and stood by him in the -pleasure of making this report of her own faithfulness,—and the -cheerful ruddy gleam of the firelight flickered about her, shining in -her hair and eyes, and adding a tint to the colour on her cheek, which -was pale by nature. “I told her a’ you said, I did not miss a word. I -said it would be fine for her, but better for you; that you would do -something then, and now you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> were doing nothing; and that you would be -glad aye to think of Loch Arroch, and that there was a house there where -you were thought upon day and night, and named in a’ the prayers, and -minded, whatever you did, and whatever we did.”</p> - -<p>“That was your own, Jeanie,” said Edgar, taking her hand, and looking up -at her with gratified tenderness. She was to him as a little sister, and -her affectionate half-childish enthusiasm brought a suffusion to his -eyes.</p> - -<p>“If it was, may I no say what I think—me too?” said Jeanie, with modest -grace. “I told her that you couldna bear the thought of her away in -another man’s house, after so long keeping her own over a’ our heads, -that the siller was nothing to you, but that her—and me—were something -to you, your nearest friends in this world. Eh, I’m glad we’re your -nearest friends! though it’s strange, strange to think of,” said Jeanie, -in a parenthesis. “I told her that though she couldna work and I couldna -work, you could work, and win a fortune if you liked. I did not forget a -single word,” cried the girl, “not a word! I told her all you said.”</p> - -<p>For a moment Edgar made no reply. He listened with a half smile, -wonderingly endeavouring to put himself in the place of this limited yet -clear intelligence, which was capable of stating his own generous -arguments so fully, yet incapable, as it seemed, of so much reflection -as would make her hesitate to expound them. Jeanie, so far as her -personal sentiment went, accepted his sacrifice with matter-of-fact -simplicity, without ever thinking of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span> his side of it, or of the -deprivations involved. She took his offer to denude himself of -everything he had, with the same absolute pleasure and satisfaction with -which a child would accept a present. Was it her unbounded confidence in -his power to win a fortune if he liked? Or was it her simple instinct -that this was natural, and that the weak and helpless had a right to the -services of the strong? Edgar was bewildered by this question which -never entered into Jeanie’s mind. He was almost glad of her incapacity -to see beyond the surface of things, and yet wondered at it with -something between amusement and pain. Here was the primitive nature, -commonplace, unsophisticated, he said to himself, which believed what -was said to it simply demanding without motive or reason. No second -thoughts troubled the limpid surface of Jeanie’s gentle mind. She -believed unhesitatingly not only that he meant what he said (which was -true), but that the arguments she repeated were infallible, without -perceiving the sophistry of which Edgar himself, the author of them, was -fully conscious. Truly and sincerely she made as light of his -self-renunciation as he himself had made—a thing which is bewildering -to the self-sacrificer, though it may be the thing which is most -desirable to him and suits his purpose best. I do not know if Jeanie was -aware of the half tone of descent in the moral scale which made itself -apparent in Edgar’s voice.</p> - -<p>“You have been a clever advocate, Jeanie,” he said with a smile, “and I -hope a successful one,” and with that he dropped her hand and took out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> -his newspaper. Was there anything amiss, or was it merely his lordly -pleasure to end the conversation? With a momentary sense of pain, Jeanie -wondered which it was, but accepted the latter explanation, got her -seam, and sat down within reach of the pleasant warmth of the fire, -happy in the silence, asking nothing more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>A Family Consultation.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">A few</span> days after, various members of the family arrived at the Castle -Farm, with the intention of deciding what was to be done. An arrangement -had been partially made with a young farmer of the district, who was -ready to enter upon the remainder of the lease, and whom the factor on -the part of the Duke was ready to accept as replacing Mrs. Murray in the -responsibilities of the tenancy. This, of course, everybody felt was the -natural step to be taken, and it left the final question as to how the -old lady herself was to be disposed of, clear and unembarrassed. Even -Edgar himself was not sufficiently Quixotic to suppose that Mrs. -Murray’s feelings and pride should be so far consulted as to keep up the -farm for her amusement, while she was no longer able to manage its -manifold concerns.</p> - -<p>Mr. and Mrs. Campbell arrived first in their gig, which was seated for -four persons, and which, indeed, Mr. Campbell called a phaeton. Their -horse was a good steady, sober-minded brown horse, quite free from any -imaginativeness or eccentricity, plump and sleek, and well-groomed; and -the whole turnout had an appearance of comfort and well-being.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> They -brought with them a young man whom Edgar had not yet seen, a Dr. Charles -Murray, from the East-country, the son of Mrs. Murray’s eldest son, who -had arrived that morning by the steamboat at Loch Arroch Head. From -Greenock by the same conveyance—but not in Mr. Campbell’s gig—came -James Murray, another of the old lady’s sons, who was “a provision -merchant” in that town, dealing largely in hams and cheeses, and full of -that reverential respect for money which is common with his kind. Lastly -there arrived from Kildarton on the other side of Loch Long, a lady who -had taken the opportunity, as she explained to Edgar, of indulging her -young people with a picnic, which they were to hold in a little wooded -dell, round the corner of the stubble field, facing Loch Long, while she -came on to join the family party, and decide upon her mother’s destiny. -This was Mrs. MacKell, Mrs. Murray’s youngest daughter, a good-looking, -high-complexioned woman of forty-five, the wife of a Glasgow “merchant” -(the phrase is wide, and allows of many gradations), who had been living -in sea-side quarters, or, as her husband insisted on expressing it, “at -the saut water,” in the pleasant sea-bathing village of Kildarton, -opposite the mouth of Loch Arroch. The boat which deposited her at the -little landing-place belonging to the Castle Farm, was a heavy boat of -the district, filled with a bright-coloured and animated party, and -provided with the baskets and hampers necessary for their party of -pleasure. Mrs. MacKell stood on the bank, waving her hand to them as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> -they hoisted the sail and floated back again round the yellow edge of -the stubble field.</p> - -<p>“Mind you keep your warm haps on, girls, and don’t wet your feet,” she -called to them; “and oh, Andrew, my man, for mercy’s sake take care of -that awful sail!”</p> - -<p>This adjuration was replied to by a burst of laughter in many voices, -and a “Never fear, mother,” from Andrew; but Mrs. MacKell shook her -good-looking head as she accepted Edgar’s hand to ascend the slope. All -the kindred regarded Edgar with a mixture of curiosity and awe, and it -was, perhaps, a slight nervous shyness in respect to this stranger, so -aristocratical-looking, as Mrs. MacKell expressed herself, which gave a -little additional loudness and apparent gaiety to that excellent woman’s -first address.</p> - -<p>“I’m always afraid of those sails. They’re very uncanny sort of things -when a person does not quite understand the nature of our lochs. I -suppose, Mr. Edgar, you’re in that case?” said Mrs. MacKell, looking at -him with an ingratiating smile.</p> - -<p>He was her nephew, there could be no doubt of it, and she had a right to -talk to him familiarly; but at the same time he was a fine gentleman and -a stranger, and made an impression upon her mind which was but -inadequately counter-balanced by any self-assurances that he was “just -an orphan lad—no better—not to say a great deal worse off than our own -bairns.” Such representations did not affect the question as they ought -to have done, when this strange personage, “no better,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> not to say a -great deal worse” than themselves, stood with his smile which made them -slightly uncomfortable, before them. It was the most open and genial -smile, and in former times Edgar had been supposed a great deal too much -disposed to place himself on a level with all sorts of people; but -now-a-days his look embarrassed his humble relations. There was a -certain amusement in it, which bore no reference to them, which was -entirely at himself, and the quaintly novel position in which he found -himself, but which nevertheless affected them, nobody could have told -why. He was not laughing at them, respectablest of people. They could -not take offence, neither could they divine what he was laughing at; but -the curious, whimsical, and often rueful amusement which mingled with -many much less agreeable feelings, somehow made itself felt and produced -an effect upon which he had never calculated. It was something they did -not understand, and this consciousness partially irritated, partially -awed these good people, who felt that the new man in their midst was a -being beyond their comprehension. They respected his history and his -previous position, though with a little of that characteristic contempt -which mingles so strangely in Scotland with many old prejudices in -favour of rank and family; they respected more honestly and entirely his -little property, the scraps of his former high estate which made him -still independent; but above all they now respected, though with some -irritation, what seemed to them the unfathomableness of his character, -the lurking smile in his eyes. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> confirmed the superiority which -imagination already acknowledged.</p> - -<p>“I have not had much experience of the lochs,” said Edgar, following -with his eyes the clumsy but gay boat, with its cargo of laughter, and -frankly gay, if somewhat loud, merry-making.</p> - -<p>Mrs. MacKell saw his look and was gratified.</p> - -<p>“You’ll not know which are your cousins among so many,” she said; “and, -indeed, the girls have been plaguing me to write over and ask you to -come. They were all away back in Glasgow when my mother took ill, and -just came down last week on my account. It’s late for sea-bathing -quarters in Scotland; and, indeed, when they took it into their heads -about this pic-nic, I just raged at them. A pic-nic in October, and on -the loch! But when children set their hearts on a thing the mother’s aye -made to give way; and they had to be kept quiet, you see, while my -mother was ill, not knowing how it might end.”</p> - -<p>“That is true,” said Edgar; “otherwise, so far as my poor grandmother is -concerned, this cannot be called a very joyful occasion.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see that for my part,” cried Mrs. MacKell, feeling herself -attacked, and responding with instant readiness. “Dear me! if I were in -my mother’s position, to see all my children about me, all that remain, -would aye be a joyful occasion, whatever was the cause; and what better -could she do at her age than go up the loch to my sister Jean’s -comfortable house, where she would be much made of, and have all her old -friends about her?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> My mother has been a good mother. I have not a word -to say against that; but she’s always been a proud woman, awfully proud, -holding her head as high as the Duchess, and making everybody stand -about. I’ll not say but what it has been very good for us, for we’ve -never fallen among the common sort. But still, you know, unless where -there’s siller that sort of thing cannot be kept up. Of course, I would -like it better,” added Mrs. MacKell, “to have my mother near, where I -could send the bairns—excuse me for using the words of the place.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I like the words,” said Edgar, with a laugh, which he could not -quite restrain—better than the sentiments, he would have said.</p> - -<p>“Where I could send any of my young folk that happened to be looking -white, at any moment,” she went on; “far different from what I could do -with Jean, who has the assurance to tell me she always invites her -friends when she wants them, though her son has his dinner with us every -Sunday of his life during the Session! Therefore it’s clear what my -interest is. But you see, Mr. Edgar,” she continued, softening, “you -have the ways of a rich man. You never think of the difficulties. Oh! -Charles, is that you? I’m glad to see you looking so well; and how are -things going in the East country? and how is your sister Marg’ret, and -little Bell? If my young folk had known you were here, they would have -wanted you away with them in the boat. But I must go ben and see my -mother before all the folk come in. I suppose you are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> going to look -over the farm, and the beasts, with the rest.”</p> - -<p>The young doctor—upon whom as a man of his own age, and one more like -the people he had been accustomed to than those he now found around him, -Edgar had looked, with more interest than any of his other relations had -called from him—came up to him now with a face overcast with care.</p> - -<p>“May I speak to you about this painful subject,” he said, “before the -others come in?”</p> - -<p>“Why a painful subject?” asked Edgar, with a smile, which was half -tremulous with feeling, and half indignant, too proud for sympathy.</p> - -<p>“It may not be so to you,” said the young man. “She brought us up, every -one of my family; but what can I do? I have a brother in Australia, too -far off to help, and another a clerk in London. As for me, I have the -charge of my eldest sister, who is a widow with a child. You don’t know -what a hard fight it is for a young medical man struggling to make his -way.”</p> - -<p>“No, not yet,” said Edgar, with a smile.</p> - -<p>“Not yet? How can you know? If I were to take my grandmother home with -me, which I would do gladly, she would be far from everything that she -knows and cares for—in a new place, among strangers. Her whole life -would be broken up. And I could not take Jeanie,” the young man added, -with a thrill of still greater pain in his voice. “There would be other -dangers. What can we do? I cannot bear to think that she must leave this -place.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> But I have so little power to help, and consequently so little -voice in the matter.”</p> - -<p>“I have not very much,” said Edgar; “but yet enough, I think, to decide -this question. And so long as I have a shilling, she shall not be driven -away from her home. On that I have made up my mind.”</p> - -<p>His new cousin looked at him with admiration—then with a sigh:</p> - -<p>“What a thing money is,” he said; “ever so little of it. You can take a -high hand with them, having something; but I, to whom Robert Campbell -and Mr. MacKell have both lent money to set me going—”</p> - -<p>Edgar held out his hand to his companion.</p> - -<p>“When this is settled I shall be in the same position,” he said; “worse, -for you have a profession, and I have none. You must teach me how I can -best work for daily bread.”</p> - -<p>“You are joking,” said the young doctor, with a smile.</p> - -<p>Like the others, he could not believe that Edgar, once so rich, could -ever be entirely poor; and that he should denude himself altogether of -his living for the sake of the old mother, whom they were all quite -ready to help—in reason, was an idea impossible to be comprehended, and -which nobody believed for a moment. He said nothing in reply, and the -two stood together before the door waiting for the other men of the -party, who were looking over “the beasts” and farm implements, and -calculating how much they would bring.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span></p> - -<p>James Murray, the provision merchant, was the typical Scotchman of -fiction and drama—a dry, yellow man, with keen grey eyes, surrounded by -many puckers, scrubby sandy hair, and a constant regard for his own -interest. The result had been but indifferent, for he was the poorest of -the family, always in difficulties, and making the sparest of livings by -means of tremendous combinations of skill and thought sufficient to have -made the most fabulous fortune—only fortune had never come his way. He -had been poking the cows in the ribs, and inspecting the joints of every -plough and harrow as if his life depended upon them. As he came forward -to join the others, he put down in the note-book which he held in his -hand, the different sums which he supposed they would bring. Altogether, -it was a piece of business which pleased him. If he had ever had any -sentimental feeling towards his old home, that was over many a long year -ago; and that his mother, when she could no longer manage the farm, -should give it up, and be happy and thankful to find a corner at her -daughter’s fireside, was to him the most natural thing in life. The only -thing that disturbed him, was the impossibility of making her seek a -composition with her creditors, and thus saving something “for an -emergency.”</p> - -<p>“James has aye an eye to what may come after,” Mr. Campbell said, with -his peculiar humour, and a laugh which made Edgar long to pitch him into -the loch; “he’s thinking of the succession. Not that I’m opposed to -compounding with the creditors<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> in such a case. She’s well-known for an -honest woman that’s paid her way, and held up her head with the best, -and we all respect her, and many of us would have no objection to make a -bit small sacrifice. I’m one myself, and I can speak. But your mother is -a woman that has always had a great deal of her own way.”</p> - -<p>“More than was good for her,” said James Murray, shaking his head. -“She’s as obstinate as an auld mule when she takes a notion. She’s been -mistress and mair these forty year, and like a women, she’ll hear no -reason. Twelve or fifteen shillings in the pound is a very fine -composition, and touches no man’s credit, besides leaving an old wife -something in her pocket to win respect.”</p> - -<p>“And to leave behind her,” said Campbell, laughing and slapping his -brother-in-law on the back.</p> - -<p>This was at the door of the farm-house, where they lingered a moment -before going in. The loud laugh of the one and testy exclamation of the -other, sounded in through the open windows of the parlour, where the -mistress of the house sat with her daughters; probably the entire -conversation had reached them in the same way. But of that no one took -any thought. This meeting and family consultation was rather “a ploy” -than otherwise to all the party. They liked the outing, the inspection, -the sense of superiority involved. The sons and the daughters were -intent upon making their mother hear reason and putting all nonsense out -of her head. She had been foolish in these last<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> years of her life. She -had brought up Tom’s bairns, for instance, in a ridiculous way. It was -all very well for Robert Campbell’s son, who was able to afford it, to -be sent to College, but what right had Charlie Murray to be made a -gentleman of at the expense of all the rest? To be sure his uncles and -aunts were somewhat proud of him now that the process was completed, and -liked to speak of “my nephew the doctor;” but still it was a thing that -a grandmother, all whose descendants had an equal right to her favours, -had no title to do.</p> - -<p>“My bairns are just as near in blood, and have just as good a right to a -share of what’s going; and when you think how many there are of them, -and the fight we have had to give them all they require,” Mrs. MacKell -said to Mrs. Campbell.</p> - -<p>“Many or few,” said Mrs. Campbell to Mrs. MacKell, “we have all a right -to our share. I’ve yet to learn that being one of ten bairns gives more -claim than being an only child. Johnnie ought to be as much to his -grandmother as any grand-bairn she has—as much as Charlie Murray that -has cost her hundreds. But she never spent a pound note on my Johnnie -all his life.”</p> - -<p>“There have been plenty pound-notes spent on him,” said the younger -sister, “but we need not quarrel, for neither yours nor mine will get -anything from their grandmother now. But I hope the men will stand fast, -and not yield to any fancies. My mother’s always been a good mother to -us, but very injudicious with these children. There’s Jeanie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> now, -never taught to do a hand’s turn, but encouraged in all her fancies.”</p> - -<p>“I would like to buy in the china,” said Mrs. Campbell. “Auld china is -very much thought of now-a-days. I hear the Duchess drinks her tea out -of nothing else, and the dafter-like the better. You’ll be surprised -when you see how many odds and ends there are about the house, that -would make a very good show if they were rightly set out.”</p> - -<p>“My mother has some good things too, if all the corners were cleared, -that are of no use to her, but that would come in very well for the -girls,” said Mrs. MacKell; and with these kind and reverential thoughts -they met their mother, who perhaps also—who knows?—had in her day been -covetous of things that would come in for the girls. This was the easy -and cheerful view which the family took of the circumstances altogether. -Not one of them intended to be unkind. They were all quite determined -that she should “want for nothing;” but still it was, on the whole, -rather “a ploy” and pleasant expedition, this family assembly, which had -been convened for the purpose of dethroning its head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>The Family Martyr.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">I need</span> not say that the feelings with which the old woman awaited the -decision of her fate were of a very different character. She had lain -awake almost the whole night, thinking over the long life which she had -spent within those walls. She had been married at eighteen, and now she -was seventy. I wonder whether she felt in herself one tithe of the -difference which these words imply. I do not believe she did; except at -special moments we never feel ourselves old; we are, to ourselves, what -we always were, the same creature, inexhaustible, unchangeable, -notwithstanding all vulgar exterior transformation. Poor old Mrs. Murray -at seventy, poor, aged, ruined, upon whom her children were to sit that -day and give forth her sentence of banishment, her verdict of -destitution, never more to call anything her own, to lodge in the house -of another, to eat a stranger’s bread—was to her own knowledge the same -girl, eighteen years old, who had opened bright eyes in that chamber in -those early summer mornings fifty years ago when life was so young. -Fifty years passed before her as she lay with her eyes turned to the -wall. How many joys in them, how many sorrows! how tired she had lain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> -down, how lightly risen up, how many plans she had pondered there, how -many prayers she had murmured unheard of by any but God, prayers, many -of them never answered, many forgotten even by herself, some, which she -remembered best, granted almost as soon as said. How she had cried and -wept in an agony, for example, for the life of her youngest child, and -how it had been better almost from that hour! The child was her -daughter, Mrs. MacKell, now a virtuous mother of a family; but after all -to her own mother, perhaps it would not now have mattered very much had -that prayer dropped unheard. How many recollections there are to look -back on in seventy years, and how bewildering the effort to remember -whether the dreamer lying there is eighteen, or forty, or seventy! and -she to be judged and sentenced and know her doom to-day.</p> - -<p>She did not shed any tear or make any complaint, but acknowledged to -herself with the wonderful stoicism of the poor that it was natural, -that nothing else was to be looked for. Jean and her husband would be -kind—enough; they would give the worn-out mother food and shelter; they -would not neglect nor treat her cruelly. All complaint was silent in her -heart; but yet the events of this day were no “ploy” to her. She got up -at her usual time, late now in comparison to the busy and active past, -and came down with Jeanie’s help to the parlour, and seated herself in -the arm-chair where she had sat for so many years. There she passed the -morning very silent, spending the time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> with her own thoughts. She had -told Jeanie what to do, to prepare for the early dinner, which they were -all to eat together.</p> - -<p>“You would be a good bairn,” she had said with a smile, “if you would -take it upon you to do all this, Jeanie, and say nothing to me.”</p> - -<p>Jeanie had sense enough to take her at her word, and thus all the -morning she had been alone, sitting with eyes fixed on Benvohrlan, often -with a strange smile on her face, pondering and thinking. She had her -stocking in her hands, and knitted on and on, weaving in her musing soul -with the thread. When her daughters came in she received them very -kindly with a wistful smile, looking up into their faces, wondering if -the sight of the mother who bore them had any effect upon these women. -Still more wistfully she looked at the men who followed. Many a volume -has been written about the love of parents, the love of mothers, its -enthusiasms of hope and fancy, its adorations of the unworthy, its agony -for the lost; but I do not remember that anyone has ventured to touch -upon a still more terrible view of the subject, the disappointment, for -example, with which such a woman as I have attempted to set before the -reader—a woman full of high aspirations, noble generosities, and -perhaps an unwarrantable personal pride, all intensified by the homely -circumstances of life around her—sometimes looks upon the absolutely -commonplace people whom she has brought into the world. She, too, has -had her dreams about them while they were children and all things seemed -possible—while<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> they were youths with still some grace and freshness of -the morning veiling their unheroic outlines. But a woman of seventy can -cherish no fond delusions about her middle-aged sons and daughters who -are to all intents and purposes as old as she is. What a dismal sense of -failure must come into such a woman’s heart while she looks at them! -Perhaps this is one reason why grandfathers and grandmothers throw -themselves so eagerly into the new generation, by means of which human -nature can always go on deceiving itself. Heavens! what a difference -between the ordinary man or woman at fifty, and that ideal creature -which he, or she, appeared to the mother’s eyes at fifteen! The old -people gaze and gaze to see our old features in us; and who can express -the blank of that disappointment, the cruel mortification of those old -hopes, which never find expression in any words?</p> - -<p>Mrs. Murray, from the household place where she had ruled so long, where -she had brought up upon her very life-blood like the pelican, those same -commonplace people—where she had succoured the poor, and entertained -strangers, and fed from her heart two generations—looked wistfully, -half wonderingly at them as they all entered, and sat down round her, to -decide what was to be done with her. Something of a divine despair, like -that God Himself might have felt when the creation he had pronounced -good, turned to evil—but with a more poignant thrill of human anguish -in the fact of her own utter powerlessness to move to good or to evil -those independent souls which once had seemed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> all hers, to influence as -she would—swept through her like a sudden storm. But to show any -outward sign of this was impossible. Theirs now was the upper hand; they -were in the height of life, and she was old. “When thou wast young, thou -girdedst thyself, and walkedst whither thou wouldest; but when thou -shalt be old, thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and another shall gird -thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldest not;” she said these words to -herself with a piteous patience and submission; but unheard by any -soul,—unless, indeed, it was by those sympathisers in Heaven, who hear -so much, yet make no sign that we can hear or see.</p> - -<p>They came in quite cheerfully all of them, full of the many and -diversified affairs which, for the moment, they were to make the -sacrifice of laying aside to settle the fate of their mother, and held -over her body, as it were, a pleasant little family palaver.</p> - -<p>“The children have gone down the loch for a pic-nic; they would have -come in to see Granny, but I said you would have no time for them -to-day. The weather is just wonderful for this time of the year, or I -never would have allowed such a thing.”</p> - -<p>“It’s all very well for you town-folk to praise up a good day,” said Mr. -Campbell, “which is no doubt pleasant when it comes to them that have no -interest in the land—but a kind of an insult to us after all the soft -weather that has ruined the corn. What’s the use of one good day except -for your pic-nics and nonsense? nothing but to make the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> handful of -wheat sprout the faster. And the glass is down again—We’ll have more -rain the morn.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll find it very dry in the East country, Chairles,” said Mrs. -Campbell; “more pleasant for walking, but very stour and troublesome to -keep a house clean, and a great want of water. Your sister Marg’ret was -aye ill to please about the weather; but after a’ that’s come and gone, -I hope she’s no so fanciful now?”</p> - -<p>“You’ll be setting up a gig soon?” said James Murray, “or, perhaps, -you’ve done it already? It’s expensive, but it’s a kind of necessity for -a doctor.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I cannot see that; a strong young man like Charles that’s well -able to walk! but some folk are always taking care of themselves,” said -Mrs. MacKell. “In Glasgow, the richest men in the place think nothing of -a walk, wet or dry—and my bairns, I assure you, are never spoiled with -such luxuries.”</p> - -<p>“A gig to a doctor is like a spade to a labouring man,” said Robert -Campbell, sententiously; “that’s an expense that I approve. Keep you up -appearances, Charles—that’s as long as you can do it out of your own -pocket,” he said with a laugh, thrusting his hand deep into his own.</p> - -<p>“I know where you could lay your hand on a very decent machine, cheaper, -I answer for’t, than anything you’ll get in the East country,” said -James.</p> - -<p>“And I am sure you have plenty of old harness that could be cleaned up, -Robert,” said Mrs. Campbell, “if it’s thought necessary. To be sure, if -he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> was sent for in a hurry to some country place, perhaps, or the other -side of the town—”</p> - -<p>“Thank you all,” said the young doctor, “but I have a—conveyance. I -could not do without it. I took it from my predecessor, along with the -house and the goodwill.”</p> - -<p>“Did you hear what he said?” said Mrs. MacKell, aside, to Mrs. Campbell, -“a conveyance, not a gig, as we were all saying. Depend upon it, it’s -some grand landau, or something, where Marg’ret can lie and take her -ease. To think how my mother spoiled these bairns!”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Murray took no part in all their talk. She sat with her old eyes -sadly turned upon them, eyes that were clear with the pallid liquid -light of a sky just cleared from rain. I think the only one who was at -all interested in the old woman, beyond the matter-of-fact interest -which belonged to her as the cause of the meeting, was Edgar, who had -seated himself close to her, and who now laid his hand, in a silent -sympathy which nobody else felt, upon the hand with which she held the -arm of her chair. Her hand was grey-white, the colour of old age, with -all the veins visible on the wrinkled surface. When he put his young -warm hand upon it, it felt almost as cold as death.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think,” he said, with some abruptness, “that my grandmother’s -concerns ought to be settled before we talk of anything else?”</p> - -<p>They had all, as I have said, a respect for Edgar, and his voice had an -immediate effect.</p> - -<p>“That’s true,” said Mr. Campbell, “it would be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span> better to settle -everything before dinner;” and with this comfortable levity they all -gathered more closely round the table. The drawing in of chairs and the -little noise of coughing and clearing throats which heralded the -commencement of a new subject, occupied the first minute; then James -Murray edged slightly away from the table the chair which he had drawn -close to it, and prepared to speak. But before he had opened his lips an -unforeseen interruption arose; Mrs. Murray herself took the initiative, -a thing entirely unexpected by her children, who had felt, with a sense -of security, that they had her fairly in hand.</p> - -<p>“Bairns,” she said slowly, and at first in a low tone, while they all -turned upon her with surprise, “bairns, I am leaving you to settle -everything. I am old; I would fain have gone to them that’s passed -before me, but the Lord hasna been of my mind. Things have gone badly -with the farm, partly by His providence, partly by my fault—you know -that as well as I do. In my time, I’ve commanded you and done what I -thought best. Now the power has gone out of my hands; settle as ye will, -and I’ll no complain, so long as every man has his ain, and no debt is -left, nor any person to rise up against me and call me an unjust dealer. -I’ve done my best for you while it was in my power. Now, do your best, -I’ll no complain. Beggars should not be choosers. It’s all in your -hands.”</p> - -<p>“Mother, you shouldna speak like that! as if you doubted that we could -think of anything but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> your good,” cried both her daughters in a breath; -“and as for beggars—not one of us would use such a word.”</p> - -<p>“It’s what I am,” said the old woman firmly. “And there’s but one word I -have to say. You ken all of you what I would like best; that’s all I’ll -say; every one of you kens what I would like best. But, failing that, -I’ll do whatever’s settled on. I’ll no complain.”</p> - -<p>“What you would like, we all know very well,” said James Murray, -hastily; “but it’s impossible, mother, impossible. You canna afford the -farm, you canna afford to keep up a house, doing nothing for it, or to -keep up a family. There’s <i>you</i>, and we’ll do our best.”</p> - -<p>She made a little gesture with her hands, and relapsed into the -stillness which she had not broken when they talked of other affairs. -The discrowned monarch sat still to let whoever would take her sceptre -from her. She took up the stocking she had laid in her lap, and began -knitting again, looking at them with eyes out of which the wistfulness -had faded. An almost stern submission had replaced the wondering anxious -look with which she had looked round to see if anyone would understand -her, if any would deal with her as she had dealt by them.</p> - -<p>“For you see,” continued James Murray, doggedly, “mother, we are none of -us rich, to be guided by your fancies. If we were great ones of this -earth, and you the auld Duchess, say, for example’s sake, you might have -your will, whatever it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> cost. But we’re all poor folk—or comparatively -poor folk. We may give you a welcome to our houses, such as they are, -and a share of what we have; but as for siller we have not got it, and -we cannot give you what we have not got to give.”</p> - -<p>“That’s just about the real state of the case,” said Robert Campbell. -“There are many things more rife among us than siller. We’ve all sense -enough to see what’s for our advantage, and we’re all industrious folk, -doing our best; but siller is not rife. As for us, Jean and me have long -made up our minds what to do. It’s our duty, or at least it’s her duty, -as the eldest of the daughters; and your mother was always a kind -guid-mother to me, and never interfered or made mischief; so I would -never oppose Jean’s righteous desire. We’ll take the old leddy in. She -shall have a room to herself, and nothing to do, one way or other, more -than she pleases. If she likes to do any small turn in the house, in the -way of helping, well and good; but nothing will be asked from her. And -anything that the rest of you think that you could spare—I’m not a man -to haggle about my good-mother’s board. She shall have her share of all -that’s going the same as one of ourselves; but if any of you have -anything to spare——”</p> - -<p>“Would it not be more satisfactory to us all, and more agreeable to my -grandmother,” said Edgar, suddenly, “if, without charging Mr. Campbell -above the rest, we were to make up a little income for her, to enable -her to keep her own house?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>This suggestion fell like a sudden cannon-ball into the group. There was -a universal movement.</p> - -<p>“Well, well, I’m no forcing myself on anybody. Try what you can do,” -cried Campbell, offended, pushing his chair from the table.</p> - -<p>“It’s just all stuff and nonsense!” cried his wife, reddening with -anger.</p> - -<p>The other two elder people regarded Edgar with a mixture of disapproval -and dismay. And the young doctor, the only one of the party who showed -some sympathy for him, grew very red, and hesitated and cleared his -throat as if to speak—but said nothing. After a moment’s pause, James -Murray turned upon the inconsiderate speaker with a certain solemnity.</p> - -<p>“Who are you, young man,” he said, “that you should put in your word and -do what you can to unsettle a well-considered family arrangement? You -heard me say not ten minutes since that just the thing we were wanting -in was money. We’re no in a position to make up incomes either for auld -wives or young lads. We’re all ready to acknowledge our duty to my -mother, and to pay it in kind according to our ability. If she tires of -Jean, she may come to me; none of us would shut our houses against her; -but as for an income, and to leave her free to make her house a refuge -for the destitute, as she has aye done, more’s the pity—”</p> - -<p>“Mother,” cried Mrs. MacKell, suddenly, “what for are you looking so at -me? Do you think I wouldna rather, far rather, see you in your own -house? But I’m no an independent woman as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> you’ve been a’ your days. I’m -a man’s wife that has plenty to do with his siller. I brought him not a -sixpence, as ye well know, but a large expensive family, that wants a -great deal mair than ever <i>we</i> got, as I often tell them. And what can I -do? I went to my man without a penny, and how can I ask him to spend his -siller on my folk? Mother,” and here Mrs. MacKell burst into hasty -sudden crying, half-vexation, half-shame, “it’s awfu’ unkind, when you -ken how I am situate, to give such looks at me!”</p> - -<p>“I gave you no looks, Agnes,” said the old woman. “Oh, Sirs, hold all -your tongues. I’m the mother that bore you, and never counted the cost -for aught that was in my power to get for you. But I will have no strife -of tongues over me. Ye shall not quarrel what you’re to give, or how -little you’re to give. I canna bear it. Edgar, my bonnie man, you mean -well, but every word is another stab. Robert Campbell, I take your offer -kindly. I’ll no be much trouble. I canna promise that I’ll no last long, -for <i>that’s</i> in the Lord’s hand, and waes me, I canna cut it short, no -by an hour. But it’s little I want, and I’ll give little trouble—”</p> - -<p>She paused, with a piteous smile upon her face, gulping down something -which rose in her throat. With this smile she made her abdication, -looking round upon them with an anguish of submission and endurance so -curiously compounded of a hundred different ingredients of pain, each -giving sharpness and poignancy to the others, that to describe them all -exceeds my power.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span></p> - -<p>“We’ll go ben and get our dinner,” she added hurriedly; “we’ll say no -more about it. I take it a’ for granted, and the rest you can settle -among yourselves.”</p> - -<p>“But I cannot take it for granted,” said Edgar. “Stop a little. I will -not give any stabs, my old mother. Look here, my aunts and uncles.” He -said this with a momentary hesitation, with the half-smile which they -resented; but still they listened, having a respect for him and his -independence. “I am not like you,” said Edgar, still with that -half-smile. “The only thing I have is money, a little, not worth -speaking of, but still it is mine to do what I like with it. Is it not -true that there is some talk of building a new farmhouse for the new -farmer, as this one is old and in want of repair? I think I heard you -say so the other day.”</p> - -<p>“It’s true enough—what’s about it?” said Campbell, shortly.</p> - -<p>“Then my grandmother shall stay here,” said Edgar, decisively; “she -shall not be turned out of her home, either by her creditors, or—by her -sons and daughters. I have nobody to stop me, neither wife, nor sister, -nor child, nor duty. Thank heaven, I have enough left for that! If you -will take the trouble to settle all about it, Mr. Campbell, I shall be -grateful; it is all we will ask you for, not your hospitality, only a -little trouble. I don’t suppose the Duke will make any difficulties, nor -the young farmer whom I saw yesterday. Thank you for your kind -intentions. My grandmother will not be able to set up a refuge for the -destitute, but no doubt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> she will serve you all when you require her -services, as she has been used to do all her life,” said Edgar, with -some excitement. “Mother, not a word; it is all done, past my power of -changing as well as yours.”</p> - -<p>They all sat and looked at him with momentary stupefaction, staring, -turning to give questioning looks at each other. Was the young man mad? -When Edgar ended by pushing some papers across the table to Campbell, -they all drew close to look, James Murray taking out eagerly, and -putting on with hands that trembled, a large pair of clumsy spectacles. -All the four heads of the elder people clustered about these documents; -they read the papers each over the other’s shoulder.</p> - -<p>“It’s all in order—all in order. Young idiot! he’s bound himself as -long as she lives,” Campbell muttered in an undertone. “Why the deevil -didn’t ye let us know your intentions and save us a’ this trouble?” he -exclaimed aloud, putting away the women from behind him with a gesture, -and turning with well-put-on indignation to the young man, whose -excitement had not yet calmed down.</p> - -<p>“Saftly, saftly,” said James Murray, “we must not let ourselves be -carried away by our feelings. I approve the lad; it’s just what I would -have done myself had I been without the burden of a family, and plenty -of siller to come and go upon. I’ll shake hands with you, Edgar, my lad; -it’s well done and well thought! Robert, here, may have a little feeling -on the subject, as being the one that offered his house; but for my -part, I’ve no hesita<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span>tion in saying it’s well done, Edgar—well -done—just what, in your circumstances, I would have done myself!”</p> - -<p>“By George! you’re a clever fellow, Jamie Murray!” cried Campbell, with -a loud laugh.</p> - -<p>The two women did not say anything; they looked at each other, and Mrs. -MacKell, who was the most soft-hearted, began to cry.</p> - -<p>“It’s what we would all have liked to have done,” she said feebly, after -an interval.</p> - -<p>Her sister turned round sharply and scolded Jeanie, who had been sitting -behind backs looking on, and who now looked up at Edgar with a face so -radiant that it struck her aunt with sharp offence—more sharp than the -real offence of the stranger’s superior generosity, of which it was a -reflection.</p> - -<p>“What are you doing there,” she said, “you little idle cutty? Did not -Granny tell you to see after the dinner? It may be good for her, but -it’s ruination to you, if you had the sense to see it. Dinna let me see -you sit there, smil—smiling at a young lad! I wonder you dinna think -shame! It’s all my mother’s fault,” she added bitterly, placing herself -in the chair by the window, which Jeanie, in dismay and tears, hastily -evacuated; “<i>we</i> were kept to our work and kept in order, in our day; -but she’s spoiled every creature that’s come near her since. I’m glad -I’ve nae girls mysel that she can ruin as she’s ruined Jeanie!”</p> - -<p>“Poor thing, she has nae mother to keep her right,” said the softer -sister.</p> - -<p>I think, for my part, that the sharp offence and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> bitterness of the -women at the sudden turn that things had taken, showed a higher moral -sense than the eager satisfaction with which, after the first moment, -the men received it. Murray and Campbell both felt the immediate relief, -as far as they themselves were concerned. The women felt first the shame -and stigma of not having attempted to do for their mother what this -stranger was so ready to do. The result was much less pleasant and less -amiable to witness, but it showed, I think, a higher feeling of right -and wrong.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<small>A Party in a Parlour.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> dinner which followed was not, the first part of it at least, a very -comfortable meal. Mrs. Murray herself was profoundly shaken by the -conference altogether. She was unable to say anything to her grandson -except the almost wild “No, lad; no, Edgar, my bonnie man!” with which -she had endeavoured to stop him at first. After this she had not uttered -a word. She had taken his hand between her old and worn hands, and -raised her face as if to God—praying for blessings on him? No—I do not -think her mind was capable of such an effort—she was looking up to the -Divine Friend who had been her refuge in everything these seventy years, -in a strange rapture of surprise and joy. How much part the sudden -change in her circumstances had to do with the joy, I cannot tell—very -little I think, infinitesimally little. “I have one son, one true son, -after all; heart of my heart, and soul of my soul!” This was the -predominating thought in her mind, the half-ecstatic feeling which -flooded her old being like sudden sunshine. Amid all the griefs and -disappointments to which such a soul is liable, there remains to one now -and then the tender and generous delight of seeing others do by her as -she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span> would have done by them. How sweet it is; before all delight in -gifts, or even in affection! We think of the golden rule more often in -the way of a command, employing it to touch our own souls to languid -duty; but there are occasions when it is given back to us, so to speak, -in the way of recompense, vivified and quickened into rapture. This old -woman had practised it as she could all her life, and others had not -done to her as she had done to them; but here, at the end of her -existence, came one—her reward, one heir of her nature, one issue of -her soul. Thus she had her glimpse of heaven in the very moment of her -lowest humiliation. She had done little personally for -him—little—nothing—except to harm him; but she had done much for -others, sacrificing herself that they might live, and the stranger, in -whose training she had had no hand, who had with her no link of union -but the mystic tie of blood, gave back to her full measure, heaped up, -and running over. I must leave to the imagination of the reader the keen -satisfaction and joy, sharp and poignant almost as pain, with which this -aged soul, worn out and weary, received full in her heart, all at once, -as by a shot or thunderbolt, the unthought of, unhoped-for recompense.</p> - -<p>The men, as I have said, were the first to reconcile themselves to the -sudden revolution. If any thrill of shame came over them, it was -instantly quenched, and ceased to influence the hardened mail, beaten by -much vicissitude of weather, which covered them. The women were -thinner-skinned, so to speak, more easily touched in their pride, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> -were sensible of the irony with which, half-consciously to himself, -Edgar had spoken. But, perhaps, the person most painfully affected of -all was the young doctor, who had listened to Edgar with a painful flush -on his face, and with a pang of jealous pain and shame, not easy to -bear. He went up to the old lady as soon as the discussion was over, and -sat down close by her, and held a long conversation in an undertone.</p> - -<p>“Grandmother,” he said, the flush returning and covering his face with -painful heat, “you do not think me ungrateful or slow to interfere? You -know it is not want of will, but want of means. You know—”</p> - -<p>“Charlie, was I asking anything, that you speak so to me? I know you -could not interfere. You are in their debt still, poor lad?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am in their debt still. I don’t know how to get out of it; it -grinds me to the ground!” cried the young man. “But what can I do?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Murray patted his hand softly with her old worn fingers; but she -was silent, with that silence which the weak nature, eager for -approbation, but unable to make a bold effort after good, feels so -profoundly.</p> - -<p>“You don’t say anything,” said Dr. Charles, with a mixture of petulance. -“You think I might have done more?”</p> - -<p>“No, Charlie, no,” said the old woman; “as you say not. I would be glad -to see you free of this bondage; but you must know best yourself.”</p> - -<p>“There is so much to do,” said the young doctor. “I must get a position. -I must make an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span> appearance like others in my profession. So many things -are necessary that you never think of here in a country place; and you -know Margaret has no health to speak of. There is so much expense in -every way.”</p> - -<p>“She was always handless,” said Mrs. Murray. “She should come to me with -little Bell, and let you take your chance. Living costs but little here, -and what is enough for one is enough for two,” said the old woman, with -her perennial and instinctive liberality of heart.</p> - -<p>“Enough for one! Jeanie is going to leave you then, as the Campbells -told me,” said the young man hastily. “He is to marry her as they said?”</p> - -<p>“I ken nothing about marrying or giving in marriage,” said the -grandmother, with some severity of tone. “If that is still in your mind, -Charlie—”</p> - -<p>“It is not in my mind—it was never in my mind,” he said with an -eagerness which was almost passionate. “She has a lovely face, but she -never was or could be a fit wife for a man in my position. There never -was anything in that.”</p> - -<p>“Charlie, my man, you think too much of your position,” said the old -woman, shaking her head; “and if there was nothing in it, why should you -gloom and bend your brows at the <i>thought</i> that Edgar might care for the -bonnie face as well as you? He does not, more’s the pity.”</p> - -<p>“And why should you say more’s the pity? Do you want to be rid of -Jeanie? Do you want to be left alone?”</p> - -<p>“I’m but a bruised reed for anyone to trust to,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span>” she said. “Soon, soon -I’ll have passed away, and the place that now knows me will know me no -more. I would be glad to see my poor bairn in somebody’s hand that would -last longer than me.”</p> - -<p>A momentary flush of strong feeling passed over the young man’s face.</p> - -<p>“Grandmother,” he said, “you were too good to me. If I had been bred a -farmer like yourself—”</p> - -<p>“You would have made but a weirdless farmer, Charlie, my man. It’s not -the trade that does it,” said Mrs. Murray, with some sadness. “But -Marg’ret had better come to me. She may hinder you, but she’ll no help -you. The bairns are maybe right; I was injudicious, Charlie, and grieved -for you that were all delicate things without a mother. I should have -known better. You are little able to fend for yourselves in this world, -either Marg’ret or you.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know why you should say so, grandmother. I am making my way in -my profession,” said Dr. Charles, not without offence, “and Margaret is -very greatly thought of, and asked to the best houses. If you have -nothing more to blame yourself with than you have in our case—”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Murray sighed, but she made no answer. It was not for nothing that -her daughters had reproached her. Charles Murray and his sister Margaret -had been the two youngest of the flock, her eldest son Tom’s children, -whom the brave old woman had taken into her house, and brought up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> with -the labour of her own hands. The others were scattered about the world, -fighting their way in all regions; but Charlie and Margaret had been as -apples of her eye. She had done everything for them, bringing up the son -to a learned profession, and “making a lady of” the gentle and pretty -girl, who was of a stock less robust than the other Murrays. And as Mrs. -Murray had no patent of exemption from the failures that follow -sometimes the best efforts, she had not succeeded in this case. Charles -Murray, without being absolutely unsuccessful, had fulfilled none of the -high hopes entertained concerning him; and Margaret had made a foolish -marriage, and had been left in a few years a penniless widow dependent -upon her brother. No one knew exactly what the two were doing now. They -were “genteel” and “weirdless,” living, it was feared, above their -means, and making no attempt to pay back the money which had been lent -by their wealthier friends to set the young doctor afloat.</p> - -<p>This was why the children she had trained so carefully could give their -old mother no help. Margaret had cried bitterly when she heard that the -old home was about to be broken up, and Charles’s heart was torn with a -poignant sense of inability to help. But the tears and the pain would -have done Mrs. Murray little good, and they were not of any profound -importance to the brother and sister, both of whom were capable of some -new piece of extravagance next day by way of consoling themselves. But -though Mrs. Murray was not aware of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> it, the sharp shock of Edgar’s -unlooked-for munificence towards her, and the jealousy and shame with -which Dr. Charles witnessed it, was the most salutary accident that had -happened to him all his life. The contrast of his own conduct, he who -was so deeply indebted to her, and that of his unknown cousin, gave such -a violent concussion to all his nerves as the young man had never felt -before; and whatever might be the after result of this shock, its -present issue was not agreeable. A sullen shadow came over him at the -homely dinner to which they all sat down with such changed feelings. He -had been the only one to whom Edgar had turned instinctively for -sympathy, and Edgar was the first to feel this change. James Murray and -Robert Campbell were the only two who kept up the languid conversation, -and their talk, we need not add, was not of a very elevated kind.</p> - -<p>“The mutton’s good, mother,” said James; “you’ve aye good mutton at Loch -Arroch; not like the stuff that’s vended to us at I canna tell how much -the pound. That’s a great advantage you have in the country. Your own -mutton, or next thing to it; your own fowls and eggs, and all that. You -should go on keeping poultry; you were a very good henwife in the old -days, when we were all young; and there’s nothing that sells better than -new-laid eggs and spring chickens. Though you give up the farm, I would -advise you to keep them on still.”</p> - -<p>“And I would not wonder but you might have grass enough for a cow,” said -Campbell. “A co<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span>w’s a great thing in a house. There’s aye the milk -whatever happens, and a pickle butter is never lost. It sells at as much -as eighteen pence a pound on the other side of the loch, when those -Glasgow people are down for the saut water. Asking your pardon, Agnes, I -was not meaning the like of you; there are plenty Glasgow people that -are very decent folk, but it cannot be denied that they make everything -very dear.”</p> - -<p>“And what is that but an advantage to everybody as long as we can pay, -aye, the double if we like?” cried Mrs. MacKell, forgetting her previous -plea of comparative poverty. “We like everything of the best, I don’t -deny it; and who has a better right, seeing our men work hard for every -penny they make?”</p> - -<p>“For that matter so do the colliers and that kind of cattle, that -consume all they earn in eating and drinking,” said Campbell. “I like a -good dinner myself; but the way you Glasgow folk give yourselves up to -it, beats me. That’s little to the purpose, however, in the present -case. James’s advice is very good advice, and so you’ll find is mine. I -would not object to being at the expense of buying in that bonnie brown -cow, the one you fancied, Jean—women are aye fanciful in these -matters—if there will be anybody about the house that could supper and -milk a cow?”</p> - -<p>He looked doubtfully at Jeanie as he spoke, and they all looked at her, -some suspiciously, some contemptuously. They all seemed to Jeanie to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span> -reproach her that she was not a strong, robust “lass” ready to help her -grandmother.</p> - -<p>“I can milk Brounie; she’s so gentle,” said Jeanie, half under her -breath, looking wistfully at her critics. James Murray uttered a -suppressed “humph!”</p> - -<p>“A bonnie young woman for a farm-house!” he said, “that can milk a cow -when it’s gentle. I hope you’ll save the lad’s siller as much as -possible, mother; no running into your old ways, taking folk into your -bosom, or entertaining strangers on the smallest provocation, as you -used to do.”</p> - -<p>“I hope my grandmother will do precisely as she likes—in the way that -pleases her best,” said Edgar with emphasis.</p> - -<p>“I am saying,” said Campbell with emphasis, “a cow; and the cocks and -hens, according to James. An honest penny is aye a good thing, however -it’s got. If young Glen gets the farm, as is likely, he’ll be wanting a -lodging till the new house is built. I would take the lad in and give -him accommodation, if it was me. In short, there’s a variety of things -that would be little trouble, and would show a desire to make the best -of what’s given you; and any assistance that I can be of, or Jean—”</p> - -<p>“Oh my mother’s above my help or yours either,” said Mrs. Campbell, with -some bitterness. “You need not push yourself in, Rob, when neither you -nor me are wanted.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Murray listened to all this with grave patience and forbearance. -She smiled faintly at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> her daughter’s petulance, and shook her head. -“Bairns,” she said, gently, “I guided my own concerns before you were -born.” It was the only reproof she attempted to administer, and it was -followed by a pause, during which the sound of knives and forks was very -audible, each individual of the party plying his as for a wager, in the -sudden stillness which each affronted person thought it doubly incumbent -on him and her to keep up. Mrs. Murray looked round upon them all with a -smile, which gradually softened into suppressed but genial humour. “I -hope you are all making a good dinner,” she said.</p> - -<p>The afternoon after this passed as a Sunday afternoon often passes in a -family gathering. They all stood a little on their defence, but, with a -keen appreciation of the fact, that the mother, whom they all intended -to advise and lecture, had certainly got the upper hand, and had been on -the verge of laughing at them, if she had not actually done so, were -prudent, and committed themselves no further. They all went out after -dinner to see the site where the new farm-house was to be built, and to -speculate on the way in which young Glen would manage the farm, and -whether he would succeed better than its previous occupant. The women of -the party visited “the beasts,” as the men had done before dinner, and -the men strolled out to the fields, and weighed in their hands the damp -ears of corn, and shook their heads over the length of the straw, and -pointed out to each other how badly the fields were arranged, and how -the crops<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> had been repeated year after year. “It’s time it was all in -other hands,” they said to each other. As for Dr. Charles, he avoided -the other members of the party—the uncles who might ask for the money -they had lent him, and the aunts who might inquire with an undue -closeness of criticism into his proceedings and those of his sister. He -sat and talked with his grandmother in the parlour, answering her -questions, and making conversation with her in a way which was somewhat -formal. In short, it was very like a Sunday afternoon—and the sense of -being in their best clothes, and having nothing to do, and being, as it -were, bound over to keep the peace, was very wearisome to all these good -people. The little excitement of pulling to pieces, so to speak, the -house which had sheltered and reared them, was over, and thus a certain -flat of disappointment and everyday monotony mingled with the sense of -something unusual which was in their meeting. Their purpose was foiled -altogether, and the business <i>manqué</i>, yet they could not but profess -pleasure in the unexpected turn that things had taken. It was very like -a Sunday afternoon.</p> - -<p>And it is impossible to tell what a relief it was to all, when the big -fishing-boat came heavily round the corner with the picnic party, and -Jeanie, in her plain brown frock, ran down to the landing to bid her -cousins come into tea. There were some six or seven in the boat, -slightly damp and limp, but in high spirits; three of whom were girls, -much more gaily dressed than Jeanie, yet with a certain general -resemblance to her. They all rushed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> fluttering in their gay ribbons up -to the farm-house, glad of the novelty, and threw themselves upon -“Granny,” whom they admired without the criticism in which their mother -indulged less than her brothers and sisters. They did not take much -notice of Jeanie, but Dr. Charles was full of interest for them, and the -unknown Edgar, who was still more emphatically “a gentleman,” excited -their intensest curiosity. “Where is he? which is him?” they whispered -to each other; and when Bell, the youngest, exclaimed with -disappointment, that he was just like Charlie Murray, and nothing -particular after all, her two elder sisters snubbed her at once. “If you -cannot see the difference you should hold your tongue,” said Jeanie -MacKell, who called herself Jane, and had been to a school in England, -crowning glory of a Scotch girl on her promotion. “Not but what Charles -is very nice-looking, and quite a gentleman,” said Margaret, more -meekly, who was the second daughter. The presence of these girls, and of -the young men in attendance upon them, to wit Andrew, their brother, and -two friends of his own class, young men for whom natural good looks did -not do so much as for the young women, and who were, perhaps, better -educated, without being half so presentable—made the tea-table much -merrier and less embarrassed than the dinner had been. The MacKells -ended by being all enthralled by Edgar, whose better manners told upon -them, (as a higher tone always tells upon women,) whose superiority to -their former attendants was clear as daylight, and who was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> stiff -and afraid to commit himself like Charles Murray; “quite a gentleman,” -though they all held the latter to be. As for Edgar himself, he was so -heartily thankful for the relief afforded by this in-road of fresh -guests, that he was willing to think the very best of his cousins, and -to give them credit—that is the female part of them—for being the best -of the family he had yet seen. He walked with them to their boat, and -put them in, when sunset warned them to cross the loch without delay, -and laughingly excused himself from accepting their eager invitations, -only on the ground that “business” demanded his departure on the next -day. Mrs. MacKell took him aside before she embarked, and shook his hand -with tears gathering in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I could not say anything before them all,” she said, with an emotion -which was partly real; “but I’ll never forget what you’ve done for my -mother—and oh, what a comfort it is to me to think I leave her in her -ain old house! God bless you for it!”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye,” said Edgar, cheerily, and he stood on the banks and watched -the boat with a smile. True feeling enough, perhaps, and yet how oddly -mingled! He laughed to himself as he went back to the house with an -uneasy, mingling of pain and shame.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<small>Gentility.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Charles Murray</span> did not return to the Campbells’ house for the night as -he had originally intended. The relatives were all out of sorts with -each other, and inclined to quarrel among themselves in consequence of -the universal discomfiture which had come upon them, not from each -others’ hands, but from the stranger in their midst. And as it was quite -possible that Campbell, being sore and irritable, might avenge himself -by certain inquiries into Dr. Charles’s affairs, the young man thought -it wiser on the whole to keep out of his way. And the grandmother’s -house was common property. Although only a few hours before they had all -made up their minds that it was to be no longer hers, and that she -thenceforward was to be their dependent, the moment that she became -again certain of being mistress in her own house, that very moment all -her family returned to their ancient conviction that they had a right to -its shelter and succour under all and every kind of circumstances.</p> - -<p>James Murray went away arranging in his own mind that he would send his -youngest daughter “across” before the winter came on, “to get her -strength up.” “One bairn makes little difference in the way of meals, -and she can bring some tea and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> sugar in a present,” he said to himself; -while Dr. Charles evidenced still more instantaneously the family -opinion by saying at once that he should stay where he was till -to-morrow.</p> - -<p>“It seems much more natural to be here than in any other house,” he said -caressingly to his grandmother.</p> - -<p>She smiled, but she made no reply. Even, she liked it, for the position -of a superior dispensing favours had been natural to her all her life, -and the power to retain this position was not one of the least -advantages that Edgar’s liberality gave her. But even while she liked -it, she saw through the much less noble sentiment of her descendants, -and a passing pang mingled with her pleasure. She said nothing to Dr. -Charles; but when Edgar gave her his arm for the brief evening walk -which she took before going to rest, she made to him a curious apology -for the rest. Charles was standing on the loch-side looking out, -half-jealous that it was Edgar who naturally took charge of the old -mother, and half glad to escape out of Edgar’s way.</p> - -<p>“We mustna judge them by ourselves,” she said, in a deprecating tone. -“Charlie was aye a weak lad, meaning no harm—and used to depend upon -somebody. Edgar, they are <i>not</i> to be judged like you and me.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Edgar, with a smile; then rapidly passing from the subject -which he could not enter on. “Does he want to marry Jeanie?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“That I canna tell—that I do not know. He cannot keep his eyes off her -bonnie face; but, Edgar,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> the poor lad has strange fancies. He has taken -it into his head to be genteel—and Marg’ret, poor thing, is genteel.”</p> - -<p>“What has that to do with it?” said Edgar, laughing.</p> - -<p>“We are not genteel, Jeanie and me,” said the old woman, with a gleam of -humour. “But, Edgar, my man, still you must not judge Charlie. You are a -gentleman, that nobody could have any doubt of; but the danger of being -a poor man’s son, and brought up to be a gentleman, is that you’re never -sure of yourself. You are always in a fear to know if you are behaving -right—if you are doing something you ought not to do.”</p> - -<p>“Then, perhaps,” said Edgar, “my cousin would have been happier if he -had not been brought up, as you say, to be a gentleman.”</p> - -<p>“What could I make him? Farming’s but a poor trade for them that have -little capital and little energy. Maybe you will say a Minister? but -it’s a responsibility bringing up a young man to be a Minister, when -maybe he will have no turn that way but just seek a priest’s office for -a piece of bread. A good doctor serves both God and man; and Charlie is -not an ill doctor,” she added, hurriedly. “His very weakness gives him a -soft manner, and as he’s aye on the outlook whether he’s pleasing you or -not, it makes him quick to notice folk’s feelings in general. Sick men, -and still more sick women, like that.”</p> - -<p>“You are a philosopher, grandmother,” said Edgar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Na, na, not that,” said the old woman; “but at seventy you must ken -something of your fellow-creature’s ways, or you must be a poor creature -indeed.”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Charles Murray had gone back to the house, and was talking to -Jeanie, who for some reason which she did not herself quite divine, had -been shy of venturing out this special evening with the others. Perhaps -the young doctor thought she was waiting for him. At all events it was a -relief to go and talk to one in whom no criticism could be.</p> - -<p>“You feel quite strong and well again, Jeanie?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, quite strong and well—quite better,” she said, looking up at -him with that soft smile of subjection and dependence which most people -to whom it is addressed find so sweet.</p> - -<p>“You should not say quite better,” he said, smiling too, though the -phrase would by times steal even from his own educated lips. “I wonder -sometimes, Jeanie, after passing some months in England as you did, that -you should still continue so Scotch. I like it, of course—in a way.”</p> - -<p>Here Jeanie, whose face had overcast, brightened again and smiled—a -smile which this time, however, did not arrest him in his critical -career.</p> - -<p>“I like it, in a way,” said Charles, doubtfully. “Here on Loch Arroch -side it is very sweet, and appropriate to the place; but if you were -going out—into the world, Jeanie.”</p> - -<p>“No fear of that,” said Jeanie, with a soft laugh.</p> - -<p>“On the contrary, there is much fear of it—or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> much hope of it, I -should say. There are many men who would give all they have in the world -for a smile from your sweet face. I mean,” said the young man, -withdrawing half a step backward, and toning himself down from this -extravagance, “I mean that there is no doubt you could marry -advantageously—if you liked to exert yourself.”</p> - -<p>“You should not speak like that to me,” cried Jeanie, with a sudden hot -flush; “there is nothing of the kind in my head.”</p> - -<p>“Say your mind, not your head, Jeanie; and like the dear good girl you -are, say head, not <i>heed</i>,” said Dr. Charles with a curious mixture of -annoyance and admiration; and then he added, drawing closer. “Jeanie, do -you not think you would like to go to school?”</p> - -<p>“To school? I am not a little bairn,” said Jeanie with some indignation, -“I have had my schooling, all that Granny thought I wanted. Besides,” -she continued proudly, “I must look after Granny now.”</p> - -<p>“She has asked Margaret to come to her,” said the young man, “and don’t -you think, Jeanie, if you could be sent to a school for a time—not to -learn much you know, not for lessons or anything of that kind; but to -get more used to the world, and to what you would have to encounter if -you went into the world—and perhaps to get a few accomplishments, a -little French, or the piano, or something like that?”</p> - -<p>“What would I do, learning French and the piano?” said Jeanie; her -countenance had over-clouded during the first part of his speech, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> -gradually gave way to wonder and amusement as he went on. “Are you -thinking of Jeanie MacKell who can play tunes, and speak such fine -English? Granny would not like that, and neither would I.”</p> - -<p>“But Granny is not the only person in the world,” he said, “there are -others who would like it. Men like it, Jeanie; they like to see their -wife take her place with anyone, and you cannot always be with -Granny—you will marry some day.”</p> - -<p>Jeanie’s fair soft countenance glowed like the setting sun, a bright and -tender consciousness lit up her features; her blue eyes shone. Dr. -Charles, who had his back to the loch, as he stood at the farm-house -door, did not perceive that Edgar had come into sight with Mrs. Murray -leaning on his arm.</p> - -<p>“May-be all that may be true,” said Jeanie, “I cannot tell; but in the -meantime I cannot leave Granny, for Granny has nobody but me.”</p> - -<p>“She has asked my sister Margaret, as I told you—”</p> - -<p>“Margaret instead of me!” said Jeanie, with a slight tone of wonder.</p> - -<p>“It is strange how disagreeable you all are to my sister,” said Dr. -Charles with some impatience. “It need not be instead of you; but Granny -has asked Margaret, and she and the little one will come perhaps before -winter sets in—the change would do them good. I should be left alone -then,” he said, softening, “and if Margaret stays with Granny, I should -be left always alone. Jeanie, if you would but get a little education -and polish,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> and make yourself more like what a man wishes his wife to -be—”</p> - -<p>Jeanie was looking behind him all the time with a vague dreamy smile -upon her face. “If that is a’ he wants!” she said dreamily to herself. -She was thinking not of the man before her, whose heart, such as it was, -was full of her image; but of the other man approaching, who did not -think of Jeanie except as a gentle and affectionate child. If that was -a’ he wanted! though even in her imaginative readiness to find -everything sublime that Edgar did, there passed through Jeanie’s mind a -vague pang to think that he would pay more regard to French and the -piano, than to her tender enthusiast passion, the innocent adoration of -her youth.</p> - -<p>“If you would do that, Jeanie—to please me!” said the unconscious young -Doctor, taking her hand.</p> - -<p>“Here is Granny coming,” said Jeanie hastily, “and—Mr. Edgar. Go ben -the house, please, and never mind me. I have to see that the rooms are -right and all ready. Are you tired, Granny? You have had a sore day. Mr. -Edgar, say good night to her now, she ought to go to her bed.”</p> - -<p>Thus Dr. Charles was thrust aside at the moment when he was about to -commit himself. Jeanie put him away as if he had been a ploughman, or -she a fine lady used to the fine art of easy impertinence. So little -thought had she of him at all, that she was not aware of the -carelessness with which she had received his semi-declaration, and while -he with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span>drew stung all over as by mental nettles, abashed, insulted, and -furious, she went innocently upstairs, without the faintest idea of the -offence she had given. And Edgar went into the parlour after his cousin -humming an air, with the freshness of the fields about him. The -<i>insouciance</i> of the one who had that day given away his living, and the -disturbed and nervous trouble of the other, self-conscious to his very -finger points, irritated by a constant notion that he was despised and -lightly thought of, made the strangest possible contrast between them, -notwithstanding a certain family resemblance in their looks.</p> - -<p>“I am staying to-night,” said Dr. Charles, with a certain abruptness, -and that tone of irritated apology which mingled more or less in all he -said, “because it is too late for me to get home.”</p> - -<p>“And I am staying,” said Edgar, “because it is too late to start, I must -go to-morrow. I suppose our road lies so far in the same direction.”</p> - -<p>“You can get the London express at Glasgow, or even Greenock. I am going -to Edinburgh.”</p> - -<p>“I have business in Edinburgh too,” said Edgar. He was so good-humoured, -so friendly, that it was very hard to impress upon him the fact that his -companion regarded him in no friendly light.</p> - -<p>“You will leave the loch with very pleasant feelings,” said Dr. Charles, -“very different to the rest of us. Fortune has given you the -superiority. What I would have done and couldn’t, you have been able to -do. It is hard not to grudge a little at such an advantage. The man who -has nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> feels himself always so inferior to the man who has -something, however small.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think so?” said Edgar, “my experience would not lead me to that -conclusion; and few people can have greater experience. Once I supposed -myself to be rather rich. I tumbled down from that all in a moment, and -now I have nothing at all; but it seems to me I am the same man as when -I was a small potentate in my way, thinking rather better than worse of -myself, if truth must be told,” he added with a laugh.</p> - -<p>“I wish I had your nothing at all,” said Dr. Charles, bitterly; “to us -really poor people that is much, which seems little to you.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Edgar, with a shrug of his shoulders, “my poverty is -absolute, not comparative now. And you have a profession, while I have -none. On the whole, whatever there may be to choose between us, you must -have the best of it; for to tell the truth I am in the dismal position -of not knowing what to do.”</p> - -<p>“To do! what does it matter? you have enough to live upon.”</p> - -<p>“I have nothing to live upon,” said Edgar, with a smile.</p> - -<p>The young men looked at each other, one with a half-amusement in his -face, the other full of wonder and consternation. “You don’t mean to -say,” he asked, with a gasp, “that you have given her all?”</p> - -<p>“I have no income left,” said Edgar. “I have some debts, unfortunately, -like most men. Now a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> man who has no income has no right to have any -debts. That is about my sole maxim in political economy. I must pay them -off, and then I shall have fifty pounds or so left.”</p> - -<p>“Good heavens!” said the other, “and you take this quite easily without -anxiety——”</p> - -<p>“Anxiety will not put anything in my pocket, or teach me a profession,” -said Edgar. “Don’t let’s talk of it, ‘Sufficient unto the day is the -evil there-of.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“But,” cried the other, almost wildly, “in that case all of us—I too—”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say anything more about it,” said Edgar. “We all act according to -impulses. Perhaps it is well for those who have no impulses; but one -cannot help one’s self. I should like to start by the early boat -to-morrow morning, and before I go I have something to say to Jeanie.”</p> - -<p>“I fear I am in your way,” cried Dr. Charles, rising hastily, with the -feeling, which was rather pleasant to him than otherwise, that at last -he had a real reason for taking offence.</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear no, not at all. It is only to give her some advice about our -old mother,” said Edgar; but they both reddened as they stood fronting -each other, Charles from wild and genuine jealousy—Edgar, from a -disagreeable and impatient consciousness of the silly speeches which had -associated his name with that of Jeanie. He stood for a moment -uncertain, and then his natural frankness broke forth, “Look here,” he -said, “don’t let us make any mistake. I don’t know what your feelings<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span> -may be about Jeanie, but mine are those of an elder brother—a very much -elder brother,” he went on, with a laugh, “to a child.”</p> - -<p>“Every man says that, until the moment comes when he feels differently,” -said Charles, in his uneasy didactic way.</p> - -<p>“Does he? then that moment will never come for me,” said Edgar, -carelessly.</p> - -<p>Poor little Jeanie! she had opened the door, the two young men not -observing her in their preoccupation, and Edgar’s words came fully into -her heart like a volley of musketry. She stood behind them for a moment -in the partial gloom—for they were standing between her and the light -of the feeble candles—unnoticed, holding the door. Then noiselessly she -stole back, closing it, her heart all riddled by that chance discharge, -wounded and bleeding. Then she went to the kitchen softly, and called -Bell. “My head’s sair,” she said, which on Loch Arroch means, my head -aches. “Will you see if they want anything in the parlour, Bell?”</p> - -<p>“My poor lamb!” said Bell, “I wish it beena your heart that’s sair. Ye -are as white as a ghost. Go to your bed, my bonnie woman, and I’ll see -after them, Lord bless us, what a bit white face! Go to your bed, and -dinna let your Granny see you like that. Oh ay! I’ll see to the two -men.”</p> - -<p>Jeanie crept up-stairs like a mouse, noiseless in the dark staircase. -She needed no light, and to hide herself seemed so much the most natural -thing to do. White! Jeanie felt as if her face must be scorched as her -heart seemed to be. Why should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> he have volunteered this profession of -indifference? It seemed so much the worse because it was uncalled for. -Did anyone say he cared for her? Had any one accused him of being “fond” -of Jeanie? Shame seemed to take possession of the little soft creature. -Had she herself done anything to put such a degrading idea into his -mind? Why should he care for her? “I never asked him—I never wanted -him,” poor Jeanie cried to herself.</p> - -<p>Edgar never knew the second great effect he had produced on this -eventful day. When Jeanie appeared at the early breakfast before he set -out next morning, he was honestly concerned to see how pale she looked. -“My poor dear child, you are ill,” he cried, drawing her towards him, -and his look of anxious kindness struck poor Jeanie like a blow.</p> - -<p>“I’m not ill. It’s my head. It’s nothing,” she said, starting away from -him. Edgar looked at her with mild astonished eyes.</p> - -<p>“You are not vexed with me this last morning? Take care of the dear old -mother, Jeanie—but I know you will do that—and write to me sometimes -to say she is well; and talk of me sometimes, as you promised—you -remember?”</p> - -<p>His kind friendly words broke Jeanie’s heart. “Oh, how can you look so -pleased and easy in your mind!” she said, turning, as was natural, the -irritation of her personal pain into the first possible channel, “when -you know you are going away without a penny, for our sake—for her -sake<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“And yours,” Edgar added cheerily. “That is what makes me easy in my -mind.”</p> - -<p>And he smiled, and took both her hands, and kissed her on the forehead, -a salutation which made little Scotch Jeanie—little used to such -caresses—flame crimson with shame. Charles Murray looked on with sullen -fury. He dared not do as much. This way of saying farewell was not -cousinly or brotherly to him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<small>A Railway Journey: The Scotch Express.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> two young men set out together from Loch Arroch. The old lady whose -children they both were, waved her handkerchief to them from her window -as the steamer rustled down the loch, and round the windy corner of the -stubble field into Loch Long. They stood on the deck, and gazed at the -quiet scene they were leaving till the farmhouse and the ruin died out -of sight. How peaceful it all looked in the bright but watery sunshine! -The ivy waving softly from the walls of the ruin, the smoke rising blue -from the roof of the farmhouse, which nestled under the shadow of the -old castle, the stooks standing in the pale field glistening with -morning dew. Bell stood at the door in her short petticoats, shading her -eyes with one hand as she watched them, and old Mrs. Murray showed a -smiling, mournful face at her window, and the long branches of the -fuchsias waved and made salutations with all their crimson bells. Even -Bell’s shadow had a distinct importance in the scene, which was so -still—still as the rural country is between mountain and water, with -mysterious shadows flitting in the silence, and strange ripples upon the -beach. The scene was still more sweet from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> shore, though not so -entirely enveloped in this peaceable habitual calm; for great Benvohrlan -was kept in constant life with moving clouds which crossed the sunshine; -and the eyes of the spectators on the land did not disdain the bright, -many-coloured boat, floating, as it seemed, between three elements—the -water, the mountain, and the sky. The shadow-ship floated over the side -of the shadow-hill among all the reflected shades; it floated double -like the swan on St. Mary’s Lake, and it was hard to tell which was the -reality and which the symbol. Such were the variations of the scene from -the loch and from the shore.</p> - -<p>But though Bell was visible and Bell’s mistress, Jeanie was not to be -seen. She had disappeared within the ruins of the Castle, and watched -the boat from behind an old block of masonry, with eyes full of longing -and sadness. Why had she been so harsh, so hard? Why had she not parted -with him “friends?” What did it matter what he said, so long as he said -that he looked upon her as an elder brother? Was it not better to be -Edgar’s sister than any other man’s beloved? She cried, reflecting sadly -that she had not been so kind, so gentle as she ought to this man who -was so unlike all others. Like an elder brother—what more could she -wish for? Thus poor little Jeanie began to dree her fate.</p> - -<p>The day was fine, notwithstanding the prophecy of “saft weather” with -which all the observers of sea and sky in the West of Scotland keep up -their character as weather prophets as Edgar and Charles<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> Murray -travelled to Edinburgh. There was no subject of quarrel between them, -therefore they did not quarrel; indeed Edgar, for his part, was amused, -when he was not pained, by his cousin’s perpetual self-consciousness and -painful desire to keep up his profession of gentleman, and conduct -himself in all details of behaviour as a gentleman should. The young -Doctor nervously unbuttoned his over-coat, which was much more spruce -and glossy than Edgar’s, when he observed that his companion, never a -model of neatness or order, wore his loose. He looked with nervous -observation at Edgar’s portmanteau, at the shape and size of his -umbrella. Edgar had lived in the great world; he had been (or so at -least his cousin thought) fashionable; therefore Dr. Charles gave a -painful regard to all the minutiæ of his appearance. Thus a trim poor -girl might copy a tawdry duchess, knowing no better—might, but seldom -does, having a better instinct. But if any one had breathed into Charles -Murray’s ear a suggestion of what he was consciously (yet almost against -his will) doing, he would have forgiven an accusation of crime more -readily. He knew his own weakness, and the knowledge made him wretched; -but had any one else suspected it, that would have been the height of -insult, and would have roused him to desperate passion.</p> - -<p>Thus they travelled together, holding but little communication. The -young Doctor’s destination was one of the smaller stations before they -reached Edinburgh, where Edgar saw, as the train approached, a graceful -young woman, with that air of refinement<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> which a slim and tall figure -gives, but too far off to be recognizable, accompanied by a little -girl—waiting by the roadside in a little open carriage, half phaeton, -half gig.</p> - -<p>“Is that your sister?” he asked, taking off his hat, as the lady waved -her hand towards them.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Dr. Charles, shortly, and he added, in his usual tone of -apology, “a doctor can do nothing without a conveyance, and as I had to -get one, and Margaret is so delicate, it was better to have something in -which she could drive with me.”</p> - -<p>“Surely,” said Edgar, with some wonder at the appealing tone in which -this half statement, half question was made. But a little sigh came from -his heart, against his will, as he saw Charles Murray’s welcome, and -felt himself rolled away into the cold, into the unknown, without any -one to bear him company. He too had once had, or thought he had, a -sister, and enjoyed for a short time that close, tender, and familiar -friendship which only can exist between a young man and woman when they -are thus closely related. Edgar, who was foolishly soft-hearted, had -gone about the world ever since, missing this, without knowing what it -was he missed. He was fond of the society of women, and he had been shut -out from it; for he neither wished to marry, nor was rich enough so to -indulge himself, and people with daughters, as he found, were not so -anxious to invite a poor man, nor so complacent towards him as they had -been when he was rich. To be sure he had met women as he had met men at -the foreign towns which he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span> had chiefly frequented during the aimless -years just past; but these were chiefly old campaigners, with all the -freshness dried out of them, ground down into the utmost narrowness of -limit in which the mind is capable of being restrained, or else at the -opposite extreme, liberated in an alarming way from all the decorums and -prejudices of life. Neither of these classes were attractive, though -they amused him, each in its way.</p> - -<p>But somehow the sight of his two cousins, brother and sister, gave him a -pang which was all the sharper for being entirely unexpected. It made -him feel his own forlornness and solitude, how cut off he was from all -human solace and companionship. Into his ancient surroundings he could -not return; and his present family, the only one which he had any claim -upon, was distasteful beyond description. Even his grandmother and -Jeanie, whom he had known longest, and with whom he felt a certain -sympathy, were people so entirely out of his sphere, that his -intercourse with them never could be easy nor carried on on equal terms. -He admired Mrs. Murray’s noble character, and was proud to have been -able to stand by her against her sordid relations; he even loved her in -a way, but did not, could not adopt the ways of thinking, the manners -and forms of existence, which were natural and seemly in the little -farm-house.</p> - -<p>As for Jeanie, poor, gentle, pretty Jeanie! A slight flush came over -Edgar’s face as her name occurred to him; he was no lady-killer, proud -to think that he had awakened a warmer feeling than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> was safe for her in -the girl’s heart. On the contrary, he was not only pained, but ashamed -of himself for the involuntary consciousness which he never put into -words, that perhaps it was better for Jeanie that he should go away. He -dismissed the thought, feeling hot and ashamed. Was it some latent -coxcombry on his part that brought such an idea into his head?</p> - -<p>His business in Edinburgh was of a simple kind, to see the lawyer who -had prepared the papers for the transfer of his little income, and who, -knowing his history, was curious and interested in him, asked him to -dinner, and would have made much of the strange young man who had -descended from the very height of prosperity, and now had denuded -himself of the last humble revenue upon which he could depend.</p> - -<p>“I have ventured to express my disapproval, Mr. Earnshaw,” this good man -had said; “but having done so, and cleared my conscience if—there is -anything I can be of use to you in, tell me.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said Edgar; “but a thousand thanks for the goodwill, which is -better than anything.”</p> - -<p>Then he went away, declining the invitation, and walked about Edinburgh -in the dreamy solitude which began to be habitual to him, friendly and -social as his nature was. In the evening he dined alone in one of the -Princes Street hotels, near a window which looked out upon the Castle -and the old town, all glimmering with lights in the soft darkness, which -was just touched with frost. The irregular twinkle of the lights -scattered about upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> the fine bank of towers and spires and houses -opposite; the dark depth below, where dark trees rustled, and stray -lights gleamed here and there; the stream of traffic always pouring -through the street below, notwithstanding the picturesque landscape on -the other side—all attracted Edgar with the charm which they exercise -on every sensitive mind. When the bugle sounded low and sweet up in -mid-air from the Castle, he started up as if that visionary note had -been for him. The darkness and the lights, the new and the old, seemed -to him alike a dream, and he not less a dream pursuing his way between -them, not sure which was real and which fictitious in his own life; -which present and which past. The bugle called him—to what? Not to the -sober limits of duty, to obedience and to rest, as it called the -unwilling soldiers out of their riots and amusements; but perhaps to as -real a world still unknown to him, compassed—like the dark Castle, -standing deep in undistinguishable, rustling trees—with mists and -dream-like uncertainty. Who has ever sat at a dark window looking out -upon the gleaming, darkling crest of that old Edinburgh, with the crown -of St. Giles hovering over it in the blue, and the Castle half way up to -heaven, without feeling something weird and mystical beyond words, in -the call of the bugle, sudden, sweet, and penetrating, out of the -clouds? What Edgar had to do after the call of this bugle was no deed of -high emprise. He had no princess to rescue, no dragon to kill. He got up -with that half-laugh at himself and his own fancies which was habitual -to him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> and paid his bill and collected his few properties, and went to -the railway. Other people were beginning to go to bed; the shop windows -were closing; the lights mounting higher from story to story. But a -stream of people and carriages was pouring steadily down into the -hollow, bound like himself, for the London Express. Edgar walked up -naturally, mechanically to the window at which firstclass tickets were -being issued. But while he waited his turn, his eye and his ear were -attracted by a couple of women in the dress of an English Sisterhood, -who were standing in front of him, holding a close conversation. One of -them, at least, was in the nun’s costume of severe black and white; the -other, a young slim figure, wore a black cloak and close bonnet, and was -deeply veiled; but was not a “Sister,” though in dress closely -approaching the garb. Edgar’s eyes however were not clever enough to -make out this difference. The younger one seemed to him to have made -some timid objection to the second class.</p> - -<p>“Second class, my dear!” said the elder. “I understand first class, and -I understand third; but second is neither one thing nor another. No, my -dear. If we profess to give up forms and ceremonies and the pomps of -this world, let us do it thoroughly, or not at all. If you take second -class, you will be put in with your friend’s maid and footman. No, no, -no; third class is the thing.”</p> - -<p>“To be sure. What am I thinking of?” said Edgar to himself, with his -habitual smile. “Of course, third class is the thing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>It had been from pure inadvertence that he had been about to take the -most expensive place, nothing else having occurred to him. I do not know -whether I can make the reader understand how entirely without -bitterness, and, indeed, with how much amusement Edgar contemplated -himself in his downfall and penniless condition, and what a joke he -found it. For the moment rather a good joke—for, indeed, he had -suffered nothing, his <i>amour propre</i> not being any way involved, and no -immediate want of a five-pound note or a shilling having yet happened to -him to ruffle his composure. He kept the two Sisters in sight as he went -down the long stairs to the railway with his third-class ticket. He -thought it possible that they might be exposed to some annoyance, two -women in so strange a garb, and in a country where Sisterhoods have not -yet developed, and where the rudeness of the vulgar is doubly rude, -perhaps in contrast with, perhaps in consequence of (who knows?) the -general higher level of education on which we Scotch plume ourselves. -They had given him his first lesson in practical contempt of the world; -he would give them the protection of his presence, at least, in case of -any annoyance. Not to give them any reason, however, to suppose that he -was following them, he waited for some minutes before he took his seat -in a corner of the same carriage in which they had established -themselves. He took off his hat, foreign fashion, as he went into the -railway carriage (Edgar had many foreign fashions). At sight of him -there seemed a little flutter of interest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> between the Sisters, and when -he took his seat they bent their heads together, and talked long in -whispers. The result of this was that the two changed seats, the younger -one taking the further corner of the same seat on which he had placed -himself; while the elder, a cheerful middle-aged woman, whose comely -countenance became the close white cap, and whose pleasant smile did it -honour, sat opposite to her companion.</p> - -<p>I cannot say that this arrangement pleased Edgar, for the other was -young—a fact which betrayed itself rather by some subtle atmosphere -about her than by any visible sign—and his curiosity was piqued and -himself interested to see the veiled maiden. But, after all, the -disappointment was not great, and he leaned back in the hard corner, -saying to himself that the third class might be the thing, but was not -very comfortable, without any particular dissatisfaction.</p> - -<p>Two other travellers, a woman and a boy, took their places opposite to -him. They were people from London, who had gone to Scotland for the -boy’s holidays after some illness, and they brought a bag of sandwiches -with them and a bottle of bad sherry, of which they ate and drank as -soon as the train started, preparing themselves for the night. Then -these two went to sleep and snored, and Edgar, too, went partially to -sleep, dozing between the stations, lying back in the corner which was -so hard, and seeing the dim lamp sway, and the wooden box in which he -was confined, creak, and jolt, and roll about as the train rushed on,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> -clamping and striding like a giant through the dark. What a curious, -prolonged dream it was—the dim, uncertain light swaying like a light at -sea, the figures dimly seen, immoveable, or turning uneasily like -spectres in a fever, veiled figures, with little form visible under the -swaying of the lamp; and now and then the sudden jar and pause, the -unearthly and dissipated gleam from some miserable midnight station, -where the porters ran about pale and yawning, and the whole sleepy, -weary place did its best to thrust them on, and get rid of the intruder.</p> - -<p>Just before morning, however, in the cold before the dawning, Edgar had -a real dream, a dream of sleep, and not of waking, so vivid that it came -into his mind often afterwards with a thrill of wonder. He dreamt that -he saw standing by him the figure of her who had touched his heart in -his earlier years, of Gussy, who might have been his wife had all gone -well, and of whom he had thought more warmly and constantly, perhaps, -since she became impossible to him, than when she was within his reach. -She seemed to come to him out of a cloud, out of a mist, stooping over -him with a smile; but when he tried to spring up, to take the hand which -she held out, some icy restraint came upon him—he could not move, -chains of ice seemed to bind his hands and arrest even his voice in his -throat. While he struggled to rise, the beautiful figure glided away, -saying, “After, after—but not yet!” and—strange caprice of -fancy—dropped over her face the heavy veil of the young sister<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span> who had -excited his curiosity, and who was seated in the other corner of this -same hard wooden bench, just as Edgar, struggling up, half awake, found -that his railway wrapper had dropped from his knees, and that he was -indeed almost motionless with cold.</p> - -<p>The grey dawn was breaking, coldest and most miserable hour of the -twenty-four, and the other figures round him were nodding in their -sleep, or swayed about with the jarring movement of the carriage. -Strange, Edgar thought to himself, how fancy can pick up an external -circumstance, and weave it into the fantastic web of dreams! How -naturally his dream visitor had taken the aspect of the last figure his -musing eyes had closed upon! and how naturally, too, the physical chill -of the moment had shaped itself into a mental impossibility—a chain of -fate. He smiled at the combination as he wrapped himself shivering in -his rug. The slight little figure in the other corner was, he thought, -awake too, she was so perfectly still. The people on the other side -dozed and nodded, changing their positions with the jerking movement of -restless sleep, but she was still, moving only with the swaying of the -carriage. Her veil was still down, but one little white hand came forth -out of the opening of her black cloak. What a pity that so pretty a hand -should not be given to some man to help him along the road of life, -Edgar thought to himself with true English sentiment, and then paused to -remember that English sisterhoods could take no irrevocable vows, at -least, in law. He toyed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span> with this idea, he could not tell why, giving -far more attention to the veiled figure than half-a-dozen unveiled women -would have procured from him.</p> - -<p>Foolish and short-sighted mortal! He dreamed and wondered at his dream, -and made his ingenious little theory and amused explanation to himself -of the mutual reaction of imagination and sensation. How little he knew -what eyes were watching him from behind the safe shelter of that heavy -black veil!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /><br /> -<small>Alone.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Edgar</span> did not well know where to go on his arrival in London. He knew -nothing about London except in its most expensive regions, and the only -place to which he could direct the driver of the cab into which he -jumped, was the chambers in Piccadilly which he had occupied in his -earlier days. He said to himself “For a day or two it cannot matter -where I live;” and, besides, the season was over and everything cheap, -or so, at least, Edgar thought.</p> - -<p>The first thing he had to do was to see that his lawyers had carried out -his directions and paid his debts—the number of which appalled him—out -of his capital. Decidedly it was time that he should do something, and -should shake himself out of those habits of a rich man, which had, in -these three years, though he had no idea of it, compromised him to the -extent of half his little fortune. This debt he felt he could not trifle -with. The more indifferent he was about money, and the better able he -was to do without it, the more necessity was there for the clearing off -to begin with, of everything in the shape of debt. After all was paid, -and the residue settled on the old lady at Loch Arroch,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> there remained -to him about a hundred pounds in the bank, besides the two ten-pound -notes which he had in his pocket-book. “I must not touch the money in -the bank,” he said to himself, with a prudence which contrasted -beautifully with his other extravagances, “that must remain as something -to fall back upon. Suppose, for instance, I should be ill,” Edgar -reasoned with himself, always with a delicious suppressed consciousness -of the joke involved under the utter gravity and extreme reasonableness -of his own self-communings, “how necessary it would be to have something -to fall back upon!” When he had made this little speech to himself, he -subsided into silence, and it was not until half-an-hour later that he -permitted himself to laugh.</p> - -<p>Both of his own suggestions seemed so oddly impossible to him. To be -ill—he, in whose veins the blood ran so lightly, so tunefully, his -pulse beating with the calm and continued strength of perfect harmony; -or to want a pound or two—he who had possessed unlimited credit and -means which he had never exhausted all his life. The change was so great -that it affected him almost childishly—as a poor man might be affected -by coming into a sudden fortune, or as a very young wife is sometimes -affected by the bewildering and laughable, yet certain fact, that she, -the other day only a little girl in pinafores, is now at the head of a -house, free to give as many orders as she pleases, and sure to be -obeyed. The extreme humour of the situation is the first thing that -strikes a lively<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> girl, under these circumstances, and it was the humour -of it which struck Edgar: a fact, perhaps, which may lower his character -in the reader’s eyes. But that, alas, I cannot help, for such as he was, -such I must show him, and his character had many defects. Often had he -been upbraided that he did not feel vicissitudes which looked like ruin -and destruction to minds differently constituted. He did not—he was the -most <i>insouciant</i>, the most care-hating of men. Up to this period of his -life he had found the means, somehow, of getting a smile, or some gleam -of fun, out of everything that happened. When he could not manage this -the circumstances were very strange indeed, and I suppose he felt it; -but at all events, in such cases, he kept his failure to himself.</p> - -<p>As soon as he had refreshed himself and breakfasted, he went out to see -his lawyer, who received him with that air of melancholy disappointment -which distinguishes all agents who are compelled to carry out what they -think the foolish will of their principals: but who submitted the -accounts to him, which showed that his directions had been obeyed, -explaining everything in a depressed and despondent voice, full of the -sense of injury.</p> - -<p>“I am compelled to say, Mr. Earnshaw,” said this good man, “that, as you -have paid so little attention to our wishes, I and my firm would -hence-forward have declined to take charge of your business -transactions, if it had been the least likely that you would have had -any more business to do; but as this is not possible, or at least -probable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span>—”</p> - -<p>“You will continue to do it,” said Edgar, laughing. “I hope so; it would -be kind of you. No, I don’t suppose I shall have much more business to -do.”</p> - -<p>“And may I ask without offence,” said Mr. Parchemin, who was an old -friend of Edgar’s old friend, Mr. Farqakerley, and had taken up the -foolish young fellow on the recommendation of that excellent and -long-established family solicitor. “May I ask how, now you have given -away all your money, you mean to live?”</p> - -<p>“I must work,” said Edgar, cheerfully.</p> - -<p>“Clearly; but what can you work at?”</p> - -<p>“You have hit the difficulty exactly,” said Edgar, laughing. “To tell -the truth, I don’t know. What do you suppose I could do best? There must -be many men in my position, left in the lurch by circumstances—and they -must have some way of providing for themselves. What do they generally -do?”</p> - -<p>“Go to the dogs,” said Mr. Parchemin, succinctly, for he was still -offended, and had not yet forgiven his impracticable client.</p> - -<p>“I sha’n’t do that,” said Edgar as briefly—and with, for the first -time, and for one of the first times in his life, a shade of offence on -his face.</p> - -<p>“There are a good many other things they try to do,” said Mr. Parchemin; -“for instance they take pupils—most men feel themselves capable of that -when they are driven to it; or they get into a public office, if they -have interest and can pass the examination; or they read for the bar if -they have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span> friends who can support them for a dozen years; or they write -for the papers—”</p> - -<p>“Stop a little,” said Edgar; “I have no friends to support me—I can’t -write—I don’t think I could pass an examination—”</p> - -<p>“After twenty, and unless you’ve been crammed for the purpose, I don’t -know anyone who could,” said Mr. Parchemin, solemnly.</p> - -<p>“And I doubt whether I could teach anything that any man in his senses -would wish to know.”</p> - -<p>“I doubt it also,” said the lawyer, “judging, if you will pardon me for -saying so, by your guidance of your own affairs.”</p> - -<p>“But a tutor does not teach boys how to guide their own affairs,” said -Edgar, recovering his sense of the joke.</p> - -<p>“That is true too. A man may be very wise in giving good advice, and -admirable on paper, and yet be fool enough in other respects. There was -Goldsmith, for instance. But why shouldn’t you write? Plenty of stupid -fellows write in the papers. You are not stupid—”</p> - -<p>“Thanks,” cried Edgar, laughing.</p> - -<p>“Of course, you have read what Thackeray says on that subject—in -‘Pendennis,’ you know—how it is all a knack that anybody can learn; and -it pays very well, I have always heard. There is no sort of nonsense -that people will not read. I don’t see why you should not try the -newspapers; if you know any one on the staff of the <i>Times</i>, for -instance—that is a splendid opening—or even the <i>News</i> or the -<i>Telegraph</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“But, alas, I don’t know anyone.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to say you never met any of those press fellows? when you -were a great man, you know, when you were fashionable? At your club, for -instance? You must have met some of them. Think! Why, they go -everywhere, it’s their trade; they must have news. And, by the way, they -have made their own of you first and last; the Arden estate, and the -law-suit that was to be, and the noble behaviour of the unfortunate -gentleman, &c., &c. You have figured in many a paragraph. Some of them -you must know.”</p> - -<p>“Newmarch used to dabble in literature,” said Edgar, doubtfully.</p> - -<p>“Newmarch—Lord Newmarch! Why, that is better still. He’s in the -Ministry, a rising young fellow, with the Manchester interest, and a few -hundred thousands a-year behind him. He’s your very man; he’ll get you -something; a school-inspectorship, or something of that sort, at the -very least. What is he, by-the-bye? Education and that sort of thing is -his hobby, so, of course, he’s put somewhere, like Dogberry, where there -shall be no occasion for such vanities. Ah! I thought so; Foreign -Office. He knows about as much of foreign politics, my dear Sir, as my -office boy. That’s why he’s put in; that’s the present people’s way.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I should like to ask a favour of Newmarch,” said Edgar, -with hesitation; and there suddenly rose in his mind a spiritual -presence which he had never before recognised nor expected to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> see, a -something which was Pride. He himself was so unaffectedly surprised by -the apparition that he did not know how to encounter it; but sat silent, -wondering, and unable to understand the new dilemma in which he found -himself. No; Newmarch was the last person of whom he should like to ask -a favour, he said to himself.</p> - -<p>“Is there any one else whom you would like better?” said Mr. Parchemin, -somewhat satirically. “So far as we have got, Lord Newmarch’s is much -the most practicable aid you could get. Would you prefer to ask your -favour from anyone else?”</p> - -<p>“You are quite right,” said Edgar, rousing himself. “The fact is, I -don’t like asking favours at all. I suppose I expected the world to come -to me and offer me a living, hat in hand. Of course, it is absurd.”</p> - -<p>“Lord Newmarch is probably too high and mighty to prefer a friend unless -he is sure it will be for the public interest, etc.,” said Mr. -Parchemin. “He will say as much, at least, you may be sure of that. And -I advise you to be prepared for a great deal of this sort of lofty -rubbish; but don’t pay any attention to it. Don’t take offence.”</p> - -<p>Edgar laughed; but the laugh was unexplainable to anyone but himself. He -had not been in the habit of taking offence; he had never borne anybody -a grudge, so far as he knew, in his life; but along with the new-born -pride which had arisen in him, was the faculty of offence coming too? -These were the first fruits of poverty, spectres which had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> never -crossed his sunny pathway before. And though he laughed, not with -amusement, but in a kind of dazed acknowledgment of the incongruity of -things, the sense of the joke began to fail in Edgar’s mind. The -whimsical, pleasant fun of the whole proceeding disappeared before those -apparitions of Anger and Pride. Alas, was it possible that such a vulgar -material change as the loss of money could bring such evil things into -being? His friendly, gentle soul was appalled. He laughed with pain, not -with amusement, because of the strange unlikeness of this new state of -mind to anything he had known before.</p> - -<p>“Newmarch, I suppose, is not in town; he can’t be in town at this time -of the year,” he said, with a momentary hope of postponing his -sufferings at least.</p> - -<p>“Ah, my dear Sir,” said the lawyer, “he is one of the new brooms that -sweep clean. Besides, there is something going on between Russia and -Prussia that wants watching, and it’s Lord Newmarch’s business to be on -the spot. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll see him at once. Before the -season begins he can’t have so many applicants. Go, if you’ll take my -advice, at once.”</p> - -<p>Edgar winced, as a man cannot but wince who is thrown into the class of -“applicants” at a blow. Why shouldn’t he be an applicant? he said to -himself as he went out. Better men than he had been obliged to kick -their heels in great men’s anterooms; but fortunately the reign of -patrons was so far over now. Was it over? While human nature<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span> continued -could it ever be over? or would it not be necessary as long as the world -lasted that there should be some men holding out the hand to ask, and -others to give? Not so very long ago Lord Newmarch had come to him, -Edgar, hat in hand, so to speak, wanting not place or living, but the -good graces of a rich and fair young lady with whom her brother might -advance him. Her brother! There gleamed up before Edgar, as he walked -through the dusty October streets, the sudden glimpse he had seen at the -roadside station of Margaret waiting for her brother. Alas, yes! Most -people had sisters, if not something still dearer, to greet them, to -hear the account of all they had done, and consult what remained to do. -I do not know how it was that at this moment something brought into -Edgar’s mind the two ladies who had travelled with him from Scotland. -Probably the mere word Sister was enough; or perhaps it was because one -of them, the elder, was just turning the corner of the street, and met -him two minutes after. She smiled with a momentary hesitation (she was -forty at the least), and then stopped to speak.</p> - -<p>“I had not a chance to thank you for getting our cab and looking after -our luggage. It was very kind; but my young friend was in a great -hurry.”</p> - -<p>“She was, I suppose, of your sisterhood, too,” said Edgar, with a -curiosity which was quite unjustifiable, and for which he could not -account.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span></p> -<p>“Who? Miss ——. Oh! dear no,” said the good-humoured Sister. “She is -what we call an associate, and does what she can for our charges, the -poor people—in something like our dress; but it is far from being the -dress of a professed sister,” the excellent woman added, adjusting her -cross and collar. “I daresay you will meet her some day in society, and -you need not tell her great friends that a Sister of the Charity House -made her travel third class. We always do it; but fine people do not -like to know.”</p> - -<p>“I should have to betray myself,” said Edgar laughing, “if I betrayed -you.”</p> - -<p>“That is true,” said the Sister. “If you ever pass by the Charity House -at Amerton ask for Sister Susan, and I shall be glad to show you over -it. I assure you it is something to see.”</p> - -<p>“I shall come some day or other,” said Edgar, not quite knowing what he -said. Who was she then, the girl with the veil who kept herself shrouded -from him? She had not seemed <i>farouche</i> or unfriendly. She had waited -quietly while he did what he could for them at the railway station. She -had even touched his hand lightly as he put her into the cab; but there -had seemed to be three or four veils between him and her countenance. -During all the long journey he had seen of her nothing but the little -white hand stealing from under the cover of her cloak; but somehow his -dream came back to him, and wove itself in with the semblance of this -veiled stranger. Absurd! but sometimes an absurdity is pleasant and -comforting, and so it was in this case. He could not have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> said what -fancies came into his head, or if he had any fancies. No, he was past -dreaming, past all that kind of boyish nonsense, he said to himself. But -yet the recollection of the veiled maiden was pleasant to him, he could -scarcely have told why.</p> - -<p>Lord Newmarch was at his office, and he was ready after some time to see -his visitor, whom he greeted with sufficient friendliness and good -feeling. Lord Newmarch had been very democratic in his day; he had taken -workmen in their working clothes to dine with him at his club in his hot -youth, and had made them very uncomfortable, and acquired a delightful -reputation himself for advanced ideas; which was a very great thing for -a new lord, whose grandfather had been a small shopkeeper, to do. But -somehow he was a great deal more at his ease with the working men than -with his former friend and equal, now reduced to a perfectly incredible -destitution of those ordinary circumstances which form the very clothing -and skin of most men. Edgar was in soul and being, no doubt, exactly the -same as ever; he had the same face, the same voice, the same thought and -feelings. Had he lost only his money Lord Newmarch would not have felt -the difficulty half so great, for indeed a great many people do -(whatever the world may say) lose their money, without being dropped or -discredited by society. But something a great deal more dreadful had -happened in Edgar’s case. He had lost, so to speak, himself; and how to -behave towards a man who a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> while ago had been his equal, nay his -superior, and now was not his equal, nor anybody’s, yet the same man, -puzzled the young statesman beyond expression. This is a very different -sort of thing from entertaining a couple of working men to the much -astonishment (delightful homage to one’s peculiarities) of one’s club. -The doctrine that all men are brothers comes in with charming piquancy -in the one case, but is very much less easy to deal with in the other. -Lord Newmarch got up with some perturbation from his seat when Edgar -came in. He shook him warmly by the hand, and said,</p> - -<p>“Oh, Arden—ah, Earnshaw,” looking at the card. “I beg your pardon. I am -delighted to see you.”</p> - -<p>And then they both sat down and looked at each other after the warmth of -this accost, and found, as so often happens, that they had nothing more -to say. I do not know a more embarrassing position in ordinary -circumstances, even when there is no additional and complicating -embarrassment. You meet your old friend, you shake hands, you commit -yourself to an expression of delight—and then you are silent. He has -sailed away from you and you from him since you last met, and there is -nothing to be said between you, beyond that first unguarded and uncalled -for warmth of salutation, the emblem of an intimacy past. This is how -Lord Newmarch accosted Edgar; and Edgar accepted the salutation with a -momentary glow at his breast. And then they sat down and looked at each -other;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> they had given forth all the feeling they had toward each other, -and how could they express sentiments which had no existence? They had -to glide involuntarily into small talk about the empty state of town, -and the new Minister’s devotion to business, and the question between -Prussia and Russia which he had to keep at his post to watch. Lord -Newmarch allowed, with dignified resignation, that it was hard upon him, -and that an Under Secretary of State has much that is disagreeable to -bear; and then he added politely, but thinking to himself—oh, how much -easier were two, nay half-a-dozen working-men, than this!—an inquiry as -to the nature of his old friend’s occupation. “What,” said the -statesman, crossing and uncrossing his legs two or three times in -succession to get the easiest position, and with a look at his shoes -which expressed eloquently all the many events that had passed since -their last meeting, “What are you doing yourself?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /><br /> -<small>A Noble Patron.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> two men who have met in careless intercourse, without any -possibility of obliging or being obliged, except so far as interchange -of courtesy goes, come suddenly together in relations so changed, the -easy question, “what are you doing?” spoken by the one whose position -has not altered, to the one who has suffered downfall, has a new world -of significance in it, of tacit encouragement or repulsion of kindly or -adverse meaning. It means either “Can I help you?” or, “Don’t think of -asking me for help.” If the downfallen one has need of aid and -patronage, the faintest inflection of voice thrills him with expectation -or disappointment—and even if he is independent, it is hard if he does -not get a sting of mortification out of the suspected benevolence or -absence of it. Edgar listened to Lord Newmarch’s questions, with a -sudden rising in his mind of many sentiments quite unfamiliar to him. He -was ashamed—though he had nothing to be ashamed of—angry, though no -offence had been given him—and tingled with excitement for which there -was no reason. How important it had become to him all at once that this -other man, for whom he felt no particular respect, should be favourable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> -to him, and how difficult to reconcile himself to the process of asking, -he who had never done anything but give!</p> - -<p>“I am doing nothing,” he said, after a momentary pause, which seemed -long to him, but which Lord Newmarch did not so much as notice, “and to -tell the truth, I had a great mind to come cap in hand to you, to ask -for something. I want occupation—and to speak frankly, a living at the -same time. Not pay without work, but yet pay.”</p> - -<p>“To be sure,” said Lord Newmarch; but his countenance fell a little. A -new applicant cannot but appear a natural enemy to every official -personage noted for high-mindedness, and a sublime superiority to jobs. -“I should think something might be found for you—in one department or -other. The question is what would you like—or perhaps—what could you -do?”</p> - -<p>“I can do anything a man can usually do, who has never done anything in -his life,” said Edgar, trying to laugh. “You know how little that is—a -great deal that is absolutely useless—nothing that is much good.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Lord Newmarch, looking much more grave than his applicant -did, whose levity he had always disapproved of. “It is very unfortunate -that what we call the education of a gentleman should be so utterly -unpractical. And, as you are aware, all our clerkships now-a-days are -disposed of by competitive examination. I do not commit myself as to its -satisfactory character as a test of capacity—there are very different -opinions I know on that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span> subject; but the fact is one we must bow to. -Probably you would not care at your age to submit to such an ordeal?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care what I submit to,” said Edgar, which was totally untrue, -for his blood was boiling in the most irrational way, at the thought -that this man whom he had laughed at so often, should be a Minister of -State, while he himself was weighing the probabilities of securing a -clerkship in the great man’s office. Nothing could be more wrong or -foolish, for to be sure Lord Newmarch had worked for his position, and -had his father’s wealth and influence behind him; but he had not -generally impressed upon his acquaintances a very profound respect for -his judgment. “But I don’t think I could pass any examination,” he added -with an uneasy laugh.</p> - -<p>“Few men can, without special preparation,” said the Under Secretary, -whose face grew gradually longer and longer. “Do you know I think the -best thing I can do will be to give you a note to the Home Secretary, -who is a very good friend of mine, Lord Millboard. You must have met him -I should think—somewhere—in—”</p> - -<p>“Better days,” said Edgar, struck by a sudden perception of the -ludicrous. Yes, that was the phrase—he had seen better days; and his -companion felt the appropriateness of it, though he hesitated to employ -the word.</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed; I am sure no one was ever more regretted,” said Lord -Newmarch, spreading before him a sheet of note-paper with a huge -official stamp.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> “I don’t think Arden half fills your place. All his -interest goes to the other side. You hear I suppose sometimes from your -sis—I mean from Mrs. Arden? What kind of post shall I say you wish to -have?”</p> - -<p>“Say out the word you were going to say,” said Edgar, “my sister! I have -not seen anyone who knew her for ages. No, I thought it best not to keep -up any correspondence. It might have grown a burden to her; but it does -me good to hear you say my sister. How is she looking? Is she happy? It -is so long since I have heard even the name of Clare.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Arden is quite well, I believe,” said Lord Newmarch doubtfully, -not knowing whether “the family” might quite like inquiries to be made -for her by her quondam brother. He felt almost as a man does who is -caught interfering in domestic strife, and felt that Clare’s husband -might possibly take it badly. “She has a couple of babies of course you -know. She looked very well when I saw her last. Happy! yes, I suppose -so—as everybody is happy. In the meantime, please, what must I say to -Lord Millboard? Shall I recall to him your—former position? And what -shall I say you would like to have? He has really a great deal of -patronage; and can do much more for you if he likes than I.”</p> - -<p>“Tell him I have seen better days,” said Edgar with forlorn gaiety, “I -have met him, but I never ventured to approach so great a potentate. -Tell him I am not very particular what kind of work I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> do, so long as it -is something to live by. Tell him—but to be sure, if you introduce me -to him I can do all that myself.”</p> - -<p>“That is true,” said Lord Newmarch with a little sigh of relief, and he -began to write his note. When, however, he had got two or three lines -written in his large hand, he resumed talking, though his pen still ran -over the paper. “You have been abroad I heard. Perhaps you can tell me -what is the feeling in Germany about the proposed unification? I am -rather new to my post, and to tell the truth it is not the post I should -have chosen; but in the service of the country one cannot always follow -one’s favourite path. ‘A gentleman of high breeding and unblemished -character, whose judgment could be relied upon,’ that will do, I think. -Millboard should find something to suit you if any one can. But to -return to what we were talking about. I should very much like to have -your opinion as an impartial observer, of the attitude of Bavaria and -the rest, and how they take Bismarck’s scheme?”</p> - -<p>“Does not the principle of competitive examination exist in Lord -Millboard’s department?” said Edgar.</p> - -<p>“Not to the same extent,” said Newmarch. “He has always a great deal in -his power. A word from Millboard goes a long way; he has a hand -officially or non-officially in a great many things. For instance, I -like to consult him myself before making an important appointment; he -knows everything. He might get you some commissionership or other.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> Some -of them are very good things; a literary man got one just the other day, -by Millboard’s influence. Did you read for the bar? No? Ah, that’s a -pity. But you might, perhaps, be made an inspector of schools; very high -qualifications are not required for such an appointment. By-the-by, now -that I think of it,” he continued, pausing after he had folded his -letter, and looking up, “you were brought up abroad? You can speak all -the modern languages; you don’t object to travel. I believe, after all, -you are the very man I want.”</p> - -<p>Here he paused, and Edgar waited too, attentive and trying to be amused. -As what did the great man want him? As courier for a travelling party? -While Lord Newmarch pondered, Edgar, puzzled and not very much delighted -with his position, had hard ado to keep just as quiet and respectful as -became a man seeking his living. At last the Minister spoke.</p> - -<p>“What I was thinking of,” he said, “was the post of Queen’s Messenger. -You know what that is? It is not badly paid, and the life is amusing. I -cannot tell you how important it would be to me to have a man I could -thoroughly trust in such a position. You would be simply invaluable to -me; I could rely upon you for telling me how people were really thinking -in foreign capitals. I cannot, of course, in my position, travel about -as a private person can, and there are a great many things I am most -anxious to get up.”</p> - -<p>Here he paused for some reply; but what could Edgar reply? Lord Newmarch -was not thinking of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span> him, but of his own need of information. Should the -applicant distract the Minister’s thoughts back from this greater -channel to that of his own private case? or should he throw his own -case, as it were, overboard, and give all his sympathy to the -Under-Secretary’s elevated needs? The position was comical, but perhaps -Edgar was not sufficiently at ease in his mind to see its comic side.</p> - -<p>“You see how important it is,” Lord Newmarch said, very gravely, looking -at Edgar for sympathy; “everything depends upon genuine -information—what the people are thinking, not the <i>on dits</i> that fly -about in diplomatic circles. My dear—eh?—Earnshaw,” he cried, with -enthusiasm, and a glance at Edgar’s card, “I can’t tell you how much use -you might be to me.”</p> - -<p>Edgar could not restrain a hasty laugh, which, however, had not much -enjoyment in it. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Your name shall be put upon the list directly,” said Lord Newmarch. -“One of our men, I know, talks of resigning; and the very first vacancy, -I think I may almost say, without further reflection, shall be yours. -What are you going to do with yourself for the autumn? I leave town next -week, I hope, but I shall be back before Christmas; and if you don’t -hear from me by that time——”</p> - -<p>“Before Christmas!” cried Edgar; he could not prevent his voice from -expressing a little dismay. What was he to do till Christmas? Live upon -his two ten-pound notes? or break into his precious <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span>little capital? -or—— The situation appalled him. I suppose he thought, having once -found something which he could be so very useful in, that it was in -Newmarch’s power to give him an appointment at once.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” said Newmarch, benignantly, “if you are in the country, -don’t come to town on purpose. Any time in spring would probably do; but -if you don’t hear from me in a few months, come and see me. When so much -important business is passing through one’s hands, a little thing—and -especially a personal matter—is apt to slip out of one’s head.”</p> - -<p>“To be sure,” said Edgar, rising hastily, “and I am taking up, about a -mere personal matter, your valuable time, which belongs to the nation.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t apologise. I am delighted to see you. And you can’t think of -how much use you might be to me,” said the great man, earnestly, shaking -hands with the small one, impressing upon him, almost with tears in his -eyes, the importance he might come to, “if this man will only be so good -as to resign.”</p> - -<p>Edgar went away with a singing in his ears, which he could scarcely -understand at first. In all his kindly careless life there had been so -little occasion for that thrilling of the blood to the brain, in defence -of the Self assailed, which now at once stimulated, and made him dizzy. -He scarcely knew what it meant, neither could he realize the bitterness -that came into his heart against his will, a most unusual guest. He went -out from Lord Newmarch’s office, and walked long and far before he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> -quite came to himself. Walking has often a similar effect to that which -the poet tells us rhyme has, “the sad mechanic exercise, like dull -narcotics numbing pain.” When he gradually emerged from the haze and -heat of this first disagreeable encounter, Edgar took characteristic -refuge in the serio-comic transformation which the whole matter -underwent in Lord Newmarch’s hands. Instead of a simple question of -employment for Edgar Earnshaw, it became the great man’s own business, a -way of informing him as to the points in which his education was -defective. Finding employment for Edgar interested him moderately; but -finding information for himself, fired his soul;—the comical part of -the whole being that he expected the other, whose personal interests -were so closely concerned, to feel this superior view of the question as -deeply as he himself did, and to put it quite above the vulgar -preliminary of something to live by. To serve Lord Newmarch, and through -him the Government, and through the Government the country, was not -that, Edgar asked himself at last, feeling finally able to laugh again, -a much more important matter than securing bread and butter for our -thriftless man? As soon as he had laughed he was himself again, and the -after processes of thought were more easy.</p> - -<p>By-and-by he persuaded himself that on the whole Newmarch had behaved -quite naturally, and not unkindly. “As a matter of course,” he said to -himself, “every man’s own affairs are more interesting to him than any -other man’s.” It was quite natural that Newmarch should think of his -own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> business as most important. It <i>was</i> the most important, Edgar -continued, in his ingenious and peculiar style of reasoning, since it -was the business of the country—whereas Edgar’s business was only his -own, and of importance to nobody but himself. Equally, of course, it was -more important to secure a good public servant, even in the humble -capacity of a Queen’s Messenger, than to secure bread and butter for -Edgar Earnshaw; and, on the whole, there was a great deal to be said for -Newmarch, who was a good fellow, and had been generally friendly, and -not too patronizing. The only wormwood that remained in his thoughts by -the time evening approached, and he turned his steps towards his club in -search of dinner, concerned the long delay which apparently must occur -before this promised advancement could reach him. Before Christmas; -Edgar had very little idea how much a man could live upon in London; but -he did not think it very likely that he could get through two months -upon twenty pounds. And even if that should be possible, with his little -knowledge and careless habits, what should he do in the meantime? Should -he linger about town, doing nothing, waiting for this possible -appointment, which might, perhaps, never come to anything? This was a -course of procedure which prudence and inclination, and so much -experience as he possessed, alike condemned. Hanging on, waiting till -something should turn up! Was this all he was good for? he asked -himself, with a flush on his face. If only the other man would be so -obliging as to resign, or to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> killed in a railway accident, or -swamped in a steamboat, or to take some foreign fever or other, of the -well-known kinds, which haunt those places to which Queen’s Messengers -are habitually sent! This was a lugubrious prayer, and I don’t think the -actual Queen’s Messenger against whom the anathema was addressed would -have been much the worse for Edgar’s ill-wishes.</p> - -<p>These virulent and malignant sentiments helped him to another laugh, and -this was one of the cases in which for a man of his temperament to laugh -was salvation. What a good thing it is in all circumstances! and from -how many troubles, angers and ridiculousnesses this blessed power of -laughter saves us! Man, I suppose, among the fast narrowing list of his -specialities, still preserves that of being the only animal who laughs. -Dogs sometimes sneer; but the genial power of this humorous expression -of one’s sense of all life’s oddities and puzzles belongs only to man.</p> - -<p>There were few people about at the club where he dined alone, and the -few acquaintances who recognised him were very shy about his name, not -knowing how to address him, and asking each other in corners, as he -divined, what the deuce was his real name, now it had been found out -that he was not Arden? for it must be remembered that he had gone abroad -immediately after his downfall, and had never been known in society -under his new name, which by this time had become sufficiently familiar -to himself. His dinner, poor fellow, was rather a doleful one, and -accompanied by many<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span> thoughts. He went to one of the theatres -afterwards, where the interregnum between one season and another still -lasted, and foolishness more foolish even than that which is permitted -at other periods, reigned riotous. Edgar came away wearied and disgusted -before the performance was over, and had walked about aimlessly for some -time before he recollected that he had travelled all night, and had a -right to be tired—upon which recollection his aimless steps changed -their character, and he went off briskly and thankfully through the -bustling streets under the stars, which were sharp with night frost as -they had been at Loch Arroch. Looking up at them as they glowed and -sparkled over the dark house-tops in London, it was natural to think -what was going on at Loch Arroch now. The kye would be “suppered,” and -Bell would have fastened the ever open door, and little Jeanie upstairs -would be reading her “chapter” to her grandmother before the old lady -went to bed. He had seen that little, tender, pious scene more than -once, when Granny was feeble, and he had gone to her room to say -good-night. How sweet the low Scotch voice, with its soft broad vowels, -had sounded, reading reverently those sacred verses, better than -invocation of angels to keep the house from harm! What a peaceful, -homely little house! all in it resting tranquil and untroubled beneath -the twinkling stars. He went home to his rooms, through streets where -very different scenes were going on, hushed by the thought of the rural -calm and stillness, and half thinking the dark shadows he felt around -him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> must be the dew-breathing shadows of the hills. And when Edgar got -up to his bachelor refuge in Piccadilly, which he called home for the -nonce for lack of a better, he did the very wisest thing a tired man -could do, he went to bed; where he slept the moment his head touched the -pillow, that sleep which does not always attend the innocent. The morn, -as says our homely proverb in Scotland, would bring a new day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /><br /> -<small>Waiting for a Situation.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Edgar’s</span> calculations, which he began next morning, and carried on for a -great many days after, were of a kind which many men have made before -him, that it would be foolish to call them original. He made elaborate -calculations upon various pieces of paper, by which he made out that -with economy, he could perfectly well live upon his twenty pounds for -two months. To be sure his rent in these rooms in Piccadilly was -preposterously high, and could not by any means be brought within that -calculation. But then he reflected to himself that moving is always -expensive—(he possessed two portmanteaus, a box of books, and a -dressing-case, all of which could have gone in a cab)—and that very -probably he might fall among thieves, and get into the hands of one of -those proverbial landladies who steal the tea, and drink the brandy, in -which case it would be no economy at all to save a few shillings on -rent. In short, Edgar said to himself, loftily, these petty little -savings never tell. You are much less comfortable, and it is just as -expensive. For the same reason, he felt it was much the best way to -continue dining at the club. “It may be sixpence dearer, but it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> so -infinitely more comfortable,” he said to himself; and, after all, -comfort was worth an additional sixpence. By striking off the rent of -his rooms altogether from the calculation, it seemed to him that he -could afford his dinners at the club; and if he got his appointment by -Christmas, as he certainly must, it would be so easy to pay the lodgings -in a lump. He jotted down these calculations so often, and upon so many -bits of paper, that he grew to believe in them as if they had been a -revelation. By this it will appear that his doubts about hanging on, and -waiting for the possible Queen’s Messengership which he had at first set -down as out of the question, did not continue to appear so impracticable -as time went on. He said to himself every morning that it was absurd, -but still he did nothing else, and gradually the Queen’s Messengership -grew to be a certain thing to him, upon which he was to enter at -Christmas, or a little later. After all, what did it matter how he spent -a week or two of his time? At eight-and-twenty, life does not appear so -short as some people have found it. A week or two, a month or two, were -neither here nor there.</p> - -<p>I can scarcely tell how Edgar occupied himself during these wintry days. -For one thing, he had not been accustomed to regular occupation, and the -desultory life was familiar to him. The days glided past he scarcely -knew how. He did a great many perfectly virtuous and laudable actions. -He went to the British Museum, and to all the collections of pictures; -he even, in sheer absence of any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span>thing else to do, went to the Charity -House, which was a little way out of London, and was taken over it by -Sister Susan, his travelling companion, and for an hour or so was seized -upon by the charity fever, which is very contagious, and for some days -kept thinking, as he went about the streets, of all the miserable -souls—not to say bodies—consuming there, in dirt, and disease, and -ignorance. I do not mean to give any account of the Charity-House—at -least, not here and at this moment. But Sister Susan undeniably -exercised a powerful attraction over the young man, as she discoursed in -her cheery voice of her orphans, and her patients, and her penitents, -all of which classes were collected round and in “the House.” She was -not “the Mother,” who was rather a great personage, but she was one of -the elders in the Sisterhood, and her conventual talk was very amusing -to Edgar, who was not used to it. He did all he could to make her talk -of the journey in which they had been fellow-travellers, and of her -young companion; and Sister Susan was cunningly open in certain -particulars:</p> - -<p>Yes, she had been in Scotland, in the North, where it was thought things -were ripening for a great work, and where it had been suggested a -Sisterhood might be of use in helping to restore a benighted people to -Christian unity in the bosom of the afflicted Church of Scotland, the -only real representative of Apostolic Christianity among the -Presbyterians, who usurp even that faithful remnant’s name. But it did -not carry out their expectations,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> Sister Susan allowed. The -Presbyterians were very obstinate and bigoted. Poor creatures, they -preferred their own way, though it could lead to nothing but darkness; -and the idea had to be resigned.</p> - -<p>“Was your companion with you on your mission? Miss —— I forget what you -said was her name,” said deceitful Edgar.</p> - -<p>Sister Susan shook her head.</p> - -<p>“She has not sufficient experience for that,” she said, decidedly. “No, -no, no. We must not employ new beginners in such delicate work. She was -on a visit, and was anxious to get home. I took charge of her at Lady—I -mean at the request of a relation of hers; and I made her do a little -bit of self-denial, as you saw,” said Sister Susan, laughing, “which is -an excellent thing always—not very comfortable for the body, perhaps, -but excellent for the soul.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think so?” said Edgar, whose present experience was not much in -that way, whose givings up had hitherto cost him little, and who had -begun to suspect that, notwithstanding all that had happened to him, and -all that he had bestowed upon others, he had not even begun yet to find -out what self-denial meant.</p> - -<p>“Not a doubt of it,” said Sister Susan. She was so sure of everything -that it was a pleasure to see her nod her confident little head, and -cross her hands. “She laughs about it now, and makes a great joke; -though, after all, she says it was a cheat, and the third class was -quite as good as the first<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span>—no originals in it, nor genuine poor -people—only you.”</p> - -<p>“Did she know me?”</p> - -<p>The question burst from him in spite of himself, and it had a somewhat -uncomfortable effect on Sister Susan.</p> - -<p>“Know you?” she said. “What—what—a curious question, Mr. Earnshaw! -Now, how could she know you? You never saw her before.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose not,” said Edgar, doubtfully.</p> - -<p>“Why, you know you never did,” said Sister Susan, with her usual -confident tone, and indeed Edgar felt that she must be right. “You took -her for a Sister,” she added, with a merry laugh.</p> - -<p>“How should I know the difference?” asked piteously the young man.</p> - -<p>“Why, she had not this, nor this, nor this,” said the Sister, -triumphantly touching one part of her dress after another. “She had on a -simple black dress, and cloak, and veil—that was all. A good little -girl,” she continued, “our orphans are all fond of her, and she is very -nice to those young sisters of hers, who are much more taken out -now-a-days than she is, and carry everything before them—especially -since she went off so much, poor dear.”</p> - -<p>“Has she gone off?” Edgar asked, more and more interested, he could -scarcely tell why.</p> - -<p>“Oh, dreadfully; lost her pretty colour, and her hair used to come out -in handfuls; she has been obliged to have it cut off to save it. She is -not like what she was, poor thing; but I hope,” added Sister Susan -devoutly, “that thinking so much more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> seriously than she used to do, -the change will be of great benefit to her soul.”</p> - -<p>“Poor Miss—! You have not told me her name,” said Edgar.</p> - -<p>“Haven’t I?” said Sister Susan. “Dear, dear, there is the bell for -chapel, and I can’t stay with you any longer. There are a few benches -near the door where strangers are allowed to go, if you wish to stay for -evensong.”</p> - -<p>Edgar stayed, chiefly, I fear, out of mere listlessness, and took his -place in the corner by the door allotted to Philistines of the male -gender, with much submission and docility. The little chapel was very -richly decorated, the light intercepted by small painted windows, the -walls one mass of mural ornament. He compared it in his imagination, -with a smile, to the bare little convent chapels he had seen and heard -of in countries where the institution appeared more natural. Here there -was a profusion of ecclesiastical luxury, an absolute parade of -decoration. It struck him with a double sense of incongruity, but there -was no one to whom he could express this evil sentiment: Sister Susan -did not appear again as he had hoped, and he wended his way back to town -with some additional information, which he had not possessed when he -left. Why should he be so curious about Miss ——, the nameless one? He -had thought her another Sister, and entertained no profuse curiosity in -respect to her at first; but now it seemed to him that only a little -more light might make her visible to him. There was no reason why he -should find her out,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> or why he should wish to do so; but great is the -perversity of human nature—perhaps this was the special reason why the -thought occupied him so much.</p> - -<p>It was very strange to so friendly a soul to have no friends whom he -could go to, whom he could talk to, no friendly house where the door -would open to him, and faces smile at his sight. It is true that for -three years he had been severed, to a great degree, from domestic -pleasures, which do not thrive at foreign centres of cosmopolitan -resort—but yet he had never been without a large circle of -acquaintances, and had occasionally seen the old friends of his boyhood -here and there; but in London, in October and November, whom could he -expect to see? The stray man who dropped in now and then at the club, -was on the wing between two country houses, or was going to join a party -somewhere, or home to his people. Some men, of course, must live in -London, but these men, I presume, did not go much to their club, or else -they were so little among the number of Edgar’s friends that they did -not count. Now and then one would join him at dinner, or in one of the -long walks he took, and he made a friend or two at the Museum, among the -books and prints. But he was like an Australian emigrant, or other exile -in savage places. These were all men, and he never saw the face of a -woman except in the streets or shops, unless it was his landlady, who -did not interest him.</p> - -<p>How strangely different from the old days, in which so many fair women -would smile and listen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span> to the young man who was at once so rich and so -original, a great landed proprietor, with the opinions of a -revolutionary. It was not his downfall, however, which had made all the -difference, which was a comfort to him; for, indeed, the families whom -he had once visited were out of London. Sometimes it occurred to him -that if the Thornleighs had been in town, he would have gone to them and -asked leave to be admitted just once or twice, for pure charity, and he -had walked several times past their house in Berkeley Square, and gazed -at its closed shutters with half a notion of calling on the housekeeper, -at least, and asking to see the place in which he had spent so many -pleasant hours. He used to live all over again his first visit to -London, with an amused pleasure in recalling all his own puzzles and -difficulties. He seemed to himself to have been a boy then, almost a -child, playing with fate and his life, and understanding nothing of all -that was around him. To have ten thousand a year one time, and no income -at all the next, but only a hundred pounds in the bank “to fall back -upon,” and the vague promise of a post as Queen’s Messenger at -Christmas—what a change it was! Though to be sure, even now, Edgar said -to himself, there were more people in London worse off than he, than -there were people who were better off. A hundred pounds in the bank is, -in reality, a fortune—as long as you can keep it there; and a man who -has the post of Queen’s Messenger is independent, which is as much as -any prince can be.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span></p> - -<p>All these philosophisings were wonderfully true, but they did not take -away the uncomfortable, desolate, profitless sensation of living alone -in London without friends, doing nothing except live, which, when you -live for the mere sake of living, and because you can’t help it, is, -perhaps, the dreariest occupation on earth. And in November—when London -is at its worst, and the year at its worst, when the gloomy daylight is -short, and the weary nights are long, and when everything that bears the -guise of amusement palls upon the man who has nothing to do but amuse -himself.</p> - -<p>Sometimes Edgar, in momentary desperation, thought of rushing off to his -former haunts abroad, sometimes of turning back to Loch Arroch, helping -in whatever might be doing, getting some share in human life, and some -place among his fellows; but then the remembrance would strike him that, -now-a-days, he could not do what he pleased, that he had no money but -that hundred pounds in the bank, and no way of getting any now till the -appointment came.</p> - -<p>By-and-by, however, his opinion began to change about the hundred pounds -in the bank. It changed by slow degrees after he had changed his second -ten-pound note, and saw those last precious sovereigns slipping out of -his grasp, which they did with a strange noiseless celerity -inconceivable to him. How did they go? When he counted up all he had -spent, every sixpence seemed so modest, so natural! and yet they were -gone, he knew not how; vanished even, he thought, while he was looking -at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> them. Then the thought arose in his mind, why keep a hundred pounds -in the bank? It was a waste of capital, money which brought in no -return; and for that matter, if it was merely to secure something to -“fall back upon,” fifty pounds were just as good as a hundred. The -income of a Queen’s Messenger was good, he said to himself (he had not, -in reality, the least idea what it was!), and when he got his -appointment it would be very easy to put back the other fifty pounds if -he found it expedient. But the more he thought of it the less he saw any -need for keeping so much money lying useless. He never could get any -income from so small a sum, and the fifty pounds was quite enough for -any sudden emergency. Or supposing, he said, seventy-five? Seventy-five -pounds was magnificent as a fund to fall back upon; and it was with a -feeling that twenty-five pounds had been somehow added, not taken from -his capital, that he went to the bank one day in December and drew out -the quarter, not the half, of his little stock of money. With -twenty-five pounds in his pocket and seventy-five in the bank, he felt -much richer than with the poor little undivided hundred. And somehow -every day as he grew poorer, he became more convinced that it would be -the most short-sighted economy to remove from his Piccadilly lodgings, -or to relinquish his dinners at the club. Why, they were cheap, -absolutely cheap, both the one and the other, in comparison with the -nasty meals and wretched lodgings for which, no doubt, he might pay a -little less money. He even became slightly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> extravagant and disposed to -buy little knick-knacks, and to consume little delicacies as his means -grew smaller and smaller.</p> - -<p>I cannot tell what produced this curious state of feeling in Edgar’s -mind. There is a kind of giddiness and desperation of poverty which -seizes a man when he is in the act of spending his last parcel of coin. -It must all go so soon that it seems worse than useless to <i>ménager</i> the -little remnant, and a kind of <i>vertige</i>, a rage to get it all over, -comes upon the mind. Perhaps it is the same feeling which makes men in a -sinking ship leap wildly into the water to meet their fate instead of -waiting for it; and as time went on the impulse grew stronger and -stronger. The seventy-five pounds of capital seemed magnificent in -December; but after Christmas it seemed to Edgar that even his fifty -pounds was too much to be lying useless; and he had a little bottle of -champagne with his dinner, and resolved that, as soon as the bank was -open, he would draw, say ten pounds. After all, what was the use of -being so particular about “something to fall back upon?” Probably he -would never want it. If he fell ill, being a Queen’s Messenger, it was -much more likely that he should fall ill in Berlin or Vienna, or Rome or -Naples, than at home—and then it would be some one’s duty to mind him -and take care of him. And if it should be his fate to die, there would -be an end of the matter. Why should he save even forty pounds?—he had -no heir.</p> - -<p>Poor Edgar! it was a kind of intoxication that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> had seized him, an -intoxication caused by idleness, loneliness, and the separation of his -life from that of every one else around him. Somehow, though Christmas -came and passed and he heard nothing, he could not pluck up courage to -go to Downing Street again. Of course the appointment would come some -day, most likely to-morrow. He was not going to worry Newmarch to death -by going to him every day. He could wait till to-morrow. And so things -went on till it ran very hard with the solitary young man. It occurred -to him one day that his clothes were getting shabby. To be sure he had -unlimited credit with his tailor, having just paid a large bill without -inquiry or question; but the fact of feeling yourself shabby when you -have very little money is painful and startling, and gives the -imagination a shock. After this his mind lost the strange ease which it -had possessed up to this moment, and he grew troubled and restless. “I -must go to Newmarch again,” he acknowledged at last to himself, and all -at once wondered with a sudden pang whether his Messengership was as -certain as he had hoped. “I must go to Newmarch to-morrow,” he said over -and over again as, somewhat dazed and giddy with this sudden thought, he -went along the pavement thoughtfully towards the club, which had become -a second home to him. It was the end of January by this time, and a few -more people were beginning to appear again in these regions. He went in -to his dinner, saying the words to himself mechanically and half aloud.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /><br /> -<small>Disappointment.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is very curious how often the unintentional movements of other men -concur in making a crisis in an individual life. When Edgar went to his -club that evening he knew no reason why anything unusual should happen -to him. His mind had been roused by sudden anxiety, that anxiety which, -seizing a man all at once upon one particular point, throws a veil over -everything by so doing, and showed yellowness or blackness into the -common light; but he had no reason to suspect that any new light would -come to him, or any new interest into his life, when he went dully and -with a headache to his habitual seat at his habitual table and ate his -dinner, which was not of a very elaborate character. There were more men -than usual in the club that evening, and when Edgar had finished his -dinner he went into the library, not feeling disposed for the long walk -through the lighted streets with which he so often ended his evening. He -took a book, but he was not in the mood to read. Several men nodded to -him as they came and went; one, newly arrived, who had not seen him -since his downfall, came up eagerly and talked for ten minutes before he -went out. The man was nobody in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> particular, yet his friendliness was -consolatory, and restored to Edgar some confidence in his own identity, -which had seemed to be dropping from him. He put up his book before him -when he was left again alone, and behind this shield looked at his -companions, of whom he knew nothing or next to nothing.</p> - -<p>One of the people whom he thus unconsciously watched was a man whom he -had already noted on several evenings lately, and as to whose condition -he was in some perplexity. The first evening Edgar had half stumbled -over him with the idea that he was one of the servants, and in the -glance of identification with which he begged pardon, decided that, -though not one of the servants, he must be a shopkeeper, perhaps well -off and retired, whom somebody had introduced, or who had been admitted -by one of those chances which permit the rich to enter everywhere. Next -evening when he saw the same man again, he rubbed out as it were with -his finger the word shopkeeper, which he had, so to speak, written -across him, and wrote “city-man” instead. A city-man may be anything; he -may be what penny-a-liners call a merchant prince, without losing the -characteristic features of his class. This man was about forty-five, he -had a long face, with good but commonplace features, hair getting scanty -on the top, and brown whiskers growing long into two points, after the -fashion of the day. The first time he was in evening dress, having come -in after dinner, which was the reason why Edgar took him for one of the -attendants. The next time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> he was in less elaborate costume, and looked -better; for evening dress is trying to a man who has not the <i>air noble</i> -which christianizes those hideous garments. The third night again, -Edgar, in imagination, drew a pen through the word “city-man,” and -wondered whether the stranger could be a successful artist, a great -portrait-painter, something of that description, a prosperous man to -whom art had become the most facile and most lucrative of trades. On -this particular night he again changed his opinion, crossed the word -artist and put man about town, indefinitest of designations, yet -infinitely separated from all the others. Thus blurred and overwritten -by so many attempts at definition, the new-comer attracted his -attention, he could scarcely tell why. There was nothing remarkable -about the man; he had grey eyes, a nose without much character, loose -lips disposed to talk, an amiable sort of commonness, eagerness, -universal curiosity in his aspect. He knew most people in the room, and -went and talked to them, to each a little; he looked at all the papers -without choice of politics; he took down a great many books, looked at -them and put them back again. Edgar grew a little interested in him on -this special evening. He had a long conversation with one of the -servants, and talked to him sympathetically, almost anxiously, ending by -giving him an address, which the man received with great appearance of -gratitude. Might he be a physician perhaps? But his bearing and his -looks were alike against this hypothesis. “Benevolent,” Edgar said to -himself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span></p> - -<p>His attention, however, was quite drawn away from this stranger by the -sudden entrance of Lord Newmarch, who like himself was a member of the -club, and who came in hurriedly, accompanied by some one less dignified -but more eager than himself, with whom he was discussing some subject -which required frequent reference to books. Edgar felt his heart stir as -he perceived the great man enter. Was it possible that his fate -depended, absolutely depended, upon the pleasure of this man—that two -words from him might make his fortune secure, or plunge him into a -deeper and sickening uncertainty which could mean only ruin? Good -heaven, was it possible? A kind of inertness, moral cowardice, he did -not know what to call it—perhaps the shrinking a doomed man feels from -actual hearing of his fate—had kept him from going to the office to put -the arbiter of his destinies in mind of his promise. Now he could not -let this opportunity slip; he must go to him, he must ask him what was -to be the result. Up to this morning he had felt himself sure of his -post, now he felt just as sure of rejection. Both impressions no doubt -were equally unreasonable; but who can defend himself against such -impressions? Gradually Edgar grew breathless as he watched that -discussion which looked as if it would never end. What could it be -about? Some vague philanthropico-political question, some bit of -doctrinarianism of importance to nobody—while his was a matter of death -and life. To be sure this was his own fault, for he might, as you will -perceive, dear reader, have gone to Lord Newmarch<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> any day, and found -him at his office, where probably, amid all the sublime business there, -Edgar’s affairs had gone entirely out of his head. But if you think the -suggestion that it was his own fault made the suspense now a -straw-weight more easy to him, this is a point on which I do not agree -with you. The consequences of our own faults are in all circumstances -the most difficult to bear.</p> - -<p>Oddly enough, the stranger whom Edgar had been watching, seemed anxious -to speak to Lord Newmarch too. Edgar’s eyes met his in their mutual -watch upon the Minister, who went on disputing with his companion, -referring to book after book. It was some military question of which I -suppose Lord Newmarch knew as much as his grandmother did, and the other -was a hapless soldier endeavouring in vain to convey a lucid description -and understanding of some important technical matter to the head of the -Secretary of State. In vain; Lord Newmarch did not try to understand—he -explained; to many people this method of treating information is so much -the most natural. And the stranger watched him on one side, and Edgar on -the other. Their eyes met more than once, and after a while the humour -of the situation struck Edgar, even in his trouble, and he smiled; upon -which a great revolution made itself apparent in the other’s -countenance. He smiled too; not with the sense of humour which moved -Edgar, but with a gleam of kindness in his face, which threw a certain -beauty over it. Edgar was struck with a strange surprise: he was taken -aback at the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span> time, he felt as if somehow he must have appealed to -the kindness, the almost pity in the other’s face. What had he done to -call forth such an expression? His newborn pride jumped up in arms; and -yet there was no possibility of offence meant, and nothing to warrant -offence being taken. Edgar, however, averted his eyes hastily, and -watched Lord Newmarch no more. And then he took himself to task, and -asked himself, Was it an offence to look at him kindly? Was he offended -by a friendly glance? Good heavens! what was he coming to, if it was so.</p> - -<p>Presently Edgar’s heart beat still higher, for Lord Newmarch’s companion -rose to go, and he, having caught sight of the stranger, remained, and -went up to him holding out his hand. Edgar could but wait on, and bide -his time; his book was still before him, at which he had never looked. A -sickening sense of humiliation crept over him. He felt all the misery of -dependence; here was he, so lately this man’s equal, waiting, sickening -for a word from him, for a look, wondering what he would say, -questioning with himself, while his heart beat higher and higher, and -the breath came quickly on his lips. Good heavens, wondering what -Newmarch would say! a man whom he had so laughed at, made fun of, but -who was now to be the very arbiter of his fate, whose word would make -all the difference between a secure and useful and worthy future, and -that impoverishment of hope, and means, and capability altogether, which -some call ruin—and justly call.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span></p> - -<p>While Edgar sat thus waiting, excitement gradually gaming upon him, he -saw with some surprise that the man to whom he had given so many -different descriptions, was drawing back and pushing Lord Newmarch -towards him; and seeing this, he got up, with a half-shrinking from his -fate, half-eagerness to hear it.</p> - -<p>“All right,” said the unknown, “your turn first. The great man must give -us all audience in turn;” and with a little nod he went to the other end -of the room and took up a newspaper, of which he probably made as little -use as Edgar had been doing of his book.</p> - -<p>“Droll fellow!” said Newmarch, “how d’ye do, eh, Earnshaw? I have been -in town this month past, but you have never looked me up.”</p> - -<p>“I feared to bore you,” said Edgar, hastily.</p> - -<p>“It is my business never to be bored,” said Lord Newmarch, with a -certain solemnity, which was natural to him. “Where have you been—in -the country? what here all this time! I wish I had known; I seldom come -here, except for the library, which is wonderfully good, as perhaps you -know. That was Cheeseman that was arguing with me—Cheeseman, you know, -one of those practical people—and insists upon his own way.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder,” said Edgar, uneasily, “whether you have ever thought again -of a small matter I went to you about?”</p> - -<p>“What, the messengership?” said Lord Newmarch, “what do you take me -for—eh, Earnshaw? Of course I have thought of it; there is never a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> -week that I do not hope something may happen to old Runtherout; I don’t -mean anything fatal of course; but there he sticks from month to month, -and probably so he will from year to year.”</p> - -<p>Edgar felt his countenance falling, falling. He felt, or thought he -felt, his jaw drop. He felt his heart go down, down, like a stone. He -put a miserable smile upon his miserable face. “Then I suppose there is -no chance for me,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, my dear fellow, certainly there is a chance—as much chance as -there ever was,” said Lord Newmarch, cheerfully, “these things, of -course, cannot be altered all at once, but as soon as old Runtherout -gives up, which cannot be long—I do not mind for my part what anyone -says, I shall put you in. If you only knew what it would have been to me -to have you in Berlin now! You speak German quite fluently, don’t you? -Good heavens, what a loss to me!”</p> - -<p>And, good heavens what a loss to me! Edgar felt disposed to say. As much -chance as there ever was! then what had the chance been at first, for -which he had wasted so much time and all his little stock of money. God -help him! he had to receive the news with a smile, the best he could -muster, and to listen to Lord Newmarch’s assurance that a few months -could make very little difference. “Oh, very little difference!” echoed -poor Edgar, with that curious fictitious brassy (why he thought it was -brassy I cannot tell, but that was the adjective he used to himself) -brassy imitation of a smile; and Lord Newmarch went on talking somehow -up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span> in the air beside him, about a number of things, to which he said -yes and no mechanically with some certain kind of appropriateness, I -suppose, for nobody seemed to find out the semi-consciousness in which -he was—until the great man suddenly recollected that he must speak a -few words to Tottenham, and fell back upon the man with worn grey eyes -and loose lips, who sprang up from behind his newspaper like a jack in a -box. Edgar, for his part, dropped down in his chair something like the -same toy when shut up in its hiding-place. There was a buzzing in his -ears again as there had been when he had his first interview with the -Minister—but this time the giddiness was more overpowering; a hundred -thoughts passed through his mind in a moment, each crowding upon each, a -noiseless, breathless crowd. What was he to do? Everything seemed to be -shown to him in the space of a moment, as fable says, a whole lifetime -is shown in a moment to those who die suddenly. Good God! a few months! -what was he to do?</p> - -<p>Some people can face the prospect of living for a few months on nothing -quite pleasantly, and some people do it habitually (without being at all -bad people), and get through somehow, and come to no tragical end. But -Edgar was young and unaccustomed to poverty. He was even unaccustomed to -live from hand to mouth, as so many of us do, light-hearted wretches, -without taking thought for the morrow. It was some time, it was true, -before he was roused to think of the morrow at all, but, when he did, it -seized upon him like a vulture. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> sank back into his chair, and sat -there like a log, with vacant eyes, but mind preternaturally busy and -occupied. What was he to do?</p> - -<p>He was roused from this outward stupor, but inner ferment, by seeing -Newmarch again come up accompanied by the stranger, whose very existence -he had forgotten. “Mr. Tottenham, Mr. Edgar Earnshaw,” said the -Under-Secretary, “one of my best friends. Come and see me, won’t you, in -Eaton Place. I must go now; and come to the office soon, and let us talk -your affair over. The moment old Runtherout will consent to take himself -out of the way—As for you, Tottenham, I envy you. All your schemes in -your own hands, no chief to thwart you, no office to keep on -recommending this man and that, when they know you have a man of your -own. You may thank heaven that you have only your own theories to serve, -and not Her Majesty. Good night, good night.”</p> - -<p>“Good night,” said Edgar, absently.</p> - -<p>Mr. Tottenham said nothing, but he gave Lord Newmarch a finger to shake, -and turned to his new companion, who sat with his head down, and paid -little attention to his presence. He fixed his eyes very closely on -Edgar, which is a thing that can scarcely be done without attracting -finally the notice of the person looked at. When he had caught Edgar’s -wondering but dazed and dreamy look, he smiled—the same smile by which -Edgar had already been half pleased, half angered.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Earnshaw,” he said, “you have a story, and I know it. I hope I -should have tried to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span>have as well myself; but I don’t know. And I -have a story too. Will you come into the smoking-room if you have -nothing better to do, and I’ll tell it you? I call it the history of a -very hard case. Newmarch left you to me as his substitute, for he knew I -wanted to talk. I like the exchange. He’s a profound blockhead, though -he’s Secretary of State. Come and smoke a cigar.”</p> - -<p>Edgar rose mechanically, he scarcely knew why; he was pale; he felt his -legs almost give way under him as he moved across the passage to the -smoking-room. He did not want to smoke, nor to know Mr. Tottenham’s -story; but he had not strength of mind to resist what was asked of him.</p> - -<p>“A few months,” he kept saying to himself. It seemed to him that a -sudden indifference to everything else, to all things greater and more -distant, had come into his mind. For the first time in his life he was -self-engrossed, self-absorbed, able to think of nothing but his own -necessities, and what he was to do. So strange was this to Edgar, so -miserable did he feel it, that even on the short journey from one room -to another he made an effort to shake off the sudden chains with which -this sudden necessity had bound him, and was appalled by his own -weakness, almost by a sense of guilt, when he found that he could take -no interest whatever in Mr. Tottenham, that he could think of nothing -but himself. For the first time, there was nobody but himself involved; -no justice to be done, no kindness to be shown to others. Wherever other -people are concerned, a certain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> breadth, a certain freedom and -largeness, come into the question, even though the other people may be -poor and small enough; but how mean the generous man feels, how petty -and miserable, when he, and he only, becomes by any twist of fortune the -centre of all his thoughts!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /><br /> -<small>A new Friend.</small></h2> - -<p>“I hope I should have done exactly as you did in that Arden business,” -said Mr. Tottenham; “but I can’t tell. The amount of meanness and -falseness to all one’s own rules which one feels in one’s self in a -great emergency is wonderful. I never put any dependence on myself. Now -I will tell who, or rather what I am. The pronoun Who is inappropriate -in my case. I am nobody; but when you know what I am—if, indeed, my -name does not tell you—”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Edgar, forcing himself into attention.</p> - -<p>“It is not a bad name; there are fine people, I believe, who bear it, -and who hold up their heads with the best. But if you belonged to a -middle-class London family, and had a mother and sisters, you would have -no difficulty in identifying me. I am not a Tottenham with a Christian -name like other people. I am Tottenham’s, in the possessive case.”</p> - -<p>“I begin to understand,” said Edgar.</p> - -<p>What an effort it was to him! But he grew more capable of making the -effort as he tried to make it, and actually looked up now with a gleam -of intelligence in his eye.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You begin to realize me,” said his companion. “I am Tottenham’s. I have -been Tottenham’s all my life. My father died when I was only a small -boy. I hope, though I don’t know, that he might have had sense enough to -habituate me to my fate from the beginning, which would have made it -much easier. But my mother, unfortunately, was a lady, or thought -herself so. She brought me up as if there was not such a thing as a shop -in the world. She buys everything at Howell and James’s of set purpose -and malice prepense, when she could get all she wants at cost price in -our own place; to be sure she can afford it, thanks to the shop. I never -knew anything about this said shop till I was at Eton, when I denied the -connection stoutly, and fought for it, and came off triumphant, though -the other fellow was the biggest. When I went home for the holidays, I -told the story. ‘You were quite right not to give in to it, my dear,’ -said my mother. ‘But is it true?’ said I. Poor dear, how she -prevaricated! She would not have told a lie for the world, but a tiny -little bit of a fib did not seem so bad. Accordingly I found it out, and -had to go back to Eton, and beg the fellow’s pardon, and tell him it -wasn’t a lie he told, but the truth, only I had not known it. I don’t -think any of them thought the worse of me for that.”</p> - -<p>“I should think not,” cried Edgar, beginning to rouse up.</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t suppose they did; but from that day I became thin-skinned, -as people call it, and scented the shop afar off in everything people -said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> My mother’s contempt for it, and shame of it, got deep into my -mind. I grew sensitive. I did not like to give my name when I went -anywhere. I felt sure some one would say, ‘Oh, Tottenham’s!’ when my -card was taken in. I can’t tell you the misery this gave me all through -school and college. I hated the shop, and was afraid of it. I was -morbidly ashamed of my name. I went and wandered about in vacation, -wearing other men’s names as I might have borrowed their coats. Not -without their consent, mind you,” he added, sharply. “I did nothing -dishonourable; but I had a horror of being Tottenham, a horror which I -cannot describe.”</p> - -<p>“That was strange!”</p> - -<p>“You think so? Well, so do I <i>now</i>; and it was very unfortunate for me. -It got me into many scrapes; it almost cost me my wife. You don’t know -my wife? I must take you out to see her. I was introduced to her under -somebody else’s name—not a very distinguished name, it is true, Smith, -or Brown, or something, and under that name she accepted me; but when I -told her how things really were, her countenance flamed like that of the -angel, do you remember? in Milton, when Adam says something caddish—I -forget what exactly. How she did look at me! ‘Ashamed of your name!’ she -said, ‘and yet ask <i>me</i> to share it!’ There is pride and pride,” said -Mr. Tottenham to himself with musing admiration. “The poor dear mother -thought she was proud; Mary <i>is</i> so; that makes all the difference. I -got into such trouble as I never was in all my life. She sent me right<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> -away; she would have nothing to say to me; she cast me off as you might -cast away that cinder with that pair of tongs. For a time I was the most -miserable fellow on the face of the earth. I wandered about the place -where she lived night and day; but even then, if you will believe me, it -cost me a very hard struggle indeed to get to the shop. When I was -desperate, I did.”</p> - -<p>“Why is he telling <i>me</i> all this, I wonder?” said Edgar to himself; but -he was interested, he could not tell how, and had raised his head, and -for the moment shaken off something of the burden from his own back.</p> - -<p>“I made up my mind to it, and went at last,” said this odd man, puffing -at his cigar with a vehemence that made it evident he felt it still. “I -found that nobody wanted me there; that everybody preferred not to be -interfered with; that the managers had fallen each into his own way, and -had no desire for me to meddle. But I am not the sort of man that can -stand and look on with his hands in his pockets. You will wonder, and -perhaps you will despise me, when I tell you that I found Tottenham’s on -the whole a very interesting place.”</p> - -<p>“I neither wonder nor despise,” said Edgar. “What did you do?”</p> - -<p>“What didn’t I do?” said Mr. Tottenham, with rueful humour. “I did all -the mischief possible. I turned the whole place upside down. I -diminished the profits for that year by a third part. I changed the -well-known good order of Tottenham’s into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span> confusion worse confounded. -The old managers resigned in a body. By-the-way, they stayed on all but -one afterwards, when I asked them. As for the assistants, there was -civil war in the place, and more than one free fight between the -different sides; for some sided with me, perhaps because they approved -of me, perhaps because I was the master, and could do what I liked; but -the end was that I stayed there three months, worked there, and then -wrote to Mary; and she took me back.”</p> - -<p>“I am very glad to hear it,” said Edgar; and he smiled and sighed with -natural sympathy.</p> - -<p>He had become quite interested in the story by this time, and totally -forgotten all about his own miseries. He came out of his cloud finally -just at this point, and took, at last, the cigar which his new friend -had from time to time offered him.</p> - -<p>“Ah! come now, this is comfortable,” said Tottenham. “Up to that moment -mine had been a very hard case, don’t you think so? I don’t pretend to -have anything more to grumble about. But, having had a hard case myself, -I sympathize with other people. Yours was a horribly hard case. Tell me -now, that other fellow, that Arden scamp! I know him—as proud as -Lucifer, and as wicked as all the rest of the evil spirits put -together—do you mean to say he allowed you to go away, and give him up -all that fine property, and save him thousands of pounds in a lawsuit, -without making some provision for you? Such a thing was never heard of.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Edgar; “don’t be unjust to him. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> was a bitter pill for me -to take a penny from him; but I did, because they made me.”</p> - -<p>“And you’ve spent it all!”</p> - -<p>Edgar laughed; he could not help it. His elastic nature had mounted up -again; he began to feel sure that he could not be ruined so completely -after all; he must be able to do something. He looked up at his -questioner with eyes full of humour. Mr. Tottenham, who was standing in -front as grave as a judge, looked at him, and did not laugh.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see the fun,” he said. “You shouldn’t have done it. You have -let yourself drop half out of recollection before you asked for -anything, whereas you should have got provided for at once. Hang it all! -I suppose there are some places yet where a man in office may place a -friend—and some opportunities left to put a good man in by means of a -job, instead of putting in a bad man by competition, or seniority, or -some other humbug. You should have done that at first.”</p> - -<p>“Possibly,” said Edgar, who had been amused, not by the idea of having -spent all his money, but by that of making a clean breast to this man, -whom he had never spoken to before, of the most private particulars of -his life.</p> - -<p>Mr. Tottenham made a few turns about the room, where there was for the -moment nobody but themselves. He said then suddenly,</p> - -<p>“I take an interest in you. I should like to help you if I could. -Tottenham’s is no end of a good property, and I can do what I like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“I am sure I am very much obliged,” said Edgar, laughing. “I should -thank you still more warmly if it were not so funny. Why should you take -an interest in me?”</p> - -<p>“It is odd, perhaps,” said the other; but he did not laugh. A smile ran -over his face, that was all, and passed again like a momentary light. -Then he added, “It is not so odd as you think. If I could conceal from -you who my wife was, I might be tempted to do so; but I can’t, for -though I’m only Tottenham’s, she’s in the peerage. My Mary is sister to -Augusta Thornleigh, who—well, who <i>knew</i> you, my dear fellow. Look -here! She’s fashionable and all that; she would not let you see her -daughters, at present, if she could help it; but she’s a good woman, -mind. I have heard her tell your story. If ever there was a hard case, -that was one; and when I heard of it, I resolved, if I ever had the -chance, to stand by you. You behaved like a gentleman. Since we have -been made acquainted, Earnshaw, we have not shaken hands yet!”</p> - -<p>They did it now very heartily; and in those restless grey eyes, which -were worn by sheer use and perpetual motion, there glimmered some -moisture. Edgar’s eyes were dry, but his whole heart was melted. There -was a pause for a minute or more, and the ashes fell softly on the -hearth, and the clock ticked on the mantel-piece. Then Edgar asked, “How -are they all?” with that sound in his utterance which the French in -their delicate discrimination call tears in the voice.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span></p> -<p>“Quite well, quite well!” said Tottenham hurriedly; and then he added, -“We didn’t come here to speak of them. Earnshaw, I want you to come to -my house.”</p> - -<p>“It is very kind of you,” said Edgar. “I think I have seen Lady Mary. -She is very sweet and lively, like—some one else; with fair hair——”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t she?” cried Lady Mary’s admiring husband; and his eyes glowed -again. “I want you to come and stay with us while this business with -Newmarch gets settled.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” said Edgar, with genuine surprise; and then he added, “You are a -great deal too good. I should like to go for a day or two. I haven’t -spoken to a lady for months.”</p> - -<p>“Poor fellow!” said Mr. Tottenham, taking no notice of the “Why?” “We -live only a little way out of town, on account of the shop. I have never -neglected the shop since the time I told you about. She would not let me -for that matter. Nobody, you see, can snub <i>her</i>, in consequence of her -rank; and partly for her sake, partly because I’m rich, I suppose, -nobody tries to snub me. There are many of my plans in which you could -help me very much—for a time, you know, till Newmarch comes off.”</p> - -<p>“You are very kind,” said Edgar; but his attention wandered after this, -and other thoughts came into his mind, thoughts of himself and his -forlorn condition, and of the profound uncertainty into which he and all -his ways had been plunged. He scarcely paid any attention to the -arrangements Mr. Tottenham immediately made, though he remem<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span>bered that -he promised to go out with him next day to Tottenham’s, as his house was -called. “The same as the shop,” he said, with a twinkle in the corner of -his grey eye. Edgar consented to these arrangements passively; but his -patience was worn out, and he was very anxious to get away.</p> - -<p>And so this strange evening came to an end, and the morning after it. -The new day arose, a smoky, foggy, wintry morning, through which so many -people went to work; but not Edgar. He looked out upon the world from -his window with a failing heart. Even from Kensington and Brompton, -though these are not mercantile suburbs, crowds of men were jolting -along on all the omnibuses, crowds pouring down on either side of the -street—to work. The shop people went along the road getting and -delivering orders; the maid-servants bustled about the doors in the -foggy, uncertain light; the omnibuses rushed on, on, in a continuous -stream; and everybody was busy. Those who had no work to do, pretended -at least to be busy too; the idlers had not come out yet, had not -stirred, and the active portion of the world were having everything -their own way. Edgar had revived from his depression, but he had not -regained his <i>insouciance</i> and trust in the future. On the contrary, he -was full of the heaviest uncertainty and care. He could not wait longer -for this appointment, which might keep him hanging on half his life, -which was just as near now as when he began to calculate on having it -“about Christmas;” probably the next Christmas would see it just as -uncertain still. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span> must, he felt, attempt something else, and change -his tactics altogether. He must leave his expensive lodgings at once; -but alas! he had a big bill for them, which he had meant to pay off his -first quarter’s salary. He had meant to pay it the moment that blessed -money for which he should have worked came; and now there was no -appearance, no hope of it ever coming—at least, only as much hope as -there had always been, no more.</p> - -<p>Poor Edgar! he might have rushed out of doors and taken to the first -manual work he could find as his heart bade him; but to go and solicit -somebody once more, and hang on and wait, dependent upon the -recollection or the caprice of some one or other who could give -employment, but might, out of mere wantonness, withhold it—this was -harder than any kind of work. He could dig, he felt, and would dig -willingly, or do any other thing that was hard and simple and -straightforward; but to beg for means of working he was ashamed; and -there seemed something so miserable, so full of the spirit of dependence -in having to wait on day by day doing nothing, waiting till something -might fall into his hands. How infinitely better off working men were, -he said to himself; not thinking that even the blessed working man, who -is free from the restraints and punctilios which bind gentlemen, has yet -to stand and wait, and ask for work too, with the best.</p> - -<p>He went back to Mr. Parchemin that morning.</p> - -<p>“I have been waiting for Lord Newmarch,” he said; “he promised me a post -about Christmas, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> now he tells me there is just as much hope as -ever, but no more. I must do something else. Could you not take me in as -clerk in your own office? I should not mind a small salary to start -with; anything would do.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Parchemin laughed, a dry and echoing “Ha, ha!” which was as dusty -and dry as his office.</p> - -<p>“A strange clerk you would make,” he said, looking over his shoulder to -conceal his amusement. “Can you engross?”</p> - -<p>“Of course not. How should I? But if a man were to try—”</p> - -<p>“Do you know anything about the law? Of what possible use could you be -to us? No; you are a fancy article, entirely a fancy article. -Government,” said the old lawyer, “Government is the thing for you.”</p> - -<p>“Government does not seem to see it in that light,” said Edgar. “I have -waited since October.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Sir! October is but three months off. You can’t expect, like a -child, to have your wants supplied the moment you ask for anything. A -slice of cake may be given in that way, but not an appointment. You must -have patience, Mr. Earnshaw, you must have patience,” said the old man.</p> - -<p>“But I have spent the half of my hundred pounds,” Edgar was about to -say; but something withheld him; he could not do it. Should he not -furnish the old lawyer by so doing with an unquestionable argument -against himself? Should he not expose his own foolishness, the -foolishness of the man who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> thought himself able to give up everything -for others, and then could do nothing but run into debt and ruin on his -own account? Edgar could not do it; he resolved rather to struggle on -upon nothing, rather to starve, though that was a figure of speech, than -to put himself so much in anyone’s power; which was pride, no doubt, but -a useful kind of pride, which sometimes keeps an erring man out of -further trouble. He went back at once, and paid his landlord a portion -of what he owed him, and removed his goods to a small upstairs room -which he found he could have cheap, and might have had all the time had -he been wise enough to ask. It was the room in which his own servant had -slept when he travelled with such an appendage; but the new-born pride -which had struggled into existence in Edgar’s mind had no such ignoble -part in it as to afflict him on this account. He was quite happy to go -up to his man’s room, where everything was clean and homely, and felt no -derogation of his personal dignity. Thank Heaven, this was one thing -done at least—a step taken, though nothing could be gained by it, only -something spared.</p> - -<p>In the afternoon Mr. Tottenham met him at his club, driving a pair of -handsome horses in a smart phaeton, such a turnout as only a rich man’s -can be, everything about it perfect. Edgar had not indulged in any -luxurious tastes during his own brief reign; it had been perhaps too -short to develop them; but he recognised the perfect appointments of the -vehicle with a half sigh of satisfaction and reminiscence. He did not -say, why should this man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> be lucky enough to have all this when I have -nothing? as so many people do. He was not given to such comparisons, to -that ceaseless contrast of self with the rest of the world, which is so -common. He half smiled at himself for half sighing over the day when he -too might have had everything that heart could desire, and smiled more -than half at the whimsical thought that he had not taken the good of his -wealth half so much then as he would have done now, had he the chance. -He seemed to himself—knowing how short Edgar Arden’s tenure was—to be -aware of a hundred things which Edgar might have done to amuse and -delight him, which indeed Edgar Arden, knowing nothing of his own short -tenure, and believing life to be very long and much delight awaiting -him, never dreamt of making any haste to procure. A curious sense of -well-being seemed to take hold of him as he bowled along the suburban -roads by Mr. Tottenham’s side, wrapped in one of the fur coats which the -chill and foggy evening made comfortable, watching the long lines of -lamps that twinkled and stretched out like a golden thread, and then -were left behind as in the twinkling of an eye. To hear of Lady Mary -Tottenham, who was Lady Augusta’s sister, and aunt to all the young -Thornleighs, seemed somehow like being wafted back to the old -atmosphere, to the state of affairs which lasted so short a time and -ended so suddenly; but which was, notwithstanding its brevity, the most -important and influential moment of his life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /><br /> -<small>The Enchanted Palace.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Tottenham’s</span> was about five miles from London on the Bayswater side. It -was a huge house, standing upon a little eminence, and surrounded by -acres of park and clouds of thick but leafless trees, which looked -ghostly enough in the Winter darkness. The fog had faded away from them -long before they got so far, and had been replaced by the starlight -clearness of a very cold evening; the sky was almost black, the points -of light in it dead white, and all the landscape, so far as it was -perceptible, an Indian ink landscape in faintly differing shades of -black and deepest grey. Nevertheless it was a relief to breathe the -fresh country air, after the damp fog which had clung to their throats -and blinded their eyes. The roads were still hard, though there were -signs of the breaking up of the frost, and the horses’ hoofs rang as -they dashed along.</p> - -<p>“It’s a nice place,” Mr. Tottenham said, “though I, of course, only -bought it from the old people, who fortunately were not very venerable -nor very desirable. It had a fine name before, and it was Mary’s idea to -call it Tottenham’s. As we cannot ignore the shop, it is as well to take -the full advantage of it. The worst thing is,” he added lowering<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span> his -voice, “it hurts the servants’ feelings dreadfully. We have at last -managed to get a butler who sees the humour of it, and acknowledges the -shop with a condescending sense that the fact of <i>his</i> serving a -shopkeeper is the best joke in the world. You will notice a -consciousness of this highly humorous position at once in his face; but -it is a bitter pill to the rest of the household. The housemaids and our -friend behind us, cannot bear any reference to the degradation. You will -respect their feelings, Earnshaw? I am sure you will take care to show a -seemly respect for their feelings.”</p> - -<p>Edgar laughed, and Mr. Tottenham went on. He was a very easy man to talk -with; indeed he did most of the conversation himself, and was so -pleasantly full of his home and his wife and his evident happiness, that -no one, or at least no one so sympathetic as Edgar, could have -stigmatized with unkind names the lengthened monologue. There was this -excuse for it on the other hand, that he was thus making himself and his -belongings known to a stranger whom he had determined to make a friend -of. Few people dislike to talk about themselves when they can throw off -all fear of ridicule, and have a tolerable excuse for their fluency. We -all like it, dear reader; we know it sounds egotistical, and the wiser -we are the more we avoid exposing our weakness; but yet when we can feel -it is safe and believe that it is justified, how pleasant it is to tell -some fresh and sympathetic listener all about ourselves! Perhaps this is -one of the reasons why youth is so pleasant a companion to age, because<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> -the revelations on each side can be full and lengthened without -unsuitability or fear of misconstruction. Edgar, too, possessed many of -the qualities which make a good listener. He was in a subdued state of -mind, and had no particular desire to talk in his own person; he had no -history for the moment that would bear telling; he was glad enough to be -carried lightly along upon the stream of this other man’s story, which -amused him, if nothing else. Edgar’s life had come to a pause; he lay -quiescent between two periods, not knowing where the next tide might -lift him, or what might be the following chapter. He was like a -traveller in the night, looking in through a hospitable open window at -some interior all bright with firelight and happiness, getting to -recognise which was which in the household party round the fire, and -listening with a gratitude more warm and effusive than had the service -been a greater one, to the hospitable invitation to enter. As well might -such a traveller have censured the openness which drew no curtains and -closed no shutters, and warmed his breast with the sight of comfort and -friendliness, as Edgar could have called Mr. Tottenham’s talk -egotistical. For had not he too been called in for rest and shelter out -of the night?</p> - -<p>He felt as in a dream when he entered the house, and was led through the -great hall and staircase, and into the bright rooms to be presented to -Lady Mary, who came forward to meet her husband’s new friend with the -kindest welcome. She was a little light woman with quantities of fair -hair, lively, and gay, and kind, with nothing of the worn<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> look which -distinguished her husband, but a fresh air, almost of girlhood, in her -slight figure and light movements. She was so like <i>some one else</i>, that -Edgar’s heart beat at sight of her, as it had not beat for years before. -Gussy Thornleigh had gone out of his life, for ever, as he thought. He -had given her up completely, hopelessly—and he had not felt at the time -of this renunciation that his love for her had ever reached the length -of passion, or that this was one of the partings which crush all -thoughts of possible happiness out of the heart. But, notwithstanding, -her idea had somehow lingered about him, as ideas passionately cherished -do not always do. When he had been still and musing, the light little -figure, the pretty head with its curls, the half laughing, half wise -look with which this little girl would discourse to him upon everything -in earth and heaven, had got into a way of coming up before him with the -most astonishing reality and vividness. “I was not so very much in love -with Gussy,” he had said to himself very often at such moments, with a -whimsical mixture of surprise and complaint. No, he had not been so very -much in love with her; yet she had haunted him all these three years. -Lady Mary was only her aunt, which is not always an attractive -relationship; generally, indeed, the likeness between a pretty girl and -a middle-aged woman is rather discouraging to a lover, as showing to -what plump and prosaic good condition his ethereal darling may come, -than delightful; but Edgar had no sham sentiment about him, and was not -apt to be assailed by any such unreal disgusts, even<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> had there been -anything to call them forth. Lady Mary, however, was still as -lightfooted and light-hearted as Gussy herself. She had the same -abundant fair hair, the same lively sweet eyes, never without the -possibility of a laugh in them, and never anything but kind. She came up -to Edgar holding out both her hands.</p> - -<p>“You are not a stranger to me,” she said, “don’t introduce him, Tom. The -only difficulty I have about you, is how to address you as Mr. -Earnshaw—but that is only for the first moment. Sit down and thaw, both -of you, and I will give you some tea—that is if you want tea. We have -nobody with us for a day or two fortunately, and you will just have time -to get acquainted with us, Mr. Earnshaw, and know all our ways before -any one else comes.”</p> - -<p>“But a day or two ought to be the limit—” Edgar began, hesitating.</p> - -<p>“What! you have said nothing?” said Lady Mary, hastily turning to her -husband. He put his finger on his lip.</p> - -<p>“You are a most impetuous little person, Mary,” he said, “you don’t know -the kind of bird we have got into the net. You think he will let you -openly and without any illusion put salt upon his tail. No greater -mistake could be. Earnshaw,” he added calmly, “come and let me show you -your room. We dine directly, as we are alone and above ceremony. You can -talk to my wife as much as you like after dinner—I shall go to sleep. -What a blessing it is to be allowed to go to sleep after dinner,” he -went on as he led the way upstairs,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> “especially on Saturday night—when -one is tired and has Sunday to look forward to.”</p> - -<p>“Why should it be especially blessed on Saturday night?”</p> - -<p>“My dear fellow,” said the host solemnly, ushering his guest into a -large and pleasant room, brilliant with firelight, “it is very clear -that you have never kept a shop.”</p> - -<p>And with these words he disappeared, leaving Edgar, it must be allowed, -somewhat disturbed in his mind as to what it could all mean, why he had -been thus selected as a visitor and conducted to this fairy palace; what -it was that the wife wondered her husband had not said—and indeed what -the whole incident meant? As he looked round upon his luxurious -quarters, and felt himself restored as it were to the life he had so -long abandoned, curious dreams and fancies came fluttering about Edgar -without any will of his own. It was like the adventure (often enough -repeated) in the Arabian nights, in which the hero is met by some -mysterious mute and blindfolded, and led into a mysterious hall, all -cool with plashing fountains and sweet with flowers. These images were -not exactly suited to the wintry drive he had just taken, though that -was pleasant enough in its way, and no bed of roses could have been so -agreeable as the delightful glimpse of the fire, and all the warm and -soft comfort about him. But had he been blindfolded—had he been brought -unawares into some beneficent snare? Edgar’s heart began to beat a -little quicker than usual. He did not know and dared<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> not have whispered -to himself what the fancies were that beset him. He tried to frown them -down, to represent to himself that he was mad, that the curious freak of -his new friend, and his own long fasting from all social intercourse had -made this first taste of it too much for his brain. But all that he -could do was not enough to free him from the wild fancies which buzzed -about him like gnats in Summer, each with its own particular hum and -sting. He dressed hurriedly and took a book by way of escaping from -them, a dry book which he compelled himself to read, rather than go -crazy altogether. Good heavens, was he mad already? In that mysterious -palace where the hero is brought blindfold, where he is waited on by -unseen hands, and finds glorious garments and wonderful feasts magically -prepared for him, is there not always in reserve a princess more -wonderful still, who takes possession of the wayfarer? “Retro, Satanas!” -cried poor Edgar, throwing the book from him, feeling his cheeks flush -and burn like a girl’s, and his heart leap into his throat. No greater -madness, no greater folly could be. It was no doing of his, he protested -to himself with indignation and dismay. Some evil spirit had got hold of -him; he refused to think, and yet these dreamy mocking fancies would get -into his head. It was a relief beyond description to him when the dinner -bell rang and he could hurry downstairs. When he went into the -drawing-room, however, all the buzzing brood of thoughts which fluttered -within him, grew still and departed in a moment; his heart ceased to -thump, and an utter quiet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> and stillness took the place of the former -commotion. Why? Simply because he found Lady Mary and Mr. Tottenham -awaiting him calmly, without a vestige of any other <i>convive</i>, except a -boy of twelve and a girl two years younger, who came up to him with a -pretty demure frankness and put out their hands in welcome.</p> - -<p>“My boy and my girl,” said Mr. Tottenham; “and Molly, as your mother is -going in with Mr. Earnshaw, you must try to look very grown up for the -nonce, and take my arm and walk with me.”</p> - -<p>“And poor Phil must come alone!” said the little girl with mingled -regret and triumph. No, it was very clear to Edgar that he himself was -not only a fool of the first water, but a presumptuous ass, a coxcomb -fool, everything that was worst and vainest. And yet it had not been his -doing; it was not he who had originated these foolish thoughts, which -had assailed, and swarmed, and buzzed about him like a crowd of gnats or -wasps—wasps was the better word; for there was spitefulness in the way -they had persisted and held their own; but now, thank heaven, they were -done with! He came to himself with a little shudder, and gave Lady Mary -his arm, and walked through the ordinary passage of an ordinary house, -into a room which was a handsome dining-room, but not a mystic hall; and -then they all sat down at table, the two children opposite to him, in -the most prosaic and ordinary way.</p> - -<p>“You think it wrong to have the children, Mr. Earnshaw?” said Lady Mary, -“and so do I—though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> I like it. It is only when we are alone, and it is -all their father’s doing. I tell him it will spoil their digestion and -their manners—”</p> - -<p>“If it spoils Molly’s manners to associate with her mother the more’s -the pity,” said Mr. Tottenham, “we shall try the experiment anyhow. What -we call the lower classes don’t treat their children as we do; they -accept the responsibility and go in for the disagreeables; therefore, -though we hate having those brats here, we go in for them on principle. -Earnshaw, have you considered the matter of education? Have you any -ideas on the subject? Not like your friend Lord Newmarch, who has the -correct ideas on everything, cut and dry, delivered by the last post. I -don’t want that. Have you any notions of your own?”</p> - -<p>“About education?” said Edgar, “I don’t think it. I fear I have few -ideas on any abstract subject. The chances are that I will easily agree -with you whatever may be your opinions; heaven has preserved me from -having any of my own.”</p> - -<p>“Then you will just suit each other,” said Lady Mary, “which he and -I—forgive me for letting you into our domestic miseries, Mr. -Earnshaw—don’t do at all, on this point; for we have both ideas, and -flourish them about us unmercifully. How happy he will be as long as he -can have you to listen to him! not that I believe you will be half as -good as your word.”</p> - -<p>“Ideas are the salt of life,” said Mr. Tottenham; “that of course is -what has made you look so languid for some time past.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Edgar looked up in surprise. “Have I been looking languid? Have you been -observing me?” he cried. “This is after all a fairy palace where I have -been brought blindfolded, and where every action of my life is known.”</p> - -<p>Upon this, Mr. Philip Tottenham, aged twelve, pricked up his ears. “Were -you brought here blindfolded?” he said. “What fun! like the Arabian -Nights. I wish somebody would take me like that into a fairy palace, -where there would be a beautiful lady—”</p> - -<p>“Phil, you are talking nonsense,” said his mother.</p> - -<p>“Where the dinner would come when you clapped your hands, and sherbets -and ices and black servants, who would cross their arms on their breasts -and nod their heads like images—It was he began it,” cried Philip, -breathless, getting it all out in a burst before anyone could interpose.</p> - -<p>“You see how these poor children are spoilt,” said Lady Mary; “yes, he -has been observing you, Mr. Earnshaw. I sent him into town three days in -succession, on purpose.”</p> - -<p>“You have looked as languid as a young lady after the season,” said Mr. -Tottenham calmly, “till I saw there was nothing for you but the country, -and a sharp diet of talks and schemes, and the ideas you scorn. When a -man is happy and prosperous, it is all very well for him to do nothing; -but if you happen to be on the wrong side of the hill, my dear fellow, -you can’t afford to keep quiet. You must move on, as Policeman X would -say; or your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> friends must keep you moving on. To-morrow is Sunday, -unfortunately, when we shall be obliged to keep moderately quiet—”</p> - -<p>“Is it wrong to talk on Sunday?” said the little girl, appealing gravely -to Edgar, whom for some time she had been gazing at.</p> - -<p>“Not that I know of,” Edgar replied with a smile; but as he looked from -one to the other of the parent pair, he said to himself that there was -no telling what theory upon this subject these excellent people might -have. They might be desperate Sabbatarians for anything he could tell.</p> - -<p>“Why do you ask Mr. Earnshaw, Molly?” said Lady Mary.</p> - -<p>“Because,” said Molly, “I saw his picture once. I knew him whenever I -saw him, and when I asked who it was, they said it was a very good man. -So I knew it must be quite right to ask him. Papa talks more on Sunday -than on other days, though he always talks a great deal; and yet just -now he said because it is Sunday we must be quiet. Then I said to -myself, why must we be quiet on Sunday? is it wrong?”</p> - -<p>“This child is too logical for our peace of mind,” said Mr. Tottenham; -“if it were Phil it would not matter so much, for school would soon -drive that out of him.”</p> - -<p>“But he is not going to school,” said Lady Mary quickly.</p> - -<p>“Not yet, perhaps—but some time or other, I hope; a boy has not half -lived who has not been to school. I suppose politics are your strong -point,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> Earnshaw? Foreign politics, to judge from what I heard Newmarch -saying. That fellow wants to pick your brains. I should not think it a -subject that would pay, unless you made it your <i>cheval de bataille</i>, -like Gordon Grant, who knows everything that happens abroad better than -the people themselves do—who never, he tells us, see half what is going -on.”</p> - -<p>“Quite true,” said Lady Mary, “they never do; one doesn’t in one’s own -experience. One finds out all the little incidents afterwards, and -pieces them into their places.”</p> - -<p>“Only it is Earnshaw who is to find out the little incidents, and -Newmarch who is to piece them into their places,” said her husband; -“hard work for the one, great fun, and great glory besides, for the -other. I don’t think I should care to be jackal to Newmarch; especially -as he means all this to be done, not by a Secretary of Legation, but by -a Queen’s Messenger. Do you know what kind of life that is?”</p> - -<p>Edgar shook his head. He knew nothing about it, and at this moment he -did not care very much. The buzzing and persecution of those thoughts -which were none of his, which had a separate existence of their own, and -tortured him for admission into his mind, had recommenced. What had he -been brought here for? Why did they attempt to disgust him with the only -career open before him? What did they intend to do with him? The father -and his boy might be ordinary beings enough, with whom he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> could have -kept up an ordinary intercourse; but Lady Mary and her little daughter -had the strangest effect upon the young man. One of them was full grown, -motherly, on the border of middle age—the other was but a child; yet -the tone of their voices, the turn of their heads, all suggested to him -some one else who was not there. Even little Molly had the family -gestures, the throwing back of the light locks, the sweet brightness of -the eyes, which were so playful and soft, yet so full of vivacious -spirit and life. Poor Edgar was kept in a kind of confused rapture -between the mother and the child; both of them reflected another face, -and echoed another voice to him; between them they seemed to be stealing -all the strength out of him, the very heart from his bosom. He had been -absent three years and had it all come to this, that the soft strain of -enchantment which had charmed him so softly, so lightly, never to any -height of passion, had grown stronger with time, and moved him now more -deeply than at first? These persecuting thoughts made a swoop upon him -like a flight of birds, sweeping down through the air and surrounding -him, as he sat there helpless. Why had he been brought to this -magician’s palace? What did they mean to do with him now? The child had -seen his portrait, the father had been sent to watch him, the mother -asked had anything been said. What was about to be said? What were they -going to do with him? Poor Edgar looked out as from a mist, gradually -overwhelmed by his own excitement, and finally left the doors of his -helpless heart open, as it were,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> making it a highway through which any -kind of futile supposition might flit and dance. He sat helpless, -excited and wondering. What were they going to do with him? He did not -know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /><br /> -<small>Reality.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> frost hardened again in the night, and Tottenham’s was all white and -shining when Edgar looked out from his window in the morning. The house -was square and somewhat ugly, but the great semi-circle of trees which -swept round it was made into something magical by the feathery silvering -of the rime which coated every branch and every twig. He made an -exclamation of pleasure when he looked out. The grass, the trees, the -glistening pinnacles of the great conservatory which stretched to the -south, just catching a glimpse of frosty and wavering sunlight upon -their metallic tops, were all virgin white, though here and there it -began to melt in the sun. Edgar had been far from thinking himself happy -when he fell asleep on the previous night; he was still confused and -harassed by his thoughts, keeping up a hopeless struggle against them; -but he woke up in a state of causeless exhilaration, he did not know -why. The hoar frost and the red sunshine went to his head. His heart -beat more lightly than usual, the blood coursed pleasantly through his -veins. He was like most imaginative people, often glad, and sorry he did -not know why, and a certain unreasonable capricious confidence in his -fate came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> over him to-day. Something good was coming to him he felt -sure.</p> - -<p>The breakfast table at Tottenham’s was lively enough. Lady Mary and her -husband were in full and animated discussion about something or other, -with a shoal of opened letters lying before them, and all the newspapers -that could be had, when Edgar made his appearance somewhat late. The -children who were present on the previous night were flanked by another -small pair, too small to be restrained by mamma, who chattered and -crowed, and made themselves very happy. A bright fire was burning, and -the red sunshine shone in, glinting over the white covered table and its -shining dishes.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Earnshaw will agree with me,” Lady Mary cried as he went in, -appealing to him.</p> - -<p>“Come along, Earnshaw, you will take my side,” said Mr. Tottenham.</p> - -<p>They were both eager to claim his help, and the elder children looked up -at him with the freedom of perfect ease and intimacy.</p> - -<p>“Nobody can ever call Molly the late one, now Mr. Earnshaw is here,” -cried Phil exulting. They all received him as one of themselves, and in -everything they said there was a silent suggestion that he belonged to -them, that he was to remain with them, which bewildered him beyond -words. The letters on the table were about every subject under heaven. -They had their domestic correspondence, I suppose, and family affairs of -their own; but these epistles were all about “schemes” of one kind and -another,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span> plans for the reformation of heaven knows how many classes of -society, and for the improvement of the world altogether, which indeed -has great need of improvement. I cannot tell what the special question -might be that morning; there were so many of them that it was difficult -for a stranger to discriminate; and as Lady Mary had told him, she and -her husband very seldom agreed. They were both intensely in earnest, and -both threw themselves with all their might into everything they did. -Edgar, however, was not in a mood to utter any oracles, or to associate -himself with one scheme or another. He was disposed to enjoy the strange -holiday which had come to him, he could not tell how. He left the father -and mother to themselves, and addressed himself to the children.</p> - -<p>“Phil,” he said, “you and I are ignoramuses, we don’t know about these -deep matters. Talk to me of something within my capacity; or Molly, if -Phil will not talk, do you.”</p> - -<p>The reply to this was that both children talked together.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Earnshaw, the ice is bearing; what an awful pity it’s Sunday!” said -the boy, “I wanted to tell you whenever you came in—” and “Oh, Mr. -Earnshaw, come to church with us, and I’ll show you the village and my -pet old woman who tells us stories,” said the little girl.</p> - -<p>Edgar was delighted. He asked about the ice, what it was, an ornamental -piece of water, or the village pond; and told Molly he would go and see -her village, and try whether he or she could re<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span>member most of the -sermon. Phil interfered when he heard this bargain. He shook his head -over the rashness of his new friend.</p> - -<p>“She has an awful good memory,” he said, “I wouldn’t try against her, -Mr. Earnshaw, if I was you. She remembers what people said ages and ages -ago, and comes down upon you after you have forgotten all about it. I -wouldn’t go in against Moll.”</p> - -<p>“But I haven’t such an awfully good memory for sermons,” said Molly, -with modest deprecation of the excessive praise, “though I do remember -most things pretty well.”</p> - -<p>“Molly will win of course; but I shall try my best,” said Edgar. The -children suited him best on this day of exhilaration when his heart was -so foolishly free. He caught the father and mother looking at him, with -significant glances to each other, while this conversation was going on, -and was bewildered to think what they could mean. What did they mean? It -was altogether bewildering and perplexing. The man who attended him that -morning had informed him that he had been told off for his especial -service, and had looked somewhat offended when Edgar laughed and -declared he required no particular tending. “I ’ad my horders, Sir,” -said the man. Everybody seemed to have their orders; and if that curious -insanity of thought which had assailed him yesterday, a running riot of -imagination, for which he did not feel himself to be responsible—if -that came back again,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> tearing open the doors of his heart, and pouring -through them, was it his fault?</p> - -<p>The village lay at the park gates; but villages so near London are not -like villages in the depths of the country. This was one where there was -a number of smaller gentlefolks, tributaries on all great occasions of -Tottenham’s; but when they had a chance, very glad to note any -deficiency on the part of the man whom they called a <i>nouveau riche</i>, -and even a shopkeeper, which was the title of deepest reproach they -could think of. Indeed if Mr. Tottenham had not married Lady Mary, I -believe he would have had many little pricks and stings from his poor -yet well-born neighbours; but a Lady Mary in English village society -cannot do wrong. It was a pleasant walk to church, where they all went -together, the children walking demurely in honour of Sunday, though -Phil’s eye and heart were tempted by the long expanse of white which -showed between two lines of green at the right side of the road.</p> - -<p>“It is hard enough to bear the big town carriage,” he said -confidentially to Edgar, “or one of the farmer’s huge carts.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll go and see it after church,” said Edgar in the same tone; and so -the little procession moved on. Perhaps Lady Mary was the one who cared -for this family progress to church the least. Mr. Tottenham, though he -was given over to schemes of the most philosophical description, was the -simplest soul alive, doing his duty in this respect with as light a -heart as his children. But Lady Mary was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span> very “viewy.” She was an -advanced liberal, and read the “Fortnightly,” and smiled at many things -that were said out of the pulpit once a week. Sometimes even she would -laugh a little at the “duty” of going to church, and hearing old Mr. -Burton maunder for half an hour; but all the same she respected her -husband’s prejudices, and the traditions of the superior class, which, -even when it believes in natural equality, still feels it necessary to -set an example to its neighbours. Lady Mary professed sentiments which -were inclined towards republicanism and democracy; but nevertheless she -knew that she was one of the gods, and had to conduct herself as became -that regnant position among men.</p> - -<p>“There goes the shopkeeper and his family,” said Mrs. Colonel -Witherington from her window, which looked out on the village green. -“Girls, it is time to put on your bonnets. A man like that is bred up to -be punctual; he comes to church as he goes to the shop, as the hour -strikes. There he goes—”</p> - -<p>“As ostentatiously humble as ever,” said one of the girls.</p> - -<p>“And he has got one of the shopmen with him, mamma,” said Myra, who was -the wit of the family. “Not a bad looking draper’s assistant; they -always have the shopmen out on Sundays. Poor fellows, it is their only -day.”</p> - -<p>“Poor fellows, indeed! I suppose Lady Mary thinks because she is an -earl’s daughter she can do whatever she likes; introducing such people -as these into the society of gentle-folks,” cried the mother.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> “Myra, -don’t stand laughing there, but put on your things.”</p> - -<p>“We need not go into their society unless we please,” said Myra.</p> - -<p>“And to be sure an Earl’s daughter <i>can</i> do whatever she likes; no -nonsense of that description will make <i>her</i> lose caste,” said the -eldest Miss Witherington, turning away from the window with a sigh. This -poor young lady, not being an Earl’s daughter, had not been able to do -as she liked, or to marry as she liked, and she felt the difference far -more keenly than her mother did, who was affected only in theory. This -was one of the many scraps of neighbourly talk which went on at Harbour -Green when the party from Tottenham’s were seen walking through the -village to church. Lady Mary was an Earl’s daughter, and she <i>did</i> take -it upon her to do precisely as she liked; but her neighbours directed -most of their indignation upon her husband who had no such privileges, a -man who was civil to everybody, and whom they all confessed, whenever -they wanted anything of him, to be the best-natured fellow in the world.</p> - -<p>The service in the little church was not so well-conducted as it might -have been, had Lady Mary taken more interest in it; but still the lesser -authorities had done something for the training of the choir, and a -gentle Ritualism, not too pronounced as yet, kept everything in a -certain good order. Lady Mary herself did not take the same honest and -simple part in the devotions as her husband and children did; various -parts of the service went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> against her views; she smiled a little as she -listened to the sermon. A close observer might have noticed that, though -she behaved with the most perfect decorum, as a great lady ought, she -yet felt herself somewhat superior to all that was going on. I cannot -say that Edgar noticed this on his first Sunday at Harbour Green, though -he may have remarked it afterwards; but Edgar’s mind was not at the -present moment sufficiently free to remark upon individual peculiarity. -The sense of novelty or something else more exciting still worked in -him, and left him in a state of vague agitation; and when the service -being over, Lady Mary hurried on with the children, on pretence of -calling on some one, and left Mr. Tottenham with Edgar, the young man -felt his heart beat higher, and knew that the moment at last had come.</p> - -<p>“Well, Earnshaw! you have not had much time to judge, it is true; but -how do you think you like us?” said Mr. Tottenham. The question was odd, -but the questioner’s face was as grave as that of a judge. “We are hasty -people, and you are hasty,” he added, “so it is not so absurd as it -might be; how do you think you shall like us? Now speak out, never mind -our feelings. I am not asking you sentimentally, but from a purely -business point of view.”</p> - -<p>“I am so hasty a man,” said Edgar, laughing, with a much stronger sense -of the comic character of the position than the other had, “that I made -up my mind at sight, as one generally does; but since then you have so -bribed me by kindness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span>—”</p> - -<p>“Then you do like us!” said Mr. Tottenham, holding out his hand, “I -thought you would. Of course if you had not liked us our whole scheme -would have come to nothing, and Mary had rather set her heart on it. You -will be sure not to take offence, or to think us impertinent if I tell -you what we thought?”</p> - -<p>“One word,” said Edgar with nervous haste. “Tell me first what it has -been that has made you take such a warm interest in me?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Tottenham winced and twisted his slim long person as a man in an -embarrassing position is apt to do. “Well,” he said, “Earnshaw, I don’t -know that we can enter into it so closely as that. We have always taken -an interest in you, since the time when you were a great friend of the -Thornleigh’s and we were always hearing of you; and when you behaved so -well in that bad business. And then some months ago we heard that you -had been seen coming up from Scotland—travelling,” Mr. Tottenham added, -with hesitation, “in the cheap way.”</p> - -<p>“Who told you that?” Edgar’s curiosity gave a sharpness which he had not -intended to his voice.</p> - -<p>“Come, come,” said Mr. Tottenham good-humouredly; “that is just the -point which I cannot enter into. But you may permit us to be interested, -though we can’t describe in full detail how it came about. Earnshaw, -Mary and I are fanciful sort of people, as you perceive; we don’t always -keep to the beaten path; and we want you to do us a favour. What I am -going to ask may be a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span> irregular; it may sound a little -obtrusive; you may take it amiss; though I hope not—”</p> - -<p>“I shall not take it amiss in any case,” Edgar managed to say; but his -heart was beating very loudly, and an agitation for which he could not -account had got possession of his whole being. His mind went wildly over -a whole world of conjecture, and I need not add that he was utterly -astray in everything he thought of, and did not reach to the faintest -notion of what his companion meant to be at.</p> - -<p>“In the first place,” said Mr. Tottenham nervously, “it is evident that -you must wait till there is an opening in that business with Newmarch. I -don’t doubt in the least that he wants to have you, and that he’ll give -you the first vacancy; but he can’t kill off a man on purpose, though I -dare say he would if he could. I don’t go on to say in the second place, -as I might perhaps, that a Queen’s Messenger has a very wearisome life, -and not much to make amends for it—”</p> - -<p>Here he paused to take breath, while Edgar watched and wondered, getting -more and more bewildered every moment in the maze of conjecture through -which he could not find his way.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” said Mr. Tottenham, himself displaying a certain amount of -rising excitement, “I don’t mean to say that you ought not to accept -such an appointment if it was offered. But in the meantime, what are you -to do? Live in London, and waste your resources, and break your spirit -with continual waiting? I say no, no, by no means; and this is what put -it into my head to say what I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> am going to say to you, and to insist -upon your coming here.”</p> - -<p>What was he going to say? Still Edgar, subdued by his own excitement, -could make no reply. Mr. Tottenham paused also, as if half fearing to -take the plunge.</p> - -<p>“What we meant, Earnshaw,” he said abruptly, at last, “what Mary and I -want, if you will do it, is—that you should stay with us and take -charge of our boy.”</p> - -<p>The last words he uttered hastily, and almost sharply, as if throwing -something out that burned him while he held it. And oh! dear reader, how -can I express to you the way in which poor Edgar fell, fell, low down, -and lower down, as into some echoing depth, when these words fell upon -his dismayed and astonished ears! Take charge of their boy! God help -him! what had he been thinking about? He could not himself tell; -nothing, a chimera, the foolishest of dreams, some wild fancy which -involved the future in a vain haze of brightness with the image of the -veiled maiden in the railway carriage, and of Gussy, who was never -veiled. Oh, Heaven and earth! what a fool, what a fool he was! She had -nothing to do with it; he himself had nothing to do with it. It was but -a benevolent scheme of people with a great many benevolent schemes about -them, for the relief of a poor young fellow whom they knew to be in -trouble. That was all. Edgar went on walking as in a dream, feeling -himself spin round and round and go down, as to the bottom of some well. -He could hear that Mr. Tottenham went on speaking, and the hum of his -voice made,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> as it were, a running accompaniment to his own hubbub of -inarticulate thoughts; Edgar heard it, yet heard it not. When he woke up -from this confusion, it was quite suddenly, by reason of a pause in the -accompanying voice. The last words his bewildered intelligence caught up -were these:</p> - -<p>“You will think it over, and tell me your decision later. You will -understand that we both beg you to forgive us, if we have said or done -anything which is disagreeable to you, Earnshaw. You promise me to -remember that?”</p> - -<p>“Disagreeable!” Edgar murmured half consciously. “Why should it be -disagreeable?” but even his own voice seemed to be changed in his own -ear as he said it. He was all changed, and everything about him. “I must -go across to the pond before I go in,” he added, somewhat abruptly. “I -promised Philip to look at the ice;” and with scarcely any further -excuse, set off across the grass, from which the whiteness and crispness -of the morning frosts had been stolen away by the sun. He could not get -free of the physical sensation of having fallen. He seemed to himself to -be bruised and shaken; he could do nothing with his mind but realize and -identify his state; he could not discuss it with himself. It did not -seem to him even that he knew what he had been thinking of, what he had -been hoping; he knew only that he had fallen from some strange height, -and lay at the bottom somewhere, aching and broken in heart and -strength, stunned by the fall, and so confused that he did not know what -had happened to him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> or what he must do next. In this state of mind he -walked mechanically across the grass, and gazed at the frozen pond, -without knowing what he was doing, and then strode mechanically away -from it, and went home. (How soon we begin to call any kind of a place -home, when we have occasion to use it as such!). He went home, back to -his room, the room which surely, he thought to himself, was too good for -Mr. Tottenham’s tutor, which was the post he had been asked to occupy. -Mr. Tottenham’s boy’s tutor, that was the phrase.</p> - -<p>It was his own repetition of these words which roused him a little; the -tutor in the house; the handy man who was made to do everything; the one -individual among the gentlemen of the house whom it was possible to -order about; who was an equal, and yet no equal. No, Edgar said to -himself, with a generous swelling of his heart, it was not thus that a -dependent would be treated in Mr. Tottenham’s house; but the very idea -of being a dependent struck him with such sharp poignancy of surprise, -as well as pain, that he could not calm himself down, or make the best -of it. He had never tasted what this was like yet. When he had made his -application to Lord Newmarch, the experience had not been a pleasant -one; but it was short at least, and the position he had hoped for had -been independent at least. In it, he would have been no man’s servant, -but the Queen’s, whom all men delight to serve. Mr. Tottenham’s tutor -was a very different thing.</p> - -<p>He sat at his window, and heard without know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span>ing the great luncheon-bell -peal out through all the echoes. He felt that he could not go downstairs -to confront them all, while still in the confusion and stupor of his -downfall; for he had sustained a downfall more terrible than anyone -knew, more bewildering than he could even realize himself; from vague, -strange, delicious suspicions of something coming which might change all -his life, down to a sickening certainty of something come, which would -indeed change everything in every way, in the estimation of the world -and of himself.</p> - -<p>Mr. Tottenham walked home very seriously on his side, after this -interview. He had some sort of comprehension that the proposal he had -just made was one which, at the first hearing, would not delight his new -friend; and he was sufficiently friendly and large-minded to permit the -young man a little moment of ruffled pride, a little misery, even a -little offence, before he could make up his mind to it, notwithstanding -that it was, on the part of the Tottenhams, an impulse of almost pure -and unmixed charity and kindness which had suggested it. They were -impulsive people both, and fond of making themselves the Providence of -poorer people; and the very best thing that can be said of them, better -even than their universal and crotchety willingness to serve everybody -who came in their way, was their composure when the intended recipients -of their bounty hesitated, or, as sometimes happened, kicked at it -altogether. Their kindnesses, their bounties, their crotchets, and their -theories were all mixed up together, and might occasionally be less -good, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> do less good than they were meant to do; but the toleration -which permitted a prospective <i>protégé</i> to weigh the benefit offered, -without any angry consciousness of his want of gratitude, was admirable, -and much more unusual in this world than even the kindness itself. Mr. -Tottenham hurried off to his wife, and told her all about it; and the -two together waited for Edgar’s decision with sympathetic excitement, -almost as much disturbed in their minds as he was, and with no indignant -feeling that their good intentions were having scanty justice. On the -contrary, they discussed the matter as they might have done something in -which their <i>amour propre</i> was not at all engaged.</p> - -<p>“I hope he will see it is the best thing for him,” said Mr. Tottenham.</p> - -<p>“Of course it is the best thing for him, and he must see it,” said the -more impetuous Lady Mary; but neither one nor the other declared that he -would be a fool or ungrateful if he neglected this opening, as so many -intending benefactors would. They discussed it all the afternoon, taking -their Sunday stroll together through the greenhouses, which were -splendid, and talking of nothing but Edgar.</p> - -<p>“He must do it; we must insist upon it, Tom,” Lady Mary cried, growing -more and more eager.</p> - -<p>“I cannot make him, dear, if he don’t see it,” said the husband, shaking -his head.</p> - -<p>Thus both upstairs and downstairs there was but one subject of -consideration. The ugly things about dependence, about domestic slavery, -about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span> the equal who would not be an equal, which Edgar was saying to -himself, found no echo in the talk of the good people, full of wealth -and power to benefit others, who puckered their brows on the subject -downstairs. In this respect the thoughts of the poor man whom they -wanted to befriend, were much less generous than theirs who wanted to -befriend him. He judged them harshly, and they judged him kindly. He -attributed intentions and motives to them which they were guiltless of, -and thought of himself as degraded in their eyes by the kindness they -had offered; while, in fact, he had become a most important person to -them, solely on that account—a person occupying a superior position, -with power to decide against or for them, to honour or discredit their -judgment. Indeed, I am bound to allow that Edgar was not generous at all -at this moment of his career, and that his hosts were. But ah me! it is -so much easier to be generous, to be tolerant, to think the best, when -you are rich and can confer favours; so difficult to keep up your -optimist views, and to see the best side of everything, when you are -poor!</p> - -<p>“He will either come down and tell us that he accepts, or he will pack -his things and go off to-night,” said Lady Mary as they waited. They -were seated in the conservatory, in the centre circle under the -glittering glass dome, which had been built to give room for the great -feathery branches of a palm tree. This was the favourite spot in which -all the pretty luxury of these conservatories culminated. Some -bright-coloured Persian rugs were laid on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> floor, here and there, -upon which were some half-dozen chairs, half rustic and wholly -luxurious. All the flowers that art can extract or force from nature in -the depth of Winter were grouped about, great moon-discs of white -camellias, heaths covered with fairy bells, spotless primulas rising -from out the rough velvet of their leaves. The atmosphere was soft as a -moderate gentle Summer, and the great palm leaves stirred now and then -against the high dome of glass. Mr. Tottenham lounged on a rustic sofa, -with a cloud of anxiety on his face, and Lady Mary, too anxious to -lounge, sat bolt upright and listened. Why were those good people -anxious? I cannot tell; they wanted, I suppose, to succeed in this good -action which they had set their hearts on doing; they did not want to be -foiled; and they had set their hearts upon delivering Edgar from his -difficulties, and making him comfortable. Along with their other -sentiments there was mixed a certain generous fear lest they should have -been precipitate, lest they should have hurt the feelings and wounded -the pride of their friend whom they wished to serve. I wish there were -more of such people, and more of such susceptibilities in the world.</p> - -<p>They sat thus, until the twilight grew so deep and shadowy that they -could scarcely see each other. It was very cold outside, where -everything began again to congeal and whiten, and all the world resigned -itself with a groan to the long, long interval of dead darkness, -hopelessness, and cold which must deepen before day. At the end of a -vista of shrubs and great evergreen plants, the red<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> glow of the -drawing-room fire shone out, shining there like a ruddy star in the -distance. Lady Mary drew her shawl round her with a little shiver, and -her husband got up and yawned in the weariness of suspense. Had he gone -away without giving an answer? Had they done nothing but harm, though -they had wished so much to do good. They both started like a couple of -guilty conspirators when at length a step was heard approaching, and -Edgar appeared, half hesitating, half eager, against the glow of the -distant fire.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br /><br /> -<small>A Pair of Philanthropists.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">I need</span> not describe the many struggles of feeling which Edgar went -through on that memorable Sunday, before he finally made up his mind to -accept Mr. Tottenham’s proposal, and do the only thing which remained -possible for him, his only alternative between work of some sort and -idleness—between spending his last little remnant of money and -beginning to earn some more—a thing which he had never yet done in his -life. It was very strange to the young man, after so long an interval of -a very different life, to return vicariously, as it were, not in his own -right, to the habits and surroundings of luxury. He felt a whimsical -inclination at first to explain to everybody he encountered that he was, -so to speak, an impostor, having no right to all the good things about -him, but being only Mr. Tottenham’s upper servant, existing in the -atmosphere of the drawing-room only on sufferance and by courtesy. -People in such circumstances are generally, I believe, very differently -affected, or so at least one reads in story. They are generally pictured -as standing perpetually on the defensive, looking out for offence, -anticipating injury, and in a sore state of compulsory humility or -rather hu<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span>miliation. I do not know whether Edgar’s humorous character -could ever have been driven by ill-usage to feel in this way, but as he -had no ill-usage to put up with, but much the reverse, he took a totally -different view. After the first conflict with himself was over, which we -have already indicated, he came to consider his tutorship a good joke, -as indeed, I am sorry to say, everybody else did—even Phil, who was in -high glee over his new instructor.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what I am to teach him,” Edgar had said to the boy’s -parents when he came down to the conservatory on the memorable Sunday I -have already described, and joined the anxious pair.</p> - -<p>“Teach him whatever you know,” Lady Mary had answered; but Edgar’s half -mirthful, half dismayed sense of unfitness for the post they thrust upon -him was not much altered by this impulsive speech.</p> - -<p>“What do I know?” he said to himself next morning when, coming down -early before any one else, he found himself alone in the library, with -all the materials for instruction round him. Edgar had not himself been -educated in England, and he did not know whether such knowledge as he -possessed might not suffer from being transmitted in an unusual way -without the orthodox form. “My Latin and Greek may be good enough, -though I doubt it,” he said, when Mr. Tottenham joined him, “but how if -they are found to be quite out of the Eton shape, and therefore no good -to Phil?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Never mind the Eton shape, or any other shape,” said Mr. Tottenham, -“you heard what Mary said, and her opinion may be relied upon. Teach him -what you know. Why, he is only twelve, he has time enough for mere -shape, I hope.”</p> - -<p>And thus Edgar was again silenced. He was, however, a tolerably good -scholar, and as it happened, in pure idleness had lately betaken himself -again to those classical studies which so many men lay aside with their -youth. And in the library at Tottenham’s there was a crowd of books -bearing upon all possible theories of education, which Edgar, with a -private smile at himself, carried to his room with him in detachments, -and pored over with great impartiality, reading the most opposite -systems one after another. When he told Lady Mary about his studies, she -afforded immediate advice and information. She knew a great deal more -about them than he did. She had tried various systems, each antagonistic -to the other, in her own pet schools in the village, and she was far -from having made up her mind on the subject.</p> - -<p>“I confess to you frankly, Mr. Earnshaw,” said Lady Mary, “sometimes I -think we have nothing in the world to trust to but education, which is -the rational view; and sometimes I feel that I put no faith in it at -all.”</p> - -<p>“That is something like my own opinion,” said Earnshaw, “though I have -permitted you to do yourselves the injustice of appointing me tutor to -Phil.”</p> - -<p>“Education, like everything else, depends so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span> much on one’s theory of -life,” said Lady Mary, “Mr. Tottenham and I think differently on the -subject, which is a great pity, though I don’t see that it does us much -harm. My husband is content to take things as they are, which is by much -the more comfortable way; but that too is a matter of temperament. Phil -will be sure to get on if you will bring him into real correspondence -with your own mind. Molly gives me a great deal more trouble; a man can -get himself educated one way or another, a woman can’t.”</p> - -<p>“Is it so?” said Edgar, “pardon my ignorance. I thought most ladies were -terribly well educated.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, I know what you mean!” said Lady Mary, “educated in nothings, -taught to display all their little bits of superficial information. It -is not only that women get no education, Mr. Earnshaw, but how are we to -get it for them? Of course an effort may be made for a girl in Molly’s -position, with parents who fully appreciate the difficulties of the -matter; but for girls of the middle classes for instance? they get a -little very bad music, and worse French, and this is considered -education. I dare say you will help me by and by in one of my pet -schemes. Some of my friends in town have been so very good as to join me -in a little effort I am making to raise the standard. The rector here, a -well-meaning sort of man, has been persuaded to join, and to give us a -nicish sort of schoolroom which happens to be unoccupied, and his -countenance, which does us good with old fashioned people. I have spent -a good deal of time on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> scheme myself, and it is one of my chief -interests. I quite reckon upon you to help.”</p> - -<p>“What must I do?” said Edgar with a plaintive tone in his voice. Alas, -worse had happened to him than falling into the hands of thieves who -could only rob him—no more. He had fallen into the hands of good -Samaritans who could do a great deal worse. He thought of ragged-schools -and unruly infants; his thoughts went no further, and to this he -resigned himself with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“Then you will really help?” cried Lady Mary delighted, “I knew from the -first you would be the greatest acquisition to us. My plan is to have -lectures, Mr. Earnshaw, upon various subjects; they last only during the -winter, and a great number of girls have begun to attend. One of my -friends takes Latin, another French. Alas, our German lecturer has just -failed us! if you could supply his place it would be perfect. Then we -have history, mathematics, and literature; we cannot do much of course, -but even a little is better than nothing. It would not take up very much -of your time; an hour and a half a week, with perhaps a moment now and -then to look after exercises, &c.”</p> - -<p>“Am I expected to teach German to anybody in an hour and a half a week?” -said Edgar, laughing. “It is a small expenditure for so great a result.”</p> - -<p>“Of course you think it can only be a smattering—and that a smattering -is a bad thing?” said the social reformer, “but we really do produce -very good results—you shall see if you will but try.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“And what branch, may I ask, do you take?” said the ignorant neophyte.</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i>, Mr. Earnshaw! why I learn!” cried Lady Mary; “if I could I would -go in for all the studies, but that is impossible. I follow as many as I -can, and find it an admirable discipline for the mind, just that -discipline which is denied to women. Why do you look at me so strangely? -Why do you laugh? I assure you I mean what I say.”</p> - -<p>“If I must not laugh, pray teach me some more philosophical way of -expressing my feelings,” said Edgar, “I fear I should laugh still more -if you did me the honour to select me as one of your instructors. A year -hence when I have been well trained by Phil, I may have a little more -confidence in myself.”</p> - -<p>“If you mean,” said Lady Mary, somewhat offended, “that instructing -others is the best way to confirm your own knowledge, I am sure you are -quite right; but if you mean to laugh at my scheme—”</p> - -<p>“Pray pardon me,” said Edgar, “I can’t help it. The idea of teaching you -is too much for my gravity. Tell me who the other learned pundits are -from whom Lady Mary Tottenham learns—”</p> - -<p>“Lady Mary Tottenham would learn from any man who had anything to teach -her,” she answered with momentary anger; then added with a short laugh, -extorted from her against her will, “Mr. Earnshaw, you are very -impertinent and unkind; why should you laugh at one’s endeavour to help -on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span>e’s fellow-creatures to a little instruction, and one’s self—”</p> - -<p>“Are you quarrelling?” said Mr. Tottenham, stalking in suddenly, with -his glass in his eye. “What is the matter? Earnshaw, I want to interest -you in a very pet scheme of mine. When my wife has done with you, let me -have a hearing. I want him to drive in with me to Tottenham’s, Mary, and -see what is doing there.”</p> - -<p>“I hope Mr. Earnshaw will be kinder to you than he has been to me,” said -Lady Mary; “at me he does nothing but laugh. He despises women, I -suppose, like so many other men, and thinks us beneath the range of -intellectual beings.”</p> - -<p>“What a cruel judgment,” said Edgar, “because I am tickled beyond -measure at the thought of having anything to teach you, and at the -suggestion that you can improve your mind by attending lectures, and are -undergoing mental discipline by means of mathematics and history—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, then it is only that you think me too old,” said Lady Mary, with -the not unagreeable amusement of a pretty woman who knows herself to be -not old, and to look still younger and fresher than she feels; and they -had an amiable laugh over this excellent joke, which entirely restored -the friendly relations between them. Mr. Tottenham smiled reflectively -with his glass in his eye, not looking into the matter. He was too -seriously occupied with his own affairs to enter into any unnecessary -merriment.</p> - -<p>“Come along, Earnshaw,” he said, “I want you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> to come into Tottenham’s -with me, and on the way I will tell you all about my scheme, which my -wife takes a great interest in also. You will come to the next evening, -Mary? It is always so much more successful when you are there.”</p> - -<p>“Surely,” said Lady Mary with a vague smile, as she gathered up a bundle -of papers which she had produced to show Edgar. She shook her head over -them as she turned away. Her husband’s schemes she patronized with a -gentle interest; but her own occupied her a great deal more warmly as -was natural. “You have not given me half the consideration my plan -deserves,” she said half pathetically, “but don’t think I mean to let -you off on that account,” and with a friendly smile to both the -gentlemen she went to her own concerns. The library had been the scene -of the conversation, and Lady Mary now withdrew to her own special -table, which was placed in front of a great bay-window overlooking the -flower-garden. It was a very large room, and Mr. Tottenham’s table had a -less favourable aspect, with nothing visible but dark shrubberies from -the window behind him, to which he judiciously turned his back.</p> - -<p>“Mary prefers to look out, and I to look in,” he said; “to be sure I -have her to look at, which makes a difference.”</p> - -<p>This huge room was the centre of their morning occupations, and the -scene of many an amiable controversy. The two tables which belonged to -the pair individually were both covered with papers, that of Lady Mary -being the most orderly, but not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> the least crowded, while a third large -table, in front of the fire, covered with books and newspapers, offered -scope for any visitor who might chance to join them in their viewy and -speculative seclusion. As a matter of fact, most people who came to -Tottenham’s, gravitated sooner or later towards this room. It was the -point of meeting in the morning, just as the palm-tree in the -conservatory was the centre of interest in the afternoon.</p> - -<p>“I am writing to Lyons to come to my next evening,” said Mr. Tottenham, -taking his place at his own table, while Lady Mary with her back towards -the other occupants of the room scribbled rapidly at hers.</p> - -<p>“Do you think they will care for Lyons?” asked Lady Mary without turning -round, “you forget always that amusement and not information is what -they want—”</p> - -<p>“Amusement is what we all want, my dear,” said her husband, with -apologetic mildness. “We approach the subject in different ways. You -call in the same man to instruct as I do to amuse. We agree as to the -man, but we don’t agree as to the object; and yet it comes to the very -same thing at last.”</p> - -<p>“You think so,” said Lady Mary, still with her back turned; “but we -shall see by the results.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Lyons is coming,” said Mr. Tottenham. “I don’t know if you have -heard him, Earnshaw. He has been in Africa, and all over the world. My -own opinion is that he is rather a stupid fellow; but, so long as other -people don’t think so, what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span> does that matter? He is coming; and, my -dear fellow, if you would listen to what I am going to tell you, and -take an interest in my people—”</p> - -<p>“What would happen?” said Edgar, as the other paused. He was half amused -and half alarmed by the turn that things were taking, and did not know -what strange use he might be put to next.</p> - -<p>“Ah, I don’t know what might not happen,” said Mr. Tottenham, yielding -for a moment to the influence of Edgar’s distressed but humorous -countenance. “However, don’t be frightened. You shall not be forced to -do anything. I don’t approve of over-persuasion. But supposing that you -should be interested, as I expect, a great deal more than you think—”</p> - -<p>This he said in a deprecatory, propitiatory way, looking up suddenly -from the letter he was writing. Edgar stood in front of the fire, -contemplating both parties, and he was half touched as well as more than -half amused by this look. He did not even know what it was he was called -upon to interest himself in; but the eagerness of his companions, about -their several plans, went to his heart.</p> - -<p>“You may be sure, if there is anything I can do—” he said, impulsively.</p> - -<p>“You should not allow Mr. Earnshaw to commit himself till he has seen -what it is,” said Lady Mary, from the opposite table; and then she, too, -turned half round, pen in hand, and fixed an earnest gaze upon him. “I -may write to my people and tell them the German class will be resumed -next week?” she said, with much the same entreating look as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span> her husband -had put on. It was all Edgar could do to preserve his gravity, and not -reply with indecorous gaiety, like that which had provoked her before; -for Lady Mary, on this point at least, was less tolerant and more easily -affronted than her husband.</p> - -<p>“If you think I can be of any use,” he said, trying to look as serious -as possible; and thus, before he knew, the double bargain was made.</p> - -<p>It would be impossible to describe in words the whimsical unreality of -the situation in which Edgar thus found himself when he got into Mr. -Tottenham’s phaeton to be driven back to town, in order to be made -acquainted with the other “Tottenham’s.” Only a few days had passed -since the wintry evening when he arrived a stranger at the hospitable -but unknown house. He was a stranger still according to all rules, but -yet his life had suddenly become entangled with the lives which a week -ago he had never heard of. He was no visitor, but a member of the -family, with distinct duties in it; involved even in its eccentricities, -its peculiarities, its quaint benevolences. Edgar felt his head swim as -they drove from the door which he had entered for the first time so very -short a while ago. Was he in a dream? or had he gone astray out of the -ordinary workday world into some modern version of the Arabian Nights?</p> - -<p>“You remember what I told you, Earnshaw, about the shop?” said his -companion. “It is for the shop that I bespeak your interest now. I told -you that my wife had no false pride on the subject, and how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> she cured -me of my absurdity. I draw a great deal of money out of it, and I employ -a great number of people. Of course, I have a great responsibility -towards these people. If they were labourers on an estate, or miners in -a coal-pit, everybody would acknowledge this responsibility; but being -only shopmen and shopwomen, or, poor souls, as they prefer to have it, -assistants in a house of business, the difficulty is much increased. Do -I have your attention, Earnshaw?”</p> - -<p>“I am listening,” said Edgar; “but you must excuse me if my attention -seems to wander a little. Consider how short an acquaintance ours is, -and that I am somewhat giddy with the strange turn my life has taken. -Pure selfishness, of course; but one does rank more highly than is fit -in one’s own thoughts.”</p> - -<p>“To be sure, it is all novel and strange,” said Mr. Tottenham, in a -soothing and consolatory tone. “Never mind; you will soon get used to -our ways. For my own part, I think a spinning mill is nothing to my -shop. Several hundreds of decently dressed human creatures, some of the -young women looking wonderfully like ladies, I can tell you, is a very -bewildering sort of kingdom to deal with. The Queen rules in a vague -sort of way compared to me. She has nothing to do with our private -morals or manners; so long as we don’t rob or steal, she leaves us to -our own guidance. But, in my dominions, there is all the minuteness of -despotism. My subjects live in my house, eat my bread, and have to be -regulated by my pleasure. I look after<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span> them in everything, their -religious sentiments, their prudential arrangements, their amusements. -You don’t listen to me, Earnshaw.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I do. But if Phil’s lessons and Lady Mary’s lectures come in -to disturb my attention, you won’t mind just at first? This is the same -road we drove down on Saturday. There is the same woman standing at the -same door.”</p> - -<p>“And here are the same horses, and the same man with the same sentiments -driving you.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks; you are very kind,” said Edgar, gratefully; “but my head goes -round notwithstanding. I suppose so many ups and downs put one off one’s -balance. I promise you to wake up when we come to the field of battle.”</p> - -<p>“You mean the shop,” said Mr. Tottenham; “don’t be afraid of naming it. -I am rather excited, to tell the truth, about the effect it may have -upon you. I am like a showman, with something quite original and out of -the common to show.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br /><br /> -<small>The Shop.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Tottenham’s</span> is situated in one of the great thoroughfares which lead out -of the heart of London, towards one of its huge suburbs. It consists of -an immense square pile of building, facing to four different streets, -with frontage of plate-glass windows, and masses of costly shawls and -silks appearing through. To many people, but these were mostly ladies, -Tottenham’s was a kind of fairyland. It represented everything, from -substantial domestic linen to fairy webs of lace, which money could buy. -In the latter particular, it is true, Tottenham’s was limited; it -possessed only the productions of modern fingers, the filmy fabrics of -Flanders and France; but its silks, its velvets, its magnificences of -shawl and drapery, its untold wealth in the homelier shape of linen and -cambric, were unsurpassed anywhere, and the fame of them had spread -throughout London, nay, throughout England. The name of this great -establishment caused a flutter of feeling through all the Home Counties, -and up even to the Northern borders. People sent their orders to -Tottenham’s from every direction of the compass. The mass of its clients -were, perhaps, not highly fashionable, though even the <i>crême de la -crême</i> sometimes made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span> a raid into the vast place, which was reported -cheap, and where fashionable mothers were apt to assure each other that -people, who knew what was what, might often pick up very nice things -indeed at half the price which Élise would ask, not to speak of Worth. -Persons who know what Worth has last invented, and how Élise works, have -an immense advantage in this way over their humble neighbours. But the -humble neighbours themselves were very good customers, and bought more -largely, if with less discrimination. And the middle class, like one -man, or rather like one woman, patronized Tottenham’s. It bought its -gowns there, and its carpets and its thread and needles, everything that -is wanted, in a house. It provided its daughters’ <i>trousseaux</i>, and -furnished its sons’ houses out of this universal emporium; not the -chairs and tables, it is true, but everything else. The arrangements of -the interior were so vast and bewildering as to drive a stranger wild, -though the <i>habitués</i> glided about from counter to counter with smiling -readiness. There were as many departments as in the Home Office, but -everybody looked after his own department, which is not generally the -case in the Imperial shop; and the hum of voices, the gliding about of -many feet, the rustle of many garments, the vague sound and sentiment of -a multitude pervaded the alleys of counters, the crowded passages -between, where group was jostled by group, and not an inch of space left -unoccupied.</p> - -<p>Edgar’s entrance into this curious unexplored world, which he had been -brought here expressly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> to “take an interest” in, was made through a -private way, through the counting-house, where many clerks sat at their -desks, and where all was quiet and still as in a well-ordered merchant’s -office. Mr. Tottenham had a large room, furnished with the -morocco-covered chairs and writing-tables consecrated to such places, -but with more luxury than usual; with Turkey carpets on the floor, and -rich crimson curtains framing the great window, which looked into a -small court-yard surrounded with blank walls. Here Mr. Tottenham paused -to look over a bundle of business letters, and to hear some reports that -were brought to him by the heads of departments. These were not entirely -about business. Though the communications were made in a low voice, -Edgar could not help hearing that Mr. So-and-So was in question here, -and Miss Somebody there.</p> - -<p>“If something is not done, I don’t think the other young ladies will -stand it, Sir,” said a grave elderly gentleman, whom Edgar, eyeing him -curiously, felt that he would have taken at least for a Member of -Parliament.</p> - -<p>“I will look into it, Robinson. You may make your mind quite easy. I -will certainly look into it,” said Mr. Tottenham, with such a look as -the Chancellor of the Exchequer may put on when he anticipates a failure -in the revenue.</p> - -<p>“You see, Sir,” added Mr. Robinson, “a piece of scandal about any of the -young ladies is bad enough; but when it comes to be the head of a -department, or at least, one of the heads—and you remember it was all -our opinions that Miss Lock<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span>wood was just the fit person for the place. -I had a little difficulty myself on the point, for Miss Innes had been -longer in the establishment; but as for being ladylike-looking, and a -good figure, and a good manner, there could, of course, be no -comparison.”</p> - -<p>“I will look into it, I will look into it,” said Mr. Tottenham, -hurriedly.</p> - -<p>The head of a State has to bear many worries, in small things as well as -in great; and the head of Tottenham’s was less a constitutional than a -despotic ruler. Limited Monarchies do not answer, it must be allowed, on -a small scale. The respectable Mr. Robinson withdrew to one side, while -other heads of departments approached the Sultan of the Shop. Edgar -looked on with some amusement and a good deal of interest. Mr. Tottenham -was no longer speculative and viewy. He went into all the business -details with a precision which surprised his companion, and talked of -the rise in silks, and the vicissitudes in shirtings, with very much -more apparent perception of the seriousness of the matter than he had -ever evidenced in the other Tottenham’s, the wealthy house in which the -shopkeeper lived as princes live. Edgar would have retired when these -business discussions, or rather reports and audiences, began; but Mr. -Tottenham restrained him with a quick look and gesture, motioning him to -a seat close to his own.</p> - -<p>“I want you to see what I have to do,” he said in a rapid interjection -between one conference and another.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span></p> - -<p>The last of all was a young man, studiously elegant in appearance, and -in reality, as Edgar found out afterwards, the fine gentleman of the -establishment, who had charge of the recreations of “the assistants,” or -rather the <i>employés</i>, which was the word Mr. Watson preferred. Mr. -Tottenham’s face lighted up when this functionary approached him with a -piece of paper, written in irregular lines, like a programme, in his -hand—and it was the programme of the next evening entertainment, to be -given in the shop and for the shop. Mr. Watson used no such vulgar -phraseology.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps, Sir, you will kindly look over this, and favour us with any -hint you may think necessary?” he said. “Music is always popular, and as -we have at present a good deal of vocal talent among us, I thought it -best to utilize it. The part-songs please the young ladies, Sir. It is -the only portion of the entertainment in which they can take any active -share.”</p> - -<p>“Then by all means let us please the ladies,” said Mr. Tottenham. “Look, -Earnshaw; this is an entertainment which we have once a month. Ah, -Watson, you are down, I see, for a solo on your instrument?”</p> - -<p>“I find it popular, Sir,” said Mr. Watson, with a smirk. “The taste for -music is spreading. The young ladies, Sir, are anxious to know whether, -as you once were good enough to promise, her Ladyship is likely this -time to do us the honour—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, Watson; you may consider that settled; my wife is coming,” -said Mr. Tottenham.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span> “Trial Scene in Pickwick? Yes; very well, very -well. Duet, Mr. Watson and Miss Lockwood. Ah! I have been just hearing -something about Miss Lockwood—”</p> - -<p>“She has enemies, Sir,” said Mr. Watson, flushing all over. He was a -fair young man, and the colour showed at once in his somewhat pallid -complexion. “In an establishment like this, Sir—a little world—where -there are so many <i>employés</i>, of course, she has her enemies.”</p> - -<p>“That may be,” said Mr. Tottenham, musing. “I have not inquired into it -yet; but in the meantime, if there is any latent scandal, wouldn’t it be -better that she took no public part?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course, Sir!” cried Watson, bundling up his papers; “if she is -to be condemned unheard—”</p> - -<p>Robinson, the respectable Member of Parliament, approached anxiously at -this.</p> - -<p>“I assure you, Mr. Tottenham,” he cried, with a warmth of sincerity -which appeared to come from the bottom of his heart, “I don’t want to -judge Miss Lockwood, or any other young lady in the establishment; but -when things come to my ears, I can’t but take notice of them. The other -young ladies have a right to be considered.”</p> - -<p>“It is jealousy, Sir; nothing but jealousy!” cried Watson; “because -she’s a deal more attractive than any of ’em, and gets more attention—”</p> - -<p>“Softly, softly,” said Mr. Tottenham. “This grows serious. I don’t think -I am apt to be moved by jealousy of Miss Lockwood, eh, Watson? You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> may -go now, and if you know anything about the subject, I’ll see you -afterwards.”</p> - -<p>“I know as she’s the best saleswoman, and the most ladylike-looking -young lady in the house,” cried Watson; and then he perceived his slip -of grammar, and blushed hotter than ever; for he was an ambitious young -man, and had been instructed up to the point of knowing that his native -English stood in need of improvement, and that bad grammar was against -his rising in life.</p> - -<p>“That will do then; you can go,” said Mr. Tottenham. “Opinion is not -evidence. Come, Robinson, if it’s making a feud in the house, I had -better, I suppose, go into it at once.”</p> - -<p>“And I, perhaps, had better withdraw too,” said Edgar, whom this strange -and sudden revelation of human tumults going on in the great house of -business had interested in spite of himself.</p> - -<p>“Stay; you are impartial, and have an unbiassed judgment,” said Mr. -Tottenham. “Now, Robinson, let us hear what you have got to say.”</p> - -<p>Robinson approached with a world of care upon his face. Edgar having -allowed his fancy to be taken possession of by the Member-of-Parliament -theory, could not help the notion that this good worried man had risen -to call for a Committee upon some subject involving peril to the nation, -some mysterious eruption of Jesuits or Internationalists, or Foreign -Office squabble. He was only the head of the shawl and cloak department -in Tottenham’s; but it is quite marvellous how much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> humanity resembles -itself, though the circumstances were so unlike.</p> - -<p>Mr. Robinson had not much more than begun his story. He was in the -preamble, discoursing, as his prototype in the House of Commons would -have done, upon the general danger to society which was involved in -carelessness and negligence of one such matter as that he was about to -bring before the House—when a tap was heard at the door, a little sharp -tap, half defiant, half coquettish, sounding as if the applicant, while -impatient for admittance, might turn away capriciously, when the door -was opened. Both the judge and the prosecutor evidently divined at once -who it was.</p> - -<p>“Come in,” said Mr. Tottenham; “Come in!” for the summons was not -immediately obeyed.</p> - -<p>Then there entered a—person, to use the safe yet not very respectful -word which Mr. J. S. Mill rescued from the hands of flunkeys and -policemen—a female figure, to speak more romantically, clad in elegant -black silken robes, very well made, with dark hair elaborately dressed; -tall, slight, graceful, one of those beings to be met with everywhere in -the inner recesses of great shops like Tottenham’s, bearing all the -outward aspect of ladies, moving about all day long upon rich carpets, -in a warm luxurious atmosphere, “trying on” one beautiful garment after -another, and surveying themselves in great mirrors as they pass and -repass. The best of feminine society ebbs and flows around these -soft-voiced and elegant creatures—duchesses, princesses, who look like -washerwomen beside them, and young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> girls often not more pretty or -graceful. They are the Helots of the female fashionable world, and, at -the same time, to some degree, its despots; for does not many a dumpy -woman appear ridiculous in the elegant garb which was proved before her -eyes so beautiful and becoming upon the slim straight form of the “young -person” who exhibited and sold if?</p> - -<p>Miss Lockwood entered, with her head well up, in one of the attitudes -which are considered most elegant in those pretty coloured pictures of -the “Modes,” which, to her class of young ladies, are as the Louvre and -the National Gallery thrown into one. She was no longer, except from a -professional point of view, to be considered absolutely as a “young -lady.” Her face, which was a handsome face, was slightly worn, and her -age must have been a year or two over thirty; but, as her accuser -admitted, and as her defender asserted, a more “ladylike-looking” -person, or a better figure for showing off shawl or mantle had never -been seen in Tottenham’s or any other house of business. This was her -great quality. She came in with a little sweep and rustle of her long -black silken train; her dress, like her figure, was her stock-in-trade.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said in an abrupt yet airy tone, angry yet -sensible withal of those personal advantages which made it something of -a joke that anyone should presume to find fault with her. “I hear my -character is being taken away<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> behind my back, and I have come, please, -to defend myself.”</p> - -<p>Edgar looked at this kind of being, which was new to him, with a mixture -of feelings. She had the dress and appearance of a lady, and she was -unquestionably a woman, though she would have scorned so common a name. -He rose from his seat when she came in with the intention of getting a -chair for her, as he would have done to any other lady, but was -deterred, he could scarcely tell why, by her own air and that of the -other two men who looked at her without budging.</p> - -<p>“Sit down, sit down,” said Mr. Tottenham hastily, aside to him, “of -course I know what you mean, but that sort of thing does not do. It -makes them uncomfortable; sit down; she will give us trouble enough, you -will see.”</p> - -<p>Edgar, however, could not go so far as to obey. He kept standing, and he -saw the new-comer look at him, and look again with a lighting up of her -face as though she recognised him. So far as he was aware he had never -seen her before in his life.</p> - -<p>“Miss Lockwood, I do not think this is how you should speak,” said her -employer, “you know whether I am in the habit of permitting anybody’s -character to be taken away, without giving the accused full opportunity -to defend themselves.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, Sir, to defend themselves,” she said with a toss of her head, -“after all the harm’s done, and things has been said that can’t be -unsaid. You know as well as I do, Sir, it’s all up with a young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> lady -the moment things has been spoke of publicly against her.”</p> - -<p>“I hope not so bad as that,” said Mr. Tottenham mildly. He was a little -afraid of the young lady, and so was the worthy parliamentary Robinson, -who had withdrawn a step behind backs, when interrupted in his speech.</p> - -<p>“Well, Mr. Tottenham! and what does it mean, Sir, when you put a stop to -my duet, me and Mr. Watson’s duet, and say it’s best I shouldn’t take -part publicly? Isn’t that judging me, Sir, before ever hearing me—and -taking all the stories as is told against me for true?”</p> - -<p>“I know none of the stories yet,” said Mr. Tottenham, “pray compose -yourself. Mr. Robinson was going to explain to me; but as you are here, -if it will at all save your feelings, I am quite ready to hear your -story first.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Tottenham, Sir!” said Mr. Robinson, roused to speech.</p> - -<p>“Well! you can have no motive, and I can have no motive, but to come to -the truth. Take a seat, Miss Lockwood, I will not keep you standing; and -begin—</p> - -<p>“Begin what?” the young woman faltered. “Oh, I am not going to be the -one to begin,” she said saucily, “nobody’s obliged to criminate himself. -And how can I tell what my enemies are saying against me? They must -speak first.”</p> - -<p>“Then, Robinson, do you begin,” said the master; but it was easier in -this case to command than to obey. Robinson shifted from one foot to the -other,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> he cleared his throat, he rubbed his hands. “I don’t know that I -can, before her,” he said hoarsely, “I have daughters of my own.”</p> - -<p>“I knew,” said the culprit in triumphant scorn, “that you daren’t make -up any of your stories before my face!”</p> - -<p>Robinson restrained himself with an effort. He was a good man, though -the fuss of the incipient scandal was not disagreeable to him. -“It’s—it’s about what is past, Sir,” he said hurriedly, “there is no -reflection on Miss Lockwood’s conduct now. I’d rather not bring it all -up here, not before strangers.”</p> - -<p>“You may speak before as many strangers as you please, I sha’n’t mind,” -said the accused, giving Edgar a glance which bewildered him, not so -much for the recognition which was in it, as for a certain confidence -and support which his appearance seemed to give her. Mr. Tottenham drew -him aside for a moment, whispering in his ear.</p> - -<p>“She seems to know you, Earnshaw?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; but I don’t know how. I never saw her before.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder—perhaps, if I were to take Robinson away and hear his -story—while you might hear what she has to say?”</p> - -<p>“I? But indeed I don’t know her, I assure you I have never seen her -before,” said Edgar in dismay.</p> - -<p>“Never mind, she knows you. She is just the sort of person to prefer to -confide in one whom she does not see every day. I’ll leave you with -her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> Earnshaw. Perhaps it will be best if you step this way, Robinson; -I shall hear what you have to say here.”</p> - -<p>Robinson followed his superior promptly into a smaller room. Edgar was -left with the culprit; and it is scarcely possible to realize a less -comfortable position. What was he to do with her? He was not acquainted -either with her or her class; he did not know how to address her. She -looked like a lady, but yet was not a lady, and for the present moment -she was on her trial. Was he to laugh, as he felt inclined to do, at the -shabby trick his friend had played him, or was he to proceed gravely -with his mission? Miss Lockwood solved this question for herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br /><br /> -<small>Two Culprits on their Trial.</small></h2> - -<p>“You’re surprised, Sir, that a stranger should be so ready to speak up -to you,” said Miss Lockwood, “you don’t know me from Adam? but I know -you. You are the gentleman that was in the great Arden case, the -gentleman as gave up. You wouldn’t think it, but I am mixed up with the -Ardens too; and as soon as I set eyes upon you, I said to myself, ‘Here -is one that will help me to my rights.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“Have you, too, rights that involve the Ardens?” said Edgar, startled -yet half amused. “Alas, I fear I cannot help you. If you know my story -you must know I am no Arden, and have no influence with the family one -way or another.”</p> - -<p>“You mightn’t have influence, Sir, but you might hate ’em—as I do,” she -said, with a gleam in her eyes which changed the character of her -otherwise commonplace though handsome countenance.</p> - -<p>“Hate them!” cried Edgar, still more startled. “Why, this is a tragical -way of approaching the subject. What have the Ardens done to you that -you should hate them?”</p> - -<p>“That’s my story,” said Miss Lockwood, meeting him full with a steadfast -look in her eyes, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> bewildered Edgar still more. She had taken a -seat, and the two sat looking at each other across Mr. Tottenham’s -writing table. Edgar had not even heard the name of Arden for years -past, and nothing was further from his thoughts on entering this most -commonplace of scenes, the great shop, than to be thrown back into his -own past life, by the touch of one of the young ladies in the shawl and -mantle department. His curiosity was awakened, but not in any high -degree, for it was absurd to suppose that a shopwoman in Tottenham’s -could have any power to affect the Ardens one way or another. He felt -that this must be a tempest in a teacup, some trifling supposed -injustice, something, perhaps, about a cottage on the estate, or the -rancour of a dismissed servant; for he had heard vaguely that there had -been considerable changes.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid I cannot sympathize with you in hating the Ardens,” he -said; “if you know so much about me, you must know that I was brought up -to regard Mrs. Arden as my sister, which I still do, notwithstanding the -change of circumstances; and no one connected with her can be to me an -object of hate.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Mrs.</i> Arden, indeed!” said Miss Lockwood with contemptuous emphasis, -tossing her handsome head.</p> - -<p>“Yes. What has Mrs. Arden done to you?” said Edgar, half angry, half -amused with what seemed to him the impotent spitefulness; the absurdity -of the woman’s scorn struck him with ludicrous effect; and yet a certain -uneasiness was in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> the puzzle. Clare Arden had never possessed that -natural instinctive courtesy which makes dependents friends. Probably -she had wounded the <i>amour propre</i> of the shopwoman; but then no doubt -shopwomen have to make up their minds to such wounds, and Mrs. Arden was -much too well bred and much too proud to have gone out of her way to -annoy a young lady at Tottenham’s—any offence given or taken must have -been a mere inadvertence, whatever it was.</p> - -<p>“Done to me? Oh, she haven’t done nothing to me, not meaningly, poor -creature,” said Miss Lockwood. “Poor thing! it’s me that has that in my -power, not her.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would tell me,” said Edgar seriously, leaning across the -table towards her with deepened interest and a certain alarm, “I entreat -you to tell me what you mean. You are right in thinking that no subject -could be more interesting to me.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! but it ain’t, perhaps, the kind of interest I expected,” said Miss -Lockwood with coquettish familiarity, pushing back her chair. She -belonged to the class of women who delight to make any conversation, -however trivial or however important, bear the air of a flirtation. She -was quite ready to play with her present companion, to excite and -tantalize his curiosity, to laugh at him, and delude him, if fortune -favoured her. But a chance altogether unforeseen interrupted this not -unpleasant operation, and threw Miss Lockwood and her mystery into, the -shade. When the conversation had advanced thus far, a new personage -suddenly appeared<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> on the scene. With a little preliminary knock, but -without waiting for any invitation, a lady opened the door, the sight of -whom drove even Clare Arden out of Edgar’s mind. She was no longer -young, and her days of possible beauty were over. At sight of her Edgar -rose to his feet, with a sudden cry.</p> - -<p>For a moment the new-comer stood still at the door, looking at the -unexpected scene. Her face was care-worn, and yet it was kind, revealing -one of those mixtures of two beings which are to be seen so often in -society—the kind, genial, gentle woman made by nature, with the -conventional great lady, formed for her position, and earnestly striving -as her highest duty to shape herself into the narrowness and worldliness -which it demanded. This curious development of mingled good and evil has -not, perhaps, had so much notice as it deserves from the observer. We -are all acquainted with characters in which a little germ of goodness -strives against natural dispositions which are not amiable; but the -other compound is not less true, if perhaps more rare. Lady Augusta -Thornleigh, who was Lady Mary Tottenham’s sister, was born one of the -kindest souls that ever drew breath. She had it in her even to be -“viewy” as Lady Mary was, or to be sentimentally yielding and eager for -everybody’s happiness. But all her canons of duty bound her to regard -these dispositions as weakness, almost as guilt, and represented -worldliness to her as the highest of virtues. She sighed after this as -the others sigh after the higher heights of self-denial.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span> Her searchings -of heart were all directed (unconsciously) to make the worse appear the -better cause; she tried to be worldly, believing that was right, as -other people try to be unworldly. But I do wrong to keep Lady Augusta -standing at the door of Mr. Tottenham’s room, while I describe her -characteristics to the reader. She came in, calmly unexpectant of any -sight but that of her brother-in-law; then starting to see two people, -man and woman, seated on either side of the table with every appearance -of being engaged in interesting conversation, made a step back again, -bewildered.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, I thought Mr. Tottenham was here,” she said, -dropping her veil, which she had raised on entering. Miss Lockwood -sprang up from her chair which she pushed back with an appearance of -flurry and excitement, which was either real or very well counterfeited; -while Edgar, deeply vexed, he could scarcely have told why, to be found -thus, rose too, and approached his old friend. He would have liked to -put himself at her feet, to kiss her hand, to throw himself upon her old -kindness, if not like a son with a mother, at least like a loyal servant -of one of those queens of nature whom generous men love to serve like -sons. But he dared not do this—he dared not exceed the bounds of -conventional acquaintance. He went forward eagerly but timidly, holding -out his hands. I cannot find words to say how bewildered Lady Augusta -was by the sight of Edgar, or with what consternation she recognised -him. Whatever the motive had been which had drawn to him the atten<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span>tion -of the Tottenhams, Lady Augusta Thornleigh was altogether ignorant of -it. She had no expectation of seeing him, no idea that he could cross -her path again. The profound surprise, the rush of kindly feeling which -the first sight of him called forth, the thrill of terror and sense of -danger which accompanied it, made her tremble with sudden agitation. -Good heavens! what was she to do? She could not decline to recognise -him; her heart indeed yearned to him, the subject of so much misfortune; -but all the new complications that his presence would produce, rose up -before her as he approached and made her heart sick. Oh, if he would -only take the hint given in her hesitating look, and the veil which she -had dropped over her face! But Edgar was fond of his old friend. She was -the sister of his hostess, and he had felt ever since he went to -Tottenham’s that one day or other he must meet her. He tried even at -that moment to forget that she was anything beyond an old friend and -Lady Mary’s sister; he tried to put the thought out of his mind that she -was the mother of Gussy, his only love; he tried to forget the former -relations between them. He had not seen her since the day when, leaving -his former home, a nameless being, without either future or past to -console him, he had been touched to the heart by her hurried farewell. -He was then in all the excitement of a great sacrifice; he was a hero, -admired and pitied everywhere; he had been almost her son, and she had -called him Edgar, and wept over him. What a difference! he was a -stranger now, in a totally different sphere,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span> fallen out of knowledge, -out of sympathy, no longer a hero or representing any exciting break in -the ordinary level of life; but a common man probably desirous of asking -some favour, and one for whom all his former friends must have the -troublesome sensation of feeling something ought to be done for—I do -not know if this occurred to Edgar’s mind, who was little apt to make -such claims, but it did occur to Lady Augusta.</p> - -<p>“Is it you?—Mr. ——?” she said faltering. She was not even sure of his -new name.</p> - -<p>“Earnshaw,” he said; “Edgar Earnshaw; you recollect me even after all -these years?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, surely. Of course I cannot but recollect you,” she said; “but I am -taken by surprise. I did not know you were in England. I never could -have expected to find you here.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Edgar, chilled by her tone, and letting the hand drop which -she had given him, he felt, with hesitation. “It seems to myself the -last place in the world where I could be; but Mr. Tottenham is so kind -as to wish—”</p> - -<p>What was Mr. Tottenham so kind as to wish? I cannot describe Lady -Augusta’s perplexity. Did it mean that Edgar had been so far reduced as -to require employment in the shop? Had he come to that—he who was all -but engaged to Gussy once? The idea gave her an indescribable shock; but -then, how foolish of Mr. Tottenham, knowing all he did of Gussy and her -obstinacy, and how she had all but broken her parents’ hearts by -refusing the best of offers, and threatened to go into a sisterhood,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> -and came constantly to this very place to visit and influence the “young -ladies” of the establishment! Lady Augusta grew red and grew pale in the -agitation of her feelings; but what could she say? She could not ask him -point-blank if this were so; she could not, after all these years, throw -herself once more upon his chivalry, as she had done before, and implore -him to keep out of her daughter’s way. The only way of outlet she found -for her excitement and confusion was to look severely at Miss Lockwood, -who stood with her hands folded, and an ingratiating smile on her face, -stooping slightly forward, as who should say, What can I have the -pleasure of showing your ladyship?</p> - -<p>Lady Augusta gave this “person” a withering glance. She was indignant -with her for appearing to be on intimate terms with this man, whom, had -Lady Augusta been wise, she would have gladly married off at once to -anybody, so that he might be got out of her child’s way. But, being a -very natural woman, with a great many tender prejudices and motherly -feelings, she was a little haughty and offended that, having known -Gussy, he should decline to such a level as Miss Lockwood. Gussy was not -for him, and his very existence was a danger for her; but still, that he -should be inconstant to Gussy, was to her mother a wrong and offence.</p> - -<p>“I fear,” she said, in her stateliest tone, “that I am interrupting -you—that you were particularly engaged.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, your Ladyship, nothing but what can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span> wait,” murmured Miss -Lockwood, gliding off with a curtsey, and adding a sidelong half nod of -leave-taking to Edgar, which made him hot with anger, yet was too absurd -in its impertinence to be resented. Lady Augusta drew herself up more -and more.</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell you how sorry I am to have interrupted a—conversation—an -interview. I expected to find my brother-in-law here.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, you have interrupted nothing,” said Edgar. “Mr. Tottenham, I -don’t know why, left me here with this—lady, while he went to make some -inquiries about her; he will return directly. She had offered to explain -her case, of which I knew nothing, to me,” he continued, with an -embarrassed laugh, feeling himself grow red against his will. What did -it matter to Lady Augusta whom he might converse with? But, -notwithstanding, her manner was as that of a woman offended, and forming -an unfavourable judgment, and Edgar was affected by this unspoken -judgment in spite of himself.</p> - -<p>Then a pause ensued. Miss Lockwood had glided out of the room with her -long train rustling, but no other sound, and Lady Augusta, like other -less exalted persons, did not know what to say to carry on this curious -conversation. She was not sufficiently in friendship with Edgar to say -anything further to him on this subject, either as warning or reproving, -and there was an awkward pause. He would have liked to put a hundred -questions, but did not know how to begin.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I hope all are well,” he said at last, with some timidity.</p> - -<p>“Oh, quite well. There have been various changes in the family, as no -doubt you have heard; and more are in prospect,” Lady Augusta said -pointedly: “That is the worst of grown-up sons and daughters. After -twenty, their father and mother have very little enjoyment of them. I -was not aware you knew my brother-in-law.”</p> - -<p>This she said with something of a jerk, having forestalled all possible -inquiry on Edgar’s side, as she thought.</p> - -<p>“I only met him a few days ago,” said Edgar. “Perhaps I had better tell -you at once my position in respect to him. He has offered me the post of -tutor to his boy; and having nothing to do for the moment, poor as my -qualifications are, I have accepted it. I need not tell you, who know -them, how kind to me both he and Lady Mary have been.”</p> - -<p>“Tutor to—his boy!” Lady Augusta repeated the words, thunderstruck. -This was something more terrible, more alarming than she had conceived -possible. “Tutor to Phil?” She did not seem able to do more than repeat -the words.</p> - -<p>“You may well be surprised,” said Edgar, trying to laugh; “no one could -be more so than myself; but as they were so good as to overlook my -deficiencies, what could I say?”</p> - -<p>“I was not thinking of your deficiencies. Oh! Mr. Earnshaw, oh! Edgar, -could not your old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> friends have helped you to something better than -this?”</p> - -<p>Poor Lady Augusta! she was unfeignedly grieved and sorry to think of him -as a dependent. And at the same time she was struck with terror -unbounded to think that he would now be always in her way, in Gussy’s -way, never to be got rid of. She was not fond of exercising what -influence she possessed lavishly, for she had many sons and nephews; but -she began to reflect immediately what she could do to promote Edgar’s -interests. A tutor, and in Tottenham’s, for ever; or in Berkeley Square, -always at hand, never to be got rid of—</p> - -<p>“Dear me!” she cried, “tell me whom I should speak to. We must not let -you vegetate in such a post as this.”</p> - -<p>I don’t think Edgar had much difficulty in divining what she meant, or -which branch of the subject had most effect on her mind. And, perhaps, -he was slightly irritated by his insight, though this effect very soon -went off.</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” he said, “for the moment I am well enough pleased with my -position. Everybody is very kind to me; and, after so long abstinence, a -little pleasant society is an agreeable change.”</p> - -<p>He was sorry after he had said this, for he liked Lady Augusta. Her -countenance fell. She gave an alarmed glance at the door, where there -was a passing sound as of some one approaching.</p> - -<p>“I should not have thought you would have liked it,” she said, with a -little sigh. “Do you know where Mr. Tottenham is? I want to speak to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> -him just for a moment. Thanks so much. I will wait here till he comes.”</p> - -<p>“I shall attend to it—you may be sure I will attend to it,” said Mr. -Tottenham’s voice, making itself audible before he himself appeared. -“You were quite right, Robinson, quite right, and you may be sure I will -pay every attention. Ah, Lady Augusta, you here. What! and you have -found out our friend? I meant that for a little surprise to you. Yes, -here he is, and I hope to hold him fast, at least till something very -much better turns up—a thing which will happen, I am afraid, quite too -soon for us.”</p> - -<p>“Let us hope so, for Mr. Earnshaw’s sake,” said Lady Augusta, with a -little solemnity. How different her tone was from that of her -brother-in-law! Perhaps, on the whole, her personal liking for Edgar was -stronger than his was; but there were so many things mingled with it -which made this liking impossible. Her very person seemed to stiffen as -she spoke, and she made a little pause, as Lord Newmarch had done before -pronouncing his name. “Mr.—Earnshaw.” To be sure it must be difficult, -having known him by one name to speak to him by another; but somehow -this little pause seemed to Edgar another painful reminder that he was -not as he had once been.</p> - -<p>And then there ensued another embarrassed pause. Edgar could not say -anything, for his feelings at the moment were somewhat bitter; and as -for good Mr. Tottenham, he was perplexed and perturbed, not perceiving -any reason why his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> sister-in-law should put on so solemn an expression. -He had expected nothing less than to please her and all her family, by -his kindness to the man whom he persisted in considering their friend. -He was profoundly perplexed by this stiffness and air of solemnity. Had -there been some quarrel, of which he knew nothing, between them? He was -dumb in his bewilderment, and could not think of anything to say.</p> - -<p>“Did Miss Lockwood tell you much? or was she frightened?” he said. “It -is a troublesome story, and I wish people would not be so horribly -officious in reporting everything. Did she open her heart at all to -you?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Tottenham looked at him with calm matter-of-fact seriousness, and -Lady Augusta looked at him with suspicious disapproval. To the woman of -the world the question seemed absurd, to the man of ideas it was as -simple as daylight; between them they embarrassed the altogether -innocent third party, who had a clue to both their thoughts.</p> - -<p>“She told me nothing,” said Edgar, “as indeed how should she, never -having spoken to me before to-day? She had seen me, she says, three -years ago, at the time of the arrangement about Arden, and she chose to -talk to me of that, heaven knows why.”</p> - -<p>“Was that what you were talking about when I came in?” said Lady -Augusta, with a cold ring of unbelief in her tone, a tone which -irritated Edgar deeply in spite of himself.</p> - -<p>“It was what we were talking of,” he said, con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span>cisely; and then Mr. -Tottenham felt sure there had been some previously existing quarrel of -which he knew nothing, and that his attempt to give pleasure had been so -far a failure. This momentarily discouraged him—for to do harm, where -you would fain have done good, is confusing to every well-intentioned -soul.</p> - -<p>“Mary will be glad to hear something of your movements,” he said. “She -has been anxious for some time past to know what you were going to do.”</p> - -<p>“I came to tell you,” said Lady Augusta. “We are in town for a few -weeks, chiefly about business, for my little Mary has made up her mind -to leave me; and as it has all been made up in a hurry, there will be a -great deal to do.”</p> - -<p>“Made up her mind to leave you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, don’t you understand? She is going to marry Lord Granton, the -Marquis of Hautville’s son. Yes, you may congratulate me; it is very -pleasant, and just such a match as one could have wished; and after -Helena’s sad business,” said Lady Augusta, with a sigh, “we wanted -something to console us a little.”</p> - -<p>“I think Helena’s was a very sensible marriage,” said Mr. Tottenham; -“just the man for her; but I am glad your pride is going to have this -salve all the same, and I daresay Mary will be delighted, for she is a -dreadful little aristocrat, notwithstanding her own foolish marriage, -and all she says.”</p> - -<p>“If every foolish marriage ended as well as Mary’s—” said Lady -Augusta.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Ah! you mean if every <i>parvenu</i> was rich?” said Mr. Tottenham; “but -that, unfortunately, is past hoping for. So you have come to town for -the trousseau? I hope your Ladyship means to patronise the shop.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Tom—” Lady Augusta began, her face clouding over.</p> - -<p>“Before your sister’s time, I too was ashamed of the shop,” he said, “if -I am not now, it is Mary’s doing. And so her little godchild is to be a -great lady! I am very glad for your sake, Augusta, and I hope the little -thing will be happy. Does she know her own mind? I suppose Thornleigh is -very much pleased.”</p> - -<p>“Delighted!” cried Lady Augusta, “as we all are; he is a charming -fellow, and she is as happy as the day is long.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, we are all charming fellows, and everybody makes the best of us at -that period of our lives,” said Mr. Tottenham; “all the same I am glad -to hear everything is so pleasant. And Gussy? What does Gussy say?”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Tottenham!” Lady Augusta cried in an indignant whisper; and then -she added, “tell Mary I shall come and tell her all about it. I must not -detain you any longer from your business. Good-bye, Mr. Earnshaw.”</p> - -<p>“Earnshaw will see you to your carriage,” said Mr. Tottenham, “I am very -busy—don’t think me careless; and I know,” he added in a lower tone, -“you will like, when you are happy yourself, to say a kind word to an -old friend.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Happy herself! does a woman ever inquire whether she is personally happy -or not when she has come to Lady Augusta’s age, and has a large family -to care for? She took the arm which Edgar could not but offer with an -impatient sigh.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Earnshaw does not require to be told that I wish him everything -that is good,” she said, and allowed him to lead her out, wondering how -she should manage to warn Beatrice, her youngest daughter, who had come -with her, and who was looking at something in one of the many -departments. The young Thornleighs were all fond of Edgar, and Lady -Augusta dared not trust a young firebrand of nineteen to go and spread -the news all over the family, without due warning, that he had appeared -upon the scene again. Edgar’s short-lived anger had before this floated -away, though his heart ached at the withdrawal from him of the -friendship which had been sweet to his friendly soul. His heart melted -more and more every step he walked by her side.</p> - -<p>“Lady Augusta,” he said at last hurriedly, “you were once as kind as an -angel to me, when I wanted it much. Don’t be afraid of me; I shall never -put myself in your way.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Earnshaw!” she cried, struck by compunction; “I ought to ask -your pardon, Edgar; I ought to know you better; don’t judge me harshly. -If you only knew—”</p> - -<p>“I don’t ask to know anything,” he said, though his heart beat high, “my -sphere henceforth is very different from yours; you need have no fear of -me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“God bless you, whatever is your sphere! you are good, and I am sure you -will be happy!” she cried with tears in her eyes, giving him her hand as -he put her into her carriage; but then she added, “will you send some -one to call Beatrice, little Beatrice, who came with me? No, don’t go -yourself, pray don’t go—I would not give you so much trouble for the -world!”</p> - -<p>Edgar did not feel sure whether he was most inclined to burst into rude -laughter, or to go aside to the nearest corner and dry his glistening -eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br /><br /> -<small>Schemes and Speculations.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Edgar</span> went home in the evening, feeling a degree of agitation which he -had scarcely given himself credit for being capable of. He had been on -so low a level of feeling all these years, that he believed himself to -have grown duller and less capable of emotion, though he could not -explain to himself how it should be so. But now the stormwinds had begun -to blow, and the tide to rise. The mere sight of Lady Augusta was enough -to have brought back a crowd of sensations and recollections, and there -had lately been so many other touches upon the past to heighten the -effect of this broad gleam of light. Even the curious recognition of -him, and the apparently foolish enmity against the Ardens, which the -young lady at Tottenham’s had shown, had something to do with the -ferment of contending feelings in which he found himself. Hate them! no, -why should he hate them? But to be thus called back to the recollection -of them, and of all that he had been, had a strangely disturbing -influence upon his mind. In his aimless wanderings alone over Europe, -and in his sudden plunge into a family life quite new to him in -Scotland, he had believed himself utterly set free from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> all the -traditions and associations of the former existence, which was indeed -more like a chapter out of a romance than a real episode in life. Taking -it at the most, it was nothing but an episode. After years of neglected -youth, a brief breathless moment of power, independence, and a kind of -greatness, and then a sharp disruption from them all, and plunge into -obscurity again. Why should that short interval affect him more than all -the long tracts of less highly coloured life, from which it stood out -like a bit of brilliant embroidery on a sombre web? Edgar could not -tell; he felt that it did so, but he could not answer to himself why. -Mr. Tottenham talked all the way back about one thing and another, about -Miss Lockwood, and the scandal which had suddenly shocked the -establishment, about little Mary Thornleigh and her brilliant marriage, -about the evening entertainment to be given in the shop, which was quite -as important to him. Fortunately for Edgar, his companion was capable of -monologue, and went on quite pleasantly during their drive without need -of anything more than a judicious question or monosyllable of assent.</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you one thing, Earnshaw,” he said, “in such undertakings as -mine the great thing is never to be discouraged; never allow yourself to -be discouraged; that is my maxim; though I am not always able to carry -it out. I hope I never shall give in to say that because things go wrong -under my management, or because one meets with -disappointments—therefore things must always go wrong, and nothing good -ever come of it. Of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span> course, look at it from a serious point of view, -concerts and penny readings, and so forth are of no importance. That is -what Gussy always tells me. She thinks religion is the only thing; she -would like to train my young ladies to find their chief pleasure in the -chapel and the daily service, like her Sisters in their convent. I am -not against Sisterhoods, Earnshaw; I should not like to see Gussy go -into one, it is true—”</p> - -<p>“Is there any likelihood of that?” Edgar asked with a great start, which -made the light waggon they were driving in, swerve.</p> - -<p>“Hallo! steady!” cried Mr. Tottenham, “likelihood of it? I don’t know. -She wished it at one time. You see, Earnshaw, we don’t sufficiently -understand, seeing how different they are, how much alike women are to -ourselves. I suppose there comes a time in a girl’s life, as well as in -a man’s, when she wants to be herself, and not merely her father’s -daughter. You may say she should marry in that case; but supposing she -doesn’t want to marry, or, put the case, can’t marry as she would wish? -What can she do? I think myself they overdo the devotional part; but a -Sisterhood means occupation, a kind of independence, a position of her -own—and at the same time protection from all the folly we talk about -strong-minded women.”</p> - -<p>“But does it mean all this?” said Edgar surprised, “that is not the -ordinary view?”</p> - -<p>“My dear fellow, the ordinary view is all nonsense. I say it’s -protection against idiotic talk. The last thing anyone thinks of is to -bring forward<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> the strong-minded abuse in respect to a Sisterhood. But -look here; I know of one, where quite quietly, without any fuss, there’s -the Sister Doctor in full practice, looking after as many children as -would fill a good-sized village. She’s never laughed at and called Dr. -Mary, M.D.; and there’s the Sister Head-Master, with no Governing Body -to make her life miserable. They don’t put forward that view of the -subject. Possibly, for human nature is very queer, they think only of -the sacrifice, &c.; but I don’t wonder, for my part, that it’s a great -temptation to a woman. Gussy Thornleigh is twenty-five, too old to be -only her mother’s shadow; and if nothing else that she likes comes in -her way—”</p> - -<p>Mr. Tottenham made a pause. Did he mean anything by that pause? Poor -Edgar, who felt himself to be a sport to all the wild imaginations that -can torture a man, sat silent, and felt the blood boiling in his veins -and his heart leaping in his throat. It was as well that his companion -stopped talking, for he could not have heard any voice but that of his -own nerves and pulses all throbbing and thrilling. Heaven and earth! -might it be possible that this should come about, while he, a man, able -and willing to work, to slave, to turn head and hands to any occupation -on the earth, should be hanging on helpless, unable to interfere? And -yet he had but this moment told Gussy’s mother that she need not fear -him! A strong impulse came upon him to spring down from the waggon and -walk back to town and tell Lady Augusta to fear everything, that he -would never rest nor let her rest till he won her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> daughter back to a -more smiling life. Alas, of all follies what could be so foolish? he, -the tutor, the dependent, without power to help either himself or her. -The waggon rushed along the dark country road, making a little circle of -light round its lamps, while the sound of the horses’ feet, and the roll -of the wheels, enveloped them in a circle of sound, separating, as it -were, this moving speck of light and motion from all the inanimate -world. It would have been as easy to change that dark indifferent sphere -suddenly into the wide and soft sympathy of a summer evening, as for -Edgar, at this period of his life, to have attempted from this hopeless -abstraction, in which he was carried along by others, to have interfered -with another existence and turned its course aside. Not now—if ever, -not yet—and, ah, when, if ever? It was a long time before he was able -to speak at all, and his companion, who thus wittingly or unwittingly, -threw such firebrands of thought into his disturbed mind was silent too, -either respectful of Edgar’s feelings, or totally unconscious of them, -he could not tell which.</p> - -<p>“May I ask,” he inquired, after a long pause, clearing his throat, which -was parched and dry, “what was meant by ‘Helena’s sad business?’ What -has become of that Miss Thornleigh?”</p> - -<p>“What has become of her is, that she’s married,” said Mr. Tottenham. “A -very natural thing, though Helena, I believe, was a little ashamed of -herself for giving into it. She married a man who has nothing but his -brains to recommend him—no family to speak of, and no money, which, -between our<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span>selves, is a good deal worse. He is a professor, and a -critic, and that sort of thing—too clever for me, but he suits her -better than anyone I know. Helena is a totally different sort of person, -sure to have her own way, whatever she takes into her head. Now Gussy, -on the contrary——”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Tottenham,” said Edgar, hoarsely, “for God’s sake, don’t say any -more.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said the other; and then he added, “I beg your pardon, I beg your -pardon,” and flourished his whip in the air by way of a diversion. This -manœuvre was so successful that the party had quite enough to think of -to keep their seats, and their heads cool in case of an accident, as the -spirited beasts plunged and dashed along the remaining bit of way. “That -was as near a spill as I remember,” Mr. Tottenham said, as he threw the -reins to the groom, when, after a tearing gallop up the avenue, the bays -drew up at the door. He was flushed with the excitement and the -struggle; and whether he had put Edgar to the torture in ignorance, or -with any occult meaning, the sufferer could not discover. The momentary -gleam of danger at the end had however done even Edgar good.</p> - -<p>Lady Mary met them at dinner, smiling and pretty, ready to lend an ear -to anything interesting that might be said, but full of her own projects -as when they left her. She had carried out her plans with the -business-like despatch which women so often excel in, and Edgar, whose -mind had been so remorselessly stirred and agitated all day, found<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span> -himself quite established as an active coadjutor in her great scheme at -night.</p> - -<p>“I have sent a little circular to the printers,” said Lady Mary, “saying -when the German lectures would be resumed. You said Tuesday, I think, -Mr. Earnshaw? That is the day that suits us best. Several people have -been here this afternoon, and a great deal of interest has been excited -about it; several, indeed, have sent me their names already. Oh, I told -them you were working half against your will, without thinking very much -of the greatness of the object; indeed, with just a little -contempt—forgive me, Mr. Earnshaw—for this foolish fancy of women -trying to improve their minds.”</p> - -<p>“No, only for the infinitely odd fancy of thinking I can help in the -process,” said Edgar, dragging himself, as it were, within this new -circle of fantastic light. His own miseries and excitements, heaven help -him, were fantastic enough; but how real they looked by the side of this -theoretical distress! or so at least the young man thought. I cannot -tell with what half-laughing surprise, when his mind was at ease—but -half-irritated dismay when he was troubled—he looked at this lady, -infinitely more experienced in men and society and serious life than -himself, who proposed to improve her mind by means of his German -lessons. Was she laughing at him and the world? or was it a mere fashion -of the time which she had taken up? or, most wonderful of all, was she -sincere and believing in all this? He really thought she was, and so did -she, not perceiving the curious misapprehension of things and words<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span> -involved. It is common to say that a sense of humour saves us from -exposing ourselves in many ways, yet it is amazing how little even our -sense of humour helps us to see our own graver absurdities, though it -may throw the most unclouded illumination upon those of other people.</p> - -<p>“That is a polite way of concealing your sentiments,” said Lady Mary; -“but never mind, I am not angry. I am so sure of the rightness of the -work, and of its eventual success, that I don’t mind being laughed at. -To enlarge the sphere of ideas ever so little is an advantage worth -fighting for.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” said Edgar, “I am proud to be thought capable of enlarging -somebody’s sphere. What do lectures on German mean? Before I begin you -must tell me what I have to do.”</p> - -<p>“You must teach them the language, Mr. Earnshaw.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but where shall we begin? with the alphabet? Must I have a -gigantic black board to write the letters on?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, not so rudimentary as that; most of the ladies, in fact, know a -little German,” said Lady Mary. “I do myself, just enough to talk.”</p> - -<p>“Enough to talk! I don’t know any more of English, my native tongue,” -said Edgar, “than just enough to talk.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t laugh at me, Mr. Earnshaw. I know nothing of the grammar, for -instance. We are never taught grammar. We get a kind of knowledge of a -language, just to use it, like a tool; but what is the principle of the -tool, or how it is put together, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span> in what way it is related to other -tools of the same description, I know no more than Adam did.”</p> - -<p>“She knows a great deal more than I do,” said Mr. Tottenham, admiringly. -“I never could use that sort of tool, as you call it, in my life. A -wonderfully convenient thing though when you can do it. I never was much -of a hand at languages; you should learn all that when you are quite -young, in the nursery, when it’s no trouble—not leave it till you have -to struggle with verbs, and all that sort of thing; not to say that you -never can learn a foreign language by book.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Tottenham uttered these sentiments in a comfortable leisurely, -dressing-gown and slippers sort of way. He did not give in to these -indulgences in reality, but when he came upstairs to the drawing-room, -and stretched himself in his great chair by the fire, and felt the -luxurious warmth steal through him, after the chill of the drive and the -excitement of its conclusion, he felt that inward sense of ease and -comfort which nerves a man to utter daring maxims and lay down the law -from a genial height of good-humour and content.</p> - -<p>“Tom!” cried Lady Mary, with impatience; and then she laughed, and -added, “barbarian! don’t throw down all my arguments in your sleepy way. -If there is anything of what you call chivalry left in the world, you -men, who are really educated and whom people have taken pains with, -ought to do your best to help us who are not educated at all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“O! that is the state of the case? Am I so very well educated? I did not -know it,” said Mr. Tottenham, “but you need not compel us to follow -Dogberry’s maxim, and produce our education when there’s no need for -such vanities. I have pledged you to come to the shop, Mary, on -Wednesday week. They think a great deal of securing my lady. They are -going to give the trial scene from Pickwick, which is threadbare enough, -but suits this sort of business, and there’s a performance of Watson’s -on the cornet, and a duet, and some part songs, and so forth. I daresay -it will bore you. This affair of Miss Lockwood’s is very troublesome,” -Mr. Tottenham continued, sitting upright in his chair, and knitting his -brows; “everything was working so well, and a real desire to improve -showing itself among the people. These very girls, a fortnight since, -were as much interested in the glacier theory, and as much delighted -with the snow photographs as it was possible to be; but the moment a -private question comes in, everything else goes to the wall.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said Edgar, “the fact is that we are more interested about -each other, on the whole, than in any abstract question, however -elevating.”</p> - -<p>“Why, that is as much as to say that everything must give place to -gossip,” said Lady Mary, severely, “a doctrine I will never give in to.”</p> - -<p>“And, by the way,” said Mr. Tottenham, sinking back into dreamy ease, -“that reminds me of your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span> sister’s great news. What sort of a family is -it? I remember young Granton well enough, a good-looking boy in the -Guards, exactly like all the others. Little Mary is, how old? -Twenty-one? How those children go on growing. It is the first good -marriage, so to speak, in the family. I am glad Augusta is to have the -salve of a coronet after all her troubles.”</p> - -<p>“What a mixture of metaphors!” cried Lady Mary, “the salve of a -coronet!”</p> - -<p>“That comes of my superior education, my dear,” said Mr. Tottenham. “She -doesn’t deny it’s a comfort to her. Her eyes, poor soul, had a look of -satisfaction in them. And she has had anxiety enough of all kinds.”</p> - -<p>“We need not discuss Augusta’s affairs, Tom,” said Lady Mary, with a -glance at Edgar, so carefully veiled that the aroused and exciting state -in which he was, made him perceive it at once. She gave her husband a -much more distinct warning glance; but he, good man, either did not, or -would not see it.</p> - -<p>“What, not such a happy incident as this?” said Mr. Tottenham; “the -chances are we shall hear of nothing else for some time to come. It will -be in the papers, and all your correspondents will send you -congratulations. After all, as Earnshaw says, people are more interested -about each other than about any abstract question. I should not wonder -even, if, as one nail knocks out another, little Mary’s great marriage -may banish the scandal about Miss Lockwood from the mind of the shop.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Lady Mary for some seconds yielded to an impulse quite unusual to her. -“What can the shop possibly have to do—” she began, hastily, “with the -Thornleigh affairs?” she added, in a subdued tone. “If it was our own -little Molly, indeed, whom they all know—”</p> - -<p>“My dear Mary, they interest themselves in all your alliances,” said Mr. -Tottenham, “and you forget that Gussy is as well known among them as you -are. Besides, as Earnshaw says—Don’t go, Earnshaw; the night is young, -and I am unusually disposed for talk.”</p> - -<p>“So one can see,” said Lady Mary, under her breath, with as strong an -inclination to whip her husband as could have been felt by the most -uncultivated of womankind. “Come and look at my prospectus and the -course of studies we are arranging for this winter, Mr. Earnshaw. Some -of the girls might be stirred up to go in for the Cambridge -examinations, I am sure. I want you so much to come to the village with -me, and be introduced to a few of them. There is really a great deal of -intelligence among them; uneducated intelligence, alas! but under good -guidance, and with the help which all my friends are so kindly willing -to give—”</p> - -<p>“But please remember,” cried Edgar, struggling for a moment on the edge -of the whirlpool, “that I cannot undertake to direct intelligence. I can -teach German if you like—though probably the first German governess -that came to hand would do it a great deal better.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Not so, indeed; the Germans are, perhaps, better trained in the theory -of education than we are; but no woman I have ever met had education -enough herself to be competent to teach in a thoroughly effective way,” -cried Lady Mary, mounting her steed triumphantly. Edgar sat down humbly -by her, almost forgetting, in his sense of the comical position which -fate had placed him in, the daily increasing embarrassments which filled -his path. All the Universities put together could scarcely have made up -as much enthusiasm for education as shone in Lady Mary’s pretty eyes, -and poured from her lips in floods of eloquence. Mr. Tottenham, who -leaned back in his chair abstractedly, and pondered his plans for the -perfection of the faulty and troublesome little society in the shop, -took but little notice, being sufficiently occupied with views of his -own; but Edgar felt his own position as a superior being, and -representative of the highest education, so comical, that it was all he -could do to keep his gravity. To guide the eager uneducated -intelligence, to discipline the untrained thought, nay, to teach women -to think, in whose hands he, poor fellow, felt himself as a baby, was -about the most ludicrous suggestion, he felt, that could have been made -to him. But nothing could exceed the good faith and earnestness with -which Lady Mary expounded her plans, and described the results she hoped -for. This was much safer than the talk about little Mary Thornleigh’s -marriage—or the unexplainable reasons which kept Gussy Thornleigh from -marrying at all—or any other of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> those interesting personal problems -which were more exciting to the mind, and much less easily discussed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br /><br /> -<small>The Village.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> next afternoon was appointed by Lady Mary as the time at which Edgar -should accompany her to Harbour Green, and be made acquainted with at -least a portion of his future pupils. As I have said, this was a safe -sort of resource, and he could not but feel that a compassionate -understanding of his probable feelings, and difficulties of a more -intimate kind, had something to do with Lady Mary’s effort to enlist him -so promptly and thoroughly in the service of her scheme. Both husband -and wife, however, in this curious house were so thoroughly intent upon -their philanthropical schemes, that it was probably mere supererogation -to add a more delicate unexpressed motive to the all-sufficing -enthusiasm which carried them forward. Shortly, however, before the hour -appointed, a little twisted note was brought to him, postponing till the -next day the proposed visit to the village, and Edgar was left to -himself to pursue his own studies on Phil’s behalf, whose education he -felt was quite enough responsibility for one so little trained in the -art of conveying instruction as he was. Phil had already favoured him -with one of those <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span>engrossing and devoted attachments which are so -pleasant, yet sometimes so fatiguing to the object. He followed Edgar -about wherever he went, watched whatever he did with devout admiration, -and copied him in such minute matters as were easily practicable, with -the blindest adoration. The persistence with which he quoted Mr. -Earnshaw had already become the joke of the house, and with a devotion -which was somewhat embarrassing he gave Edgar his company continually, -hanging about him wherever he was. As Edgar read Lady Mary’s note which -the boy brought to him, Phil volunteered explanations.</p> - -<p>“I know why mamma wrote you that note,” he said, “it’s because Aunt -Augusta is there. I heard them saying—</p> - -<p>“Never mind what you heard them saying,” said Edgar; and then he yielded -to a movement of nature. “Was your aunt alone, Phil?” he asked—then -grew crimson, feeling his weakness.</p> - -<p>“How red your face is, Mr. Earnshaw, are you angry? No, I don’t think -she was alone; some of the girls were with her. Mamma said she was -engaged to you, and they made her give it up.”</p> - -<p>“Naturally,” said Edgar, “any day will do for me. What do you say now, -Phil, as I am free for the afternoon, to a long walk?”</p> - -<p>“Hurrah!” cried the boy, “I wanted so much to go up to the gamekeeper’s, -up through the woods to see the last lot of puppies. Do you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span> mind -walking that way? Oh, thanks, awfully! I am so much obliged to Aunt -Augusta for stopping mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Come along then,” said Edgar. He was glad to turn his back on the -house, though he could not but look back as he left, wondering whether, -at any moment at any door or window, the face might appear which he had -not seen for so long—the face of his little love, whom he had once -loved but lightly, yet which seemed to fix itself more vividly in his -recollection every day. He could not sit still and permit himself to -think that possibly she was in the same house with him, within reach, -that he might hear at any moment the sound of her voice. No, rather, -since he had given his voluntary promise to her mother, and since he was -so far separated from her by circumstances, rather hurry out of the -house and turn his back upon a possibility which raised such a tumult in -his heart. He breathed more freely when he was out of doors, in the damp -wintry woods, with Phil, who kept close by his side, carrying on a -monologue very different in subject, but not so different in character -from his father’s steady strain of talk. There is a certain charm in -these wintry woods, the wet greenness of the banks, the mournful -stillness of the atmosphere, the crackle of here and there a dropping -branch, the slow sailing through the air now and then of a leaf, falling -yellow and stiff from the top of a bough. Edgar liked the covert and the -companionship of trees, which were denuded like himself of all that had -made life brave and fair. The oaks and beeches,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> stiffening in their -faded russet and yellow, stood against the deep green of the pine and -firs, like forlorn old beauties in rustling court dresses of a worn-out -fashion; the great elms and spare tall poplars spread their intricate -lacework of branches against the sky; far in the west the sun was still -shining, giving a deep background of red and gold to the crowded groups -of dry boughs. The rustle of some little woodland animal warmly furred -among the fallen leaves and decaying husks, the crackling of that branch -which always breaks somewhere in the silence, the trickle of water, -betraying itself by the treacherous greenness of the mossy grass—these -were all the sounds about, except their own footsteps, and the clear -somewhat shrill voice of the boy, talking with cheerful din against -time, and almost making up for the want of the birds, so much did his -cheerful aimless chatter resemble their sweet confusion of song and -speech, the ordinary language of the woods.</p> - -<p>“I could hit that squirrel as easy as look at him. I bet you a shilling -I could! only just look here, cocking his shining eye at us, the cheeky -little brute! Here goes!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t,” said Edgar, “how should you like it if some Brobdingnagian -being took a shot at you? What do you think, Phil—were those ladies -going to stay?”</p> - -<p>“Those ladies?” cried Phil in amazement, for indeed they were dragged in -without rhyme or reason in the middle of the woods and of their walk. -“Do you mean Aunt Augusta and the girls?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> Oh, is that all? No, I don’t -suppose so. Should you mind? They’re jolly enough you know, after all, -not bad sort of girls, as girls go.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad you give so good an account of them,” said Edgar, amused in -spite of himself.</p> - -<p>“Oh, not half bad sort of girls! nicer a great deal than the ones from -the Green, who come up sometimes. But, I say, Myra Witherington’s an -exception. She <i>is</i> fun; you should see her do old Jones, or the Rector; -how you would laugh! Once I saw her do papa. I don’t think she meant it; -she just caught his very tone, and the way he turns his head, all in a -moment; and then she flushed up like fire and was in such a fright lest -we should notice. Nobody noticed but me.”</p> - -<p>“Your cousins, I suppose, are not so clever as that,” said Edgar, -humouring the boy, and feeling himself as he did so, the meanest of -household spies.</p> - -<p>“It depends upon which it is. Mary is fun, the one that’s going to be -married,” said Phil, “I suppose <i>that</i> will spoil her; and Bee is not -bad. She ain’t so clever as Mary, but she’s not bad. Then there’s Gussy, -is a great one for telling stories; she’s capital when it rains and one -can’t get out. She’s almost as good as the lady with the funny name in -the Arabian Nights.”</p> - -<p>“Does she often come here?” said Edgar with a tremble in his voice.</p> - -<p>“They say she’s going to be a nun,” said Phil; “how funny people are! I -can’t fancy Cousin Gussy shut up in a convent, can you? I’d rather -marry,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> like Mary, some great swell; though they are never any fun after -they’re married,” Phil added parenthetically with profound gravity. As -for Edgar he was in no humour to laugh at this precocious wisdom. He -went straight on, taking the wrong way, and scarcely hearing the shouts -of the boy who called him back. “This is the way to the gamekeeper’s,” -cried Phil, “Mr. Earnshaw, where were you going? You look as if you had -been set thinking and could not see the way.”</p> - -<p>How true it was; he had been set thinking, and he knew no more what road -he was going than if he had been blindfolded. Years after, the damp -greenness of the fading year, the songless season, the bare branches -against the sky, would bring to Edgar’s mind the moment when he shot off -blankly across the path in the wood at Tottenham’s, not knowing and not -caring where he went.</p> - -<p>Next day Lady Mary fulfilled her promise. She drove him down in her own -pony carriage to the village, and there took him upon a little round of -calls. They went to the Rectory, and to Mrs. Witherington’s, and to the -Miss Bakers who were great authorities at Harbour Green. The Rector was -a large heavy old man, with heavy eyes, who had two daughters, and had -come by degrees (though it was secretly said not without a struggle) to -be very obedient to them. He said, “Ah, yes, I dare say you are right,” -to everything Lady Mary said, and gave Edgar a little admonition as to -the seriousness of the work he was undertaking. “Nothing is more -responsible, or more delicate than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> instructing youth,” said the Rector, -“for my part I am not at all sure what it is to come to. The maids know -as much now as their mistresses used to do, and as for the mistresses I -do not know where they are to stop.”</p> - -<p>“But you would not have us condemned to ignorance, papa,” said one of -his daughters.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, I should not take it upon me to condemn you to anything,” said -the old man with his quavering voice, “I hope only that you may not find -you’ve gone further than you had any intention of going, before you’ve -done.”</p> - -<p>This somewhat vague threat was all he ventured upon in the way of -remonstrance; but he did not give any encouragement, and was greatly -afraid of the whole proceeding as revolutionary, and of Lady Mary -herself, as a dangerous and seditious person sowing seeds of rebellion. -Mrs. Witherington, to whom they went next, was scarcely more -encouraging. Her house was a large Queen Anne house, red brick, with a -pediment surmounting a great many rows of twinkling windows. It fronted -to the Green, without any grassplot or ornamental shrubs in front; but -with a large well-walled garden behind, out of which rich branches of -lilac and laburnum drooped in spring, and many scents enriched the air. -The rooms inside were large, but not very lofty, and the two -drawing-rooms occupied the whole breadth of the house, one room looking -to the Green and the other to the garden. There were, or ought to have -been folding doors between, but these were never used, and the opening -was hung with curtains<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span> instead, curtains which were too heavy, and -over-weighted the rooms. But otherwise the interior was pretty, with -that homely gracefulness, familiar and friendly, which belongs to the -dwelling of a large family where everyone has his, or rather her, -habitual concerns and occupations. The front part was the most cheerful, -the back the finest. There a great mirror was over the mantelpiece, but -here the late Colonel’s swords, crossed, held the place of honour. The -visitors entered through this plainer room, which acted as ante-chamber -to the other, and where Mrs. Witherington was discovered, as in a scene -at the theatre, seated at a writing table with a pile of tradesmen’s -books before her. She was a tall spare woman, having much more the -aspect which is associated with the opprobrious epithet, old maid, than -that which traditionally ought to belong to the mother of nine -children—all except the four daughters who remained at home—out and -about in the world. She had three sons who were scattered in the -different corners of the earth, and two daughters married, one of whom -was in India, and the other a consul’s wife in Spain. The young ladies -at home were the youngest of the family, and were, the two married -daughters said to each other when they met, which was very seldom, “very -differently brought up from what we were, and allowed a great deal too -much of their own way.” Neither of these ladies could understand what -mamma could be thinking of to indulge those girls so; but Mrs. -Witherington was by no means an over-indulgent person by nature, and I -think she must have made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span> up her mind that to indulge the vagaries of -the girls was safest on the whole and most conducive to domestic peace.</p> - -<p>Fortunately each of these young women had a “way” of her own, except -Myra, the youngest, who was the funny one, whom Phil and most boys -admired. The others were—Sissy, who was understood to have a suspended -love affair, suspended in consequence of the poverty of her lover, from -which she derived both pain and pleasure, so to speak; for her sisters, -not to speak of the other young ladies of the Green, undoubtedly looked -up to her in consequence, and gave her a much more important place in -their little world than would have been hers by nature; and Marian, who -was the musical sister, who played “anything” at sight, and was good for -any amount of accompaniments, and made an excellent second in a duet; -and Emma, who was the useful one of the family, and possessed the -handsome little sewing-machine in the corner, at which she executed -yards upon yards of stitching every day, and made and mended for the -establishment. Sissy, in addition to having a love affair, drew; so that -these three sisters were all well defined, and distinct. Only Myra was -good for nothing in particular. She was the youngest, long the baby, the -pet of the rest, who had never quite realized the fact that she was no -longer a child. Myra was saucy and clever, and rather impertinent, and -considered a wit in her own family. Indeed they all had been accustomed -to laugh at Myra’s jokes, almost as long as they could recollect, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span> -there is nothing that establishes the reputation of a wit like this. -Mrs. Witherington was alone in the ante-room, as I have said, when Lady -Mary entered, followed by Edgar. She rose somewhat stiffly to meet her -visitors, for she too being of the old school disapproved of Lady Mary, -who was emphatically of the new school, and a leader of all innovations; -though from the fact of being Lady Mary, she was judged more leniently -than a less distinguished revolutionary would have been. Mrs. -Witherington made her greetings sufficiently loud to call the attention -of all the daughters, who came in a little crowd, each rising from her -corner to hail the great lady. One of them drew the cosiest chair near -the fire for her, another gave her an embroidered hand-screen to shield -her face from its glow, and the third hung about her in silent -admiration, eagerly looking for some similar service to render. Myra -followed last of all, rushing audibly downstairs, and bursting into the -room with eager exclamations of pleasure.</p> - -<p>“I saw the pony-carriage at the Rectory gate, and I hoped you were -coming here,” cried Myra; who stopped short suddenly, however, and -blushed and laughed at sight of the stranger whom she had not perceived.</p> - -<p>“This is Mr. Earnshaw, Myra,” said Lady Mary, “whom I told you of—who -is going to be so good as to teach us. I am taking him to see some of -the ladies whom he is to help to educate.”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t convey a false impression,” said Edgar. “You are all a -hundred times better edu<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span>cated than I am. I don’t make any such -pretensions.”</p> - -<p>“We are not educated at all,” said Sissy Witherington, folding her -hands, with a soft sigh. She said it because Lady Mary said it, and -because soft sighs were the natural expression of a young heart -blighted; but I don’t think she would have liked to hear the same -sentiment from any one else.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I think it is extremely disagreeable of you all to say so,” -said Mrs. Witherington, “and a reflection on your parents, who did the -very best they could for you. I am sure your education, which you -despise so, cost quite as much, at least for the last year or two, as -the boys’ did. I beg your pardon, Lady Mary—but I do think it is a -little hard upon the older people, all these fine ideas that are being -put into the girls’ heads.”</p> - -<p>“But, dear Mrs. Witherington, how could you help it?” said the rebel -chief. “The very idea of educating women is a modern invention; nobody -so much as thought of it in the last generation. Women have never been -educated. My mother thought exactly the same as you do. There was -absolutely <i>no</i> education for women in her day.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Mrs. Witherington, more erect than ever, “I had an idea -once that I myself was an educated person, and I daresay so had the -countess—till my children taught me better.”</p> - -<p>“I declare it is hard on mamma,” cried Myra; “the only one among us who -can write a decent hand, or do anything that’s useful.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Of course nobody means that,” said Lady Mary. “What I say is that every -generation ought to improve and make progress, if there is to be any -amelioration in the world at all; and as, fortunately, there has sprung -up in our day an increased perception of the advantages of education—”</p> - -<p>Here Emma’s sewing-machine came to a little knot, and there was a sharp -click, and the thread broke. “Oh, that comes of talking!” said Emma, as -she set herself to pull out the ravelled thread and set it right again. -She was not accustomed to take much share in the conversation, and this -was her sole contribution to it while the visitors remained.</p> - -<p>“Well, a sewing-machine is a wonderful invention,” said Mrs. -Witherington; “don’t you think so, Mr. Earnshaw? Not that I like the -work much myself. It is always coarse and rough on the wrong side, and -you can’t use it for fine things, such as baby’s things, for instance; -but certainly the number of tucks and flounces that you can allow -yourself, knowing that the machine will do dozens in a day, is -extraordinary. And in a house where there are so many girls!—Emma does -a great deal more with her machine, I am sure, than ever Penelope did, -who was one of your classical friends, Lady Mary.”</p> - -<p>“And she can undo her work still more quickly,” cried Myra, with an -outburst of laughter, “as it’s only chain-stitch. What a pity Penelope -did not know of it.”</p> - -<p>“But then the question is,” said Sissy, “whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span> we are so very much -the better for having more tucks and flounces. (By the way, no one wears -tucks now, mamma.) The good of a sewing machine is that it leaves one -much more time for improving one’s mind.”</p> - -<p>“In my day,” said Mrs. Witherington, going on with her private argument, -“we had our things all made of fine linen, instead of the cotton you -wear now, and trimmed with real lace instead of the cheap imitation -trash that everybody has. We had not so much ornament, but what there -was, was good. My wedding things were all trimmed with real Mechlin -<i>that</i> broad—”</p> - -<p>“That must have been very charming,” said Lady Mary; “but in the -meantime we must settle about our work. Mr. Earnshaw is willing to give -us an hour on Tuesdays. Should you all come? You must not undertake it, -if it will interfere with other work.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, I want to know German better,” said Sissy. “It would be very -nice to be able to speak a little, especially if mamma goes abroad next -summer as she promises. To know a language pretty well is so very -useful.”</p> - -<p>Lady Mary made a little gesture of despair with her pretty hands. “Oh, -my dear girls,” she said, “how are you ever to be thoroughly educated if -you go on thinking only of what’s useful, and to speak a little German -when you go abroad? What is wanted is to make you think—to train your -minds into good methods of work—to improve you altogether mentally, and -give you the exactness of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span> properly cultivated intellects; just the -thing that we women never have.”</p> - -<p>Myra was the only one who had courage enough to reply, which she did -with such a good hearty ringing peal of laughter as betrayed Edgar out -of the gravity becoming the situation. Myra thought Lady Mary’s address -the best joke in the world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br /><br /> -<small>Wisdom and Foolishness.</small></h2> - -<p>“It is astonishing,” said Lady Mary, mournfully, “how entirely one is -misunderstood in all one’s deeper meanings—even by those one has, so to -speak, trained one’s self.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Edgar, hesitating, with the modesty that became his humble -pretensions; “but, after all, to desire a piece of knowledge because it -is useful, is not an unworthy sentiment.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, not at all an unworthy sentiment; indeed, very right in its -way; but totally subversive,” said Lady Mary, sadly, “of the highest -principle of education, which aims at thorough cultivation of the mind -rather than at conferring certain commonplace matter-of-fact -acquirements. Considered in that point of view, professional education -would be the highest, which I don’t think it is. Unless education is -prized for itself, as a discipline of the mind, and not merely as -teaching us some things we don’t know, we can never reach the highest -level; and that truth, alas!” Lady Mary sighed, still more sadly, with -all the disappointment of a baffled reformer, “women have not even begun -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span> perceive. You laugh, Mr. Earnshaw, but, for my part, I cannot -laugh.”</p> - -<p>Edgar made the best apology he could for his untimely merriment. He was -very much inclined to adopt the primitive Adamic argument, and declare -that it was Myra’s fault; but either high principle, or terror of Lady -Mary (I think the latter) intervened, and he refrained from thus -committing himself. They walked along the sunny side of the Green -together, the ponies having been sent home on account of the cold. It -was a pretty place, like a village of romance, a succession of irregular -houses surrounding a large triangular green, which was very green, and -very well kept, and almost entirely appropriated to the gentry, though -now and then a ragged donkey of the lower classes would graze peaceably -in a corner, to the great advantage, pictorially, of the scene. Some of -the houses were, like Mrs. Witherington’s, of Queen Anne’s time, not -antique, but pleasantly old-fashioned and characteristic; others were -white cottages, half hid in shrubberies. In one, which was very red, and -very close upon the road, and had its rows of windows still more crowded -than the others—a thin house, only one room in depth, with a very -brightly polished brass knocker, and very white steps—there were signs -of confusion which caught Lady Mary’s eye. She explained to Edgar that -it was the doctor’s house, that he was going away, which was not much -loss, as he was an old-fashioned man of the old school, and did not keep -pace with the times; and that she trusted the new man, who was coming<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span> -from Scotland, would be better. Edgar listened politely, without paying -much attention, for, in his ignorance, he did not feel much interest in -the new doctor.</p> - -<p>“I must ask Miss Annetta about him,” said Lady Mary, as she led the way -into a house which turned only its gable to the Green, and possessed a -carriage drive and a wilderness of lofty shrubs. The cottage itself was -damp and weedy, and rather dark, with blinds and curtains half drawn -over the little windows, and a sort of dim religious light, green in -tone, and very limited in degree, pervading the place. When Edgar’s eyes -became accustomed to it, he saw that the little drawing-room was -plastered over with corner cupboards, and velvet-covered shelves, and -brackets, laden with old china and other curious things. The room was so -crowded with these ornaments, and with old furniture, that it was -scarcely possible to move without displacing something—a drawback which -was all the more apparent, as both the Miss Bakers were large persons, -many sizes too big for their house. They were not a well-matched pair. -The eldest was a harsh-featured woman, looking fully forty-five, and -calling herself so, with a total disregard to the feelings of Miss -Annetta, who, all the world knew, was but two years younger. Miss Baker -was clever, and the other was silly; but yet Miss Annetta was the most -calculated to attract the attention of the sympathetic spectator, who -could either laugh at her, or weep over her, as his nature prompted. She -had no remnant of youth in the foolish face<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> that had once been pretty -enough; but her entire development, mental and moral, seemed to have -been arrested when she was about seventeen, at the age when croquet (if -croquet existed—I am afraid it did not exist at so early a period) and -new patterns for worsted work, and crochet, were the furthest limits of -her desires. Poor soul! to look at her, she was forty-three, <i>bien -sonnés</i>, but to listen to her soft little voice and its prattle, she was -seventeen, not a day more. This curious fossilised girl was left to -Edgar’s share in the heat of the conversation, which immediately ensued -between Lady Mary and Miss Baker—who sympathised deeply on the -educational question, and had a great deal to say to each other.</p> - -<p>After Edgar had been introduced as being “so good as to be disposed to -help” in the great work, he was for the moment forgotten, while the two -ladies talked of committees and schemes of lectures, and a great many -things which he felt to be quite above his humble intelligence. Miss -Annetta was exactly in the same position. The talk was a great deal too -old and too serious for her. She sat silent for a minute or two, feeling -somewhat coy of addressing that wonder and mystery, “a gentleman,” -giving him little looks, half-saucy, half-timid, and betraying an -inclination to go off into giggles of laughter, which filled Edgar with -the gravest surprise. Finally, she made a bold step, and addressed him, -giving the curls which she wore on each side of her face a little shake -and toss of conscious attractiveness before she began.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You have not been long in the neighbourhood, Mr. Earnshaw? Do say you -like it. Dear Lady Mary makes Tottenham so charming, <i>so</i> charming! It -is such an acquisition having her. Have you had nice skating lately? I -hear some of the young ladies from the Green have been at the pond. I -have not gone yet myself, for I don’t skate, though everybody does -now-a-days. They tell me I should learn directly if I only had the -courage to try; but I am such a little coward, I really daren’t venture. -Of course you will laugh at me; but I dare not. I really haven’t the -courage.”</p> - -<p>“I am not at all surprised that you have not the courage,” said Edgar, -looking at her smiling face, and much disturbed in his mind as to what -to say. “One must make up one’s mind to a good many tumbles; which are -all very well for boys and girls—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I shouldn’t like that,” cried Miss Annetta; “children, as you say, -don’t mind. What a pity you did not come in the summer, Mr. Earnshaw. It -is such a sociable neighbourhood. We had a garden party somewhere, at -least twice a week, and they are such nice things for bringing young -people together—don’t you think so? Better than evening parties; you -can see so much more of people, going at four or five o’clock—and if -you’re intimate, staying for high tea and a little music after. It is a -delightful way of spending the day. There is nothing can take the same -place in winter. To be sure if a girl is bold and knows how to -skate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span>—but I really daren’t try, I haven’t the courage;—and you don’t -give me much encouragement, Mr. Earnshaw, it must be allowed.”</p> - -<p>Edgar looked on in dismay while Miss Annetta shook her curls at him, and -giggled as she had done when she was pretty and seventeen, just -twenty-six years ago. What could he say? He was trying to find something -polite and pleasant with which to carry on the conversation, when Lady -Mary suddenly turned from her grave interview with the elder sister, and -interfered for his salvation.</p> - -<p>“Miss Annetta,” said Lady Mary, suddenly, “I am sure I can get -information from you about the doctor. Has he gone? and has the new one -come? and who is he? I hope he is not a mere stupid country -practitioner. I saw a great commotion at the house.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, poor Mrs. Franks,” said Miss Annetta, “they were just preparing to -go; but she, poor thing, though I don’t like to speak of such things -before gentlemen, went and had a baby this morning. It has put them all -out so dreadfully! and she had nothing ready, not so much as a little -cap. Just like her, you will say; and of course they can’t go away now -for ever so long.”</p> - -<p>“Poor soul,” said Lady Mary, “I must send and ask if we can do -anything.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I think it wicked to encourage such people,” said Miss Baker. -“How dare she go on having babies, knowing she can’t afford it? I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span> -no pity for such a woman. Of course she brings it all on herself; and if -she were the only one to suffer, I shouldn’t mind. But just fancy a -woman of my age, subject to bronchitis, left to the tender mercies of -her ninny of a husband, probably for six weeks longer, just the worst -time of the year—not to speak of Annetta, who is a perfect martyr to -rheumatism.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Jane!” exclaimed Miss Annetta, feebly.</p> - -<p>“Though I think it’s gout,” said Miss Baker. “When gout is in a family, -I believe it never lets you go much beyond forty without entering an -appearance; which is my great reason for hoping I shall escape -scot-free, seeing I’m forty-five.”</p> - -<p>“You must not believe all my sister says; she is so fond of her fun,” -said Miss Annetta, in an aside to Edgar. “Oh, I have heard a great deal -about the new doctor, Lady Mary. He is quite young, and very handsome -and nice, people say. He is coming straight from Scotland, so I suppose -he must be very clever, for so many new medical things are found out -there. I hear he has dark hair and eyes, and tall, and a very nice -manner.”</p> - -<p>“Well I suppose these are interesting details,” said Lady Mary; “but I -should have liked to know a little more of his qualifications, I -confess.”</p> - -<p>“And he has a charming sister, a widow, who keeps his house; so that he -will be able to ask people, which a bachelor never is, except men, and -they don’t count as society;” cried Miss Annetta, continuing with -breathless haste her report; for if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span> Lady Mary had a fault, it was that -she was too ready to interrupt uninteresting speeches. “The Franks are -so poor, and they have so many children, they never were any good, not -even for a garden party; but you must not think from what I say that I -don’t love children, Mr. Earnshaw. I adore them! When are Phil and -little Mary coming for a romp, and to see all our curiosities? I do feel -so much at home with them, Lady Mary, you can’t think. Jane there says -we are three romps all together, and she doesn’t know which is the -worst.”</p> - -<p>“They will be delighted to come,” said Lady Mary, rising.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but I suppose I must ask permission of Mr. Earnshaw now?” said Miss -Annetta. “If you will come too, you will see that your charge does not -get into mischief, Mr. Earnshaw, and I am sure you will be quite an -addition. You are not one of the stern tutors that frighten poor little -things like me.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I must carry Mr. Earnshaw off. We have no time to spare,” said -Lady Mary. “Little fool!” she cried, severely, as soon as they had left -the cottage. “I hope you don’t mind her impertinent chatter? I am sure -nothing could be further from my intention than to subject you to any -such disagreeable comment.”</p> - -<p>“Disagreeable! to call me what I am, Phil’s tutor?” said Edgar. “Why, -what a mean-spirited wretch you must think me. To accept a post, and be -ashamed of the name of it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span>—”</p> - -<p>“But, Mr. Earnshaw, you know that is not how we think. We consider you -only as a friend—and take it as the greatest kindness you can do us.” -Then Lady Mary, with a flush of generous sentiment, took a warm little -hand out of her muff, and gave it to Edgar, who was a great deal more -touched by the <i>amende</i> than he had been hurt by Miss Annetta’s innocent -assault.</p> - -<p>“Thanks,” he said, with moisture in his eyes, “so much the better for -me, and so much the less reason for being ashamed of my post. If you -snubbed me, I might have some excuse perhaps for making a fool of -myself.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Earnshaw!” said Lady Mary again, but this time with hesitation, and -almost timidity. “I wonder if you will think I mean to snub you—if I -say something which I am almost bound to say?”</p> - -<p>“Say it!” said Edgar, smiling. He felt in a moment that he knew what was -coming, and looked into her tremulous countenance with all the superior -calm of a man prepared for pain, and prescient of what was to come.</p> - -<p>“You will not be angry? Oh, Mr. Earnshaw! if you only knew how I fret at -such restrictions—how I wish we could put aside mercenary -considerations, and acknowledge ourselves all to be equal, as I am sure -we are by nature!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think we are equal by nature,” said Edgar; “but never mind the -abstract question. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span> promise not even to be wounded. And I think I know -what you are going to say.”</p> - -<p>“It is just this,” said Lady Mary, hurriedly, “Forgive me! The young -Thornleighs, Mr. Earnshaw, have always been very much with us. I am fond -of them, and so is Mr. Tottenham, and they are always coming and going. -It would be ungenerous to you as well as unkind to them, if we were to -send them away because you are here.”</p> - -<p>Edgar did no more than bow in assent. A certain sense of personal -dignity, quite new to him, kept him from doing more.</p> - -<p>“It would be thoroughly ungenerous to you,” said Lady Mary, warmly, “and -contrary to the perfect trust we feel—both my husband and I—in you, -our friend.”</p> - -<p>“Just one word, Lady Mary,” said Edgar, “and pardon me if it seems -harsh. Why did you not think of this before? I came here in a mist, not -knowing very well what was to happen to me; but <i>you</i> knew the whole, -both my side and the other. I need not say send me away, which is the -most natural thing to do, for you were aware of all the circumstances -the other day when you brought me here. Of course, at any moment, I am -ready to go.”</p> - -<p>“That is not quite generous,” said Lady Mary, with an appealing look, -“of course we knew, and trusted you as we trust you now—fully. But, Mr. -Earnshaw, forgive me! I promised to Augusta to say just one word.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I have already said to Lady Augusta all that can be said,” said Edgar; -“that she need not fear me—that I will not put myself in her way.”</p> - -<p>They had, by this time, reached the avenue, and were walking -unconsciously fast in the roused state of feeling which this interview -had called forth, between the long level lines of leafless trees, on the -edge of the sodden, bright green wintry grass, which tempted the feet -with its mossy softness. It was afternoon, and the long slanting lines -of sunshine lighted up, but scarcely had the better of, the creeping -shadows which bided their time in every corner. Lady Mary put out her -hand again suddenly, with an excitement which she did not seem able to -control, and laid it on Edgar’s arm.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Earnshaw!” she said, the tears coming to her eyes. “It is not for -you. Augusta, like myself, trusts you entirely; it is not you.”</p> - -<p>“What then?” said Edgar, suddenly stopping short, and facing her.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Earnshaw! Oh! how can I put into words the strange service—the -thing beyond words, which Augusta thinks she can trust you enough to ask -for. Oh! Mr. Earnshaw, see how absolute is our faith in you! It is not -you she fears. It is the impetuosity—it is the——it is her own -child.”</p> - -<p>Edgar stood still, and did not speak—how could he? In his life he had -had enough to chill him one way or another; now, all at once, there -seemed to burst forth a fountain of warmth and life within<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span> him—in his -very heart. The water came to his eyes. If he had been alone I believe -it would have overflowed, so poignant was the touch of this sudden, -scarcely comprehensible happiness. “Ah!” he cried, summing up in that -little syllable, as is done so often, worlds of sudden understanding, of -emotion inexpressible in words; and so stood gazing at the unlucky -emissary, who had put things inconceivable, things unbelievable, all at -once into his throbbing brain.</p> - -<p>“Oh, God forgive me!” cried Lady Mary, with a devoutness quite unusual -to her. “What have I done—what have I done?”</p> - -<p>“Look here,” said Edgar, feeling a strange difficulty of articulation, -and with a consciousness that, instead of being eloquent, as he ought to -have been in the circumstances, his words were homely, almost rude; “So -far as I am myself concerned, nothing will make me swerve from my word. -Lady Augusta need have no fear for me; but if—” and here he paused, “if -the happiness of another were any way involved. It is not my -supposition, pardon me, it is yours. If——then I will be bound by no -word, no promise, nothing but—<i>her</i> will whatever it is. I am ready to -balk myself, to give up the desire of my heart, to say never a word, so -far as I am concerned. But her I will not balk; it is not my place. -<i>Her</i> will she shall have if I can get it for her—at any risk, with any -pains! Lady Mary, bid me go, or take the consequences; this is all I -will say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Earnshaw!” cried Lady Mary, in a burst of injudicious sympathy. -“Oh, Edgar! now I understand them;” and with that, this very foolish, -very clever, little woman sat down upon the stump of a tree, and cried -with all her heart. She was totally taken by surprise. She had believed -him to be so good, so ready to obliterate himself, that she half -despised him through all her generous compassion and liking. I think it -is Mr. Charles Reade who describes, somewhat coarsely perhaps, but very -powerfully, the woman’s surprise at discovering herself to be, for the -first time, face to face with a male of her own species. The surprise, I -believe, is common to both sexes, and as much when love is out of the -question as when it is deeply involved. It is one of the most -penetrating of mental sensations—a sudden revelation. Lady Mary felt -this as she sat down on the stump of the tree, and called Edgar Earnshaw -by his Christian name, and cried, suddenly abandoning her colours, -giving up her cause, owning herself utterly conquered. It was a great -deal to be accomplished by so few words, and Edgar himself was so -entirely moved and shaken by what had occurred, that he was not half -sensible of his own success. All he knew was that Lady Mary felt for -him, understood him; and this gave him comfort, when he suddenly dropped -down after the exaltation of his sudden transport into a sadness which -was its natural consequence. Lady Mary fell too, out of her sudden -enthusiasm into a sense of absolute foolishness and the indiscreetest of -sympathetic ebullitions, and picked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span> herself up and went meekly along -the avenue by Edgar’s side, trying to talk about the children, and -raking up nursery stories of Phil’s cleverness to tell him, in what she -would herself have thought the very imbecility of motherhood. Poor Lady -Mary! she had the additional misery of thinking that Edgar perceived her -utter downfall and change of sides—which he, poor fellow, with his -heart jumping in his throat, was far too much agitated to do.</p> - -<p>But when they came to the great door, and were about to separate, she -“thought it her duty” to leave him with a final word of counsel, “Mr. -Earnshaw,” she said, almost timidly, “you saw that I was carried away by -my feelings—for I feel for you, however I may be obliged to side with -my sister in what she thinks to be best. You will forget all I have been -so foolish as to say—and keep to what you said to her, won’t you? Don’t -let me have done harm instead of good.”</p> - -<p>“I will keep to what I said to her, religiously; she has my word,” said -Edgar, “but don’t think I can ever forget what you have said to me.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Earnshaw, it was in confidence.”</p> - -<p>“In closest, dearest confidence,” he said, “but not to be -forgotten—never to be forgotten; that is not possible. It will be wiser -to tell Lady Augusta what I have said; and remember, dear Lady Mary, -you, who have been so good to me, that, at a moment’s notice, at a word, -at a look, I am ready to go away.”</p> - -<p>“Not if I can help it,” she said, half crying again, holding out her -hand; and in sight of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span> biggest of the powdered footmen, and of the -porter, and of one of the under-gardeners, all looking on in -consternation, he kissed it, absolutely indifferent to what any one -might say. To be sure it was only a little glove he kissed, warm out of -her muff.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br /><br /> -<small>The Opposite Camp.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Thornleigh family, or at least the feminine portion of it, was, as -has been indicated to the reader, in town—though it was still very -early in the year—for the purpose of looking after little Mary’s -trousseau, as her wedding was to take place at Easter. Lady Augusta’s -family numbered eight altogether—five girls and three boys; and if I -could tell you half the trouble she had gone through with them, you -would no longer wonder at the wrinkles on her forehead. Her girls had -been as troublesome as her boys, which seldom happens, and that was -saying a great deal. Harry, the eldest son, was a prodigal, constantly -in debt and in trouble; John, the second, who, it was hoped, would have -distinguished himself by his brains, had been plucked for his degree; -and the regiment of which Reginald, the youngest son, was an ornament, -had been sent off to India, contrary to all prognostications. As for the -daughters, though the youngest was nineteen, only one was married—a -terrible thought for an anxious mother, as anxious to do her duty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span> by -her children as Lady Augusta was—and that one!</p> - -<p>The eldest was Ada, who, when her lover, only a poor clergyman at the -best, died of typhus fever, caught in his work, never would look at -another man, but retired meekly into old maidenhood. The second, Helena, -was the clever one of the family. She had more brains than all the rest -put together, everybody said, and so indeed she herself thought—more -than she knew what to do with. If that head could only have been put on -her brother John’s shoulders, what a blessing to everyone concerned! -for, alas! all the good her brains did her, was to betray her into a -marriage with a very clever and very learned professor, painfully -superior to everybody else, but altogether out of “her own class.” The -third was Gussy, who had been always Lady Augusta’s most dearly beloved, -and who, three years ago, had been all but betrothed to the best match -in the county—young Edgar Arden; but when Edgar was ruined, and -disappeared, as it were, off the face of the earth, Gussy, instead of -abandoning him as a sensible girl should have done, clung with the -obstinacy which distinguished the Thornleighs, to the very recollection -of him—which, as he was still living and marriageable, though no match -at all, was a fanaticism much less manageable than Ada’s. For Ada, if -she insisted upon considering herself a widow, was at all events quite -submissive in other matters, and content to be her mother’s right hand -at home; but Gussy, who had by no means given up her personal -pos<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span>sibilities of happiness, and whose hopes were still alive, had been -very restless, and worried her family with many vagaries. Schemes and -crotchets ran, I suppose, in the noble blood which Lady Augusta had -transmitted to her daughters. It showed itself in different ways in the -sisters: Helena’s ways had been all intellectual, but Gussy, who was -benevolent and religious, was more difficult to deal with. The -melancholy seclusion, which to an English mind is the first -characteristic of a convent, has little to do with the busy beehive of a -modern sisterhood; and a young woman connected with such an institution -has claims made upon her which are wonderfully embarrassing to a -fashionable mother. Helena, in her wildest days, when she had all sorts -of committees going on, could be taken to her meetings and lectures in -the carriage, like a Christian, and could be sent for when these -<i>séances</i> were over; but Gussy had to trudge off on foot to all sorts of -places in her long black cloak, and to visit houses in which fever, and -every kind of evil, physical and moral, abounded; and was not to be -shaken by any remonstrances. Indeed, the parents had been glad to -compromise and consent to any amount of Associateship, so as to keep off -the dreaded possibility of a determination on Gussy’s part to enter the -Sisterhood for good and all. I do not think that Gussy herself ever -threatened this, though she thought of it sometimes as her best -alternative, if—; but there was still an if, a living and strong -peradventure in her mind. Other good-natured friends, however, strongly -pressed the possibility on Lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span> Augusta’s mind; they did all they could -to persuade the anxious mother to take forcible steps in the matter, and -constrain Gussy, on her obedience, to give up her objectionable -charities and devotions. Fortunately Lady Augusta did not belong to that -class of women who take pleasure in worrying their children for their -good. She shook her head when her pretty daughter, still as pretty as in -her first season, went out in her black cloak, and the hideous bonnet, -which the mother would not allow to herself was “becoming,” -notwithstanding its intrinsic hideousness. She moaned over the dirt, the -disease, the evil smells and sights which her child was about to -encounter, and about the risk of infection to which she would expose -herself.</p> - -<p>“Who can tell what you may bring back with you, Gussy?—fever, or one -does not know what,” Lady Augusta said, piteously. “It is so different -with our poor people at home, whom we all know.”</p> - -<p>“I will shut myself up in my room, mamma; or I will go to the House, -when there is anything infectious about; but I cannot give up my work,” -said Gussy, filial, but determined.</p> - -<p>“Oh, work, child! what do you mean by work?” cried Lady Augusta, driven -to her wits’ end. “Home is surely better than the ‘House,’ as you call -it, and I am sure Ada and I find plenty to do at home. Why cannot you do -as we do?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps because Ada and you do it all,” said Gussy, unmoved by that -despairing appeal which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span> the old is always making to the new. Why cannot -you do as we do?</p> - -<p>Poor Lady Augusta! It was she who had to give in, not her daughter. And -you may easily understand, dear reader, how such a good mother was -affected by the break-down of all her elder hopes—Ada, Helena, Gussy. -Her three eldest children—all failures! What a heart-breaking thought -it was to a woman of fashion, surrounded by contemporaries who had -married their daughters well, and whom no man could reproach as -negligent of their highest duties! She would wake sometimes in the -middle of the night, and ask herself was it her fault? Had she put -foolish notions into the heads of the girls? Certainly on the Thornleigh -side there were no “views” nor “crotchets;” and Lady Augusta was aware -that she herself had accomplished her own fate, not altogether because -she preferred it, and had, perhaps, smothered personal predilections, -which her children showed no inclination to smother. “Why cannot they do -as I did?” she would say in her heart, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>But now at last a moment had come, in which her natural cares were -rewarded. When Lord Granton proposed for Mary, her mother had almost -cried with joy. For the first time here was a satisfactory—a completely -satisfactory conclusion. So unexceptionable a young man, such a title, -such estates, and a family which any girl might be proud to enter! The -delight was all the sweeter from being so long deferred, so sadly -missed. She forgave Helena her bad match, and Gussy and Ada<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span> their no -matches at all, in the exhilaration of this happy moment. All her little -grievances and grudges vanished in the sudden flood of sunshine. She was -reconciled to all the world, even to Helena’s husband, the Professor, -over whom, too, a heavenly radiance would be flung, when he was -brother-in-law to a marquis. Poor Lady Augusta! In the full height of -her exhilaration she betook herself to Tottenham’s to send the good news -to her sister, feeling that now at least, perhaps for the first time, -there was no trouble to lessen her happiness; and there she encountered, -without any warning, Edgar! Heaven help her! a man still more -objectionable, because more hopelessly penniless than Helena’s -professor, a man without a name, without a shilling, without a -connection! but whom Gussy, her favourite daughter, was ready, she knew, -to follow to the end of the world. When she drove out to the rural -Tottenham’s after this, to tell her sister the story of Mary’s -engagement, is it wonderful that her agitated mind should have poured -forth all its mingled strain of joy, tribulation, content, and alarm? -The wholly joyful part of her budget was soon swallowed up in the -revelation of her fears about Gussy, and in the reproaches she could not -quite restrain. Why had her sister so added to her burdens, by this -injudicious, this uncalled-for interference in Edgar’s fortunes? He was -not so friendless, Lady Augusta protested, half indignant, half weeping, -that they, of all the world, should have rushed into the breach, and -taken him up—bringing him even into their house, where he could not -fail to see Gussy one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span> time or other. And then the anxious mother cried, -and told her sister that she had no confidence in Gussy. In Edgar she -had every confidence; he had promised never to thrust himself into her -way; but Gussy had made no such promise, and her mother did not even -dare to speak to her on the subject, knowing that she would be met by -unanswerable arguments. Thus the two ladies, talking over the whole -matter, fell into a not unnatural snare, and resolved to confide in -Edgar, and trust to him to keep Gussy, as well as himself, right—not -foreseeing how that confidence would change to him the whole aspect of -affairs. When Ada heard how far her mother’s revelations had gone, and -of the step Lady Mary was commissioned to take, she did not give it her -approval, as Lady Augusta had hoped, but looked very grave, and doubted -much the wisdom of the proceeding. “He promised never to stand in my -way,” Lady Augusta said, much depressed by her privy-councillor’s -disapproval. “But he did not promise for Gussy—what right would he have -to undertake for Gussy?” said Ada, shaking her head. It was an idea -which had not entered her mother’s mind, for Lady Augusta had that kind -of confidence in Edgar, as of a man born to set everything right, which -women, especially when surrounded by practical difficulties, are so -ready to place in an ideal man. He had never objected to her commands -hitherto; why should he now? Nevertheless, when Ada disappeared, Lady -Augusta began to quake lest she should have done more harm than good.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span></p> - -<p>“We must try to get something for him to do,” she said, faltering, -“something abroad. Notwithstanding all those absurd new arrangements, -people of influence can still command situations abroad, I hope, if they -choose to take the trouble. I shall speak to Lord Millboard, Ada; and I -am sure Granton, dear fellow, would take any trouble, if he knew how -important it was.”</p> - -<p>“Because he is happy himself, to prevent poor Gussy from being happy?” -said Ada. “Oh, I am not saying anything against it, mamma. I suppose it -will have to be.”</p> - -<p>“Of course it will have to be,” said her mother, “you are all very -unkind—you girls. Not one of you has exerted herself as I had a right -to expect. Do you think that I thought of nothing but pleasing myself -when I married? And who has lost the most in losing Edgar? Well, Gussy, -you may say, in one way; but I too. What a help he would have been to -me! so kind and so understanding. Oh, Ada! if you knew how much it goes -against my heart to shut him out. But it must be; what would your -father—what would every one say?”</p> - -<p>To this, Ada could return but little answer, except to murmur something -about “leaving it in the hands of Providence,” which was not so -consolatory to Lady Augusta as it was meant to be.</p> - -<p>“It is all very well to say, leave it to Providence!” cried that much -tried mother, “if you had lived as long as I have, Ada, you would have -found that all the most inconvenient things that happen in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span> world -are said to be brought about by Providence—especially in the way of -marriages. No, we must take precautions; Gussy must not go near -Tottenham’s while he is there; and I’ll tell you what I will do. Harry -is at home doing nothing particular, and probably quarrelling with your -poor papa, who has so much to vex him. I have just been wondering how -they could possibly get on with all of us away. I will write and tell -him to offer himself to your aunt Mary for a visit.”</p> - -<p>“Harry! what good will Harry do?” asked Ada, wondering.</p> - -<p>“Well, my dear, at least he will be on the spot,” said Lady Augusta; and -she breathed a long sigh, as if a weight had been taken off her mind. -Any stop-gap, however imperfect, which takes, or seems to take, a -responsibility off the mind, is enough to give a sense of relief to one -so overborne by many businesses as Lady Augusta was. “And now, my dear, -let us look over Mary’s patterns,” she said, drawing a chair towards -Ada’s table, on which a mass of samples, of linen, silk, muslin, and -every other fabric, known to human ingenuity, were lying, ticketed and -arranged in packets. This was a little bit of pure enjoyment, which -refreshed the anxious mother in the midst of all her cares.</p> - -<p>I need not tell what commotion was made in the household when the news -crept out and stole secretly from one girl to another, that Edgar had -come back. Mary and Beatrice put their curly heads together over it, and -the result was a communication to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span> young Granton, which effectually -fortified him against making himself a tool of any of poor Lady -Augusta’s schemings to get rid of the danger. These two were the -children of the house, and the elder sisters paid but little attention -to their innocent conspiracies. The elders were more interesting -personages than little Mary and Bee, though Mary was a predestined -marchioness, and there was no knowing what Bee might come to in the way -of matrimonial elevation. There are people, no doubt, who will think the -old maid of the family its least interesting member; but you, dear -unknown friend, my gentle reader, are not of that complexion; and there -may be others who will feel that Ada’s obscure life was a poor enough -thing to settle down to, after all the hopes and all the disappointments -of youth, both of which are more exciting and sustaining than the simple -monotony of such a commonplace existence. I am not sure, however, for my -own part, whether Ada’s soft self-renunciation never expressed in words, -and her constant readiness in trouble, and the numberless frocks she -made for her poor children—and even her mother’s meetings, though the -family laughed at them—were half so bewildering an anti-climax to the -high aspirations of youth as was Helena’s Professor, and the somewhat -humdrum, if highly intellectual routine into which she had dropped with -him. Helena, herself now and then, had a confused and giddy -consciousness that ministering to a man’s comforts, who was not at all a -demi-god, and attending lectures at the Royal Society was a very odd and -sudden downfall from all her dreams of social<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span> amelioration and “a great -work;” but fortunately she was happy, a thing which deadens the moral -perception. Ada was happy, too, in her different way; but Gussy was not -happy. She had not the tranquil soul of her elder sister, nor that -curious mixture of sense and talent, and self-confidence and absence of -humour which made Helena what she was. She had not “given up,” as in -various ways both of them had done. She was dissatisfied, for life as -yet had lost none of its possibilities, neither by fulfilment nor -renunciation. All clouds might yet be cleared away from her sky, and -what she considered perfect happiness might yet be waiting for her -somewhere. This remnant of possibility that the soul may still have all -it craves, ought, you might think, to have kept Gussy’s heart alive, and -given her a secret support; but it was in fact a very fire of -restlessness within her. The first step towards attaining the secondary -happinesses of life, is to have given up and recognised as impossible -the primary and greater happiness. Gussy had been compelled to occupy -herself closely, in order to save herself from becoming discontented, -morbid, sour, and miserable, by reason of this sense within her, that -everything might yet come right.</p> - -<p>“Why should you say it was injudicious?” she said to her sister, when -they at length discussed the subject, “why should not they help him, -since he wants it, because of the chance of meeting me? I heard what -mamma said as I came in. If he does meet me, I dare say he has forgotten -all about me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span> by this time, or at least remembers me only as a friend. -It would be hard indeed if any ghost of me, after all these years, were -to come in his way.”</p> - -<p>“And you,” said her sister, “could you meet him as a friend whom you -remembered? Would that be all?”</p> - -<p>Gussy’s lip quivered in spite of herself. “I hope I could do—whatever -was necessary,” she said proudly. But in the midst of uttering these two -or three words, a sudden tear fell unexpectedly out of her eye and -betrayed her. “How silly!” she said, dashing it away; “you forget I did -see him. Oh, Ada, fancy travelling with him all those hours, and never -saying a word! It was as if we were in two different worlds—like -looking into another existence, and seeing those whom one has lost, -without any power to communicate with them.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! but we are not permitted to do even that,” said Ada; “do you think -he did not recognise you? Not at all? That is so strange to me.”</p> - -<p>Gussy shook her head. “I don’t think he did; but you must remember,” she -said humbly, “that he never was what you might call so very much in love -with me. He liked me; he was even fond of me—but not exactly in love. -It is different—I always felt that, even when you all made so sure. And -what he thinks of me now, I don’t know. If I saw him once, I should be -able to tell you; but I shall try not to see him. It is best I should -not see him,” said Gussy very low, “best in every way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“My poor child!” said Ada; but she did not contradict her, as her sister -almost hoped; and Gussy went away immediately after, with her heart -full, to put on her black cloak and close bonnet, and to go forth into -some very unsavoury region indeed, where a serene Sister, so smiling and -cheery that you might be certain her mind was taken up by no possible -happiness, was hard at work. Gussy had some very disagreeable work -allotted to her which gave her full occupation till it was time to -return to “the world,” and as long as she was thus engaged she was able -to forget all about herself and Edgar, and everything else in the other -existence. Thus Rag Fair was good for her, and gave her a certain amount -of strength with which to return to Berkeley Square.</p> - -<p>But the reader will perceive that if Edgar’s mind was disturbed by what -he had heard, a similar, if less violent commotion had been raised, by -the mere intimation of his return, in the opposite camp, where every -member of the family instinctively felt the danger, though the young and -the romantic among them welcomed it as rather an advantage than a peril. -Gussy went about her ordinary work, whether in “the world” or out of it, -with a soft perpetual tremor, feeling that at any moment, round any -corner, she might meet him with whom her youthful thoughts had wandered -all these years. I will not say that she was not somewhat anxious and -uncertain as to the effect which this long interval might have had upon -Edgar’s mind; for women seldom have a very strong faith, unassisted by -evi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span>dence, in the fidelity of a long absent lover; but she had no sense -of having given love unsought, or shame in her own secret devotion. She -knew that if Edgar had remained rich and prosperous she would have been -his wife long ere now, and this gave to Gussy’s maiden love that sweet -legitimacy and pride of duty which is so much to a woman, and emboldens -her to give without shame, and with all her heart.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, however, Lady Augusta took that other precautionary -measure which had suddenly occurred to her, to Ada’s great surprise and -consternation, and sent private orders to her son, Harry—who was at -that moment under a cloud, and doing his best to act the part of a good -son to a very irritable father who had just paid his debts for him, and -was taking them out in abuse of every description at Thornleigh, while -the mother and sisters were in town. I don’t believe she had the least -notion what good Harry could do; but it relieved him from a very trying -ordeal, and the young man jumped at it, though Ada shook her head. “He -will be on the spot at least, my dear,” said Lady Augusta, all -unconscious of slang. She explained to her husband that the Tottenhams -had taken one of their fancies to Mr. Earnshaw, whom they had all once -known so well as Edgar Arden, and that she thought it would be well that -one of the family should be there to keep an eye upon him, lest he and -Gussy should meet. “For you know, Gussy has not been the same since that -affair,” wrote the careful mother. Mr. Thornleigh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span> who had a more than -ordinary contempt at this moment for Harry’s capabilities, wrote her a -rather rude letter in reply, telling her that she was a fool indeed if -she trusted in anything her hopeful son could do; but nevertheless, he -made no objection to the visit. Thus it will be seen how emphatically -their own doing was all the confusion that followed this momentous step, -which the Thornleighs all combined in their ignorance to make Harry -take—and which he accepted as he would have accepted any change, at -that moment; not having the least idea of what was wanted of him, any -more than of what fate had in store for him. Lady Augusta went on more -calmly with her preparations for little Mary’s grand wedding when she -had thus, to her own satisfaction, secured a representative at -Tottenham’s. And Ada studied the patterns indefatigably, and gave the -mother the very best advice as to which was most suitable; and Gussy had -a perfect carnival of work, and spent almost all her time in Rag -Fair—with occasional expeditions to the shop, where Mr. Tottenham had -established a chapel, chiefly to please her, and where one of the -clergymen attached to the Charity-House kept up daily service. This was -much more dangerous, had Lady Augusta been aware of the fact, than the -rural Tottenham’s, where Harry was set to be sentinel without knowing -it.</p> - -<p>And thus the first cold lingering days of spring—spring only in name, -with all winter’s cold, and less than winter’s comfort, dragged -themselves along. <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span>Only to Lady Augusta, who was busy with the -trousseau, and little Mary, who was making love, the days were not long -enough for all that had to be put into them; though the others were of a -different mind.</p> - -<p class="fint">END OF VOL. 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