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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..ce22572 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65935 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65935) diff --git a/old/65935-0.txt b/old/65935-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f123788..0000000 --- a/old/65935-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8302 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of For love of life; vol. 2 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. 2 of 2 - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: July 28, 2021 [eBook #65935] - -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. 2 OF 2 *** - - - - - COLLECTION - - OF - - BRITISH AUTHORS - - TAUCHNITZ EDITION. - - VOL. 1420. - - FOR LOVE AND LIFE BY MRS. OLIPHANT. - - IN TWO VOLUMES. - - VOL. II. - - - - - TAUCHNITZ EDITION - - By the same Author, - - - THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS 2 vols. - MARGARET MAITLAND 1 vol. - AGNES 2 vols. - MADONNA MARY 2 vols. - THE MINISTER’S WIFE 2 vols. - THE RECTOR AND THE DOCTOR’S FAMILY 1 vol. - SALEM CHAPEL 2 vols. - THE PERPETUAL CURATE 2 vols. - MISS MARJORIBANKS 2 vols. - OMBRA 2 vols. - MEMOIR OF COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT 2 vols. - MAY 2 vols. - INNOCENT 2 vols. - - - - - FOR LOVE AND LIFE. - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT, - - AUTHOR OF - “CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” “OMBRA,” “MAY,” ETC. - - _COPYRIGHT EDITION._ - - IN TWO VOLUMES. - - VOL. II. - - - LEIPZIG - - BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ - - 1874. - - _The Right of Translation is reserved_ - - - - - FOR LOVE AND LIFE. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -Intoxication. - - -There is, perhaps, no such crisis in the life of a man as that which -occurs when, for the first time, he feels the welfare and happiness of -another to be involved in his own. A woman is seldom so entirely -detached from ordinary ties of nature as to make this discovery -suddenly, or even to be in the position when such a discovery is -possible. So long as you have but yourself to think of, you may easily -be pardoned for thinking very little of that self, for being careless of -its advantage, and letting favourable opportunities slip through your -fingers; but suppose you find out in a moment, without warning, that -your interests are another’s interests, that to push your own fortune is -to push some one else’s fortune, much dearer to you than yourself; and -that, in short, you are no longer _you_ at all, but the active member of -a double personality--is as startling a sensation as can well be -conceived. This was the idea which Edgar had received into his mind for -the first time, and it was not wonderful that it excited, nay, -intoxicated him, almost beyond his power of self-control. I say for the -first time, though he had been on the eve of asking Gussy Thornleigh to -marry him three years before, and had therefore realised, or thought he -realised, what it would be to enter into such a relationship; but in -those days Edgar was rich, and petted by the world, and his bride would -have been only a delight and honour the more, not anything calling for -sacrifice or effort on his part. He could have given her everything she -desired in the world, without losing a night’s rest, or disturbing a -single habit. Now the case was very different. The new-born pride which -had made him, to his own surprise, so reluctant to apply to anyone for -employment, and so little satisfied to dance attendance on Lord -Newmarch, died at that single blow. - -Dance attendance on Lord Newmarch! ask anybody, everybody for work! Yes, -to be sure he would, and never think twice; for had he not now _her_ to -think of? A glow of exhilaration came over him. He had been careless, -indifferent, sluggish, so long as it was himself only that had to be -thought of. Thinking of himself did not suit Edgar; he got sick of the -subject, and detested himself, and felt a hundred pricks of annoyance at -the thought of being a suitor and applicant for patronage, bearing the -scorns of office, and wanting as “patient merit” in a great man’s -ante-room. But now! what did he care for those petty annoyances? Why -should he object, like a pettish child, to ask for what he wanted? It -was for her. He became himself again the moment that the strange and -penetrating sweetness of this suggestion (which he declared to himself -was incredible, yet believed with all his heart) stole into his soul. -This had been what he wanted all along. To have some one to work for, -some one to give him an object in life. - -Lady Mary had not a notion what she was doing when she set light to the -fire which was all ready for that touch--ready to blaze up, and carry -with it her own schemes as well as her sister’s precautions. I suppose -it was by reason of the fundamental difference between man and woman, -that neither of these ladies divined how their hint would act upon -Edgar. They thought his virtue (for which they half despised him--for -women always have a secret sympathy for the selfish ardour of men in all -questions of love) was so great that he might be trusted to restrain -even Gussy herself in her “impetuosity,” as they called it, without -considering that the young man was disposed to make a goddess of Gussy, -to take her will for law, and compass heaven and earth to procure her a -gratification. Gussy, though she held herself justified in her -unswerving attachment to Edgar, by the fact that, had it not been for -his misfortune, she would long ago have been his wife, would, -notwithstanding this consolation, have died of shame had she known how -entirely her secret had been betrayed. But the betrayal was as a new -life to Edgar. His heart rose with all its natural buoyancy; he seemed -to himself to spurn his lowliness, his inactivity, his depressed and -dejected state from him. That evening he beguiled his hosts into -numberless discussions, out of sheer lightness of heart. He laughed at -Lady Mary about her educational mania, boldly putting forth its comic -side, and begging to know whether German lectures and the use of the -globes were so much better, as means of education, than life itself, -with all its many perplexities and questions, its hard lessons, its -experiences, which no one can escape. - -“If a demigod from the sixth form were to come down and seat himself on -a bench in a dame’s school,” cried Edgar, “why, to be sure, he might -learn something; but what would you think of the wisdom of the -proceeding?” - -“I am not a demigod from the sixth form,” said Lady Mary. - -“Pardon me, but you are. You have been among the regnant class all your -life, which of itself is an enormous cultivation. You have lived -familiarly with people who guide the nation; you have spoken with most -of those who are known to be worth speaking to, in England at least; and -you have had a good share of the problems of life submitted to you. Mr. -Tottenham’s whole career, for instance, which he says you decided--” - -“What is that?” said Mr. Tottenham, looking up. “Whatever it is, what -you say is quite true. I don’t know if it’s anything much worth calling -a career; but, such as it is, it’s all her doing. You’re right there.” - -“I am backed up by indisputable testimony,” said Edgar, laughing; “and -in the face of all this, you can come and tell me that you want to -educate your mind by means of the feeblest of lectures! Lady Mary, are -you laughing at us? or are the dry lessons of grammar and such like -scaffolding, really of more use in educating the mind than the far -higher lessons of life?” - -“How you set yourself to discourage me,” cried Lady Mary, half angry, -half laughing. “That is not what you mean, Mr. Earnshaw. You mean that -it is hopeless to train women to the accuracy, the exactness of thought -which men are trained to. I understand you, though you put it so much -more prettily.” - -“I am afraid I don’t know what accuracy means,” said Edgar, “and -exactness of thought suggests only Lord Newmarch to me; and Heaven -deliver us from prigs, male and female! If you find, however, that the -mass of young university men are so accurate, so exact, so accomplished, -so trained to think well and clearly, then I envy you your eyes and -perceptions--for to me they have a very different appearance; many of -them, I should say, never think at all, and know a good deal less than -Phil does, of whom I am the unworthy instructor--save the mark!” he -added, with a laugh. “On the whole, honours have showered on my head; I -have had greatness thrust upon me like Malvolio; not only to instruct -Phil, but to help to educate Lady Mary Tottenham! What a frightful -impostor I should feel myself if all this was my doing, and not yours.” - -Lady Mary laughed too, but not without a little flush of offence. It -even crossed her mind to wonder whether the young man had taken more -wine than usual? for there was an exhilaration, a boldness, an _élan_ -about him which she had never perceived before. She looked at him with -mingled suspicion and indignation--but caught such a glance from his -eyes, which were full of a new warmth, life, and meaning, that Lady Mary -dropped hers, confused and confounded, not knowing what to make of it. -Had the porter, and the footman, and the under-gardener, who had seen -Edgar kiss Lady Mary’s hand, been present at that moment, they would -certainly have drawn conclusions very unfavourable to Mr. Tottenham’s -peace of mind. But that unsuspecting personage sat engaged in his own -occupation, and took no notice. He was turning over some papers which he -had brought back with him from Tottenham’s that very day. - -“When you two have done sparring,” he said--“Time will wait for no man, -and here we are within a few days of the entertainment at the shop. -Earnshaw, I wish you would go in with me on Wednesday, and help me to -help them in their arrangements. I have asked a few people for the first -time, and it will be amusing to see the fine ladies, our customers, -making themselves agreeable to my ‘assistants.’ By-the-way, that affair -of Miss Lockwood gives me a great deal of uneasiness. I don’t like to -send her away. She seemed disposed to confide in you, my dear fellow--” - -“I will go and secure her confidence,” said Edgar, with that gay -readiness for everything which Lady Mary, with such amaze, had remarked -already in his tone. Up to this moment he had wanted confidence in -himself, and carried into everything the _insouciance_ of a man who -takes up with friendliness the interests of others, but has none of his -own. All this was changed. He was another man, liberated somehow from -chains which she had never realised until now, when she saw they were -broken. Could her conversation with him to-day have anything to do with -it? Lady Mary was a very clever woman, but she groped in vain in the -dark for some insight into the mind of this young man, who had seemed to -her so simple. And the less she understood him, the more she respected -Edgar; nay, her respect for him began to increase, from the moment when -she found out that he was not so absolutely virtuous as she had taken -him to be. - -Next day, as soon as Phil’s lessons were over, Edgar shut himself up, -and, with a flush upon his face, and a certain tremor, which seemed to -him to make his hand and his writing, by some curious paradox, more firm -than usual, began to write letters. He wrote to Lord Newmarch, he wrote -to one or two others whom he had known in his moment of prosperity, with -a boldness and freedom at which he was himself astonished. He recalled -to his old acquaintances, without feeling the least hesitation in doing -so, the story of his past life, about which he had been, up to this -moment, so proudly silent, and appealed to them to find him something to -do. He wrote, not as a humble suitor does, but as one conscious of no -humiliation in asking. The last time he had asked he had been conscious -of humiliation; but every shadow of that self-consciousness had blown -away from him now. He wondered at himself even, while he looked at those -letters closed and directed on his writing-table. What was it that had -taken away from him all sense of dislike to this proceeding, all his old -inclination to let things go as they would? With that curious tremor -which was so full of firmness and force still vibrating through him, he -went out, avoiding Phil, who was lying in wait for him, and who moaned -his absence like a sheep deprived of its lamb--which, I think, was -something like the parental feeling Phil experienced for his tutor--and -set out for a long solitary walk across country, leaping ditches and -stumbling across ploughed fields, by way of exhausting a little his own -superabundant force and energy. Only a day or two since how dreary was -the feeling with which he had left the house, where perhaps, for aught -he knew, Gussy was at the moment thinking, with a sickening at his heart -which seemed to make all nature dim, how he must never see her again, -how he had pledged himself to keep out of the way, never to put himself -consciously where he might have even the dreary satisfaction of a look -at her. The same pledge was upon him still, and Edgar was ready to keep -it to the last letter of his promise; but now it had become a simple -dead letter. There was no more force, no more vital power in it, to keep -the two apart, who had but one strong wish between them. He could keep -it now gaily, knowing that he was in heart emancipated from it. There -was nothing he could not have done on that brilliant wintry afternoon, -when the sun shone upon him as if he had wanted cheering, and every pool -glittered, and the sky warmed and flushed under his gaze with all the -delightful sycophancy of nature for the happy. The dullest afternoon -would have been just the same to Edgar. He was liberated, he was -inspired, he felt himself a strong man, and with his life before him. -Cold winds and dreary skies would have had no effect upon his spirits, -and for this reason, I suppose, everything shone on him and flattered. -To him that hath, shall be given. - -He was not to get back, however, without being roused from this beatific -condition to a consciousness of his humanity. As he passed through the -village, chance drew Edgar’s eye to the house which Lady Mary had noted -as that of the doctor, and about which Miss Annetta Baker had discoursed -so largely. A cab was at the door, boxes were standing about the steps, -and an animated conversation seemed to be going on between two men, one -an elderly personage without a hat, who stood on the steps with the air -of a man defending his door against an invader, while another and -younger figure, standing in front of the cab, seemed to demand -admission. “The new doctor has arrived before the old one is ready to go -away,” Edgar said to himself, amused by the awkwardness of the -situation. He slackened his pace, that the altercation might be over -before he passed, and saw the coach man surlily putting back again the -boxes upon the cab. The old doctor pointed over Edgar’s head to a -cottage in the distance, where, he was aware, there was lodgings to be -had; and as Edgar approached, the new doctor, as he supposed the -stranger to be, turned reluctantly away, with a word to some one in the -cab, which also began to turn slowly round to follow him. The stranger -came along the broad sandy road which encircled the Green, towards -Edgar, who, on his side, approached slowly. What was there in this slim -tall figure which filled him with vague reminiscences? He got interested -in spite of himself; was it some one he had known in his better days? -who was it? The same fancy, I suppose, rose in the mind of the -new-comer. When he turned round for the second time, after various -communications with the inmates of the cab, and suddenly perceived -Edgar, who was now within speaking distance, he gave a perceptible -start. Either his reminiscences were less vague, or he was more prepared -for the possibility of such a meeting. He hurried forward, holding out -his hand, while Edgar stood still like one stunned. “Dr. Murray?” he -said, at last, feeling for the moment as if he had been transported back -to Loch Arroch. He was too bewildered to say more. - -“You are very much surprised to see me,” said Charles Murray, with his -half-frank, half-sidelong aspect; “and it is not wonderful. When we met -last I had no thought of making any move. But circumstances changed, and -a chance threw this in my way. Is it possible that we are so lucky as to -find you a resident here?” - -“For the moment,” said Edgar; “but indeed I am very much surprised. You -are to be Dr. Frank’s successor? It is very odd that you should hit upon -this village of all the world.” - -“I hope it is a chance not disagreeable to either of us,” said the young -doctor, with a glance of the suspicion which was natural to him; “but -circumstances once more seem against us,” he added hurriedly, going back -to the annoyance, which was then uppermost. “Here I have to go hunting -through a strange place for lodgings at this hour,--my sister tired by a -long journey. By the way, you have not seen Margaret; she is behind in -the cab; all because the Franks forsooth, cannot go out of their house -when they engaged to do so!” - -“But the poor lady, I suppose, could not help it,” said Edgar, -“according to what I have heard.” - -“No, I suppose she couldn’t help it--on the whole,” he allowed, crossly. -“Cabman, stop a moment--stop, I tell you! Margaret, here is some one you -have often heard of--our cousin, who has been so good to the dear old -granny--Edgar Earnshaw.” - -Dr. Charles pronounced these last words with a sense of going further -than he had ever gone before, in intimacy with Edgar. He had never -ventured to call his cousin by his Christian name; and even now it was -brought in by a side wind, as it were, and scarcely meant so much as a -direct address. Edgar turned with some curiosity to the cab, to see the -sister whom he had seen waiting at the station for Dr. Murray some -months ago. He expected to see a pretty and graceful young woman; but he -was not prepared for the beauty of the face which looked at him from -the carriage-window with a soft appealing smile, such as turns men’s -heads. She was tall, with a slight stoop (though that he could not see) -and wore a hat with a long feather, which drooped with a graceful -undulation somewhat similar, he thought, to the little bow she made him. -She was pale, with very fine, refined features, a large pair of the -softest, most pathetic blue eyes, and that smile which seemed to -supplicate and implore for sympathy. There was much in Margaret’s -history which seemed to give special meaning to the plaintive affecting -character of her face; but her face was so by nature, and looked as if -its owner threw herself upon your sympathies, when indeed she had no -thought of anything of the sort. A little girl of six or seven hung upon -her, standing up in the carriage, and leaning closely against her -mother’s shoulder, in that clinging inseparable attitude, which, -especially when child and mother are both exceptionally handsome, goes -to the heart of the spectator. Edgar was subjugated at once; he took off -his hat and went reverently to the carriage-door, as if she had been a -saint. - -“It is very pleasant that you should be here, and I am very glad to see -you,” she said, in soft Scotch accents, in which there was a plaintive, -almost a complaining tone. Edgar found himself immediately voluble in -his regrets as to the annoyance of their uncomfortable reception, and, -ere he knew what he was doing, had volunteered to go with Dr. Charles to -the lodgings, to introduce him, and see whether they were satisfactory. -He could not quite understand why he had done it, and thus associated -himself with a man who did not impress him favourably, as soon as he had -turned from the door of the cab, and lost sight of that beautiful face; -of course he could not help it, he could not have refused his good -offices to any stranger, he said to himself. He went on with his cousin -to the cottage, where the landlady curtseyed most deeply to the -gentleman from Tottenham’s, and was doubly anxious to serve people who -were his friends; and before he left he had seen the beautiful -new-comer, her little girl as always standing by her side leaning -against her, seated on a sofa by a comfortable fire, and forgetting or -seeming to forget, her fatigues. Dr. Charles could not smile so sweetly -or look so interesting as his sister; he continued to inveigh against -Dr. Franks, and his rashness in maintaining possession of the house. - -“But the poor thing could not help it,” said Margaret, in her plaintive -voice, but not without a gleam of fun (if that were possible without -absolute desecration) in her eyes. - -“They should not have stayed till the last moment; they should have made -sure that nothing would happen,” the doctor said, hurrying in and out, -and filling the little sitting-room with cloaks and wraps, and many -small articles. Margaret made no attempt to help him, but she gave Edgar -a look which seemed to say, “Forgive him! poor fellow, he is worried, -and I am so sorry he has not a good temper.” Edgar did not know what to -make of this angelical cousin. He walked away in the darkening, after -he had seen them settled, with a curious feeling, which he could not -explain to himself. Was he guilty of the meanness of being annoyed by -the arrival of these relatives, who were in a position so different from -that of his other friends? Was it possible that so paltry, so miserable -a feeling could enter his mind--or what was it? Edgar could render no -distinct account to himself of the sensation which oppressed him; but as -he walked rapidly up the avenue in the quickly falling darkness, he felt -that something had happened, which, somehow or other, he could not tell -how, was to affect his future life. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -A youthful Solomon. - - -Edgar felt so strong an inclination to say nothing about the sudden -arrival of his cousins, that he thought it best to communicate at once -what had happened. He told his hosts at dinner, describing the brother -and sister, and Margaret’s remarkable beauty, which had impressed him -greatly. - -“And really you did not know she was so pretty?” Lady Mary said, fixing -a searching look upon him. Instant suspicion flashed up in her mind, a -suspicion natural to womankind, that his evident admiration meant at -least a possibility of something else. And if she had been consistent, -no doubt she would have jumped at this, and felt in it an outlet for all -her difficulties, and the safest of all ways of detaching Edgar from any -chance of influence over her niece; but she was as inconsistent as most -other people, and did not like this easy solution of the difficulty. She -offered promptly to call upon the new-comers; but she did not cease to -question Edgar about them with curiosity, much sharpened by suspicion. -She extracted from him, in full detail, the history of the Murrays, of -Margaret’s early widowhood, and the special union which existed between -her and her brother. Harry Thornleigh had arrived at Tottenham’s that -day, and the story interested him still more than it did Lady Mary. Poor -Harry was glad enough to get away from his father’s sole companionship; -but he did not anticipate very much enjoyment of the kindred seclusion -here. He grasped at Edgar as a drowning man grasps at a rope. - -“I say, let’s go somewhere and smoke. I have so many things to tell you, -and so many things to ask you,” he cried, when Lady Mary had gone to -bed, and Mr. Tottenham, too, had departed to his private retirement, and -Edgar, not knowing, any more than Harry himself did, that young -Thornleigh was set over him as a sentinel, to guard him from all -possibility of mischief, was but too glad to find himself with an -uninstructed bystander, from whom he could have those bare “news” -without consciousness or under-current of meaning, which convey so much -more information than the scrap of enlightenment which well-meaning -friends dole out with more and more sparing hands, in proportion as the -feelings of the hearer are supposed to be more or less concerned. Harry -was not so ignorant as Edgar thought him. He was not bright, but he -flattered himself on being a man of the world, and was far from being -uninterested in Gussy’s persistent neglect of all possible -“opportunities.” “A girl don’t stand out like that without some cause -for it,” Harry would have said, sagaciously; but he was too knowing to -let it be perceived that he knew. - -“There is a deal of difference up at home now,” he said. “I don’t mean -my father--but you can’t think what changes Arden has made. Do you like -to hear, or don’t you like to hear? I’ll guide myself accordingly. Very -well, then I’ll speak. He’s on the right side in politics, you know, -which you never were, and that’s a good thing: but he’s done everything -you felt yourself bound not to do. Clare don’t like it, I don’t think. -You should see the lot of new villas and houses. Arden ain’t a bit like -Arden; it’s a new spick and span Yankee sort of town. I say, what would -the old Squire have thought? but Arthur Arden don’t care.” - -“He is right enough, Harry. He was not bound to respect anyone’s -prejudices.” - -“Well, there was Clare,” said Thornleigh. “They may be prejudices, you -know; but I wouldn’t spite my wife for money--I don’t think. To be sure, -if a man wants it badly that’s an excuse; but Arden has plenty of money, -thanks to you. What a softy you were, to be sure, not to say anything -disagreeable! Even if I had had to give up in the end, wouldn’t I have -made him pay!” - -“Never mind that,” said Edgar. “Tell me some more news. He hasn’t -changed the house, I suppose, and they are very happy, and that sort of -thing? How is she looking”? It is three years since I left, and one -likes to hear of old friends.” - -“Happy?” said Harry, “meaning Mrs. Arden? She’s gone off dreadfully; oh, -I suppose she’s happy enough. You know, old fellow,” the young man -continued, with a superior air of wisdom, “I don’t pretend to believe in -the old-fashioned idea of living happy ever after. That’s bosh! but I -daresay they’re just as comfortable as most people. Clare has gone off -frightfully. She’s not a bit the girl she was; and of course Arden can’t -but see that, and a man can’t be always doing the lover.” - -“Is it so?” cried Edgar, with flashing eyes. He got up unconsciously, as -if he would have rushed to Clare’s side on the spot, to defend her from -any neglect. All the old affection surged up in his heart. “My poor -Clare!” he said, “and I cannot do anything for you! Don’t think me a -fool, Harry. She’s my only sister, though she doesn’t belong to me; and -that fellow--What do you mean by gone off? She was always pale.” - -“Oh, he don’t beat her or that sort of thing,” said Thornleigh. “She’s -safe enough. I wouldn’t excite myself, if I were you; Mrs. Arden can -take care of herself; she’ll give as good as she gets. Well, you needn’t -look so fierce. I don’t think, as far as I’ve heard, that she stood up -like that for you.” - -“She was very good to me,” said Edgar, “better than I deserved, for I -was always a trouble to her, with my different ways of thinking; and the -children,” he added, softly, with an ineffable melting of his heart over -Clare’s babies, which took him by surprise. “Tell me all you can, Harry. -Think how you should feel if you had not heard of your own people for so -many years.” - -“I don’t know that I should mind much,” said honest Harry; “there are -such heaps of them, for one thing; and children ain’t much in my way. -There’s two little things, I believe--little girls, which riles Arden. -Helena’s got a baby, by the way--did you know?--the rummiest little -customer, bald, like its father. Nell was as mad as could be when I said -so. By Jove! what fun it was! with a sort of spectacled look about the -eyes. If that child don’t take to lecturing as soon as it can speak, -I’ll never trust my judgment again.” - -Edgar did not feel in a humour to make any response to young -Thornleigh’s laughter. He felt himself like an instrument which was -being played upon, struck by one rude touch after another, able to do -nothing but give out sounds of pain or excitement. He could do nothing -to help Clare, nothing to liberate Gussy; and yet Providence had thrust -him into the midst of them without any doing of his, and surrounded him -once more with at least the reflection of their lives. He let Harry -laugh and stop laughing without taking any notice. He began to be -impatient of his own position, and to feel a longing to plunge again -into the unknown, it did not matter where, and get rid of those dear -visions. Excitement brought its natural reaction in a sudden fit of -despondency. If he could do nothing--and it was evident he could do -nothing--would it not be better to save himself the needless pain, the -mingled humiliation and anguish of helplessness? So long as he was here, -he could not but ask, he could not but know. Though the ink was scarcely -dry upon the letters he had been writing, the cry for aid to establish -himself somehow, in an independent position which he had sent forth to -all who could help--a sudden revulsion of feeling struck him, brought -out by his despair and sense of impotence. Far better to go away to -Australia, to New Zealand, to the end of the world, and at least escape -hearing of the troubles he could do nothing to relieve, than to stay -here and know all, and be able to do nothing. An instrument upon which -now one strain of emotion, now another, was beaten out--that was the -true image. Lady Mary had played upon him the other day, eliciting all -sorts of confused sounds, wound up by a sudden strain of rapture; and -now Harry struck the passive cords, and brought forth vaguer murmurs of -fury, groans of impotence, and pain. It would not do. He was not a reed -to be thus piped upon, but a man suffering, crying out in his pain, and -he must make an end of it. Thus he thought, musing moodily, while Harry -laughed over his sister’s bald baby. Harry himself was a dumb Memnon, -whom no one had ever woke into sound, and he did not understand anything -about his companion’s state of mind. - -“Have you come to an end of your questions?” he said. “You ain’t so -curious as I expected. Now here goes on my side? First and foremost, in -the name of all that’s wonderful, how did you come here?” - -Edgar shrugged his shoulders. “You will do me a better service if you -will tell me how to get out of here,” he said. “I was a fool to stay. To -tell the truth, I had not woke up to any particular interest in what -became of me. I had only myself to think of; but I can’t bear to -remember them all, and have nothing to do with them--that’s the truth.” - -“You must make up your mind to that, old fellow,” said Harry, the -philosopher; “few people get just all they want. But you can’t go and -run away for that. You shouldn’t have run away at the first. It’s the -coming back that does it. _I_ know. You thought it was all over and done -with, and that you could begin straight off, without coming across old -things and old faces. I’ve turned over about as many new leaves, and -made about as many fresh starts as most people, and I can feel for you. -It ain’t no manner of use; you can’t get done with one set of people and -take up with another; the old ones are always cropping up again,” said -Harry, oracularly. “You’ve got to make up your mind to it. But I must -say,” he added, changing his tone, “that of all places in the world for -getting shut of the past, to come here!” - -“I was a fool,” said Edgar, with his head between his hands. Up to this -moment he had thought of Harry Thornleigh as a somewhat stupid boy. Now -the young man of the world had the better of him. For the first time he -fully realised that he had been foolish in coming here, and had placed -himself in an exceptionally difficult position by his own act, and not -by the action of powers beyond his control, as he thought. In short, he -had allowed himself to be passive, to drift where the current led him, -to do what was suggested, to follow any one that took it upon him to -lead. I suppose it is consistent with the curious vagaries of human -nature that this sudden sense of his impotence to direct his fate should -come just after the warm flush of self-assertion and self-confidence -which had made him feel his own fate to be once more worth thinking of. -Harry, elevated on his calm height of matter-of-fact philosophy, had -never in his life experienced so delightful a sense of capacity to -lecture another, and he did not lose the opportunity. - -“Don’t be down about it,” he said, condescendingly. “Most fellows make -some mistake or other when they come to again after a bad fall. The -brain gets muzzy, you know; and between a stark staring madman like old -Tottenham, and a mature Syren like Aunt Mary, what were you to do? _I_ -don’t blame you. And now you’ve done it, you’ll have to stick to it. As -for Clare Arden, I shouldn’t vex myself about her. She knew the kind of -fellow she was marrying. Besides, if a man was to put himself out for -all his sisters, good Lord! what a life he’d have. I don’t know that -Helena’s happy with that professor fellow. If she ain’t, it’s her own -business; she would have him. And I don’t say Clare’s unhappy. She’s not -the sort of person to go in for domestic bliss, and make a show of -herself. Cheer up, old fellow; things might be a deal worse. And ain’t -old Tottenham a joke? But, by-the-way, take my advice; don’t do too much -for that little cub of his. He’ll make a slave of you, if you don’t -mind. Indeed,” said Harry, lighting a fresh cigar, “they’ll all make a -slave of you. Don’t you let my lady get the upper hand. You can always -manage a woman if you take a little trouble, but you must never let her -get the upper hand.” - -“And how do you manage a woman, oh, Solomon?” said Edgar, laughing, in -spite of himself. - -“I’ve had a deal of experience,” said Harry, gravely; “it all depends on -whether you choose to take the trouble. The regular dodge about young -men having their fling, and that sort of thing, does for my mother; -she’s simple, poor dear soul. Aunt Mary wants a finer hand. Now you have -the ball at your feet, if you choose to play it; only make a stand upon -your mind, and that sort of thing, and she’ll believe you. She wouldn’t -believe me if I were to set up for a genius, ’cause why? that’s not my -line. Be _difficile_,” said Harry, imposingly, very proud of his French -word; “that’s the great thing; and the more high and mighty you are, the -more she’ll respect you. That’s my advice to _you_. As for dear old -Tottenham, you can take your choice, anything will do for him; he’s the -best old fellow, and the greatest joke in the world.” - -With this Harry lit his candle and marched off to bed, very well pleased -with himself. He had done all that Lady Augusta had hoped for. So far as -his own family were concerned, he had comported himself like a -precocious Macchiavelli. He had named no names, he had made no -allusions, he had renewed his old friendship as frankly as possible, -without however indulging Edgar in a single excursion into the past. He -had mentioned Helena, who was perfectly safe and proper to be mentioned, -a sign that he talked to his old friend with perfect freedom; but with -the judgment of a Solomon he had gone no further. Not in vain did Harry -flatter himself on being a man of the world. He was fond of Edgar, but -he would have considered his sister’s choice of him, in present -circumstances, as too ludicrous to be thought of. And there can be -little doubt that Harry’s demeanour had an influence upon Edgar far more -satisfactory for Lady Augusta than her sister’s intervention had been. -All the visionary possibilities that had revealed themselves in Lady -Mary’s warning, disappeared before the blank suavity of Harry. In that -friendly matter-of-fact discussion of his friend’s difficulties, he had -so entirely left out the chief difficulty, so taken it for granted that -nothing of the kind existed, that Edgar felt like a man before whom a -blank wall has suddenly risen, where a moment before there were trees -and gardens. Harry’s was the man’s point of view, not the woman’s. Those -regrets and longings for what might have been, which Lady Mary could not -prevent from influencing her, even when she sincerely wished that the -might have been should never be, were summarily extinguished in Harry’s -treatment. Of course the old must crop up, and confront the new, and of -course the complication must be faced and put up with, not run away -from. Such was the young man of the world’s philosophy. Edgar sat long -after he was gone, once more feeling himself the instrument on which -every one played, rather than a conscious actor in the imbroglio. The -image got possession of his fanciful brain. Like the thrill of the -chords after the hand that struck them had been withdrawn, he seemed to -himself to keep on vibrating with long thrills of after sensation, even -when the primary excitement was over. But words are helpless to describe -the thousand successive changes of feeling of which the mind is capable -at a great crisis, especially without immediate power to act one way or -another. Edgar, in despair, went and shut himself into the library and -read, without knowing well what he read. The passage of those long -processions of words before his eyes, gave him a certain occupation, -even if they conveyed but little meaning. How easy it would be to do -anything; how difficult it was to bear, and go on, and wait! - -All this, perhaps, might be easier to support if life were not so -cruelly ironical. That morning Edgar, who felt his own position -untenable, and whose future seemed to be cut off under his feet--who -felt himself to be standing muffled and invisible between two suffering -women, each with the strongest claim upon him, for whom he could do -nothing--was carried off to assist in getting up an entertainment at Mr. -Tottenham’s shop. Entertainments, in the evening--duets, pieces on the -cornet, Trial Scene from Pickwick; and in the morning, lectures, the -improvement of Lady Mary Tottenham’s mind, and the grand office of -teaching the young ladies of Harbour Green to think! What a farce it all -seemed! And what an insignificant farce all the lighter external -circumstances of life always seem to the compulsory actors in them, who -have, simultaneously, the tragedy or even genteel comedy of their own -lives going on, and all its most critical threads running through the -larger lighter foolish web which concerns only the outside of man. The -actor who has to act, and the singer who has to sing, and the romancist -who has to go on weaving his romance through all the personal miseries -of their existence, is scarcely more to be pitied than those -unprofessional sufferers who do much the same thing, without making any -claim, or supposing themselves to have any right to our sympathy. Edgar -was even half glad to go, to get himself out of the quiet, and out of -hearing of the broken bits of talk which went on around him; but I do -not think that he was disposed to look with a very favourable eye on the -entertainment at Tottenham’s, or even on the benevolent whimsey of the -owner of that enormous shop. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -Harry. - - -Harry Thornleigh was anything but content to be left alone at -Tottenham’s. He proposed that he should accompany Edgar and Mr. -Tottenham, but the latter personage, benevolent as he was, had the -faculty of saying No, and declined his nephew’s company. Then he -wandered all about the place, looked at the house, inspected the dogs, -strolled about the plantations, everything a poor young man could do to -abridge the time till luncheon. He took Phil with him, and Phil -chattered eternally of Mr. Earnshaw. - -“I wish you wouldn’t call him by that objectionable name,” said Harry. - -“It’s a capital good name,” cried Phil. “I wish you could see their -blazon, in Gwillim. Earnshaw says it ain’t his family; but everybody -says he’s a great swell in disguise, and I feel sure he is.” - -“Hallo!” said Harry, idly, “what put that into your head? It’s all the -other way, my fine fellow.” - -“I don’t know what you mean by the other way. His name wasn’t always -Earnshaw,” said Phil, triumphantly. “They’ve got about half a hundred -quarterings, real old gentry, not upstarts like us.” - -“That’s admirable,” said Harry. “I suppose that’s what you study all the -time you are shut up together, eh?” - -“No, he don’t care for heraldry, more’s the pity,” said Phil. “I can’t -get him to take any interest. It’s in other ways he’s so jolly. I say, -I’ve made up a coat for us, out of my own head. Listen! First and -fourth, an ellwand argent; second and third, three shawls proper--But -you don’t understand, no more than Earnshaw does. I showed it to the -mother, and she boxed my ears.” - -“Serve you right, you little beggar. I say, Phil, what is there to do in -this old place? I’m very fond of Tottenham’s in a general way, but I -never was here in winter before. What are you up to, little ’un? There’s -the hounds on Thursday, I know; but Thursday’s a long way off. What have -you got for a fellow to do, to-day?” - -“Come up to the gamekeeper’s and see the puppies,” said Phil; “it’s -through the woods all the way. Earnshaw went with me the other day. -They’re such jolly little mites; and if you don’t mind luncheon very -much, we can take a long stretch on to the pond at Hampton, and see how -it looks. It’s shallower than our pond here.” - -“I don’t care for a muddy walk, thanks,” said Harry, contemplating his -boots, “and I do mind luncheon. Come along, and I’ll teach you -billiards, Phil. I suppose there’s a billiard table somewhere about.” - -“Teach me!” cried Phil, with a great many notes of admiration; “why, I -can beat Earnshaw all to sticks!” - -“If you mention his name again for an hour, I’ll punch your head,” cried -Harry, and strolled off dreamily to the billiard-room, Phil following -with critical looks. The boy liked his cousin, but at the same time he -liked to have his say, and did not choose to be snubbed. - -“What a thing it is to have nothing to do!” he said, sententiously. “How -often do you yawn of a morning, Harry? We’re not allowed to do that. -Earnshaw--” - -“You little beggar! didn’t I promise to punch your head?” cried Harry; -and they had an amiable struggle at the door of the billiard-room, by -which Phil’s satirical tendencies were checked for the moment. - -“Ain’t you strong, just!” Phil said, after this trial, with additional -respect. - -But notwithstanding the attractions of the billiard-table, Harry, -yawning, stalked into luncheon with an agreeable sense of variety. “When -you have nothing else to do, eat,” he said, displaying his wisdom in -turn, for the edification of Phil. “That’s a great idea; I learned it at -Oxford where it’s very useful.” - -“And not very much else, acknowledge, Harry,” said Lady Mary. - -“Well, as much as I was wanted to learn. You are very hard upon a -fellow, Aunt Mary. John, I allow, was intended to do some good; but me, -no one expected anything from me--and why should a fellow bother his -brains when he hasn’t got any, and doesn’t care, and nobody cares for -him? That’s what I call unreasonable. I suppose you’ll keep poor Phil at -high pressure, till something happens. It ain’t right to work the brain -too much at his age.” - -“What about John?” said Lady Mary, “he has gone back to Oxford and is -working in earnest now, isn’t he? Your mother told me--” - -“Poor dear old mother, she’s so easy taken in, it’s a shame. Yes, he’s -up at old Christ Church, sure enough; but as for work! when a thing -ain’t in a fellow, you can’t get it out of him,” said Harry oracularly. -“I don’t say that _that_ isn’t rather hard upon the old folks.” - -“You are a saucy boy to talk about old folks.” - -“Well, they ain’t young,” said Harry calmly. “Poor old souls, I’m often -sorry for them. We haven’t turned out as they expected, neither me nor -the rest. Ada an old maid, and Gussy a ‘Sister,’ which is another name -for an old maid, and Jack ploughed, and me--well, I’m about the best if -you look at it dispassionately. By the way, no, little Mary’s the best. -There is one that has done her duty; but Granton has a devil of a temper -though they don’t know it. On the whole, I think the people who have no -children are the best off.” - -“Upon what facts may that wise conclusion rest?” said Lady Mary. - -“I have just given you a lot of facts; me, Jack, Ada, Gussy, and you may -add, Helena. Five failures against one success; if that ain’t enough to -make life miserable I don’t know what is. I am very sorry for the -Governor; my mother takes it easier on the whole, though she makes a -deal more fuss; but it’s deuced hard upon him, poor old man. The -Thornleighs don’t make such a figure in the county now as they did in -his days; for it stands to reason that eight children, with debts to -pay, &c., takes a good deal out of the spending-money; and of course the -old maids of the family must come upon the estate.” - -“When you see the real state of the case so plainly,” said Lady Mary, -“and express yourself so sensibly--don’t you think you might do -something to mend matters, and make your poor father a little happier?” - -“Ah, that’s different,” said Harry, “I’ve turned over so many new leaves -I don’t believe in them now. Besides a fellow gets into a groove and -what is he to do?” - -“Phil, if you have finished your lunch, you and Molly may run away and -amuse yourselves,” said Lady Mary, feeling that here was an opportunity -for moral influence. The two children withdrew rather unwillingly, for -like all other children they were fond of personal discussions, and -liked to hear the end of everything. Harry laughed as they went away. - -“You want to keep Phil out of hearing of my bad example,” he said, “and -you are going to persuade me to be good, Aunt Mary; I know all you’re -going to say. Don’t you know I’ve had it all said to me a hundred times? -Don’t bother yourself to go over the old ground. May I have the honour -of attending your ladyship anywhere this afternoon, or won’t you have -me, any more than Mr. Tottenham?” - -“Oh, Harry, you’re a sad boy,” said Lady Mary, shaking her head. She had -thought, perhaps, that she might have put his duty more clearly before -him than any previous monitor had been able to do, for we all have -confidence in our own special powers in this way; but she gave up -judiciously when she saw how her overture was received. “I am going to -the village,” she said, “to call upon those new people, Mr. Earnshaw’s -cousins.” - -“Oh, the beauty!” cried Harry with animation, “come along! Sly fellow to -bring her here, where he’ll be always on the spot.” - -“Ah, that was my first idea; but he knew nothing of it. To tell the -truth,” said Lady Mary, “I wish it were so; I should be a good deal -easier in my mind, and so would your mother if I could believe he was -thinking seriously of anyone--in his own rank of life.” - -“Why, I thought you were a democrat, and cared nothing for rank; I -thought you were of the opinion that all men are equal, not to speak of -women--” - -“Don’t talk nonsense, Harry; an abstract belief, one way or other, has -nothing to do with one’s family arrangements. I like Mr. Earnshaw very -much; he is more than my equal, for he is an educated man, and knows -much more than I do, which is my standard of position; but still, at the -same time, I should not like him--in his present circumstances--to enter -my family--” - -“Though a few years ago we should all have been very glad of him,” said -Harry. “Oh, _I_ agree with you entirely, Aunt Mary. If Gussy is such a -fool she must be stopped, that’s all. I’d have no hesitation in locking -her up upon bread and water rather than stand any nonsense. I’d have -done the same by Helena if I’d had my way.” - -“How odd,” said Lady Mary, veering round instantly, and somewhat abashed -to find herself thus supported, “and yet you are young, and might be -supposed to have some sort of sympathy--” - -“Not a bit,” cried Harry, “I don’t mind nonsense; but as soon as it gets -serious I’m serious too. If this fellow, whom you call Earnshaw, has any -notions of that kind I’ll show him the difference. Oh, yes, I like him; -but you may like a fellow well enough, and not give him your sister. -Besides, what made him such a fool as to give up everything? He might -have fought it out.” - -“Harry, you are very worldly--you do not understand generous -sentiments--” - -“No, I don’t,” said Harry stoutly, “what’s the good of generous -sentiments if all that they bring you to is tutorizing in a private -family? I’d rather put my generous sentiments in my pocket and keep my -independence. Hallo, here’s your pony carriage. Shall you drive, or -shall I?” - -Lady Mary was crushed by her nephew’s straightforward worldliness. Had -she been perfectly genuine in her own generosity, I have no doubt she -would have metaphorically flown at his throat; but she was subdued by -the consciousness that, much as she liked Edgar, any sort of man with a -good position and secure income would appear to her a preferable husband -for Gussy. This sense of weakness cowed her, for Harry, though he was -stupid intellectually, was more than a match for his aunt in the calm -certainty of his sentiments on this point. He was a man of the world, -disposed to deal coolly with the hearts and engagements of his sisters, -which did not affect him personally, and quite determined as to the -necessary character of any stranger entering his family, which did -affect him. - -“I will have no snobs or cads calling me brother-in-law,” he said. “No, -he ain’t a snob nor a cad; but he’s nobody, which is just the same. It’s -awfully good of you to visit these other nobodies, his relations. Oh, -yes, I’ll go in with you, and see if she’s as pretty as he said.” - -The lodging in which Dr. Murray had established himself and his sister, -so much against his will, was a succession of low-roofed rooms in a -cottage of one story, picturesque with creepers and heavy masses of ivy, -but damp, and somewhat dark. The sitting-room was very dim on this -wintry afternoon. It was a dull day, with grey skies and mist; the two -little windows were half-obscured with waving branches of ivy, and the -glimmer of the fire flickered into the dark corners of the dim green -room. You could scarcely pass from the door to the fireplace without -dragging the red and blue tablecloth off the table, or without stumbling -against the sofa on one side, or the little chiffonier on the other. -When Lady Mary went in, like a queen to visit her subjects, two figures -rose simultaneously to meet her. Margaret had been seated in the recess -of the window to catch the last rays of the afternoon, and she let her -work drop hurriedly out of her fingers, and rose up, undecipherable, -except in outline, against the light. Dr. Charles rose too in the same -way against the firelight. Neither of the four could make each other -out, and the strangers were embarrassed and silent, not knowing who -their visitor was. Lady Mary, however, fortunately was equal to the -occasion. She introduced herself, and mentioned Edgar, and introduced -her nephew, all in a breath. “I am so sorry you should have had so -uncomfortable a reception,” she said, “but you must not be angry with -poor Mrs. Franks, for it could not be helped.” - -“Oh, no, it could not be helped,” they both said, in unison, with low -Scotch voices, the accent of which puzzled Lady Mary; and then Margaret -added, still more softly, “I am sorry for her, poor woman, stopped at -such a moment.” The voice was very soft, shy, full of self-consciousness -and embarrassment. Harry stood by the window, and looked out, and felt -more bored than ever. He had come to see a beauty, and he saw nothing -but the little grass-plot before the cottage-door, shut in by bushes of -holly and rhododendron. And Lady Mary went on talking in a sort of -professional lady-of-the-manor strain, telling Dr. Murray what he had to -look forward to, and wherein Dr. Franks had been deficient. - -“You will find it a very good house, when you can get in to it,” she -said, “and a pleasant neighbourhood;” and then in the little pause that -followed these gracious intimations, Edgar’s name was introduced, and -the mutual surprise with which his cousins and he had met; while the -brother and sister explained, both together, now one strange soft voice -breaking in, now the other, how much and how little they knew of him, -Harry still stood leaning on the window, waiting, with a little -impatience, till his aunt should have got through her civilities. But -just then the mistress of the cottage appeared, holding in both hands a -homely paraffin lamp, by no means free of smell, which she placed on the -table, suddenly illuminating the dim interior. Harry had to move from -the window while she proceeded to draw down the blinds, and thus of a -sudden, without warning or preparation, he received the electric shock -which had been preparing for him. Margaret had seated herself on the end -of the little sofa close to the table. She had raised her eyes to look -at him, probably with something of the same curiosity which had brought -him to the cottage--Lady Mary’s nephew, a person in the best society, -could not be without interest to the new-comers. Margaret looked up at -him with the unconscious look of appeal which never went out of her -beautiful eyes. The young man was, to use his own language, struck “all -of a heap.” He thought she was asking something of him. In his hurry and -agitation, he made a step towards her. - -“You were asking--” cried Harry, eagerly, affected as he had never been -in his life before. What was it she wanted? He did not stop to say to -himself how beautiful she was. He felt only that she had asked him for -something, and that if it were the moon she wanted, he would try to get -it for her. His sudden movement, and the sound of his voice, startled -Lady Mary too, who could not make out what he meant. - -“I did not say anything,” said Margaret, in the slightly plaintive voice -which was peculiar to her, with a smile, which seemed to the young man -like thanks for the effort he had made. He took a chair, and drew it to -the table, not knowing what he did. A sudden maze and confusion of mind -came over him, in which he felt as if some quite private intercourse had -gone on between this stranger and himself. She had asked him, he could -not tell for what--and he had thrown his whole soul into the attempt to -get it for her; and she had thanked him. Had this happened really, or -was it only a look, a smile that had done it? The poor boy could not -tell. He drew his chair close to the table to be near her. She was not a -stranger to him; he felt at once that he could say anything to her, -accept anything from her. He was dazed and stunned, yet excited and -exhilarated by her mere look, he could not tell why. - -And the talk went on again. Harry said nothing; he sat casting a glance -at her from time to time, eager, hoping she would ask that service from -him once more. Perhaps Margaret was accustomed to produce this effect on -strangers. She went on in her plaintive voice, telling how little she -knew of Edgar, and what he had done for his family, in an even flow of -soft speech, answering all Lady Mary’s questions, not looking at the new -worshipper--while Dr. Murray, in his embarrassed way, anxious to make a -good impression, supplemented all his sister said. Margaret was not -embarrassed; she was shy, yet frank; her eyes were cast down generally -as she talked, over the work she held in her hands, but now and then she -raised them to give emphasis to a sentence, looking suddenly full in the -face of the person she was addressing. It was her way. She renewed her -spell thus from moment to moment. Even Lady Mary, though she had all her -wits about her, was impressed and attracted; and as for poor Harry, he -sat drawing his chair closer and closer, trying to put himself so near -as to intercept one of those glances which she raised to Lady Mary’s -face. - -“Our old mother brought us up,” she said. “I cannot tell how good she -was to Charles and me, and what it cost us not to be rich enough to help -her.” - -“Margaret,” said Dr. Charles, “Lady Mary cannot care to hear all this -about you and me.” - -“Oh, pray go on, I am so much interested,” said Lady Mary. - -“For we have never been rich, never anything but poor,” said Margaret, -suddenly lifting her beautiful eyes, and thus giving double effect to -the acknowledgment; while her brother fretted a little, and moved on his -chair with impatience of her frankness. - -“We have been able to make our way,” he said, in an under-tone. - -“You see, I have always been a drag on him, I and my little girl,” she -went on, with a soft sigh, “so that he was not able to help when he -wanted to help. And then Mr. Earnshaw came in, and did all, and more -than all, that Charles could have hoped to do. For this we can never -think too highly of him, never be grateful enough.” - -“It was what any fellow would have done,” interrupted Harry, putting his -head forward. He did not know what he was saying. And Lady Mary, -suddenly looking at him, took fright. - -“Thank you so much for telling me this,” she said, rising. “I am so glad -to hear another good thing of Mr. Earnshaw who is one of my first -favourites. For his sake you must let me know if there is anything I can -do to make you comfortable. Harry, it is time for us to go; it will be -quite dark in the avenue. Pardon me, Dr. Murray, but I don’t know your -sister’s name; foolishly, I never thought to ask?” - -“Mrs. Smith,” said Dr. Charles, as they both got up, filling the little -dark room with their tall figures. Harry did not know how he made his -exit. One moment, it seemed to him he was surrounded with an atmosphere -of light and sadness from those wonderful blue eyes, and the next he was -driving along the darkling road, with the sound of the wheels and the -ponies’ hoofs ringing all about him, and unsympathetic laughter breaking -from under Lady Mary’s veil by his side. - -“Mrs. Smith!” she cried; “what a prodigious anti-climax! It was all I -could do to keep my gravity till I got outside. That wonderful creature -with such eyes, and her pretty plaintive voice. It is too absurd. Mrs. -Smith!” - -“You seem to enjoy the joke!” said Harry, stiffly, feeling offended. - -“Enjoy the joke! don’t you? But it was rather a shock than a joke. What -a pretty woman! what a pretty voice! It reminds me of blue-bells and -birch trees, and all kinds of pleasant things in Burns and Scott. But -Mrs. Smith! And how that lamp smelt! My dear Harry, I wish you would be -a little more cautious, or else give me the reins. I don’t want to be -upset in the mud. Mrs. Smith!” - -“You seem to be mightily amused,” said Harry, more gruff than ever. - -“Yes, considerably; but I see you don’t share my amusement,” said Lady -Mary, still more amused at this sudden outburst of temper, or propriety, -or whatever it might be. - -“I always thought you were very sympathetic, Aunt Mary,” said the young -man, with a tone of dignified reproof. “It is one of the words you -ladies use to express nothing particular, I suppose? The girls are -always dinning it into my ears.” - -“And you think I don’t come up to my character, Harry?” - -“I don’t understand your joke, I confess,” said Harry, with the loftiest -superiority, drawing up at the great hall door. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -The Education of Women. - - -Mr. Tottenham came back from town that evening alone. He explained that -Earnshaw had stayed behind on business. “Business partly mine, and -partly his own; he’s the best fellow that ever lived,” was all the -explanation he gave to his wife; and Lady Mary was unquestionably -curious. They talked a great deal about Edgar at dinner that evening, -and Phil made himself especially objectionable by his questions and his -indignation. - -“He hasn’t been here so long that he should go away,” said Phil. “Don’t -he like us, papa? I am sure there is something wrong by your face.” - -“So am I,” said little Molly. “You only look like that when some one has -been naughty. But this time you must have made a mistake. Even you might -make a mistake. To think of Mr. Earnshaw being naughty, like one of us, -is ridiculous.” - -“Naughty!” cried Phil. “Talk of things you understand, child. I’d like -to know what Earnshaw is supposed to have done,” cried the boy, swelling -with indignation and dignity, with tears rising in his eyes. - -“I’ve locked him up in the dark closet in the shop till he will promise -to be good,” said the father, with a laugh; “and if you will throw -yourself at my feet, Molly, and promise to bear half of his punishment -for him, I will, perhaps, let him out to-morrow.” - -Little Molly half rose from her chair. She gave a questioning glance at -her mother before she threw herself into the breach; while Phil, -reddening and wondering, stood on the alert, ready to undertake he knew -not what. - -“Nonsense, children; sit down; your father is laughing at you. -Seriously, Tom, without any absurdity, what is it?” cried Lady Mary. “I -wanted him so to-morrow to hear the first lecture--and he did not mean -to stay in town when he left here this morning.” - -“It is business, mere business,” repeated Mr. Tottenham. “We are not all -fine ladies and gentlemen, like you and Phil, Molly. Some of us have to -work for our living. If it hadn’t been for Earnshaw, I should, perhaps, -have stayed myself. I think we had better stay in town the night of the -entertainment, Mary. It will be a long drive for you back here, and -still longer for the children. They are going to have a great turn out. -I have been writing invitations all day to the very finest of people. I -don’t suppose Her Grace of Middlemarch ever heard anything so fine as -Mr. Watson’s solo on the cornet. And, Phil, I rely on you to get an -encore.” - -“Oh! I like old Watson. I’ll clap for him,” cried Phil, with facile -change of sentiments; though little Molly kept still eyeing her father -and mother alternately, not quite reassured. And thus the conversation -slid away from Edgar to the usual crotchets of the establishment. - -“We have settled all about the seats, and about the refreshments,” said -Mr. Tottenham, with an air of content. “You great people will sit in -front, and the members of the establishment who are non-performers, on -the back seats; and the grandest flunkies that ever were seen shall -serve the ices. Oh! John is nothing to them. They shall be divinely -tall, and powdered to their eyebrows; in new silk stockings taken from -our very best boxes, for that night only. Ah, children, you don’t know -what is before you! Miss Jemima Robinson is to be Serjeant Buzfuz. She -is sublime in her wig. She is out of the fancy department, and is the -best of saleswomen. We are too busy, we have too much to do to spend -time in improving our minds, like you and your young ladies, Mary; but -you shall see how much native genius Tottenham’s can produce.” - -Harry Thornleigh kept very quiet during this talk. His head was still -rather giddy, poor fellow; his balance was still disturbed by the face -and the eyes and the look which had come to him like a revelation. It -would be vain to say that he had never been in love before; he had been -in love a dozen times, lightly, easily, without much trouble to himself -or anyone else. But now he did not know what had happened to him. He -kept thinking what she would be likely to like, what he could get for -her--if, indeed, he ever was again admitted to her presence, and had -that voiceless demand made upon him. Oh! what a fool he had been, Harry -thought, to waste his means and forestall his allowance, and spend money -for no good, when all the time there was existing in the world a being -like that! I don’t know what his allowance had to do with it, and -neither, I suppose, did Harry; but the thought went vaguely through his -head amid a flood of other thoughts equally incoherent. He was glad of -Edgar’s absence, though he could not have told why; and when Lady Mary -began, in the drawing-room after dinner, to describe the new-comer to -her husband, he sat listening with glaring eyes till she returned to -that stale and contemptible joke about Mrs. Smith, upon which Harry -retired in dudgeon, feeling deeply ashamed of her levity. He went to the -smoking-room and lit his cigar, and then he strolled out, feeling a want -of fresh air, and of something cool and fresh to calm him down. It was a -lovely starlight night, very cold and keen. All the mists and heavy -vapours had departed with the day, and the sky over Tottenham’s was -ablaze with those silvery celestial lights, which woke I cannot tell how -many unusual thoughts, and what vague inexplicable emotion and delicious -sadness in Harry’s mind. Something was the matter with him; he could -have cried, though nobody was less inclined to cry in general; the water -kept coming to his eyes, and yet his soul was lost in a vague sense of -happiness. How lovely the stars were; how stupid to sit indoors in a -poky room, and listen to bad jokes and foolish laughter when it was -possible to come out to such a heavenly silence, and to all those -celestial lights. The Aurora Borealis was playing about the sky, -flinging waving rosy tints here and there among the stars, and as he -stood gazing, a great shadowy white arm and hand seemed to flit across -the heavens, dropping something upon him. What was it? the fairy gift -for which those blue eyes had asked him, those eyes which were like the -stars? Harry was only roused from his star-gazing by the vigilant -butler, attended by a footman with a lantern, who made a survey of the -house every night, to see that all the windows and doors were shut, and -that no vagrants were about the premises. - -“Beg your pardon, Sir,” said that functionary, “but there’s a many -tramps about, and we’re obliged to be careful.” - -Harry threw away his cigar, and went indoors; but he did not attempt to -return to the society of his family. Solitude had rather bored him than -otherwise up to this moment; but somehow he liked it that night. - -Next morning was as bright and sunshiny as the night had been clear, and -Lady Mary was again bound for the village, with Phil and his sister. - -“Come with us, Harry; it will do you good to see what is going on,” she -said. - -Harry had no expectation of getting any good, but he had nothing to do, -and it seemed possible that he might see or hear of the beautiful -stranger, so he graciously accompanied the little party in their walk. -Lady Mary was in high spirits. She had brought all her schemes to -completion, and on this day her course of lectures was to begin. -Nothing could surpass her own conscientiousness in the matter. No girl -graduate, or boy graduate either, for that matter, was ever more -determined to work out every exercise and receive every word of teaching -from the instructors she had chosen. I do not think that Lady Mary felt -herself badly equipped in general for the work of life; indeed, I -suppose she must have felt, as most clever persons do, a capability of -doing many things better than other people, and of understanding any -subject that was placed before her, with a rapidity and clearness which -had been too often remarked upon to be unknown to herself. She must have -been aware too, I suppose, that the education upon which she harped so -much, had not done everything for its male possessors which she expected -it to do for the women whose deficiencies she so much lamented. I -suppose she must have known this, though she never betrayed her -consciousness of it; but by whatever means it came about, it is certain -that Lady Mary was a great deal more eager for instruction, and more -honestly determined to take the good of it, than any one of the girls at -Harbour Green for whose benefit she worked with such enthusiasm, and who -acquiesced in her efforts, some of them for fun, some of them with a -half fictitious reflection of her enthusiasm, and all, or almost all, -because Lady Mary was the fashion in her neighbourhood, and it was the -right thing to follow her in her tastes and fancies. There was quite a -pretty assembly in the schoolroom when the party from Tottenham’s -arrived--all the Miss Witheringtons in a row, and the young ladies from -the Rectory, and many other lesser lights. Harry Thornleigh was somewhat -frightened to find himself among so many ladies, though most of them -were young, and many pretty. - -“I’ll stay behind backs, thanks,” he said, hurriedly, and took up a -position near the door, where Phil joined him, and where the two -conversed in whispers. - -“They’re going to do sums, fancy,” said Phil, opening large eyes, “mamma -and all! though nobody can make them do it unless they like.” - -“By Jove!” breathed Harry into his moustache. Amaze could go no further, -and he felt words incapable of expressing his sentiments. I don’t know -whether the spectacle did the young fellow good, but it stupefied and -rendered him speechless with admiration or horror, I should not like to -say which. “What are they doing it for?” he whispered to Phil, throwing -himself in his consternation even upon that small commentator for -instruction. - -Phil’s eyes were screwed tightly in his head, round as two great O’s of -amazement; but he only shook that organ, and made no response. I think, -on the whole, Phil was the one of all the assembly (except his mother) -who enjoyed it most. He was privileged to sit and look on, while others -were, before his eyes, subjected to the torture from which he had -temporarily escaped. Phil enjoyed it from this point of view; and Lady -Mary enjoyed it in the delight of carrying out her plan, and riding high -upon her favourite hobby. She listened devoutly while the earliest -propositions of Euclid were being explained to her, with a proud and -happy consciousness that thus, by her means, the way to think was opened -to a section at least of womankind; and what was more, this very clever -woman put herself quite docilely at her lecturer’s feet, and listened to -every word he said with the full intention of learning how to think in -her own person--notwithstanding that, apart from her hobby, she had -about as much confidence in her own power of thought as most people. -This curious paradox, however, is not so uncommon that I need dwell upon -it. The other persons who enjoyed the lecture most, were, I think, Myra -Witherington, who now and then looked across to her friend Phil, and -made up her pretty face into such a delightful copy of the lecturer’s, -that Phil rolled upon his seat with suppressed laughter; and Miss -Annetta Baker, who--there being no possibility of croquet parties at -this time of the year--enjoyed the field-day immensely, and nodded to -her friends, and made notes of Lady Mary’s hat, and of the new Spring -dresses in which the Rectory girls certainly appeared too early, with -genuine pleasure. The other ladies present did their best to be very -attentive. Sometimes a faintly smothered sigh would run through the -assembly; sometimes a little cough, taken up like a fugue over the -different benches, gave a slight relief to their feelings; sometimes it -would be a mere rustle of dresses, indicative of a slight universal -movement. The curate’s wife, unable to keep up her attention, fell to -adding up her bills within herself, a much more necessary mathematical -exercise in her case, but one also which did very little towards paying -the same, as poor Mrs. Mildmay knew too well. Miss Franks, the old -doctor’s eldest daughter, after the first solemnity of the commencement -wore off, began to think of her packing, and what nonsense it was of -papa to send her here when there was so much to do--especially as they -were leaving Harbour Green, and Lady Mary’s favour did not matter now. -There was one real student, besides Lady Mary, and that was Ellen -Gregory, the daughter of the postmistress, who sat far back, and was -quite unthought of by the great people, and whose object was to learn a -little Euclid for an approaching examination of pupil-teachers, and not -in the least the art of thinking. Ellen was quite satisfied as to her -powers in that particular; but she knew the effect that a little Euclid -had upon a school-inspector, and worked away with a will, with a mind as -much intent as Lady Mary’s, and eyes almost as round as Phil’s. - -From this it will be seen that Lady Mary’s audience was about as little -prepared for abstract education as most other audiences. When it was -over, there was a pleasant stir of relief, and everybody began to -breathe freely. The lecturer came from behind his table, and the ladies -rose from their benches, and everybody shook hands. - -“Oh, it was delightful, Lady Mary!” said the eldest Miss Witherington; -“how it does open up one’s mental firmament.” - -“Mr. Thornleigh, will you help me to do the fourth problem?” said Myra. -“I don’t understand it a bit--but of course you know all about it.” - -“I!” cried Harry, recoiling in horror, “you don’t mean it, Miss -Witherington? It’s a shame to drag a fellow into this sort of thing -without any warning. I couldn’t do a sum to save my life!” - -“Lady Mary, do you hear? is it any shame to me not to understand it, -when a University man says just the same?” cried Myra, laughing. Poor -Harry felt himself most cruelly assailed, as well as ill-used -altogether, by being led into this extraordinary morning’s work. - -“I hope there’s more use in a University than that rot,” he said. “By -Jove, Aunt Mary! I’ve often heard women had nothing to do--but if you -can find no better way of passing your time than doing sums and -problems, and getting up Euclid at your time of life----” - -“Take him away, for heaven’s sake, Myra!” whispered Lady Mary; “he is -not a fool when you talk to him. He is just like other young men, good -enough in his way; but I can’t be troubled with him now.” - -“Ah!” cried Myra, with an unconscious imitation of Lady Mary’s own -manner, which startled, and terrified, and enchanted all the bystanders, -“if the higher education was only open to us poor women, if we were not -persistently kept from all means of improving ourselves--we might get in -time to be as intellectual as Mr. Thornleigh,” she added, laughing in -her own proper voice. - -Lady Mary did not hear the end of this speech; she did not see herself -in the little mimic’s satire. She was too much preoccupied, and too -serious to notice the fun--and the smiles upon the faces of her friends -annoyed without enlightening her. - -“How frivolous we all are,” she said, turning to the eldest Miss Baker, -with a sigh; “off at a tangent, as soon as ever the pressure is removed. -I am sure I don’t want to think it--but sometimes I despair, and feel -that we must wait for a new generation before any real education is -possible among women. They are all like a set of schoolboys let loose.” - -“My dear Lady Mary, that is what I am always telling you; not one in a -hundred is capable of any intellectual elevation,” said the only -superior person in the assembly; and they drew near the lecturer, and -engaged him in a tough conversation, though he, poor man, having done -his duty, and being as pleased to get it over as the audience, would -have much preferred the merrier crowd who were streaming--with -suppressed laughter, shaking their heads and uttering admonitions to -wicked Myra--out into the sunshine, through the open door. - -“Don’t do that again,” cried Phil, very red. “I say, Myra, I like you -and your fun, and all that; but I’ll never speak to you again, as long -as I live, if you take off mamma!” - -“I didn’t mean it, dear,” said Myra, penitent. “I’m so sorry, I beg your -pardon, Phil. Lady Mary’s a dear, and I wouldn’t laugh at her for all -the world. But don’t you ever mimic anyone, there’s a good boy; for one -gets into the habit without knowing what one does.” - -“Oh, that’s all very fine,” said Phil, feeling the exhortation against a -sin for which he had no capability to be out of place; but he did not -refuse to make up the incipient quarrel. As for Harry, he had not -listened, and consequently was not aware how much share he had in the -cause of the general hilarity. - -“I should like to know what all the fun’s about,” he said. “Good lord! -to see you all at it like girls at school! Ladies are like sheep, it -seems to me--where one goes you all follow; because that good little -aunt of mine has a craze about education, do you all mean to make muffs -of yourselves? Well, I’m not a man that stands up for superior intellect -and that sort of thing--much; but, good gracious! do you ever see men go -in for that sort of nonsense?” - -“That is because you are all so much cleverer, and better educated to -start with, Mr. Thornleigh,” said Sissy Witherington. He looked up at -her to see if she were laughing at him; but Sissy was incapable of -satire, and meant what she said. - -“Well, perhaps there is something in that,” said Harry, mollified, -stroking his moustache. - -Harry lunched with the Witheringtons at their urgent request, and thus -shook himself free from Phil, who was disposed, in the absence of -Earnshaw, to attach himself to his cousin. Mrs. Witherington made much -of the visitor, not without a passing thought that if by any chance he -should take a fancy to Myra--and of course Myra to him, though that was -a secondary consideration--why, more unlikely things might come to -pass. But Harry showed no dispositions that way, and stood and stared -out of the window of the front drawing-room, after luncheon, towards -Mrs. Smith’s lodgings, on the other side of the Green, with a -pertinacity which amazed his hostesses. When he left them he walked in -the same direction slowly, with his eyes still fixed on the cottage with -its green shutters and dishevelled creepers. Poor Harry could not think -of any excuse for a second call; he went along the road towards the -cottage hoping he might meet the object of his thoughts, and stared in -at the window through the matted growth of holly and rhododendrons in -the little garden, equally without effect. She had been seated there on -the previous evening, but she was not seated there now. He took a long -walk, and came back again once more, crossing slowly under the windows, -and examining the place; but still saw nothing. If Margaret had only -known of it, where she sat listlessly inside feeling extremely dull, and -in want of a little excitement, how much good it would have done her! -and she would not have been so unkind as to refuse her admirer a glance. -But she did not know, and Harry went back very unhappy, dull and -depressed, and feeling as if life were worth very little indeed to him. -Had that heavenly vision appeared, only to go out again, to vanish for -ever, from the eyes which could never forget the one glimpse they had -had of her? Harry had never known what it was to be troubled with -extravagant hopes or apprehensions before. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -Mrs. Smith. - - -“Still no Mr. Earnshaw,” said Lady Mary. “This business of his and yours -is a long affair then, Tom. I wanted to send down to those cousins of -his to ask them to dinner, or something. I suppose I must write a little -civil note, and tell Mrs. Smith why I delay doing so. It is best to wait -till he comes back.” - -“I’ll take your note, Aunt Mary,” said Harry, with alacrity. “Oh, no, it -will not inconvenience me in the least. I shall be passing that way.” - -“I suppose you want to see the beauty again?” said Lady Mary, smiling. -“She is very pretty. But I don’t care much for the looks of the brother. -He has an uncertain way, which would be most uncomfortable in illness. -If he were to stand on one foot, and hesitate, and look at you like -that, to see what you were thinking of him, when some one was ill! A -most uncomfortable doctor. I wish we may not have been premature about -poor old Dr. Franks.” - -“Anyhow it was not your doing,” said Mr. Tottenham. - -Lady Mary blushed slightly. She answered with some confusion: “No, I -don’t suppose it was.” But at the same time she felt upon her -conscience the weight of many remarks, as to country practitioners, and -doctors of the old school, and men who did not advance with the progress -of science even in their own profession, which she had made at various -times, and which, no doubt, had gone forth with a certain influence. She -had not had it in her power to influence Dr. Franks as to the person who -should succeed him; but she had perhaps been a little instrumental in -dethroning the old country doctor of the old school, whose want of -modern science she had perceived so clearly. These remarks were made the -second day after the lecture, and Edgar had not yet returned. Nobody at -Tottenham’s knew where he was, or what had become of him; nobody except -the master of the house, who kept his own counsel. Harry had made -another unavailing promenade in front of Mrs. Smith’s lodgings on the -day before, and had caught a glimpse of Margaret in a cab, driving with -her brother to some patient, following the old lofty gig which was Dr. -Franks’ only vehicle. He had taken off his hat, and stood at the gate of -Tottenham’s, worshipping while she passed, and she had given him a smile -and a look which went to his heart. This look and smile seemed the sole -incidents that had happened to Harry; he could not remember anything -else; and when Lady Mary spoke of the note his heart leaped into his -mouth. She had, as usual, a hundred things to do that morning while he -waited, interviews with the housekeeper, with the gardener, with the -nurse, a hundred irrelevant matters. And then she had her letters to -write, a host of letters, at which he looked on with an impatience -almost beyond concealment--letters enclosing circulars, letters asking -for information, letters about her lectures, about other “schemes” of -popular enlightenment, letters to her friends, letters to her family. -Harry counted fifteen while he waited. Good lord! did any clerk in an -office work harder? “And most of them about nothing, I suppose,” Harry -said cynically to himself. Luncheon interrupted her in the middle of her -labours, and Harry had to wait till that meal was over before he could -obtain the small envelope, with its smaller enclosure, which justified -his visit. He hurried off as soon as he could leave the table, but not -without a final arrangement of his locks and tie. The long avenue seemed -to flee beneath his feet as he walked down, the long line of trees flew -past him. His heart went quicker than his steps, and so did his pulse, -both of them beating so that he grew dizzy and breathless. Why this -commotion? he said to himself. He was going to visit a lady whom he had -only seen once before; the loveliest woman he had ever seen in his life, -to be sure; but it was only walking so quickly, he supposed, which made -him so panting and excited. He lost time by his haste, for he had to -pause and get command of himself, and calm down, before he could venture -to go and knock at the shabby little green door. - -Margaret was seated on the end of the little sofa, which was placed -beside the fire. This, he said to himself, no doubt was the reason why -he had not seen her at the window. She had her work-basket on the -table, and was sewing, with her little girl seated on a stool at her -feet. The little girl was about seven, very like her mother, seated in -the same attitude, and bending her baby brows over a stocking which she -was knitting. Margaret was very plainly, alas! she herself felt, much -too plainly-dressed, in a dark gown of no particular colour, with -nothing whatever to relieve it except a little white collar; her dark -hair, which she also lamented over as quite unlike and incapable of -being coaxed into, the fashionable colour of hair, was done up simply -enough, piled high up upon her head. She had not even a ribbon to lend -her a little colour. And she was not wise enough to know that chance had -befriended her, and that her beautiful pale face looked better in this -dusky colourless setting, in which there was no gleam or reflection to -catch the eye, than it would have done in the most splendid attire. She -raised her eyes when the door opened and rose up, her tall figure, with -a slight wavering stoop, looking more and more like a flexile branch or -tall drooping flower. She put out her hand quite simply, as if he had -been an old friend, and looked no surprise, nor seemed to require any -explanation of his visit, but seated herself again and resumed her work. -So did the child, who had lifted its violet eyes also to look at him, -and now bent them again on her knitting. Harry thought he had never seen -anything so lovely as this group, the child a softened repetition of the -mother--in the subdued greenish atmosphere with winter outside, and the -still warmth within. - -“I came from my aunt with this note,” said Harry, embarrassed. She -looked up again as he spoke, and this way she had of looking at him only -now and then gave a curious particularity to her glance. He thought, -poor fellow, that his very tone must be suspicious, that her eyes went -through and through him, and that she had found him out. “I mean,” he -added, somewhat tremulously, “that I was very glad of--of the chance of -bringing Lady Mary’s note; and asking you how you liked the place.” - -“You are very kind to come,” said Margaret in her soft voice, taking the -note. “It’s a little lonely, knowing nobody--and a visit is very -pleasant.” - -The way in which she lingered upon the “very,” seemed sweetness itself -to Harry Thornleigh. Had a prejudiced Englishman written down the word, -probably he would, after Margaret’s pronunciation, have spelt it -“varry;” but that would be because he knew no better, and would not -really represent the sound, which had a caressing, lingering -superlativeness in it to the listener. She smiled as she spoke, then -opened her letter, and read it over slowly. Then she raised her eyes to -his again with still more brightness in them. - -“Lady Mary is very kind, too,” she said, with a brightening of pleasure -all over her face. - -“She’s waiting for your cousin to come back--I suppose she says -so--before asking you to the house; and I hope it will not be long -first, for I am only a visitor here,” said Harry impulsively. Margaret -gave him another soft smile, as if she understood exactly what he meant. - -“You are not staying very long, perhaps?” she said. - -“Oh, for some weeks, I hope; I hope long enough to improve my -acquaintance with--with Dr. Murray and yourself.” - -“I hope so too,” said Margaret, with another smile. “Charlie is troubled -with an anxious mind. To see you so friendly will be very good for him, -very good.” - -“Oh, I hope you will let me be friendly!” cried Harry, with a glow of -delight. “When does he go out? I suppose he is busy with the old doctor, -visiting the sick people. You were with him yesterday--” - -“He thinks it is good for my health to go with him; and then he thinks I -am dull when he’s away,” said Margaret. “He is a real good brother; -there are not many like him. Yes, he is going about with Dr. Franks -nearly all the day.” - -“And you are quite alone, and dull? I am so sorry. I wish you would let -me show you the neighbourhood; or if you would come and walk in the park -or the wood--my aunt, I am sure, would be too glad.” - -“Oh, I’m not dull,” said Margaret. “I have my little girl. She is all I -have in the world, except Charles; and we are great companions, are we -no, Sibby?” - -This was said with a change in the voice, which Harry thought, made it -still more like a wood-pigeon’s note. - -“Ay are we,” said the little thing, putting down her knitting, and -laying back her little head, like a kitten, rubbing against her mother’s -knee. Nothing could be prettier as a picture, more natural, more simple; -and though the child’s jargon was scarcely comprehensible to Harry, his -heart answered to this renewed appeal upon it. - -“But sometimes,” he said, “you must want other companionship than that -of a child.” - -“Do I?” said Margaret, pressing the little head against her. “I am not -sure. After all, I think I’m happiest with her, thinking of nothing -else; but you, a young man, will scarcely understand that.” - -“Though I am a young man, I think I can understand it,” said Harry. He -seemed to himself to be learning a hundred lessons, with an ease and -facility he was never conscious of before. “But if I were to come and -take you both out for a walk, into the woods, or through the park, to -show you the country, that would be good both for her and you.” - -“Very good,” said Margaret, raising her eyes, “and very kind of you; but -I think I know why you’re so very good. You know my cousin, Edgar -Earnshaw, too?” - -“Yes; I know him very well,” said Harry. - -“He must be very good, since everybody is so kind that knows him; and -fancy, _I_ don’t know him!” said Margaret. “Charles and he are friends, -but Sibby and I have only seen him once. We have scarcely a right to -all the kind things that are done for his sake.” - -“Oh, it isn’t for his sake,” cried Harry. “I like him very much; but -there are other fellows as good as he is. I wouldn’t have you make a -hero of Edgar; he is odd sometimes, as well as other folks.” - -“Tell me something about him; I don’t know him, except what he did for -Granny,” said Margaret. “It’s strange that, though I am his relative, -you should know him so much better. Will you tell me? I would like to -know.” - -“Oh, there’s nothing very wonderful to tell,” said Harry, somewhat -disgusted; “he’s well enough, and nice enough, but he has his faults. -You must not think that I came for his sake. I came because I thought -you would feel a little lonely, and might be pleased to have some one to -talk to. Forgive me if I was presumptuous.” - -“Presumptuous! no,” said Margaret, with a smile. “You were quite right. -Would you like a cup of tea? it is just about the time. Sibby, go ben -and tell Mrs. Sims we will have some tea.” - -“She is very like you,” said Harry, taking this subject, which he felt -would be agreeable, as a new way of reaching the young mother’s heart. - -“So they tell me,” said Margaret. “She is like what I can mind of -myself, but gentler, and far more good. For, you see, there were always -two of us, Charlie and me.” - -“You have always been inseparable?” - -“We were separated, so long as I was married; but that was but two -years,” said Margaret, with a sigh; and here the conversation came to a -pause. - -Harry was so touched by her sigh and her pause, that he did not know how -to show his sympathy. He would have liked to say on the spot, “Let me -make it all up to you now;” but he did not feel that this premature -declaration would be prudent. And then he asked himself, what did she -mean? that the time of her separation from her brother was sad? or that -she was sad that it came to an end so soon? With natural instinct, he -hoped it might be the former. He was looking at her intently, with -interest and sympathy in every line of his face, when she looked up -suddenly, as her manner was, and caught him--with so much more in his -looks than he ventured to say. - -Margaret was half amused, half touched, half flattered; but she did not -let the amusement show. She said, gratefully, “You are very kind to take -so much interest in a stranger like me.” - -“I do not feel as if you were a stranger,” cried Harry eagerly; and then -not knowing how to explain this warmth of expression, he added in haste, -“you know I have known--we have all known your cousin for years.” - -Margaret accepted the explanation with a smile, “You all? You are one of -a family too--you have brothers and sisters like Charles and me?” - -“Not like you. I have lots of brothers and sisters, too many to think of -them in the same way. There is one of my sisters whom I am sure you -would like,” said Harry, who had always the fear before his eyes that -the talk would flag, and his companion get tired of him--a fear which -made him catch wildly at any subject which presented itself. - -“Yes?” said Margaret, “tell me her name, and why you think I would like -her best.” - -From this it will be seen that she too was not displeased to keep up the -conversation, nor quite unskilled in the art. - -“The tea’s coming,” said little Sibby, running in and taking her seat on -her footstool. Perhaps Harry thought he had gone far enough in the -revelation of his family, or perhaps only that this was a better -subject. He held out his hand and made overtures of friendship to the -little girl. - -“Come and tell me your name,” he said, “shouldn’t you like to come up -with me to the house, and play with my little cousins in the nursery? -There are three or four of them, little things. Shouldn’t you like to -come with me?” - -“No without mamma,” said little Sibby, putting one hand out timidly, and -with the other clinging to her mother’s dress. - -“Oh, no,” said Harry, “not without mamma, she must come too; but you -have not told me your name. She is shy, I suppose.” - -“A silly thing,” said Margaret, stroking her child’s dark hair. “Her -name is Sybilla, Sybil is prettier; but in Scotland we call it Sibby, -and sometimes Bell for short. Now, dear, you must not hold me, for the -gentleman will not eat you, and here is the tea.” - -Harry felt himself elected into one of the family, when Mrs. Sims came -in, pushing the door open before her, with the tray in her arms; upon -which there was much bread and butter of which he partook, finding it -delightful, with a weakness common to young men in the amiable company -of the objects of their affection. He drew his chair to the table -opposite to Margaret, and set Sibby up on an elevated seat at the other -side, and felt a bewildering sensation come over him as if they belonged -to him. It was not a very high ideal of existence to sit round a red and -blue table in a cottage parlour of a winter’s afternoon, and eat bread -and butter; but yet Harry felt as if nothing so delightful and so -elevating had ever happened to him before in all his life. - -It was a sad interruption to his pleasure, when Dr. Murray came in -shortly afterwards, pushing the door open as Mrs. Sims had done, and -entering with the air of a man to whom, and not to Harry, the place -belonged. He had his usual doubtful air, looking, as Lady Mary said, to -see what you thought of him, and not sure that his sister was not -showing an injudicious confidence in thus revealing to Harry the -existence of such a homely meal as tea. But he had no desire to send the -visitor away, especially when Margaret, who knew her brother’s humour, -propitiated him by thrusting into his hand Lady Mary’s note. - -“I am sure her Ladyship is very kind,” he said, his face lighting up, -“Margaret, I hope you have written a proper reply.” - -“When we have had our tea, Charles--will you not have some tea?” his -sister said; she always took things so easily, so much more easily than -he could ever do. - -“Oh, you are having tea with the child, five o’clock tea,” said the poor -doctor, who was so anxious to make sure that everybody knew him to have -been “brought up a gentleman;” and he smiled a bland uneasy smile, and -sat down by Sibby. He would not take any bread and butter, though he was -hungry after a long walk; he preferred Harry to think that he was about -to dine presently, which was far from being the case. But Harry neither -thought of the matter nor cared; he had no time nor attention to spare, -though he was very civil to _her_ brother, and engaged him at once in -conversation, making himself agreeable with all his might. - -“I suppose you are making acquaintance with quantities of people, and I -hope you think you will like the place,” he said. - -“Yes, a great many people,” said Dr. Charles, “and it was full time that -somebody should come who knew what he was doing. Dr. Franks, I am -afraid, is no better than an old wife.” - -“Oh, Charlie, how rashly you speak! he always says out what he thinks,” -said Margaret with an appealing look at Harry, “and it is often very far -from a wise thing to do.” - -“Bravo, Aunt Mary will be delighted,” cried Harry, “it is what she -always said.” - -“I knew Lady Mary Tottenham was very talented,” said Dr. Murray with -some pomp, “and that she would see the state of affairs. I can’t tell -you what a pleasure and support it is to have a discriminating person in -the neighbourhood. He is just an old wife. You need not shake your head -at me, Margaret, I know Mr. Thornhill is a gentleman, and that he will -not repeat what is said.” - -“Surely not,” said Harry, somewhat surprised to find himself thus put on -his honour; “but my name is Thornleigh; never mind, it was a very simple -mistake.” - -The doctor blushed with annoyance, and confounded himself in excuses. -Harry took his leave before these apologies were half over. He was -rather glad to get away at the last, feeling that a shadow had come over -his happiness; but before he had left the Green, this momentary shade -disappeared, and all the bliss of recollection came back upon him. What -an hour he had spent, of happiness pure and unalloyed, with so many -smiles, so many looks to lay up as treasures! how lovely she was, how -simple, how superior to everything he had ever seen before! Talk of -fashion, Harry said to himself hotly, talk of rank and society and high -birth, and high breeding! here was one who had no need of such -accessories, here was a perfect creature, made in some matchless mould -that the world had never seen before; and how kindly she had looked at -him, how sweetly talked to him! What had he done, that he should have -suddenly fallen upon such happiness? - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -In Love. - - -Life had become a new thing altogether for Harry Thornleigh. Up to this -time his existence had been that of his immediate surroundings, an -outward life so to speak. The history of the visible day in any -household of which he formed a part would have been his history, not -much more nor less; but this easy external existence was over for him. -He began to have a double being from the moment he saw Margaret. All -that he was most conscious of, was within him, a life of thought, of -recollection, of musing, and imagination; and external matters affected -him but vaguely through the cloud of this more intimate consciousness. -Yet his faculties were at the same time quickened, and the qualities of -his mind brought out--or so at least he felt. He had been very angry -with Lady Mary for her mirth over Mrs. Smith’s name; but his new -feelings (though they originated this anger) seemed to give him prudence -and cleverness enough to make an instrument of the very jest he -detested. He began to speak of Mrs. Smith the morning after his visit to -her, restraining his temper admirably, and opening the subject in the -most good-humoured way. - -“I delivered your note, Aunt Mary,” he said; “you are right after all, -about the name. It is ridiculous. Mrs. Smith! after being Miss Murray, -as I suppose she was. She ought to change back again.” - -“There are other ways of changing,” said Lady Mary, “and I daresay such -a pretty woman could easily do it if she wished. Yes, I got a very nice -little note from her, thanking me. Though I am disappointed in the -brother, I must show them some civility. Did you hear when they were to -get into their house?” - -Harry had not heard; but he propitiated his aunt by telling her what was -Dr. Murray’s opinion of his predecessor, an opinion which greatly -comforted Lady Mary, and made her feel herself quite justified in the -part she had taken in the matter. - -“There must be more in him than I thought,” she said, in high -good-humour; and then Harry felt bold to make his request. - -“The sister,” he said, toning down the superlatives in which he felt -disposed to speak of that peerless being, with an astuteness of which he -felt half-ashamed, half-proud, “is rather lonely, I should think, in -that poky little place; and she has a nice little girl about Molly’s -age.” (This was a very wild shot, for Harry had about as much idea of -their relative ages as he had about the distances between two stars). -“They don’t know any one, and I don’t think she’s very strong. Without -asking them formally, Aunt Mary, don’t you think you might have her and -the child up to luncheon or something, to see the conservatories and all -that? it would be a little change for them. They looked rather dismal in -Mrs. Sims’ parlour, far from everything they know.” - -“How considerate and kind of you, Harry!” cried Lady Mary. “I am ashamed -of myself for not having thought of it. Of course, poor thing, she must -be lonely--nothing to do, and probably not even any books. The Scotch -all read; they are better educated a great deal than we are. To be sure, -you are quite right. I might drive down to-morrow, and fetch her to -lunch. But, by-the-by, I have Herr Hartstong coming to-morrow, who is to -give the botany lecture--” - -“An extra lady and a little girl would not hurt Herr Hartstong.” - -“There is no telling,” said Lady Mary, with a laugh, “such a pretty -creature as she is. But I think he has a wife already. I only meant I -could not go to fetch her. But to be sure she’s a married woman, and I -don’t see what harm there would be. _You_ might do that.” - -“With the greatest pleasure,” cried Harry, trying with all his might to -keep down his exultation, and not let it show too much in his face and -voice. - -“Then we’ll settle it so. You can take the ponies, and a fur cloak to -wrap her in, as she’s delicate; and Herr Hartstong must take his chance. -But, by the way,” Lady Mary added, pausing, turning round and looking at -him--“by the way, you are of a great deal more importance. You must -take care she does not harm _you_.” - -“Me!” said Harry, with a wild flutter at his heart, forcing to his lips -a smile of contempt. “I am a likely person, don’t you think, to be -harmed by anybody belonging to the country doctor? I thought, Aunt Mary, -you had more knowledge of character.” - -“Your class exclusivism is revolting, Harry,” cried Lady Mary, severely. -“A young man with such notions is an anachronism; I can’t understand how -you and I can come of the same race. But perhaps it’s just as well in -this case,” she added, gliding back into her easier tone. “Your mother -would go mad at the thought of any such danger for you.” - -“I hope I can take care of myself by this time, without my mother’s -help,” said Harry, doing his best to laugh. He was white with rage and -self-restraint; and the very sound of that laugh ought to have put the -heedless aunt, who was thus helping him on the way to destruction, on -her guard. But Lady Mary’s mind was occupied by so many things, that she -had no attention to bestow on Harry; besides the high confidence she -felt in him as an unimpressionable blockhead and heart-hardened young -man of the world. - -To-morrow, however--this bliss was only to come to-morrow--and -twenty-four hours had to be got through somehow without seeing her. -Harry once more threw himself in the way persistently. He went down to -the village, and called upon all his old acquaintances; he kept about -the Green the whole afternoon; but Margaret did not appear. At last, -when his patience would hold out no longer, he called at the cottage, -saying to himself, that in case Lady Mary had forgotten to write, it -would be kind to let her know what was in store for her. But, alas! she -was not to be found at the cottage. How she had been able to go out -without being seen, Harry could not tell, but he had to go back drearily -at night without even a glimpse of her. What progress his imagination -had made in three or four days! The very evening seemed darker, the -stars less divine, the faint glimmers of the Aurora which kept shooting -across the sky had become paltry and unmeaning. If that was all -electricity could do, Harry felt it had better not make an exhibition of -itself. Was it worth while to make confusion among the elements for so -little? was it worth while to suffer the bondage of society, to go -through luncheons and dinners, and all the common action of life without -even a glance or a smile to make a man feel that he had a soul in him -and a heaven above him? Thus wildly visionary had poor Harry become all -in a moment, who had never of his own free will read a line of poetry in -his life. - -“I am so sorry to give you the trouble, Harry,” said Lady Mary, pausing -for a moment in her conversation with Herr Hartstong (whose lecture was -to be given next morning) to see the ponies go off. - -“Oh! I don’t mind it once in a way,” said the young man, scarcely able -to restrain the laughter with which, partly from sheer delight, partly -from a sense of the ludicrous inappropriateness of her apology, he was -bursting. He went down the avenue like an arrow, the ponies tossing -their heads, and ringing their bells, the wintry sunshine gleaming on -him through the long lines of naked trees. Margaret, to whom Lady Mary -had written, was waiting for him with a flush of pleasure upon her pale -face, and a look of soft grateful friendliness in her beautiful eyes. - -“It was kind of you to come for us,” she said, looking up at him. - -“I am so glad to come,” said Harry, with all his heart in his voice. He -wrapt her in the warm furs, feeling somehow, with a delicious sense of -calm and security, that, for the moment, she belonged to him. “The -morning is so fine, and the ponies are so fresh, that I think we might -take a turn round the park,” he said. “You are not afraid of them?” - -“Oh no! the bonnie little beasties,” cried Margaret, leaning back with -languid enjoyment. She had often harnessed the rough pony at Loch Arroch -with her own hands, and driven him to the head of the loch without -thinking of fear, though she looked now so dainty and delicate; but she -did not feel inclined to tell Harry this, or even to recall to herself -so homely a recollection. Margaret had been intended by nature for a -fine lady. She lay back in the luxurious little carriage, wrapped in the -furred mantle, and felt herself whisked through the sunny wintry air to -the admiration of all beholders, with a profound sense of enjoyment. -She liked the comfort dearly. She liked the dreamy pleasure which was -half of the mind, and half of the body. She liked the curtseys of the -gatekeepers, and the glances of the stray walkers, who looked after her, -she thought, with envy. She felt it natural that she should thus be -surrounded by things worthy, and pleasant, and comfortable. Even the -supreme gratification of the young attendant by her side, whose -infatuation began to shew itself so clearly in his eyes, was a climax of -pleasure to Margaret, which she accepted easily without fear of the -consequences. - -Yes, she thought, he was falling in love with her, poor boy; and it is -seldom unpleasant to be fallen in love with. Most probably his people -would put a stop, to it, and as she did not mean to give him what she -called “any encouragement,” there would be no harm done. Whereas, on the -other hand, if his people did not interfere, there was always the chance -that it might come to something. Margaret did not mean any harm--she was -only disposed to take the Scriptural injunction as her rule, and to let -the morrow care for the things of itself. - -She lay back in the little carriage with the grey feather in her hat -swaying like her slight figure, and Sibby held fast in her arms. - -“I feel as if I were in a nest,” she said, when Harry asked tenderly if -she felt the cold; and thus they flew round the park, where a little -stir of Spring was visible in the rough buds, and where here and there -one dewy primrose peeped forth in a sheltered nook--the ponies’ hoofs -ringing, and their heads tossing, and their bells tinkling--Harry lost -in a foolish joy beyond expression, and she wrapped in delicious -comfort. He was thinking altogether of her, she almost altogether of -herself--and of her child, who was another self. - -“I have enjoyed it so much,” she said softly, as he helped her to get -out in front of the hall door. - -“I do not think I ever spent so happy a morning,” Harry said very low. - -Margaret made no sign of having heard him. She walked upstairs without -any reply, leaving him without ceremony. “He is going too fast,” she -said to herself. And Harry was a little, just a little, mortified, but -soon got over that, and went after her, and was happy once more--happy -as the day was long. Indeed, the visit altogether was very successful. -Margaret was full of adaptability, very ready to accept any tone which -such a personage as Lady Mary chose to give to the conversation, and -with, in reality, a lively and open intelligence, easily roused to -interest. Besides, though an eager young admirer like Harry was pleasant -enough, and might possibly become important, she never for a moment -deceived herself as to the great unlikelihood that his friends would -permit him to carry out his fancy; and the chance that, instead of -bringing advantage, she might bring harm to herself and her brother if -she gave any one a right to say that she had “encouraged” him. Whereas -nothing but unmingled good could come from pleasing Lady Mary, who was, -in every way, the more important person. This being the principle of -Margaret’s conduct, it is almost unnecessary to say that Lady Mary found -it perfect, and felt that nothing could be in better taste than the way -in which the young Scotchwoman kept Harry’s attentions down, and -accorded the fullest attention to her own observations. She even took -her nephew aside after luncheon, to impress upon him a greater respect -for their guest. - -“This Mrs. Smith is evidently a very superior person,” said Lady Mary, -“and I am sorry to see, Harry, that you are rather disposed to treat her -simply as a very pretty young woman. I am not at all sure that you have -not been trying to flirt with her during lunch.” - -“I--flirt!--Aunt Mary,” stammered Harry, “you altogether mistake--” - -“Oh, of course, you never did such a thing in your life,” she said -mocking, “but this is not quite an ordinary young lady. The Scotch are -so well educated--we can see at a glance that she has read a great deal, -and thought as well--which is by no means common. If you take her round -the conservatories, you must recollect that it is not a mere pretty girl -you are with, Harry. She will not understand your nonsense,” said Lady -Mary with a little warmth. - -She, herself, had some final arrangements to make with Herr Hartstong, -who was also very much interested in the graceful listener, from whom he -had received such flattering attention. He made her his best bow, and -hoped he should see her next day at the lecture, when Harry, doing his -best to suppress all manifestations of feeling, led her away. - -“It is so kind of you to let me treat you without ceremony,” said Lady -Mary. “Show Mrs. Smith the orchids, Harry. Before you get to the palm -tree, I shall be with you--” and then Harry was free and alone with his -enchantress. He could not talk to her--he was so happy--he led her away -quickly out of sight of his aunt--who had seated herself in a corner of -the big drawing-room, to settle all her final arrangements with the -botanist--and of Herr Hartstong’s big yellow eyes, which looked after -him with suspicion. Harry was eager to get her to himself, to have her -alone, out of sight of everybody; but when he had secured this -isolation, he could not make much use of it. He was dumb with bliss and -excitement--he took her into the fairy palace of flowers where summer -reigned in the midst of winter; and instead of making use of his -opportunities in this still perfumy place, where everything suited the -occasion, found that he had nothing to say. He had talked, laboriously -it is true, but still he had talked, when he had called on her at the -cottage; he had made a few remarks while he drove her round the park; -but on this, the first opportunity he had of being alone with her, he -felt his tongue tied. Instead of taking her to the orchids as Lady Mary -had suggested, he conducted her straight to the palm tree, and there -placed her on the sofa, and stood by, gazing at her, concealing his -agitation by cutting sprays of Cape jasmine, of which there happened to -be a great velvety cluster in front of her seat. - -“It is like something in a book,” said Margaret, with a sigh. “What a -fine thing it is to be very rich! I never was in such a beautiful -place.” - -“Yes, it’s nice to be well off,” said Harry; “but heaps of people are -well off who never could invent anything so pretty. You see Tottenham -was very much in love with Aunt Mary. She’s a nice little woman,” he -added, parenthetically. “A man in love will do a deal to please the -woman he likes.” - -“Yes, I suppose so,” said Margaret, feeling somewhat disposed to laugh; -“and that makes it all the more interesting. Is Mr. Tottenham very -poetical and romantic? I have not seen him yet.” - -“Tottenham poetical!” cried Harry, with a laugh; “no, not exactly. And -that’s an old affair now, since they’ve been married about a century; -but it shows what even a dull man can do. Don’t you think love’s a very -rum thing?” said the young man, cutting the Cape jasmine all to pieces; -“don’t you think so? A fellow doesn’t seem to know what he is doing.” - -“Does Lady Mary let you cut her plants to pieces, Mr. Thornleigh?” said -Margaret, feeling her voice quaver with amusement. Upon which Harry -stopped short, and looked sheepishly down at the bunch of flowers in his -hand. - -“I meant to get you a nosegay, and here is a great sheaf like a -coachman’s bouquet on a drawing-room day,” cried Harry, half conscious -of this very distinct commentary upon his words. “Never mind, I’ll tell -the gardener. I suppose there are heaps more.” - -“How delightful to have heaps more!” said Margaret. “I don’t think poor -folk should ever be brought into such fairy places. I used to think -myself so lucky with a half-a-dozen plants.” - -“Then you are fond of flowers?” said Harry. - -What woman, nay, what civilised person of the present age, ever made but -one answer to such a question? There are a few people left in the world, -and only a few, who still dare to say they are not fond of music; but -fond of flowers! - -“I do so wish you would let me keep you supplied,” said Harry, eagerly. -“Trouble! it would be the very reverse of trouble; it would be the very -greatest pleasure--and I could do it so easily--” - -“Are you a cultivator, then?” said Margaret, “a great florist?” she said -it with a half-consciousness of the absurdity, yet half deceived by his -earnestness. Harry himself was startled for the moment by the question. - -“A florist! Oh, yes, in a kind of a way,” he said, trying to restrain an -abrupt momentary laugh. A florist? yes; by means of Covent Garden, or -some ruinous London nurseryman. But Margaret knew little of such -refinements. “It would be such a pleasure to me,” he said, anxiously. -“May I do it? And then you will not be able quite to forget my very -existence.” - -Margaret got up, feeling the conversation had gone far enough. “May not -I see the--orchids? It was the orchids I think that Lady Mary said.” - -“This is the way,” said Harry, almost sullen, feeling that he had fallen -from a great height. He went after her with his huge handful of velvety -jasmine flowers. He did not like to offer them, he did not dare to strew -them at her feet that she might walk upon them, which was what he would -have liked best. He flung them aside into a corner in despite and -vexation. Was he angry with her? If such a sentiment had been possible, -that would have been, he felt, the feeling in his mind. But Margaret was -not angry nor annoyed, though she had stopped the conversation, feeling -it had gone far enough. To “give him encouragement,” she felt, was the -very last thing that, in her position, she dared to do. She liked the -boy, all the same, for liking her. It gave her a soothing consciousness -of personal well-being. She was glad to please everybody, partly because -it pleased herself, partly because she was of a kindly and amiable -character. She had no objection to his admiration, to his love, if the -foolish boy went so far, so long as no one had it in his power to say -that she had given him encouragement; that was the one thing upon which -her mind was fully made up; and then, whatever came of it, she would -have nothing with which to reproach herself. If his people made a -disturbance, as they probably would, and put a stop to his passion, why, -then, Margaret would not be to blame; and if, on the contrary, he had -strength of mind to persevere, or they, by some wonderful chance, did -not oppose, why then Margaret would reap the benefit. This seems a -somewhat selfish principle, looking at it from outside, but I don’t -think that Margaret had what is commonly called a selfish nature. She -was a perfectly sober-minded unimpassioned woman, very affectionate in -her way, very kind, loving comfort and ease, but liking to partake these -pleasures with those who surrounded her. If fate had decreed that she -should marry Harry Thornleigh, she knew very well that she would make -him an admirable wife, and she would have been quite disposed to adapt -herself to the position. But in the meantime she would do nothing to -commit herself, or to bring this end, however desirable it might be in -itself, about. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -No Encouragement. - - -“You must not take any more trouble with me,” said Margaret, “my brother -will come up for me; it will be quite pleasant to walk down in the -gloaming--I mean--” she added, with a slight blush over her vernacular, -“in the twilight, before it is quite dark.” - -“Oh! pray don’t give up those pretty Scotch words,” said Lady Mary, -“gloaming is sweeter than twilight. Do you know I am so fond of Scotch, -the accent as well as the words.” - -Margaret replied only by a dubious smile. She would rather have been -complimented on her English; and as she could not make any reply to her -patroness’ enthusiasm, she continued what she was saying: - -“Charles wishes to call and tell you how much he is gratified by your -kindness, and the walk will be pleasant. You must not let me give you -more trouble.” - -“No trouble,” said Lady Mary, “but you shall have the close carriage, -which will be better for you than Harry and the ponies. I hope he did -not frighten you in the morning. I don’t think I could give him a -character as coachman; he all but upset me the other night, when we -left your house--to be sure I had been aggravating--eh, Harry?” she -said, looking wickedly at him. “It was very good of you to let me have -my talk out with the Professor; ladies will so seldom understand that -business goes before pleasure. And I hope you will do as he asked, and -come to the lecture to-morrow.” - -“I am not very understanding about lectures,” said Margaret. - -“Are not you? you look very understanding about everything,” said Lady -Mary. She too, as well as Harry, had fallen in love with the doctor’s -sister. The effect was not perhaps so sudden; but Lady Mary was a woman -of warm sympathies, and sudden likings, and after a few hours in -Margaret’s society she had quite yielded to her charm. She found it -pleasant to look at so pretty a creature, pleasant to meet her -interested look, her intelligent attention. There could not be a better -listener, or a more delightful disciple; she might not perhaps know a -great deal herself, but then she was so willing to adopt your views, or -at least to be enlightened by them. Lady Mary sat by, and looked at her -after the promenade round the conservatories, with all a woman’s -admiration for beauty of the kind which women love. This, as all the -world knows, is not every type; but Margaret’s drooping shadowy figure, -her pathetic eyes, her soft paleness, and gentle deferential manner, -were all of the kind that women admire. Lady Mary “fell in love” with -the stranger. They were all three seated in the conservatory in the warm -soft atmosphere, under the palm tree, and the evening was beginning to -fall. The great fire in the drawing-room shone out like a red star in -the distance, through all the drooping greenness of the plants, and they -began half to lose sight of each other, shadowed, as this favourite spot -was, by the great fan branches of the palm. - -“I think there never was such delightful luxury as this,” said Margaret, -softly. “Italy must be like it, or some of the warm islands in the sea.” - -“In the South Sea?” said Lady Mary, smiling, “perhaps; but both the -South Seas and Italy are homes of indolence, and I try all I can to keep -that at arm’s length. But I assure you Herr Hartstong was not so -poetical; he gave me several hints about the management of the heat. Do -come to-morrow and hear him, my dear Mrs. Smith. Botany is wonderfully -interesting. Many people think it a _dilettante_ young-lady-like -science; but I believe in the hands of a competent professor it is -something very different. Do let me interest you in my scheme. You know, -I am sure, and must feel, how little means of education there are--and -as little Sibby will soon be craving for instruction like my child--” - -“I suppose there is no good school for little girls here?” said -Margaret, timidly; her tact told her that schools for little girls were -not in question; but she did not know what else to say. - -“Oh!” said Lady Mary, with momentary annoyance; “for mere reading and -writing, yes, I believe there is one; but it is the higher instruction I -mean,” she added, recovering herself, “probably you have not had your -attention directed to it; and to be sure in Scotland the standard is so -much higher, and education so much more general.” - -Margaret had the good sense to make no reply. She had herself received a -solid education at the parish school of Loch Arroch, along with all the -ploughboys and milkmaids of the district, and had been trained into -English literature and the Shorter Catechism, in what was then -considered a very satisfactory way. No doubt she was so much better -instructed than her patroness that Lady Mary scarcely knew what the -Shorter Catechism was. But Margaret was not proud of this training, -though she was aware that the parochial system had long been a credit to -Scotland--and would much rather have been able to say that she was -educated at Miss So-and-So’s seminary for young ladies. As she could not -claim any such Alma Mater, she held her tongue, and listened devoutly, -and with every mark of interest while Lady Mary’s scheme was propounded -to her. Though, however, she was extremely attentive, she did not commit -herself by any promise, not knowing how far her Loch Arroch scholarship -would carry her in comparison with the young ladies of Harbour Green. -She consented only conditionally to become one of Lady Mary’s band of -disciples. - -“If I have time,” she said; and then Lady Mary, questioning, drew from -her a programme of her occupations, which included the housekeeping, -Sibby’s lessons, and constant attendance, when he wanted her, upon her -brother. “I drive with him,” said Margaret, “for he thinks it is good -for my health--and then there is always a good deal of sewing.” - -“But,” said Lady Mary, “that is bad political economy. You neglect your -mind for the sake of the sewing, when there are many poor creatures to -whom, so to speak, the sewing belongs, who have to make their livelihood -by working, and whom ladies’ amateur performances throw out of bread.” - -Thus the great lady discoursed the poor doctor’s sister, who but for him -would probably have been one of the said poor creatures; this, however, -it did not enter into Lady Mary’s mind to conceive. Margaret was -overawed by the grandeur of the thought. For the first moment, she could -not even laugh covertly within herself at the thought of her own useful -sewing being classified as a lady’s amateur performance. She was silent, -not venturing to say anything for herself, and Lady Mary resumed. - -“I really must have you among my students; think how much more use you -would be to Sibby, if you kept up, or even extended, your own -acquirements. Of course, I say all this with diffidence, because I know -that in Scotland education is so much more thought of, and is made so -much more important than it is with us.” - -“Oh, no!” cried Margaret. She could not but laugh now, thinking of the -Loch Arroch school. And after all, the Loch Arroch school is the point -in which Scotland excels England, or did excel her richer neighbour; and -the idea of poor Margaret being better educated than the daughter of an -English earl, moved even her tranquil spirit to laughter. “Oh, no; you -would not think that if you knew,” she said, controlling herself with an -effort. If it had not been for a prudent sense that it was best not to -commit herself, she would have been deeply tempted to have her laugh -out, and confide the joke to her companions. As it was, however, this -suppressed sense of ridicule was enough to make her uncomfortable. “I -will try to go,” she said gently, changing the immediate theme, “after -the trouble of the flitting is over, when we have got into our house.” - -Lady Mary fell into the snare. She began to ask about the house, and -whether they had brought furniture, or what they meant to do, and -entered into all the details with a frank kindness which went to -Margaret’s heart. During all this conversation, Harry Thornleigh kept -coming and going softly, gliding among the plants, restless, but happy. -He could not have her to himself any longer. He could not talk to her; -but yet she was there, and making her way into the heart of at least one -of his family. While these domestic subjects were discussed, and as the -evening gradually darkened, Harry said to himself that he had always -been very fond of his aunt, and that she was very nice and sympathetic, -and that to secure her for a friend would be wise in any case. It was -almost night before Dr. Murray made his appearance, and he was -confounded by the darkness of the place into which he was ushered, where -he could see nothing but shadows among the plants and against the pale -lightness of the glass roofs. I am not sure, for the moment, that he was -not half offended by being received in so unceremonious a way. He stood -stiffly, looking about him, till Lady Mary half rose from her seat. - -“Excuse me for having brought you here,” she said; “this is our -favourite spot, where none but my friends ever come.” - -Lady Mary felt persuaded that she saw, even in the dark, the puffing out -of the chest with which this friendly speech was received. - -“For such a pleasant reason one would excuse a much worse place,” he -said, with an attempt at ease, to the amusement of the great lady who -was condescending to him. Excuse his introduction to her conservatory! -He should never have it in his power to do so again. Dr. Charles then -turned to his sister, and said, “Margaret, we must be going. You and the -child have troubled her Ladyship long enough.” - -“I am delighted with Mrs. Smith’s society, and Sibby has been a godsend -to the children,” said Lady Mary. “Let us go into the drawing-room, -where there are lights, and where we can at least see each other. I like -the gloaming, your pretty Scotch word; but I daresay Dr. Murray thinks -us all rather foolish, sitting like crows in the dark.” - -She led the way in, taking Margaret’s arm, while Margaret, with a little -thrill of annoyance, tried through the imperfect light to throw a -warning look at her brother. Why did he speak so crossly, he who was -never really cross; and why should he say ladyship? Margaret knew no -better than he did, and yet instinct kept her from going wrong. - -Dr. Murray entered the drawing-room, looking at the lady who had -preceded him, to see what she thought of him, with furtive, suspicious -looks. He was very anxious to please Lady Mary, and still more anxious -to show himself an accomplished man of the world; but he could not so -much as enter a room without this subtle sense of inferiority betraying -itself. Harry, coming after him, thought the man a cad, and writhed at -the thought; but he was not at all a cad. He hesitated between the most -luxurious chair he could find, and the hardest, not feeling sure whether -it was best to show confidence or humility. When he did decide at last, -he looked round with what seemed a defiant look. “Who can say I have no -right to be here?” poor fellow, was written all over his face. - -“You have been making acquaintance with your patients? I hope there are -no severe cases,” said Lady Mary. - -“No, none at all, luckily for them--or I should not have long answered -for their lives,” he said, with an unsteady smile. - -“Ah! you do not like Dr. Franks’ mode of treatment? Neither do I. I have -disapproved of him most highly sometimes; and I assure you,” said Lady -Mary, in her most gracious tone, “I am so very glad to know that there -is now some one on the spot who may be trusted, whatever happens. With -one’s nursery full of children, that question becomes of the greatest -importance. Many an anxious moment I have had.” - -And then there was a pause. Dr. Murray was unbending, less afraid of how -people looked at him. - -“My cousin Mr. Earnshaw has not yet come back?” he said. - -“He is occupied with some business in town. I am only waiting, as I told -your sister, till he comes. As soon as he does so, I hope we may see -more of you here; but in the meantime, Mrs. Smith must come to me. I -hope I shall see a great deal of her; and you must spare her for my -lectures, Dr. Murray. You must not let her give herself up too much to -her housekeeping, and all her thrifty occupations.” - -“Margaret has no occasion to be overthrifty,” he said, looking at her. -“I have always begged her to go into society. We have not come to that, -that my sister should be a slave to her housekeeping. Margaret, -remember, I hope you will not neglect what her Ladyship says.” - -“After the flitting,” said Margaret, softly. - -“Ah, yes; after our removal. We shall then have a room more fit to -receive you in,” he said. “I hear on all hands that it is a very good -house.” - -At this moment some one came in to announce the carriage, which Lady -Mary had ordered to take her visitor home; and here there arose another -conflict in Dr. Murray’s mind. Which was best, most like what a man of -the world would do? to drive down with his sister or to walk? He was -tired, and the drive would certainly be the easier; but what if they -should think it odd? The doctor was saved from this dilemma by Harry, -who came unwittingly to the rescue, and proposed to walk down the avenue -with him. Harry had not fallen in love with him as with his sister; but -still he was at that stage when a man is anxious to conciliate everybody -belonging to the woman whom he loves. And then little Sibby was brought -down from the nursery, clasping closely a doll which had been presented -to her by the children in a body, with eyes blazing like two stars, and -red roses of excitement upon her little cheeks. Never in all her life -before had Sibby spent so happy a day. And when she and her mother had -been placed in the warm delicious carriage, is it wonderful that various -dreams floated into Margaret’s mind as she leant back in her corner, and -was whirled past those long lines of trees. Harry had been ready to give -her his arm downstairs, to put her into the carriage. He had whispered, -with a thrill in his voice: - -“May I bring those books to-morrow?” - -He had all but brushed her dress with his face, bowing over her in his -solicitude. Ah, how comfortable it would be, how delightful to have a -house like that, a carriage like this, admiring, soft-mannered people -about her all day long, and nothing to do but what she pleased to do! -Had she begun to cherish a wish that Harry’s fancy might not be a -temporary one, that he might persevere in it, and overcome opposition? -It would be hard to expect from Margaret such perfection of goodness as -never to allow such a train of thought to enter her mind; but at the -same time her practical virtue stood all assaults. She would never -encourage him; this she vowed over again, though with a sensation almost -of hope, and a wish unexpressed in her heart. - -For ah! what a difference there is between being poor and being -rich--between Lady Mary in the great house, and Margaret Murray, or -Smith, in Mrs. Sims’ lodging!--and if you went to the root of the -matter, the one woman was as good as the other, as well adapted to -“ornament her station,” as old-fashioned people used to say. I think, on -the whole, it was greatly to Margaret’s credit, seeing that so much was -at stake, that she never wavered in her determination to give Harry no -encouragement. But she meant to put no barrier definitively in his way, -no obstacle insuperable. She was willing enough to be the reward of his -exertions, should he be successful in the lists; and Lady Mary’s -kindness, nay, affectionateness towards her seemed to point to a -successful issue of the struggle, if Harry went into it with -perseverance and vigour. She could not help being a little excited by -the thought. - -Lady Mary, on her side, was charmed with her new friend. “The brother -may be a cad, as you say, but she is perfection,” she said incautiously -to Harry, when he came in with a glowing countenance from his walk. -“What good breeding, what grace, what charming graceful ways she has! -and yet always the simplicity of that pretty Scotch accent, and of the -words which slip out now and then. The children are all in raptures with -little Sibby. Fancy making a graceful name like Sybil into such a -hideous diminutive! But that is Scotch all over. They seem to take a -pleasure in keeping their real refinement in the background, and showing -a rough countenance to the world. They are all like that,” said Lady -Mary, who was fond of generalizations. - -Harry did not say much, but he drew a chair close to the fire, and sat -and mused over it with sparkling eyes, when his aunt went to dress for -dinner. He did not feel capable of coherent thought at all; he was lost -in a rapture of feeling which would not go into words. He felt that he -could sit there all night long not wishing to budge, to be still, not -even thinking, existing in the mere atmosphere of the wonderful day -which was now over. Would it come back again? would it prolong itself? -would his life grow into a lengthened sweet repetition of this day? He -sat there with his knees into the fire, gazing into the red depths till -his eyes grew red in sympathy, until the bell for dinner began to peal -through the silent winter air. Mr. Tottenham had come home, and was -visible at the door in evening costume, refreshed and warmed after his -drive, when Harry, half-blind, rushed out to make a hasty toilette. His -distracted looks made his host wonder. - -“I hope you are not letting that boy get into mischief,” he said to his -wife. - -“Mischief! what mischief could he get into here?” Lady Mary replied, -with a smile; and then they began to talk on very much more important -matters--on Herr Hartstong’s visit, and the preparations at the Shop, -which were now complete. - -“I expect you to show a good example, and to treat my people like -friends,” said Mr. Tottenham. - -“Oh, friends!--am not I the head shopwoman?” asked Lady Mary, laughing. -“You may be sure I intend to appear so.” - -The entertainment was to take place on the next evening, after the -botanical lecture at Harbour Green. It was, indeed, likely to be an -exciting day, with so much going on. - -And when the people at Tottenham’s went to dinner, the Murrays had tea, -for which they were all quite ready after the sharp evening air. “You -were wrong to speak about your housekeeping, and all that,” the doctor -said, in the mildest of accents, and with no appearance of suspicion, -for in the bosom of his family he feared no criticism. “Remember always, -Margaret, that people take you at your own estimate. It does not do to -let yourself down.” - -“And it does not do to set yourself up, beyond what you can support,” -said Margaret. “We are not rich folk, and we must not give ourselves -airs. And oh, Charles, one thing I wanted to say. If you wouldn’t say -ladyship--at least, not often. No one else seems to do it, except the -servants. Don’t be angry. I watch always to see what people say.” - -“I hope I know what to say as well as anyone,” said the doctor, with -momentary offence; but, nevertheless, he made a private note of it, -having confidence in his sister’s keen observation. Altogether, the -start at Harbour Green had been very successful, and it was not -wonderful if both Dr. Charles and his sister felt an inward exhilaration -in such a prosperous commencement of their new life. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -The Entertainment at the Shop. - - -The botanical lecture passed off very well indeed, and was productive of -real and permanent advantage to Harbour Green, by giving to Myra -Witherington a totally new study of character. She talked so completely -like Herr Hartstong for the rest of the day, that even her mother was -deceived, and would not enter the drawing-room till she had changed her -cap, in consideration of the totally new voice which she heard -proceeding from within. Strange to say, Harry Thornleigh, who last time -had been so contemptuous, had now thrown himself most cordially into -Lady Mary’s plans, so cordially that he made of himself a missionary to -gain new converts for her. - -“I will take those books you promised to Mrs. Smith, and try to persuade -her to come to the lecture. Is there anyone else I can look up for you, -Aunt Mary?” said this reformed character. - -“Do, Harry; go to the Red House, and to the Rectory, and tell them -half-past twelve precisely. We did not quite settle upon the hour,” said -Lady Mary. “And you might ask Sissy Witherington to send round to some -of the other people; she knows them all. You will meet us at the -schoolroom? So many thanks!” - -“I shall be there,” said Harry, cheerily, marching off with his books -under his arm. - -If Lady Mary had not been so busy, no doubt she would have asked herself -the cause of this wonderful conversion; but with a lecture to attend to -in the morning, and an entertainment at night, what time had she for -lesser matters? And she had to send some servants to Berkeley Square to -get the rooms ready, as the family were to dine and sleep there; -altogether she had a great deal upon her hands. Harry had his -difficulties, too, in getting safely out of the house without Phil, who, -abandoned by Edgar, and eluded by his cousin, was in a very restless -state of mind, and had determined this morning, of all others, not to be -left behind. Harry, however, inspired by the thoughts of Mrs. Smith, was -too clever for Phil, and shot down the avenue like an arrow, with his -books under his arm, happy in his legitimate and perfectly correct -errand, to which no one could object. He left his message with the -Witheringtons on his way, for he was too happy not to be virtuous, poor -fellow. It damped his ardour dreadfully to find that no plea he could -put forth would induce Margaret to go to the lecture. - -“I don’t take any interest in botany,” she said, “and I have no time for -it, to keep it up if I began.” - -“What of that,” said Harry; “do you think I take an interest in -botany?” - -“But you are a great florist, Mr. Thornleigh,” she said, demurely. It -was some time before he remembered his pretence about the flowers. - -“I shall bring you some specimens of my skill to-morrow,” he said, -laughing, with a flush of pleasure. At least, if she would not come -to-day, here was an excuse for making another day happy--and as a lover -lives upon the future, Harry was partially consoled for his -disappointment. I don’t think he got much good of the lecture; perhaps -no one got very much good. Ellen Gregory did not come, for botany was -not in her list of subjects for the pupil-teachers’ examination, and -Lady Mary did not take any notes, but only lent the students the -encouragement of her presence; for she could not, notwithstanding what -she had said, quite disabuse her own mind from the impression that this -was a young-lady-like science, and not one of those which train the mind -to thought. So that on the whole, as I have said, the chief result was -that Myra “got up” Herr Hartstong to the great delight of all the -light-minded population at Harbour Green, who found the professor much -more amusing in that audacious young mimic’s rendering than in his own -person. - -In the afternoon the whole party went to London. “Everybody is going,” -said little Molly, in huge excitement. “It is like the pantomime; and -Phil is to do the cheering. Shouldn’t you like to be him, Harry? It will -almost be as good as being on the stage oneself.” - -“Don’t talk of things you don’t understand,” said Phil, who was too -grand to be spoken to familiarly, and whose sense of responsibility was -almost too heavy for perfect happiness. “I sha’n’t cheer unless they -deserve it. But the rehearsal was awful fun,” he added, unbending. -“You’ll say you never saw anything better, if they do half as well -to-night.” - -Tottenham’s was gorgeous to behold when the guests began to arrive. The -huge central hall, with galleries all round it, and handsome carpeted -stairs leading on every hand up to the galleries, was the scene of the -festivity. On ordinary occasions the architectural splendour of this -hall was lost, in consequence of the crowd of tables, and goods, and -customers which filled it. It had been cleared, however, for the -entertainment. Rich shawls in every tint of softened colour were hung -about, coloured stuffs draped the galleries, rich carpets covered the -floors; no palace could have been more lavish in its decorations, and -few palaces could have employed so liberally those rich Oriental fabrics -which transcend all others in combinations of colour. Upstairs, in the -galleries, were the humbler servants of the establishment, porters, -errand boys, and their relatives; down below were “the young ladies” and -“the gentlemen” of Tottenham’s occupying the seats behind their patrons -in clouds of white muslin and bright ribbons. - -“Very nice-looking people, indeed,” the Duchess of Middlemarch said, as -she came in on Mr. Tottenham’s arm, putting up her eyeglass. Many of the -young ladies curtseyed to Her Grace in sign of personal acquaintance, -for she was a constant patroness of Tottenham’s. “I hope you haven’t -asked any of my sons,” said the great lady, looking round her with -momentary nervousness. - -Mr. Tottenham himself was as pleased as if he had been exhibiting “a -bold tenantry their country’s pride” to his friends. “They _are_ -nice-looking, though I say it as shouldn’t,” he said, “and many of them -as good as they look.” He was so excited that he began to give the -Duchess an account of their benefit societies, and saving banks, and -charities, to which Her Grace replied with many benevolent signs of -interest, though I am afraid she did not care any more about them than -Miss Annetta Baker did about the lecture. She surveyed the company, as -they arrived, through her double eyeglass, and watched “poor little Mary -Horton that was, she who married the shopkeeper,” receiving her guests, -with her pretty children at her side. It was very odd altogether, but -then, the Hortons were always odd, she said to herself--and graciously -bowed her head as Mr. Tottenham paused, and said, “How very admirable!” -with every appearance of interest. - -A great many other members of the aristocracy shared Her Grace’s -feelings, and many of them were delighted by the novelty, and all of -them gazed at the young ladies and gentlemen of the establishment as if -they were animals of some unknown description. I don’t think the -gentlemen and the young ladies were at all offended. They gazed too with -a kindred feeling, and made notes of the dresses, and watched the -manners and habits of “the swells” with equal curiosity and admiration. -The young ladies in the linen and in the cloak and mantle department -were naturally more excited about the appearance of the fine ladies from -a book-of-fashion point of view than were the dressmakers and milliners, -who sat, as it were, on the permanent committee of the “Mode,” and knew -“what was to be worn.” But even they were excited to find themselves in -the same room with so many dresses from Paris, with robes which Wörth -had once tried on, and ribbons which Elise had touched. I fear all these -influences were rather adverse to the due enjoyment of the trial scene -from Pickwick, with Miss Robinson in the part of Serjeant Buzfuz. The -fine people shrugged their shoulders, and lifted their eyebrows at each -other, and cheered ironically now and then with twitters of laughter; -and the small people were too intent upon the study of their betters to -do justice to the performance. Phil, indeed, shrieked with laughter, -knowing all the points, with the exactitude of a showman, and led his -_claque_ vigorously; but I think, on the whole, the _employés_ of -Tottenham’s would have enjoyed this part of the entertainment more had -their attention been undisturbed. After the first part of the -performances was over, there was an interval for “social enjoyment;” and -it was now that the gorgeous footmen appeared with the ices, about whom -Mr. Tottenham had informed his children. Lady Mary, perhaps, required a -little prompting from her husband before she withdrew herself from the -knot of friends who had collected round her, and addressed herself -instead to the young ladies of the shop. - -“Must we go and talk to them, Mr. Tottenham? Will they like it? or shall -we only bore them?” asked the fine ladies. - -The Duchess of Middlemarch was, as became her rank, the first to set -them the example. She went up with her double eyeglass in her hand to a -group of the natives who were standing timorously together--two young -ladies and a gentleman. - -“It has been very nice, has it not,” said Her Grace; “_quite_ clever. -Will you get me an ice, please? and tell me who was the young woman--the -young lady who acted so well? I wonder if I have seen her when I have -been here before.” - -“Yes, Your Grace,” said one of the young ladies. “She is in the fancy -department, Miss Robinson. Her father is at the head of the cloaks and -mantles, Your Grace.” - -“She did very nicely,” said the Duchess, condescendingly, taking the ice -from the young man whom she had so honoured. “Thanks, this will do very -well, I don’t want to sit down. It is very kind of Mr. Tottenham, I am -sure, to provide this entertainment for you. Do you all live here -now?--and how many people may there be in the establishment? He told me, -but I forget.” - -It was the gentleman who supplied the statistics, while the Duchess put -up her eyeglass, and once more surveyed the assembly. “You must make up -quite a charming society,” she said; “like a party in a country-house. -And you have nice sitting-rooms for the evening, and little musical -parties, eh? as so many can sing, I perceive; and little dances, -perhaps?” - -“Oh no, Your Grace,” said one of the young ladies, mournfully. “We have -practisings sometimes, when anything is coming off.” - -“And we have an excellent library, Your Grace,” said the gentleman, “and -all the new books. There is a piano in the ladies’ sitting-room, and we -gentlemen have chess and so forth, and everything extremely nice.” - -“And a great deal of gossip, I suppose,” said Her Grace; “and I hope you -have _chaperons_ to see that there is not too much flirting.” - -“Oh, flirting!” said all three, in a chorus. “There is a sitting-room -for the ladies, and another for the gentlemen,” the male member of the -party said, somewhat primly, for he was one of the class of -superintendents, vulgarly called shopwalkers, and he knew his place. - -“Oh--h!” said the Duchess, putting down her eyeglass; “then it must be a -great deal less amusing than I thought!” - -“It was quite necessary, I assure you, Your Grace,” said the gentleman; -and the two young ladies who had been tittering behind their fans, gave -him each a private glance of hatred. They composed their faces, however, -as Mr. Tottenham came up, called by the Duchess from another group. - -“You want me, Duchess?” how fine all Tottenham’s who were within -hearing, felt at this--especially the privileged trio, to whom she had -been talking, “Duchess!” that sublime familiarity elevated them all in -the social scale. - -“Nothing is perfect in this world,” said Her Grace, with a sigh. “I -thought I had found Utopia; but even your establishment is not all it -might be. Why aren’t they all allowed to meet, and sing, and flirt, and -bore each other every evening, as people do in a country house?” - -“Come, Duchess, and look at my shawls,” said Mr. Tottenham, with a -twinkle out of his grey eyes. Her Grace accepted the bait, and sailed -away, leaving the young ladies in a great flutter. A whole knot of them -collected together to hear what had happened, and whisper over it in -high excitement. - -“I quite agree with the Duchess,” said Miss Lockwood, loud enough to be -heard among the fashionables, as she sat apart and fanned herself, like -any fine lady. Her handsome face was almost as pale as ivory, her cheeks -hollow. Charitable persons said, in the house, that she was in a -consumption, and that it was cruel to stop her duet with Mr. Watson, and -to inquire into her past life, when, poor soul, it was clear to see that -she would soon be beyond the reach of all inquiries. It was the -Robinsons who had insisted upon it chiefly--Mr. Robinson, who was at the -head of the department, and who had daughters of his own, about whom he -was very particular. His youngest was under Miss Lockwood, in the shawls -and mantles, and that was why he was so inexorable pursuing the matter; -though why he should make objections to Miss Lockwood’s propriety, and -yet allow Jemima to act in public, as she had just done, was more than -the shop could make out. Miss Lockwood sat by herself, having thus been -breathed upon by suspicion; but no one in the place was more -conspicuous. She had an opera cloak of red, braided with gold, which the -young ladies knew to be quite a valuable article, and her glossy dark -hair was beautifully dressed, and her great paleness called attention to -her beauty. She kept her seat, not moving when the others did, calling -to her anyone she wanted, and indeed, generally taking upon herself the -_rôle_ of fine lady. And partly from sympathy for her illness, partly -from disapproval of what was called the other side, the young ladies and -gentlemen of Tottenham’s stood by her. When she said, “I agree with the -Duchess,” everybody looked round to see who it was that spoke. - -When the pause for refreshments was over, Mr. Tottenham led Her Grace -back to her place, and the entertainment recommenced. The second part -was simply music. Mr. Watson gave his solo on the cornet, and another -gentleman of the establishment accompanied one of the young ladies on -the violin, and then they sang a number of part songs, which was the -best part of the programme. The excitement being partially over, the -music was much better attended to than the Trial Scene from Pickwick; -and all the fine people, used to hear Joachim play, or Patti sing, -listened with much gracious restraint of their feelings. It had been -intended at first that the guests and the _employés_ should sup -together, Mr. Robinson offering his arm to Lady Mary, and so on. But at -the last moment this arrangement had been altered, and the visitors had -wine and cake, and sandwiches and jellies in one room, while the -establishment sat down to a splendid table in another, and ate and -drank, and made speeches and gave toasts to their hearts’ content, -undisturbed by any inspection. What a place it was! The customers went -all over it, conducted by Mr. Tottenham and his assistants through the -endless warehouses, and through the domestic portion of the huge house, -while the young ladies and gentlemen of Tottenham’s were at supper. The -visitors went to the library, and to the sitting-rooms, and even to the -room which was used as a chapel, and which was full of rough wooden -chairs, like those in a French country church, and decorated with -flowers. This curious adjunct to the shop stood open, with faint lights -burning, and the spring flowers shedding faint odours. - -“I did not know you had been so High Church, Mr. Tottenham,” said the -Duchess. “I was not prepared for this.” - -“Oh, this is Saint Gussy’s chapel,” cried Phil, who was too much excited -to be kept silent. “We all call it Saint Gussy’s. There is service every -day, and it is she who puts up the flowers. Ah, ah!” - -Phil stopped suddenly, persuaded thereto by a pressure on the arm, and -saw Edgar standing by him in the crowd. There were so many, and they -were all crowding so close upon each other, that his exclamation was -not noticed. Edgar had been conjoining to the other business which -detained him in town a great deal of work about the entertainment, and -he had appeared with the other guests in the evening, but had been met -by Lady Augusta with such a face of terror, and hurried anxious -greeting, that he had withdrawn himself from the assembly, feeling his -own heart beat rather thick and fast at the thought, perhaps, of meeting -Gussy without warning in the midst of this crowd. He had kept himself in -the background all the evening, and now he stopped Phil, to send a -message to his father. - -“Say that he will find me in his room when he wants me; and don’t use a -lady’s name so freely, or tell family jokes out of the family,” he said -to the boy, who was ashamed of himself. Edgar’s mind was full of new -anxieties of which the reader shall hear presently. The Entertainment -was a weariness to him, and everything connected with it. He turned away -when he had given the message, glad to escape from the riot--the groups -trooping up and down the passages, and examining the rooms as if they -were a settlement of savages--the Duchess sweeping on in advance on Mr. -Tottenham’s arm, with her double eye-glass held up. He turned away -through an unfrequented passage, dimly lighted and silent, where there -was nothing to see, and where nobody came. In the distance the joyful -clatter of the supper-table, where all the young ladies and gentlemen of -the establishment were enjoying themselves came to his ears on one -side--while the soft laughter and hum of voices on the other, told of -the better bred crowd who were finding their way again round other -staircases and corridors to the central hall. It is impossible, I -suppose, to hear the sounds of festive enjoyment with which one has -nothing to do, and from which one has withdrawn thus sounding from the -distance without some symptoms of a gentle misanthropy, and that sense -of superiority to common pursuits and enjoyments which affords -compensation to those who are left out in the cold, whether in great -things or small things. Edgar’s heart was heavy, and he felt it more -heavy in consequence of the merry-making. Among all these people, so -many of whom he had known, was there one that retained any kind thought -of him--one that would not, like Lady Augusta, the kindest of them all, -have felt a certain fright at his re-appearance, as of one come from the -dead? Alas, he ought to have remained dead, when socially he was so. -Edgar felt, at least, his resurrection ought not to have been here. - -With this thought in his mind, he turned a dim corner of the white -passage, where a naked gaslight burned dimly. He was close to Mr. -Tottenham’s room, where he meant to remain until he was wanted. With a -start of surprise, he saw that some one else was in the passage coming -the other way, one of the ladies apparently of the fashionable party. -The passage was narrow, and Edgar stood aside to let her pass. She was -wrapped in a great white cloak, the hood half over her head, and came -forward rapidly, but uncertain, as if she had lost herself. Just before -they met, she stopped short, and uttered a low cry. - -Had not his heart told him who it was? Edgar stood stock still, scarcely -breathing, gazing at her. He had wondered how this meeting would come -about, for come it must, he knew--and whether he would be calm and she -calm, as if they had met yesterday? Yet when the real emergency arrived -he was quite unprepared for it. He did not seem able to move, but gazed -at her as if all his heart had gone into his eyes, incapable of more -than the mere politeness of standing by to let her pass, which he had -meant to do when he thought her a stranger. The difficulty was all -thrown upon her. She too had made a pause. She looked up at him with a -tremulous smile and a quivering lip. She put out her hands half timidly, -half eagerly; her colour changed from red to pale, and from pale to red. -“Have you forgotten me, then?” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -Miss Lockwood’s Story. - - -I am obliged to go back a few days, that the reader may be made aware of -the causes which detained Edgar, and of the business which had occupied -his mind, mingled with all the frivolities of the Entertainment, during -his absence. Annoyance, just alloyed with a forlorn kind of amusement, -was his strongest sentiment, when he found himself appointed by his -patron to be a kind of father-confessor to Miss Lockwood, to ascertain -her story, and take upon himself her defence, if defence was possible. -Why should he be selected for such a delicate office? he asked; and when -he found himself seated opposite to the young lady from the cloak and -shawl department in Mr. Tottenham’s room, his sense of the incongruity -of his position became more and more embarrassing. Miss Lockwood’s face -was not of a common kind. The features were all fine, even refined, had -the mind been conformable; but as the mind was not of a high order, the -fine face took an air of impertinence, of self-opinion, and utter -indifference to the ideas or feelings of others, which no coarse -features could have expressed so well; the elevation of her head was a -toss, the curl of her short upper lip a sneer. She placed herself on a -chair in front of Mr. Tottenham’s writing-table, at which Edgar sat, and -turned her profile towards him, and tucked up her feet on a foot-stool. -She had a book in her hand, which she used sometimes as a fan, sometimes -to shield her face from the fire, or Edgar’s eyes, when she found them -embarrassing. But it was he who was embarrassed, not Miss Lockwood. It -cost him a good deal of trouble to begin his interrogatory. - -“You must remember,” he said, “that I have not thrust myself into this -business, but that it is by your own desire--though I am entirely at a -loss to know why.” - -“Of course you are,” said Miss Lockwood. “It is one of the things that -no man can be expected to understand--till he knows. It’s because we’ve -got an object in common, sir, you and me----” - -“An object in common?” - -“Yes; perhaps you’re a better Christian than I am, or perhaps you -pretend to be; but knowing what you’ve been, and how you’ve fallen to -what you are, I don’t think it’s in human nature that you shouldn’t feel -the same as me.” - -“What I’ve been, and how I’ve fallen to what I am!” said Edgar, smiling -at the expression with whimsical amazement and vexation. “What is the -object in life which you suppose me to share?” - -“To spite the Ardens!” cried the young lady from the mantle department, -with sudden vigour and animation. Her eyes flashed, she clasped her -hands together, and laughed and coughed--the laughter hard and -mirthless, the cough harder still, and painful to hear. “Don’t you -remember what I said to you? All my trouble, all that has ever gone -against me in the world, and the base stories they’re telling you -now--all came along of the Ardens; and now Providence has thrown you in -my way, that has as much reason to hate them. I can’t set myself right -without setting them wrong--and revenge is sweet. Arthur Arden shall rue -the day he ever set eyes on you or me!” - -“Wait a little,” said Edgar, bewildered. “In the first place, I don’t -hate the Ardens, and I don’t want to injure them, and I hope, when we -talk it over, you may change your mind. What has Arthur Arden done to -you?” - -“That’s my story,” said Miss Lockwood, and then she made a short pause. -“Do you know the things that are said about me?” she asked. “They say in -the house that I have had a baby. That’s quite true. I would not deny it -when I was asked; I didn’t choose to tell a lie. They believed me fast -enough when what I said was to my own disadvantage; but when I told the -truth in another way, because it was to my advantage, they say--Prove -it. I can’t prove it without ruining other folks, or I’d have done it -before now; but I was happy enough as I was, and I didn’t care to ruin -others. Now, however, they’ve forced me to it, and thrown you in my -way.” - -“For heaven’s sake,” cried Edgar, “don’t mix me up with your scheme of -vengeance! What have I to do with it?” He was alarmed by the calm white -vehemence with which she spoke. - -“Oh! not much with my part of the business,” she said lightly. “This is -how it is: I’m married--excuse enough any day for what I’m charged with; -but they won’t take my word, and I have to prove it. When I tell them -I’m only a widow in a kind of a way, they say to me, ‘Produce your -husband,’ and this is what I’ve got to do. Nearly ten years ago, Mr. -Earnshaw, if that is your name--are you listening to me?--I married -Arthur Arden; or, rather, Arthur Arden married me.” - -“Good God!” cried Edgar; he did not at first seem to take in the meaning -of the words, but only felt vaguely that he had received a blow. “You -are mad!” he said, after a pause, looking at her--“you are mad!” - -“Not a bit; I am saner than you are, for I never would have given up a -fortune to him. I am the first Mrs. Arthur Arden, whoever the second may -be. He married me twice over, to make it more sure.” - -“Good God!” cried Edgar again; his countenance had grown whiter than -hers; all power of movement seemed to be taken out of him. “Prove this -horrible thing that you say--prove it! He never could be such a -villain!” - -“Oh, couldn’t he?--much you know about him! He could do worse things -than that, if worse is possible. You shall prove it yourself without me -stirring a foot. Listen, and I will tell you just how it was. When he -saw he couldn’t have me in any other way, he offered marriage; I was -young then, and so was he, and I was excusable--I have always felt I -was excusable; for a handsomer man, or one with more taking ways--You -know him, that’s enough. Well, not to make any more fuss than was -necessary, I proposed the registrar; but, if you please, he was a deal -too religious for that. ‘Let’s have some sort of parson,’ he said, -‘though he mayn’t be much to look at.’ We were married in the Methodist -chapel up on the way to Highgate. I’ll tell you all about it--I’ll give -you the name of the street and the date. It’s up Camden Town way, not -far from the Highgate Road. Father and mother used to attend chapel -there.” - -“You were married--to Arthur Arden!” said Edgar; all the details were -lost upon him, for he had not yet grasped the fact--“married to Arthur -Arden! Is this what you mean to say?” - -“Yes, yes, yes!” cried Miss Lockwood, in high impatience, waving the -book which she used as a fan--“that is what I meant to say; and there’s -a deal more. You seem to be a slow sort of gentleman. I’ll stop, shall -I, till you’ve got it well into your head?” she said, with a laugh. - -The laugh, the mocking look, the devilish calm of the woman who was -expounding so calmly something which must bring ruin and despair upon a -family, and take name and fame from another woman, struck Edgar with -hot, mad anger. - -“For God’s sake, hold your tongue!” he cried, not knowing what he -said--“you will drive me mad!” - -“I’m sure I don’t see why,” said Miss Lockwood--“why should it?--it -ain’t anything to you. And to hold my tongue is the last thing I mean -to do. You know what I said; I’ll go over it again to make quite sure.” - -Then, with a light laugh, she repeated word for word what she had -already said, throwing in descriptive touches about the Methodist chapel -and its pews. - -“Father and mother had the third from the pulpit on the right-hand side. -I don’t call myself a Methodist now; it stands in your way sometimes, -and the Church is always respectable; but I ought to like the -Methodists, for it was there it happened. You had better take down the -address and the day. I can tell you all the particulars.” - -Edgar did not know much about the law, but he had heard, at least, of -one ordinary formula. - -“Have you got your marriage certificate?” he said. - -“Oh! they don’t have such things among the Methodists,” said Miss -Lockwood. “Now I’ll tell you about the second time--for it was done -twice over, to make sure. You remember all that was in the papers about -that couple who were first married in Ireland, and then in Scotland, and -turned out not to be married at all? We went off to Scotland, him and -me, for our wedding tour, and I thought I’d just make certain sure, in -case there should be anything irregular, you know. So when we were at -the hotel, I got the landlady in, and one of the men, and I said he was -my husband before them, and made them put their names to it. He was -dreadfully angry--so angry that I knew I had been right, and had seen -through him all the while, and that he meant to deceive me if he could; -but he couldn’t deny it all of a sudden, in a moment, with the certainty -that he would be turned out of the house then and there if he did. I’ve -got that, if you like to call that a marriage certificate. They tell me -it’s hard and fast in Scotch law.” - -“But we are in England,” said Edgar, feebly. “I don’t think Scotch law -tells here.” - -“Oh! it does, about a thing like this,” said Miss Lockwood. “If I’m -married in Scotland, I can’t be single in England, and marry again, can -I? Now that’s my story. If his new wife hadn’t have been so proud----” - -“She is not proud,” said Edgar, with a groan; “it is--her manner--she -does not mean it. And then she has been so petted and flattered all her -life. Poor girl! she has done nothing to you that you should feel so -unfriendly towards her.” - -“Oh! hasn’t she?” said Miss Lockwood. “Only taken my place, that’s all. -Lived in my house, and driven in my carriage, and had everything I ought -to have had--no more than that!” - -Edgar was like a man stupefied. He stood holding his head with his -hands, feeling that everything swam around him. Miss Lockwood’s -defender?--ah! no, but the defender of another, whose more than life was -assailed. This desperation at last made things clearer before him, and -taught him to counterfeit calm. - -“It could not be she who drove you from him,” he said, with all the -composure he could collect. “Tell me how it came about that you are -called Miss Lockwood, and have been here so long, if all you have told -me is true?” - -“I won’t say that it was not partly my fault,” she replied, with a -complacent nod of her head. “After awhile we didn’t get on--I was -suspicious of him from the first, as I’ve told you; I know he never -meant honest and right; and he didn’t like being found out. Nobody as I -know of does. We got to be sick of each other after awhile. He was as -poor as Job; and he has the devil’s own temper. If you think I was a -patient Grizel to stand that, you’re very much mistaken. Ill-usage and -slavery, and nothing to live upon! I soon showed him as that wouldn’t do -for me. The baby died,” she added indifferently--“poor little thing, it -was a blessing that the Almighty took it! I fretted at first, but I felt -it was a deal better off than it could ever have been with me; and then -I took another situation. I had been in Grant and Robinson’s before I -married, so as I didn’t want to make a show of myself with them that -knew me, I took back my single name again. They are rather low folks -there, and I didn’t stay long; and I found I liked my liberty a deal -better than studying his temper, and being left to starve, as I was with -him; so I kept on, now here, now there, till I came to Tottenham’s. And -here I’ve never had nothing to complain of,” said Miss Lockwood, “till -some of these prying women found out about the baby. I made up my mind -to say nothing about who I was, seeing circumstances ain’t favourable. -But I sha’n’t deny it; why should I deny it? it ain’t for my profit to -deny it. Other folks may take harm, but I can’t; and when I saw you, -then I felt that the right moment had come, and that I must speak.” - -“Why did not you speak before he was married?--had you no feeling that, -if you were safe, another woman was about to be ruined?” said Edgar, -bitterly. “Why did you not speak then?” - -“Am I bound to take care of other women?” said Miss Lockwood. “I had -nobody to take care of me; and I took care of myself--why couldn’t she -do the same? She was a lady, and had plenty of friends--I had nobody to -take care of me.” - -“But it would have been to your own advantage,” said Edgar. “How do you -suppose anyone can believe that you neglected to declare yourself Arthur -Arden’s wife at the time when it would have been such a great thing for -you, and when he was coming into a good estate, and could make his wife -a lady of importance? You are not indifferent to your own comfort--why -did you not speak then?” - -“I pleased myself, I suppose,” she said, tossing her head; then added, -with matter-of-fact composure, “Besides, I was sick of him. He was never -the least amusing, and the most fault-finding, ill-tempered--One’s -spelling, and one’s looks, and one’s manners, and one’s dress--he was -never satisfied. Then,” she went on, sinking her voice--“I don’t deny -the truth--I knew he’d never take me home and let people know I was his -real wife. All I could have got out of him would have been an allowance, -to live in some hole and corner. I preferred my freedom to that, and -the power of getting a little amusement. I don’t mind work, bless -you--not work of this kind--it amuses me; and if I had been left in -peace here when I was comfortable, I shouldn’t have interfered--I should -have let things take their chance.” - -“In all this,” said Edgar, feeling his throat dry and his utterance -difficult, “you consider only yourself, no one else.” - -“Who else should I consider?” said Miss Lockwood. “I should like to know -who else considered me? Not a soul. I had to take care of myself, and I -did. Why should not his other wife have her wits about her as well as -me?” - -Then there was a pause. Edgar was too much broken down by this -disclosure, too miserable to speak; and she sat holding up the book -between her face and the fire, with a flush upon her pale cheeks, -sometimes fanning herself, her nose in the air, her finely-cut profile -inspired by impertinence and worldly selfishness, till it looked ugly to -the disquieted gazer. Few women could have been so handsome, and yet -looked so unhandsome. As he looked at her, sickening with the sight, -Edgar felt bitterly that this woman was indeed Arthur Arden’s true -mate--they matched each other well. But Clare, his sister--Clare, whom -there had been no one to guard--who, rich in friends as she was, had no -brother, no guardian to watch over her interests--poor Clare! The only -thing he seemed able to do for her now was to prove her shame, and -extricate her, if he could extricate her, from the terrible falseness -of her position. His heart ached so that it gave him a physical pain. He -had kept up no correspondence with her whom he had looked upon during -all the earlier part of his life as his sister, and whom he felt in his -very heart to be doubly his sister the moment that evil came in her way. -The thing for him to consider now was what he could do for her, to save -her, if possible--though how she could be saved, he knew not, as the -story was so circumstantial, and apparently true. But, at all events, it -could not but be well for Clare that her enemy’s cause was in her -brother’s hands. Good for Clare!--would it be good for the other woman, -to whom he had promised to do justice? Edgar almost felt his heart stand -still as he asked himself this question. Justice--justice must be done, -in any case, there could be no doubt of that. If Clare’s position was -untenable, she must not be allowed to go on in ignorance, for misery -even is better than dishonour. This was some comfort to him in his -profound and sudden wretchedness. Clare’s cause, and that of this other, -were so far the same. - -“I will undertake your commission,” he said gravely; “but understand me -first. Instead of hating the Ardens, I would give my life to preserve my -sister, Mrs. Arden, from the shame and grief you are trying to bring -upon her. Of course, one way or another, I shall feel it my duty now to -verify what you say; but it is right to tell you that her interest is -the first thing I shall consider, not yours.” - -“_Her_ interest!” cried Miss Lockwood, starting up in her chair. “Oh! -you poor, mean-spirited creature! Call yourself a man, and let yourself -be treated like a dog--that’s your nature, is it? I suppose they’ve made -you a pension, or something, to keep you crawling and toadying. I -shouldn’t wonder,” she said, stopping suddenly, “if you were to offer me -a good round sum to compromise the business, or an allowance for -life--?” - -“I shall do nothing of the kind,” said Edgar, quietly. She stared at him -for a moment, panting--and then, in the effort to speak, was seized upon -by a violent fit of coughing, which shook her fragile figure, and -convulsed her suddenly-crimsoned face. “Can I get you anything?” he -asked, rising with an impulse of pity. She shook her head, and waved to -him with her hand to sit down again. Does the reader remember how -Christian in the story had vile thoughts whispered into his ear, thrown -into his mind, which were none of his? Profoundest and truest of -parables! Into Edgar’s mind, thrown there by some devil, came a wish and -a hope; he did not originate them, but he had to undergo them, writhing -within himself with shame and horror. He wished that she might die, that -Clare might thus be saved from exposure, at least from outward ruin, -from the stigma upon herself and upon her children, which nothing else -could avert. The wish ran through him while he sat helpless, trying with -all the struggling powers of his mind to reject it. Few of us, I -suspect, have escaped a similar experience. It was not his doing, but -he had to bear the consciousness of this inhuman thought. - -When Miss Lockwood had struggled back to the power of articulation, she -turned to him again, with an echo of her jaunty laugh. - -“They say I’m in a consumption,” she said; “don’t you believe it. I’ll -see you all out, mind if I don’t. We’re a long-lived family. None of us -ever were known to have anything the matter with our chests.” - -“Have you spoken to a doctor?” said Edgar, with so deep a remorseful -compunction that it made his tone almost tender in kindness. - -“Oh! the doctor--he speaks to me!” she said. “I tell the young ladies -he’s fallen in love with me. Oh! that ain’t so unlikely neither! Men as -good have done it before now; but I wouldn’t have anything to say to -him,” she continued, with her usual laugh. “I don’t make any brag of it, -but I never forget as I’m a married woman. I don’t mind a little -flirtation, just for amusement; but no man has ever had it in his power -to brag that he’s gone further with me.” - -Then there was a pause, for disquiet began to resume its place in -Edgar’s mind, and the poor creature before him had need of rest to -regain her breath. She opened the book she held in her hand, and pushed -to him across the table some written memoranda. - -“There’s where my chapel is as I was married in,” she said, “and -there’s--it’s nothing but a copy, so, if you destroy it, it won’t do me -any harm--the Scotch certificate. They were young folks that signed it, -no older than myself, so be sure you’ll find them, if you want to. -There, I’ve given you all that’s needed to prove what I say, and if you -don’t clear me, I’ll tell the Master, that’s all, and he’ll do it, fast -enough! Your fine Mrs. Arden, forsooth, that has no more right to be -Mrs. Arden than you had to be Squire, won’t get off, don’t you think it, -for now my blood’s up. I know what Arthur will do,” she cried, getting -excited again. “He’s a man of sense, and a man of the world, he is. -He’ll come to me on his knees, and offer a good big lump of money, or a -nice allowance. Oh! I know him! He ain’t a poor, mean-spirited cur, to -lick the hand that cuffs him, or to go against his own interest, like -you.” - -Here another fit of coughing came on, worse than the first. Edgar, -compassionate, took up the paper, and left the room. - -“I am afraid Miss Lockwood is ill. Will you send some one to her?” he -said, to the first young lady he met. - -“Hasn’t she a dreadful cough? And she won’t do anything for it, or take -any care of herself. I’ll send one of the young ladies from her own -department,” said this fine personage, rustling along in her black silk -robes. Mr. Watson was hovering near, to claim Edgar’s attention, about -some of the arrangements for the approaching festivity. - -“Mr. Tottenham bade me say, sir, if you’d kindly step this way, into the -hall,” said the walking gentleman. - -Poor Edgar! if he breathed a passing anathema upon enlightened schemes -and disciples of social progress, I do not think that anyone need be -surprised. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -A Plunge into the Maze. - - -“Her plea is simply that she is married--that seems all there is to -say.” - -“I am aware she says that,” said Mr. Tottenham. “I hope to heaven she -can prove it, Earnshaw, and end this tempest in a tea-cup! I am sick of -the whole affair! Has her husband deserted her, or is he dead, or what -has become of him? I hope she gave you some proofs.” - -“I must make inquiries before I can answer,” said Edgar. “By some -miserable chance friends of my own are involved. I must get at the -bottom of it. Her husband--if he is her husband--has married again; in -his own rank--a lady in whom I am deeply interested----” - -“My dear fellow!” said Mr. Tottenham, “what a business for you! Did the -woman know, confound her? There, I don’t often speak rashly, but some of -these women, upon my honour, would try the patience of a saint! I -daresay it’s all a lie. That sort of person cares no more for a lie! -I’ll pack her off out of the establishment, and we’ll think of it no -more.” - -“Pardon me, I must think of it, and follow it out,” said Edgar; “it is -too serious to be neglected. Altogether independent of this woman, a -lady’s--my friend’s happiness, her reputation, perhaps her life--for how -could she outlive name and fame, and love and confidence?” he said, -suddenly feeling himself overcome by the horrible suggestion. “It looks -like preferring my own business to yours, but I must see to this first.” - -“Go, go, my dear Earnshaw--never mind my business--have some money and -go!” cried Mr. Tottenham. “I can’t tell you how grieved I am to have -brought you into this. Poor lady! poor lady!--I won’t ask who it is. But -recollect they lie like the devil!--they don’t mind what they say, like -you or me, who understand the consequences; they think of nothing beyond -the spite of the moment. I am in for three quarrels, and a resignation, -all because I want to please them!” cried the poor master of the great -shop, dolorously. He accompanied Edgar out to the private door, -continuing his plaint. “A nothing will do it,” he said; “and they don’t -care for what happens, so long as they indulge the temper of the moment. -To lose their employment, or their friends, or the esteem of those who -would try to help them in everything--all this is nought. I declare I -could almost cry like a baby when I think of it! Don’t be cast down, -Earnshaw. More likely than not it’s all a lie!” - -“If I cannot get back this evening in time for you--” Edgar began. - -“Never mind, never mind. Go to the Square. I’ll tell them to have a room -ready for you. And take some money--nothing is to be done without -money. And, Earnshaw,” lie added, calling after him some minutes later, -when Edgar was at the door, “on second thoughts, you won’t say anything -to Mary about my little troubles? After all, the best of us have got our -tempers; perhaps I am injudicious, and expect too much. She has always -had her doubts about my mode of treatment. Don’t, there’s a good fellow, -betray to them at home that I lost my temper too!” - -This little preliminary to the Entertainment was locked in Edgar’s -bosom, and never betrayed to anyone. To tell the truth, his mind was -much too full of more important matters to think upon any such -inconsiderable circumstance; for he was not the Apostle of the Shop, and -had no scheme to justify and uphold in the eyes of all men and women. -Edgar, I fear, was not of the stuff of which social reformers are made. -The concerns of the individual were more important to him at all times -than those of the mass; and one human shadow crossing his way, -interested his heart and mind far beyond a mere crowd, though the crowd, -no doubt, as being multitudinous, must have been more important. Edgar -turned his back upon the establishment with, I fear, very little -Christian feeling towards Tottenham’s, and all concerned with it--hating -the Entertainment, weary of Mr. Tottenham himself, and disgusted with -the strange impersonation of cruelty and selfishness which had just been -revealed to him in the form of a woman. He could not shut out from his -eyes that thin white face, so full of self, so destitute of any generous -feeling. - -Such stories have been told before in almost every tone of sympathy and -reprobation; women betrayed have been wept in every language under -heaven, and their betrayer denounced, but what was there to lament -about, to denounce here? A woman sharp and clever to make the best of -her bargain; a man trying legal cheats upon her; two people drawn -together by some semblance of what is called passion, yet each watching -and scheming, how best, on either side, to outwit the other. Never was -tale of misery and despair so pitiful; for this was all baseness, -meanness, calculation on both hands. They were fitly matched, and it was -little worth any man’s while to interfere between them--but, O heaven! -to think of the other fate involved in theirs. This roused Edgar to an -excitement which was almost maddening. To think that these two base -beings had wound into their miserable tangle the feet of Clare--that her -innocent life must pay the penalty for their evil lives, that she must -bear the dishonour while spotless from the guilt! - -Edgar posted along the great London thoroughfare, through the -continually varying crowd of passers-by, absorbed in an agitation and -disquiet which drove all his own affairs out of his head. His own -affairs might involve much trouble and distress; but neither shame nor -guilt was in them. Heaven above! to think that guilt or shame could have -anything to do with Clare! - -Now Clare had not been, at least at the last, a very good sister to -Edgar--she was not his sister at all, so far as blood went; and when -this had been discovered, and the homeliness of his real origin -identified, Clare had shrunk from him, notwithstanding that for all her -life, in childish fondness and womanly sympathy, she had loved him as -her only brother. Edgar had mournfully consented to a complete severance -between them. She had married his enemy; and he himself had sunk so much -out of sight that he had felt no further intercourse to be possible, -though his affectionate heart had felt it deeply. But as soon as he -heard of her danger, all his old love for his sister had sprung up in -Edgar’s heart. He took back her name, as it were, into the number of -those sounds most familiar to him. “Clare,” he said to himself, feeling -a thrill of renewed warmth go through him, mingled with poignant -pain--“Clare, my sister, my only sister, the sole creature in the world -that belongs to me!” Alas! she did not belong to Edgar any more than any -inaccessible princess; but in his heart this was what he felt. He pushed -his way through the full streets, with the air and the sentiment of a -man bound upon the most urgent business, seeing little on his way, -thinking of nothing but his object--the object in common which Miss -Lockwood had supposed him to have with herself. But Edgar did not even -remember that--he thought of nothing but Clare’s comfort and well-being -which were concerned, and how it would be possible to confound her -adversaries, and save her from ignoble persecution. If he could keep it -from her knowledge altogether! But, alas! how could that be done? He -went faster and faster, driven by his thoughts. - -The address Miss Lockwood had given him was in a small street off the -Hampstead Road. That strange long line of street, with here and there a -handful of older houses, a broader pavement, a bit of dusty garden, to -show the suburban air it once had possessed; its heterogeneous shops, -furniture, birdcages, perambulators, all kinds of out-of-the-way wares -fled past the wayfarer, taking wings to themselves, he thought. It is -not an interesting quarter, and Edgar had no time to give to any -picturesque or historical reminiscences. When he reached the little -street in which the chapel he sought was situated, he walked up on one -side and down on the other, expecting every moment to see the building -of which he was in search. A chapel is not a thing apt to disappear, -even in the changeful district of Camden Town. Rubbing his eyes, he went -up and down again, inspecting the close lines of mean houses. The only -break in the street was where two or three small houses, of a more -bilious brick than usual, whose outlines had not yet been toned down by -London soot and smoke, diversified the prospect. He went to a little -shop opposite this yellow patch upon the old grimy garment to make -inquiries. - -“Chapel! there ain’t no chapel hereabouts,” said the baker, who was -filling his basket with loaves. - -“Hold your tongue, John,” said his wife, from the inner shop. “I’ll set -you all right in a moment. There’s where the chapel was, sir, right -opposite. There was a bit of a yard where they’ve built them houses. The -chapel is behind; but it ain’t a chapel now. It’s been took for an -infant school by our new Rector. Don’t you see a little bit of an entry -at that open door? That’s where you go in. But since it’s been shut up -there’s been a difference in the neighbourhood. Most of us is church -folks now.” - -“And does nothing remain of the chapel--nobody belonging to it, no books -nor records?” cried Edgar, suddenly brought to a standstill. The woman -looked at him surprised. - -“I never heard as they had any books--more than the hymn-books, which -they took with them, I suppose. It’s our new Rector as has bought it--a -real good man, as gives none of us no peace----” - -“And sets you all on with your tongues,” said her husband, throwing his -basket over his shoulder. - -Edgar did not wait to hear the retort of the wife, and felt no interest -in the doings of the new Rector. He did not know what to do in this -unforeseen difficulty. He went across the road, and up the little entry, -and looked at the grimy building beyond, which was no great satisfaction -to his feelings. It was a dreary little chapel, of the most ordinary -type, cleared of its pews, and filled with the low benches and staring -pictures of an infant school, and looked as if it had been thrust up -into a corner by the little line of houses built across the scrap of -open space which had formerly existed in front of its doors. As he gazed -round him helplessly, another woman came up, who asked with bated breath -what he wanted. - -“We’re all church folks now hereabouts,” she said; “but I don’t mind -telling you, sir, as a stranger, I was always fond of the old chapel. -What preaching there used to be, to be sure!--dreadful rousing and -comforting! And it’s more relief, like, to the mind, to say, ‘Lord, ha’ -mercy upon us!’ or, ‘Glory, glory!’ or the like o’ that, just when you -pleases, than at set times out o’ a book. There’s nothing most but -prayers here now. If you want any of the chapel folks, maybe I could -tell you. I’ve been in the street twenty years and more.” - -“I want to find out about a marriage that took place here ten years -ago,” said Edgar. - -“Marriage!” said the woman, shaking her head. “I don’t recollect no -marriage. Preachings are one thing, and weddings is another. I don’t -hold with weddings out of church. If there’s any good in church--” - -Edgar had to stop this exposition by asking after the “chapel-folks” to -whom she could direct him, and in answer was told of three tradesmen in -the neighbourhood who “held by the Methodys,” one of whom had been a -deacon in the disused chapel. This was a carpenter, who could not be -seen till his dinner-hour, and on whom Edgar had to dance attendance -with very indifferent satisfaction; for the deacon’s report was that the -chapel had never been, so far as he could remember, licensed for -marriages, and that none had taken place within it. This statement, -however, was flatly contradicted by the pork-butcher, whose name was the -next on his list, and who recollected to have heard that some one had -been married there just about the time indicated by Miss Lockwood. -Finally, Edgar lighted on an official who had been a local preacher in -the days of the chapel, and who was now a Scripture-reader, under the -sway of the new Rector, who had evidently turned the church and parish -upside-down. This personage had known something of the Lockwoods, and -was not disinclined--having ascertained that Edgar was a stranger, and -unlikely to betray any of his hankerings after the chapel--to gossip -about the little defunct community. Its books and records had, he said, -been removed, when it was closed, to some central office of the -denomination, where they would, no doubt, be shown on application. This -man was very anxious to give a great deal of information quite apart -from the matter in hand. He gave Edgar a sketch of the decay of the -chapel, in which, I fear, the young man took no interest, though it was -curious enough; and he told him about the Lockwoods, and about the -eldest daughter, who, he was afraid, had come to no good. - -“She said as she was married, but nobody believed her. She was always a -flighty one,” said the Scripture-reader. - -This was all that Edgar picked up out of a flood of unimportant -communications. He could not even find any clue to the place where these -denominational records were kept, and by this time the day was too far -advanced to do more. Drearily he left the grimy little street, with its -damp pavements, its poor little badly-lighted shops and faint lamps, not -without encountering the new Rector in person, an omniscient personage, -who had already heard of his inquiries, and regarded him suspiciously, -as perhaps a “Methody” in disguise, planning the restoration of dissent -in a locality just purged from its taint. Edgar was too tired, too -depressed and down-hearted to be amused by the watchful look of the -muscular Christian, who saw in him a wolf prowling about the fold. He -made his way into the main road, and jumped into a hansom, and drove -down the long line of shabby, crowded thoroughfare, so mean and small, -yet so great and full of life. Those miles and miles of mean, monotonous -street, without a feature to mark one from another, full of crowds of -human creatures, never heard of, except as counting so many hundreds, -more or less, in the year’s calendar of mortality--how strangely -impressive they become at last by mere repetition, mass upon mass, crowd -upon crowd, poor, nameless, mean, unlovely! Perhaps it was the general -weariness and depression of Edgar’s whole being that brought this -feeling into his mind as he drove noisily, silently along between those -lines of faintly-lighted houses towards what is impertinently, yet -justly, called the habitable part of London. For one fair, bright path -in the social, as in the physical world, how many mean, and darkling, -and obscure!--how small the spot which lies known and visible to the -general eye!--how great the confused darkness all round! Such -reflections are the mere growth of weariness and despondency, but they -heighten the depression of which they are an evidence. - -The whole of noisy, crowded London was as a wilderness to Edgar. He -drove to his club, where he had not been since the day when he met Mr. -Tottenham. So short a time ago, and yet how his life had altered in the -interval! He was no longer drifting vaguely upon the current, as he had -been doing. His old existence had caught at him with anxious hands. -Notwithstanding all the alterations of time, circumstances, and being, -he was at this moment not Edgar Earnshaw at all, but the Edgar Arden of -three years ago, caught back into the old sphere, surrounded by the old -thoughts. Such curious vindications of the unchangeableness of -character, the identity of being, which suddenly seize upon a man, and -whirl him back in a moment, defying all external changes, into his old, -his unalterable self, are among the strangest things in humanity. Dizzy -with the shock he had received, harassed by anxiety, worn out by -unsuccessful effort, Edgar felt the world swim round with him, and -scarcely could answer to himself who he was. Had all the Lockwood -business been a dream? Was it a dream that he had been as a stranger for -three long years to Clare, his sister--to Gussy, his almost bride? And -yet his mind at this moment was as full of their images as if no -interval had been. - -After he had dined and refreshed himself, he set to work with, I -think,--notwithstanding his anxiety, the first shock of which was now -over,--a thrill of conscious energy, and almost pleasure in something to -do, which was so much more important than those vague lessons to Phil, -or vaguer studies in experimental philosophy, to which his mind had -been lately turned. To be here on the spot, ready to work for Clare when -she was assailed, was something to be glad of, deeply as the idea of -such an assault upon her had excited and pained him. And at the same -time as his weariness wore off, and the first excitement cooled down, he -began to feel himself more able to realize the matter in all its -particulars, and see the safer possibilities. It began to appear to him -likely enough that all that could be proved was Arthur Arden’s villainy, -a subject which did not much concern him, which had no novelty in it, -and which, though Clare was Arthur Arden’s wife, could not affect her -more now than it had done ever since she married him. Indeed, if it was -but this, there need be no necessity for communicating it to Clare at -all. It was more probable, when he came to think of it, that an educated -and clever man should be able to outwit a dressmaker girl, however -deeply instructed in the laws of marriage by novels and _causes -célèbres_, than that she should outwit him; and in this case there was -nothing that need ever be made known to Clare. - -Edgar was glad, and yet I don’t know that a certain disappointment, -quite involuntary and unawares, did not steal into his mind with this -thought; for he had begun to cherish an idea of seeing his sister, of -perhaps resuming something of his old intercourse with her, and at least -of being known to have worked for and defended her. These thoughts, -however, were but the secondary current in his mind, while the working -part of it was planning a further enterprise for the morrow. He got the -directory, and, after considerable trouble, found out from it the names -and addresses of certain officials of the Wesleyan body, to whom he -could go in search of the missing registers of the Hart Street -Chapel--if registers there were--or who could give him definite and -reliable information, in face of the conflicting testimony he had -already received, as to whether marriages had ever been celebrated in -it. - -Edgar knew, I suppose, as much as other men generally do about the -ordinary machinery of society, but he did not know where to lay his hand -on any conclusive official information about the Hart Street Chapel, -whether it had ever been licenced, or had any legal existence as a place -of worship, any more than--you or I would, dear reader, were we in a -similar difficulty. Who knows anything about such matters? He had lost a -day already in the merest A B C of preliminary inquiry, and no doubt -would lose several more. - -Then he took out the most important of Miss Lockwood’s papers, which he -had only glanced at as yet. It was dated from a small village in the -Western Highlands, within reach, as he knew, of Loch Arroch, and was a -certificate, signed by Helen Campbell and John Mactaggart, that Arthur -Arden and Emma Lockwood had that day, in their presence, declared -themselves to be man and wife. Edgar’s knowledge of such matters had, I -fear, been derived entirely from novels and newspaper reports, and he -read over the document, which was alarmingly explicit and -straightforward, with a certain panic. He said to himself that there -were no doubt ways in law by which to lessen the weight of such an -attestation, or means of shaking its importance; but it frightened him -just as he was escaping from his first fright, and brought back all his -excitement and alarm. - -He did not go to Berkeley Square, as Mr. Tottenham had recommended, but -to his old lodgings, where he found a bed with difficulty, and where -once more his two lives seemed to meet in sharp encounter. But his head -by this time was too full of schemes for to-morrow to permit of any -personal speculation; he was far, as yet, from seeing any end to his -undertaking, and it was impossible to tell what journeys, what -researches might be still before him. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -In the Depths. - - -Next morning he went first to his old lawyer, in whom he had confidence, -and having copied the certificate, carefully changing the names, -submitted it to him. Mr. Parchemin declared that he knew nothing of -Scotch law, but shook his head, and hoped there was nothing very -unpleasant in the circumstances, declaring vehemently that it was a -shame and disgrace that such snares should be spread for the unwary on -the other side of the border. Was it a disgrace that Arthur Arden should -not have been protected in Scotland, as in England, from the -quick-wittedness of the girl whom he had already cheated and meant to -betray? Edgar felt that there might be something to be said on both -sides of the question, as he left his copy in Mr. Parchemin’s hands, who -undertook to consult a Scotch legal authority on the question; then he -went upon his other business. I need not follow him through his manifold -and perplexing inquiries, or inform the reader how he was sent from -office to office, and from secretary to secretary, or with what loss of -time and patience his quest was accompanied. After several days’ work, -however, he ascertained that the chapel in Hart Street had indeed been -licensed, but only used once or twice for marriages, and that no record -of any such marriage as that which he was in search of could be found -anywhere. A stray record of a class-meeting which Emma Lockwood had been -admonished for levity of demeanour, was the sole mention of her to be -found; and though the officials admitted a certain carelessness in the -preservation of books belonging to an extinct chapel, they declared it -to be impossible that such a fact could have been absolutely ignored. -There was, indeed, a rumour in the denomination that a local preacher -had been found to have taken upon himself to perform a marriage, for -which he had been severely reprimanded; but as he had been possessed of -no authority to make such a proceeding legal, no register had been made -of the fact, and only the reprimanded was inscribed on the books of the -community. This was the only opening for even a conjecture as to the -truth of Miss Lockwood’s first story. If the second could only have been -dissipated as easily! - -Edgar’s inquiries among the Wesleyan authorities lasted, as I have said, -several days, and caused him more fatigue of limb and of mind than it is -easy to express. He went to Tottenham’s--where, indeed, he showed -himself every day, getting more and more irritated with the -Entertainment, and all its preparations--as soon as he had ascertained -beyond doubt that the marriage at Hart Street Chapel was fictitious. -Miss Lockwood, he was informed, was an invalid, but would see him in the -young ladies’ dining-room, where, accordingly, he found her, looking -sharper, and whiter, and more worn than ever. He told her his news -quietly, with a natural pity for the woman deceived; a gleam of sudden -light shone in her eyes. - -“I told you so,” she said, triumphantly; “now didn’t I tell you so? He -wanted to take me in--I felt it from the very first; but he hadn’t got -to do with a fool, as he thought. I was even with him for that.” - -“I have written to find out if your Scotch witnesses are alive,” said -Edgar. - -“Alive!--why shouldn’t they be alive, like I am, and like he is?” she -cried, with feverish irritability. “Folks of our ages don’t die!--what -are you thinking of? And if they were dead, what would it -matter?--there’s their names as good as themselves. Ah! I didn’t botch -my business any more than he botched his. You’ll find it’s all right.” - -“I hope you are better,” Edgar said, with a compassion that was all the -more profound because the object of it neither deserved, nor would have -accepted it. - -“Better--oh! thank you, I am quite well,” she said lightly--“only a bit -of a cold. Perhaps on the whole it’s as well I’m not going to sing -to-night; a cold is so bad for one’s voice. Good-bye, Mr. Earnshaw. -We’ll meet at the old gentleman’s turnout to-night.” - -And she waved her hand, dismissing poor Edgar, who left her with a -warmer sense of disgust, and dislike than had ever moved his friendly -bosom before. And yet it was in this creature’s interests he was -working, and against Clare! Mr. Tottenham caught him on his way out, to -hand him a number of letters which had arrived for him, and to call for -his advice in the final preparations. The public had been shut out of -the hall in which the Entertainment was to be, on pretence of -alterations. - -“Three more resignations,” Mr. Tottenham said, who was feverish and -harassed, and looked like a man at the end of his patience. “Heaven be -praised, it will be over to-night? Come early, Earnshaw, if you can -spare the time, and stand by me. If any of the performers get cross, and -refuse to perform, what shall I do?” - -“Let them!” cried Edgar; “ungrateful fools, after all your kindness.” - -Edgar was too much harassed and annoyed himself to be perfectly rational -in his judgments. - -“Don’t let us be uncharitable,” said Mr. Tottenham; “have they perhaps, -after all, much reason for gratitude? Is it not my own crotchet I am -carrying out, in spite of all obstacles? But it will be a lesson--I -think it will be a lesson,” he added. “And, Earnshaw, don’t fail me -to-night.” - -Edgar went straight from the shop to Mr. Parchemin’s, to receive the -opinion of the eminent Scotch law authority in respect to the marriage -certificate. He had written to Robert Campbell, at Loch Arroch Head, -suggesting that inquiries might be made about the persons who signed it, -and had heard from him that morning that the landlady of the inn was -certainly to be found, and that she perfectly remembered having put her -name to the paper. The waiter was no longer there, but could be easily -laid hands upon. There was accordingly no hope except in the Scotch -lawyer, who might still make waste paper of the certificate. Edgar found -Mr. Parchemin hot and red, after a controversy with this functionary. - -“He laughs at my indignation,” said the old lawyer. “Well, I suppose if -one did not heat one’s self in argument, what he says might have some -justice in it. He says innocent men that let women alone, and innocent -women that behave as they ought to do, will never get any harm from the -Scotch marriage law; and that it’s always a safeguard for a poor girl -that may have been led astray without meaning it. He says--well, I see -you’re impatient--though how such an anomaly can ever be suffered so -near to civilization! Well, he says it’s as good a marriage as if it had -been done in Westminster Abbey by the Archbishop of Canterbury. That’s -all the comfort I’ve got to give you. I hope it hasn’t got anything -directly to say to you.” - -“Thanks,” said Edgar, faintly; “it has to do with some--very dear -friends of mine. I could scarcely feel it more deeply if it concerned -myself.” - -“It is a disgrace to civilization!” cried the lawyer--“it is a -subversion of every honest principle. You young men ought to take -warning--” - -“--To do a villainy of this kind, when we mean to do it, out of -Scotland?” said Edgar, “or we may find ourselves the victims instead of -the victors? Heaven forbid that I should do anything to save a -scoundrel from his just deserts!” - -“But I thought you were interested--deeply interested----” - -“Not for him, the cowardly blackguard!” cried Edgar, excited beyond -self-control. - -He turned away from the place, holding the lawyer’s opinion, for which -he had spent a large part of his little remaining stock of money, -clutched in his hand. A feverish, momentary sense, almost of -gratification, that Arden should have been thus punished, possessed -him--only for a moment. He hastened to the club, where he could sit -quiet and think it over. He had not been able even to consider his own -business, but had thrust his letters into his pocket without looking at -them. - -When he found himself alone, or almost alone, in a corner of the -library, he covered his face with his hands, and yielded to the crushing -influence of this last certainty. Clare was no longer an honoured -matron, the possessor of a well-recognized position, the mother of -children of whom she was proud, the wife of a man whom at least she had -once loved, and who, presumably, had done nothing to make her hate and -scorn him. God help her! What was she now? What was her position to be? -She had no relations to fall back upon, or to stand by her in her -trouble, except himself, who was no relation--only poor Edgar, her -loving brother, bound to her by everything but blood; but, alas! he knew -that in such emergencies blood is everything, and other ties count for -so little. The thought made his heart sick; and he could not be silent, -could not hide it from her, dared not shut up this secret in his own -mind, as he might have done almost anything else that affected her -painfully. There was but one way, but one step before him now. - -His letters tumbled out of his pocket as he drew out Miss Lockwood’s -original paper, and he tried to look at them, by way of giving his -overworn mind a pause, and that he might be the better able to choose -the best way of carrying out the duty now before him. These letters -were--some of them, at least--answers to those which he had written in -the excitement and happy tumult of his mind, after Lady Mary’s -unintentional revelation. He read them as through a mist; their very -meaning came dimly upon him, and he could with difficulty realize the -state of his feelings when, all glowing with the prospect of personal -happiness, and the profound and tender exultation with which he found -himself to be still beloved, he had written these confident appeals to -the kindness of his friends. Most likely, had he read the replies with a -disengaged mind, they would have disappointed him bitterly, with a -dreariness of downfall proportioned to his warmth of hope. But in his -present state of mind every sound around him was muffled, every blow -softened. One nail strikes out another, say the astute Italians. The -mind is not capable of two profound and passionate preoccupations at -once. He read them with subdued consciousness, with a veil before his -eyes. They were all friendly, and some were warmly cordial. “What can we -do for you?” they all said. “If you could take a mastership, I have -interest at more than one public school; but, alas! I suppose you did -not even take your degree in England,” one wrote to him. “If you knew -anything about land, or had been trained to the law,” said another, “I -might have got you a land agency in Ireland, a capital thing for a man -of energy and courage; but then I fear you are no lawyer, and not much -of an agriculturist.” “What can you do, my dear fellow?” said a third, -more cautiously. “Think what you are most fit for--you must know best -yourself--and let me know, and I will try all I can do.” - -Edgar laughed as he bundled them all back into his pocket. What was he -most fit for? To be an amateur detective, and find out secrets that -broke his heart. A dull ache for his own disappointment (though his mind -was not lively enough to feel disappointed) seemed to add to the general -despondency, the lowered life and oppressed heart of which he had been -conscious without this. But then what had he to do with personal comfort -or happiness? In the first place there lay this tremendous passage -before him--this revelation to be made to Clare. - -It was late in the afternoon before he could nerve himself to write the -indispensable letter, from which he felt it was cowardly to shrink. It -was not a model of composition, though it gave him a great deal of -trouble. This is what he said:-- - - - “SIR, - - “It is deeply against my will that I address you, so long after - all communication has ended between us; and it is possible that you - may not remember even the new name with which I sign this. By a - singular and unhappy chance, facts in your past life, affecting the - honour and credit of the family, have been brought to my knowledge, - of all people in the world. If I could have avoided the confidence, - I should have done so; but it was out of my power. When I say that - these facts concern a person called Lockwood (or so called, at - least, before her pretended marriage), you will, I have no doubt, - understand what I mean. Will you meet me, at any place you may - choose to appoint, for the purpose of discussing this most - momentous and fatal business? I have examined it minutely, with the - help of the best legal authority, from whom the real names of the - parties have been concealed, and I cannot hold out to you any hope - that it will be easily arranged. In order, however, to save it from - being thrown at once into professional hands, and exposed to the - public, will you communicate with me, or appoint a time and place - to meet me? I entreat you to do this, for the sake of your children - and family. I cannot trust myself to appeal to any other sacred - claim upon you. For God’s sake, let me see you, and tell me if you - have any plea to raise! - - “EDGAR EARNSHAW.” - - -He felt that the outburst at the end was injudicious, but could not -restrain the ebullition of feeling. If he could but be allowed to manage -it quietly, to have her misery broken to Clare without any -interposition of the world’s scorn or pity. She was the one utterly -guiltless, but it was she who would be most exposed to animadversion; he -felt this, with his heart bleeding for his sister. If he had but had the -privilege of a brother--if he could have gone to her, and drawn her -gently away, and provided home and sympathy for her, before the blow had -fallen! But neither he nor anyone could do this, for Clare was not the -kind of being to make close friends. She reserved her love for the few -who belonged to her, and had little or none to expend on strangers. Did -she still think of him as one belonging to her, or was his recollection -altogether eclipsed, blotted out from her mind? He began half a dozen -letters to Clare herself, asking if she still thought of him, if she -would allow him to remember that he was once her brother, with a -humility which he could not have shown had she been as happy and -prosperous as all the world believed her to be. But after he had written -these letters, one after another, retouching a phrase here, and an -epithet there, which was too weak or too strong for his excited fancy, -and lingering over her name with tears in his eyes, he destroyed them -all. Until he heard from her husband, he did not feel that he could -venture to write to his sister. His sister!--his poor, forlorn, ruined, -solitary sister, rich as she was, and surrounded by all things -advantageous! a wife, and yet no wife; the mother of children whose -birth would be their shame! Edgar rose up from where he was writing in -the intolerable pang of this thought--he could not keep still while it -flashed through his mind. Clara, the proudest, the purest, the most -fastidious of women--how could she bear it? He said to himself that it -was impossible--impossible--that she must die of it! There was no way of -escape for her. It would kill her, and his was the hand which had to -give the blow. - -In this condition, with such thoughts running over in his vexed brain, -to go back to the shop, and find poor Mr. Tottenham wrestling among the -difficulties which, poor man, were overwhelming him, with dark lines of -care under his eyes, and his face haggard with anxiety--imagine, dear -reader, what it was! He could have laughed at the petty trouble; yet no -one could laugh at the pained face, the kind heart wounded, the manifest -and quite overwhelming trouble of the philanthropist. - -“I don’t even know yet whether they will keep to their engagements; and -we are all at sixes and sevens, and the company will begin to arrive in -an hour or two!” cried poor Mr. Tottenham. Edgar’s anxieties were so -much more engrossing and terrible that to have a share in these small -ones did him good; and he was so indifferent that he calmed everybody, -brought the unruly performers back to their senses, and thrust all the -arrangements on by the sheer carelessness he felt as to whether they -were ready or not. “Who cares about your play?” he said to Watson, who -came to pour out his grievances. “Do you think the Duchess of -Middlemarch is so anxious to hear you? They will enjoy themselves a -great deal better chatting to each other.” - -This brought Mr. Watson and his troupe to their senses, as all Mr. -Tottenham’s agitated remonstrances had not brought them. Edgar did not -care to be in the way of the fine people when they arrived. He got a -kind word from Lady Mary, who whispered to him, “How ill you are -looking! You must tell us what it is, and let us help you;” for this -kind woman found it hard to realise that there were things in which the -support of herself and her husband would be but little efficacious; and -he had approached Lady Augusta, as has been recorded, with some wistful, -hopeless intention of recommending Clare to her, in case of anything -that might happen. But Lady Augusta had grown so pale at the sight of -him, and had thrown so many uneasy glances round her, that Edgar -withdrew, with his heart somewhat heavy, feeling his burden rather more -than he could conveniently bear. He had gone and hid himself in the -library, trying to read, and hearing far off the din of applause--the -distant sound of voices. The noise of the visitors’ feet approaching had -driven him from that refuge, when Mr. Tottenham, in high triumph, led -his guests through his huge establishment. Edgar, dislodged, and not -caring to put himself in the way of further discouragement, chose this -moment to give his message to Phil, and strayed away from sound and -light into the retired passages, when that happened to him in his time -of extremity which it is now my business to record. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -A New Event. - - -“Have you--forgotten me--then?” - -“Forgotten you!” cried Edgar. - -Heaven help him!--he did not advance nor take her hands, which she held -out, kept back by his honour and promise--till he saw that her eyes were -full of tears, that her lips were quivering, unable to articulate -anything more, and that her figure swayed slightly, as if tottering. -Then all that was superficial went to the winds. He took her back -through the half-lighted passage, supporting her tenderly, to Mr. -Tottenham’s room. The door closed behind them, and Gussy turned to him -with swimming eyes--eyes running over with tears and wistful happiness. -She could not speak. She let him hold her, and looked up at him, all her -heart in her face. Poor Edgar was seized upon at the same moment, all -unprepared as he was, by that sudden gush of long-restrained feeling -which carries all before it. “Is this how it is to be?” he said, no -louder than a whisper, holding her fast and close, grasping her slender -arm, as if she might still flee from him, or revolt from his touch. But -Gussy had no mind to escape. Either she had nothing to say, or she was -still too much shaken to attempt to say it. She let her head drop like a -flower overcharged, and leaned on him and fell a-sobbing--fell on his -neck, as the Bible says, though Gussy’s little figure fell short of -that, and she only leaned as high as she could reach, resting there like -a child. If ever a man came at a step out of purgatory, or worse, into -Paradise, it was this man. Utterly alone half an hour ago, now companied -so as all the world could not add to him. He did not try to stop her -sobbing, but bent his head down upon hers, and I think for one moment -let his own heart expand into something which was like a sob too--an -inarticulate utterance of all this sudden rapture, unexpected, unlooked -for, impossible as it was. - -I do not know which was the first to come to themselves. It must have -been Gussy, whose sobs had relieved her soul. She stirred within his -arm, and lifted her head, and tried to withdraw from him. - -“Not yet, not yet,” said Edgar. “Think how long I have wanted you, how -long I have yearned for you; and that I have no right to you even now.” - -“Right!” said Gussy, softly--“you have the only right--no one can have -any right but you.” - -“Is it so?--is it so? Say it again,” said Edgar. “Say that I am not a -selfish hound, beguiling you; but that you will have it so. Say you will -have it so! What I will is not the question--it is your will that is my -law.” - -“Do you know what you are saying--or have you turned a little foolish?” -said the Gussy of old, with a laugh which was full of the tears with -which her eyes were still shining and bright; and then she paused, and -looking up at him, blushing, hazarded an inquiry--“Are you in love with -me now?” she said. - -“Now; and for how long?--three years--every day and all day long!” cried -Edgar. “It could not do you any harm so far off. But I should not have -dared to think of you so much if I had ever hoped for this.” - -“Do not hold me so tight now,” said Gussy. “I shall not run away. Do you -remember the last time--ah! we were not in love with each other then.” - -“But loved each other--the difference is not very great,” he said, -looking at her wistfully, making his eyes once more familiar with her -face. - -“Ah! there is a great difference,” said Gussy. “We were only, as you -said, fond of each other; I began to feel it when you were gone. Tell me -all that has happened since,” she said, suddenly--“everything! You said -you had been coming to ask me that dreadful morning. We have belonged to -each other ever since; and so much has happened to you. Tell me -everything; I have a right to know.” - -“Nothing has happened to me but the best of all things,” said Edgar, -“and the worst. I have broken my word; I promised to your mother never -to put myself in the way; I have disgraced myself, and I don’t care. And -this has happened to me,” he said low in her ear, “my darling! Gussy, -you are sure you know what you are doing? I am poor, ruined, with no -prospects for the moment----” - -“Don’t, please,” said Gussy, throwing back her head with the old pretty -movement. “I suppose you don’t mean to be idle and lazy, and think me a -burden; and I can make myself very useful, in a great many ways. Why -should I have to think what I am doing more than I ought to have done -three years ago, when you came to Thornleigh that morning? I had done my -thinking then.” - -“And, please God, you shall not repent of it!” cried the happy young -man--“you shall not repent it, if I can help it. But your mother will -not think so, darling; she will upbraid me with keeping you back--from -better things.” - -“That will be to insult me!” cried Gussy, flaming with hot, beautiful -anger and shame. “Edgar, do you think I should have walked into your -arms like this, not waiting to be asked, if I had not thought all this -time that we have been as good as married these three years? Oh! what am -I saying?” cried poor Gussy, overwhelmed with sudden confusion. It had -seemed so natural, so matter-of-fact a statement to her--until she had -said the words, and read a new significance in the glow of delight which -flashed up in his eyes. - -Is it necessary to follow this couple further into the foolishness of -their mutual talk?--it reads badly on paper, and in cold blood. They had -forgotten what the hour was, and most other things, when Mr. Tottenham, -very weary, but satisfied, came suddenly into the room, with his head -full of the Entertainment. His eyes were more worn than ever, but the -lines of care under them had melted away, and a fatigued, half-imbecile -smile of pleasure was hanging about his face. He was too much worn out -to judge anyone--to be hard upon anyone that night. Fatigue and relief -of mind had affected him like a genial, gentle intoxication of the -spirit. He stopped short, startled, and perhaps shocked for the moment, -when Edgar, and that white little figure beside him, rose hastily from -the chairs, which had been so very near each other. I am afraid that, -for the first moment, Mr. Tottenham felt a chill of dread that it was -one of his own young ladies from the establishment. He did not speak, -and they did not speak for some moments. Then, with an attempt at -severity, Mr. Tottenham said, - -“Gussy, is it possible? How should you have come here?” - -“Oh! uncle, forgive us!” said Gussy, taking Edgar’s arm, and clinging to -it, “and speak to mamma for us. I accepted him three years ago, Uncle -Tom. He is the same man--or, rather, a far nicer man,” and here she gave -a closer clasp to his arm, and dropped her voice for the moment, “only -poor. Only poor!--does that make all the difference? Can you tell me any -reason, Uncle Tottenham, why I should give him up, now he has come -back?” - -“My dear,” said Mr. Tottenham, alarmed yet conciliatory, “your -mother--no, I don’t pretend I see it--your mother, Gussy, must be the -best judge. Earnshaw, my dear fellow, was it not understood between us? -I don’t blame you. I don’t say I wouldn’t have done the same; but was it -not agreed between us? You should have given me fair warning, and she -should never have come here.” - -“I gave Lady Mary fair warning,” said Edgar, who felt himself ready at -this moment to confront the whole world. “I promised to deny myself; but -no power in the world should make me deny Gussy anything she pleased; -and this is what she pleases, it appears,” he said, looking down upon -her with glowing eyes. “A poor thing, sir, but her own--and she chooses -it. I can give up my own will, but Gussy shall have her will, if I can -get it for her. I gave Lady Mary fair warning; and then we met -unawares.” - -“And it was all my doing, please, uncle,” said Gussy, with a little -curtsey. She was trembling with happiness, with agitation, with the -mingled excitement and calm of great emotion; but still she could not -shut out from herself the humour of the situation--“it was all my doing, -please.” - -“Ah! I see how it is,” said Mr. Tottenham. “You have been carried off, -Earnshaw, and made a prey of against your will. Don’t ask me for my -opinion, yes or no. Take what good you can of to-night, you will have a -pleasant waking up, I promise you, to-morrow morning. The question is, -in the meantime, how are you to get home? Every soul is gone, and my -little brougham is waiting, with places for two only, at the door. Send -that fellow away, and I’ll take you home to your mother.” - -But poor Gussy had very little heart to send her recovered lover away. -She clung to his arm, with a face like an April day, between smiles and -tears. - -“He says quite true. We shall have a dreadful morning,” she said, -disconsolately. “When can you come, Edgar? I will say nothing till you -come.” - -As Gussy spoke there came suddenly back upon Edgar a reflection of all -he had to do. Life had indeed come back to him all at once, her hands -full of thorns and roses piled together. He fixed the time of his visit -to Lady Augusta next morning, as he put Gussy into Mr. Tottenham’s -brougham, and setting off himself at a great pace, arrived at Berkeley -Square as soon as they did, and attended her to the well-known door. -Gussy turned round on the threshold of the house where he had been once -so joyfully received, but where his appearance now, he knew, would be -regarded with horror and consternation, and waved her hand to him as he -went away. But having done so, I am afraid her courage failed, and she -stole away rapidly upstairs, and took refuge in her own room, and even -put herself within the citadel of her bed. - -“I came home with Uncle Tottenham in his brougham,” she said to Ada, -who, half-alarmed, paid her a furtive visit, “and I am so tired and -sleepy!” - -Poor Gussy, she was safe for that night, but when morning came what was -to become of her? So far from being sleepy, I do not believe that, -between the excitement, the joy, and the terror, she closed her eyes -that whole night. - -Mr. Tottenham, too, got out of the brougham at Lady Augusta’s door; his -own house was on the other side of the Square. He sent the carriage -away, and took Edgar’s arm, and marched him solemnly along the damp -pavement. - -“Earnshaw, my dear fellow,” he said, in the deepest of sepulchral tones, -“I am afraid you have been very imprudent. You will have a _mauvais -quart d’heure_ to-morrow.” - -“I know it,” said Edgar, himself feeling somewhat alarmed, in the midst -of his happiness. - -“I am afraid--you ought not to have let her carry you off your feet in -this way; you ought to have been wise for her and yourself too; you -ought to have avoided any explanation. Mind, I don’t say that my -feelings go with that sort of thing; but in common prudence--in justice -to her----” - -“Justice to her!” cried Edgar. “If she has been faithful for three -years, do you think she is likely to change now? All that time not a -word has passed between us; but you told me yourself she would not hear -of--anything; that she spoke of retiring from the world. Would that be -wiser or more prudent? Look here, nobody in the world has been so kind -to me as you. I want you to understand me. A man may sacrifice his own -happiness, but has he any right to sacrifice the woman he loves? It -sounds vain, does it not?--but if she chooses to think this her -happiness, am I to contradict her? I will do all that becomes a man,” -cried Edgar, unconsciously adopting, in his excitement, the well-known -words, “but do you mean to say it is a man’s duty to crush, and balk, -and stand out against the woman he loves?” - -“You are getting excited,” said Mr. Tottenham. “Speak lower, for -heaven’s sake! Earnshaw; don’t let poor Mary hear of it to-night.” - -There was something in the tone in which he said _poor_ Mary, with a -profound comic pathos, as if his wife would be the chief sufferer, which -almost overcame Edgar’s gravity. Poor Mr. Tottenham was weak with his -own sufferings, and with the blessed sense that he had got over them for -the moment. - -“What a help you were to me this afternoon,” he said, “though I daresay -your mind was full of other things. Nothing would have settled into -place, and we should have had a failure instead of a great success but -for you. You think it was a great success? Everybody said so. And your -poor lady, Earnshaw--your--friend--what of her? Is it as bad as you -feared?” - -“It is as bad as it is possible to be,” said Edgar, suddenly sobered. “I -must ask further indulgence from you, I fear, to see a very bad business -to an end.” - -“You mean, a few days’ freedom? Yes, certainly; perhaps it might be as -well in every way. And money--are you sure you have money? Perhaps it is -just as well you did not come to the Square, though they were ready for -you. Do you come with me to-night?” - -“I am at my old rooms,” said Edgar. “Now that the Entertainment is over, -I shall not return till my business is done--or not then, if you think -it best.” - -“Nothing of the sort!” cried his friend--“only till it is broken to poor -Mary,” he added, once more lachrymose. “But, Earnshaw, poor fellow, I -feel for you. You’ll let me know what Augusta says?” - -And Mr. Tottenham opened his door with his latch-key, and crept upstairs -like a criminal. He was terrified for his wife, to whom he felt this bad -news must be broken with all the precaution possible; and though he -could not prevent his own thoughts from straying into a weak-minded -sympathy with the lovers, he did not feel at all sure that she would -share his sentiments. - -“Mary, at heart, is a dreadful little aristocrat,” he said to himself, -as he lingered in his dressing-room to avoid her questions; not knowing -that Lady Mary’s was the rash hand which had set this train of -inflammables first alight. - -Next morning--ah! next morning, there was the rub!--Edgar would have to -face Lady Augusta, and Gussy her mother, and Mr. Tottenham, who felt -himself by this time an accomplice, his justly indignant wife; besides -that the latter unfortunate gentleman had also to go to the shop, and -face the resignations offered to himself, and deadly feuds raised -amongst his “assistants,” by the preliminaries of last night. In the -meantime, all the culprits tried hard not to think of the terrible -moment that awaited them, and I think the lovers succeeded. Lovers have -the best of it in such emergencies; the enchanted ground of recollection -and imagination to which they can return being more utterly severed from -the common world than any other refuge. - -The members of the party who remained longest up were Lady Augusta and -Ada, who sat over the fire in the mother’s bed-room, and discussed -everything with a generally satisfied and cheerful tone in their -communings. - -“Gussy came home with Uncle Tottenham in his brougham,” said Ada. “She -has gone to bed. She was out in her district a long time this morning, -and I think she is very tired to-night.” - -“Oh, her district!” cried Lady Augusta. “I like girls to think of the -poor, my dear--you know I do--I never oppose anything in reason; but why -Gussy should work like a slave, spoiling her hands and complexion, and -exposing herself in all weathers for the sake of her district! And it is -not as if she had no opportunities. I wish _you_ would speak to her, -Ada. She _ought_ to marry, if it were only for the sake of the boys; and -why she is so obstinate, I cannot conceive.” - -“Mamma, don’t say so--you know well enough why,” said Ada quietly. “I -don’t say you should give in to her; but at least you know.” - -“Well, I must say I think my daughters have been hard upon me,” said -Lady Augusta, with a sigh--“even you, my darling--though I can’t find it -in my heart to blame you. But, to change the subject, did you notice, -Ada, how well Harry was looking? Dear fellow! he has got over his little -troubles with your father. Tottenham’s has done him good; he always got -on well with Mary and your odd, good uncle. Harry is so good-hearted and -so simple-minded, he can get on with anybody; and I quite feel that I -had a good inspiration,” said Lady Augusta, with a significant nod of -her head, “when I sent him there. I am sure it has been for everybody’s -good.” - -“In what way, mamma?” said Ada, who was not at all so confident in -Harry’s powers. - -“Well, dear, he has been on the spot,” said Lady Augusta; “he has -exercised an excellent influence. When poor Edgar, poor dear fellow, -came up to me to-night, I could not think what to do for the best, for I -expected Gussy to appear any moment; and even Mary and Beatrice, had -they seen him, would have made an unnecessary fuss. But he took the hint -at my first glance. I can only believe it was dear Harry’s doing, -showing him the utter hopelessness--Poor fellow!” said Lady Augusta, -putting her handkerchief to her eyes. “Oh! my dear, how inscrutable are -the ways of Providence! Had things been ordered otherwise, what a -comfort he might have been to us--what a help!” - -“When you like him so well yourself, mamma,” said gentle Ada, “you -should understand poor Gussy’s feelings, who was always encouraged to -think of him--till the change came.” - -“That is just what I say, dear,” said Lady Augusta; “if things had been -ordered otherwise! We can’t change the arrangements of Providence, -however much we may regret them. But at least it is a great comfort -about dear Harry. How well he was looking!--and how kind and -affectionate! I almost felt as if he were a boy again, just come from -school, and so glad to see his people. It was by far the greatest -pleasure I had to-night.” - -And so this unsuspecting woman went to bed. She had a good night, for -she was not afraid of the morrow, dismal as were the tidings it was -fated to bring to her maternal ear. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -Berkeley Square. - - -At eleven o’clock next morning, Edgar, with a beating heart, knocked at -the door in Berkeley Square. The footman, who was an old servant, and -doubtless remembered all about him, let him in with a certain -hesitation--so evident that Edgar reassured him by saying, “I am -expected,” which was all he could manage to get out with his dry lips. -Heaven send him better utterance when he gets to the moment of his -trial! I leave the reader to imagine the effect produced when the door -of the morning room, in which Lady Augusta was seated with her -daughters, was suddenly opened, and Edgar, looking very pale, and -terribly serious, walked into the room. - -They were all there. The table was covered with patterns for Mary’s -trousseau, and she herself was examining a heap of shawls, with Ada, at -the window. Gussy, expectant, and changing colour so often that her -agitation had already been remarked upon several times this morning, had -kept close to her mother. Beatrice was practising a piece of music at -the little piano in the corner, which was the girls’ favourite refuge -for their musical studies. They all stopped in their various -occupations, and turned round when he came in. Lady Augusta sprang to -her feet, and put out one hand in awe and horror, to hold him at arm’s -length. Her first look was for him, her second for Gussy, to whom she -said, “Go--instantly!” as distinctly as eyes could speak; but, for once -in her life, Gussy would not understand her mother’s eyes. And, what was -worst of all, the two young ones, Mary and Beatrice, when they caught -sight of Edgar, uttered each a cry of delight, and rushed upon him with -eager hands outstretched. - -“Oh! you have come home for It!--say you have come home for It!” cried -Mary, to whom her approaching wedding was the one event which shadowed -earth and heaven. - -“Girls!” cried Lady Augusta, severely, “do not lay hold upon Mr. -Earnshaw in that rude way. Go upstairs, all of you. Mr. Earnshaw’s -business, no doubt, is with me.” - -“Oh! mamma, mayn’t I talk to him for a moment?” cried Mary, aggrieved, -and unwilling, in the fulness of her privileges, to acknowledge herself -still under subjection. - -But Lady Augusta’s eyes spoke very decisively this time, and Ada set the -example by hastening away. Even Ada, however, could not resist the -impulse of putting her hand in Edgar’s as she passed him. She divined -everything in a moment. She said “God bless you!” softly, so that no one -could hear it but himself. Only Gussy did not move. - -“I must stay, mamma,” she said, in tones so vehement that even Lady -Augusta was awed by them. “I will never disobey you again, but I must -stay!” - -And then Edgar was left alone, facing the offended lady. Gussy had -stolen behind her, whence she could throw a glance of sympathy to her -betrothed, undisturbed by her mother. Lady Augusta did not ask him to -sit down. She seated herself in a stately manner, like a queen receiving -a rebel. - -“Mr. Earnshaw,” she said, solemnly, “after all that has passed between -us, and all you have promised--I must believe that there is some very -grave reason for your unexpected visit to-day.” - -What a different reception it was from that she had given him, -when--coming, as she supposed, on the same errand which really brought -him now--he had to tell her of his loss of everything! Then the whole -house had been pleasantly excited over the impending proposal; and Gussy -had been kissed and petted by all her sisters, as the heroine of the -drama; and Lady Augusta’s motherly heart had swelled with gratitude to -God that she had secured for her daughter not only a good match, but a -good man. It was difficult for Edgar, at least, to shut out all -recollection of the one scene in the other. He answered with less -humility than he had shown before, and with a dignity which impressed -her, in spite of herself, - -“Yes, there is a very grave reason for it,” he said--“the gravest -reason--without which I should not have intruded upon you. I made you a -voluntary promise some time since, seeing your dismay at my -re-appearance, that I would not interfere with any of your plans, or put -myself in your way.” - -“Yes,” said Lady Augusta, in all the horror of suspense. Gussy, behind, -whispered, “You have not!--you have not!” till her mother turned and -looked at her, when she sank upon the nearest seat, and covered her face -with her hands. - -“I might say that I have not, according to the mere letter of my word,” -said Edgar; “but I will not stand by that. Lady Augusta, I have come to -tell you that I have broken my promise. I find I had no right to make -it. I answered for myself, but not for another dearer than myself. The -pledge was given in ignorance, and foolishly. I have broken it, and I -have come to ask you to forgive me.” - -“You have broken your word? Mr. Earnshaw, I was not aware that gentlemen -ever did so. I do not believe you are capable of doing so,” she cried, -in great agitation. “Gussy, go upstairs, you have nothing to do with -this discussion--you were not a party to the bargain. I cannot--cannot -allow myself to be treated in this way! Mr. Earnshaw, think what you are -saying! You cannot go back from your word!” - -“Forgive me,” he said, “I have done it. Had I known all, I would not -have given the promise; I told Lady Mary Tottenham so; my pledge was for -myself, to restrain my own feelings. From the moment that it was -betrayed to me that she too had feelings to restrain, my very principle -of action, my rule of honour, was changed. It was no longer my duty to -deny myself to obey you. My first duty was to her, Lady Augusta--if in -that I disappoint you, if I grieve you----” - -“You do more than disappoint me--you _horrify_ me!” cried Lady Augusta. -“You make me think that nothing is to be relied upon--no man’s word to -be trusted, No, no, we must have no more of this,” she said, with -vehemence. “Forget what you have said, Mr. Earnshaw, and I will try to -forget it. Go to your room, Gussy--this is no scene for you.” - -Edgar stood before his judge motionless, saying no more. I think he felt -now how completely the tables were turned, and what an almost cruel -advantage he had over her. His part was that of fact and reality, which -no one could conjure back into nothingness; and hers that of opposition, -disapproval, resistance to the inevitable. He was the rock, and she the -vexed and vexing waves, dashing against it, unable to overthrow it. In -their last great encounter these positions had been reversed, and it was -she who had command of the situation. Now, howsoever parental authority -might resist, or the world oppose, the two lovers knew very well, being -persons in their full senses, and of full age, that they had but to -persevere, and their point would be gained. - -Lady Augusta felt it too--it was this which had made her so deeply -alarmed from the first, so anxious to keep Edgar at arm’s length. The -moment she caught sight of him on this particular morning, she felt that -all was over. But that certainty unfortunately does not quench the -feelings of opposition, though it may take all hope of eventual success -from them. All that this secret conviction of the uselessness of -resistance did for Lady Augusta was to make her more hot, more -desperate, more _acharnée_ than she had ever been. She grew angry at the -silence of her opponent--his very patience seemed a renewed wrong, a -contemptuous evidence of conscious power. - -“You do not say anything,” she cried. “You allow me to speak without an -answer. What do you mean me to understand by this--that you defy me? I -have treated you as a friend all along. I thought you were good, and -honourable, and true. I have always stood up for you--treated you almost -like a son! And is this to be the end of it? You defy me! You teach my -own child to resist my will! You do not even keep up the farce of -respecting my opinion--now that she has gone over to your side!” - -Here poor Lady Augusta got up from her chair, flushed and trembling, -with the tears coming to her eyes, and an angry despair warring against -very different feelings in her mind. She rose up, not looking at either -of the culprits, and leant her arm on the mantelpiece, and gazed -unawares at her own excited, troubled countenance in the glass. Yes, -they had left her out of their calculations; she who had always (she -knew) been so good to them! It no longer seemed worth while to send -Gussy away, to treat her as if she were innocent of the complot. She had -gone over to the other side. Lady Augusta felt herself deserted, -slighted, injured, with the two against her--and determined, doubly -determined, never to yield. - -“Mamma,” said Gussy, softly, “do not be angry with Edgar. Don’t you -know, as well as I, that I have always been on his side?” - -“Don’t venture to say a word to me, Gussy,” said Lady Augusta. “I will -not endure it from you!” - -“Mamma, I must speak. It was you who turned my thoughts to him first. -Was it likely that _I_ should forget him because he was in trouble? Why, -_you_ did not! You yourself were fond of him all along, and trusted him -so that you took his pledge to give up his own will to yours. But I -never gave any pledge,” said Gussy, folding her hands. “You never asked -me what I thought, or I should have told you. I have been waiting for -Edgar. He has not dared to come to me since he came back to England, -because of his promise to you; and I have not dared to go to him, -because--simply because I was a woman. But when we met, mamma--when we -_met_, I say--not his seeking or my seeking--by accident, as you call -it----” - -“Oh! accident!” cried Lady Augusta, with a sneer, which sat very -strangely upon her kind face. “Accident! One knows how such accidents -come to pass!” - -“If you doubt our truth,” cried Gussy, in a little outburst, “of course -there is no more to say.” - -“I beg your pardon,” said the mother, faintly. She had put herself in -the wrong. The sneer, the first and only sneer of which poor Lady -Augusta had known herself to be guilty, turned to a weapon against her. -Compunction and shame filled up the last drop of the conflicting -emotions that possessed her. “It is easy for you both to speak,” she -said, “very easy; to you it is nothing but a matter of feeling. You -never ask yourself how it is to be done. You never think of the thousand -difficulties with the world, with your father, with circumstances. What -have I taken the trouble to struggle for? You yourself do me justice, -Gussy! Not because I would not have preferred Edgar--oh! don’t come near -me!” she cried, holding out her hand to keep him back; as he approached -a step at the softening sound of his name--“don’t work upon my feelings! -It is cruel; it is taking a mean advantage. Not because I did not prefer -him--but because life is not a dream, as you think it, not a romance, -nor a poem. What am I to do?” cried Lady Augusta, clasping her hands, -and raising them with unconscious, most natural theatricalness. “What am -I to do? How am I to face your father, your brothers, the world?” - -I do not know what the two listeners could have done, after the climax -of this speech, but to put themselves at her feet, with that instinct of -nature in extreme circumstances which the theatre has seized for its -own, and given a partially absurd colour to; but they were saved from -thus committing themselves by the sudden and precipitate entrance of -Lady Mary, who flung the door open, and suddenly rushed among them -without warning or preparation. - -“I come to warn you,” she cried, “Augusta!” Then stopped short, seeing -at a glance the state of affairs. - -They all stood gazing at each other for a moment, the others not -divining what this interruption might mean, and feeling instinctively -driven back upon conventional self-restraint and propriety, by the -entrance of the new-comer. Lady Augusta unclasped her hands, and stole -back guiltily to her chair. Edgar recovered his wits, and placed one for -Lady Mary. Gussy dropped upon the sofa behind her mother, and cast a -secret glance of triumph at him from eyes still wet with tears. He alone -remained standing, a culprit still on his trial, who felt the number of -his judges increased, without knowing whether his cause would take a -favourable or unfavourable aspect in the eyes of the new occupant of the -judicial bench. - -“What have you all been doing?” said Lady Mary--“you look as much -confused and scared by my appearance as if I had disturbed you in the -midst of some wrong-doing or other. Am I to divine what has happened? It -is what I was coming to warn you against; I was going to say that I -could no longer answer for Mr. Earnshaw--” - -“I have spoken for myself,” said Edgar. “Lady Augusta knows that all my -ideas and my duties have changed. I do not think I need stay longer. I -should prefer to write to Mr. Thornleigh at once, unless Lady Augusta -objects; but I can take no final negative now from anyone but Gussy -herself.” - -“And that he shall never have!” cried Gussy, with a ring of premature -triumph in her voice. Her mother turned round upon her again with a -glance of fire. - -“Is that the tone you have learned among the Sisters?” said Lady -Augusta, severely. “Yes, go, Mr. Earnshaw, go--we have had enough of -this.” - -Edgar was perhaps as much shaken as any of them by all he had gone -through. He went up to Lady Augusta, and took her half-unwilling hand -and kissed it. - -“Do you remember,” he said, “dear Lady Augusta, when you cried over me -in my ruin, and kissed me like my mother? _I_ cannot forget it, if I -should live a hundred years. You have never abandoned me, though you -feared me. Say one kind word to me before I go.” - -Lady Augusta tried hard not to look at the supplicant. She turned her -head away, she gulped down a something in her throat which almost -overcame her. The tears rushed to her eyes. - -“Don’t speak to me!” she cried--“don’t speak to me! Shall I not be a -sufferer too? God bless you, Edgar! I have always felt like your mother. -Go away!--go away!--don’t speak to me any more!” - -Edgar had the sense to obey her without another look or word. He did not -even pause to glance at Gussy (at which she was much aggrieved), but -left the room at once. And then Gussy crept to her mother’s side, and -knelt down there, clinging with her arms about the vanquished -Rhadamantha; and the three women kissed each other, and cried together, -not quite sure whether it was for sorrow or joy. - -“You are in love with him yourself, Augusta!” cried Lady Mary, laughing -and crying together before this outburst was over. - -“And so I am,” said Gussy’s mother, drying her kind eyes. - -Edgar, as he rushed out, saw heads peeping over the staircase, of which -he took no notice, though one of them was no less than the curled and -shining head of the future Lady Granton, destined Marchioness (one day -or other) of Hauteville. He escaped from these anxious spies, and rushed -through the hall, feeling himself safest out of the house. But on the -threshold he met Harry Thornleigh, who looked at him from head to foot -with an insolent surprise which made Edgar’s blood boil. - -“You here!” said Harry, with unmistakably disagreeable intention; then -all at once his tone changed--Edgar could not imagine why--and he held -out his hand in greeting. “Missed you at Tottenham’s,” said Harry; “they -all want you. That little brute Phil is getting unendurable. I wish -you’d whop him when you go back.” - -“I shall not be back for some days,” said Edgar shortly. “I have -business----” - -“Here?” asked Harry, with well-simulated surprise. “If you’ll let me -give you a little advice, Earnshaw, and won’t take it amiss--I can’t -help saying you’ll get no good here.” - -“Thank you,” said Edgar, feeling a glow of offence mount to his face. “I -suppose every man is the best judge in his own case; but, in the -meantime, I am leaving town--for a day or two.” - -“_Au revoir_, then, at Tottenham’s,” said Harry, with a nod, -half-hostile, half-friendly, and marched into his own house, or what -would one day be his own house, with the air of a master. Edgar left it -with a curious sense of the discouragement meant to be conveyed to him, -which was half-whimsical, half-painful. Harry meant nothing less than to -make him feel that his presence was undesired and inopportune, without, -however, making any breach with him; he had his own reasons for keeping -up a certain degree of friendship with Edgar, but he had no desire that -it should go any further than he thought proper and suitable. As for his -sister’s feelings in the matter, Harry ignored and scouted them with -perfect calm and self-possession. If she went and entered a Sisterhood, -as they had all feared at one time, why, she would make a fool of -herself, and there would be an end of it! “I shouldn’t interfere,” Harry -had said. “It would be silly; but there would be an end of her--no more -responsibility, and that sort of thing. Let her, if she likes, so long -as you’re sure she’ll stay.” But to allow her to make “a low marriage” -was an entirely different matter. Therefore he set Edgar down, according -to his own consciousness, even though he was quite disinclined to -quarrel with Edgar. He was troubled by no meltings of heart, such as -disturbed the repose of his mother. He liked the man well enough, but -what had that to do with it? It was necessary that Gussy should marry -well if she married at all--not so much for herself as for the future -interests of the house of Thornleigh. Harry felt that to have a set of -little beggars calling him “uncle,” in the future ages, and sheltering -themselves under the shadow of Thornleigh, was a thing totally out of -the question. The heir indeed might choose for himself, having it in his -power to bestow honour, as in the case of King Cophetua. But probably -even King Cophetua would have deeply disapproved, and indeed interdicted -beggar-maids for his brother, how much more beggar-men for his -sisters--or any connection which could detract from the importance of -the future head of the house. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -A Suggestion. - - -Having found his family in considerable agitation, the cause of which -they did not disclose to him, but from which he formed, by his unaided -genius, the agreeable conclusion that Edgar had been definitely sent -off, probably after some presumptuous offer, which Gussy at last was -wise enough to see the folly of--“I see you’ve sent that fellow off for -good,” he said to his sister; “and I’m glad of it.” - -“Oh! yes, for good,” said Gussy, with a flash in her eyes, which he, not -very brilliant in his perceptions, took for indignation at Edgar’s -presumption. - -“He is a cheeky beggar,” said unconscious Harry; “a setting down will do -him good.” - -But though his heart was full of his own affairs, he thought it best, on -the whole, to defer the confidence with which he meant to honour Lady -Augusta, to a more convenient season. Harry was not particularly bright, -and he felt his own concerns to be so infinitely more important than -anything concerning “the girls,” that the two things could not be put in -comparison; but yet the immediate precedent of the sending away of -Gussy’s lover was perhaps not quite the best that could be wished for -the favourable hearing of Harry’s love. Besides, Lady Augusta was not so -amiable that day as she often was. She was surrounded by a flutter of -girls, putting questions, teasing her for replies, which she seemed very -little disposed to give; and Harry had somewhat fallen in his mother’s -opinion, since it had been proved that to have him “on the spot” had -really been quite inefficacious for her purpose. Her confidence in him -had been so unjustifiably great, though Harry was totally ignorant of -it, that her unexpected disapproval was in proportion now. - -“It was not Harry’s fault,” Ada had ventured to say. “How could he guide -events that happened in London when he was at Tottenham’s?” - -“He ought to have paid more attention,” was all that Lady Augusta said. -And unconsciously she turned a cold shoulder to Harry, rather glad, on -the whole, that there was somebody, rightly or wrongly, to blame. - -So Harry returned to Tottenham’s with his aunt, hurriedly proffering a -visit a few days after. Nobody perceived the suppressed excitement with -which he made this offer, for the house was too full of the stir of one -storm, scarcely blown over, to think of another. He went back, -accordingly, into the country stillness, and spent another lingering -twilight hour with Margaret. How different the atmosphere seemed to be -in which she was! It was another world to Harry; he seemed to himself a -better man. How kind he felt towards the little girl!--he who would have -liked to kick Phil, and thought the Tottenham children so ridiculously -out of place, brought to the front, as they always were. When little -Sibby was “brought to the front,” her mother seemed but to gain a grace -the more, and in the cottage Harry was a better man. He took down with -him the loveliest bouquet of flowers that could be got in Covent Garden, -and a few plants in pots, the choicest of their kind, and quite -unlikely, had he known it, to suit the atmosphere of the poky little -cottage parlour. - -Mr. Franks had begun to move out of the doctor’s house, and very soon -the new family would be able to make their entrance. Margaret and her -brother were going to town to get some furniture, and Harry volunteered -to give them the benefit of his experience, and join their party. - -“But we want cheap things,” Margaret said, true to her principle of -making no false pretences that could be dispensed with. This did not in -the least affect Harry; he would have stood by and listened to her -cheapening a pot or kettle with a conviction that it was the very best -thing to do. There are other kinds of love, and some which do not so -heartily accept as perfect all that is done by their object; and there -are different stages of love, in not all of which, perhaps, is this -beautiful satisfaction apparent; but at present Harry could see nothing -wrong in the object of his adoration. Whatever she did was right, -graceful, beautiful--the wisest and the best. I do not suppose it is in -the nature of things that this lovely and delightful state of sentiment -could last--but for the moment so it was. And thus, while poor Lady -Augusta passed her days peacefully enough--half happy, half wretched, -now allowing herself to listen to Gussy’s anticipations, now asking -bitterly how on earth they expected to exist--_this_ was preparing for -her which was to turn even the glory of Mary’s approaching wedding into -misery, and overwhelm the whole house of Thornleigh with dismay. So -blind is human nature, that Lady Augusta had not the slightest -apprehension about Harry. He, at least, was out of harm’s way--so long -as the poor boy could find anything to amuse him in the country--she -said to herself, with a sigh of satisfaction and relief. - -At the other Tottenham’s, things were settling down after the -Entertainment, and happily the result had been so gratifying and -successful that all the feuds and searching of hearts had calmed down. -The supper had been “beautiful,” the guests gracious, the enjoyment -almost perfect. Thereafter, to his dying day, Mr. Robinson was able to -quote what Her Grace the Duchess of Middlemarch had said to him on the -subject of his daughter’s performance, and the Duchess’s joke became a -kind of capital for the establishment, always ready to be drawn upon. No -other establishment had before offered a subject of witty remark (though -Her Grace, good soul, was totally unaware of having been witty) to a -Duchess--no other young ladies and gentlemen attached to a house of -business had ever hobbed and nobbed with the great people in society. -The individuals who had sent in resignations were too glad to be allowed -to forget them, and Mr. Tottenham was in the highest feather, and felt -his scheme to have prospered beyond his highest hopes. - -“There is nothing so humanizing as social intercourse,” he said. “I -don’t say my people are any great things, and we all know that society, -as represented by Her Grace of Middlemarch, is not overwhelmingly witty -or agreeable--eh, Earnshaw? But somehow, in the clash of the two -extremes, something is struck out--a spark that you could not have -otherwise--a really improving influence. I have always thought so; and, -thank heaven, I have lived to carry out my theory.” - -“At the cost of very hard work, and much annoyance,” said Edgar. - -“Oh! nothing--nothing, Earnshaw--mere bagatelles. I was tired, and had -lost my temper--very wrong, but I suppose it will happen sometimes; and -not being perfect myself, how am I to expect my people to be perfect?” -said the philanthropist. “Never mind these little matters. The pother -has blown over, and the good remains. By the way, Miss Lockwood is -asking for you, Earnshaw--have you cleared up that business of hers? -She’s in a bad way, poor creature! She would expose herself with bare -arms and shoulders, till I sent her an opera-cloak, at a great -sacrifice, from Robinson’s department, to cover her up; and she’s caught -more cold. Go and see her, there’s a good fellow; she’s always asking -for you.” - -Miss Lockwood was in the ladies’ sitting-room, where Edgar had seen her -before, wrapped in the warm red opera-cloak which Mr. Tottenham had -sent her, and seated by the fire. Her cheeks were more hollow than ever, -her eyes full of feverish brightness. - -“Look here,” she said, when Edgar entered, “I don’t want you any longer. -You’ve got it in your head I’m in a consumption, and you are keeping my -papers back, thinking I’m going to die. I ain’t going to die--no such -intention--and I’ll trouble you either to go on directly and get me my -rights, or give me back all my papers, and I’ll look after them myself.” - -“You are very welcome to your papers,” said Edgar. “I have written to -Mr. Arden, to ask him to see me, but that is not on your account. I will -give you, if you please, everything back.” - -This did not content the impatient sufferer. - -“Oh! I don’t want them back,” she said, pettishly--“I want you to push -on--to push on! I’m tired of this life--I should like to try what a -change would do. If he does not choose to take me home, he might take me -to Italy, or somewhere out of these east winds. I’ve got copies all -ready directed to send to his lawyers, in case you should play me false, -or delay. I’m not going to die, don’t you think it; but now I’ve made up -my mind to it, I’ll have my rights!” - -“I hope you will take care of yourself in the meantime,” said Edgar, -compassionately, looking at her with a somewhat melancholy face. - -“Oh! get along with your doleful looks,” said Miss Lockwood, “trying to -frighten me, like all the rest. I want a change--that’s what I -want--change of air and scene. I want to go to Italy or somewhere. Push -on--push on, and get it settled. I don’t want your sympathy--_that’s_ -what I want of you.” - -Edgar heard her cough echo after him as he went along the long narrow -passage, where he had met Gussy, back to Mr. Tottenham’s room. His -patron called him from within as he was passing by. - -“Earnshaw!” he cried, dropping his voice low, “I have not asked you -yet--how did you get on, poor fellow, up at the Square?” - -“I don’t quite know,” said Edgar--“better than I hoped; but I must see -Mr. Thornleigh, or write to him. Which will be the best?” - -“Look here,” said Mr. Tottenham, “I’ll do that for you. I know -Thornleigh; he’s not a bad fellow at bottom, except when he’s worried. -He sees when a thing’s no use. I daresay he’d make a stand, if there was -any hope; but as you’re determined, and Gussy’s determined----” - -“We are,” said Edgar. “Don’t think I don’t grudge her as much as anyone -can to poverty and namelessness; but since it is her choice----” - -“So did Mary,” said Mr. Tottenham, following out his own thoughts, with -a comprehensible disregard of grammar. “They stood out as long as they -could, but they had to give in at last; and so must everybody give in at -last, if only you hold to it. That’s the secret--stick to it!--nothing -can stand against that.” He wrung Edgar’s hand, and patted him on the -back, by way of encouragement. “But don’t tell anyone I said so,” he -added, nodding, with a humorous gleam out of his grey eyes. - -Edgar found more letters awaiting him at his club--letters of the same -kind as yesterday’s, which he read with again a totally changed -sentiment. Clare had gone into the background, Gussy had come uppermost. -He read them eagerly, with his mind on the stretch to see what might be -made of them. Everybody was kind. “Tell us what you can do--how we can -help you,” they said. After all, it occurred to him now, in the -practical turn his mind had taken, “What could he do?” The answer was -ready--“Anything.” But then this was a very vague answer, he suddenly -felt; and to identify any one thing or other that he could do, was -difficult. He was turning over the question deeply in his mind, when a -letter, with Lord Newmarch’s big official seal, caught his eye. He -opened it hurriedly, hoping to find perhaps a rapid solution of his -difficulty there. It ran thus:-- - - - “MY DEAR EARNSHAW, - - “I am sorry to be obliged to inform you that, after keeping us in a - state of uncertainty for about a year, Runtherout has suddenly - announced to me that he feels quite well again, and means to resume - work at once, and withdraw his resignation. He attributes this - fortunate change in his circumstances to Parr’s Life Pills, or - something equally venerable. I am extremely sorry for this - _contretemps_, which at once defeats my desire of serving you, and - deprives the department of the interesting information which I am - sure your knowledge of foreign countries would have enabled you to - transmit to us. The Queen’s Messengers seem indeed to be in a - preternaturally healthy condition, and hold out few hopes of any - vacancy. Accept my sincere regrets for this disappointment, and if - you can think of anything else I can do to assist you, command my - services. - - “Believe me, dear Earnshaw, - “Very truly yours, - “NEWMARCH. - - “P.S.--What would you say to a Consulship?” - - -Edgar read this letter with a great and sharp pang of disappointment. An -hour before, had anyone asked him, he would have said he had no faith -whatever in Lord Newmarch; yet now he felt, by the keenness of his -mortification, that he had expected a great deal more than he had ever -owned even to himself. He flung the letter down on the table beside him, -and covered his face with his hands. It seemed to him that he had lost -one of the primary supports on which, without knowing, he had been -building of late. Now was there nothing before Gussy’s betrothed--he who -had ventured to entangle her fate with his, and to ask of parents and -friends to bless the bargain--but a tutorship in a great house, and kind -Mr. Tottenham’s favour, who was no great man, nor had any power, nor -anything but mere money. He could not marry Gussy upon Mr. Tottenham’s -money, or take her to another man’s house, to be a cherished and petted -dependent, as they had made him. I don’t think it was till next day, -when again the wheel had gone momentarily round, and he had set out on -Clare’s business, leaving Gussy behind him, that he observed the -pregnant and pithy postscript, which threw a certain gleam of light upon -Lord Newmarch’s letter. “How should you like a Consulship?” Edgar had no -great notion what a Consulship was. What kind of knowledge or duties was -required for the humblest representative of Her Majesty, he knew almost -as little as if this functionary had been habitually sent to the moon. -“Should I like a Consulship?” he said to himself, as the cold, yet -cheerful sunshine of early Spring streamed over the bare fields and -hedgerows which swept past the windows of the railway carriage in which -he sat. A vague exhilaration sprang up in his mind--perhaps from that -thought, perhaps from the sunshine only, which always had a certain -enlivening effect upon this fanciful young man. Perhaps, after all, -though he did not at first know what it was, this was the thing that he -could do, and which all his friends were pledged to get for him. And -once again he forgot all about his present errand, and amused himself, -as he rushed along, by attempts to recollect what the Consul was like at -various places he knew where such a functionary existed, and what he -did, and how he lived. The only definite recollection in his mind was of -an office carefully shut up during the heat of the day, with cool, green -_persiane_ all closed, a soft current of air rippling over a marble -floor, and no one visible but a dreamy Italian clerk, to tell when H. B. -M.’s official representative would be visible. “I could do that much,” -Edgar said to himself, with a smile of returning happiness; but what the -Consul did when he was visible, was what he did not know. No doubt he -would have to sing exceedingly small when there was an ambassador within -reach, or even the merest butterfly of an _attaché_, but apart from such -gorgeous personages, the Consul, Edgar knew, had a certain importance. - -This inquiry filled his mind with animation during all the long, -familiar journey towards Arden, which he had feared would be full of -painful recollections. He was almost ashamed of himself, when he stopped -at the next station before Arden, to find that not a single recollection -had visited him. Hope and imagination had carried the day over -everything else, and the problematical Consul behind his green -_persiane_ had routed even Clare. - -The letter, however, which had brought him here had been of a -sufficiently disagreeable kind to make more impression upon him. Arthur -Arden had never pretended to any loftiness of feeling, or even civility -towards his predecessor, and Edgar’s note had called forth the following -response:-- - - - “SIR,--I don’t know by what claim you, an entire stranger to my - family, take it upon you to thrust yourself into my affairs. I have - had occasion to resent this interference before, and I am certainly - still less inclined to support it now. I know nothing of any - person named Lockwood, who can be of the slightest importance to - me. Nevertheless, as you have taken the liberty to mix yourself up - with some renewed annoyance, I request you will meet me on Friday, - at the ‘Arden Arms,’ at Whitmarsh, where I have some business--to - let me know at once what your principal means--I might easily add - to answer to me what you have to do with it, or with me, or my - concerns. - - “A. ARDEN. - - “P.S.--If you do not appear, I will take it as a sign that you have - thought better of it, and that the person you choose to represent - has come to her senses.” - - -Edgar had been able to forget this letter, and the interview to which it -conducted him, thinking of his imaginary Consul! I think the reader will -agree with me that his mind must have been in a very peculiar condition. -He kept his great-coat buttoned closely up, and his hat down over his -eyes, as he got out at the little station. He was not known at -Whitmarsh, as he had been known at Arden, but still there was a chance -that some one might recognize him. The agreeable thoughts connected with -the Consul, fortunately, had left him perfectly cool, and when he got -out in Clare’s county, on her very land, the feeling of the past began -to regain dominion over him. If he should meet Clare, what would she say -to him? Would she know him? would she recognize him as her brother, or -hold him at arm’s length as a stranger? And what would she think, he -wondered, with the strangest, giddy whirling round of brain and mind, if -she knew that the dream of three years ago was, after all, to come true; -that, though Arden was not his, Gussy was his; and that, though she no -longer acknowledged him as her brother, Gussy had chosen him for her -husband. It was the only question there was any doubt about at one time. -Now it was the only thing that was true. - -With this bewildering consciousness of the revolutions of time, yet the -steadfastness of some things which were above time, Edgar walked into -the little old-fashioned country inn, scarcely venturing to take off his -hat for fear of recognition, and was shown into the best parlour, where -Mr. Arden awaited him. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -The Ardens. - - -Arthur Arden, Esq., of Arden, was a different man from the needy cousin -of the Squire, the hanger-on of society, the fine gentleman out at -elbows, whose position had bewildered yet touched the supposed legal -proprietor of the estates, and head of the family, during Edgar’s brief -reign. A poor man knocking about the world, when he has once lost his -reputation, has no particular object to stimulate him to the effort -necessary for regaining it. But when a man who sins by will, and not by -weakness of nature, gains a position in which virtue is necessary and -becoming, and where vice involves a certain loss of prestige, nothing is -easier than moral reformation. Arthur Arden had been a strictly moral -man for all these years; he had given up all vagabond vices, the -peccadilloes of the Bohemian. He was _rangé_ in every sense of the word. -A more decorous, stately house was not in the county; a man more correct -in all his duties never set an example to a parish. I do not know that -the essential gain was very great. He took his vices in another way; he -was hard as the nether millstone to all who came in his way, grasping -and tyrannical. He did nothing that was not exacted from him, either by -law, or public opinion, or personal vanity; on every other side he was -in panoply of steel against all prayers, all intercessions, all -complaints. - -Mrs. Arden made him an excellent wife. She was as proud as he was, and -held her head very high in the county. The Countess of Marchmont, Lord -Newmarch’s mother, was nothing in comparison with Mrs. Arden of Arden. -But people said she was too cold in her manners ever to be popular. When -her husband stood for the county, and she had to show the ordinary -gracious face to all the farmers and farm-men, Clare’s manners lost more -votes than her beauty and her family might have gained. She could not be -cordial to save her life. But then the Ardens were always cold and -proud--it was the characteristic of the family--except the last poor -fellow, who was everybody’s friend, and turned out to be no Arden at -all, as anyone might have seen with half an eye. - -Mr. Arden’s horse and his groom were waiting in the stableyard of the -“Arden Arms.” He himself, looking more gloomy than usual, had gone -upstairs to the best room, to meet the stranger, of whom all the “Arden -Arms” people felt vaguely that they had seen him before. The landlady, -passing the door, heard their voices raised high now and then, as if -there was some quarrel between them; but she was too busy to listen, -even had her curiosity carried her so far. When Mrs. Arden, driving -past, stopped in front of the inn, to ask for some poor pensioner in the -village, the good woman rushed out, garrulous and eager. - -“The Squire is here, ma’am, with a gentleman. I heard him say as his -horse was dead beat, and as he’d have to take the train home. What a -good thing as you have come this way! Please now, as they’ve done their -talk, will your ladyship step upstairs?” - -“If Mr. Arden is occupied with some one on business--” said Clare, -hesitating; but then it suddenly occurred to her that, as there had been -a little domestic jar that morning, it might be well to show herself -friendly, and offer to drive her husband home. “You are sure he is not -busy?” she said, doubtfully, and went upstairs with somewhat hesitating -steps. It was a strange thing for Mrs. Arden to do, but something -impelled her unconscious feet, something which the ancients would have -called fate, an impulse she could not resist. She knocked softly at the -door, but received no reply; and there was no sound of voices within to -make her pause. The “business,” whatever it was, must surely be over. -Clare opened the door, not without a thrill at her heart, which she -could scarcely explain to herself, for she knew of nothing to make this -moment or this incident specially important. Her husband sat, with his -back to her, at the table, his head buried in his hands; near him, -fronting the door, his face very serious, his eyes shining with -indignant fire, stood Edgar. Edgar! The sight of him, so unexpected as -it was, touched her heart with a quick, unusual movement of warmth and -tenderness. She gave a sudden cry, and rushed into the room. - -Arthur Arden raised his head from his hands at the sound of her -voice--he raised himself up, and glanced at her, half-stupefied. - -“What has brought you here?” he cried, hoarsely. - -But Clare had no eyes for him, for the moment. She went up to her -brother, who stood, scarcely advancing to meet her, with no light of -pleasure on his face at the sight of her. They had not met for three -years. - -“Edgar!” she said, with pleasure so sudden that she had not time to -think whether it was right and becoming on the part of Mrs. Arden of -Arden to express such a sentiment. But, before she had reached him, his -pained and serious look, his want of all response to her warm -exclamation, and the curious atmosphere of agitation in the room, -impressed her in spite of herself. She stopped short, her tone changed, -the revulsion of feeling which follows an overture repulsed, suddenly -clouded over her face. “I see I am an intruder,” she said. “I did not -mean to interfere with--business.” Then curiosity got the upper hand. -She paused and looked at them--Edgar so determined and serious, her -husband agitated, sullen--and as pale as if he had been dying. “But what -business can there be between you two?” she asked, with a sharp tone of -anxiety in her voice. The two men were like criminals before her. “What -is it?--what is it?” she cried. “Something has happened. What brings you -two together must concern me.” - -“Go home, Clare, go home,” said Arthur Arden, hoarsely. “We don’t want -you here, to make things worse--go home.” - -She looked at Edgar--he shook his head and turned his eyes from her. He -had given her no welcome, no look even of the old affection. Clare’s -blood was up. - -“I have a right to know what has brought you together,” she said, -drawing a chair to the table, and suddenly seating herself between them. -“I will go home when you are ready to come with me, Arthur. What is it? -for, whatever it is, I have a right to know.” - -Edgar came to her side and took her hand, which she gave to him almost -reluctantly, averting her face. - -“Clare,” he said, almost in a whisper, “this is the only moment for all -these years that I could not be happy to see you. Go home, for God’s -sake, as he says----” - -“I will not,” said Clare. “Some new misfortune has occurred to bring you -two together. Why should I go home, to be wretched, wondering what has -happened? For my children’s sake, I will know what it is.” - -Neither of them made her any answer. There were several papers lying on -the table between them--one a bulky packet, directed in what Clare knew -to be his solicitor’s handwriting, to Arthur Arden. Miss Lockwood had -played Edgar false, and, even while she urged him on, had already placed -her papers in the lawyer’s hands. Arden had thus known the full dangers -of the exposure before him, when, with some vague hopes of a -compromise, he had met Edgar, whom he insisted on considering Miss -Lockwood’s emissary. He had been bidding high for silence, for -concealment, and had been compelled to stomach Edgar’s indignant -refusal, which for the moment he dared not resent, when Clare thus burst -upon the scene. They were suddenly arrested by her appearance, stopped -in mid-career. - -“Is it any renewal of the past?--any new discovery? Edgar, you have -found something out--you are, after all----” - -He shook his head. - -“Dear Clare, it is nothing about me. Let me come and see you after, and -tell you about myself. This is business-mere business,” said Edgar, -anxiously. “Nothing,” his voice faltered, “to interest you.” - -“You tell lies badly,” she said; “and he says nothing. What does it -mean? What are these papers?--always papers--more papers--everything -that is cruel is in them. Must I look for myself?” she continued, her -voice breaking, with an agitation which she could not explain. She laid -her hand upon some which lay strewed open upon the table. She saw Edgar -watch the clutch of her fingers with a shudder, and that her husband -kept his eyes upon her with a strange, horrified watchfulness. He seemed -paralyzed, unable to interfere till she had secured them, when he -suddenly grasped her hand roughly, and cried, “Come, give them up; there -is nothing there for you!” - -Clare was not dutiful or submissive by nature. At the best of times such -an order would have irritated rather than subdued her. - -“I will not,” she repeated, freeing her hand from the clutch that made -it crimson. Only one of the papers she had picked up remained, a scrap -that looked of no importance. She rose and hurried to the window with -it, holding it up to the light. - -“She must have known it one day or other,” said Edgar, speaking rather -to himself than to either of his companions. It was the only sound that -broke the silence. After an interval of two minutes or so, Clare came -back, subdued, and rather pale. - -“This is a marriage certificate, I suppose,” she said. “Yours, Arthur! -You were married, then, before? You might have told me. Why didn’t you -tell me? I should have had no right to be vexed if I had known before.” - -“Clare!” he stammered, looking at her in consternation. - -“Yes, I can’t help being vexed,” she said, her lip quivering a little, -“to find out all of a sudden that I am not the first. I think you should -have told me, Arthur, not left me to find it out. But, after all, it is -only a shock and a mortification, not a crime, that you should look so -frightened,” she added, forcing a faint smile. “I am not a termagant, to -make your life miserable on account of the past.” Here Clare paused, -looked from one to the other, and resumed, with a more anxious voice: -“What do you mean, both of you, by looking at me? Is there more behind? -Ay, I see!” her lip quivered more and more, her face grew paler, she -restrained herself with a desperate effort. “Tell me the worst,” she -said, hurriedly. “There are other children, older than mine! My boy will -not be the heir?” - -“Clare! Clare!” cried Edgar, putting his arm round her, forgetting all -that lay between them, tears starting to his eyes, “my dear, come away! -Don’t ask any more questions. If you ever looked upon me as your -brother, or trusted me, come--come home, Clare.” - -She shook off his grasp impatiently, and turned to her husband. - -“Arthur, I demand the truth from you,” she cried. “Let no one interfere -between us. Is there--an older boy than mine? Let me hear the worst! Is -not my boy your heir?” - -Arthur Arden, though he was not soft-hearted, uttered at this moment a -lamentable groan. - -“I declare before God I never thought of it!” he cried. “I never meant -it for a marriage at all!” - -“Marriage!” said Clare, looking at him like one bewildered. -“Marriage!--I am not talking of marriage! Is there--a boy--another -heir?” - -And then again there was a terrible silence. The man to whom Clare -looked so confidently as her husband, demanding explanations from him, -shrank away from her, cowering, with his face hidden by his hands. - -“Will no one answer me?” she said. Her face was ghastly with -suspense--every drop of blood seemed to have been drawn out of it. Her -eyes went from her husband to Edgar, from Edgar back to her husband. -“Tell me, yes or no--yes or no! I do not ask more!” - -“Clare, it is not that! God forgive me! The woman is alive!” said Arthur -Arden, with a groan that seemed to come from the bottom of his heart. - -“The woman is alive!” she cried, impatiently. “I am not asking about any -woman. What does he mean? The woman is alive!” She stopped short where -she stood, holding fast by the back of her chair, making an effort to -understand. “The woman! What woman? What does he mean?” - -“His wife,” said Edgar, under his breath. - -Clare turned upon him a furious, fiery glance. She did not understand -him. She began to see strange glimpses of light through the darkness, -but she could not make out what it was. - -“Will not you speak?” she cried piteously, putting her hand upon her -husband’s shoulder. “Arthur, I forgive you for keeping it from me; but -why do you hide your face?--why do you turn away? All you can do for me -now is to tell me everything. My boy!--is he disinherited? Stop,” she -cried wildly; “let me sit down. There is more--still more! Edgar, come -here, close beside me, and tell me in plain words. The woman! What does -he mean?” - -“Clare,” cried Edgar, taking her cold hands into his, “don’t let it kill -you, for your children’s sake. They have no one but you. The woman--whom -he married then--is living now.” - -“The woman--whom he married then!” she repeated, with lips white and -stammering. “The woman!” Then stopped, and cried out suddenly--“My God! -my God!” - -“Clare, before the Lord I swear to you I never meant it--I never thought -of it!” exclaimed Arden, with a hoarse cry. - -Clare took no notice; she sat with her hands clasped, staring blankly -before her, murmuring, “My God! my God!” under her breath. Edgar held -her hands, which were chill and trembled, but she did not see him. He -stood watching her anxiously, fearing that she would faint or fall. But -Clare was not the kind of woman who faints in a great emergency. She sat -still, with the air of one stupefied; but the stupor was only a kind of -external atmosphere surrounding her, within the dim circle of which--a -feverish circle--thought sprang up, and began to whirl and twine. She -thought of everything all in a moment--her children first, who were -dishonoured; and Arden, her home, where she had been born; and her life, -which would have to be wrenched up--plucked like a flower from the soil -in which she had bloomed all her life. They could not get either sound -or movement from her, as she sat there motionless. They thought she was -dulled in mind by the shock, or in body, and that it was a merciful -circumstance to deaden the pain, and enable them to get her home. - -While she sat thus, her husband raised himself in terror, and consulted -Edgar with his eyes. - -“Take her home--take her home,” he whispered behind Clare’s back--“take -her home as long as she’s quiet; and till she’s got over the shock, -I’ll keep myself out of the way.” - -Clare heard him, even through the mist that surrounded her, but she -could not make any reply. She seemed to have forgotten all about him--to -have lost him in those mists. When Edgar put his hand on her shoulder, -and called her gently, she stirred at last, and looked up at him. - -“What is it?--what do you want with me?” she asked. - -“I want you to come home,” he said softly. “Come home with me; I will -take care of you; it is not a long drive.” - -Poor Edgar! he was driven almost out of his wits, and did not know what -to say. She shuddered with a convulsive trembling in all her limbs. - -“Home!--yes, I must go and get my children,” she said. “Yes, you are -quite right. I want some one to take care of me. I must go and get my -children; they are so young--so very young! If I take them at once, they -may never know----” - -“Clare,” cried her husband, moaning, “you won’t do anything rash? You -won’t expose our misery to all the world?” - -She cast a quick glance at him--a glance full of dislike and horror. - -“Take me away,” she said to Edgar--“take me away! I must go and fetch -the children before it is dark.” This with a pause and a strange little -laugh. “I speak as if they had been out at some baby-party,” she said. -“Give me your arm. I don’t see quite clear.” - -Arden watched them as they went out of the room--she tottering, as she -leant on Edgar’s arm, moving as he moved, like one blind. Arthur Arden -was left behind with his papers, and with the thought of that other -woman, who had claimed him for her husband. How clearly he remembered -her--her impertinence, her rude carelessness, her manners, that were of -the shop, and knew no better training! Their short life together came -back to him like a picture. How soon his foolish passion for her (as he -described it to himself) had blown over!--how weary of her he had grown! -And now, what was to become of him? If Clare did anything desperate--if -she went and blazoned it about, and removed the children, and took the -whole matter in a passionate way, it would not be she alone who would be -the sufferer. The woman is the sufferer, people say, in such cases; but -this man groaned when he thought, if he could not do something to avert -it, what ruin must overtake him. If Clare left his house, all honour, -character, position would go with her; he could never hold up his head -again. He would retain everything he had before, yet he would lose -everything--not only her and his children, of whom he was as fond as it -was possible to be of any but himself, but every scrap of popular -regard, society, the support of his fellows. All would go from him if -this devil could not be silenced--if Clare could not be conciliated. - -He rose to his feet, feeling sick and giddy, and from a corner, behind -the shadow of the window-curtains, saw his wife--that is, the woman who -was no longer his wife--drive away from the door. He was so wretched -that he could not even relieve his mind by swearing at Edgar. He had not -energy enough to think of Edgar, or any one else. Sometimes, indeed, -with a sharp pang, there would gleam across him a sudden vision of his -little boy, Clare’s son, the beautiful child he had been so proud of, -but who--even if Clare should make it up, and brave the shame and -wrong--was ruined and disgraced, and no more the heir of Arden than any -beggar on the road. Poor wretch! when that thought came across him, I -think all the wrongs that Arthur Arden had done in this world were -avenged. He writhed under the sudden thought. He burst out in sudden -crying and sobbing for one miserable moment. It was intolerable--he -could not bear it; yet had to bear it, as we all have, whether our -errors are of our own making or not. - -And Clare drove back over the peaceful country, beginning to green over -faintly under the first impulse of Spring--between lines of ploughed and -grateful fields, and soft furrows of soft green corn. She did not even -put her veil down, but with her white face set, and her eyes gazing -blankly before her, went on with her own thoughts, saying nothing, -seeing nothing. All her faculties had suddenly been concentrated within -her--her mind was like a shaded lamp for the moment, throwing intense -light upon one spot, and leaving all others in darkness. Edgar held her -hand, to which she did not object, and watched her with a pity which -swelled his heart almost to bursting. He could take care of her -tenderly in little things--lift her out of the carriage, give her the -support of his arm, throw off the superabundant wraps that covered her. -But this was all; into the inner world, where she was fighting her -battle, neither he nor any man could enter--there she had to fight it -out alone. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -The Old Home. - - -Clare went to her own room, and shut herself up there. She permitted -Edgar to go with her to the door, and there dismissed him, almost -without a word. What Edgar’s feelings were on entering the house where -he had once been master, and with which so many early associations both -of pleasure and pain were connected, I need not say; he was excited -painfully and strangely by everything he saw. It seemed inconceivable to -him that he should be there; and every step in the staircase, every turn -in the corridor, reminded him of something that had happened in that -brief bit of the past in which his history was concentrated, which had -lasted so short a time, yet had been of more effect than many years. The -one thing, however, that kept him calm, and restrained his excitement, -was the utter absorption of Clare in her own troubles, which were more -absorbing than anything that had ever happened to him. She showed no -consciousness that it was anything to him to enter this house, to lead -her through its familiar passages. She ignored it so completely that -Edgar, always impressionable, felt half ashamed of himself for -recollecting, and tried to make believe, even to himself, that he -ignored it too. He took her to the door of her room, his head throbbing -with the sense that he was here again, where he had never thought to be; -and then went downstairs, to wait in the room which had once been his -own library, for Arthur Arden’s return. Fortunately the old servants -were all gone, and if any of the present household recognised Edgar at -all, their faces were unfamiliar to him. How strange to look round the -room, and note with instinctive readiness all the changes which another -man’s taste had made! The old cabinet, in which the papers had been -found which proved him no Arden, stood still against the wall, as it had -always done. The books looked neglected in their shelves, as though no -one ever touched them. It was more of a business room than it once was, -less of a library, nothing at all of the domestic place, dear to man and -woman alike, which it had been when Edgar never was so happy as with his -sister beside him. How strange it was to be there--how dismal to be -there on such an errand. In this room Clare had given him the papers -which were his ruin; here she had entreated him to destroy them; here he -had made the discovery public; and now to think the day should have come -when he was here as a stranger, caring nothing for Arden, thinking only -how to remove her of whom he seemed to have become the sole brother and -protector, from the house she had been born in! - -He walked about and about the rooms, till the freshness of these -associations was over, and he began to grow impatient of the stillness -and suspense. He had told Clare that he would wait, and that she should -find him there when he was wanted. He had begged her to do nothing that -night--to wait and consider what was best; but he did not even know -whether she was able to understand him, or if he spoke to deaf ears. -Everything had happened so quickly that a sense of confusion was in -Edgar’s mind, confusion of the moral as well as the mental functions; -for he was not at all sure whether the link of sympathetic horror and -wonder between Arden and himself, as to what Clare would do, did not -approach him closer, rather than separate him further from this man, who -hated him, to begin with, and who was yet not his sister’s husband. -Somehow these two, who, since they first met, had been at opposite poles -from each other, seemed to be drawn together by one common misfortune, -rather than placed in a doubly hostile position, as became the injurer -and the defender of the injured. - -When Arden came in some time after, this feeling obliterated on both -sides the enmity which, under any other circumstances, must have blazed -forth. Edgar, as he looked at the dull misery in Arthur’s face, felt a -strange pity for him soften his heart. This man, who had done so well -for himself, who had got Arden, who had married Clare, who had received -all the gifts that heaven could give, what a miserable failure he was -after all, cast down from all that made his eminence tenable or good to -hold. He was the cause of the most terrible misfortune to Clare and her -children, and yet Edgar felt no impulse to take him by the throat, but -was sorry for him in his downfall and misery. As for Arthur Arden, his -old dislike seemed exorcised by the same spirit. In any other -circumstances he would have resented Edgar’s interference deeply--but -now a gloomy indifference to everything that could happen, except one -thing, had got possession of him. - -“What does she mean to do?” he said, throwing himself into a chair. All -power of self-assertion had failed in him. It seemed even right and -natural to him that Edgar should know this better than he himself did, -and give him information what her decision was. - -“I think,” said Edgar, instinctively accepting the rôle of adviser, -“that the best and most delicate thing you could do would be to leave -the house to her for a few days. Let it be supposed you have business -somewhere. Go to London, if you think fit, and investigate for yourself; -but leave Clare to make up her mind at leisure. It would be the most -generous thing to do.” - -Arthur stared at him blankly for a moment, with a dull suspicion in his -eyes at the strange, audacious calmness of the proposal. But seeing that -Edgar met his gaze calmly, and said these words in perfect -single-mindedness, and desire to do the best in the painful emergency, -he accepted them as they were given; and thus they remained together, -though they did not talk to each other, waiting for Clare’s appearance, -or some intimation of what she meant to do, till darkness began to fall. -When it was nearly night a maid appeared, with a scared look in her -face, and that strange consciousness of impending evil which servants -often show, like animals, without a word being said to them--and brought -to Edgar the following little note from Clare:-- - -“I am not able to see you to-night; and I cannot decide where to go -without consulting you; besides that there are other reasons why I -cannot take the children away, as I intended, at once. I have gone up to -the nursery beside them, and will remain there until to-morrow. Tell him -this, and ask if we may remain so, in his house, without being molested, -till to-morrow.” - -Edgar handed this note to Arden without a word. He saw the quick flutter -of excitement which passed over Arthur’s face. If the letter had been -more affectionate, I doubt whether Clare’s husband could have borne it; -but as it was he gulped down his agitation, and read it without -betraying any angry feeling. When he had glanced it over, he looked -almost piteously at his companion. - -“You think that is what I ought to do?” he said, almost with an appeal -against Edgar’s decision. “Then I’ll go; you can write and tell her so. -I’ll stay away if she likes, until--until she wants me,” he broke off -abruptly, and got up and left the room, and was audible a moment after, -calling loudly for his servant in the hall. - -Edgar wrote this information to Clare. He told her that Arden had -decided to leave the house to her, that she might feel quite free to -make up her mind; and that he too would go to the village, where he -would wait her call, whensoever she should want him. He begged her once -more to compose herself, not to hasten her final decision, and to -believe that she would be perfectly free from intrusion or interference -of any kind--and bade God bless her, the only word of tenderness he -dared venture to add. - -When he had written this, he walked down the avenue alone, in the dusk, -to the village. Arden had gone before him. The lodge-gates had been left -open, and gave to the house a certain forlorn air of openness to all -assault, which, no doubt, existed chiefly in Edgar’s fancy, but -impressed him more than I can say. To walk down that avenue at all was -for him a strange sensation; but Edgar by this time had got over all the -weaknesses of recollection. It was not hard for him at any time to put -himself to one side. He did it now completely. He felt like a man -walking in a dream; but he no longer consciously recalled to himself the -many times he had gone up and down there, and how it had once been to -him his habitual way home--the entrance to his kingdom. No doubt in his -painful circumstances these thoughts would have been hard upon him. They -died quite naturally out of his mind now. What was to become of -Clare?--where could he best convey her for shelter or safety?--and how -provide for her? His own downfall had made Clare penniless, and now that -she was no longer Arthur Arden’s wife, she could and would, he knew, -accept nothing from _him_. How was she to be provided for? This was a -far more important question to think of than any maunderings of personal -regret over the associations of his past life. - -Next morning he went up again to the Hall, after a night passed not very -comfortably at the “Arden Arms,” where everyone looked at him curiously, -recognising him, but not venturing to say so. As he went up the avenue, -Arthur Arden overtook him, arriving, too, from a different direction. A -momentary flash of indignation came over Edgar’s face. - -“You promised to leave Arden,” he said. - -“And so I did,” said the other. “But I did not say I would not come back -to hear what she said. My God, I may have been a fool, but may I not see -my--my own children before they go? I am not made of wood or stone, do -you suppose, though I may have been in the wrong?” - -His eyes were red and bloodshot, his appearance neglected and wild. He -looked as if he had not slept, nor even undressed, all night. - -“Look here,” he said hoarsely, “I have got another letter, saying _she_ -would accept money--a compromise. Will you persuade Clare to stay, and -make no exposure, and hush it all up, for the sake of the children--if -we have _her_ solemnly bound over to keep the secret and get her sent -away? Will you? What harm could it do you? And it might be the saving of -the boy.” - -“Arden, I pity you from my heart!” said Edgar; “but I could not give -such advice to Clare.” - -“It’s for the boy,” cried Arden. “Look here. We’ve never been friends, -you and I, and it’s not natural we should be; but that child shall be -brought up to think more of you than of any man on earth--to think of -you as his friend, his--well, his uncle, if you will. Grant that I’m -done for in this world, and poor Clare too, poor girl; but, Edgar, if -you liked, you might save the boy.” - -“By falsehood,” said Edgar, his heart wrung with sympathetic -emotion--“by falsehood, as I was myself set up, till the time came, and -I fell. Better, surely, that he should be trained to bear the worst. You -would not choose for him such a fate as mine?” - -“It has not done you any harm,” said Arden, looking keenly at the man he -had dispossessed--from whom he had taken everything. “You have always -had the best of it!” he cried, with sudden fire. “You have come out of -it all with honour, while everyone else has had a poor enough part to -play. But in this case,” he added, anxiously, in a tone of conciliation, -“nothing of the kind can happen. Who like her son and mine could have -the right here--every right of nature, if not the legal right? And I -declare to you, before God, that I never meant it. I never intended to -marry--that woman.” - -“You intended only to betray her.” It was on Edgar’s lips to say these -words, but he had not the heart to aggravate the misery which the -unhappy man was already suffering. They went on together to the house, -Arden repeating at intervals his entreaties, to which Edgar could give -but little answer. He knew very well Clare would listen to no such -proposal; but so strangely did the pity within him mingle with all less -gentle sentiments, that Edgar’s friendly lips could not utter a harsh -word. He said what he could, rather, to soothe; for, after all, his -decision was of little importance, and Clare did not take the matter so -lightly as to make a compromise a possible thing to think of. - -The house had already acquired something of that look of agitation which -steals so readily into the atmosphere wherever domestic peace is -threatened. There were two or three servants in the hall, who -disappeared in different directions when the gentlemen were seen -approaching; and Edgar soon perceived, by the deference with which he -himself was treated, that the instinct of the household had jumped to a -conclusion very different from the facts, but so pleasing to the -imagination as to be readily received. He had been recognised, and it -was evident that he was thought to be “righted,” to have got “his own -again.” Arthur Arden was anything but beloved at home, and the popular -heart as well as imagination sprang up, eager to greet the return of the -real master, the true heir. - -“Mrs. Arden, sir, has ordered the carriage to meet the twelve o’clock -train. She’s in the morning-room, sir,” said the butler, with solemnity. - -He spoke to Arthur, but he looked at Edgar. They were all of one way of -thinking; further evidence had been found out, or something had occurred -to turn the wheel of fortune, and Edgar had been restored to “his own.” - -Clare was seated alone, dressed for a journey, in the little room which -had always been her favourite room. She was dressed entirely in black, -which made her extraordinary paleness more visible. She had always been -pale, but this morning her countenance was like marble--not a tinge of -colour on it, except the pink, pale also, of her lips. She received them -with equal coldness, bending her head only when the two men, both of -them almost speechless with emotion, came into her presence. She was -perfectly calm; that which had befallen her was too tremendous for any -display of feeling; it carried her beyond the regions of feeling into -those of the profoundest passion--that primitive, unmingled condition of -mind which has to be diluted with many intricate combinations before it -drops into ordinary, expressible emotion. Clare had got beyond the pain -that could be put into words, or cries or tears; she was stern, and -still, and cold, like a woman turned to stone. - -“I want to explain what I am about to do,” she said, in a low tone. “We -are leaving, of course, at once. Mr. Arden” (her voice faltered for one -moment, but then grew more steady than ever), “I have taken with me what -money I have; there is fifty pounds--I will send it back to you when I -have arranged what I am to do. You will wish to see the children; they -are in the nursery waiting. Edgar will go with me to town, and help me -to find a place to live in. I do not wish to make any scandal, or cause -any anxiety. Of course I cannot change my name, as it is my own name, -as well as yours, and my children will be called what their mother is -called, as I believe children in their unfortunate position always are.” - -“Clare, for God’s sake do not be so pitiless! Hear me speak. I have -much--much to say to you. I have to beg your pardon on my knees----” - -“Don’t!” she cried suddenly; then went on in her calm tone--“We are past -all the limits of the theatre, Mr. Arden,” she said. “Your knees can do -me no good, nor anything else. All that is over. I cannot either upbraid -or pardon. I will try to forget your existence, and you will forget -mine.” - -“That is impossible!” he cried, going towards her. His eyes were so -wild, and his manner so excited, that Edgar drew near to her in terror; -but Clare was not afraid. She looked up at him with the large, calm, -dilated eyes, which seemed larger and bluer than ever, out of the -extreme whiteness of her face. - -“When I swear to you that I never meant it, that I am more wretched--far -more wretched--than you can be--that I would hang myself, or drown -myself like a dog, if that would do any good----!” - -“Nothing can do any good,” said Clare. Something like a moan escaped -from her breast. “What are words?” she went on, with a certain -quickening of excitement. “I could speak too, if it came to that. There -is nothing--nothing to be said or done. Edgar, when one loses name and -fame, and home, _you_ know what to do.” - -“I know what I did; but I am different from you,” said Edgar--“you, with -your babies. Clare, let us speak; we are not stones--we are men.” - -“Ah! stones are better than men--less cruel, less terrible!” she cried. -“No, no; I cannot bear it. We will go in silence; there is nothing that -anyone can say.” - -“You see,” said Edgar, turning to Arden--“what is my advice or my -suggestions now? To speak of compromise or negotiation----” - -“Compromise!” said Clare, her pale cheek flaming; she rose up with a -sudden impulse of insupportable passion--“compromise!--to me!” Then, -turning to Edgar, she clutched at his arm, and he felt what force she -was putting upon herself, and how she trembled. “Come,” she said, “this -air kills me; take me away!” - -He let her guide him, not daring to oppose her, out to the air--to the -door, down the great steps. She faltered more and more at every step she -took, then, suddenly stopping, leaned against him. - -“Let me sit down somewhere. I am growing giddy,” she said. - -She sat down on the steps, on the very threshold of the home she was -quitting, as she thought, for ever. The servants, in a group behind, -tried to gaze over their master’s shoulders at this extraordinary scene. -Where was she going?--what did she mean? There was a moment during which -no one spoke, and Clare, to her double horror, felt her senses forsaking -her. Her head swam, the light fluttered in her eyes. A moment more, and -she would be conscious of nothing round her. I have said she was not the -kind of woman who faints at a great crisis, but the body has its -revenges, its moments of supremacy, and she had neither slept nor -eaten, neither rested nor forgotten, for all these hours. - -It was at this moment that the messenger from the “Arden Arms,” a boy, -whom no one had noticed coming up the avenue, thrust something into -Edgar’s hand. - -“Be that for you, sir?” said the boy. - -The sound of this new, strange voice roused everybody. Clare came out of -her half-faint, and regained her full sense of what was going on, though -she was unable to rise. Arthur Arden came close to them down the steps, -with wild eagerness in his eyes. Edgar only would have thrust the paper -away which was put into his hands. “Tush!” he said, with the momentary -impulse of tossing it from him; then, suddenly catching, as it were, a -reflection of something new possible in Arden’s wild look, and even a -gleam of some awful sublime of tragic curiosity in the opening eyes of -Clare, he looked at the paper itself, which came to him at that moment -of fate. It was a telegram, in the vulgar livery which now-a-days the -merest trifles and the most terrible events wear alike in England. He -tore it open; it was from Mr. Tottenham, dated that morning, and -contained these words only:-- - -“_Miss Lockwood died here at nine o’clock._” - -Edgar thrust it into Arden’s hand. He felt something like a wild sea -surging in his ears; he raised up Clare in his arms, and drew her -wondering, resisting, up the great steps. - -“Come back,” he cried--“come home, Clare.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -Harry’s Turn. - - -It would be vain to tell all that was said, and all that was done, and -all the calculations that were gone through in the house in Berkeley -Square, where Edgar’s visit had produced so much emotion. The interviews -carried on in all the different rooms would furnish forth a volume. The -girls, who had peered over the staircase to see him go away, and whose -state of suspense was indescribable, made a dozen applications at -Gussy’s door before the audience of Ada, who had the best right to hear, -was over. Then Mary insisted upon getting admission in her right of -bride, as one able to enter into Gussy’s feelings, and sympathise with -her; and poor little Beatrice, left out in the cold, had to content -herself with half a dozen words, whispered in the twilight, when they -all went to dress for dinner. Beatrice cried with wounded feeling, to -think that because she, by the decrees of Providence, was neither the -elder sister, nor engaged to be married, she was therefore to be shut -out from all participation in Gussy’s secrets. - -“Could I be more interested if I was twice as old as Ada, and engaged to -six Lord Grantons!” cried the poor child. And Gussy’s prospects were in -that charming state of uncertainty that they would stand discussing for -hours together; whereas, by the time Lord Granton had been pronounced a -darling, and the dresses all decided upon, even down to the colour of -the bridesmaids’ parasols, there remained absolutely nothing new to be -gone over with Mary, but just the same thing again and again. - -“When do you think you shall be married?” said Beatrice, tremulously. - -“I don’t know, and I don’t very much care, so long as it is all right,” -said Gussy, half laughing, half crying. - -“But what if papa will not consent?” said Mary, with a face of awe. - -“Papa is too sensible to fight when he knows he should not win the -battle,” said the deliciously, incomprehensibly courageous Gussy. - -There was some gratification to be got out of a betrothed sister of this -fashion. Beatrice even began to look down upon Mary’s unexciting loves. - -“As for your affair, it is so dreadfully tame,” she said, contemptuously -lifting her little nose in the air. “Everybody rushing to give their -consent, and presents raining down upon you, and you all so -self-satisfied and confident.” - -Mary was quite taken down from her pedestal of universal observation. -She became the commonest of young women about to be married, by Gussy’s -romantic side. - -Alas! the Thornleighs were by no means done with sensation in this -_genre_. Two days after these events, before Edgar had come back, Harry -came early to the house one morning and asked to see his mother alone. -Lady Augusta was still immersed in patterns, and she had that morning -received a letter from her husband, which had brought several lines upon -her forehead. Mr. Thornleigh had the reputation, out of doors, of being -a moderate, sensible sort of man, not apt to commit himself, though -perhaps not brilliant, nor very much to be relied upon in point of -intellect. He deserved, indeed, to a considerable extent this character; -but what the world did not know, was that his temper was good and -moderate, by reason of the domestic safety-valve which he had always by -him. When anything troublesome occurred he had it out with his wife, -giving her full credit for originating the whole business. - -“You ought to have done this, or you ought to have done that,” he would -say, “and then, of course, nothing of the kind could have happened.” -After, he would go upstairs, and brush his hair, and appear as the most -sensible and good-tempered of men before the world. Mr. Thornleigh had -got Mr. Tottenham’s letter informing him of the renewed intercourse -between Edgar and Gussy; and the Squire had, on the spot, indited a -letter to his wife, breathing fire and flame. This was the preface of a -well-conditioned, gentlemanly letter to Mr. Tottenham, in which the -father expressed a natural regret that Gussy should show so little -consideration of external advantages, but fully acknowledged Edgar’s -excellent qualities, and asked what his prospects were, and what he -thought of doing. - -“I will never be tyrannical to any of my children,” Mr. Thornleigh -said; “but, on the other hand, before I can give my sanction, however -unwillingly, to any engagement, I must fully understand his position, -and what he expects to be able to do.” - -But Lady Augusta’s letter was not couched in these calm and friendly -terms; and knowing as she did the exertions she had made to keep Edgar -at arm’s length, poor Lady Augusta felt that she did not deserve the -assault made upon her, and consequently took longer to calm down than -she generally did. It was while her brow was still puckered, and her -cheek flushed with this unwelcome communication, that Harry came in. -When he said, “I want to speak to you, mother,” her anxious mind already -jumped at some brewing harm. She took him into the deserted library, -feeling that this was the most appropriate place in which to hear any -confession her son might have to make to her. The drawing-room, where -invasion was always to be feared, and the morning-room, which was -strewed with patterns and girls, might do very well for the confession -of feminine peccadilloes, but a son’s ill-doing was to be treated with a -graver care. She led Harry accordingly into the library, and put herself -into his father’s chair, and said, “What is it, my dear boy?” with a -deeper gravity than usual. Not that Harry was to be taken in by such -pretences at severity. He knew his mother too well for that. - -“Mother,” he said, sitting down near her, but turning his head partially -away from her gaze, “you have often said that my father wanted me--to -marry.” - -“To marry!--why, Harry? Yes, dear, and so he does,” said Lady Augusta; -“and I too,” she added, less decidedly. “I wish it, too--if it is some -one very nice.” - -“Well,” said Harry, looking at her with a certain shamefaced ostentation -of boldness, “I have seen some one whom I could marry at last.” - -“At last! You are not so dreadfully old,” said the mother, with a smile. -“You, too! Well, dear, tell me who it is. Some one you have met at your -Aunt Mary’s”? Oh! Harry, my dear boy, I trust most earnestly it is some -one very nice!” - -“It is some one much better than nice--the most lovely creature, mother, -you ever saw in your life. I never even dreamt of anything like her,” -said Harry, with a sigh. - -“I hope she is something more than a lovely creature,” said Lady -Augusta. “Oh! Harry, your father is so put out about Gussy’s business; I -do hope, dear, that this is something which will put him in good-humour -again. I can take her loveliness for granted. Tell me--do tell me who -she is?” - -“You don’t mean to say that you are going to let that fellow marry -Gussy’?” said Harry, coming to a sudden pause. - -“Harry, if this is such a connection as I hope, it will smooth -everything,” said Lady Augusta. “My dearest boy, tell me who she is.” - -“She is the only woman I will ever marry,” said Harry, doggedly. - -And then his poor mother divined, without further words, that the match -was not an advantageous one, and that she had another disappointment on -her hands. - -“Harry, you keep me very anxious. Is she one of Mary’s neighbours? Tell -me her name.” - -“Yes, she is one of Aunt Mary’s neighbours and chief favourites,” said -Harry. “Aunt Mary is by way of patronizing her.” And here he laughed; -but the laugh was forced, and had not the frank amusement in it which he -intended it to convey. - -Lady Augusta’s brow cleared for a moment, then clouded again. - -“You do not mean Myra Witherington?” she said, faintly. “Oh! not one of -that family, I hope!” - -“Myra Witherington!” he cried. “Mother, what do you take me for? It is -clear you know nothing about my beautiful Margaret. In her presence, you -would no more notice Myra Witherington than a farthing candle in the -sun!” - -Poor Lady Augusta took courage again. The very name gave her a little -courage. It is the commonest of all names where Margaret came from; but -not in England, where its rarity gives it a certain distinction. - -“My dear boy,” she said tremulously, “don’t trifle with me--tell me her -name.” - -A strange smile came upon Harry’s lips. In his very soul he, too, was -ashamed of the name by which some impish trick of fortune had shadowed -his Margaret. An impulse came upon him to get it over at once; he felt -that he was mocking both himself and his mother, and her, the most of -all, who bore that terrible appellation. He burst into a harsh, coarse -laugh, a bravado of which next moment he was heartily ashamed. - -“Her name,” he said, with another outburst, “is--Mrs. Smith!” - -“Good heavens, Harry!” cried Lady Augusta, with a violent start. Then -she tried to take a little comfort from his laughter, and said, with a -faint smile, though still trembling, “You are laughing at me, you unkind -boy!” - -“I am not laughing at all!” cried Harry, “except, indeed, at the -misfortune which gave her such a name. It is one of Aunt Mary’s -favourite jokes.” Then he changed his tone, and took his mother’s hand -and put it up caressingly to his cheek to hide the hot flush that -covered it. “Mother, you don’t know how I love her. She is the only -woman I will ever marry, though I should live a hundred years.” - -“Oh! my poor boy--my poor boy!” cried Lady Augusta. “This is all I -wanted to make an end of me. I think my heart will break!” - -“Why should your heart break?” said Harry, putting down her hand and -looking half cynically at her. “What good will that do? Look here, -mother. Something much more to the purpose will be to write to my -father, and break the news quietly to him--gently, so as not to bother -him, as I have done to you; you know how.” - -“Break the news to him!” she said. “I have not yet realised it myself. -Harry, wait a little. Why, she is not even----. Mrs. Smith! You mean -that she is a widow, I suppose?” - -“You did not think I could want to marry a wife, did you?” he growled. -“What is the use of asking such useless questions? Of course she is a -widow--with one little girl. There, now you know the worst!” - -“A widow, with one little girl!” - -Lady Augusta looked at him aghast. What could make up for these -disadvantages? The blood went back upon her heart, then rallied slightly -as she remembered her brother-in-law’s shopkeeping origin, and that the -widow might be some friend of his. - -“Is she--very rich?” she stammered. - -To do her justice, she was thinking then of her husband, not herself; -she was thinking how she could write to him, saying, “These are terrible -drawbacks, but nevertheless----” - -But nevertheless--Harry burst into another loud, coarse laugh. Poor -fellow! nobody could feel less like laughing; he did it to conceal his -confusion a little, and the terrible sense he began to have that, so far -as his father and mother were concerned, he had made a dreadful mistake. - -“I don’t know how rich she is, nor how poor. That is not what I ever -thought of,” he cried, with lofty scorn. - -This somehow appeased the gathering terror of Lady Augusta. - -“I don’t suppose you did think of it,” she said; “but it is a thing your -father will think of. Harry, tell me in confidence--I shall never think -you mercenary--what is her family? Are they rich people? Are they -friends of your uncle Tottenham? Dear Harry, why should you make a -mystery of this with me?” - -“Listen, then,” he said, setting his teeth, “and when you know -everything you will not be able to ask any more questions. She is a -cousin of your Edgar’s that you are so fond of. Her brother is the new -doctor at Harbour Green, and she lives with him. There, now you know as -much as I know myself.” - -Words would fail me to tell the wide-eyed consternation with which Lady -Augusta listened. It seemed to her that everything that was obnoxious -had been collected into this description. Poor, nobody, the sister of a -country doctor; a widow with a child; and finally, to wind up -everything, and make the combination still more and more terrible, -Edgar’s cousin! Heaven help her! It was hard enough to think of this for -herself; but to let his father know!--this was more than any woman could -venture to do. She grew sick and faint in a horrible sense of the -desperation of the circumstances; the girls might be obstinate, but they -would not take the bit in their teeth and go off, determined to have -their way, like the boy, who was the heir, and knew his own importance; -and what could any exhortation of hers do for Harry, who knew as well as -she did the frightful consequences, and had always flattered himself on -being a man of the world? She was so stupefied that she scarcely -understood all the protestations that he poured into her ear after this. -What was it to her that Margaret was the loveliest creature in the -world? Faugh! Lady Augusta turned sickening from the words. Lovely -creatures who rend peaceful families asunder; who lead young men astray, -and ruin all their hopes and prospects; who heighten all existing -difficulties, and make everything that was bad before worse a thousand -times--is it likely that a middle-aged mother should be moved by their -charms? - -“It is ruin and destruction!--ruin and destruction!” she repeated to -herself. - -And soon the whole house had received the same shock, and trembled under -it to its foundations. Harry went off in high dudgeon, not finding the -sympathy he (strangely enough, being a man of the world) had looked -forward to as his natural right. The house, as I have said, quivered -with the shock; a sense of sudden depression came over them all. Little -Mary cried, thinking what a very poor-looking lot of relations she would -carry with her into the noble house she was about to enter. Gussy, with -a more real sense of the fatal effect of this last complication, felt, -half despairing, that her momentary gleam of hope was dying away in the -darkness, and began to think the absence of Edgar at this critical -moment almost a wrong to her. He had been absent for years, and she had -kept steadily faithful to him, hopeful in him; but his absence of to-day -filled her with a hopeless, nervous irritability and pain. As for Lady -Augusta, she lost heart altogether. - -“Your father will never listen to it,” she said--“never, never; he will -think they are in a conspiracy. You will be the sufferer, Gussy, you and -poor Edgar, for Harry will not be restrained; he will take his own way.” - -What could Gussy reply? She was older than Harry; she was sick of -coercion--why should not she, too, have her own way? But she did not say -this, being grieved for the unfortunate mother, whom this last shock had -utterly discomposed. Ada could do nothing but be the grieved spectator -and sympathizer of all; as for the young Beatrice, her mind was divided -between great excitement over the situation generally, and sorrow for -poor Gussy, and an illegitimate, anxious longing to see the “lovely -creature” of whom Harry had spoken in such raptures. Why should not -people love and marry, without all these frightful complications? -Beatrice was not so melancholy as the rest. She got a certain amount of -pleasure out of the imbroglio; she even hoped that for herself there -might be preparing something else even more romantic than Gussy’s--more -desperate than Harry’s. Fate, which had long forgotten the Thornleigh -household, and permitted them to trudge on in perfect quiet, had now -roused out of sleep, and seemed to intend to give them their turn of -excitement again. - -Edgar made his appearance next day, looking so worn and fatigued that -Lady Augusta had not the heart to warn him, as she had intended to do, -that for the present she could not receive his visits--and that Gussy -had not the heart to be cross. He told them he had been to Arden on -business concerning Clare, and that Arthur Arden had come to town with -him, and that peace and a certain friendship reigned, at least for the -moment, between them. He did not confide even to Gussy what the cause of -this singular amity was; but after he had been a little while in her -company, his forehead began to smoothe, his smile to come back, the -colour to appear once more in his face. He took her aside to the window, -where the girls had been arranging fresh Spring flowers in a -_jardinière_. He drew her arm into his, bending over the hyacinths and -cyclamens. Now, for the first time, he could ask the question which had -been thrust out of his mind by all that had happened within the last few -days. A soft air of Spring, of happiness, of all the sweetness of life, -which had been so long plucked from him, seemed to blow in Edgar’s face -from the flowers. - -“How should we like a Consulship?” he said, bending down to whisper in -her ear. - -“A what?” cried Gussy, astonished. She thought for the moment that he -was speaking of some new flower. - -Then Edgar took Lord Newmarch’s letter from his pocket, and held out the -postscript to her, holding her arm fast in his, and his head close to -hers. - -“How should you like a Consulship?” he said. - -Then the light and the life in his face communicated itself to her. - -“A Consulship! Oh! Edgar, what does it mean?” - -“To me it means you,” he said--“it means life; it means poverty too, -perhaps, and humility, which are not what I would choose for my Gussy; -but to me it means life, independence, happiness. Gussy, what am I to -say?” - -“Say!” she cried--“yes, of course--yes. What else? Italy, perhaps, and -freedom--freedom once in our lives--and our own way; but, ah! what is -the use of speaking of it?” said Gussy, dropping away from his arm, and -stamping her foot on the ground, and falling into sudden tears, “when we -are always to be prevented by other people’s folly, always stopped by -something we have nothing to do with? Ask mamma, Edgar, what has -happened since you went away.” - -Then Lady Augusta drew near, having been a wondering and somewhat -anxious spectator all the time of this whispered conversation, and told -him with tears of her interview with Harry. - -“What can I do?” she cried. “I do not want to say a word against your -cousin. She may be nice, as nice as though she were a duke’s daughter; -but Harry is our eldest son, and all my children have done so badly in -this way except little Mary. Oh! my dears, I beg your pardon!” cried -poor Lady Augusta, drying her eyes, “but what can I say? Edgar, I have -always felt that I could ask you to do anything, if things should ever -be settled between Gussy and you. Oh! save my boy! She cannot be very -fond of him, she has known him so little; and his father will be -furious, and will never consent--never! And until Mr. Thornleigh dies, -they would have next to nothing, Oh! Edgar, if she is sensible, and -would listen to reason, I would go to her myself--or Gussy could go.” - -“Not I,” said Gussy, stealing a deprecating look at Edgar, who stood -stupefied by this new complication--“how could I? It is terrible. How -can I, who am pleasing myself, say anything to Harry because he wants to -please himself?--or to _her_, who has nothing to do with our miserable -and mercenary ways? Oh! yes, they are miserable and mercenary!” cried -Gussy, crying in her turn; “though I can’t help feeling as you do, -though my mind revolts against this poor girl, whom I don’t know, and I -want to save Harry, too, as you say. But how dare I make Harry unhappy, -in order to be happy myself? Oh! mamma, seek some other messenger--not -me!--not me!” - -“My darling,” said Lady Augusta, “it is for Harry’s good.” - -“And it was for my good a little while ago!” cried Gussy. “You meant it, -and so did they all. If you could have persuaded me to marry some one I -cared nothing for, with my heart always longing for another, you would -have thought it for my good; and now must I try to buy my happiness by -ruining Harry’s?” cried the girl; “though I, too, am so dreadful, that I -think it would be for Harry’s good. Oh! no, no, let it be some one -else!” - -“Edgar,” said Lady Augusta, “speak to her, show her the difference. -Harry never saw this--this young woman till about a fortnight since. -What can he know of her, what can she know of him, to be ready to marry -him in a fortnight? Oh! Edgar, try to save my boy! Even if you were to -represent to him that it would be kind to let your business be settled -first,” she went on, after a pause. “A little time might do everything. -I hope it is not wrong to scheme a little for one’s own children and -their happiness. You might persuade him to wait, for Gussy’s sake--not -to make his father furious with two at a time.” - -Thus the consultation went on, if that could be called a consultation -where the advice was all on one side. Edgar was fairly stupefied by this -new twist in his affairs. He saw the fatal effect as clearly as even -Lady Augusta could see it, but he could not see his own way to interfere -in it, as she saw. To persuade Harry Thornleigh to give up or postpone -his own will, in order that he, Edgar Earnshaw, might get his--an object -in which Harry, first of all, had not the slightest sympathy--was about -as hopeless an attempt as could well be thought of; and what right had -he to influence Margaret, whom he did not know, to give up the brother, -in order that he himself might secure the sister? Edgar left the house -in as sore a dilemma as ever man was in. To give up Gussy now was a -simple impossibility, but to win her by persuading her brother to the -sacrifice of his love and happiness, was surely more impossible still. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -Other People’s Affairs. - - -Thus, after the long lull that had happened in his life, Edgar found -himself deep in occupation, intermingled in the concerns of many -different people. Arthur Arden had come with him to town, and, by some -strange operation of feeling, which it is difficult to follow, this man, -in his wretchedness, clung to Edgar, who might almost be supposed the -means of bringing it about. All his old jealousy, his old enmity, seemed -to have disappeared. He who had harshly declined to admit that the -relationship of habit and affection between his wife and her supposed -brother must survive even when it was known that no tie of blood existed -between them, acknowledged the fact now without question, almost with -eagerness, speaking to the man he had hated, and disowned all connection -with, of “your sister,” holding by him as a link between himself and the -wife he had so nearly lost. This revolution was scarcely less wonderful -than the position in which Edgar found himself in respect to Clare. Not -a reference to their old affection had come from her lips, not a word of -present regard. She had scarcely even given him her hand voluntarily; -but she had accepted him at once and instinctively as her natural -support, her “next friend,” whose help and protection she took as a -matter of course. Clare treated him as if his brotherhood had never been -questioned, as if he was her natural and legal defender and sustainer: -up to this moment she had not even opened her mind to him, or told him -what she meant to do, but she had so far accepted his guidance, and -still more accepted his support, without thanking him or asking him for -it, as a matter of course. - -Edgar knew Clare too well to believe that when the marriage ceremony -should be repeated between her husband and herself--which was the next -step to be taken--their life would simply flow on again in the same -channel, as if this tragical interruption to its course had never -occurred. This was what Arthur Arden fondly pictured to himself, and a -great many floating intentions of being a better husband, and a better -man, after the salvation which had suddenly come to him, in the very -moment of his need, were in his mind, softening the man imperceptibly by -their influence. But Edgar did not hope for this; he made as little -answer as he could to Arthur’s anticipations of the future, to his -remorseful desire to be friendly. - -“After it’s all over you must not drift out of sight again,--you must -come to us when you can,” Arden said. “You’ve always behaved like a -brick in all circumstances; I see it now. You’ve been my best friend in -this terrible business. I wish I may never have a happy hour if I ever -think otherwise of you than as Clare’s brother again.” - -All this Edgar did his best to respond to, but he could not but feel -that Arden’s hopes were fallacies. Clare had given him no insight into -her plans, perhaps, even, had not formed any. She had gone back into the -house at Edgar’s bidding; she had dully accepted the fact that the -situation was altered, and consented to the private repetition of her -marriage; but she had never looked at her husband, never addressed him; -and Edgar felt, with a shudder, that, though she would accept such -atonement as was possible, she was far, very far, from having arrived at -the state of mind which could forgive the injury. That a woman so deeply -outraged should continue tranquilly the life she had lived before she -was aware of the outrage, was, he felt, impossible. He had done what he -could to moderate Arden’s expectations on this point, but with no -effect; and, as he did not really know, but merely feared, some -proceeding on Clare’s part which should shatter the expected happiness -of the future, he held his peace, transferring, almost involuntarily, a -certain share of his sympathy to the guilty man, whose guilt was not to -escape retribution. - -Edgar’s next business was with Mr. Tottenham, who, all unaware of -Harry’s folly, showed to him, with much pleasure, and some -self-satisfaction, the moderate and sensible letter of Mr. Thornleigh -above referred to, in which he expressed his natural regret, etc., but -requested to know what the young man’s prospects were, and what he meant -to do. Then Edgar produced once more Lord Newmarch’s letter, and, in the -consultation which followed, almost forgot, for the moment, all that -was against him. For Mr. Tottenham thought it a good opening enough, and -began, with sanguine good-nature, to prophesy that Edgar would soon -distinguish himself--that he would be speedily raised from post to post, -and that, “with the excellent connections and interest you will have,” -advancement of every kind would be possible. - -“Why, in yesterday’s _Gazette_,” said Mr. Tottenham, “no farther gone, -there is an appointment of Brown, Consul-General, to be Ambassador -somewhere--Argentine States, or something of that sort. And why should -not you do as well as Brown? A capital opening! I should accept it at -once.” - -And Edgar did so forthwith, oblivious of the circumstance that the -Consulship, such as it was, the first step upon the ladder, had been, -not offered, but simply suggested to him--nay, scarcely even that. This -little mistake, however, was the best thing that could have happened; -for Lord Newmarch, though at first deeply puzzled and embarrassed by the -warm acceptance and thanks he received, nevertheless was ashamed to fall -back again, and, bestirring himself, did secure the appointment for his -friend. It was not very great in point of importance, but it was ideal -in point of situation; and when, a few days after, Edgar saw his name -gazzetted as Her Majesty’s Consul at Spezzia, the emotions which filled -his mind were those of happiness as unmingled as often falls to the lot -of man. He was full of cares and troubles at that particular moment, and -did not see his way at all clear before him; but he suddenly felt as a -boat might feel (if a boat could feel anything) which has been lying -high and dry ashore, when at last the gentle persuasion of the sunshiny -waves reaches it, lifts, floats it off into soft, delicious certainty of -motion; or perhaps it would be more correct to say, as shipwrecked -sailors might feel when they see their cobbled boat, their one ark of -salvation, float strong and steady on the treacherous sea. This was the -little ark of Edgar’s happier fortunes, and lo! at last it was afloat! - -After he had written his letter to Lord Newmarch, he went down to -Tottenham’s, from which he had been absent for a fortnight, to the total -neglect of Phil’s lessons, and Lady Mary’s lectures, and everything else -that had been important a fortnight ago. He went by railway, and they -met him at the station, celebrating his return by a friendly -demonstration. On the road by the green they met Harry, walking towards -Mrs. Sims’ lodgings. He gave Edgar a very cold greeting. - -“Oh! I did not know you were coming back,” he said, and pursued his way, -affecting to take a different turn, as long as they were in sight. - -Harry’s countenance was lowering and overcast, his address scarcely -civil. He felt his interests entirely antagonistic to those of his -sister and her betrothed. The children burst into remarks upon his -bearishness as they went on. - -“He was bearable at first,” said Phil, “but since you have been away, -and while papa has been away, he has led us such a life, Mr. Earnshaw.” - -“He is always in the village--always, always in the village; and Sibby -says she _hates_ him!” cried little Molly, who was enthusiastic for her -last new friend. - -“Hush, children--don’t gossip,” said their mother; but she too had a -cloud upon her brow. - -Then Edgar had a long conversation with Lady Mary in the conservatory, -under the palm-tree, while the children had tea. He told her of all his -plans and prospects, and of the Consulship, upon which he reckoned so -confidently, and which did not, to Lady Mary’s eyes, look quite so fine -an opening as it seemed to her husband. - -“Of course, then, we must give you up,” she said, regretfully; “but I -think Lord Newmarch might have done something better for an old friend.” - -Something better! The words seemed idle words to Edgar, so well pleased -was he with his prospective appointment. Then he told her of Mr. -Thornleigh’s letter, which was so much more gracious than he could have -hoped for; and then the cloud returned to Lady Mary’s brow. - -“I am not at all easy about Harry,” she said. “Mr. Earnshaw--no, I will -call you Edgar, because I have always heard you called Edgar, and always -wanted to call you so; Edgar, then--now don’t thank me, for it is quite -natural--tell me one thing. Have you any influence with your cousin?” - -“The doctor?” - -“No, not the doctor; if I wanted anything of him, I should ask it -myself. His sister; she is a very beautiful young woman, and, so far as -I can see, very sensible and well-behaved, and discreet--no one can say -a word against her; but if you had any influence with her, as being her -cousin----” - -“Is it about Harry?” asked Edgar, anxiously. - -“About Harry!--how do you know?--have you heard anything?” - -“Harry has told his mother,” said Edgar; “they are all in despair.” - -“Oh! I knew it!” cried Lady Mary. “I told Tom so, and he would not -believe me. What, has it come so far as that, that he has spoken to his -mother? Then, innocent as she looks, she must be a designing creature, -after all.” - -“He may not have spoken to her, though he has spoken to his mother,” -said Edgar. Was it the spell of kindred blood working in him? for he did -not like this to be said of Margaret, and instinctively attempted to -defend her. - -Lady Mary shook her head. - -“Do you think any man would be such a fool as to speak to his parents -before he had spoken to the woman?” she said. “One never knows how such -a boy as Harry may act, but I should not have thought that likely. -However, you have not answered my question. Do you think you have any -influence, being her cousin, over her?” - -“I do not know her,” said Edgar. “I have only spoken to her once.” - -Would this be sufficient defence for him? he wondered, or must he hear -himself again appealed to, to interfere in another case so like his own? - -“That is very unfortunate,” said Lady Mary, with a sigh; but, happily -for him, she there left the subject. “I cannot say that she has ever -given him any encouragement,” she said presently, in a subdued tone. -Margaret had gained her point; she was acquitted of this sin, at least; -but Lady Mary pronounced the acquittal somewhat grudgingly. Perhaps, -when a young man is intent upon making a foolish marriage, it is the -best comfort to his parents and friends to be able to feel that _she_ is -artful and designing, and has led the poor boy away. - -Edgar went out next morning to see his cousins; he announced his -intention at the breakfast-table, to make sure of no encounter with poor -Harry, who was flighty and unpleasant in manner, and seemed to have some -wish to fix a quarrel upon him. Harry looked up quickly, as if about to -speak, but changed his mind, and said nothing. And Edgar went his -way--hoping the doctor might not be gone upon his round of visits, yet -hoping he might; not wishing to see Margaret, and yet wishing to see -her--in a most uncomfortable and painful state of mind. To his partial -surprise and partial relief, he met her walking along the green towards -the avenue with her little girl. It was impossible not to admire her -grace, her beautiful, half-pathetic countenance, and the gentle -maternity of the beautiful young woman never separate from the beautiful -child, who clung to her with a fondness and dependence which no -indifferent mother ever earns. She greeted Edgar with the sudden smile -which was like sunshine on her face, and held out her hand to him with -frank sweetness. - -“I am very glad you have come back,” she said. “It has been unfortunate -for us your being away.” - -“Only unfortunate for me, I think,” said Edgar, “for you seem to have -made friends with my friends as much as if I had been here to help it -on. Is this Sibby? I have heard of nothing but Sibby since I came back.” - -“Lady Mary has been very kind,” said Margaret, with, he thought, a faint -flush over her pale, pretty cheek. - -“And you like the place? And Dr. Charles has got acquainted with his -patients?” - -“My brother would like to tell you all that himself,” said Margaret; -“but I want to speak to you of Loch Arroch, and of the old house, and -dear granny. Did you know that she was ill again?” - -Margaret looked at him with her beautiful eyes full of tears. Edgar was -not for a moment unfaithful to his Gussy, but after that look I believe -he would have dared heaven and earth, and Mr. Thornleigh, rather than -interfere with anything upon which this lovely creature had set her -heart. Could it be that she had set her heart on Harry Thornleigh, he -asked himself with a groan? - -“No,” he said; “they write to me very seldom. When did you hear?” - -“Mr. Earnshaw, I have had a letter this morning--it has shaken me very -much,” said Margaret. “Will you come to the cottage with me till I tell -you? Do you remember?--but you could not remember--it was before your -time.” - -“What?--I may have heard of it--something which agitates you?” - -“Not painfully,” said Margaret, with a faltering voice and unsteady -smile; “gladly, if I could put faith in it. Jeanie had a brother that -was lost at sea, or we thought he was lost. It was his loss that made -her so--ill; and she took you for him--you are like him, Mr. Earnshaw. -Well,” said Margaret, two tears dropping out of her eyes, “they have had -a letter--he is not dead, he is perhaps coming home.” - -“What has become of him, then?--and why did he never send word?” cried -Edgar. “How heartless, how cruel!” - -Margaret laid her hand softly on his arm. - -“Ah! you must not say that!” she cried. “Sailors do not think so much of -staying away a year or two. He was shipwrecked, and lost everything, and -he could not come home in his poverty upon granny. Oh! if we were all as -thoughtful as that! Mr. Earnshaw, sailors are not just to be judged like -other men.” - -“He might have killed his poor little sister!” cried Edgar, indignantly; -“that is a kind of conduct for which I have no sympathy. And granny, as -you call her----” - -“Ah! you never learnt to call her granny,” said Margaret, with -animation. “Dear granny has never been strong since her last attack--the -shock, though it was joy, was hard upon her. And she was afraid for -Jeanie; but Jeanie has stood it better than anybody could hope; and -perhaps he is there now,” said Margaret, with once more the tears -falling suddenly from her eyes. - -“You know him?” said Edgar. - -“Oh! _know_ him! I knew him like my own heart!” cried Margaret, a flush -of sudden colour spreading over her pale face. She did not look up, but -kept her eyes upon the ground, going softly along by Edgar’s side, her -beautiful face full of emotion. “He would not write till he had gained -back again what was lost. He is coming home captain of his ship,” she -said, with an indescribable soft triumph. - -At that moment a weight was lifted off Edgar’s mind--it was as when the -clouds suddenly break, and the sun bursts forth. He too could have -broken forth into songs or shoutings, to express his sense of release. -“I am glad that everything is ending so happily,” he said, in a subdued -tone. He did not trust himself to look at her, any more than Margaret -could trust herself to look at him. When they reached the cottage, she -went in, and got her letter, and put it into his hand to read; while she -herself played with Sibby, throwing her ball for her, entering into the -child’s glee with all the lightness of a joyful heart. Edgar could not -but look at her, between the lines of Jeanie’s simple letter. He seemed -to himself so well able to read the story, and to understand what -Margaret’s soft blush and subdued excitement of happiness meant. - -And yet Harry Thornleigh was still undismissed, and hoped to win her. He -met him as he himself returned to the house. Harry was still uncivil, -and had barely acknowledged Edgar’s presence at breakfast; but he -stopped him now, almost with a threatening look. - -“Look here, Earnshaw,” he said, “I daresay they told you what is in my -mind. I daresay they tried to set you over me as a spy. Don’t you think -I’ll bear it. I don’t mean to be tricked out of my choice by any set of -women, and I have made my choice now.” - -“Do you know you are mighty uncivil?” said Edgar. “If you had once -thought of what you were saying, you would not venture upon such a word -as spy to me.” - -“Venture!” cried the young man. Then, calming himself, “I didn’t mean -it--of course I beg your pardon. But these women are enough to drive a -man frantic; and I’ve made my choice, let them do what they will, and -let my father rave as much as he pleases.” - -“This is not a matter which I can enter into,” said Edgar; “but just one -word. Does the lady know how far you have gone?--and has she made her -choice as well as you?” - -Harry’s face lighted up, then grew dark and pale. - -“I thought so once,” he said, “but now I cannot tell. She is as -changeable as--as all women are,” he broke off, with a forced laugh. -“It’s their way.” - -Edgar did not see Harry again till after dinner, and then he was -stricken with sympathy to see how ill he looked. What had happened? But -there was no time or opportunity to inquire what had happened to him. -That evening the mail brought him a letter from Robert Campbell, at -Loch Arroch Head, begging him, if he wanted to see his grandmother -alive, to come at once. She was very ill, and it was not possible that -she could live more than a day or two. He made his arrangements -instantly to go to her, starting next morning, for he was already too -late to catch the night mail. When he set out at break of day, in order -to be in time for the early train from London, he found Margaret already -at the station. She had been summoned also. He had written the night -before a hurried note to Gussy, announcing his sudden call to Loch -Arroch, but he was not aware then that he was to have companionship on -his journey. He put his cousin into the carriage, not ill-pleased to -have her company, and then, leaving many misconceptions behind him, -hurried away, to wind up in Scotland one portion of his -strangely-mingled life. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -Margaret. - - -The relations between Harry Thornleigh and Margaret had never come to -any distinct explanation. They had known each other not much more than a -fortnight, which was quite reason enough, on Margaret’s side, at least, -for holding back all explanation, and discouraging rather than helping -on the too eager young lover. - -During all the time of Edgar’s absence, it would be useless to deny that -Harry’s devotion suggested very clearly to the penniless young widow, -the poor doctor’s sister, such an advancement in life as might well have -turned any woman’s head. She who had nothing, who had to make a hard -light to get the ends to meet for the doctor and herself, who had for -years exercised all the shifts of genteel poverty, and who, before that, -had been trained to a homely life anything but genteel--had suddenly set -open to her the gates of that paradise of wealth, and rank, and luxury, -which is all the more ecstatic to the poor for being unknown. She, too, -might “ride in her carriage,” might wear diamonds, might go to Court, -might live familiarly with the great people of the land, like Lady Mary; -she who had been bred at the Castle Farm on Loch Arroch, and had known -what it was to “supper the beasts,” and milk the kye; she who had not -disdained the household work of her own little house, in the days of the -poor young Glasgow clerk whom she had married. There had been some -natural taste for elegance in the brother and sister, both handsome -young people, which had developed into gentility by reason of his -profession, and their escape from all the associations of home, where no -one could have been deceived as to their natural position. But Dr. -Charles had made no money anywhere; he had nothing but debts; though -from the moment when he had taken his beautiful sister to be his -housekeeper and companion, he had gradually risen in pretension and aim. -Their transfer to England, a step which always sounds very grand in -homely Scotch ears, had somehow dazzled the whole kith and kin. Even -Robert Campbell, at Loch Arroch Head, had been induced to draw his -cautious purse, and contribute to this new establishment. And now the -first fruits of the venture hung golden on the bough--Margaret had but -to put forth her hand and pluck them; nay, she had but to be passive, -and receive them in her lap. She had held Harry back from a premature -declaration of his sentiments, but she had done this so sweetly that -Harry had been but more and more closely enveloped in her toils; and she -had made up her mind that his passion was to be allowed to ripen, and -that finally she would accept him, and reign like a princess, and live -like Lady Mary, surrounded by all the luxuries which were sweet to her -soul. - -It is not necessary, because one is born poor, that one should like the -conditions of that lowly estate, or have no taste for better things. On -the contrary, Margaret was born with a love of all that was soft, and -warm, and easy, and luxurious. She loved these things and prized them; -she felt it in her to be a great lady; her gentle mind was such that she -would have made an excellent princess, all the more sweet, gracious, and -good the less she was crossed, and the more she had her own way. - -I am disposed to think, for my own part, that for every individual who -is mellowed and softened by adversity, there are at least ten in the -world whom prosperity would mollify and bring to perfection; but then -that latter process of development is more difficult to attain to. -Margaret felt that it was within her reach. She would have done nothing -unwomanly to secure her lover; nay, has it not been already said that -she had made up her mind to be doubly prudent, and to put it in no one’s -power to say that she had “given him encouragement?” But with that -modest reserve, she had made up her mind to Harry’s happiness and her -own. In her heart she had already consented, and regarded the bargain as -concluded. She would have made him a very sweet wife, and Harry would -have been happy. No doubt he was sufficiently a man of the world to have -felt a sharp twinge sometimes, when his wife’s family was brought in -question; but he thought nothing of that in his hot love, and I believe -she would have made him so good a wife, and been so sweet to Harry, that -this drawback would have detracted very little from his happiness. - -So things were going on, ripening pleasantly towards a _dénouement_ -which could not be very far off, when that unlucky letter arrived from -Loch Arroch, touching the re-appearance of Jeanie’s brother, the lost -sailor, who had been Margaret’s first love. This letter upset her, poor -soul, amid all her plans and hopes. If it had not, however, unluckily -happened that the arrival of Edgar coincided with her receipt of the -letter, and that both together were followed by the expedition to Loch -Arroch, to the grandmother’s deathbed, I believe the sailor’s return -would only have caused a little tremulousness in Margaret’s resolution, -a momentary shadow upon her sweet reception of Harry, but that nothing -more would have followed, and all would have gone well. Dear reader, -forgive me if I say all would have gone well; for, to tell the truth, -though it was so much against Edgar’s interests, and though it partook -of the character of a mercenary match, and of everything that is most -repugnant to romance, I cannot help feeling a little pang of regret that -any untoward accident should have come in Margaret’s way. Probably the -infusion of her good, wholesome Scotch blood, her good sense, and her -unusual beauty, would have done a great deal more good to the Thornleigh -race than a Right Honourable grandfather; and she would have made such a -lovely great lady, and would have enjoyed her greatness so much (far -more than any Lady Mary ever could enjoy it), and been so good a wife, -and so sweet a mother! That she should give up all this at the first -returning thrill of an old love, is perhaps very much more poetical and -elevating; but I who write am not so young or so romantic as I once was, -and I confess that I look upon the interruption of the story, which was -so clearly tending towards another end, with a great deal of regret. -Even Edgar, when he found her ready to accompany him to Scotland, felt a -certain excitement which was not unmingled with regret. He felt by -instinct that Harry’s hopes were over, and this thought gave him a great -sense of personal comfort and relief. It chased away the difficulties -out of his own way; but at the same time he could not but ask himself -what was the inducement for which she was throwing away all the -advantages that Harry Thornleigh could give her?--the love of a rough -sailor, captain at the best, of a merchant-ship, who had been so little -thoughtful of his friends as to leave them three or four years without -any news of him, and who probably loved her no longer, if he had ever -loved her. It was all to Edgar’s advantage that she should come away at -this crisis, and what was it to him if she threw her life away for a -fancy? But Edgar had never been in the way of thinking of himself only, -and the mingled feelings in his mind found utterance in a vague warning. -He did not know either her or her circumstances well enough to venture -upon more plain speech. - -“Do you think you are right to leave your brother just at this moment, -when he is settling down?” Edgar said. - -A little cloud rose upon Margaret’s face. Did not she know better than -anyone how foolish it was? - -“Ah!” she said, “but if granny is dying, as they say, I must see her,” -and the ready tears sprung to her eyes. - -Edgar was so touched by her looks, that, though it was dreadfully -against his own interest, he tried again. - -“Of all the women in the world,” he said, “she is the most considerate, -the most understanding. It is a long and an expensive journey, and your -life, she would say, is of more importance than her dying.” - -He ventured to look her in the face as he spoke these words, and -Margaret grew crimson under his gaze. - -“I do not see how it can affect my life, if I am away for a week or -two,” she said lightly, yet with a tone which showed him that her mind -was made up. Perhaps he thought she was prudently retiring to be quit of -Harry--perhaps withdrawing from a position which became untenable; or -why might it not be pure gratitude and love to the only mother she had -known in her life? Anyhow, whatever might be the reason, there was no -more to be said. - -I will not attempt to describe the feelings of Harry Thornleigh, when he -found that Margaret had gone away, and gone with Edgar. He came back to -Lady Mary raving and white with rage, to pour out upon her the first -outburst of his passion. - -“The villain!--the traitor!--the low, sneaking rascal!” Harry cried, -foaming. “He has made a catspaw of Gussy and a fool of me. We might have -known it was all a lie and pretence. He has carried her off under our -very eyes.” - -Even Lady Mary was staggered, strong as was her faith in Edgar; and -Harry left her doubtful, and not knowing what to make of so strange a -story, and rushed up to town, to carry war and devastation into his -innocent family. He went to Berkeley Square, and flung open the door of -the morning-room, where they were all seated, and threw himself among -them like a thunderbolt. Gussy had received Edgar’s note a little while -before, and she had been musing over it, pensive, not quite happy, not -quite pleased, and saying to herself how very wrong and how very foolish -she was. Of course, if his old mother were dying, he must go to her--he -had no choice; but Gussy, after waiting so long for him, and proving -herself so exceptionally faithful, felt that she had a certain right to -Edgar’s company now, and to have him by her side, all the more that Lady -Augusta had protested that she did not think it would be right to permit -it in the unsettled state of his circumstances, and of the engagement -generally. To have your mother hesitate, and declare that she does not -think she ought to admit him, and then to have your lover abstain from -asking admission, is hard upon a girl. Lord Granton (though, to be sure, -he was a very young man, with nothing to do) was dangling constantly -about little Mary; and Gussy felt that Edgar’s many businesses, which -led him here, and led him there, altogether out of her way, were -inopportune, to say the least. - -Harry assailed his mother fiercely, without breath or pause. He accused -her of sending “that fellow” down to Tottenham’s, on purpose to -interfere with him, to be a spy upon him, to ruin all his hopes. - -“I have seen a change since ever he came!” he cried wildly. “If it is -your doing, mother, I will never forgive you! Don’t think I am the sort -of man to take such a thing without resenting it! When you see me going -to the devil, you will know whose fault it is. _Her_ fault?--no, she has -been deceived. You have sent that fellow down upon her with his devilish -tongue, to persuade her and delude her. It is he that has taken her -away. No, it is not her fault, it is your fault!” cried Harry. “I should -have grown a good man. I should have given up everything she did not -like; and now you have made up some devilish conspiracy, and you have -taken her away.” - -“Harry, do you remember that you are talking to your mother?” cried Lady -Augusta, with trembling lips. - -“My mother! A mother helps one, loves one, makes things easy for one!” -he cried. “That’s the ordinary view. Excuses you, and does her best for -you, not her worst; when you take up your _rôle_ as you ought, I’ll take -mine. But since you’ve set your mind on thwarting, deceiving, injuring -me in my best hopes!” cried Harry, white with rage, “stealing from me -the blessing I had almost got, that I would have got, had you stopped -your d----d interference!” - -His voice broke here; he had not meant to go so far. As a gentleman at -least, he ought, he knew, to use no oath to ladies; but poor Harry was -beside himself. He stopped short, half-appalled, half-satisfied that he -had spoken his mind. - -“Harry, how dare you?” cried Gussy, facing him. “Do you not see how you -are wounding mamma? Has there ever been a time when she has not stood up -for you? And now because she is grieved to think that you are going to -ruin yourself, unwilling that you should throw yourself away----” - -“All this comes beautifully from you!” cried Harry, with a sneer--“you -who have never thought of throwing yourself away. But I am sorry for -you, Gussy. I don’t triumph over you. You have been taken in, poor girl, -the worst of the two!” - -Gussy was shaken for the moment by his change of tone, by his sudden -compassion. She felt as if the ground had suddenly been cut from under -her feet, and a dizzy sense of insecurity came over her. She looked at -her mother, half frightened, not knowing what to think or say. - -“When you have come to your senses, Harry, you will perhaps tell us the -meaning of this!” cried Lady Augusta. “Girls, it is time for you to keep -your appointment with Elise. Ada will go with you to-day, for I don’t -feel quite well. If you have anything to say to me another time,” she -added with dignity, addressing her son, “especially if it is of a -violent description, you will be good enough to wait until Mary has left -the room. I do not choose that she should carry away into her new family -the recollection of brutality at home.” - -Lady Augusta’s grand manner was known in the household. Poor Gussy, -though sad and sorry enough, found it difficult to keep from a laugh in -which there would have been but little mirth. But Harry’s perceptions -were not so lively, or his sense of the ridiculous so strong. He was -somehow cowed by the idea of his little sister carrying a recollection -of brutality into so new and splendid a connection as the Marquis of -Hauteville’s magnificent family. - -“Oh, bosh!” he said; but it was almost under his breath. And then he -told them of Edgar’s departure from Tottenham’s, and of the discovery he -had made that Margaret had gone too. “You set him on, I suppose, to -cross me,” said Harry; “because I let you know there was one woman in -the world I could fancy--therefore you set him on to take her from me.” - -“Oh! Harry, how can you say so? _I_ set him on!” cried Lady Augusta. -“What you are telling me is all foolishness. You are both of you -frightening yourselves about nothing. If there is anyone dying, and they -were sent for, there is no harm in two cousins travelling together. -Harry, did this lady--know what your feelings were?” - -“I suppose,” said Harry, after a moment’s hesitation, “women are not -such fools but that they must know.” - -“Then you had said nothing to her?” said his mother, pursuing the -subject. Perhaps she permitted a little gleam of triumph to appear in -her eye, for he jumped up instantly, more excited than ever. - -“I am going after them,” he said. “I don’t mean to be turned off without -an answer. Whether she has me or not, she shall decide herself; it shall -not be done by any plot against us. This is what you drive me to, with -your underhand ways. I shall not wait a day longer. I’ll go down to -Scotland to-night.” - -“Do not say anything to him, Gussy,” cried Lady Augusta. “Let him accuse -his mother and sister of underhand ways, if he likes. And you can go, -sir, if you please, on your mad errand. If the woman is a lady, she will -know what to think of your suspicions. If she is not a lady----” - -“What then?” he cried, in high wrath. - -“Probably she will accept you,” said Lady Augusta, pale and grand. “I do -not understand the modes of action of such people. You will have had -your way, in any case--and then you will hear what your father has to -say.” - -Harry flung out of the house furious. He was very unhappy, poor fellow! -He was chilled and cast down, in spite of himself, by his mother’s -speech. Why should he follow Margaret as if he suspected her? What right -had he to interfere with her actions? If he went he might be supposed to -insult her--if he stayed he should lose her. What was he to do? Poor -Harry!--if Dr. Murray had not been so obnoxious to him, I think he would -have confided his troubles to, and asked advice from, Margaret’s -brother; but Dr. Charles had replied to his inquiry with a confidential -look, and a smile which made him furious. - -“She will be back in a week or two. I am not afraid just now, in present -circumstances, that she will forsake me for long,” he had said. “We -shall soon have her back again.” - -We!--whom did the fellow mean by we? Harry resolved on the spot that, if -she ever became his wife, she should give up this cad of a brother. -Which I am glad to say, for her credit, was a thing that Margaret would -never have consented to do. - -But the Thornleigh family was not happy that day. Gussy, though she had -never doubted Edgar before, yet felt cold shivers of uncertainty shoot -through her heart now. Margaret was beautiful, and almost all women -exaggerate the power of beauty. They give up instinctively before it, -with a conviction, which is so general as to be part of the feminine -creed, that no man can resist that magic power. No doubt Edgar meant to -do what was best; no doubt, she said to herself, that in his heart he -was true--but with a lovely woman there, so lovely, and with claims upon -his kindness, who could wonder if he went astray? And this poor little -scanty note which advised Gussy of his necessary absence, said not a -word about Margaret. She read it over and over again, finding it each -time less satisfactory. At the first reading it had been disappointing, -but nothing more; now it seemed cold, unnecessarily hurried, careless. -She contrasted it with a former one he had written to her, and it seemed -to her that no impartial eye could mistake the difference. She -sympathized with her brother, and yet she envied him, for he was a man, -and could go and discover what was false and what was true; but she had -to wait and be patient, and betray to no one what was the matter, though -her heart might be breaking--yes, though her heart might be breaking! -For, after all, might it not be said that it was she who made the first -overtures to Edgar, not he to her? It might be pity only for her long -constancy that had drawn him to her, and the sight of this woman’s -beautiful face might have melted away that false sentiment. When the -thoughts once fall to such a catastrophe as this, the velocity with -which they go (does not science say so?) doubles moment by moment. I -cannot tell you to what a pitch of misery Gussy had worn herself before -the end of that long--terribly long, silent, and hopeless Spring day. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -Loch Arroch once more. - - -Edgar and Margaret (accompanied, as she always was, by her child) -arrived at Loch Arroch early on the morning of the second day. They were -compelled to stay in Glasgow all night--she with friends she had there, -he in an inn. It was a rainy, melancholy morning when they got into the -steamer, and crossed the broad Clyde, and wound upward among the hills -to Loch Arroch Head, where Robert Campbell, with an aspect of formal -solemnity, waited with his gig to drive them to the farm. - -“You’re in time--oh ay, you’re in time; but little more,” he said, and -went on at intervals in a somewhat solemn monologue, as they drove down -the side of the grey and misty loch, under dripping cloaks and -umbrellas. “She’s been failing ever since the new year,” he said. “It’s -not to be wondered at, at her age; neither should we sorrow, as them -that are without hope. She’s lived a good and useful life, and them that -she brought into the world have been enabled to smooth her path out of -it. We’ve nothing to murmur at; she’ll be real glad to see you -both--you, Marg’ret, and you, Mr. Edgar. Often does she speak of you. -It’s a blessing of Providence that her life has been spared since the -time last Autumn when we all thought she was going. She’s had a real -comfortable evening time, with the light in it, poor old granny, as she -had a right to, if any erring mortal can be said to have a right. And -now, there’s Willie restored, that was thought to be dead and gone.” - -“Has Willie come back?” asked Margaret hastily. - -“He’s expected,” said Robert Campbell, with a curious dryness, changing -the lugubrious tone of his voice; “and I hope he’ll turn out an altered -man; but it’s no everyone going down to the sea in ships that sees the -wisdom o’ the Lord in the great waters, as might be hoped.” - -The rain blew in their faces, the mists came down over the great -mountain range which separates Loch Arroch from Loch Long, and the -Castle Farm lay damp and lonely in its little patch of green, with the -low ruins on the other side of the house shining brown against the cut -fields and the slaty blueness of the loch. It was not a cheerful -prospect, nor was it cheerful to enter the house itself, full of the -mournful bustle and suppressed excitement of a dying--that high -ceremonial, to which, in respect, or reverence, or dire curiosity, or -acquisitiveness, more dreadful still, so many spectators throng in the -condition of life to which all Mrs. Murray’s household belonged. - -In the sitting-room there were several people seated. Mrs. MacColl, the -youngest daughter, in her mother’s chair, with her handkerchief to her -eyes, and Mrs. Campbell opposite, telling her sister, who had but lately -arrived, the details of the illness; Jeanie MacColl, who had come with -her mother, sat listlessly at the window, looking out, depressed by the -day and the atmosphere, and the low hum of talk, and all the dismal -accessories of the scene. James Murray’s wife, a hard-featured, homely -person, plain in attire, and less refined in manner than any of the -others, went and came between the parlour and the kitchen. - -“They maun a’ have their dinner,” she said to Bell, “notwithstanding -that there’s a dying person in the house;” and with the corners of her -mouth drawn down, and an occasional sigh making itself audible, she laid -the cloth, and prepared the table. - -Now and then a sound in the room above would make them pause and -listen--for, indeed, at any moment they might all be called to witness -the exit of the departing soul. Bell’s steps in the kitchen, which were -unsubduable in point of sound, ran through all the more gentle stir of -this melancholy assembly. Bell was crying over her work, pausing now and -then to go into a corner, and wipe the tears from her cheeks; but she -could not make her footsteps light, or diminish the heaviness of her -shoes. - -There was a little additional bustle when the strangers arrived, and -Margaret and her child, who were wrapped up in cloaks and shawls, were -taken into the kitchen to have their wraps taken off, and to be warmed -and comforted. Edgar gave his own dripping coat to Bell, and stole -upstairs out of “the family,” in which he was not much at home. Little -Jeanie had just left her grandmother’s room on some necessary errand, -when he appeared at the top of the stair. She gave a low cry, and the -little tray she was carrying trembled in her hands. Her eyes were large -with watching, and her cheeks pale, and the sudden sight of him was -almost more than the poor little heart could bear; but, after a moment’s -silence, Jeanie, with an effort, recovered that command of herself which -is indispensable to women. - -“Oh! but she’ll be glad--glad to see you!” she cried--“it’s you she’s -aye cried for night and day.” - -Edgar stood still and held her hand, looking into the soft little face, -in which he saw only a tender sorrow, not harsh or despairing, but deep -and quiet. - -“Before even I speak of her,” he said, “my dear little Jeanie, let me -say how happy I am to hear about your brother--he is safe after all.” - -Jeanie’s countenance was moved, like the loch under the wind. Her great -eyes, diluted with sorrow, swelled full; a pathetic smile came upon her -lips. - -“He was dead, and is alive again,” she said softly; “he was lost and is -found.” - -“And now you will not be alone, whatever happens,” said Edgar. - -I don’t know what mixture of poignant pain came over the grateful gleam -in little Jeanie’s face. She drew her hand from him, and hastened -downstairs. “What does it matter to him, what does it matter to anyone, -how lonely I am?” was the thought that went through her simple heart. -Only one creature in the world had ever cared, chiefly, above everything -else, for Jeanie’s happiness, and that one was dying, not to be detained -by any anxious hold. Jeanie, simple as she was, knew better than to -believe that anything her brother could give her would make up for what -she was about to lose. - -Edgar went into the sick-room reverently, as if he had been going into a -holy place. Mrs. Murray lay propped up with pillows on the bed. For the -first moment it seemed to him that the summons which brought him there -must have been altogether uncalled for and foolish. The old woman’s eyes -were as bright and soft as Jeanie’s; the pale faint pink of a Winter -rose lingered in her old cheeks; her face seemed smoothed out of many of -the wrinkles which he used to know; and expanded into a calm and -largeness of peace which filled him with awe. Was it that all mortal -anxieties, all fears and questions of the lingering day were over? By -the bedside, in her own chair, sat the minister of the parish, an old -man, older than herself, who had known her all her life. He had been -reading to her, with a voice more tremulous than her own; and the two -old people had been talking quietly and slowly of the place to which -they were so near. I have no doubt that in the pulpit old Mr. Campbell, -like other divines, talked of golden streets, and harps and crowns, in -the New Jerusalem above. But here there was little room for such -anticipations. A certain wistfulness was in their old eyes, for the -veil before them was still impenetrable, though they were so near it; -but they were not excited. - -“You’re sure of finding Him,” the old man was saying; “and where He is, -there shall His people be.” - -“Ay,” said Mrs. Murray. “And, oh! it’s strange lying here, no sure -sometimes if it’s me or no; no sure which me it is--an auld woman or a -young woman; and then to think that a moment will make a’ clear.” - -This was the conversation that Edgar interrupted. She held out her -withered hand to him with a glow of joy that lighted up her face. - -“_My_ son,” she said. There was something in the words that seemed to -fill the room, Edgar thought, with an indescribable warmth and fulness -of meaning, yet with that strange uncertainty which belongs to the last -stage of life. He felt that she might be identifying him, unawares, with -some lost son of thirty years ago, not forgetting his own individuality, -yet mingling the two in one image. “This is the one I told you of,” she -said, turning to her old friend. - -“He is like his mother,” said the old man dreamily, putting out a hand -of silent welcome. - -They might have been two spirits talking over him, Edgar felt, as he -stood, young, anxious, careful, and troubled, between the two who were -lingering so near the calm echoes of the eternal sea. - -“You’ve come soon, soon, my bonnie man,” said Mrs. Murray, holding his -hand between hers; “and, oh, but I’m glad to see you! Maybe it’s but a -fancy, and maybe it’s sinful vanity, but, minister, when I look at him, -he minds me o’ mysel’. Ye’ll say it’s vain--the like of him, a comely -young man, and me; but it’s no in the outward appearance. I’ve had much, -much to do in my generation,” she said, slowly looking at him, with a -smile in her eyes. “And, Edgar, my bonnie lad, I’m thinking, so will -you----” - -“Don’t think of me,” he said; “but tell me how you are. You are not -looking ill, my dear old mother. You will be well again before I go.” - -“Oh! ay, I’ll be well again,” she said. “I’m no ill--I’m only slipping -away; but I would like to say out my say. The minister has his ain way -in the pulpit,” she went on, with a smile of soft humour, and with a -slowness and softness of utterance which looked like the very perfection -of art to cover her weakness; “and so may I on my deathbed, my bonnie -man. As I was saying, I’ve had much, much to do in my generation, -Edgar--and so will you.” - -She smoothed his hand between her own, caressing it, and looking at him -always with a smile. - -“And you may say it’s been for little, little enough,” she went on. “Ah! -when my bairns were bairns, how muckle I thought of them! I toiled, and -I toiled, and rose up early and lay down late, aye thinking they must -come to mair than common folk. It was vanity, minister, vanity; I ken -that weel. You need not shake your head. God be praised, it’s no a’ in -a moment you find out the like o’ that. But I’m telling you, Edgar, to -strengthen your heart. They’re just decent men and decent women, nae -mair--and I’ve great, great reason to be thankful; and it’s you, my -bonnie man, the seed that fell by the wayside--none o’ my training, none -o’ my nourishing---- Eh! how the Lord maun smile at us whiles,” she -added, slowly, one lingering tear running over her eyelid, “and a’ our -vain hopes!--no laugh. He’s ower tender for that.” - -“Or weep, rather,” said Edgar, penetrated by sympathetic understanding -of the long-concealed, half-fantastic pang of wounded love and pride, -which all these years had wrung silently the high heart now so near -being quieted for ever. She could smile now at her own expectations and -vanities--but what pathos was in the smile! - -“We must not put emotions like our own into His mind that’s over all,” -said the old minister. “Smiling or weeping’s no for Him.” - -“Eh, but I canna see that,” said the old woman. “Would He be kinder down -yonder by the Sea of Tiberias than He is up there in His ain house? It’s -at hame that the gentle heart’s aye kindest, minister. Mony a day I’ve -wondered if it mightna be just like our own loch, that Sea of -Galilee--the hills about, and the white towns, as it might be Loch -Arroch Head (though it’s more grey than white), and the fishing-cobbles. -But I’m wandering--I’m wandering. Edgar, my bonnie man, you’re tired -and hungry; go down the stair and get a rest, and something to eat.” - -Little though Edgar was disposed to resume the strange relationship -which linked him to the little party of homely people in the farm -parlour, with whom he felt so little sympathy, he had no alternative but -to obey. The early dinner was spread when he got downstairs, and a large -gathering of the family assembled round the table. All difference of -breeding and position disappear, we are fond of saying, in a common -feeling--a touch of nature makes the whole world kin; but Edgar felt, I -am afraid, more like the unhappy parson at tithing time, in Cowper’s -verses, than any less prosaic hero. With whimsical misery he felt the -trouble of being too fine for his company--he, the least fine of mortal -men. - -Margaret, upon whom his eye lingered almost lovingly, as she appeared -among the rest, a lily among briers, was not ill at ease as he was; -perhaps, to tell the truth, she was more entirely at her ease than when -she had sat, on her guard, and very anxious not to “commit any -solecism,” at Lady Mary’s table. To commit a solecism was the bugbear -which had always been held before her by her brother, whose fears on -this account made his existence miserable. But here Margaret felt the -sweetness of her own superiority, without being shocked by the -homeliness of the others. She had made a hurried visit to her -grandmother, and had cried, and had been comforted, and was now smiling -softly at them all, full of content and pleasant anticipations. Jeanie, -who never left her grandmother, was not present; the Campbells, the -MacColls and the Murrays formed the company, speaking low, yet eating -heartily, who thus waited for the death which was about to take place -above. - -“I never thought you would have got away so easy,” said Mrs. Campbell. -“I would scarcely let your uncle write. ‘How can she leave Charles, and -come such a far gait, maybe just for an hour or two?’ I said. But here -you are, Margaret, notwithstanding a’ my doubts. Ye’ll have plenty of -servant-maids, and much confidence in them, that ye can leave so easy -from a new place?” - -“We are not in our house yet, and we have no servant,” said Margaret. -“Charles is in lodgings, with a very decent person. It was easy enough -to get away.” - -“Lodgings are awful expensive,” said Mrs. MacColl. “I’m sure when we -were in lodgings, Mr. MacColl and me, the Exhibition year, I dare not -tell what it cost. You should get into a house of your ain--a doctor is -never anything thought of without a house of his ain.” - -“I hope you found the information correct?” said Robert Campbell, -addressing Edgar. “The woman at Dalmally minded the couple fine. It was -the same name as your auld friend yonder,” and he pointed with his thumb -over his left shoulder, to denote England, or Arden, or the world in -general. “One of the family, perhaps?” - -“Yes.” - -“Oh! I want to spy into no secrets. Things of this kind are often -turning up. They may say what they like against our Scotch law, but it -prevents villainy now and then, that’s certain. Were you interested for -the man or the leddy, if it’s a fair question? For it all depends upon -that.” - -“In neither of them,” said Edgar. “It was a third party, whom they had -injured, that I cared for. When is--Jeanie’s brother--expected back?” - -“He may come either the day or the morn,” said Mrs. MacColl. “I wish he -was here, for mother’s very weak. Do you not think she’s weaker since -the morning? I thought her looking just wonderful when I saw her first, -but at twelve o’clock--What did the doctor think?” - -“He canna tell more than the rest of us,” said James Murray’s wife. -“She’s going fast--that’s all that can be said.” - -And then there was a little pause, and everybody looked sad for the -moment. They almost brightened up, however, when some hasty steps were -heard overhead, and suspended their knives and forks and listened. -Excitement of this kind is hard to support for a stretch. Nature longs -for a crisis, even when the crisis is more terrible than their mild -sorrow could be supposed to be. When it appeared, however, that nothing -was about to happen, and the steps overhead grew still again, they all -calmed down and resumed their dinner, which was an alleviation of the -tedium. - -“She’s made a’ the necessary dispositions?” said James Murray’s wife, -interrogatively. “My man is coming by the next steamer. No that there -can be very muckle to divide.” - -“Nothing but auld napery, and the auld sticks of furniture. It will -bring very little--and the cow,” said Robert Campbell. “Jean likes the -beast, so we were thinking of making an offer for the cow.” - -“You’ll no think I’m wanting to get anything by my mother’s death,” said -Mrs. MacColl; “for I’m real well off, the Lord be thanked! with a good -man, and the bairns doing well; I would rather give than take, if there -was any occasion; but Robert has aye had a great notion of the old clock -on the stairs. There’s a song about it that one of the lassies sings. I -would like that, to keep the bairns in mind o’ their granny. She’s been -a kind granny to them all.” - -She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Margaret and Jeanie MacColl -cried a little. The rest of the company shook their heads, and assented -in different tones. - -“Real good and kind, good and kind to everybody! Ower guid to some that -little deserved it!” was the general burden, for family could not but -have its subdued fling at family, even in this moment of melancholy -accord. - -“You are forgetting,” said Edgar, “the only one of the family who is not -provided for. What my grandmother leaves should be for little Jeanie. -She is the only helpless one of all.” - -At this there was a little murmur round the table, of general -objection. - -“Jeanie has had far more than her share already,” said one. - -“She’s no more to granny than all the rest of the bairns,” cried -another. - -Robert Campbell, the only other man present, raised his voice, and made -himself heard. - -“Jeanie will never want,” he said; “here’s her brother come back, no -very much of a man, but still with heart enough in him to keep her from -wanting. Willie’s but a roving lad, but the very rovingness of him is -good for this, that he’ll not marry; and Jeanie will have a support, -till she gets a man, which is aye on the cards for such a bonnie lass.” - -This was said with more than one meaning. Edgar saw Margaret’s eyelashes -flutter on her cheek, and she moved a little uneasily, as though unable -to restrain all evidence of a painful emotion. Just at this moment, -however, a shadow darkened the window. Margaret, more keenly on the -watch than anyone, lifted her eyes suddenly, and, rising to her feet, -uttered a low cry. A young man in sailor’s dress came into the room, -with a somewhat noisy greeting. - -“What, all of you here! What luck!” he cried. “But where’s granny?” - -He had to be hushed into silence, and to have all the circumstances -explained to him; while Jeanie MacColl, half-reluctant to go, was sent -upstairs to call her cousin and namesake, and to take her place as nurse -for the moment. Edgar called her back softly, and offered himself for -this duty. He cast a glance at the returned prodigal as he left the -room, the brother for whom Jeanie had taken him, and whom everybody had -acknowledged his great likeness to. Edgar looked at him with mingled -amusement and curiosity, to see what he himself must look like. Perhaps -Willie had not improved during his adventurous cruise. Edgar did not -think much of himself as reflected in his image; and how glad he was to -escape from his uncle and his aunt, and their family talk, to the -stillness and loftier atmosphere of the death-chamber upstairs! - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -The End of a Drama. - - -Mrs. Murray lived two days longer. They were weary days to Edgar. It -seems hard to grudge another hour, another moment to the dying, but how -hard are those last lingerings, when hope is over, when all work is -suspended, and a whole little world visibly standing still, till the -lingerer can make up his mind to go! The sufferer herself was too human, -too deeply experienced in life, not to feel the heavy interval as much -as they did. “I’m grieved, grieved,” she said, with that emphatic -repetition which the Scotch peasant uses in common with all naturally -eloquent races, “to keep you waiting, bairns.” Sometimes she said this -with a wistful smile, as claiming their indulgence; sometimes with a -pang of consciousness that they were as weary as she was. She had kissed -and blessed her prodigal returned, and owned to herself with a groan, -which was, however, breathed into her own breast, and of which no one -was the wiser, that Willie, too, was “no more than common folk.” - -I cannot explain more than the words themselves do how this high soul in -homely guise felt the pang of her oft-repeated disappointment. Children -and grandchildren, she had fed them not with common food, the bread -earned with ordinary labours, but with her blood, like the pelican; with -the toil of man and woman, of ploughman and hero, all mingled into one. -High heart, heroic in her weakness as in her strength! They had turned -out but “common folk,” and, at each successive failure, that pang had -gone through and through her which common folk could not comprehend. She -looked at Willie the last, with a mingled pleasure and anguish in her -dying mind--I say pleasure, and not joy, for the signs of his face were -not such as to give that last benediction of happiness. Nature was glad -in her to see the boy back whom she had long believed at the bottom of -the sea; but her dying eyes looked at him wistfully, trying to penetrate -his heart, and reach its excuses. - -“You should have written, to ease our minds,” she said gently. - -“How was I to know you would take it to heart so? Many a man has stayed -away longer, and no harm come of it,” cried Willie, self-defending. - -The old woman put her hand upon his bended head, as he sat by her -bedside, half sullen, half sorry. She stroked his thick curling locks -softly, saying nothing for a few long silent moments. She did not blame -him further, nor justify him, but simply was silent. Then she said, - -“You will take care of your sister, Willie, as I have taken care of her? -She has suffered a great deal for you.” - -“But oh!” cried Jeanie, when they were alone together--kneeling by the -bedside, with her face upon her grandmother’s hand, “you never called -him but Willie--you never spoke to him soft and kind, as you used to -do.” - -“Was I no kind?” said the dying woman, with a mingled smile and sigh; -but she kept “My bonnie man!” her one expression of homely fondness, for -Edgar’s ear alone. - -They had more than one long conversation before her end came. Edgar was -always glad to volunteer to relieve the watchers in her room, feeling -infinitely more at home there than with the others below. On the night -before her death, she told him of the arrangements she had made. - -“You gave me your fortune, Edgar, ower rashly, my bonnie man. Your deed -was so worded, they tell me, that I might have willed your siller away -from you, had I no been an honest woman.” - -“And so I meant,” said Edgar, though he was not very clear that at the -time he had any meaning at all. “And there is Jeanie----” - -“You will not take Jeanie upon you,” said the old woman--“I charge ye -not to do it. The best thing her brother can have to steady him and keep -him right, is the thought of Jeanie on his hands--Jeanie to look for him -when he comes home. You’ll mind what I say. Meddling with nature is aye -wrong; I’ve done it in my day, and I’ve repented. To make a’ sure, I’ve -left a will, Edgar, giving everything to you--everything. What is it? My -auld napery, and the auld, auld remains of my mother’s--most of it her -spinning and mine. Give it to your aunts, Edgar, for they’ll think it -their due; but keep a something--what are the auld rags worth to -you?--keep a little piece to mind me by--a bit of the fine auld -damask--so proud as I was of it once! I’ve nae rings nor bonny-dies, -like a grand leddy, to keep you in mind of me.” - -She spoke so slowly that these words took her a long time to say, and -they were interrupted by frequent pauses; but her voice had not the -painful labouring which is so common at such a moment; it was very low, -but still sweet and clear. Then she put out her hand, still so fine, and -soft, and shapely, though the nervous force had gone out of it, upon -Edgar’s arm. - -“I’m going where I’ll hear nothing of you, maybe, for long,” she said. -“I would like to take all the news with me--for there’s them to meet -yonder that will want to hear. There’s something in your eye, my bonnie -man, that makes me glad. You’re no just as you were--there’s more light -and more life. Edgar, you’re seeing your way?” - -Then, in the silence of the night, he told her all his tale. The -curtains had been drawn aside, that she might see the moon shining over -the hills. The clearest still night had succeeded many days of rain; the -soft “hus-sh” of the loch lapping upon the beach was the only sound that -broke the great calm. He sat between her and that vision of blue sky and -silvered hill which was framed in by the window; by his side a little -table, with a candle on it, which lighted one side of his face; behind -him the shadowy dimness of the death-chamber; above him that gleam of -midnight sky. He saw nothing but her face; she looked wistfully, -fondly, as on a picture she might never see more, upon all the -circumstances of this scene. He told her everything--more than he ever -told to mortal after her--how he had been able to serve Clare, and how -she had been saved from humiliation and shame; how he had met Gussy, and -found her faithful; and how he was happy at the present moment, already -loved and trusted, but happier still in the life that lay before him, -and the woman who was to share it. She listened to every word with -minute attention, following him with little exclamations, and all the -interest of youth. - -“And oh! now I’m glad!” cried the old woman, making feeble efforts, -which wasted almost all the little breath left to her, to draw something -from under her pillow--“I’m glad I have something that I never would -part with. You’ll take her this, Edgar--you’ll give her my blessing. -Tell her my man brought me this when I was a bride. It’s marked out mony -a weary hour and mony a light one; it’s marked the time of births and of -deaths. When my John died, my man, it stoppit at the moment, and it was -long, long or I had the heart to wind it again and set it going. It’s -worn now, like me; but you’ll bid her keep it, Edgar, my bonnie man! -You’ll give her my blessing, and you’ll bid her to keep it, for your old -mother’s sake.” - -Trembling, she put into his hand an old watch, which he had often seen, -but never before so near. It was large and heavy, in an old case of -coppery gold, half hid under partially-effaced enamel, wanting -everything that a modern watch should have, but precious as an antiquity -and work of art. - -“A trumpery thing that cost five pounds would please _them_ better,” she -said. “It’s nae value, but it’s old, old, and came to John from a -far-off forbear. You’ll give it to her with my blessing. Ay, blessings -on her!--blessings on her sweet face!--for sweet it’s bound to be; and -blessings on her wise heart, that’s judged weel! eh, but I’m glad to -have one thing to send her. And, Edgar, now I’ve said all my say, turn -me a little, that I may see the moon. Heaven’s but a step on such a -bonnie night. If I’m away before the morning, you’ll shed nae tear, but -praise the Lord the going’s done. No, dinna leave it; take it away. Put -it into your breast-pocket, where you canna lose it. And now say -fare-ye-weel to your old mother, my bonnie man.” - -These were the last words she said to him alone. When some one came to -relieve him, Edgar went out with a full heart into the silvery night. -Not a sound of humanity broke the still air, which yet had in it a -sharpness of the spring frosts. The loch rose and fell upon its pebbles, -as if it hushed its own very waves in sorrow. The moon shone as if with -a purpose--as if holding her lovely lamp to light some beloved wayfarer -up the shining slope. - -“Heaven’s but a step on such a night,” he said to himself, with tears of -which his manhood was not ashamed. And so the moon lighted the traveller -home. - -With the very next morning the distractions of common earth returned. -Behind the closed shutters, the women began to examine the old napery, -and the men to calculate what the furniture, the cow, the cocks and hens -would bring. James Murray valued it all, pencil and notebook in hand. -Nothing would have induced the family to show so little respect as to -shorten the six or seven days’ interval before the funeral, but it was a -very tedious interval for them all. Mrs. Campbell drove off with her -husband to her own house on the second day, and James Murray returned to -Greenock; but the MacColls stayed, and Margaret, and made their “blacks” -in the darkened room below, and spoke under their breath, and wearied -for the funeral day which should release them. - -Margaret, perhaps, was the one on whom this interval fell most lightly; -but yet Margaret had her private sorrows, less easy to bear than the -natural grief which justified her tears. The sailor Willie paid but -little attention to her beauty and her pathetic looks. He was full of -plans about his little sister, about taking her with him on his next -voyage, to strengthen her and “divert” her; and poor Margaret, whose -heart had gone out of her breast at first sight of him, as it had done -in her early girlhood, felt her heart sicken with the neglect, yet could -not believe in it. She could not believe in his indifference, in his -want of sympathy with those feelings which had outlived so many other -things in her mind. She went to Edgar a few days after their -grandmother’s death with a letter in her hand. She went to him for -advice, and I cannot tell what it was she wished him to advise her. She -did not know herself; she wanted to do two things, and she could but -with difficulty and at a risk to herself do one. - -“This is a letter I have got from Mr. Thornleigh,” she said, with -downcast looks. “Oh! Cousin Edgar, my heart is breaking! Will you tell -me what to do?” - -Harry’s letter was hot and desperate, as was his mind. He implored her, -with abject entreaties, to marry him, not to cast him off; to remember -that for a time she had smiled upon him, or seemed to smile upon him, -and not to listen now to what anyone might say who should seek to -prejudice her against him. “What does my family matter when I adore -you?” cried poor Harry, unwittingly betraying himself. And he begged her -to send him one word, only one word--permission to come down and speak -for himself. Edgar felt, as he read this piteous epistle, like the wolf -into whose fangs a lamb had thrust its unsuspecting head. - -“How can I advise you how to answer?” he said, giving her back the -letter, glad to get it out of his hands. “You must answer according to -what is in your heart.” - -Upon this Margaret wept, wringing her lily hands. - -“Mr. Edgar,” she said, “you cannot think that I am not moved by such a -letter. Oh! I’m not mercenary, I don’t think I am mercenary! but to have -all this put at my feet, to feel that it would be for Charles’s good -and for Sibby’s good, if I could make up my mind!” - -Here she stopped, and cast a glance back at the house again. Edgar had -been taking a melancholy walk along the side of the loch, where she had -joined him. Her heart was wrung by a private conflict, which she could -not put into words, but which he divined. He felt sure of it, from all -he had seen and heard since they came, as well as from the impression -conveyed to his mind the moment she had named the sailor Willie’s name. -I do not know why it should be humbling for a woman to love without -return, when it is not humbling for a man; but it is certain that for -nothing in the world would Margaret have breathed the cause of her -lingering unwillingness to do anything which should separate her from -Willie; and that Edgar felt hot and ashamed for her, and turned away his -eyes, that she might not see any insight in them. At the same time, -however, the question had another side for him, and involved his own -fortunes. He tried to dismiss this thought altogether out of his mind, -but it was hard to do so. Had she loved Harry Thornleigh, Edgar would -have felt himself all the more pledged to impartiality, because this -union would seriously endanger his own; but to help to ruin himself by -encouraging a mercenary marriage, this would be hard indeed! - -“Are you sure that you would get so many advantages?--to Charles and to -Sibby?” he cried, with a coldness impossible to conceal. - -She looked at him startled, the tears arrested in her blue eyes. She -had never doubted upon this point. Could she make up her mind to marry -Harry, every external advantage that heart could desire she felt would -be secured. This first doubt filled her with dismay. - -“Would I no?” she cried faltering. “He is a rich man’s heir, Lady Mary’s -nephew--a rich gentleman. Oh! Cousin Edgar, what will you think of me? I -have always been poor, and Charles is poor--how can I put that out of my -mind?” - -“I do not blame you,” said Edgar, feeling ashamed both of himself and -her. And then he added, “He is a rich man’s son, but his father is not -old; and he would not receive you gladly into his family. Forgive me -that I say so--I ought to tell you that I am not a fair judge. I am -going to marry Harry’s sister, and they object very much to me.” - -“Object to _you_!--they are ill to please,” cried Margaret, with simple -natural indignation. “But if you were in the family, that would make -things easier for us,” she added, wistfully, looking up in his face. - -“You have made up your mind, then, to run the risk?” said Edgar, feeling -his heart sink. - -“I did not say that.” She gave another glance at the house again. Willie -was standing at the door, in the morning sunshine, and beckoned to her -to come back. She turned to him, as a flower turns to the sun. “No, I am -far, far from saying that,” said the young woman, with a mixture of -sadness and gladness, turning to obey the summons. - -Edgar stood still, looking after her with wondering gaze. The -good-looking sailor, whose likeness to himself did not make him proud, -was a poor creature enough to be as the sun in the heavens to this -beautiful, stately young woman, who looked as if she had been born to be -a princess. What a strange world it is, and how doubly strange is human -nature! Willie had but to hold up a finger, and Margaret would follow -him to the end of the earth; though the rest of his friends judged him -rightly enough, and though even little Jeanie, though she loved, could -scarcely approve her brother, Margaret was ready to give up even her -hope of wealth and state, which she loved, for this Sultan’s notice. -Strange influence, which no man could calculate upon, which no prudence -restrained, nor higher nor lower sentiment could quite subdue! - -Edgar followed his beautiful cousin to the house with pitying eyes. He -did not want her to marry Harry Thornleigh, but even to marry Harry -Thornleigh, though she did not love him, seemed less degrading than to -hang upon the smile, the careless whistle to his hand, of a man so -inferior to her. I don’t know if, in reality, Willie was inferior to -Margaret. She, for one, would have been quite satisfied with him; but -great beauty creates an atmosphere about it which dazzles the beholder. -It was not fit, Edgar felt, in spite of himself, that a woman so lovely -should thus be thrown away. - -As this is but an episode in my story, I may here follow Margaret’s -uncomfortable wooing to its end. Poor Harry, tantalized and driven -desperate by a letter, which seemed, to Margaret, the most gently -temporising in the world, and which was intended to keep him from -despair, and to retain her hold upon him until Willie’s purposes were -fully manifested, at last made his appearance at Loch Arroch Head, where -she was paying the Campbells a visit, on the day after Edgar left the -loch. He came determined to hear his fate decided one way or another, -almost ill with the excitement in which he had been kept, wilder than -ever in the sudden passion which had seized upon him like an evil -spirit. He met her, on his unexpected arrival, walking with Willie, who, -having nothing else to do, did not object to amuse his leisure with his -beautiful cousin, whose devotion to him, I fear, he knew. Poor Margaret! -I know her behaviour was ignoble, but I regret--as I have confessed to -the reader--that she did not become the great lady she might have been; -and, notwithstanding that Edgar’s position would have been deeply -complicated thereby, I wish the field had been left clear for Harry -Thornleigh, who would have made her a good enough husband, and to whom -she would have made, in the end, a very sweet wife. Forgive me, young -romancist, I cannot help this regret. Even at that moment Margaret did -not want to lose her young English Squire, and her friends were so far -from wanting to lose him that Harry, driven to dire disgust, hated them -ever after with a strenuous hatred, which he transferred to their nation -generally, not knowing any better. He lingered for a day or more, -waiting for the answer which Margaret was unwilling to give, and -tortured by Willie, who, seeing the state of affairs, felt his vanity -involved, and was more and more loverlike to his cousin. The issue was -that Harry rushed away at last half mad, and went abroad, and wasted his -substance more than he had ever done up to that moment, damaged his -reputation, and encumbered his patrimony, and fell into that state of -cynical disbelief in everybody, which, bad as are its effects even upon -the cleverest and brightest intelligence, has a worse influence still -upon the stupid, to whom there is no possibility of escape from its -withering power. - -When Harry was fairly off the scene, his rival slackened in his -attentions; and after a while Margaret returned to her brother, and they -did their best to retrieve their standing at Tottenham’s, and to make -the position of the doctor’s family at Harbour Green a pleasant one. But -Lady Mary, superior to ordinary prejudices as she was, was not so -superior as to be altogether just to Margaret, who, though she deserved -blame, got more blame than she deserved. The Thornleighs all believed -that she had “laid herself out” to “entrap” Harry--which was not the -case; and Lady Mary looked coldly upon the woman who had permitted -herself to be loved by a man so far above her sphere. And then Lady Mary -disliked the doctor, who never could think even of the most interesting -“case” so much as to be indifferent to what people were thinking of -himself. So Harbour Green proved unsuccessful, as their other -experiments had proved, and the brother and sister drifted off again -into the world, where they drift still, from place to place, always -needy, anxious, afraid of their gentility, yet with that link of -fraternal love between them, and with that toleration of each other and -mutual support, which gives a certain beauty, wherever they go, to the -family group formed by this handsome brother and sister, and the -beautiful child, whom her uncle cherishes almost as dearly as her mother -does. - -Ah, me! if Margaret had made that “good match,” though it was not all -for love, would it not have been better for everybody concerned? - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -Another Winding-up. - - -I hope it will not give the reader a poor idea of Edgar’s heart if I say -that it was with a relief which it was impossible to exaggerate that he -felt the last dreary day of darkness pass, and was liberated from his -melancholy duties. This did not affect his sorrow for the noble -old woman who had made him at once her confidant and her -inheritor--inheritor not of land or wealth, but of something more subtle -and less tangible. But indeed for her there was no sorrow needed. Out of -perennial disappointments she had gone to her kind, to those with whom -she could no longer be disappointed. Heaven had been “but a step” to -her, which she took smiling. For her the hearse, the black funeral, the -nodding plumes, were inappropriate enough; but they pleased the family, -of whom it never could be said by any detractor that they had not paid -to their mother “every respect.” - -Edgar felt that his connection with them was over for ever when he took -leave of them on the evening of the funeral. The only one over whom his -heart yearned a little was Jeanie, who was the true mourner of the only -mother she had ever known, but who, in the midst of her mourning, poor -child, felt another pang, perhaps more exquisite, at the thought of -seeing him, too, no more. All the confusion of sentiment and feeling, of -misplaced loves and indifferences, which make up the world were in this -one little family. Jeanie had given her visionary child’s heart to -Edgar, who, half aware of, half disowning the gift, thought of her ever -with tender sympathy and reverence, as of something sacred. Margaret, -less exquisite in her sentiments, yet a loving soul in her way, had -given hers to Willie, who was vain of her preference, and laughed at -it--who felt himself a finer fellow, and she a smaller creature because -she loved him. Dr. Charles, uneasy soul, would have given his head had -he dared to marry Jeanie, yet would not, even had she cared for him, -have ventured to burden his tottering gentility with a wife so homely. - -Thus all were astray from the end which might have made each a nobler -and certainly a happier creature. Edgar never put these thoughts into -words, for he was too chivalrous a man even to allow to himself that a -woman had given her heart to him unsought; but the complications of -which he was conscious filled him with a vague pang--as the larger -complications of the world--that clash of interests, those broken -threads, that never meet, those fulnesses and needinesses, which never -can be brought to bear upon each other--perplex and pain the spectator. -He was glad, as we all are, to escape from them; and when he reached -London, where his love was, and where, the first thing he found on his -arrival was the announcement of his appointment, his heart rose with a -sudden leap, spurning the troubles of the past, in elastic revulsion. He -had his little fortune again, not much, at any time, but yet something, -which Gussy could hang at her girdle, and his old mother’s watch for -her, quaint, but precious possession. He was scarcely anxious as to his -reception, though she had written him but one brief note since his -absence; for Edgar was himself so absolutely true that it did not come -into his heart that he could be doubted. But he could not go to Gussy at -once, even on his arrival. Another and a less pleasant task remained for -him. He had to meet his sister at the hotel she had gone to, and be -present at the clandestine marriage--for it was no better--which was at -last to unite legally the lives of Arthur Arden and Clare. - -Clare had arrived in town the evening before. He found her waiting for -him, in her black dress, her children by her, in black also. She was -still as pale as when he left her at Arden, but she received him with -more cordiality than she had shown when parting with him. There was -something in her eyes which alarmed him--an occasional vagueness, almost -wildness. - -“We did wrong, Edgar,” she said, when the children were sent away, and -they were left together--“we did wrong.” - -“In what did we do wrong, Clare?” - -“In ever thinking of those--those papers. We should have burnt them, you -and I together. What was it to anyone what happened between us? We were -the sole Ardens of the family--the only ones to be consulted.” - -“Clare! Clare! I am no Arden at all. Would you have had me live on a lie -all my life, and build my own comfort upon some one else’s wrong?” - -“You were always too high-flown, Edgar,” she said, with the practical -quiet of old. “Why did you come to me whenever you heard that trouble -was coming? Because you were my brother. Instinct proves it. If you are -my brother, then it is you who should be master at Arden, and -not--anyone else.” - -“It is true I am your brother,” he said, sitting down by her, and -looking tenderly into her colourless face. - -“Then we were wrong, Edgar--we were wrong--I know we were wrong; and now -we must suffer for it,” she said, with a low moan. “My boy will be like -you, the heir, and yet not the heir; but for him I will do more than I -did for you. I will not stop for lying. What is a lie? A lie does not -break you off from your life.” - -“Does it not? Clare, if you would think a moment----” - -“Oh! I think!” she cried--“I think!--I do nothing but think! Come, now, -we must not talk any more; it is time to go.” - -They drove together in a street cab to an obscure street in the city, -where there was a church which few people ever entered. I doubt if this -choice was so wise as they thought, but the incumbent was old, the clerk -old, and everything in their favour, so far as secrecy was concerned. -Arthur Arden met them there, pale, but eager as any bridegroom could be. -Clare had her veil--a heavy veil of black lace--over her face; the very -pew-opener shuddered at such a dismal wedding, and naturally all the -three officials, clergyman, clerk, and old woman, exerted all their aged -faculties to penetrate the mystery. The bridal party went back very -silently in another cab to Clare’s hotel, where Arthur Arden saw his -children, seizing upon them with hungry love and caresses. He did not -suspect, as Edgar did, that the play was not yet played out. - -“You have never said that you forgive me, Clare,” he said, after, to his -amazement, she had sent her boy and girl away. - -“I cannot say what I do not mean,” she said, in a very low and tremulous -voice. “I have said nothing all this time; now it is my turn to speak. -Oh! don’t look at me so, Edgar!--don’t ask me to be merciful with your -beseeching eyes! We were not merciful to you.” - -“What does she mean?” said Arthur Arden, looking dully at him; and then -he turned to his wife. “Well, Clare, you’ve had occasion to be angry--I -don’t deny it. I don’t excuse myself. I ought to have looked deeper into -that old affair. But the punishment has been as great on me as on you.” - -“Oh, the punishment!” she cried. “What is the punishment in comparison? -It is time I should tell you what I am going to do.” - -“There, there now!” he said, half frightened, half coaxing. “We are -going home. Things will come right, and time will mend everything. No -one knows but Edgar, and we can trust Edgar. I will not press you for -pardon. I will wait; I will be patient----” - -“I am not going home any more. I have no home,” she said. - -“Clare, Clare!” - -“Listen to what I say. I am ill. There shall be no slander--no story for -the world to talk of. I have told everybody that I am going to Italy for -my health. It need not even be known that you don’t go with me. I have -made all my arrangements. You go your way, and I go mine. It is all -settled, and there is nothing more to say.” - -She rose up and stood firm before them, very pale, very shadowy, a -slight creature, but immovable, invincible. Arthur Arden knew his wife -less than her brother did. He tried to overcome her by protestations, by -entreaties, by threats, by violence. Nothing made any impression upon -her; she had made her decision, and Heaven and earth could not turn her -from it. Edgar had to hold what place he could between them--now -seconding Arden’s arguments, now subduing his violence; but neither the -one nor the other succeeded in their efforts. She consented to wait in -London a day or two, and to allow Edgar to arrange her journey for -her--a journey upon which she needed and would accept no escort--but -that was all. Arden came away a broken man, on Edgar’s arm, almost -sobbing in his despair. - -“You won’t leave me, Edgar--you’ll speak for me--you’ll persuade her it -is folly--worse than folly!” he cried. - - * * * * * - -It was long before Edgar could leave him, a little quieted by promises -of all that could be done. Arden clung to him as to his last hope. Thus -it was afternoon when at last he was able to turn his steps towards -Berkeley Square. - - * * * * * - -Gussy knew he was to arrive in town that morning, and, torn by painful -doubts as she was, every moment of delay naturally seemed to her a -further evidence that Edgar had other thoughts in his mind more -important to him than she was. She had said nothing to anyone about -expecting him, but within herself had privately calculated that by -eleven o’clock at least she might expect him to explain everything and -make everything clear. Eleven o’clock came, and Gussy grew _distraite_, -and counted unconsciously the beats of the clock, with a pulsation -quicker and quite as loud going on in her heart. Twelve o’clock, and her -heart grew sick with the deferred hope, and the explanation seemed to -grow dim and recede further and further from her. He had never mentioned -Margaret in his letters, which were very short, though frequent; and -Gussy knew that her brother, in wild impatience, had gone off two days -before to ascertain his fate. But she was a woman, and must wait till -her fate came to her, counting the cruel moments, and feeling the time -pass slowly, slowly dragging its weary course. One o’clock; then -luncheon, which she had to make a pretence to eat, amid the chatter of -the girls, who were so merry and so loud that she could not hear the -steps without and the knocks at the door. - -When they were all ready to go out after, Gussy excused herself. She had -a headache, she said, and indeed she was pale enough for any headache. -He deserved that she should go out as usual, and wait no longer to -receive him; but she would not treat him as he deserved. When they were -all gone she could watch at the window, in the shade of the curtains, to -see if he was coming, going over a hundred theories to explain his -conduct. That he had been mistaken in his feeling all along, and never -had really cared for her; that Margaret’s beauty had been too much for -him, and had carried him away; that he cared for her a little, enough to -fulfil his engagements, and observe a kindly sort of duty towards her, -but that he had other friends to see, and business to do, more important -than she was. All these fancies surged through her head as she stood, -the dark damask half hiding her light little figure at the window. - -The days had lengthened, the sounds outside were sounds of spring, the -trees in the square garden were coloured faintly with the first tender -wash of green. Steps went and came along the pavement, carriages drew -up, doors opened and shut, but no Edgar. She was just turning from the -window, half blind and wholly sick with the strain, when the sound of a -light, firm foot on the stair caught her ears, and Edgar made his -appearance at last. There was a glow of pleasure on his face, but care -and wrinkles on his forehead. Was the rush with which he came forward -to her, and the warmth of his greeting, and the light on his face, -fictitious? Gussy felt herself warm and brighten, too, involuntarily, -but yet would have liked best to sit down in a corner and cry. - -“How glad I am to find you alone!” he said. “What a relief it is to get -here at last! I am tired, and dead beat, and sick and sorry, dear. Now I -can breathe and rest.” - -“You have been long, long of coming,” said Gussy, half wearily, half -reproachfully. - -“Haven’t I? It seems about a year since I arrived this morning, and not -able to get near you till now. Gussy, tell me, first of all, did you see -it?--do you know?” - -“What?” Her heart was melting--all the pain and all the anger, quite -unreasonably as they had risen, floating away. - -“Our Consulship,” he said, opening up his newspaper with one hand, and -spreading it out, to be held by the other hand, on the other side of -her. The two heads bent close together to look at this blessed -announcement. “Not much for you, my darling--for me everything,” said -Edgar, with a voice in which bells of joy seemed to be ringing, dancing, -jostling against each other for very gladness. “I was half afraid you -would see it before I brought the news.” - -“I had no heart to look at the paper this morning,” she said. - -“No heart! Something has happened? Your father--Harry--what is it?” -cried Edgar, in alarm. - -“Oh! nothing,” cried Gussy, crying. “I was unhappy, that was all. I did -not know what you would say to me. I thought you did not care for me. I -had doubts, dreadful doubts! Don’t ask me any more.” - -“Doubts--of me!” cried Edgar, with a surprised, frank laugh. - -Never in her life had Gussy felt so much ashamed of herself. She did not -venture to say another word about those doubts which, with such -laughing, pleasant indifference, he had dismissed as impossible. She sat -in a dream while he told her everything, hearing it all like a tale that -she had read in a book. He brought out the old watch and gave it to her, -and she kissed it and put it within her dress, and cried when he -described to her the last words of his old mother. Loch Arroch and all -its homely circumstances became as a scene of the Scriptures to Gussy; -she seemed to see a glory of ideal hills and waters, and the moonlight -filling the sky and earth, and the loveliness of the night which made it -look “but a step” between earth and heaven. Her heart grew so full over -those details that Edgar, unsuspicious, never discovered the compunction -which mingled in that sympathetic grief. He told her about his journey; -then paused, and looked her in the eyes. - -“Last year it was you who travelled with me. You were the little -sister?” he said. “Ah! yes, I know it was you. You came and kissed me in -my sleep----” - -“Indeed I did not, sir!” cried Gussy, in high indignation. “I would not -have done such a thing for all the world.” - -Edgar laughed, and held her so fast that she could not turn from him. - -“You did in spirit,” he said; “and I had it in a dream. Ever since I -have had a kind of hope in my life; I dreamt that you put the veil -aside, and I saw you. When I woke I could not believe it, though I knew -it; but the other sister, the real one, would not tell me your name.” - -“Poor sister Susan!” cried Gussy, the tears disappearing, the sunshine -bursting out over all her face; “she will not like me to go back into -the world.” - -“Nor to go out to Italy as a Consul,” said Edgar, gay as a boy in his -new happiness, “to talk to all the ships’ captains, and find out about -the harbour dues.” - -“Foolish! there are no ship captains, nor ships either, nor dues of any -kind--” - -“Nothing but the bay and the hills, and the sunsets and the moonrises; -the Riviera, which means Paradise--” - -“And to be together--” - -“Which has the same meaning,” he said. And then they stopped in this -admirable fooling, and laughed the foolish laughter of mere happiness, -which is not such a bad thing, when one can have it, once in a way. - -“What a useless, idle, Sybarite life you have sketched out for us!” -Gussy said at last. “I hope it is not a mere sunshiny sinecure. I hope -there is something to do.” - -“I am very good at doing nothing,” Edgar replied--too glad, at last, to -return to homely reality and matter of fact; and until the others came -home, these two talked as much nonsense as it is given to the best of us -to talk; and got such good of it as no words can describe. - -When Lady Augusta returned, she pretended to frown upon Edgar, and -smiled; and then gave him her hand, and then inclined her cheek towards -him. They had the paper out again, and she shook her head; then kissed -Gussy, and told them that Spezzia was the most lovely place in all the -world. Edgar stayed to dinner, as at last a recognised belonging of the -household, and met Lord Granton, who was somewhat frightened of him, and -respectful, having heard his praises celebrated by Mary as something -more than flesh and blood; and for that evening “the Grantons” that were -to be, were nobodies--not even redeemed from insignificance by the fact -that their marriage was approaching, while the other marriage was still -in the clouds. - -“How nice it would be if they could be on the same day!” little Mary -whispered, rather, I fear, with the thought of recovering something of -her natural consequence as bride than for any other reason. - -“As if the august ceremonial used at an Earl’s wedding would do for a -Consul’s!” cried saucy Gussy, tossing her curls as of old. And -notwithstanding Edgar’s memories, and the dark shadow of Clare’s -troubles that stood by his side, and the fear that now and then -overwhelmed them all about Harry’s movements--in spite of all this, I do -not think a merrier evening was ever spent in Berkeley Square. Gussy had -been in a cloud, in a veil, for all these years; she had not thought it -right to laugh much, as the Associate of a Sisterhood--which is to say -that Gussy was not happy enough to want to laugh, and founded that grey, -or brown, or black restriction for herself, with the ingenuity of an -unscrupulous young woman. But now sweet laughter had become again as -natural to her as breath. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -H.B.M.’s Consul.--Conclusion. - - -Clare carried out her intentions, unmoved by all the entreaties -addressed to her. She heard everything that was said with perfect calm; -either her capabilities of emotion were altogether exhausted, or her -passionate sense of wrong was too deep to show at the surface, and she -was calm as a marble statue; but she was equally inflexible. Edgar -turned, in spite of himself, into Arthur Arden’s advocate; pleaded with -her, setting forth every reason he could think of, partly against his -own judgment--and failed. Her husband, against whom she did not -absolutely close her door, threw himself at her feet, and entreated, for -the children’s sake, for the sake of all that was most important to them -both--the credit of their house, the good name of their boy. These were -arguments which with Clare, in her natural mind, would have been -unanswerable; but that had happened to Clare which warps the mind from -its natural modes of thought. The idea of disgrace had got into her very -soul, like a canker. She was unable to examine her reasons--unable to -resist, even in herself, this overwhelming influence; it overcame her -principles, and even her prejudices, which are more difficult to -overcome. The fear of scandal, which those who knew Clare would have -supposed sufficient to make her endure anything, failed totally here. -She knew that her behaviour would make the world talk, and she even felt -that, with this clue to some profound disagreement between her husband -and herself, the whole story might be more easily revealed, and her -boy’s heirship made impossible; but even with this argument she could -not subdue herself, nor suffer herself to be subdued. The sense of -outrage had taken possession of her; she could not forget it--could not -realize the possibility of ever forgetting it. It was not that she had -been brought within the reach of possible disgrace. She _was_ disgraced; -the very formality of the new marriage, though she consented to it -without question, as a necessity, was a new outrage. In short, Clare, -though she acted with a determination and steadiness which seemed to add -force to her character, and showed her natural powers as nothing else -had ever done, was not, for the first time in her life, a free agent. -She had been taken possession of by a passionate sense of injury, which -seized upon her as an evil spirit might seize upon its victim. In the -very fierceness of her individual resentment, she ceased to be an -individual, and became an abstraction, a woman wronged, capable of -feeling, knowing, thinking of nothing but her wrong. This made all -arguments powerless, all pleas foolish. She could not admit any -alternative into her mind; her powers of reasoning failed her altogether -on this subject; on all others she was sane and sensible, but on this -had all the onesidedness, the narrowness of madness--or of the -twin-sister of madness--irrepressible and irrepressed passion. - -Without knowing anything of the real facts of the story, the Thornleighs -were admitted to see her, on Clare’s own suggestion; for her warped mind -was cunning to see where an advantage could be drawn from partial -publicity. They found her on her sofa, looking, in the paleness which -had now become habitual to her, like a creature vanishing out of the -living world. - -“Why did you not let us know you were ill? You must have been suffering -long, and never complained!” cried Lady Augusta, moved almost to tears. - -“Not very long,” said Clare. - -She had permitted her husband to be present at this interview, to keep -up appearances to the last; and Arthur felt as if every word was a dart -aimed at him, though I do not think she meant it so. - -“Not long! My dear child, you are quite thin and wasted; this cannot -have come on all at once. But Italy will do you all the good in the -world,” Lady Augusta added, trying to be cheerful. “_They_, you know, -are going to Italy too.” - -“But not near where I shall be,” said Clare. - -“You must go further south? I am very sorry. Gussy and you would have -been company for each other. You are not strong enough for company? My -poor child! But once out of these cold spring winds, you will do well,” -said kind Lady Augusta. - -But though she thus took the matter on the surface, she felt that there -was more below. Her looks grew more and more perplexed as they discussed -Edgar’s appointment, and the humble beginning which the young couple -would make in the world. - -“It is very imprudent--very imprudent,” Lady Augusta said, shaking her -head. “I have said all I can, Mrs. Arden, and so has Mr. Thornleigh. I -don’t know how they are to get on. It is the most imprudent thing I ever -heard of.” - -“Nothing is imprudent,” said Clare, with a hard, dry intonation, which -took all pleasant meaning out of the words, “when you can trust fully -for life or death; and my brother Edgar is one whom everybody can -trust.” - -“At all events, we are both of us old enough to know our own minds,” -said Gussy, hastily, trying to laugh off this impression. “If we choose -to starve together, who should prevent us?” - -Arthur Arden took them to their carriage, but Lady Augusta remarked that -he did not go upstairs again. “There is something in all this more than -meets the eye,” she said, oracularly. - -Many people suspected this, after Lady Augusta, when Clare was gone, and -when it came out that Mr. Arden was not with her, but passing most of -his time in London, knocking about from club to club, through all the -dreary winter. He made an effort to spend his time as virtuously as -possible that first year; but the second year he was more restless and -less virtuous, having fallen into despair. Then everybody talked of the -breach between them, and a great deal crept out that they had thought -buried in silence. Even the real facts of the case were guessed at, -though never fully established, and the empty house became the subject -of many a tale. People remarked that there were many strange stories -about the Ardens; that they had behaved very strangely to the last -proprietor before Arthur; that nobody had ever heard the rights of that -story, and that Edgar had been badly used. - -Whilst all this went on, Clare lived gloomy and retired by herself, in a -little village on the Neapolitan coast. She saw nobody, avoiding the -wandering English, and everybody who could have known her in better -times; and I don’t know how long her reason could have stood the wear -and tear, but for the illness and death of the poor little heir, whose -hapless position had given the worst pang to her shame and horror. -Little Arthur died, his mother scarcely believing it, refusing to think -such a thing possible. Her husband had heard incidentally of the child’s -illness, and had hurried to the neighbourhood, scarcely hoping to be -admitted. But Clare neither welcomed him nor refused him admission, but -permitted his presence, and ignored it. When the child was gone, -however, it was Arthur’s vehement grief which first roused her out of -her stupor. - -“It is you who have done it!” she cried, turning upon him with eyes full -of tearless passion. But she did not send him out of her house. She felt -ill, worn out in body and mind, and left everything in his hands. And -by-and-by, when she came to herself, Clare allowed herself to be taken -home, and fled from her duties no longer. - -This was the end of their story. They were more united in the later -portion of their lives than in the beginning, but they have no heir to -come after them. The history of the Ardens will end with them, for the -heir-at-law is distant in blood, and has a different name. - -As for the other personages mentioned in this story, Mr. Tottenham still -governs his shop as if it were an empire, and still comes to a -periodical crisis in the shape of an Entertainment, which threatens to -fail up to the last moment, and then is turned into a great success. The -last thing I have heard of Tottenham’s was, that it had set up a little -daily newspaper of its own, written and printed on the establishment, -which Mr. Tottenham thought very likely to bring forward some latent -talent which otherwise might have been lost in dissertations on the -prices of cotton, or the risings and fallings of silks. After Gussy’s -departure, I hear the daily services fell off in the chapel; flowers -were no longer placed fresh and fragrant on the temporary altar, there -was no one to play the harmonium, and the attendance gradually -decreased. It fell from a daily to a weekly service, and then came to an -end altogether, for it was found that the young ladies and the gentlemen -preferred to go out on Sunday, and to choose their own preachers after -their differing tastes. How many of them strayed off to chapel instead -of church, it would have broken Gussy’s heart to hear. I do not think, -however, that this disturbed Mr. Tottenham much, who was too viewy not -to be very tolerant, and who liked himself to hear what every new -opinion had to say for itself. Lady Mary was very successful with her -lectures, and I hope improved the feminine mind very much at Harbour -Green. She thought she improved her own mind, which was of course a -satisfaction; and did her best to transmit to little Molly very high -ideas of intellectual training; but Molly was a dunce, as providentially -happens often in the families of very clever people; and distinguished -herself by a curious untractableness, which did not hinder her from -being her mother’s pride, and the sweetest of all the cousins--or so at -least Lady Mary thought. - -The marriage of “the Grantons” took place in April, with the greatest -_éclat_. It was at Easter, when everybody was in the country; and was -one of the prettiest of weddings, as well as the most magnificent, which -Thornleigh ever saw. Mary’s presents filled a large room to overflowing. -She got everything possible and impossible that ever bride was blessed -with; and the young couple went off with a maid, and a valet and a -courier, and introductions to every personage in Europe. Their movements -were chronicled in the newspapers; their letters went and came in -ambassadorial despatch boxes. Short of royalty, there could have been -nothing more splendid, more “perfectly satisfactory,” as Lady Augusta -said. The only drawback was that Harry would not come to his sister’s -wedding; but to make up for that everybody else came--all the great -Hauteville connections, and Lady Augusta’s illustrious family, and all -the Thornleighs, to the third and fourth generations. Not only -Thornleigh itself, but every house within a radius of ten miles was -crowded with fine people and their servants; and the bells were rung in -half a dozen parish churches in honour of the wedding. It was described -fully in the _Morning Post_, with details of all the dresses, and of the -bride’s ornaments and _coiffure_. - -“We shall have none of these fine things, I suppose,” Gussy said, when -it was all over, turning to Edgar with a mock sigh. - -“No, my dear; and I don’t see how you could expect them,” said Lady -Augusta. “Instead of spending our money vainly on making a great show -for you, we had much better save it, to buy some useful necessary things -for your housekeeping. Mary is in quite a different case.” - -“Buy us pots and pans, mamma,” said Gussy, laughing; “though perhaps -earthen pipkins would do just as well in Italy. We shall not be such a -credit to you, but we shall be much cheaper. There is always something -in that.” - -“Ah! Gussy, it is easy to speak now; but wait till you are buried in the -cares of life,” said her mother, going away to superintend the -arrangements for the ball in the evening. So grand a wedding was -certainly very expensive; she never liked to tell anyone how much that -great ceremonial cost. - -A little later, the little church dressed itself in a few modest spring -flowers, and the school-children, with baskets full of primroses--the -last primroses of the season--made a carpet under Gussy’s feet as she, -in her turn, went along the familiar path between the village -gravestones, a bride. There were not more than a dozen people at the -breakfast, and Lady Augusta’s little brougham took them to the station -afterwards, where they set out quite humbly and cheerily by an ordinary -train. - -“Quite good enough for a Consul,” Gussy said, always the first to laugh -at her own humbleness. She wore a grey gown to go away in, which did not -cost a tenth part so much as Lady Granton’s, and the _Post_ took no -notice of them. They wandered about their own country for a week or two, -like the Babes in the Wood, Gussy said, expected in no great country -house, retiring into no stately seclusion, but into the far more -complete retirement of common life and common ways. Gussy, as she was -proud to tell, had learned to do many things in her apprenticeship to -the sisters of the Charity-house as associate of the order; and I think -the pleasure to her of this going forth unattended, unsuspected, in the -freedom of a young wife--the first smack of absolute freedom which women -ever taste--had something far more exquisite in it to Gussy than any -delight her sister could have in her more splendid honeymoon. Lord and -Lady Granton were limited, and kept in curb by their own very greatness; -they were watched over by their servants, and kept by public opinion in -the right way; but Edgar and Gassy went where they would, as free as -the winds, and thought of nobody’s opinion. The Consul in this had an -unspeakable advantage over the Earl. - -They got to their home at last on a May evening, when Italy is indeed -Paradise; they had driven all day long from the Genoa side along the -lovely Riviera di Levante, tracing the gracious curves from village to -village along that enchanting way. The sun was setting when they came in -sight of Spezzia, and before they reached the house which had been taken -for them, the Angelus was sounding from the church, and the soft -dilating stars of Italian skies had come out to hear the homely litany -sung shrilly in side-chapels, and out of doors, among the old nooks of -the town, of the angelic song, “Hail, Mary, full of grace!” The women -were singing in an old three-cornered piazzetta, close under the loggia -of the Consul’s house, which looked upon the sea. On the sea itself the -magical sky was shining with all those listening stars. In Italy the -stars take more interest in human life than they do in this colder -sphere. Those that were proper to that space of heaven, crowded -together, Edgar thought to himself, to see his bride. On the horizon the -sea and sky blended in one infinite softness and blueness; the lights -began to twinkle in the harbour and in its ships; the far-off villages -among the woods lent other starry tapers to make the whole landscape -kind and human. Heaven and earth were softly illuminated, not for -them--for the dear common uses and ends of existence; yet unconsciously -with a softer and fuller lustre, because of the eyes that looked upon -them so newly, as if earth and heaven, and the kindly light, and all the -tender bonds of humanity, had been created fresh that very day. - - - THE END. - - - PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOR LOVE OF LIFE; VOL. 2 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. 2 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 #65935]</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. 2 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> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII"> XXIII. </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. II. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span></p> - -<hr style="width: 25%;" /> - -<p class="c">TAUCHNITZ EDITION</p> - -<p class="c">By the same Author,</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left">THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">MARGARET MAITLAND</td><td align="left">1 vol.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">AGNES</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">MADONNA MARY</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">THE MINISTER’S WIFE</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">THE RECTOR AND THE DOCTOR’S FAMILY</td><td align="left">1 vol.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">SALEM CHAPEL</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">THE PERPETUAL CURATE</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">MISS MARJORIBANKS</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">OMBRA</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">MEMOIR OF COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">MAY</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">INNOCENT</td><td align="left">2 vols.</td></tr> -</table> - -<hr style="width: 25%;" /> - -<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. II.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -LEIPZIG<br /> -<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>Intoxication.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">There</span> is, perhaps, no such crisis in the life of a man as that which -occurs when, for the first time, he feels the welfare and happiness of -another to be involved in his own. A woman is seldom so entirely -detached from ordinary ties of nature as to make this discovery -suddenly, or even to be in the position when such a discovery is -possible. So long as you have but yourself to think of, you may easily -be pardoned for thinking very little of that self, for being careless of -its advantage, and letting favourable opportunities slip through your -fingers; but suppose you find out in a moment, without warning, that -your interests are another’s interests, that to push your own fortune is -to push some one else’s fortune, much dearer to you than yourself; and -that, in short, you are no longer <i>you</i> at all, but the active member of -a double personality—is as startling a sensation as can well be -conceived. This was the idea which Edgar had received into his mind for -the first time, and it was not wonderful that it ex<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span>cited, nay, -intoxicated him, almost beyond his power of self-control. I say for the -first time, though he had been on the eve of asking Gussy Thornleigh to -marry him three years before, and had therefore realised, or thought he -realised, what it would be to enter into such a relationship; but in -those days Edgar was rich, and petted by the world, and his bride would -have been only a delight and honour the more, not anything calling for -sacrifice or effort on his part. He could have given her everything she -desired in the world, without losing a night’s rest, or disturbing a -single habit. Now the case was very different. The new-born pride which -had made him, to his own surprise, so reluctant to apply to anyone for -employment, and so little satisfied to dance attendance on Lord -Newmarch, died at that single blow.</p> - -<p>Dance attendance on Lord Newmarch! ask anybody, everybody for work! Yes, -to be sure he would, and never think twice; for had he not now <i>her</i> to -think of? A glow of exhilaration came over him. He had been careless, -indifferent, sluggish, so long as it was himself only that had to be -thought of. Thinking of himself did not suit Edgar; he got sick of the -subject, and detested himself, and felt a hundred pricks of annoyance at -the thought of being a suitor and applicant for patronage, bearing the -scorns of office, and wanting as “patient merit” in a great man’s -ante-room. But now! what did he care for those petty annoyances? Why -should he object, like a pettish child, to ask for what he wanted? It -was for her. He became himself again<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> the moment that the strange and -penetrating sweetness of this suggestion (which he declared to himself -was incredible, yet believed with all his heart) stole into his soul. -This had been what he wanted all along. To have some one to work for, -some one to give him an object in life.</p> - -<p>Lady Mary had not a notion what she was doing when she set light to the -fire which was all ready for that touch—ready to blaze up, and carry -with it her own schemes as well as her sister’s precautions. I suppose -it was by reason of the fundamental difference between man and woman, -that neither of these ladies divined how their hint would act upon -Edgar. They thought his virtue (for which they half despised him—for -women always have a secret sympathy for the selfish ardour of men in all -questions of love) was so great that he might be trusted to restrain -even Gussy herself in her “impetuosity,” as they called it, without -considering that the young man was disposed to make a goddess of Gussy, -to take her will for law, and compass heaven and earth to procure her a -gratification. Gussy, though she held herself justified in her -unswerving attachment to Edgar, by the fact that, had it not been for -his misfortune, she would long ago have been his wife, would, -notwithstanding this consolation, have died of shame had she known how -entirely her secret had been betrayed. But the betrayal was as a new -life to Edgar. His heart rose with all its natural buoyancy; he seemed -to himself to spurn his lowliness, his inactivity, his depressed and -dejected state from him. That<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> evening he beguiled his hosts into -numberless discussions, out of sheer lightness of heart. He laughed at -Lady Mary about her educational mania, boldly putting forth its comic -side, and begging to know whether German lectures and the use of the -globes were so much better, as means of education, than life itself, -with all its many perplexities and questions, its hard lessons, its -experiences, which no one can escape.</p> - -<p>“If a demigod from the sixth form were to come down and seat himself on -a bench in a dame’s school,” cried Edgar, “why, to be sure, he might -learn something; but what would you think of the wisdom of the -proceeding?”</p> - -<p>“I am not a demigod from the sixth form,” said Lady Mary.</p> - -<p>“Pardon me, but you are. You have been among the regnant class all your -life, which of itself is an enormous cultivation. You have lived -familiarly with people who guide the nation; you have spoken with most -of those who are known to be worth speaking to, in England at least; and -you have had a good share of the problems of life submitted to you. Mr. -Tottenham’s whole career, for instance, which he says you decided—”</p> - -<p>“What is that?” said Mr. Tottenham, looking up. “Whatever it is, what -you say is quite true. I don’t know if it’s anything much worth calling -a career; but, such as it is, it’s all her doing. You’re right there.”</p> - -<p>“I am backed up by indisputable testimony,” said Edgar, laughing; “and -in the face of all this,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> you can come and tell me that you want to -educate your mind by means of the feeblest of lectures! Lady Mary, are -you laughing at us? or are the dry lessons of grammar and such like -scaffolding, really of more use in educating the mind than the far -higher lessons of life?”</p> - -<p>“How you set yourself to discourage me,” cried Lady Mary, half angry, -half laughing. “That is not what you mean, Mr. Earnshaw. You mean that -it is hopeless to train women to the accuracy, the exactness of thought -which men are trained to. I understand you, though you put it so much -more prettily.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid I don’t know what accuracy means,” said Edgar, “and -exactness of thought suggests only Lord Newmarch to me; and Heaven -deliver us from prigs, male and female! If you find, however, that the -mass of young university men are so accurate, so exact, so accomplished, -so trained to think well and clearly, then I envy you your eyes and -perceptions—for to me they have a very different appearance; many of -them, I should say, never think at all, and know a good deal less than -Phil does, of whom I am the unworthy instructor—save the mark!” he -added, with a laugh. “On the whole, honours have showered on my head; I -have had greatness thrust upon me like Malvolio; not only to instruct -Phil, but to help to educate Lady Mary Tottenham! What a frightful -impostor I should feel myself if all this was my doing, and not yours.”</p> - -<p>Lady Mary laughed too, but not without a little flush of offence. It -even crossed her mind to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> wonder whether the young man had taken more -wine than usual? for there was an exhilaration, a boldness, an <i>élan</i> -about him which she had never perceived before. She looked at him with -mingled suspicion and indignation—but caught such a glance from his -eyes, which were full of a new warmth, life, and meaning, that Lady Mary -dropped hers, confused and confounded, not knowing what to make of it. -Had the porter, and the footman, and the under-gardener, who had seen -Edgar kiss Lady Mary’s hand, been present at that moment, they would -certainly have drawn conclusions very unfavourable to Mr. Tottenham’s -peace of mind. But that unsuspecting personage sat engaged in his own -occupation, and took no notice. He was turning over some papers which he -had brought back with him from Tottenham’s that very day.</p> - -<p>“When you two have done sparring,” he said—“Time will wait for no man, -and here we are within a few days of the entertainment at the shop. -Earnshaw, I wish you would go in with me on Wednesday, and help me to -help them in their arrangements. I have asked a few people for the first -time, and it will be amusing to see the fine ladies, our customers, -making themselves agreeable to my ‘assistants.’ By-the-way, that affair -of Miss Lockwood gives me a great deal of uneasiness. I don’t like to -send her away. She seemed disposed to confide in you, my dear fellow—”</p> - -<p>“I will go and secure her confidence,” said Edgar, with that gay -readiness for everything which Lady Mary, with such amaze, had remarked -already<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> in his tone. Up to this moment he had wanted confidence in -himself, and carried into everything the <i>insouciance</i> of a man who -takes up with friendliness the interests of others, but has none of his -own. All this was changed. He was another man, liberated somehow from -chains which she had never realised until now, when she saw they were -broken. Could her conversation with him to-day have anything to do with -it? Lady Mary was a very clever woman, but she groped in vain in the -dark for some insight into the mind of this young man, who had seemed to -her so simple. And the less she understood him, the more she respected -Edgar; nay, her respect for him began to increase, from the moment when -she found out that he was not so absolutely virtuous as she had taken -him to be.</p> - -<p>Next day, as soon as Phil’s lessons were over, Edgar shut himself up, -and, with a flush upon his face, and a certain tremor, which seemed to -him to make his hand and his writing, by some curious paradox, more firm -than usual, began to write letters. He wrote to Lord Newmarch, he wrote -to one or two others whom he had known in his moment of prosperity, with -a boldness and freedom at which he was himself astonished. He recalled -to his old acquaintances, without feeling the least hesitation in doing -so, the story of his past life, about which he had been, up to this -moment, so proudly silent, and appealed to them to find him something to -do. He wrote, not as a humble suitor does, but as one conscious of no -humiliation in asking. The last time he had asked he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> been conscious -of humiliation; but every shadow of that self-consciousness had blown -away from him now. He wondered at himself even, while he looked at those -letters closed and directed on his writing-table. What was it that had -taken away from him all sense of dislike to this proceeding, all his old -inclination to let things go as they would? With that curious tremor -which was so full of firmness and force still vibrating through him, he -went out, avoiding Phil, who was lying in wait for him, and who moaned -his absence like a sheep deprived of its lamb—which, I think, was -something like the parental feeling Phil experienced for his tutor—and -set out for a long solitary walk across country, leaping ditches and -stumbling across ploughed fields, by way of exhausting a little his own -superabundant force and energy. Only a day or two since how dreary was -the feeling with which he had left the house, where perhaps, for aught -he knew, Gussy was at the moment thinking, with a sickening at his heart -which seemed to make all nature dim, how he must never see her again, -how he had pledged himself to keep out of the way, never to put himself -consciously where he might have even the dreary satisfaction of a look -at her. The same pledge was upon him still, and Edgar was ready to keep -it to the last letter of his promise; but now it had become a simple -dead letter. There was no more force, no more vital power in it, to keep -the two apart, who had but one strong wish between them. He could keep -it now gaily, knowing that he was in heart emancipated from it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> There -was nothing he could not have done on that brilliant wintry afternoon, -when the sun shone upon him as if he had wanted cheering, and every pool -glittered, and the sky warmed and flushed under his gaze with all the -delightful sycophancy of nature for the happy. The dullest afternoon -would have been just the same to Edgar. He was liberated, he was -inspired, he felt himself a strong man, and with his life before him. -Cold winds and dreary skies would have had no effect upon his spirits, -and for this reason, I suppose, everything shone on him and flattered. -To him that hath, shall be given.</p> - -<p>He was not to get back, however, without being roused from this beatific -condition to a consciousness of his humanity. As he passed through the -village, chance drew Edgar’s eye to the house which Lady Mary had noted -as that of the doctor, and about which Miss Annetta Baker had discoursed -so largely. A cab was at the door, boxes were standing about the steps, -and an animated conversation seemed to be going on between two men, one -an elderly personage without a hat, who stood on the steps with the air -of a man defending his door against an invader, while another and -younger figure, standing in front of the cab, seemed to demand -admission. “The new doctor has arrived before the old one is ready to go -away,” Edgar said to himself, amused by the awkwardness of the -situation. He slackened his pace, that the altercation might be over -before he passed, and saw the coach man surlily putting back again the -boxes upon the cab. The old doctor pointed over Edgar’s head to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> a -cottage in the distance, where, he was aware, there was lodgings to be -had; and as Edgar approached, the new doctor, as he supposed the -stranger to be, turned reluctantly away, with a word to some one in the -cab, which also began to turn slowly round to follow him. The stranger -came along the broad sandy road which encircled the Green, towards -Edgar, who, on his side, approached slowly. What was there in this slim -tall figure which filled him with vague reminiscences? He got interested -in spite of himself; was it some one he had known in his better days? -who was it? The same fancy, I suppose, rose in the mind of the -new-comer. When he turned round for the second time, after various -communications with the inmates of the cab, and suddenly perceived -Edgar, who was now within speaking distance, he gave a perceptible -start. Either his reminiscences were less vague, or he was more prepared -for the possibility of such a meeting. He hurried forward, holding out -his hand, while Edgar stood still like one stunned. “Dr. Murray?” he -said, at last, feeling for the moment as if he had been transported back -to Loch Arroch. He was too bewildered to say more.</p> - -<p>“You are very much surprised to see me,” said Charles Murray, with his -half-frank, half-sidelong aspect; “and it is not wonderful. When we met -last I had no thought of making any move. But circumstances changed, and -a chance threw this in my way. Is it possible that we are so lucky as to -find you a resident here?”</p> - -<p>“For the moment,” said Edgar; “but indeed I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> am very much surprised. You -are to be Dr. Frank’s successor? It is very odd that you should hit upon -this village of all the world.”</p> - -<p>“I hope it is a chance not disagreeable to either of us,” said the young -doctor, with a glance of the suspicion which was natural to him; “but -circumstances once more seem against us,” he added hurriedly, going back -to the annoyance, which was then uppermost. “Here I have to go hunting -through a strange place for lodgings at this hour,—my sister tired by a -long journey. By the way, you have not seen Margaret; she is behind in -the cab; all because the Franks forsooth, cannot go out of their house -when they engaged to do so!”</p> - -<p>“But the poor lady, I suppose, could not help it,” said Edgar, -“according to what I have heard.”</p> - -<p>“No, I suppose she couldn’t help it—on the whole,” he allowed, crossly. -“Cabman, stop a moment—stop, I tell you! Margaret, here is some one you -have often heard of—our cousin, who has been so good to the dear old -granny—Edgar Earnshaw.”</p> - -<p>Dr. Charles pronounced these last words with a sense of going further -than he had ever gone before, in intimacy with Edgar. He had never -ventured to call his cousin by his Christian name; and even now it was -brought in by a side wind, as it were, and scarcely meant so much as a -direct address. Edgar turned with some curiosity to the cab, to see the -sister whom he had seen waiting at the station for Dr. Murray some -months ago. He expected to see a pretty and graceful young woman; but he -was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> not prepared for the beauty of the face which looked at him from -the carriage-window with a soft appealing smile, such as turns men’s -heads. She was tall, with a slight stoop (though that he could not see) -and wore a hat with a long feather, which drooped with a graceful -undulation somewhat similar, he thought, to the little bow she made him. -She was pale, with very fine, refined features, a large pair of the -softest, most pathetic blue eyes, and that smile which seemed to -supplicate and implore for sympathy. There was much in Margaret’s -history which seemed to give special meaning to the plaintive affecting -character of her face; but her face was so by nature, and looked as if -its owner threw herself upon your sympathies, when indeed she had no -thought of anything of the sort. A little girl of six or seven hung upon -her, standing up in the carriage, and leaning closely against her -mother’s shoulder, in that clinging inseparable attitude, which, -especially when child and mother are both exceptionally handsome, goes -to the heart of the spectator. Edgar was subjugated at once; he took off -his hat and went reverently to the carriage-door, as if she had been a -saint.</p> - -<p>“It is very pleasant that you should be here, and I am very glad to see -you,” she said, in soft Scotch accents, in which there was a plaintive, -almost a complaining tone. Edgar found himself immediately voluble in -his regrets as to the annoyance of their uncomfortable reception, and, -ere he knew what he was doing, had volunteered to go with Dr. Charles to -the lodgings, to introduce him, and see<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> whether they were satisfactory. -He could not quite understand why he had done it, and thus associated -himself with a man who did not impress him favourably, as soon as he had -turned from the door of the cab, and lost sight of that beautiful face; -of course he could not help it, he could not have refused his good -offices to any stranger, he said to himself. He went on with his cousin -to the cottage, where the landlady curtseyed most deeply to the -gentleman from Tottenham’s, and was doubly anxious to serve people who -were his friends; and before he left he had seen the beautiful -new-comer, her little girl as always standing by her side leaning -against her, seated on a sofa by a comfortable fire, and forgetting or -seeming to forget, her fatigues. Dr. Charles could not smile so sweetly -or look so interesting as his sister; he continued to inveigh against -Dr. Franks, and his rashness in maintaining possession of the house.</p> - -<p>“But the poor thing could not help it,” said Margaret, in her plaintive -voice, but not without a gleam of fun (if that were possible without -absolute desecration) in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“They should not have stayed till the last moment; they should have made -sure that nothing would happen,” the doctor said, hurrying in and out, -and filling the little sitting-room with cloaks and wraps, and many -small articles. Margaret made no attempt to help him, but she gave Edgar -a look which seemed to say, “Forgive him! poor fellow, he is worried, -and I am so sorry he has not a good temper.” Edgar did not know what to -make<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> of this angelical cousin. He walked away in the darkening, after -he had seen them settled, with a curious feeling, which he could not -explain to himself. Was he guilty of the meanness of being annoyed by -the arrival of these relatives, who were in a position so different from -that of his other friends? Was it possible that so paltry, so miserable -a feeling could enter his mind—or what was it? Edgar could render no -distinct account to himself of the sensation which oppressed him; but as -he walked rapidly up the avenue in the quickly falling darkness, he felt -that something had happened, which, somehow or other, he could not tell -how, was to affect his future life.<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>A youthful Solomon.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Edgar</span> felt so strong an inclination to say nothing about the sudden -arrival of his cousins, that he thought it best to communicate at once -what had happened. He told his hosts at dinner, describing the brother -and sister, and Margaret’s remarkable beauty, which had impressed him -greatly.</p> - -<p>“And really you did not know she was so pretty?” Lady Mary said, fixing -a searching look upon him. Instant suspicion flashed up in her mind, a -suspicion natural to womankind, that his evident admiration meant at -least a possibility of something else. And if she had been consistent, -no doubt she would have jumped at this, and felt in it an outlet for all -her difficulties, and the safest of all ways of detaching Edgar from any -chance of influence over her niece; but she was as inconsistent as most -other people, and did not like this easy solution of the difficulty. She -offered promptly to call upon the new-comers; but she did not cease to -question Edgar about them with curiosity, much sharpened by suspicion. -She extracted from him, in full detail, the history of the Murrays, of -Margaret’s early widowhood, and the special union which existed between -her and her brother. Harry<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> Thornleigh had arrived at Tottenham’s that -day, and the story interested him still more than it did Lady Mary. Poor -Harry was glad enough to get away from his father’s sole companionship; -but he did not anticipate very much enjoyment of the kindred seclusion -here. He grasped at Edgar as a drowning man grasps at a rope.</p> - -<p>“I say, let’s go somewhere and smoke. I have so many things to tell you, -and so many things to ask you,” he cried, when Lady Mary had gone to -bed, and Mr. Tottenham, too, had departed to his private retirement, and -Edgar, not knowing, any more than Harry himself did, that young -Thornleigh was set over him as a sentinel, to guard him from all -possibility of mischief, was but too glad to find himself with an -uninstructed bystander, from whom he could have those bare “news” -without consciousness or under-current of meaning, which convey so much -more information than the scrap of enlightenment which well-meaning -friends dole out with more and more sparing hands, in proportion as the -feelings of the hearer are supposed to be more or less concerned. Harry -was not so ignorant as Edgar thought him. He was not bright, but he -flattered himself on being a man of the world, and was far from being -uninterested in Gussy’s persistent neglect of all possible -“opportunities.” “A girl don’t stand out like that without some cause -for it,” Harry would have said, sagaciously; but he was too knowing to -let it be perceived that he knew.</p> - -<p>“There is a deal of difference up at home now,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span>” he said. “I don’t mean -my father—but you can’t think what changes Arden has made. Do you like -to hear, or don’t you like to hear? I’ll guide myself accordingly. Very -well, then I’ll speak. He’s on the right side in politics, you know, -which you never were, and that’s a good thing: but he’s done everything -you felt yourself bound not to do. Clare don’t like it, I don’t think. -You should see the lot of new villas and houses. Arden ain’t a bit like -Arden; it’s a new spick and span Yankee sort of town. I say, what would -the old Squire have thought? but Arthur Arden don’t care.”</p> - -<p>“He is right enough, Harry. He was not bound to respect anyone’s -prejudices.”</p> - -<p>“Well, there was Clare,” said Thornleigh. “They may be prejudices, you -know; but I wouldn’t spite my wife for money—I don’t think. To be sure, -if a man wants it badly that’s an excuse; but Arden has plenty of money, -thanks to you. What a softy you were, to be sure, not to say anything -disagreeable! Even if I had had to give up in the end, wouldn’t I have -made him pay!”</p> - -<p>“Never mind that,” said Edgar. “Tell me some more news. He hasn’t -changed the house, I suppose, and they are very happy, and that sort of -thing? How is she looking”? It is three years since I left, and one -likes to hear of old friends.”</p> - -<p>“Happy?” said Harry, “meaning Mrs. Arden? She’s gone off dreadfully; oh, -I suppose she’s happy enough. You know, old fellow,” the young man -continued, with a superior air of wisdom, “I don’t pretend to believe in -the old-fashioned idea of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> living happy ever after. That’s bosh! but I -daresay they’re just as comfortable as most people. Clare has gone off -frightfully. She’s not a bit the girl she was; and of course Arden can’t -but see that, and a man can’t be always doing the lover.”</p> - -<p>“Is it so?” cried Edgar, with flashing eyes. He got up unconsciously, as -if he would have rushed to Clare’s side on the spot, to defend her from -any neglect. All the old affection surged up in his heart. “My poor -Clare!” he said, “and I cannot do anything for you! Don’t think me a -fool, Harry. She’s my only sister, though she doesn’t belong to me; and -that fellow—What do you mean by gone off? She was always pale.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he don’t beat her or that sort of thing,” said Thornleigh. “She’s -safe enough. I wouldn’t excite myself, if I were you; Mrs. Arden can -take care of herself; she’ll give as good as she gets. Well, you needn’t -look so fierce. I don’t think, as far as I’ve heard, that she stood up -like that for you.”</p> - -<p>“She was very good to me,” said Edgar, “better than I deserved, for I -was always a trouble to her, with my different ways of thinking; and the -children,” he added, softly, with an ineffable melting of his heart over -Clare’s babies, which took him by surprise. “Tell me all you can, Harry. -Think how you should feel if you had not heard of your own people for so -many years.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know that I should mind much,” said honest Harry; “there are -such heaps of them, for one thing; and children ain’t much in my way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> -There’s two little things, I believe—little girls, which riles Arden. -Helena’s got a baby, by the way—did you know?—the rummiest little -customer, bald, like its father. Nell was as mad as could be when I said -so. By Jove! what fun it was! with a sort of spectacled look about the -eyes. If that child don’t take to lecturing as soon as it can speak, -I’ll never trust my judgment again.”</p> - -<p>Edgar did not feel in a humour to make any response to young -Thornleigh’s laughter. He felt himself like an instrument which was -being played upon, struck by one rude touch after another, able to do -nothing but give out sounds of pain or excitement. He could do nothing -to help Clare, nothing to liberate Gussy; and yet Providence had thrust -him into the midst of them without any doing of his, and surrounded him -once more with at least the reflection of their lives. He let Harry -laugh and stop laughing without taking any notice. He began to be -impatient of his own position, and to feel a longing to plunge again -into the unknown, it did not matter where, and get rid of those dear -visions. Excitement brought its natural reaction in a sudden fit of -despondency. If he could do nothing—and it was evident he could do -nothing—would it not be better to save himself the needless pain, the -mingled humiliation and anguish of helplessness? So long as he was here, -he could not but ask, he could not but know. Though the ink was scarcely -dry upon the letters he had been writing, the cry for aid to establish -himself somehow, in an independent position which he had sent forth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> to -all who could help—a sudden revulsion of feeling struck him, brought -out by his despair and sense of impotence. Far better to go away to -Australia, to New Zealand, to the end of the world, and at least escape -hearing of the troubles he could do nothing to relieve, than to stay -here and know all, and be able to do nothing. An instrument upon which -now one strain of emotion, now another, was beaten out—that was the -true image. Lady Mary had played upon him the other day, eliciting all -sorts of confused sounds, wound up by a sudden strain of rapture; and -now Harry struck the passive cords, and brought forth vaguer murmurs of -fury, groans of impotence, and pain. It would not do. He was not a reed -to be thus piped upon, but a man suffering, crying out in his pain, and -he must make an end of it. Thus he thought, musing moodily, while Harry -laughed over his sister’s bald baby. Harry himself was a dumb Memnon, -whom no one had ever woke into sound, and he did not understand anything -about his companion’s state of mind.</p> - -<p>“Have you come to an end of your questions?” he said. “You ain’t so -curious as I expected. Now here goes on my side? First and foremost, in -the name of all that’s wonderful, how did you come here?”</p> - -<p>Edgar shrugged his shoulders. “You will do me a better service if you -will tell me how to get out of here,” he said. “I was a fool to stay. To -tell the truth, I had not woke up to any particular interest in what -became of me. I had only myself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> to think of; but I can’t bear to -remember them all, and have nothing to do with them—that’s the truth.”</p> - -<p>“You must make up your mind to that, old fellow,” said Harry, the -philosopher; “few people get just all they want. But you can’t go and -run away for that. You shouldn’t have run away at the first. It’s the -coming back that does it. <i>I</i> know. You thought it was all over and done -with, and that you could begin straight off, without coming across old -things and old faces. I’ve turned over about as many new leaves, and -made about as many fresh starts as most people, and I can feel for you. -It ain’t no manner of use; you can’t get done with one set of people and -take up with another; the old ones are always cropping up again,” said -Harry, oracularly. “You’ve got to make up your mind to it. But I must -say,” he added, changing his tone, “that of all places in the world for -getting shut of the past, to come here!”</p> - -<p>“I was a fool,” said Edgar, with his head between his hands. Up to this -moment he had thought of Harry Thornleigh as a somewhat stupid boy. Now -the young man of the world had the better of him. For the first time he -fully realised that he had been foolish in coming here, and had placed -himself in an exceptionally difficult position by his own act, and not -by the action of powers beyond his control, as he thought. In short, he -had allowed himself to be passive, to drift where the current led him, -to do what was suggested, to follow any one that took it upon him to -lead. I sup<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span>pose it is consistent with the curious vagaries of human -nature that this sudden sense of his impotence to direct his fate should -come just after the warm flush of self-assertion and self-confidence -which had made him feel his own fate to be once more worth thinking of. -Harry, elevated on his calm height of matter-of-fact philosophy, had -never in his life experienced so delightful a sense of capacity to -lecture another, and he did not lose the opportunity.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be down about it,” he said, condescendingly. “Most fellows make -some mistake or other when they come to again after a bad fall. The -brain gets muzzy, you know; and between a stark staring madman like old -Tottenham, and a mature Syren like Aunt Mary, what were you to do? <i>I</i> -don’t blame you. And now you’ve done it, you’ll have to stick to it. As -for Clare Arden, I shouldn’t vex myself about her. She knew the kind of -fellow she was marrying. Besides, if a man was to put himself out for -all his sisters, good Lord! what a life he’d have. I don’t know that -Helena’s happy with that professor fellow. If she ain’t, it’s her own -business; she would have him. And I don’t say Clare’s unhappy. She’s not -the sort of person to go in for domestic bliss, and make a show of -herself. Cheer up, old fellow; things might be a deal worse. And ain’t -old Tottenham a joke? But, by-the-way, take my advice; don’t do too much -for that little cub of his. He’ll make a slave of you, if you don’t -mind. Indeed,” said Harry, lighting a fresh cigar, “they’ll all make a -slave of you. Do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span>n’t you let my lady get the upper hand. You can always -manage a woman if you take a little trouble, but you must never let her -get the upper hand.”</p> - -<p>“And how do you manage a woman, oh, Solomon?” said Edgar, laughing, in -spite of himself.</p> - -<p>“I’ve had a deal of experience,” said Harry, gravely; “it all depends on -whether you choose to take the trouble. The regular dodge about young -men having their fling, and that sort of thing, does for my mother; -she’s simple, poor dear soul. Aunt Mary wants a finer hand. Now you have -the ball at your feet, if you choose to play it; only make a stand upon -your mind, and that sort of thing, and she’ll believe you. She wouldn’t -believe me if I were to set up for a genius, ’cause why? that’s not my -line. Be <i>difficile</i>,” said Harry, imposingly, very proud of his French -word; “that’s the great thing; and the more high and mighty you are, the -more she’ll respect you. That’s my advice to <i>you</i>. As for dear old -Tottenham, you can take your choice, anything will do for him; he’s the -best old fellow, and the greatest joke in the world.”</p> - -<p>With this Harry lit his candle and marched off to bed, very well pleased -with himself. He had done all that Lady Augusta had hoped for. So far as -his own family were concerned, he had comported himself like a -precocious Macchiavelli. He had named no names, he had made no -allusions, he had renewed his old friendship as frankly as possible, -without however indulging Edgar in a single excursion into the past. He -had mentioned Helena, who was perfectly safe and proper to be mentioned, -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> sign that he talked to his old friend with perfect freedom; but with -the judgment of a Solomon he had gone no further. Not in vain did Harry -flatter himself on being a man of the world. He was fond of Edgar, but -he would have considered his sister’s choice of him, in present -circumstances, as too ludicrous to be thought of. And there can be -little doubt that Harry’s demeanour had an influence upon Edgar far more -satisfactory for Lady Augusta than her sister’s intervention had been. -All the visionary possibilities that had revealed themselves in Lady -Mary’s warning, disappeared before the blank suavity of Harry. In that -friendly matter-of-fact discussion of his friend’s difficulties, he had -so entirely left out the chief difficulty, so taken it for granted that -nothing of the kind existed, that Edgar felt like a man before whom a -blank wall has suddenly risen, where a moment before there were trees -and gardens. Harry’s was the man’s point of view, not the woman’s. Those -regrets and longings for what might have been, which Lady Mary could not -prevent from influencing her, even when she sincerely wished that the -might have been should never be, were summarily extinguished in Harry’s -treatment. Of course the old must crop up, and confront the new, and of -course the complication must be faced and put up with, not run away -from. Such was the young man of the world’s philosophy. Edgar sat long -after he was gone, once more feeling himself the instrument on which -every one played, rather than a conscious actor in the imbroglio. The -image got possession of his fanciful brain. Like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> the thrill of the -chords after the hand that struck them had been withdrawn, he seemed to -himself to keep on vibrating with long thrills of after sensation, even -when the primary excitement was over. But words are helpless to describe -the thousand successive changes of feeling of which the mind is capable -at a great crisis, especially without immediate power to act one way or -another. Edgar, in despair, went and shut himself into the library and -read, without knowing well what he read. The passage of those long -processions of words before his eyes, gave him a certain occupation, -even if they conveyed but little meaning. How easy it would be to do -anything; how difficult it was to bear, and go on, and wait!</p> - -<p>All this, perhaps, might be easier to support if life were not so -cruelly ironical. That morning Edgar, who felt his own position -untenable, and whose future seemed to be cut off under his feet—who -felt himself to be standing muffled and invisible between two suffering -women, each with the strongest claim upon him, for whom he could do -nothing—was carried off to assist in getting up an entertainment at Mr. -Tottenham’s shop. Entertainments, in the evening—duets, pieces on the -cornet, Trial Scene from Pickwick; and in the morning, lectures, the -improvement of Lady Mary Tottenham’s mind, and the grand office of -teaching the young ladies of Harbour Green to think! What a farce it all -seemed! And what an insignificant farce all the lighter external -circumstances of life always seem to the compulsory actors in them, who -have,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> simultaneously, the tragedy or even genteel comedy of their own -lives going on, and all its most critical threads running through the -larger lighter foolish web which concerns only the outside of man. The -actor who has to act, and the singer who has to sing, and the romancist -who has to go on weaving his romance through all the personal miseries -of their existence, is scarcely more to be pitied than those -unprofessional sufferers who do much the same thing, without making any -claim, or supposing themselves to have any right to our sympathy. Edgar -was even half glad to go, to get himself out of the quiet, and out of -hearing of the broken bits of talk which went on around him; but I do -not think that he was disposed to look with a very favourable eye on the -entertainment at Tottenham’s, or even on the benevolent whimsey of the -owner of that enormous shop.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>Harry.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Harry Thornleigh</span> was anything but content to be left alone at -Tottenham’s. He proposed that he should accompany Edgar and Mr. -Tottenham, but the latter personage, benevolent as he was, had the -faculty of saying No, and declined his nephew’s company. Then he -wandered all about the place, looked at the house, inspected the dogs, -strolled about the plantations, everything a poor young man could do to -abridge the time till luncheon. He took Phil with him, and Phil -chattered eternally of Mr. Earnshaw.</p> - -<p>“I wish you wouldn’t call him by that objectionable name,” said Harry.</p> - -<p>“It’s a capital good name,” cried Phil. “I wish you could see their -blazon, in Gwillim. Earnshaw says it ain’t his family; but everybody -says he’s a great swell in disguise, and I feel sure he is.”</p> - -<p>“Hallo!” said Harry, idly, “what put that into your head? It’s all the -other way, my fine fellow.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you mean by the other way. His name wasn’t always -Earnshaw,” said Phil, triumphantly. “They’ve got about half a hundred -quarterings, real old gentry, not upstarts like us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“That’s admirable,” said Harry. “I suppose that’s what you study all the -time you are shut up together, eh?”</p> - -<p>“No, he don’t care for heraldry, more’s the pity,” said Phil. “I can’t -get him to take any interest. It’s in other ways he’s so jolly. I say, -I’ve made up a coat for us, out of my own head. Listen! First and -fourth, an ellwand argent; second and third, three shawls proper—But -you don’t understand, no more than Earnshaw does. I showed it to the -mother, and she boxed my ears.”</p> - -<p>“Serve you right, you little beggar. I say, Phil, what is there to do in -this old place? I’m very fond of Tottenham’s in a general way, but I -never was here in winter before. What are you up to, little ’un? There’s -the hounds on Thursday, I know; but Thursday’s a long way off. What have -you got for a fellow to do, to-day?”</p> - -<p>“Come up to the gamekeeper’s and see the puppies,” said Phil; “it’s -through the woods all the way. Earnshaw went with me the other day. -They’re such jolly little mites; and if you don’t mind luncheon very -much, we can take a long stretch on to the pond at Hampton, and see how -it looks. It’s shallower than our pond here.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care for a muddy walk, thanks,” said Harry, contemplating his -boots, “and I do mind luncheon. Come along, and I’ll teach you -billiards, Phil. I suppose there’s a billiard table somewhere about.”</p> - -<p>“Teach me!” cried Phil, with a great many<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span> notes of admiration; “why, I -can beat Earnshaw all to sticks!”</p> - -<p>“If you mention his name again for an hour, I’ll punch your head,” cried -Harry, and strolled off dreamily to the billiard-room, Phil following -with critical looks. The boy liked his cousin, but at the same time he -liked to have his say, and did not choose to be snubbed.</p> - -<p>“What a thing it is to have nothing to do!” he said, sententiously. “How -often do you yawn of a morning, Harry? We’re not allowed to do that. -Earnshaw—”</p> - -<p>“You little beggar! didn’t I promise to punch your head?” cried Harry; -and they had an amiable struggle at the door of the billiard-room, by -which Phil’s satirical tendencies were checked for the moment.</p> - -<p>“Ain’t you strong, just!” Phil said, after this trial, with additional -respect.</p> - -<p>But notwithstanding the attractions of the billiard-table, Harry, -yawning, stalked into luncheon with an agreeable sense of variety. “When -you have nothing else to do, eat,” he said, displaying his wisdom in -turn, for the edification of Phil. “That’s a great idea; I learned it at -Oxford where it’s very useful.”</p> - -<p>“And not very much else, acknowledge, Harry,” said Lady Mary.</p> - -<p>“Well, as much as I was wanted to learn. You are very hard upon a -fellow, Aunt Mary. John, I allow, was intended to do some good; but me, -no one expected anything from me—and why should a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> fellow bother his -brains when he hasn’t got any, and doesn’t care, and nobody cares for -him? That’s what I call unreasonable. I suppose you’ll keep poor Phil at -high pressure, till something happens. It ain’t right to work the brain -too much at his age.”</p> - -<p>“What about John?” said Lady Mary, “he has gone back to Oxford and is -working in earnest now, isn’t he? Your mother told me—”</p> - -<p>“Poor dear old mother, she’s so easy taken in, it’s a shame. Yes, he’s -up at old Christ Church, sure enough; but as for work! when a thing -ain’t in a fellow, you can’t get it out of him,” said Harry oracularly. -“I don’t say that <i>that</i> isn’t rather hard upon the old folks.”</p> - -<p>“You are a saucy boy to talk about old folks.”</p> - -<p>“Well, they ain’t young,” said Harry calmly. “Poor old souls, I’m often -sorry for them. We haven’t turned out as they expected, neither me nor -the rest. Ada an old maid, and Gussy a ‘Sister,’ which is another name -for an old maid, and Jack ploughed, and me—well, I’m about the best if -you look at it dispassionately. By the way, no, little Mary’s the best. -There is one that has done her duty; but Granton has a devil of a temper -though they don’t know it. On the whole, I think the people who have no -children are the best off.”</p> - -<p>“Upon what facts may that wise conclusion rest?” said Lady Mary.</p> - -<p>“I have just given you a lot of facts; me, Jack, Ada, Gussy, and you may -add, Helena. Five failures against one success; if that ain’t enough to -make<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> life miserable I don’t know what is. I am very sorry for the -Governor; my mother takes it easier on the whole, though she makes a -deal more fuss; but it’s deuced hard upon him, poor old man. The -Thornleighs don’t make such a figure in the county now as they did in -his days; for it stands to reason that eight children, with debts to -pay, &c., takes a good deal out of the spending-money; and of course the -old maids of the family must come upon the estate.”</p> - -<p>“When you see the real state of the case so plainly,” said Lady Mary, -“and express yourself so sensibly—don’t you think you might do -something to mend matters, and make your poor father a little happier?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that’s different,” said Harry, “I’ve turned over so many new leaves -I don’t believe in them now. Besides a fellow gets into a groove and -what is he to do?”</p> - -<p>“Phil, if you have finished your lunch, you and Molly may run away and -amuse yourselves,” said Lady Mary, feeling that here was an opportunity -for moral influence. The two children withdrew rather unwillingly, for -like all other children they were fond of personal discussions, and -liked to hear the end of everything. Harry laughed as they went away.</p> - -<p>“You want to keep Phil out of hearing of my bad example,” he said, “and -you are going to persuade me to be good, Aunt Mary; I know all you’re -going to say. Don’t you know I’ve had it all said to me a hundred times? -Don’t bother yourself to go over the old ground. May I have the honour<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> -of attending your ladyship anywhere this afternoon, or won’t you have -me, any more than Mr. Tottenham?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Harry, you’re a sad boy,” said Lady Mary, shaking her head. She had -thought, perhaps, that she might have put his duty more clearly before -him than any previous monitor had been able to do, for we all have -confidence in our own special powers in this way; but she gave up -judiciously when she saw how her overture was received. “I am going to -the village,” she said, “to call upon those new people, Mr. Earnshaw’s -cousins.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, the beauty!” cried Harry with animation, “come along! Sly fellow to -bring her here, where he’ll be always on the spot.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that was my first idea; but he knew nothing of it. To tell the -truth,” said Lady Mary, “I wish it were so; I should be a good deal -easier in my mind, and so would your mother if I could believe he was -thinking seriously of anyone—in his own rank of life.”</p> - -<p>“Why, I thought you were a democrat, and cared nothing for rank; I -thought you were of the opinion that all men are equal, not to speak of -women—”</p> - -<p>“Don’t talk nonsense, Harry; an abstract belief, one way or other, has -nothing to do with one’s family arrangements. I like Mr. Earnshaw very -much; he is more than my equal, for he is an educated man, and knows -much more than I do, which is my standard of position; but still, at the -same time, I should not like him—in his present circumstances—to enter -my family<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span>—”</p> - -<p>“Though a few years ago we should all have been very glad of him,” said -Harry. “Oh, <i>I</i> agree with you entirely, Aunt Mary. If Gussy is such a -fool she must be stopped, that’s all. I’d have no hesitation in locking -her up upon bread and water rather than stand any nonsense. I’d have -done the same by Helena if I’d had my way.”</p> - -<p>“How odd,” said Lady Mary, veering round instantly, and somewhat abashed -to find herself thus supported, “and yet you are young, and might be -supposed to have some sort of sympathy—”</p> - -<p>“Not a bit,” cried Harry, “I don’t mind nonsense; but as soon as it gets -serious I’m serious too. If this fellow, whom you call Earnshaw, has any -notions of that kind I’ll show him the difference. Oh, yes, I like him; -but you may like a fellow well enough, and not give him your sister. -Besides, what made him such a fool as to give up everything? He might -have fought it out.”</p> - -<p>“Harry, you are very worldly—you do not understand generous -sentiments—”</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t,” said Harry stoutly, “what’s the good of generous -sentiments if all that they bring you to is tutorizing in a private -family? I’d rather put my generous sentiments in my pocket and keep my -independence. Hallo, here’s your pony carriage. Shall you drive, or -shall I?”</p> - -<p>Lady Mary was crushed by her nephew’s straightforward worldliness. Had -she been perfectly genuine in her own generosity, I have no doubt she -would have metaphorically flown at his throat; but she was subdued by -the consciousness that, much as she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> liked Edgar, any sort of man with a -good position and secure income would appear to her a preferable husband -for Gussy. This sense of weakness cowed her, for Harry, though he was -stupid intellectually, was more than a match for his aunt in the calm -certainty of his sentiments on this point. He was a man of the world, -disposed to deal coolly with the hearts and engagements of his sisters, -which did not affect him personally, and quite determined as to the -necessary character of any stranger entering his family, which did -affect him.</p> - -<p>“I will have no snobs or cads calling me brother-in-law,” he said. “No, -he ain’t a snob nor a cad; but he’s nobody, which is just the same. It’s -awfully good of you to visit these other nobodies, his relations. Oh, -yes, I’ll go in with you, and see if she’s as pretty as he said.”</p> - -<p>The lodging in which Dr. Murray had established himself and his sister, -so much against his will, was a succession of low-roofed rooms in a -cottage of one story, picturesque with creepers and heavy masses of ivy, -but damp, and somewhat dark. The sitting-room was very dim on this -wintry afternoon. It was a dull day, with grey skies and mist; the two -little windows were half-obscured with waving branches of ivy, and the -glimmer of the fire flickered into the dark corners of the dim green -room. You could scarcely pass from the door to the fireplace without -dragging the red and blue tablecloth off the table, or without stumbling -against the sofa on one side, or the little chiffonier on the other. -When Lady Mary went in, like a queen to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> visit her subjects, two figures -rose simultaneously to meet her. Margaret had been seated in the recess -of the window to catch the last rays of the afternoon, and she let her -work drop hurriedly out of her fingers, and rose up, undecipherable, -except in outline, against the light. Dr. Charles rose too in the same -way against the firelight. Neither of the four could make each other -out, and the strangers were embarrassed and silent, not knowing who -their visitor was. Lady Mary, however, fortunately was equal to the -occasion. She introduced herself, and mentioned Edgar, and introduced -her nephew, all in a breath. “I am so sorry you should have had so -uncomfortable a reception,” she said, “but you must not be angry with -poor Mrs. Franks, for it could not be helped.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, it could not be helped,” they both said, in unison, with low -Scotch voices, the accent of which puzzled Lady Mary; and then Margaret -added, still more softly, “I am sorry for her, poor woman, stopped at -such a moment.” The voice was very soft, shy, full of self-consciousness -and embarrassment. Harry stood by the window, and looked out, and felt -more bored than ever. He had come to see a beauty, and he saw nothing -but the little grass-plot before the cottage-door, shut in by bushes of -holly and rhododendron. And Lady Mary went on talking in a sort of -professional lady-of-the-manor strain, telling Dr. Murray what he had to -look forward to, and wherein Dr. Franks had been deficient.</p> - -<p>“You will find it a very good house, when you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> can get in to it,” she -said, “and a pleasant neighbourhood;” and then in the little pause that -followed these gracious intimations, Edgar’s name was introduced, and -the mutual surprise with which his cousins and he had met; while the -brother and sister explained, both together, now one strange soft voice -breaking in, now the other, how much and how little they knew of him, -Harry still stood leaning on the window, waiting, with a little -impatience, till his aunt should have got through her civilities. But -just then the mistress of the cottage appeared, holding in both hands a -homely paraffin lamp, by no means free of smell, which she placed on the -table, suddenly illuminating the dim interior. Harry had to move from -the window while she proceeded to draw down the blinds, and thus of a -sudden, without warning or preparation, he received the electric shock -which had been preparing for him. Margaret had seated herself on the end -of the little sofa close to the table. She had raised her eyes to look -at him, probably with something of the same curiosity which had brought -him to the cottage—Lady Mary’s nephew, a person in the best society, -could not be without interest to the new-comers. Margaret looked up at -him with the unconscious look of appeal which never went out of her -beautiful eyes. The young man was, to use his own language, struck “all -of a heap.” He thought she was asking something of him. In his hurry and -agitation, he made a step towards her.</p> - -<p>“You were asking—” cried Harry, eagerly, affected as he had never been -in his life before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> What was it she wanted? He did not stop to say to -himself how beautiful she was. He felt only that she had asked him for -something, and that if it were the moon she wanted, he would try to get -it for her. His sudden movement, and the sound of his voice, startled -Lady Mary too, who could not make out what he meant.</p> - -<p>“I did not say anything,” said Margaret, in the slightly plaintive voice -which was peculiar to her, with a smile, which seemed to the young man -like thanks for the effort he had made. He took a chair, and drew it to -the table, not knowing what he did. A sudden maze and confusion of mind -came over him, in which he felt as if some quite private intercourse had -gone on between this stranger and himself. She had asked him, he could -not tell for what—and he had thrown his whole soul into the attempt to -get it for her; and she had thanked him. Had this happened really, or -was it only a look, a smile that had done it? The poor boy could not -tell. He drew his chair close to the table to be near her. She was not a -stranger to him; he felt at once that he could say anything to her, -accept anything from her. He was dazed and stunned, yet excited and -exhilarated by her mere look, he could not tell why.</p> - -<p>And the talk went on again. Harry said nothing; he sat casting a glance -at her from time to time, eager, hoping she would ask that service from -him once more. Perhaps Margaret was accustomed to produce this effect on -strangers. She went on in her plaintive voice, telling how little she -knew of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> Edgar, and what he had done for his family, in an even flow of -soft speech, answering all Lady Mary’s questions, not looking at the new -worshipper—while Dr. Murray, in his embarrassed way, anxious to make a -good impression, supplemented all his sister said. Margaret was not -embarrassed; she was shy, yet frank; her eyes were cast down generally -as she talked, over the work she held in her hands, but now and then she -raised them to give emphasis to a sentence, looking suddenly full in the -face of the person she was addressing. It was her way. She renewed her -spell thus from moment to moment. Even Lady Mary, though she had all her -wits about her, was impressed and attracted; and as for poor Harry, he -sat drawing his chair closer and closer, trying to put himself so near -as to intercept one of those glances which she raised to Lady Mary’s -face.</p> - -<p>“Our old mother brought us up,” she said. “I cannot tell how good she -was to Charles and me, and what it cost us not to be rich enough to help -her.”</p> - -<p>“Margaret,” said Dr. Charles, “Lady Mary cannot care to hear all this -about you and me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, pray go on, I am so much interested,” said Lady Mary.</p> - -<p>“For we have never been rich, never anything but poor,” said Margaret, -suddenly lifting her beautiful eyes, and thus giving double effect to -the acknowledgment; while her brother fretted a little, and moved on his -chair with impatience of her frankness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span></p> - -<p>“We have been able to make our way,” he said, in an under-tone.</p> - -<p>“You see, I have always been a drag on him, I and my little girl,” she -went on, with a soft sigh, “so that he was not able to help when he -wanted to help. And then Mr. Earnshaw came in, and did all, and more -than all, that Charles could have hoped to do. For this we can never -think too highly of him, never be grateful enough.”</p> - -<p>“It was what any fellow would have done,” interrupted Harry, putting his -head forward. He did not know what he was saying. And Lady Mary, -suddenly looking at him, took fright.</p> - -<p>“Thank you so much for telling me this,” she said, rising. “I am so glad -to hear another good thing of Mr. Earnshaw who is one of my first -favourites. For his sake you must let me know if there is anything I can -do to make you comfortable. Harry, it is time for us to go; it will be -quite dark in the avenue. Pardon me, Dr. Murray, but I don’t know your -sister’s name; foolishly, I never thought to ask?”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Smith,” said Dr. Charles, as they both got up, filling the little -dark room with their tall figures. Harry did not know how he made his -exit. One moment, it seemed to him he was surrounded with an atmosphere -of light and sadness from those wonderful blue eyes, and the next he was -driving along the darkling road, with the sound of the wheels and the -ponies’ hoofs ringing all about him, and unsympathetic laughter breaking -from under Lady Mary’s veil by his side.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Mrs. Smith!” she cried; “what a prodigious anti-climax! It was all I -could do to keep my gravity till I got outside. That wonderful creature -with such eyes, and her pretty plaintive voice. It is too absurd. Mrs. -Smith!”</p> - -<p>“You seem to enjoy the joke!” said Harry, stiffly, feeling offended.</p> - -<p>“Enjoy the joke! don’t you? But it was rather a shock than a joke. What -a pretty woman! what a pretty voice! It reminds me of blue-bells and -birch trees, and all kinds of pleasant things in Burns and Scott. But -Mrs. Smith! And how that lamp smelt! My dear Harry, I wish you would be -a little more cautious, or else give me the reins. I don’t want to be -upset in the mud. Mrs. Smith!”</p> - -<p>“You seem to be mightily amused,” said Harry, more gruff than ever.</p> - -<p>“Yes, considerably; but I see you don’t share my amusement,” said Lady -Mary, still more amused at this sudden outburst of temper, or propriety, -or whatever it might be.</p> - -<p>“I always thought you were very sympathetic, Aunt Mary,” said the young -man, with a tone of dignified reproof. “It is one of the words you -ladies use to express nothing particular, I suppose? The girls are -always dinning it into my ears.”</p> - -<p>“And you think I don’t come up to my character, Harry?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t understand your joke, I confess,” said Harry, with the loftiest -superiority, drawing up at the great hall door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>The Education of Women.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Tottenham</span> came back from town that evening alone. He explained that -Earnshaw had stayed behind on business. “Business partly mine, and -partly his own; he’s the best fellow that ever lived,” was all the -explanation he gave to his wife; and Lady Mary was unquestionably -curious. They talked a great deal about Edgar at dinner that evening, -and Phil made himself especially objectionable by his questions and his -indignation.</p> - -<p>“He hasn’t been here so long that he should go away,” said Phil. “Don’t -he like us, papa? I am sure there is something wrong by your face.”</p> - -<p>“So am I,” said little Molly. “You only look like that when some one has -been naughty. But this time you must have made a mistake. Even you might -make a mistake. To think of Mr. Earnshaw being naughty, like one of us, -is ridiculous.”</p> - -<p>“Naughty!” cried Phil. “Talk of things you understand, child. I’d like -to know what Earnshaw is supposed to have done,” cried the boy, swelling -with indignation and dignity, with tears rising in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“I’ve locked him up in the dark closet in the shop till he will promise -to be good,” said the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> father, with a laugh; “and if you will throw -yourself at my feet, Molly, and promise to bear half of his punishment -for him, I will, perhaps, let him out to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>Little Molly half rose from her chair. She gave a questioning glance at -her mother before she threw herself into the breach; while Phil, -reddening and wondering, stood on the alert, ready to undertake he knew -not what.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, children; sit down; your father is laughing at you. -Seriously, Tom, without any absurdity, what is it?” cried Lady Mary. “I -wanted him so to-morrow to hear the first lecture—and he did not mean -to stay in town when he left here this morning.”</p> - -<p>“It is business, mere business,” repeated Mr. Tottenham. “We are not all -fine ladies and gentlemen, like you and Phil, Molly. Some of us have to -work for our living. If it hadn’t been for Earnshaw, I should, perhaps, -have stayed myself. I think we had better stay in town the night of the -entertainment, Mary. It will be a long drive for you back here, and -still longer for the children. They are going to have a great turn out. -I have been writing invitations all day to the very finest of people. I -don’t suppose Her Grace of Middlemarch ever heard anything so fine as -Mr. Watson’s solo on the cornet. And, Phil, I rely on you to get an -encore.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! I like old Watson. I’ll clap for him,” cried Phil, with facile -change of sentiments; though little Molly kept still eyeing her father -and mother<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> alternately, not quite reassured. And thus the conversation -slid away from Edgar to the usual crotchets of the establishment.</p> - -<p>“We have settled all about the seats, and about the refreshments,” said -Mr. Tottenham, with an air of content. “You great people will sit in -front, and the members of the establishment who are non-performers, on -the back seats; and the grandest flunkies that ever were seen shall -serve the ices. Oh! John is nothing to them. They shall be divinely -tall, and powdered to their eyebrows; in new silk stockings taken from -our very best boxes, for that night only. Ah, children, you don’t know -what is before you! Miss Jemima Robinson is to be Serjeant Buzfuz. She -is sublime in her wig. She is out of the fancy department, and is the -best of saleswomen. We are too busy, we have too much to do to spend -time in improving our minds, like you and your young ladies, Mary; but -you shall see how much native genius Tottenham’s can produce.”</p> - -<p>Harry Thornleigh kept very quiet during this talk. His head was still -rather giddy, poor fellow; his balance was still disturbed by the face -and the eyes and the look which had come to him like a revelation. It -would be vain to say that he had never been in love before; he had been -in love a dozen times, lightly, easily, without much trouble to himself -or anyone else. But now he did not know what had happened to him. He -kept thinking what she would be likely to like, what he could get for -her—if, indeed, he ever was again admitted to her presence, and had -that voiceless demand made upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> him. Oh! what a fool he had been, Harry -thought, to waste his means and forestall his allowance, and spend money -for no good, when all the time there was existing in the world a being -like that! I don’t know what his allowance had to do with it, and -neither, I suppose, did Harry; but the thought went vaguely through his -head amid a flood of other thoughts equally incoherent. He was glad of -Edgar’s absence, though he could not have told why; and when Lady Mary -began, in the drawing-room after dinner, to describe the new-comer to -her husband, he sat listening with glaring eyes till she returned to -that stale and contemptible joke about Mrs. Smith, upon which Harry -retired in dudgeon, feeling deeply ashamed of her levity. He went to the -smoking-room and lit his cigar, and then he strolled out, feeling a want -of fresh air, and of something cool and fresh to calm him down. It was a -lovely starlight night, very cold and keen. All the mists and heavy -vapours had departed with the day, and the sky over Tottenham’s was -ablaze with those silvery celestial lights, which woke I cannot tell how -many unusual thoughts, and what vague inexplicable emotion and delicious -sadness in Harry’s mind. Something was the matter with him; he could -have cried, though nobody was less inclined to cry in general; the water -kept coming to his eyes, and yet his soul was lost in a vague sense of -happiness. How lovely the stars were; how stupid to sit indoors in a -poky room, and listen to bad jokes and foolish laughter when it was -possible to come out to such a heavenly silence, and to all those -celestial lights.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> The Aurora Borealis was playing about the sky, -flinging waving rosy tints here and there among the stars, and as he -stood gazing, a great shadowy white arm and hand seemed to flit across -the heavens, dropping something upon him. What was it? the fairy gift -for which those blue eyes had asked him, those eyes which were like the -stars? Harry was only roused from his star-gazing by the vigilant -butler, attended by a footman with a lantern, who made a survey of the -house every night, to see that all the windows and doors were shut, and -that no vagrants were about the premises.</p> - -<p>“Beg your pardon, Sir,” said that functionary, “but there’s a many -tramps about, and we’re obliged to be careful.”</p> - -<p>Harry threw away his cigar, and went indoors; but he did not attempt to -return to the society of his family. Solitude had rather bored him than -otherwise up to this moment; but somehow he liked it that night.</p> - -<p>Next morning was as bright and sunshiny as the night had been clear, and -Lady Mary was again bound for the village, with Phil and his sister.</p> - -<p>“Come with us, Harry; it will do you good to see what is going on,” she -said.</p> - -<p>Harry had no expectation of getting any good, but he had nothing to do, -and it seemed possible that he might see or hear of the beautiful -stranger, so he graciously accompanied the little party in their walk. -Lady Mary was in high spirits. She had brought all her schemes to -completion, and on this day her course of lectures was to begin. -No<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span>thing could surpass her own conscientiousness in the matter. No girl -graduate, or boy graduate either, for that matter, was ever more -determined to work out every exercise and receive every word of teaching -from the instructors she had chosen. I do not think that Lady Mary felt -herself badly equipped in general for the work of life; indeed, I -suppose she must have felt, as most clever persons do, a capability of -doing many things better than other people, and of understanding any -subject that was placed before her, with a rapidity and clearness which -had been too often remarked upon to be unknown to herself. She must have -been aware too, I suppose, that the education upon which she harped so -much, had not done everything for its male possessors which she expected -it to do for the women whose deficiencies she so much lamented. I -suppose she must have known this, though she never betrayed her -consciousness of it; but by whatever means it came about, it is certain -that Lady Mary was a great deal more eager for instruction, and more -honestly determined to take the good of it, than any one of the girls at -Harbour Green for whose benefit she worked with such enthusiasm, and who -acquiesced in her efforts, some of them for fun, some of them with a -half fictitious reflection of her enthusiasm, and all, or almost all, -because Lady Mary was the fashion in her neighbourhood, and it was the -right thing to follow her in her tastes and fancies. There was quite a -pretty assembly in the schoolroom when the party from Tottenham’s -arrived—all <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span>the Miss Witheringtons in a row, and the young ladies from -the Rectory, and many other lesser lights. Harry Thornleigh was somewhat -frightened to find himself among so many ladies, though most of them -were young, and many pretty.</p> - -<p>“I’ll stay behind backs, thanks,” he said, hurriedly, and took up a -position near the door, where Phil joined him, and where the two -conversed in whispers.</p> - -<p>“They’re going to do sums, fancy,” said Phil, opening large eyes, “mamma -and all! though nobody can make them do it unless they like.”</p> - -<p>“By Jove!” breathed Harry into his moustache. Amaze could go no further, -and he felt words incapable of expressing his sentiments. I don’t know -whether the spectacle did the young fellow good, but it stupefied and -rendered him speechless with admiration or horror, I should not like to -say which. “What are they doing it for?” he whispered to Phil, throwing -himself in his consternation even upon that small commentator for -instruction.</p> - -<p>Phil’s eyes were screwed tightly in his head, round as two great O’s of -amazement; but he only shook that organ, and made no response. I think, -on the whole, Phil was the one of all the assembly (except his mother) -who enjoyed it most. He was privileged to sit and look on, while others -were, before his eyes, subjected to the torture from which he had -temporarily escaped. Phil enjoyed it from this point of view; and Lady -Mary enjoyed it in the delight of carrying out her plan, and riding high -upon her favourite hobby. She listened devoutly while the earliest -propositions of Euclid were being explained to her, with a proud and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> -happy consciousness that thus, by her means, the way to think was opened -to a section at least of womankind; and what was more, this very clever -woman put herself quite docilely at her lecturer’s feet, and listened to -every word he said with the full intention of learning how to think in -her own person—notwithstanding that, apart from her hobby, she had -about as much confidence in her own power of thought as most people. -This curious paradox, however, is not so uncommon that I need dwell upon -it. The other persons who enjoyed the lecture most, were, I think, Myra -Witherington, who now and then looked across to her friend Phil, and -made up her pretty face into such a delightful copy of the lecturer’s, -that Phil rolled upon his seat with suppressed laughter; and Miss -Annetta Baker, who—there being no possibility of croquet parties at -this time of the year—enjoyed the field-day immensely, and nodded to -her friends, and made notes of Lady Mary’s hat, and of the new Spring -dresses in which the Rectory girls certainly appeared too early, with -genuine pleasure. The other ladies present did their best to be very -attentive. Sometimes a faintly smothered sigh would run through the -assembly; sometimes a little cough, taken up like a fugue over the -different benches, gave a slight relief to their feelings; sometimes it -would be a mere rustle of dresses, indicative of a slight universal -movement. The curate’s wife, unable to keep up her attention, fell to -adding up her bills within herself, a much more necessary mathematical -exercise in her case, but one also which did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> very little towards paying -the same, as poor Mrs. Mildmay knew too well. Miss Franks, the old -doctor’s eldest daughter, after the first solemnity of the commencement -wore off, began to think of her packing, and what nonsense it was of -papa to send her here when there was so much to do—especially as they -were leaving Harbour Green, and Lady Mary’s favour did not matter now. -There was one real student, besides Lady Mary, and that was Ellen -Gregory, the daughter of the postmistress, who sat far back, and was -quite unthought of by the great people, and whose object was to learn a -little Euclid for an approaching examination of pupil-teachers, and not -in the least the art of thinking. Ellen was quite satisfied as to her -powers in that particular; but she knew the effect that a little Euclid -had upon a school-inspector, and worked away with a will, with a mind as -much intent as Lady Mary’s, and eyes almost as round as Phil’s.</p> - -<p>From this it will be seen that Lady Mary’s audience was about as little -prepared for abstract education as most other audiences. When it was -over, there was a pleasant stir of relief, and everybody began to -breathe freely. The lecturer came from behind his table, and the ladies -rose from their benches, and everybody shook hands.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it was delightful, Lady Mary!” said the eldest Miss Witherington; -“how it does open up one’s mental firmament.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Thornleigh, will you help me to do the fourth problem?” said Myra. -“I don’t understand it a bit—but of course you know all about it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I!” cried Harry, recoiling in horror, “you don’t mean it, Miss -Witherington? It’s a shame to drag a fellow into this sort of thing -without any warning. I couldn’t do a sum to save my life!”</p> - -<p>“Lady Mary, do you hear? is it any shame to me not to understand it, -when a University man says just the same?” cried Myra, laughing. Poor -Harry felt himself most cruelly assailed, as well as ill-used -altogether, by being led into this extraordinary morning’s work.</p> - -<p>“I hope there’s more use in a University than that rot,” he said. “By -Jove, Aunt Mary! I’ve often heard women had nothing to do—but if you -can find no better way of passing your time than doing sums and -problems, and getting up Euclid at your time of life——”</p> - -<p>“Take him away, for heaven’s sake, Myra!” whispered Lady Mary; “he is -not a fool when you talk to him. He is just like other young men, good -enough in his way; but I can’t be troubled with him now.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” cried Myra, with an unconscious imitation of Lady Mary’s own -manner, which startled, and terrified, and enchanted all the bystanders, -“if the higher education was only open to us poor women, if we were not -persistently kept from all means of improving ourselves—we might get in -time to be as intellectual as Mr. Thornleigh,” she added, laughing in -her own proper voice.</p> - -<p>Lady Mary did not hear the end of this speech; she did not see herself -in the little mimic’s satire. She was too much preoccupied, and too -serious to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> notice the fun—and the smiles upon the faces of her friends -annoyed without enlightening her.</p> - -<p>“How frivolous we all are,” she said, turning to the eldest Miss Baker, -with a sigh; “off at a tangent, as soon as ever the pressure is removed. -I am sure I don’t want to think it—but sometimes I despair, and feel -that we must wait for a new generation before any real education is -possible among women. They are all like a set of schoolboys let loose.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Lady Mary, that is what I am always telling you; not one in a -hundred is capable of any intellectual elevation,” said the only -superior person in the assembly; and they drew near the lecturer, and -engaged him in a tough conversation, though he, poor man, having done -his duty, and being as pleased to get it over as the audience, would -have much preferred the merrier crowd who were streaming—with -suppressed laughter, shaking their heads and uttering admonitions to -wicked Myra—out into the sunshine, through the open door.</p> - -<p>“Don’t do that again,” cried Phil, very red. “I say, Myra, I like you -and your fun, and all that; but I’ll never speak to you again, as long -as I live, if you take off mamma!”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t mean it, dear,” said Myra, penitent. “I’m so sorry, I beg your -pardon, Phil. Lady Mary’s a dear, and I wouldn’t laugh at her for all -the world. But don’t you ever mimic anyone, there’s a good boy; for one -gets into the habit without knowing what one does.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s all very fine,” said Phil, feeling the exhortation against a -sin for which he had no capability to be out of place; but he did not -refuse to make up the incipient quarrel. As for Harry, he had not -listened, and consequently was not aware how much share he had in the -cause of the general hilarity.</p> - -<p>“I should like to know what all the fun’s about,” he said. “Good lord! -to see you all at it like girls at school! Ladies are like sheep, it -seems to me—where one goes you all follow; because that good little -aunt of mine has a craze about education, do you all mean to make muffs -of yourselves? Well, I’m not a man that stands up for superior intellect -and that sort of thing—much; but, good gracious! do you ever see men go -in for that sort of nonsense?”</p> - -<p>“That is because you are all so much cleverer, and better educated to -start with, Mr. Thornleigh,” said Sissy Witherington. He looked up at -her to see if she were laughing at him; but Sissy was incapable of -satire, and meant what she said.</p> - -<p>“Well, perhaps there is something in that,” said Harry, mollified, -stroking his moustache.</p> - -<p>Harry lunched with the Witheringtons at their urgent request, and thus -shook himself free from Phil, who was disposed, in the absence of -Earnshaw, to attach himself to his cousin. Mrs. Witherington made much -of the visitor, not without a passing thought that if by any chance he -should take a fancy to Myra—and of course Myra to him, though that was -a secondary consideration—why, more un<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span>likely things might come to -pass. But Harry showed no dispositions that way, and stood and stared -out of the window of the front drawing-room, after luncheon, towards -Mrs. Smith’s lodgings, on the other side of the Green, with a -pertinacity which amazed his hostesses. When he left them he walked in -the same direction slowly, with his eyes still fixed on the cottage with -its green shutters and dishevelled creepers. Poor Harry could not think -of any excuse for a second call; he went along the road towards the -cottage hoping he might meet the object of his thoughts, and stared in -at the window through the matted growth of holly and rhododendrons in -the little garden, equally without effect. She had been seated there on -the previous evening, but she was not seated there now. He took a long -walk, and came back again once more, crossing slowly under the windows, -and examining the place; but still saw nothing. If Margaret had only -known of it, where she sat listlessly inside feeling extremely dull, and -in want of a little excitement, how much good it would have done her! -and she would not have been so unkind as to refuse her admirer a glance. -But she did not know, and Harry went back very unhappy, dull and -depressed, and feeling as if life were worth very little indeed to him. -Had that heavenly vision appeared, only to go out again, to vanish for -ever, from the eyes which could never forget the one glimpse they had -had of her? Harry had never known what it was to be troubled with -extravagant hopes or apprehensions before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>Mrs. Smith.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">“Still</span> no Mr. Earnshaw,” said Lady Mary. “This business of his and yours -is a long affair then, Tom. I wanted to send down to those cousins of -his to ask them to dinner, or something. I suppose I must write a little -civil note, and tell Mrs. Smith why I delay doing so. It is best to wait -till he comes back.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll take your note, Aunt Mary,” said Harry, with alacrity. “Oh, no, it -will not inconvenience me in the least. I shall be passing that way.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose you want to see the beauty again?” said Lady Mary, smiling. -“She is very pretty. But I don’t care much for the looks of the brother. -He has an uncertain way, which would be most uncomfortable in illness. -If he were to stand on one foot, and hesitate, and look at you like -that, to see what you were thinking of him, when some one was ill! A -most uncomfortable doctor. I wish we may not have been premature about -poor old Dr. Franks.”</p> - -<p>“Anyhow it was not your doing,” said Mr. Tottenham.</p> - -<p>Lady Mary blushed slightly. She answered with some confusion: “No, I -don’t suppose it was.” But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> at the same time she felt upon her -conscience the weight of many remarks, as to country practitioners, and -doctors of the old school, and men who did not advance with the progress -of science even in their own profession, which she had made at various -times, and which, no doubt, had gone forth with a certain influence. She -had not had it in her power to influence Dr. Franks as to the person who -should succeed him; but she had perhaps been a little instrumental in -dethroning the old country doctor of the old school, whose want of -modern science she had perceived so clearly. These remarks were made the -second day after the lecture, and Edgar had not yet returned. Nobody at -Tottenham’s knew where he was, or what had become of him; nobody except -the master of the house, who kept his own counsel. Harry had made -another unavailing promenade in front of Mrs. Smith’s lodgings on the -day before, and had caught a glimpse of Margaret in a cab, driving with -her brother to some patient, following the old lofty gig which was Dr. -Franks’ only vehicle. He had taken off his hat, and stood at the gate of -Tottenham’s, worshipping while she passed, and she had given him a smile -and a look which went to his heart. This look and smile seemed the sole -incidents that had happened to Harry; he could not remember anything -else; and when Lady Mary spoke of the note his heart leaped into his -mouth. She had, as usual, a hundred things to do that morning while he -waited, interviews with the housekeeper, with the gardener, with the -nurse, a hundred irrelevant matters. And then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> she had her letters to -write, a host of letters, at which he looked on with an impatience -almost beyond concealment—letters enclosing circulars, letters asking -for information, letters about her lectures, about other “schemes” of -popular enlightenment, letters to her friends, letters to her family. -Harry counted fifteen while he waited. Good lord! did any clerk in an -office work harder? “And most of them about nothing, I suppose,” Harry -said cynically to himself. Luncheon interrupted her in the middle of her -labours, and Harry had to wait till that meal was over before he could -obtain the small envelope, with its smaller enclosure, which justified -his visit. He hurried off as soon as he could leave the table, but not -without a final arrangement of his locks and tie. The long avenue seemed -to flee beneath his feet as he walked down, the long line of trees flew -past him. His heart went quicker than his steps, and so did his pulse, -both of them beating so that he grew dizzy and breathless. Why this -commotion? he said to himself. He was going to visit a lady whom he had -only seen once before; the loveliest woman he had ever seen in his life, -to be sure; but it was only walking so quickly, he supposed, which made -him so panting and excited. He lost time by his haste, for he had to -pause and get command of himself, and calm down, before he could venture -to go and knock at the shabby little green door.</p> - -<p>Margaret was seated on the end of the little sofa, which was placed -beside the fire. This, he said to himself, no doubt was the reason why -he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> had not seen her at the window. She had her work-basket on the -table, and was sewing, with her little girl seated on a stool at her -feet. The little girl was about seven, very like her mother, seated in -the same attitude, and bending her baby brows over a stocking which she -was knitting. Margaret was very plainly, alas! she herself felt, much -too plainly-dressed, in a dark gown of no particular colour, with -nothing whatever to relieve it except a little white collar; her dark -hair, which she also lamented over as quite unlike and incapable of -being coaxed into, the fashionable colour of hair, was done up simply -enough, piled high up upon her head. She had not even a ribbon to lend -her a little colour. And she was not wise enough to know that chance had -befriended her, and that her beautiful pale face looked better in this -dusky colourless setting, in which there was no gleam or reflection to -catch the eye, than it would have done in the most splendid attire. She -raised her eyes when the door opened and rose up, her tall figure, with -a slight wavering stoop, looking more and more like a flexile branch or -tall drooping flower. She put out her hand quite simply, as if he had -been an old friend, and looked no surprise, nor seemed to require any -explanation of his visit, but seated herself again and resumed her work. -So did the child, who had lifted its violet eyes also to look at him, -and now bent them again on her knitting. Harry thought he had never seen -anything so lovely as this group, the child a softened repetition of the -mother—in the subdued greenish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> atmosphere with winter outside, and the -still warmth within.</p> - -<p>“I came from my aunt with this note,” said Harry, embarrassed. She -looked up again as he spoke, and this way she had of looking at him only -now and then gave a curious particularity to her glance. He thought, -poor fellow, that his very tone must be suspicious, that her eyes went -through and through him, and that she had found him out. “I mean,” he -added, somewhat tremulously, “that I was very glad of—of the chance of -bringing Lady Mary’s note; and asking you how you liked the place.”</p> - -<p>“You are very kind to come,” said Margaret in her soft voice, taking the -note. “It’s a little lonely, knowing nobody—and a visit is very -pleasant.”</p> - -<p>The way in which she lingered upon the “very,” seemed sweetness itself -to Harry Thornleigh. Had a prejudiced Englishman written down the word, -probably he would, after Margaret’s pronunciation, have spelt it -“varry;” but that would be because he knew no better, and would not -really represent the sound, which had a caressing, lingering -superlativeness in it to the listener. She smiled as she spoke, then -opened her letter, and read it over slowly. Then she raised her eyes to -his again with still more brightness in them.</p> - -<p>“Lady Mary is very kind, too,” she said, with a brightening of pleasure -all over her face.</p> - -<p>“She’s waiting for your cousin to come back—I suppose she says -so—before asking you to the <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span>house; and I hope it will not be long -first, for I am only a visitor here,” said Harry impulsively. Margaret -gave him another soft smile, as if she understood exactly what he meant.</p> - -<p>“You are not staying very long, perhaps?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, for some weeks, I hope; I hope long enough to improve my -acquaintance with—with Dr. Murray and yourself.”</p> - -<p>“I hope so too,” said Margaret, with another smile. “Charlie is troubled -with an anxious mind. To see you so friendly will be very good for him, -very good.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I hope you will let me be friendly!” cried Harry, with a glow of -delight. “When does he go out? I suppose he is busy with the old doctor, -visiting the sick people. You were with him yesterday—”</p> - -<p>“He thinks it is good for my health to go with him; and then he thinks I -am dull when he’s away,” said Margaret. “He is a real good brother; -there are not many like him. Yes, he is going about with Dr. Franks -nearly all the day.”</p> - -<p>“And you are quite alone, and dull? I am so sorry. I wish you would let -me show you the neighbourhood; or if you would come and walk in the park -or the wood—my aunt, I am sure, would be too glad.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m not dull,” said Margaret. “I have my little girl. She is all I -have in the world, except Charles; and we are great companions, are we -no, Sibby?”</p> - -<p>This was said with a change in the voice, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> Harry thought, made it -still more like a wood-pigeon’s note.</p> - -<p>“Ay are we,” said the little thing, putting down her knitting, and -laying back her little head, like a kitten, rubbing against her mother’s -knee. Nothing could be prettier as a picture, more natural, more simple; -and though the child’s jargon was scarcely comprehensible to Harry, his -heart answered to this renewed appeal upon it.</p> - -<p>“But sometimes,” he said, “you must want other companionship than that -of a child.”</p> - -<p>“Do I?” said Margaret, pressing the little head against her. “I am not -sure. After all, I think I’m happiest with her, thinking of nothing -else; but you, a young man, will scarcely understand that.”</p> - -<p>“Though I am a young man, I think I can understand it,” said Harry. He -seemed to himself to be learning a hundred lessons, with an ease and -facility he was never conscious of before. “But if I were to come and -take you both out for a walk, into the woods, or through the park, to -show you the country, that would be good both for her and you.”</p> - -<p>“Very good,” said Margaret, raising her eyes, “and very kind of you; but -I think I know why you’re so very good. You know my cousin, Edgar -Earnshaw, too?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; I know him very well,” said Harry.</p> - -<p>“He must be very good, since everybody is so kind that knows him; and -fancy, <i>I</i> don’t know him!” said Margaret. “Charles and he are friends, -but Sibby and I have only seen him once. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> have scarcely a right to -all the kind things that are done for his sake.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it isn’t for his sake,” cried Harry. “I like him very much; but -there are other fellows as good as he is. I wouldn’t have you make a -hero of Edgar; he is odd sometimes, as well as other folks.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me something about him; I don’t know him, except what he did for -Granny,” said Margaret. “It’s strange that, though I am his relative, -you should know him so much better. Will you tell me? I would like to -know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, there’s nothing very wonderful to tell,” said Harry, somewhat -disgusted; “he’s well enough, and nice enough, but he has his faults. -You must not think that I came for his sake. I came because I thought -you would feel a little lonely, and might be pleased to have some one to -talk to. Forgive me if I was presumptuous.”</p> - -<p>“Presumptuous! no,” said Margaret, with a smile. “You were quite right. -Would you like a cup of tea? it is just about the time. Sibby, go ben -and tell Mrs. Sims we will have some tea.”</p> - -<p>“She is very like you,” said Harry, taking this subject, which he felt -would be agreeable, as a new way of reaching the young mother’s heart.</p> - -<p>“So they tell me,” said Margaret. “She is like what I can mind of -myself, but gentler, and far more good. For, you see, there were always -two of us, Charlie and me.”</p> - -<p>“You have always been inseparable?”</p> - -<p>“We were separated, so long as I was married;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span> but that was but two -years,” said Margaret, with a sigh; and here the conversation came to a -pause.</p> - -<p>Harry was so touched by her sigh and her pause, that he did not know how -to show his sympathy. He would have liked to say on the spot, “Let me -make it all up to you now;” but he did not feel that this premature -declaration would be prudent. And then he asked himself, what did she -mean? that the time of her separation from her brother was sad? or that -she was sad that it came to an end so soon? With natural instinct, he -hoped it might be the former. He was looking at her intently, with -interest and sympathy in every line of his face, when she looked up -suddenly, as her manner was, and caught him—with so much more in his -looks than he ventured to say.</p> - -<p>Margaret was half amused, half touched, half flattered; but she did not -let the amusement show. She said, gratefully, “You are very kind to take -so much interest in a stranger like me.”</p> - -<p>“I do not feel as if you were a stranger,” cried Harry eagerly; and then -not knowing how to explain this warmth of expression, he added in haste, -“you know I have known—we have all known your cousin for years.”</p> - -<p>Margaret accepted the explanation with a smile, “You all? You are one of -a family too—you have brothers and sisters like Charles and me?”</p> - -<p>“Not like you. I have lots of brothers and sisters, too many to think of -them in the same way. There is one of my sisters whom I am sure you -would like,” said Harry, who had always the fear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> before his eyes that -the talk would flag, and his companion get tired of him—a fear which -made him catch wildly at any subject which presented itself.</p> - -<p>“Yes?” said Margaret, “tell me her name, and why you think I would like -her best.”</p> - -<p>From this it will be seen that she too was not displeased to keep up the -conversation, nor quite unskilled in the art.</p> - -<p>“The tea’s coming,” said little Sibby, running in and taking her seat on -her footstool. Perhaps Harry thought he had gone far enough in the -revelation of his family, or perhaps only that this was a better -subject. He held out his hand and made overtures of friendship to the -little girl.</p> - -<p>“Come and tell me your name,” he said, “shouldn’t you like to come up -with me to the house, and play with my little cousins in the nursery? -There are three or four of them, little things. Shouldn’t you like to -come with me?”</p> - -<p>“No without mamma,” said little Sibby, putting one hand out timidly, and -with the other clinging to her mother’s dress.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” said Harry, “not without mamma, she must come too; but you -have not told me your name. She is shy, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“A silly thing,” said Margaret, stroking her child’s dark hair. “Her -name is Sybilla, Sybil is prettier; but in Scotland we call it Sibby, -and sometimes Bell for short. Now, dear, you must not hold me, for the -gentleman will not eat you, and here is the tea.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Harry felt himself elected into one of the family, when Mrs. Sims came -in, pushing the door open before her, with the tray in her arms; upon -which there was much bread and butter of which he partook, finding it -delightful, with a weakness common to young men in the amiable company -of the objects of their affection. He drew his chair to the table -opposite to Margaret, and set Sibby up on an elevated seat at the other -side, and felt a bewildering sensation come over him as if they belonged -to him. It was not a very high ideal of existence to sit round a red and -blue table in a cottage parlour of a winter’s afternoon, and eat bread -and butter; but yet Harry felt as if nothing so delightful and so -elevating had ever happened to him before in all his life.</p> - -<p>It was a sad interruption to his pleasure, when Dr. Murray came in -shortly afterwards, pushing the door open as Mrs. Sims had done, and -entering with the air of a man to whom, and not to Harry, the place -belonged. He had his usual doubtful air, looking, as Lady Mary said, to -see what you thought of him, and not sure that his sister was not -showing an injudicious confidence in thus revealing to Harry the -existence of such a homely meal as tea. But he had no desire to send the -visitor away, especially when Margaret, who knew her brother’s humour, -propitiated him by thrusting into his hand Lady Mary’s note.</p> - -<p>“I am sure her Ladyship is very kind,” he said, his face lighting up, -“Margaret, I hope you have written a proper reply.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“When we have had our tea, Charles—will you not have some tea?” his -sister said; she always took things so easily, so much more easily than -he could ever do.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you are having tea with the child, five o’clock tea,” said the poor -doctor, who was so anxious to make sure that everybody knew him to have -been “brought up a gentleman;” and he smiled a bland uneasy smile, and -sat down by Sibby. He would not take any bread and butter, though he was -hungry after a long walk; he preferred Harry to think that he was about -to dine presently, which was far from being the case. But Harry neither -thought of the matter nor cared; he had no time nor attention to spare, -though he was very civil to <i>her</i> brother, and engaged him at once in -conversation, making himself agreeable with all his might.</p> - -<p>“I suppose you are making acquaintance with quantities of people, and I -hope you think you will like the place,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, a great many people,” said Dr. Charles, “and it was full time that -somebody should come who knew what he was doing. Dr. Franks, I am -afraid, is no better than an old wife.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie, how rashly you speak! he always says out what he thinks,” -said Margaret with an appealing look at Harry, “and it is often very far -from a wise thing to do.”</p> - -<p>“Bravo, Aunt Mary will be delighted,” cried Harry, “it is what she -always said.”</p> - -<p>“I knew Lady Mary Tottenham was very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> talented,” said Dr. Murray with -some pomp, “and that she would see the state of affairs. I can’t tell -you what a pleasure and support it is to have a discriminating person in -the neighbourhood. He is just an old wife. You need not shake your head -at me, Margaret, I know Mr. Thornhill is a gentleman, and that he will -not repeat what is said.”</p> - -<p>“Surely not,” said Harry, somewhat surprised to find himself thus put on -his honour; “but my name is Thornleigh; never mind, it was a very simple -mistake.”</p> - -<p>The doctor blushed with annoyance, and confounded himself in excuses. -Harry took his leave before these apologies were half over. He was -rather glad to get away at the last, feeling that a shadow had come over -his happiness; but before he had left the Green, this momentary shade -disappeared, and all the bliss of recollection came back upon him. What -an hour he had spent, of happiness pure and unalloyed, with so many -smiles, so many looks to lay up as treasures! how lovely she was, how -simple, how superior to everything he had ever seen before! Talk of -fashion, Harry said to himself hotly, talk of rank and society and high -birth, and high breeding! here was one who had no need of such -accessories, here was a perfect creature, made in some matchless mould -that the world had never seen before; and how kindly she had looked at -him, how sweetly talked to him! What had he done, that he should have -suddenly fallen upon such happiness?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<small>In Love.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Life</span> had become a new thing altogether for Harry Thornleigh. Up to this -time his existence had been that of his immediate surroundings, an -outward life so to speak. The history of the visible day in any -household of which he formed a part would have been his history, not -much more nor less; but this easy external existence was over for him. -He began to have a double being from the moment he saw Margaret. All -that he was most conscious of, was within him, a life of thought, of -recollection, of musing, and imagination; and external matters affected -him but vaguely through the cloud of this more intimate consciousness. -Yet his faculties were at the same time quickened, and the qualities of -his mind brought out—or so at least he felt. He had been very angry -with Lady Mary for her mirth over Mrs. Smith’s name; but his new -feelings (though they originated this anger) seemed to give him prudence -and cleverness enough to make an instrument of the very jest he -detested. He began to speak of Mrs. Smith the morning after his visit to -her, restraining his temper admirably, and opening the subject in the -most good-humoured way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I delivered your note, Aunt Mary,” he said; “you are right after all, -about the name. It is ridiculous. Mrs. Smith! after being Miss Murray, -as I suppose she was. She ought to change back again.”</p> - -<p>“There are other ways of changing,” said Lady Mary, “and I daresay such -a pretty woman could easily do it if she wished. Yes, I got a very nice -little note from her, thanking me. Though I am disappointed in the -brother, I must show them some civility. Did you hear when they were to -get into their house?”</p> - -<p>Harry had not heard; but he propitiated his aunt by telling her what was -Dr. Murray’s opinion of his predecessor, an opinion which greatly -comforted Lady Mary, and made her feel herself quite justified in the -part she had taken in the matter.</p> - -<p>“There must be more in him than I thought,” she said, in high -good-humour; and then Harry felt bold to make his request.</p> - -<p>“The sister,” he said, toning down the superlatives in which he felt -disposed to speak of that peerless being, with an astuteness of which he -felt half-ashamed, half-proud, “is rather lonely, I should think, in -that poky little place; and she has a nice little girl about Molly’s -age.” (This was a very wild shot, for Harry had about as much idea of -their relative ages as he had about the distances between two stars). -“They don’t know any one, and I don’t think she’s very strong. Without -asking them formally, Aunt Mary, don’t you think you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> might have her and -the child up to luncheon or something, to see the conservatories and all -that? it would be a little change for them. They looked rather dismal in -Mrs. Sims’ parlour, far from everything they know.”</p> - -<p>“How considerate and kind of you, Harry!” cried Lady Mary. “I am ashamed -of myself for not having thought of it. Of course, poor thing, she must -be lonely—nothing to do, and probably not even any books. The Scotch -all read; they are better educated a great deal than we are. To be sure, -you are quite right. I might drive down to-morrow, and fetch her to -lunch. But, by-the-by, I have Herr Hartstong coming to-morrow, who is to -give the botany lecture—”</p> - -<p>“An extra lady and a little girl would not hurt Herr Hartstong.”</p> - -<p>“There is no telling,” said Lady Mary, with a laugh, “such a pretty -creature as she is. But I think he has a wife already. I only meant I -could not go to fetch her. But to be sure she’s a married woman, and I -don’t see what harm there would be. <i>You</i> might do that.”</p> - -<p>“With the greatest pleasure,” cried Harry, trying with all his might to -keep down his exultation, and not let it show too much in his face and -voice.</p> - -<p>“Then we’ll settle it so. You can take the ponies, and a fur cloak to -wrap her in, as she’s delicate; and Herr Hartstong must take his chance. -But, by the way,” Lady Mary added, pausing, turning round and looking at -him—“by the way, you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> are of a great deal more importance. You must -take care she does not harm <i>you</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Me!” said Harry, with a wild flutter at his heart, forcing to his lips -a smile of contempt. “I am a likely person, don’t you think, to be -harmed by anybody belonging to the country doctor? I thought, Aunt Mary, -you had more knowledge of character.”</p> - -<p>“Your class exclusivism is revolting, Harry,” cried Lady Mary, severely. -“A young man with such notions is an anachronism; I can’t understand how -you and I can come of the same race. But perhaps it’s just as well in -this case,” she added, gliding back into her easier tone. “Your mother -would go mad at the thought of any such danger for you.”</p> - -<p>“I hope I can take care of myself by this time, without my mother’s -help,” said Harry, doing his best to laugh. He was white with rage and -self-restraint; and the very sound of that laugh ought to have put the -heedless aunt, who was thus helping him on the way to destruction, on -her guard. But Lady Mary’s mind was occupied by so many things, that she -had no attention to bestow on Harry; besides the high confidence she -felt in him as an unimpressionable blockhead and heart-hardened young -man of the world.</p> - -<p>To-morrow, however—this bliss was only to come to-morrow—and -twenty-four hours had to be got through somehow without seeing her. -Harry once more threw himself in the way persistently. He went down to -the village, and called upon all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> his old acquaintances; he kept about -the Green the whole afternoon; but Margaret did not appear. At last, -when his patience would hold out no longer, he called at the cottage, -saying to himself, that in case Lady Mary had forgotten to write, it -would be kind to let her know what was in store for her. But, alas! she -was not to be found at the cottage. How she had been able to go out -without being seen, Harry could not tell, but he had to go back drearily -at night without even a glimpse of her. What progress his imagination -had made in three or four days! The very evening seemed darker, the -stars less divine, the faint glimmers of the Aurora which kept shooting -across the sky had become paltry and unmeaning. If that was all -electricity could do, Harry felt it had better not make an exhibition of -itself. Was it worth while to make confusion among the elements for so -little? was it worth while to suffer the bondage of society, to go -through luncheons and dinners, and all the common action of life without -even a glance or a smile to make a man feel that he had a soul in him -and a heaven above him? Thus wildly visionary had poor Harry become all -in a moment, who had never of his own free will read a line of poetry in -his life.</p> - -<p>“I am so sorry to give you the trouble, Harry,” said Lady Mary, pausing -for a moment in her conversation with Herr Hartstong (whose lecture was -to be given next morning) to see the ponies go off.</p> - -<p>“Oh! I don’t mind it once in a way,” said the young man, scarcely able -to restrain the laughter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span> with which, partly from sheer delight, partly -from a sense of the ludicrous inappropriateness of her apology, he was -bursting. He went down the avenue like an arrow, the ponies tossing -their heads, and ringing their bells, the wintry sunshine gleaming on -him through the long lines of naked trees. Margaret, to whom Lady Mary -had written, was waiting for him with a flush of pleasure upon her pale -face, and a look of soft grateful friendliness in her beautiful eyes.</p> - -<p>“It was kind of you to come for us,” she said, looking up at him.</p> - -<p>“I am so glad to come,” said Harry, with all his heart in his voice. He -wrapt her in the warm furs, feeling somehow, with a delicious sense of -calm and security, that, for the moment, she belonged to him. “The -morning is so fine, and the ponies are so fresh, that I think we might -take a turn round the park,” he said. “You are not afraid of them?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no! the bonnie little beasties,” cried Margaret, leaning back with -languid enjoyment. She had often harnessed the rough pony at Loch Arroch -with her own hands, and driven him to the head of the loch without -thinking of fear, though she looked now so dainty and delicate; but she -did not feel inclined to tell Harry this, or even to recall to herself -so homely a recollection. Margaret had been intended by nature for a -fine lady. She lay back in the luxurious little carriage, wrapped in the -furred mantle, and felt herself whisked through the sunny wintry air to -the admiration of all beholders, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> a profound sense of enjoyment. -She liked the comfort dearly. She liked the dreamy pleasure which was -half of the mind, and half of the body. She liked the curtseys of the -gatekeepers, and the glances of the stray walkers, who looked after her, -she thought, with envy. She felt it natural that she should thus be -surrounded by things worthy, and pleasant, and comfortable. Even the -supreme gratification of the young attendant by her side, whose -infatuation began to shew itself so clearly in his eyes, was a climax of -pleasure to Margaret, which she accepted easily without fear of the -consequences.</p> - -<p>Yes, she thought, he was falling in love with her, poor boy; and it is -seldom unpleasant to be fallen in love with. Most probably his people -would put a stop, to it, and as she did not mean to give him what she -called “any encouragement,” there would be no harm done. Whereas, on the -other hand, if his people did not interfere, there was always the chance -that it might come to something. Margaret did not mean any harm—she was -only disposed to take the Scriptural injunction as her rule, and to let -the morrow care for the things of itself.</p> - -<p>She lay back in the little carriage with the grey feather in her hat -swaying like her slight figure, and Sibby held fast in her arms.</p> - -<p>“I feel as if I were in a nest,” she said, when Harry asked tenderly if -she felt the cold; and thus they flew round the park, where a little -stir of Spring was visible in the rough buds, and where<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span> here and there -one dewy primrose peeped forth in a sheltered nook—the ponies’ hoofs -ringing, and their heads tossing, and their bells tinkling—Harry lost -in a foolish joy beyond expression, and she wrapped in delicious -comfort. He was thinking altogether of her, she almost altogether of -herself—and of her child, who was another self.</p> - -<p>“I have enjoyed it so much,” she said softly, as he helped her to get -out in front of the hall door.</p> - -<p>“I do not think I ever spent so happy a morning,” Harry said very low.</p> - -<p>Margaret made no sign of having heard him. She walked upstairs without -any reply, leaving him without ceremony. “He is going too fast,” she -said to herself. And Harry was a little, just a little, mortified, but -soon got over that, and went after her, and was happy once more—happy -as the day was long. Indeed, the visit altogether was very successful. -Margaret was full of adaptability, very ready to accept any tone which -such a personage as Lady Mary chose to give to the conversation, and -with, in reality, a lively and open intelligence, easily roused to -interest. Besides, though an eager young admirer like Harry was pleasant -enough, and might possibly become important, she never for a moment -deceived herself as to the great unlikelihood that his friends would -permit him to carry out his fancy; and the chance that, instead of -bringing advantage, she might bring harm to herself and her brother if -she gave any one a right to say that she had “encouraged” him. Whereas -nothing but un<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span>mingled good could come from pleasing Lady Mary, who was, -in every way, the more important person. This being the principle of -Margaret’s conduct, it is almost unnecessary to say that Lady Mary found -it perfect, and felt that nothing could be in better taste than the way -in which the young Scotchwoman kept Harry’s attentions down, and -accorded the fullest attention to her own observations. She even took -her nephew aside after luncheon, to impress upon him a greater respect -for their guest.</p> - -<p>“This Mrs. Smith is evidently a very superior person,” said Lady Mary, -“and I am sorry to see, Harry, that you are rather disposed to treat her -simply as a very pretty young woman. I am not at all sure that you have -not been trying to flirt with her during lunch.”</p> - -<p>“I—flirt!—Aunt Mary,” stammered Harry, “you altogether mistake—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course, you never did such a thing in your life,” she said -mocking, “but this is not quite an ordinary young lady. The Scotch are -so well educated—we can see at a glance that she has read a great deal, -and thought as well—which is by no means common. If you take her round -the conservatories, you must recollect that it is not a mere pretty girl -you are with, Harry. She will not understand your nonsense,” said Lady -Mary with a little warmth.</p> - -<p>She, herself, had some final arrangements to make with Herr Hartstong, -who was also very much interested in the graceful listener, from whom he -had received such flattering attention. He made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> her his best bow, and -hoped he should see her next day at the lecture, when Harry, doing his -best to suppress all manifestations of feeling, led her away.</p> - -<p>“It is so kind of you to let me treat you without ceremony,” said Lady -Mary. “Show Mrs. Smith the orchids, Harry. Before you get to the palm -tree, I shall be with you—” and then Harry was free and alone with his -enchantress. He could not talk to her—he was so happy—he led her away -quickly out of sight of his aunt—who had seated herself in a corner of -the big drawing-room, to settle all her final arrangements with the -botanist—and of Herr Hartstong’s big yellow eyes, which looked after -him with suspicion. Harry was eager to get her to himself, to have her -alone, out of sight of everybody; but when he had secured this -isolation, he could not make much use of it. He was dumb with bliss and -excitement—he took her into the fairy palace of flowers where summer -reigned in the midst of winter; and instead of making use of his -opportunities in this still perfumy place, where everything suited the -occasion, found that he had nothing to say. He had talked, laboriously -it is true, but still he had talked, when he had called on her at the -cottage; he had made a few remarks while he drove her round the park; -but on this, the first opportunity he had of being alone with her, he -felt his tongue tied. Instead of taking her to the orchids as Lady Mary -had suggested, he conducted her straight to the palm tree, and there -placed her on the sofa, and stood by, gazing at her, concealing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> his -agitation by cutting sprays of Cape jasmine, of which there happened to -be a great velvety cluster in front of her seat.</p> - -<p>“It is like something in a book,” said Margaret, with a sigh. “What a -fine thing it is to be very rich! I never was in such a beautiful -place.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it’s nice to be well off,” said Harry; “but heaps of people are -well off who never could invent anything so pretty. You see Tottenham -was very much in love with Aunt Mary. She’s a nice little woman,” he -added, parenthetically. “A man in love will do a deal to please the -woman he likes.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose so,” said Margaret, feeling somewhat disposed to laugh; -“and that makes it all the more interesting. Is Mr. Tottenham very -poetical and romantic? I have not seen him yet.”</p> - -<p>“Tottenham poetical!” cried Harry, with a laugh; “no, not exactly. And -that’s an old affair now, since they’ve been married about a century; -but it shows what even a dull man can do. Don’t you think love’s a very -rum thing?” said the young man, cutting the Cape jasmine all to pieces; -“don’t you think so? A fellow doesn’t seem to know what he is doing.”</p> - -<p>“Does Lady Mary let you cut her plants to pieces, Mr. Thornleigh?” said -Margaret, feeling her voice quaver with amusement. Upon which Harry -stopped short, and looked sheepishly down at the bunch of flowers in his -hand.</p> - -<p>“I meant to get you a nosegay, and here is a great sheaf like a -coachman’s bouquet on a drawing-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span>room day,” cried Harry, half conscious -of this very distinct commentary upon his words. “Never mind, I’ll tell -the gardener. I suppose there are heaps more.”</p> - -<p>“How delightful to have heaps more!” said Margaret. “I don’t think poor -folk should ever be brought into such fairy places. I used to think -myself so lucky with a half-a-dozen plants.”</p> - -<p>“Then you are fond of flowers?” said Harry.</p> - -<p>What woman, nay, what civilised person of the present age, ever made but -one answer to such a question? There are a few people left in the world, -and only a few, who still dare to say they are not fond of music; but -fond of flowers!</p> - -<p>“I do so wish you would let me keep you supplied,” said Harry, eagerly. -“Trouble! it would be the very reverse of trouble; it would be the very -greatest pleasure—and I could do it so easily—”</p> - -<p>“Are you a cultivator, then?” said Margaret, “a great florist?” she said -it with a half-consciousness of the absurdity, yet half deceived by his -earnestness. Harry himself was startled for the moment by the question.</p> - -<p>“A florist! Oh, yes, in a kind of a way,” he said, trying to restrain an -abrupt momentary laugh. A florist? yes; by means of Covent Garden, or -some ruinous London nurseryman. But Margaret knew little of such -refinements. “It would be such a pleasure to me,” he said, anxiously. -“May I do it? And then you will not be able quite to forget my very -existence.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span></p><p>Margaret got up, feeling the conversation had gone far enough. “May not -I see the—orchids? It was the orchids I think that Lady Mary said.”</p> - -<p>“This is the way,” said Harry, almost sullen, feeling that he had fallen -from a great height. He went after her with his huge handful of velvety -jasmine flowers. He did not like to offer them, he did not dare to strew -them at her feet that she might walk upon them, which was what he would -have liked best. He flung them aside into a corner in despite and -vexation. Was he angry with her? If such a sentiment had been possible, -that would have been, he felt, the feeling in his mind. But Margaret was -not angry nor annoyed, though she had stopped the conversation, feeling -it had gone far enough. To “give him encouragement,” she felt, was the -very last thing that, in her position, she dared to do. She liked the -boy, all the same, for liking her. It gave her a soothing consciousness -of personal well-being. She was glad to please everybody, partly because -it pleased herself, partly because she was of a kindly and amiable -character. She had no objection to his admiration, to his love, if the -foolish boy went so far, so long as no one had it in his power to say -that she had given him encouragement; that was the one thing upon which -her mind was fully made up; and then, whatever came of it, she would -have nothing with which to reproach herself. If his people made a -disturbance, as they probably would, and put a stop to his passion, why, -then, Margaret would not be to blame; and if, on the contrary, he had -strength of mind to persevere, or they, by some wonderful chance, did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> -not oppose, why then Margaret would reap the benefit. This seems a -somewhat selfish principle, looking at it from outside, but I don’t -think that Margaret had what is commonly called a selfish nature. She -was a perfectly sober-minded unimpassioned woman, very affectionate in -her way, very kind, loving comfort and ease, but liking to partake these -pleasures with those who surrounded her. If fate had decreed that she -should marry Harry Thornleigh, she knew very well that she would make -him an admirable wife, and she would have been quite disposed to adapt -herself to the position. But in the meantime she would do nothing to -commit herself, or to bring this end, however desirable it might be in -itself, about.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<small>No Encouragement.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">“You</span> must not take any more trouble with me,” said Margaret, “my brother -will come up for me; it will be quite pleasant to walk down in the -gloaming—I mean—” she added, with a slight blush over her vernacular, -“in the twilight, before it is quite dark.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! pray don’t give up those pretty Scotch words,” said Lady Mary, -“gloaming is sweeter than twilight. Do you know I am so fond of Scotch, -the accent as well as the words.”</p> - -<p>Margaret replied only by a dubious smile. She would rather have been -complimented on her English; and as she could not make any reply to her -patroness’ enthusiasm, she continued what she was saying:</p> - -<p>“Charles wishes to call and tell you how much he is gratified by your -kindness, and the walk will be pleasant. You must not let me give you -more trouble.”</p> - -<p>“No trouble,” said Lady Mary, “but you shall have the close carriage, -which will be better for you than Harry and the ponies. I hope he did -not frighten you in the morning. I don’t think I could give him a -character as coachman; he all but upset<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> me the other night, when we -left your house—to be sure I had been aggravating—eh, Harry?” she -said, looking wickedly at him. “It was very good of you to let me have -my talk out with the Professor; ladies will so seldom understand that -business goes before pleasure. And I hope you will do as he asked, and -come to the lecture to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“I am not very understanding about lectures,” said Margaret.</p> - -<p>“Are not you? you look very understanding about everything,” said Lady -Mary. She too, as well as Harry, had fallen in love with the doctor’s -sister. The effect was not perhaps so sudden; but Lady Mary was a woman -of warm sympathies, and sudden likings, and after a few hours in -Margaret’s society she had quite yielded to her charm. She found it -pleasant to look at so pretty a creature, pleasant to meet her -interested look, her intelligent attention. There could not be a better -listener, or a more delightful disciple; she might not perhaps know a -great deal herself, but then she was so willing to adopt your views, or -at least to be enlightened by them. Lady Mary sat by, and looked at her -after the promenade round the conservatories, with all a woman’s -admiration for beauty of the kind which women love. This, as all the -world knows, is not every type; but Margaret’s drooping shadowy figure, -her pathetic eyes, her soft paleness, and gentle deferential manner, -were all of the kind that women admire. Lady Mary “fell in love” with -the stranger. They were all three seated in the conservatory in the warm -soft atmosphere, under the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> palm tree, and the evening was beginning to -fall. The great fire in the drawing-room shone out like a red star in -the distance, through all the drooping greenness of the plants, and they -began half to lose sight of each other, shadowed, as this favourite spot -was, by the great fan branches of the palm.</p> - -<p>“I think there never was such delightful luxury as this,” said Margaret, -softly. “Italy must be like it, or some of the warm islands in the sea.”</p> - -<p>“In the South Sea?” said Lady Mary, smiling, “perhaps; but both the -South Seas and Italy are homes of indolence, and I try all I can to keep -that at arm’s length. But I assure you Herr Hartstong was not so -poetical; he gave me several hints about the management of the heat. Do -come to-morrow and hear him, my dear Mrs. Smith. Botany is wonderfully -interesting. Many people think it a <i>dilettante</i> young-lady-like -science; but I believe in the hands of a competent professor it is -something very different. Do let me interest you in my scheme. You know, -I am sure, and must feel, how little means of education there are—and -as little Sibby will soon be craving for instruction like my child—”</p> - -<p>“I suppose there is no good school for little girls here?” said -Margaret, timidly; her tact told her that schools for little girls were -not in question; but she did not know what else to say.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Lady Mary, with momentary annoyance; “for mere reading and -writing, yes, I believe there is one; but it is the higher instruction I -mean,” she added, recovering herself, “probably you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> have not had your -attention directed to it; and to be sure in Scotland the standard is so -much higher, and education so much more general.”</p> - -<p>Margaret had the good sense to make no reply. She had herself received a -solid education at the parish school of Loch Arroch, along with all the -ploughboys and milkmaids of the district, and had been trained into -English literature and the Shorter Catechism, in what was then -considered a very satisfactory way. No doubt she was so much better -instructed than her patroness that Lady Mary scarcely knew what the -Shorter Catechism was. But Margaret was not proud of this training, -though she was aware that the parochial system had long been a credit to -Scotland—and would much rather have been able to say that she was -educated at Miss So-and-So’s seminary for young ladies. As she could not -claim any such Alma Mater, she held her tongue, and listened devoutly, -and with every mark of interest while Lady Mary’s scheme was propounded -to her. Though, however, she was extremely attentive, she did not commit -herself by any promise, not knowing how far her Loch Arroch scholarship -would carry her in comparison with the young ladies of Harbour Green. -She consented only conditionally to become one of Lady Mary’s band of -disciples.</p> - -<p>“If I have time,” she said; and then Lady Mary, questioning, drew from -her a programme of her occupations, which included the housekeeping, -Sibby’s lessons, and constant attendance, when he wanted her, upon her -brother. “I drive with him,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> Margaret, “for he thinks it is good -for my health—and then there is always a good deal of sewing.”</p> - -<p>“But,” said Lady Mary, “that is bad political economy. You neglect your -mind for the sake of the sewing, when there are many poor creatures to -whom, so to speak, the sewing belongs, who have to make their livelihood -by working, and whom ladies’ amateur performances throw out of bread.”</p> - -<p>Thus the great lady discoursed the poor doctor’s sister, who but for him -would probably have been one of the said poor creatures; this, however, -it did not enter into Lady Mary’s mind to conceive. Margaret was -overawed by the grandeur of the thought. For the first moment, she could -not even laugh covertly within herself at the thought of her own useful -sewing being classified as a lady’s amateur performance. She was silent, -not venturing to say anything for herself, and Lady Mary resumed.</p> - -<p>“I really must have you among my students; think how much more use you -would be to Sibby, if you kept up, or even extended, your own -acquirements. Of course, I say all this with diffidence, because I know -that in Scotland education is so much more thought of, and is made so -much more important than it is with us.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no!” cried Margaret. She could not but laugh now, thinking of the -Loch Arroch school. And after all, the Loch Arroch school is the point -in which Scotland excels England, or did excel her richer neighbour; and -the idea of poor Margaret being better educated than the daughter of an -Eng<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span>lish earl, moved even her tranquil spirit to laughter. “Oh, no; you -would not think that if you knew,” she said, controlling herself with an -effort. If it had not been for a prudent sense that it was best not to -commit herself, she would have been deeply tempted to have her laugh -out, and confide the joke to her companions. As it was, however, this -suppressed sense of ridicule was enough to make her uncomfortable. “I -will try to go,” she said gently, changing the immediate theme, “after -the trouble of the flitting is over, when we have got into our house.”</p> - -<p>Lady Mary fell into the snare. She began to ask about the house, and -whether they had brought furniture, or what they meant to do, and -entered into all the details with a frank kindness which went to -Margaret’s heart. During all this conversation, Harry Thornleigh kept -coming and going softly, gliding among the plants, restless, but happy. -He could not have her to himself any longer. He could not talk to her; -but yet she was there, and making her way into the heart of at least one -of his family. While these domestic subjects were discussed, and as the -evening gradually darkened, Harry said to himself that he had always -been very fond of his aunt, and that she was very nice and sympathetic, -and that to secure her for a friend would be wise in any case. It was -almost night before Dr. Murray made his appearance, and he was -confounded by the darkness of the place into which he was ushered, where -he could see nothing but shadows among the plants and against the pale<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> -lightness of the glass roofs. I am not sure, for the moment, that he was -not half offended by being received in so unceremonious a way. He stood -stiffly, looking about him, till Lady Mary half rose from her seat.</p> - -<p>“Excuse me for having brought you here,” she said; “this is our -favourite spot, where none but my friends ever come.”</p> - -<p>Lady Mary felt persuaded that she saw, even in the dark, the puffing out -of the chest with which this friendly speech was received.</p> - -<p>“For such a pleasant reason one would excuse a much worse place,” he -said, with an attempt at ease, to the amusement of the great lady who -was condescending to him. Excuse his introduction to her conservatory! -He should never have it in his power to do so again. Dr. Charles then -turned to his sister, and said, “Margaret, we must be going. You and the -child have troubled her Ladyship long enough.”</p> - -<p>“I am delighted with Mrs. Smith’s society, and Sibby has been a godsend -to the children,” said Lady Mary. “Let us go into the drawing-room, -where there are lights, and where we can at least see each other. I like -the gloaming, your pretty Scotch word; but I daresay Dr. Murray thinks -us all rather foolish, sitting like crows in the dark.”</p> - -<p>She led the way in, taking Margaret’s arm, while Margaret, with a little -thrill of annoyance, tried through the imperfect light to throw a -warning look at her brother. Why did he speak so crossly, he who was -never really cross; and why should he say<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> ladyship? Margaret knew no -better than he did, and yet instinct kept her from going wrong.</p> - -<p>Dr. Murray entered the drawing-room, looking at the lady who had -preceded him, to see what she thought of him, with furtive, suspicious -looks. He was very anxious to please Lady Mary, and still more anxious -to show himself an accomplished man of the world; but he could not so -much as enter a room without this subtle sense of inferiority betraying -itself. Harry, coming after him, thought the man a cad, and writhed at -the thought; but he was not at all a cad. He hesitated between the most -luxurious chair he could find, and the hardest, not feeling sure whether -it was best to show confidence or humility. When he did decide at last, -he looked round with what seemed a defiant look. “Who can say I have no -right to be here?” poor fellow, was written all over his face.</p> - -<p>“You have been making acquaintance with your patients? I hope there are -no severe cases,” said Lady Mary.</p> - -<p>“No, none at all, luckily for them—or I should not have long answered -for their lives,” he said, with an unsteady smile.</p> - -<p>“Ah! you do not like Dr. Franks’ mode of treatment? Neither do I. I have -disapproved of him most highly sometimes; and I assure you,” said Lady -Mary, in her most gracious tone, “I am so very glad to know that there -is now some one on the spot who may be trusted, whatever happens. With -one’s nursery full of children, that question<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> becomes of the greatest -importance. Many an anxious moment I have had.”</p> - -<p>And then there was a pause. Dr. Murray was unbending, less afraid of how -people looked at him.</p> - -<p>“My cousin Mr. Earnshaw has not yet come back?” he said.</p> - -<p>“He is occupied with some business in town. I am only waiting, as I told -your sister, till he comes. As soon as he does so, I hope we may see -more of you here; but in the meantime, Mrs. Smith must come to me. I -hope I shall see a great deal of her; and you must spare her for my -lectures, Dr. Murray. You must not let her give herself up too much to -her housekeeping, and all her thrifty occupations.”</p> - -<p>“Margaret has no occasion to be overthrifty,” he said, looking at her. -“I have always begged her to go into society. We have not come to that, -that my sister should be a slave to her housekeeping. Margaret, -remember, I hope you will not neglect what her Ladyship says.”</p> - -<p>“After the flitting,” said Margaret, softly.</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes; after our removal. We shall then have a room more fit to -receive you in,” he said. “I hear on all hands that it is a very good -house.”</p> - -<p>At this moment some one came in to announce the carriage, which Lady -Mary had ordered to take her visitor home; and here there arose another -conflict in Dr. Murray’s mind. Which was best, most like what a man of -the world would do? to drive down with his sister or to walk? He was -tired, and the drive would certainly be the easier; but what if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> they -should think it odd? The doctor was saved from this dilemma by Harry, -who came unwittingly to the rescue, and proposed to walk down the avenue -with him. Harry had not fallen in love with him as with his sister; but -still he was at that stage when a man is anxious to conciliate everybody -belonging to the woman whom he loves. And then little Sibby was brought -down from the nursery, clasping closely a doll which had been presented -to her by the children in a body, with eyes blazing like two stars, and -red roses of excitement upon her little cheeks. Never in all her life -before had Sibby spent so happy a day. And when she and her mother had -been placed in the warm delicious carriage, is it wonderful that various -dreams floated into Margaret’s mind as she leant back in her corner, and -was whirled past those long lines of trees. Harry had been ready to give -her his arm downstairs, to put her into the carriage. He had whispered, -with a thrill in his voice:</p> - -<p>“May I bring those books to-morrow?”</p> - -<p>He had all but brushed her dress with his face, bowing over her in his -solicitude. Ah, how comfortable it would be, how delightful to have a -house like that, a carriage like this, admiring, soft-mannered people -about her all day long, and nothing to do but what she pleased to do! -Had she begun to cherish a wish that Harry’s fancy might not be a -temporary one, that he might persevere in it, and overcome opposition? -It would be hard to expect from Margaret such perfection of goodness as -never to allow such a train of thought to enter her mind;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> but at the -same time her practical virtue stood all assaults. She would never -encourage him; this she vowed over again, though with a sensation almost -of hope, and a wish unexpressed in her heart.</p> - -<p>For ah! what a difference there is between being poor and being -rich—between Lady Mary in the great house, and Margaret Murray, or -Smith, in Mrs. Sims’ lodging!—and if you went to the root of the -matter, the one woman was as good as the other, as well adapted to -“ornament her station,” as old-fashioned people used to say. I think, on -the whole, it was greatly to Margaret’s credit, seeing that so much was -at stake, that she never wavered in her determination to give Harry no -encouragement. But she meant to put no barrier definitively in his way, -no obstacle insuperable. She was willing enough to be the reward of his -exertions, should he be successful in the lists; and Lady Mary’s -kindness, nay, affectionateness towards her seemed to point to a -successful issue of the struggle, if Harry went into it with -perseverance and vigour. She could not help being a little excited by -the thought.</p> - -<p>Lady Mary, on her side, was charmed with her new friend. “The brother -may be a cad, as you say, but she is perfection,” she said incautiously -to Harry, when he came in with a glowing countenance from his walk. -“What good breeding, what grace, what charming graceful ways she has! -and yet always the simplicity of that pretty Scotch accent, and of the -words which slip out now and then. The children are all in raptures with -little Sibby. Fancy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> making a graceful name like Sybil into such a -hideous diminutive! But that is Scotch all over. They seem to take a -pleasure in keeping their real refinement in the background, and showing -a rough countenance to the world. They are all like that,” said Lady -Mary, who was fond of generalizations.</p> - -<p>Harry did not say much, but he drew a chair close to the fire, and sat -and mused over it with sparkling eyes, when his aunt went to dress for -dinner. He did not feel capable of coherent thought at all; he was lost -in a rapture of feeling which would not go into words. He felt that he -could sit there all night long not wishing to budge, to be still, not -even thinking, existing in the mere atmosphere of the wonderful day -which was now over. Would it come back again? would it prolong itself? -would his life grow into a lengthened sweet repetition of this day? He -sat there with his knees into the fire, gazing into the red depths till -his eyes grew red in sympathy, until the bell for dinner began to peal -through the silent winter air. Mr. Tottenham had come home, and was -visible at the door in evening costume, refreshed and warmed after his -drive, when Harry, half-blind, rushed out to make a hasty toilette. His -distracted looks made his host wonder.</p> - -<p>“I hope you are not letting that boy get into mischief,” he said to his -wife.</p> - -<p>“Mischief! what mischief could he get into here?” Lady Mary replied, -with a smile; and then they began to talk on very much more important -matters<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span>—on Herr Hartstong’s visit, and the preparations at the Shop, -which were now complete.</p> - -<p>“I expect you to show a good example, and to treat my people like -friends,” said Mr. Tottenham.</p> - -<p>“Oh, friends!—am not I the head shopwoman?” asked Lady Mary, laughing. -“You may be sure I intend to appear so.”</p> - -<p>The entertainment was to take place on the next evening, after the -botanical lecture at Harbour Green. It was, indeed, likely to be an -exciting day, with so much going on.</p> - -<p>And when the people at Tottenham’s went to dinner, the Murrays had tea, -for which they were all quite ready after the sharp evening air. “You -were wrong to speak about your housekeeping, and all that,” the doctor -said, in the mildest of accents, and with no appearance of suspicion, -for in the bosom of his family he feared no criticism. “Remember always, -Margaret, that people take you at your own estimate. It does not do to -let yourself down.”</p> - -<p>“And it does not do to set yourself up, beyond what you can support,” -said Margaret. “We are not rich folk, and we must not give ourselves -airs. And oh, Charles, one thing I wanted to say. If you wouldn’t say -ladyship—at least, not often. No one else seems to do it, except the -servants. Don’t be angry. I watch always to see what people say.”</p> - -<p>“I hope I know what to say as well as anyone,” said the doctor, with -momentary offence; but, nevertheless, he made a private note of it, -having confidence in his sister’s keen observation. Altogether,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span> the -start at Harbour Green had been very successful, and it was not -wonderful if both Dr. Charles and his sister felt an inward exhilaration -in such a prosperous commencement of their new life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<small>The Entertainment at the Shop.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> botanical lecture passed off very well indeed, and was productive of -real and permanent advantage to Harbour Green, by giving to Myra -Witherington a totally new study of character. She talked so completely -like Herr Hartstong for the rest of the day, that even her mother was -deceived, and would not enter the drawing-room till she had changed her -cap, in consideration of the totally new voice which she heard -proceeding from within. Strange to say, Harry Thornleigh, who last time -had been so contemptuous, had now thrown himself most cordially into -Lady Mary’s plans, so cordially that he made of himself a missionary to -gain new converts for her.</p> - -<p>“I will take those books you promised to Mrs. Smith, and try to persuade -her to come to the lecture. Is there anyone else I can look up for you, -Aunt Mary?” said this reformed character.</p> - -<p>“Do, Harry; go to the Red House, and to the Rectory, and tell them -half-past twelve precisely. We did not quite settle upon the hour,” said -Lady Mary. “And you might ask Sissy Witherington to send round to some -of the other people; she knows<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> them all. You will meet us at the -schoolroom? So many thanks!”</p> - -<p>“I shall be there,” said Harry, cheerily, marching off with his books -under his arm.</p> - -<p>If Lady Mary had not been so busy, no doubt she would have asked herself -the cause of this wonderful conversion; but with a lecture to attend to -in the morning, and an entertainment at night, what time had she for -lesser matters? And she had to send some servants to Berkeley Square to -get the rooms ready, as the family were to dine and sleep there; -altogether she had a great deal upon her hands. Harry had his -difficulties, too, in getting safely out of the house without Phil, who, -abandoned by Edgar, and eluded by his cousin, was in a very restless -state of mind, and had determined this morning, of all others, not to be -left behind. Harry, however, inspired by the thoughts of Mrs. Smith, was -too clever for Phil, and shot down the avenue like an arrow, with his -books under his arm, happy in his legitimate and perfectly correct -errand, to which no one could object. He left his message with the -Witheringtons on his way, for he was too happy not to be virtuous, poor -fellow. It damped his ardour dreadfully to find that no plea he could -put forth would induce Margaret to go to the lecture.</p> - -<p>“I don’t take any interest in botany,” she said, “and I have no time for -it, to keep it up if I began.”</p> - -<p>“What of that,” said Harry; “do you think I take an interest in -botany?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“But you are a great florist, Mr. Thornleigh,” she said, demurely. It -was some time before he remembered his pretence about the flowers.</p> - -<p>“I shall bring you some specimens of my skill to-morrow,” he said, -laughing, with a flush of pleasure. At least, if she would not come -to-day, here was an excuse for making another day happy—and as a lover -lives upon the future, Harry was partially consoled for his -disappointment. I don’t think he got much good of the lecture; perhaps -no one got very much good. Ellen Gregory did not come, for botany was -not in her list of subjects for the pupil-teachers’ examination, and -Lady Mary did not take any notes, but only lent the students the -encouragement of her presence; for she could not, notwithstanding what -she had said, quite disabuse her own mind from the impression that this -was a young-lady-like science, and not one of those which train the mind -to thought. So that on the whole, as I have said, the chief result was -that Myra “got up” Herr Hartstong to the great delight of all the -light-minded population at Harbour Green, who found the professor much -more amusing in that audacious young mimic’s rendering than in his own -person.</p> - -<p>In the afternoon the whole party went to London. “Everybody is going,” -said little Molly, in huge excitement. “It is like the pantomime; and -Phil is to do the cheering. Shouldn’t you like to be him, Harry? It will -almost be as good as being on the stage oneself.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t talk of things you don’t understand,” said Phil, who was too -grand to be spoken to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> familiarly, and whose sense of responsibility was -almost too heavy for perfect happiness. “I sha’n’t cheer unless they -deserve it. But the rehearsal was awful fun,” he added, unbending. -“You’ll say you never saw anything better, if they do half as well -to-night.”</p> - -<p>Tottenham’s was gorgeous to behold when the guests began to arrive. The -huge central hall, with galleries all round it, and handsome carpeted -stairs leading on every hand up to the galleries, was the scene of the -festivity. On ordinary occasions the architectural splendour of this -hall was lost, in consequence of the crowd of tables, and goods, and -customers which filled it. It had been cleared, however, for the -entertainment. Rich shawls in every tint of softened colour were hung -about, coloured stuffs draped the galleries, rich carpets covered the -floors; no palace could have been more lavish in its decorations, and -few palaces could have employed so liberally those rich Oriental fabrics -which transcend all others in combinations of colour. Upstairs, in the -galleries, were the humbler servants of the establishment, porters, -errand boys, and their relatives; down below were “the young ladies” and -“the gentlemen” of Tottenham’s occupying the seats behind their patrons -in clouds of white muslin and bright ribbons.</p> - -<p>“Very nice-looking people, indeed,” the Duchess of Middlemarch said, as -she came in on Mr. Tottenham’s arm, putting up her eyeglass. Many of the -young ladies curtseyed to Her Grace in sign of personal acquaintance, -for she was a constant patro<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span>ness of Tottenham’s. “I hope you haven’t -asked any of my sons,” said the great lady, looking round her with -momentary nervousness.</p> - -<p>Mr. Tottenham himself was as pleased as if he had been exhibiting “a -bold tenantry their country’s pride” to his friends. “They <i>are</i> -nice-looking, though I say it as shouldn’t,” he said, “and many of them -as good as they look.” He was so excited that he began to give the -Duchess an account of their benefit societies, and saving banks, and -charities, to which Her Grace replied with many benevolent signs of -interest, though I am afraid she did not care any more about them than -Miss Annetta Baker did about the lecture. She surveyed the company, as -they arrived, through her double eyeglass, and watched “poor little Mary -Horton that was, she who married the shopkeeper,” receiving her guests, -with her pretty children at her side. It was very odd altogether, but -then, the Hortons were always odd, she said to herself—and graciously -bowed her head as Mr. Tottenham paused, and said, “How very admirable!” -with every appearance of interest.</p> - -<p>A great many other members of the aristocracy shared Her Grace’s -feelings, and many of them were delighted by the novelty, and all of -them gazed at the young ladies and gentlemen of the establishment as if -they were animals of some unknown description. I don’t think the -gentlemen and the young ladies were at all offended. They gazed too with -a kindred feeling, and made notes of the dresses, and watched the -manners and habits of “the swells” with equal curiosity and admiration.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> -The young ladies in the linen and in the cloak and mantle department -were naturally more excited about the appearance of the fine ladies from -a book-of-fashion point of view than were the dressmakers and milliners, -who sat, as it were, on the permanent committee of the “Mode,” and knew -“what was to be worn.” But even they were excited to find themselves in -the same room with so many dresses from Paris, with robes which Wörth -had once tried on, and ribbons which Elise had touched. I fear all these -influences were rather adverse to the due enjoyment of the trial scene -from Pickwick, with Miss Robinson in the part of Serjeant Buzfuz. The -fine people shrugged their shoulders, and lifted their eyebrows at each -other, and cheered ironically now and then with twitters of laughter; -and the small people were too intent upon the study of their betters to -do justice to the performance. Phil, indeed, shrieked with laughter, -knowing all the points, with the exactitude of a showman, and led his -<i>claque</i> vigorously; but I think, on the whole, the <i>employés</i> of -Tottenham’s would have enjoyed this part of the entertainment more had -their attention been undisturbed. After the first part of the -performances was over, there was an interval for “social enjoyment;” and -it was now that the gorgeous footmen appeared with the ices, about whom -Mr. Tottenham had informed his children. Lady Mary, perhaps, required a -little prompting from her husband before she withdrew herself from the -knot of friends who had collected round her, and addressed herself -instead to the young ladies of the shop.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Must we go and talk to them, Mr. Tottenham? Will they like it? or shall -we only bore them?” asked the fine ladies.</p> - -<p>The Duchess of Middlemarch was, as became her rank, the first to set -them the example. She went up with her double eyeglass in her hand to a -group of the natives who were standing timorously together—two young -ladies and a gentleman.</p> - -<p>“It has been very nice, has it not,” said Her Grace; “<i>quite</i> clever. -Will you get me an ice, please? and tell me who was the young woman—the -young lady who acted so well? I wonder if I have seen her when I have -been here before.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Your Grace,” said one of the young ladies. “She is in the fancy -department, Miss Robinson. Her father is at the head of the cloaks and -mantles, Your Grace.”</p> - -<p>“She did very nicely,” said the Duchess, condescendingly, taking the ice -from the young man whom she had so honoured. “Thanks, this will do very -well, I don’t want to sit down. It is very kind of Mr. Tottenham, I am -sure, to provide this entertainment for you. Do you all live here -now?—and how many people may there be in the establishment? He told me, -but I forget.”</p> - -<p>It was the gentleman who supplied the statistics, while the Duchess put -up her eyeglass, and once more surveyed the assembly. “You must make up -quite a charming society,” she said; “like a party in a country-house. -And you have nice sitting-rooms for the evening, and little musical -parties, eh? as so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> many can sing, I perceive; and little dances, -perhaps?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, Your Grace,” said one of the young ladies, mournfully. “We have -practisings sometimes, when anything is coming off.”</p> - -<p>“And we have an excellent library, Your Grace,” said the gentleman, “and -all the new books. There is a piano in the ladies’ sitting-room, and we -gentlemen have chess and so forth, and everything extremely nice.”</p> - -<p>“And a great deal of gossip, I suppose,” said Her Grace; “and I hope you -have <i>chaperons</i> to see that there is not too much flirting.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, flirting!” said all three, in a chorus. “There is a sitting-room -for the ladies, and another for the gentlemen,” the male member of the -party said, somewhat primly, for he was one of the class of -superintendents, vulgarly called shopwalkers, and he knew his place.</p> - -<p>“Oh—h!” said the Duchess, putting down her eyeglass; “then it must be a -great deal less amusing than I thought!”</p> - -<p>“It was quite necessary, I assure you, Your Grace,” said the gentleman; -and the two young ladies who had been tittering behind their fans, gave -him each a private glance of hatred. They composed their faces, however, -as Mr. Tottenham came up, called by the Duchess from another group.</p> - -<p>“You want me, Duchess?” how fine all Tottenham’s who were within -hearing, felt at this—especially the privileged trio, to whom she had -been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> talking, “Duchess!” that sublime familiarity elevated them all in -the social scale.</p> - -<p>“Nothing is perfect in this world,” said Her Grace, with a sigh. “I -thought I had found Utopia; but even your establishment is not all it -might be. Why aren’t they all allowed to meet, and sing, and flirt, and -bore each other every evening, as people do in a country house?”</p> - -<p>“Come, Duchess, and look at my shawls,” said Mr. Tottenham, with a -twinkle out of his grey eyes. Her Grace accepted the bait, and sailed -away, leaving the young ladies in a great flutter. A whole knot of them -collected together to hear what had happened, and whisper over it in -high excitement.</p> - -<p>“I quite agree with the Duchess,” said Miss Lockwood, loud enough to be -heard among the fashionables, as she sat apart and fanned herself, like -any fine lady. Her handsome face was almost as pale as ivory, her cheeks -hollow. Charitable persons said, in the house, that she was in a -consumption, and that it was cruel to stop her duet with Mr. Watson, and -to inquire into her past life, when, poor soul, it was clear to see that -she would soon be beyond the reach of all inquiries. It was the -Robinsons who had insisted upon it chiefly—Mr. Robinson, who was at the -head of the department, and who had daughters of his own, about whom he -was very particular. His youngest was under Miss Lockwood, in the shawls -and mantles, and that was why he was so inexorable pursuing the matter; -though why he should make objections to Miss Lockwood’s propriety, and -yet allow Jemima<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> to act in public, as she had just done, was more than -the shop could make out. Miss Lockwood sat by herself, having thus been -breathed upon by suspicion; but no one in the place was more -conspicuous. She had an opera cloak of red, braided with gold, which the -young ladies knew to be quite a valuable article, and her glossy dark -hair was beautifully dressed, and her great paleness called attention to -her beauty. She kept her seat, not moving when the others did, calling -to her anyone she wanted, and indeed, generally taking upon herself the -<i>rôle</i> of fine lady. And partly from sympathy for her illness, partly -from disapproval of what was called the other side, the young ladies and -gentlemen of Tottenham’s stood by her. When she said, “I agree with the -Duchess,” everybody looked round to see who it was that spoke.</p> - -<p>When the pause for refreshments was over, Mr. Tottenham led Her Grace -back to her place, and the entertainment recommenced. The second part -was simply music. Mr. Watson gave his solo on the cornet, and another -gentleman of the establishment accompanied one of the young ladies on -the violin, and then they sang a number of part songs, which was the -best part of the programme. The excitement being partially over, the -music was much better attended to than the Trial Scene from Pickwick; -and all the fine people, used to hear Joachim play, or Patti sing, -listened with much gracious restraint of their feelings. It had been -intended at first that the guests and the <i>employés</i> should sup -together, Mr. Robinson offering his arm to Lady Mary,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> and so on. But at -the last moment this arrangement had been altered, and the visitors had -wine and cake, and sandwiches and jellies in one room, while the -establishment sat down to a splendid table in another, and ate and -drank, and made speeches and gave toasts to their hearts’ content, -undisturbed by any inspection. What a place it was! The customers went -all over it, conducted by Mr. Tottenham and his assistants through the -endless warehouses, and through the domestic portion of the huge house, -while the young ladies and gentlemen of Tottenham’s were at supper. The -visitors went to the library, and to the sitting-rooms, and even to the -room which was used as a chapel, and which was full of rough wooden -chairs, like those in a French country church, and decorated with -flowers. This curious adjunct to the shop stood open, with faint lights -burning, and the spring flowers shedding faint odours.</p> - -<p>“I did not know you had been so High Church, Mr. Tottenham,” said the -Duchess. “I was not prepared for this.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, this is Saint Gussy’s chapel,” cried Phil, who was too much excited -to be kept silent. “We all call it Saint Gussy’s. There is service every -day, and it is she who puts up the flowers. Ah, ah!”</p> - -<p>Phil stopped suddenly, persuaded thereto by a pressure on the arm, and -saw Edgar standing by him in the crowd. There were so many, and they -were all crowding so close upon each other, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> his exclamation was -not noticed. Edgar had been conjoining to the other business which -detained him in town a great deal of work about the entertainment, and -he had appeared with the other guests in the evening, but had been met -by Lady Augusta with such a face of terror, and hurried anxious -greeting, that he had withdrawn himself from the assembly, feeling his -own heart beat rather thick and fast at the thought, perhaps, of meeting -Gussy without warning in the midst of this crowd. He had kept himself in -the background all the evening, and now he stopped Phil, to send a -message to his father.</p> - -<p>“Say that he will find me in his room when he wants me; and don’t use a -lady’s name so freely, or tell family jokes out of the family,” he said -to the boy, who was ashamed of himself. Edgar’s mind was full of new -anxieties of which the reader shall hear presently. The Entertainment -was a weariness to him, and everything connected with it. He turned away -when he had given the message, glad to escape from the riot—the groups -trooping up and down the passages, and examining the rooms as if they -were a settlement of savages—the Duchess sweeping on in advance on Mr. -Tottenham’s arm, with her double eye-glass held up. He turned away -through an unfrequented passage, dimly lighted and silent, where there -was nothing to see, and where nobody came. In the distance the joyful -clatter of the supper-table, where all the young ladies and gentlemen of -the establishment were enjoying themselves came to his ears on one -side—while the soft<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> laughter and hum of voices on the other, told of -the better bred crowd who were finding their way again round other -staircases and corridors to the central hall. It is impossible, I -suppose, to hear the sounds of festive enjoyment with which one has -nothing to do, and from which one has withdrawn thus sounding from the -distance without some symptoms of a gentle misanthropy, and that sense -of superiority to common pursuits and enjoyments which affords -compensation to those who are left out in the cold, whether in great -things or small things. Edgar’s heart was heavy, and he felt it more -heavy in consequence of the merry-making. Among all these people, so -many of whom he had known, was there one that retained any kind thought -of him—one that would not, like Lady Augusta, the kindest of them all, -have felt a certain fright at his re-appearance, as of one come from the -dead? Alas, he ought to have remained dead, when socially he was so. -Edgar felt, at least, his resurrection ought not to have been here.</p> - -<p>With this thought in his mind, he turned a dim corner of the white -passage, where a naked gaslight burned dimly. He was close to Mr. -Tottenham’s room, where he meant to remain until he was wanted. With a -start of surprise, he saw that some one else was in the passage coming -the other way, one of the ladies apparently of the fashionable party. -The passage was narrow, and Edgar stood aside to let her pass. She was -wrapped in a great white cloak, the hood half over her head, and came -forward rapidly, but uncertain, as if she had lost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span> herself. Just before -they met, she stopped short, and uttered a low cry.</p> - -<p>Had not his heart told him who it was? Edgar stood stock still, scarcely -breathing, gazing at her. He had wondered how this meeting would come -about, for come it must, he knew—and whether he would be calm and she -calm, as if they had met yesterday? Yet when the real emergency arrived -he was quite unprepared for it. He did not seem able to move, but gazed -at her as if all his heart had gone into his eyes, incapable of more -than the mere politeness of standing by to let her pass, which he had -meant to do when he thought her a stranger. The difficulty was all -thrown upon her. She too had made a pause. She looked up at him with a -tremulous smile and a quivering lip. She put out her hands half timidly, -half eagerly; her colour changed from red to pale, and from pale to red. -“Have you forgotten me, then?” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /><br /> -<small>Miss Lockwood’s Story.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">I am</span> obliged to go back a few days, that the reader may be made aware of -the causes which detained Edgar, and of the business which had occupied -his mind, mingled with all the frivolities of the Entertainment, during -his absence. Annoyance, just alloyed with a forlorn kind of amusement, -was his strongest sentiment, when he found himself appointed by his -patron to be a kind of father-confessor to Miss Lockwood, to ascertain -her story, and take upon himself her defence, if defence was possible. -Why should he be selected for such a delicate office? he asked; and when -he found himself seated opposite to the young lady from the cloak and -shawl department in Mr. Tottenham’s room, his sense of the incongruity -of his position became more and more embarrassing. Miss Lockwood’s face -was not of a common kind. The features were all fine, even refined, had -the mind been conformable; but as the mind was not of a high order, the -fine face took an air of impertinence, of self-opinion, and utter -indifference to the ideas or feelings of others, which no coarse -features could have expressed so well; the elevation of her head was a -toss, the curl of her short upper lip a sneer. She placed herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> on a -chair in front of Mr. Tottenham’s writing-table, at which Edgar sat, and -turned her profile towards him, and tucked up her feet on a foot-stool. -She had a book in her hand, which she used sometimes as a fan, sometimes -to shield her face from the fire, or Edgar’s eyes, when she found them -embarrassing. But it was he who was embarrassed, not Miss Lockwood. It -cost him a good deal of trouble to begin his interrogatory.</p> - -<p>“You must remember,” he said, “that I have not thrust myself into this -business, but that it is by your own desire—though I am entirely at a -loss to know why.”</p> - -<p>“Of course you are,” said Miss Lockwood. “It is one of the things that -no man can be expected to understand—till he knows. It’s because we’ve -got an object in common, sir, you and me——”</p> - -<p>“An object in common?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; perhaps you’re a better Christian than I am, or perhaps you -pretend to be; but knowing what you’ve been, and how you’ve fallen to -what you are, I don’t think it’s in human nature that you shouldn’t feel -the same as me.”</p> - -<p>“What I’ve been, and how I’ve fallen to what I am!” said Edgar, smiling -at the expression with whimsical amazement and vexation. “What is the -object in life which you suppose me to share?”</p> - -<p>“To spite the Ardens!” cried the young lady from the mantle department, -with sudden vigour and animation. Her eyes flashed, she clasped her -hands together, and laughed and coughed—the laughter hard and -mirthless, the cough harder still,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> and painful to hear. “Don’t you -remember what I said to you? All my trouble, all that has ever gone -against me in the world, and the base stories they’re telling you -now—all came along of the Ardens; and now Providence has thrown you in -my way, that has as much reason to hate them. I can’t set myself right -without setting them wrong—and revenge is sweet. Arthur Arden shall rue -the day he ever set eyes on you or me!”</p> - -<p>“Wait a little,” said Edgar, bewildered. “In the first place, I don’t -hate the Ardens, and I don’t want to injure them, and I hope, when we -talk it over, you may change your mind. What has Arthur Arden done to -you?”</p> - -<p>“That’s my story,” said Miss Lockwood, and then she made a short pause. -“Do you know the things that are said about me?” she asked. “They say in -the house that I have had a baby. That’s quite true. I would not deny it -when I was asked; I didn’t choose to tell a lie. They believed me fast -enough when what I said was to my own disadvantage; but when I told the -truth in another way, because it was to my advantage, they say—Prove -it. I can’t prove it without ruining other folks, or I’d have done it -before now; but I was happy enough as I was, and I didn’t care to ruin -others. Now, however, they’ve forced me to it, and thrown you in my -way.”</p> - -<p>“For heaven’s sake,” cried Edgar, “don’t mix me up with your scheme of -vengeance! What have I to do with it?” He was alarmed by the calm white -vehemence with which she spoke.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh! not much with my part of the business,” she said lightly. “This is -how it is: I’m married—excuse enough any day for what I’m charged with; -but they won’t take my word, and I have to prove it. When I tell them -I’m only a widow in a kind of a way, they say to me, ‘Produce your -husband,’ and this is what I’ve got to do. Nearly ten years ago, Mr. -Earnshaw, if that is your name—are you listening to me?—I married -Arthur Arden; or, rather, Arthur Arden married me.”</p> - -<p>“Good God!” cried Edgar; he did not at first seem to take in the meaning -of the words, but only felt vaguely that he had received a blow. “You -are mad!” he said, after a pause, looking at her—“you are mad!”</p> - -<p>“Not a bit; I am saner than you are, for I never would have given up a -fortune to him. I am the first Mrs. Arthur Arden, whoever the second may -be. He married me twice over, to make it more sure.”</p> - -<p>“Good God!” cried Edgar again; his countenance had grown whiter than -hers; all power of movement seemed to be taken out of him. “Prove this -horrible thing that you say—prove it! He never could be such a -villain!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, couldn’t he?—much you know about him! He could do worse things -than that, if worse is possible. You shall prove it yourself without me -stirring a foot. Listen, and I will tell you just how it was. When he -saw he couldn’t have me in any other way, he offered marriage; I was -young then, and so was he, and I was excusable—I have always<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span> felt I -was excusable; for a handsomer man, or one with more taking ways—You -know him, that’s enough. Well, not to make any more fuss than was -necessary, I proposed the registrar; but, if you please, he was a deal -too religious for that. ‘Let’s have some sort of parson,’ he said, -‘though he mayn’t be much to look at.’ We were married in the Methodist -chapel up on the way to Highgate. I’ll tell you all about it—I’ll give -you the name of the street and the date. It’s up Camden Town way, not -far from the Highgate Road. Father and mother used to attend chapel -there.”</p> - -<p>“You were married—to Arthur Arden!” said Edgar; all the details were -lost upon him, for he had not yet grasped the fact—“married to Arthur -Arden! Is this what you mean to say?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, yes!” cried Miss Lockwood, in high impatience, waving the -book which she used as a fan—“that is what I meant to say; and there’s -a deal more. You seem to be a slow sort of gentleman. I’ll stop, shall -I, till you’ve got it well into your head?” she said, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>The laugh, the mocking look, the devilish calm of the woman who was -expounding so calmly something which must bring ruin and despair upon a -family, and take name and fame from another woman, struck Edgar with -hot, mad anger.</p> - -<p>“For God’s sake, hold your tongue!” he cried, not knowing what he -said—“you will drive me mad!”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I don’t see why,” said Miss Lockwood—“why should it?—it -ain’t anything to you. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span> to hold my tongue is the last thing I mean -to do. You know what I said; I’ll go over it again to make quite sure.”</p> - -<p>Then, with a light laugh, she repeated word for word what she had -already said, throwing in descriptive touches about the Methodist chapel -and its pews.</p> - -<p>“Father and mother had the third from the pulpit on the right-hand side. -I don’t call myself a Methodist now; it stands in your way sometimes, -and the Church is always respectable; but I ought to like the -Methodists, for it was there it happened. You had better take down the -address and the day. I can tell you all the particulars.”</p> - -<p>Edgar did not know much about the law, but he had heard, at least, of -one ordinary formula.</p> - -<p>“Have you got your marriage certificate?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh! they don’t have such things among the Methodists,” said Miss -Lockwood. “Now I’ll tell you about the second time—for it was done -twice over, to make sure. You remember all that was in the papers about -that couple who were first married in Ireland, and then in Scotland, and -turned out not to be married at all? We went off to Scotland, him and -me, for our wedding tour, and I thought I’d just make certain sure, in -case there should be anything irregular, you know. So when we were at -the hotel, I got the landlady in, and one of the men, and I said he was -my husband before them, and made them put their names to it. He was -dreadfully angry—so angry that I knew I had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> right, and had seen -through him all the while, and that he meant to deceive me if he could; -but he couldn’t deny it all of a sudden, in a moment, with the certainty -that he would be turned out of the house then and there if he did. I’ve -got that, if you like to call that a marriage certificate. They tell me -it’s hard and fast in Scotch law.”</p> - -<p>“But we are in England,” said Edgar, feebly. “I don’t think Scotch law -tells here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! it does, about a thing like this,” said Miss Lockwood. “If I’m -married in Scotland, I can’t be single in England, and marry again, can -I? Now that’s my story. If his new wife hadn’t have been so proud——”</p> - -<p>“She is not proud,” said Edgar, with a groan; “it is—her manner—she -does not mean it. And then she has been so petted and flattered all her -life. Poor girl! she has done nothing to you that you should feel so -unfriendly towards her.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! hasn’t she?” said Miss Lockwood. “Only taken my place, that’s all. -Lived in my house, and driven in my carriage, and had everything I ought -to have had—no more than that!”</p> - -<p>Edgar was like a man stupefied. He stood holding his head with his -hands, feeling that everything swam around him. Miss Lockwood’s -defender?—ah! no, but the defender of another, whose more than life was -assailed. This desperation at last made things clearer before him, and -taught him to counterfeit calm.</p> - -<p>“It could not be she who drove you from him,” he said, with all the -composure he could collect.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> “Tell me how it came about that you are -called Miss Lockwood, and have been here so long, if all you have told -me is true?”</p> - -<p>“I won’t say that it was not partly my fault,” she replied, with a -complacent nod of her head. “After awhile we didn’t get on—I was -suspicious of him from the first, as I’ve told you; I know he never -meant honest and right; and he didn’t like being found out. Nobody as I -know of does. We got to be sick of each other after awhile. He was as -poor as Job; and he has the devil’s own temper. If you think I was a -patient Grizel to stand that, you’re very much mistaken. Ill-usage and -slavery, and nothing to live upon! I soon showed him as that wouldn’t do -for me. The baby died,” she added indifferently—“poor little thing, it -was a blessing that the Almighty took it! I fretted at first, but I felt -it was a deal better off than it could ever have been with me; and then -I took another situation. I had been in Grant and Robinson’s before I -married, so as I didn’t want to make a show of myself with them that -knew me, I took back my single name again. They are rather low folks -there, and I didn’t stay long; and I found I liked my liberty a deal -better than studying his temper, and being left to starve, as I was with -him; so I kept on, now here, now there, till I came to Tottenham’s. And -here I’ve never had nothing to complain of,” said Miss Lockwood, “till -some of these prying women found out about the baby. I made up my mind -to say nothing about who I was, seeing circumstances ain’t favourable. -But I sha’n’t deny it; why should I deny it?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> it ain’t for my profit to -deny it. Other folks may take harm, but I can’t; and when I saw you, -then I felt that the right moment had come, and that I must speak.”</p> - -<p>“Why did not you speak before he was married?—had you no feeling that, -if you were safe, another woman was about to be ruined?” said Edgar, -bitterly. “Why did you not speak then?”</p> - -<p>“Am I bound to take care of other women?” said Miss Lockwood. “I had -nobody to take care of me; and I took care of myself—why couldn’t she -do the same? She was a lady, and had plenty of friends—I had nobody to -take care of me.”</p> - -<p>“But it would have been to your own advantage,” said Edgar. “How do you -suppose anyone can believe that you neglected to declare yourself Arthur -Arden’s wife at the time when it would have been such a great thing for -you, and when he was coming into a good estate, and could make his wife -a lady of importance? You are not indifferent to your own comfort—why -did you not speak then?”</p> - -<p>“I pleased myself, I suppose,” she said, tossing her head; then added, -with matter-of-fact composure, “Besides, I was sick of him. He was never -the least amusing, and the most fault-finding, ill-tempered—One’s -spelling, and one’s looks, and one’s manners, and one’s dress—he was -never satisfied. Then,” she went on, sinking her voice—“I don’t deny -the truth—I knew he’d never take me home and let people know I was his -real wife. All I could have got out of him would have been an allowance, -to live in some hole and corner. I pre<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span>ferred my freedom to that, and -the power of getting a little amusement. I don’t mind work, bless -you—not work of this kind—it amuses me; and if I had been left in -peace here when I was comfortable, I shouldn’t have interfered—I should -have let things take their chance.”</p> - -<p>“In all this,” said Edgar, feeling his throat dry and his utterance -difficult, “you consider only yourself, no one else.”</p> - -<p>“Who else should I consider?” said Miss Lockwood. “I should like to know -who else considered me? Not a soul. I had to take care of myself, and I -did. Why should not his other wife have her wits about her as well as -me?”</p> - -<p>Then there was a pause. Edgar was too much broken down by this -disclosure, too miserable to speak; and she sat holding up the book -between her face and the fire, with a flush upon her pale cheeks, -sometimes fanning herself, her nose in the air, her finely-cut profile -inspired by impertinence and worldly selfishness, till it looked ugly to -the disquieted gazer. Few women could have been so handsome, and yet -looked so unhandsome. As he looked at her, sickening with the sight, -Edgar felt bitterly that this woman was indeed Arthur Arden’s true -mate—they matched each other well. But Clare, his sister—Clare, whom -there had been no one to guard—who, rich in friends as she was, had no -brother, no guardian to watch over her interests—poor Clare! The only -thing he seemed able to do for her now was to prove her shame, and -extricate her, if he could extricate her, from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span> terrible falseness -of her position. His heart ached so that it gave him a physical pain. He -had kept up no correspondence with her whom he had looked upon during -all the earlier part of his life as his sister, and whom he felt in his -very heart to be doubly his sister the moment that evil came in her way. -The thing for him to consider now was what he could do for her, to save -her, if possible—though how she could be saved, he knew not, as the -story was so circumstantial, and apparently true. But, at all events, it -could not but be well for Clare that her enemy’s cause was in her -brother’s hands. Good for Clare!—would it be good for the other woman, -to whom he had promised to do justice? Edgar almost felt his heart stand -still as he asked himself this question. Justice—justice must be done, -in any case, there could be no doubt of that. If Clare’s position was -untenable, she must not be allowed to go on in ignorance, for misery -even is better than dishonour. This was some comfort to him in his -profound and sudden wretchedness. Clare’s cause, and that of this other, -were so far the same.</p> - -<p>“I will undertake your commission,” he said gravely; “but understand me -first. Instead of hating the Ardens, I would give my life to preserve my -sister, Mrs. Arden, from the shame and grief you are trying to bring -upon her. Of course, one way or another, I shall feel it my duty now to -verify what you say; but it is right to tell you that her interest is -the first thing I shall consider, not yours.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“<i>Her</i> interest!” cried Miss Lockwood, starting up in her chair. “Oh! -you poor, mean-spirited creature! Call yourself a man, and let yourself -be treated like a dog—that’s your nature, is it? I suppose they’ve made -you a pension, or something, to keep you crawling and toadying. I -shouldn’t wonder,” she said, stopping suddenly, “if you were to offer me -a good round sum to compromise the business, or an allowance for -life—?”</p> - -<p>“I shall do nothing of the kind,” said Edgar, quietly. She stared at him -for a moment, panting—and then, in the effort to speak, was seized upon -by a violent fit of coughing, which shook her fragile figure, and -convulsed her suddenly-crimsoned face. “Can I get you anything?” he -asked, rising with an impulse of pity. She shook her head, and waved to -him with her hand to sit down again. Does the reader remember how -Christian in the story had vile thoughts whispered into his ear, thrown -into his mind, which were none of his? Profoundest and truest of -parables! Into Edgar’s mind, thrown there by some devil, came a wish and -a hope; he did not originate them, but he had to undergo them, writhing -within himself with shame and horror. He wished that she might die, that -Clare might thus be saved from exposure, at least from outward ruin, -from the stigma upon herself and upon her children, which nothing else -could avert. The wish ran through him while he sat helpless, trying with -all the struggling powers of his mind to reject it. Few of us, I -suspect, have escaped a similar experience. It was not his doing,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> but -he had to bear the consciousness of this inhuman thought.</p> - -<p>When Miss Lockwood had struggled back to the power of articulation, she -turned to him again, with an echo of her jaunty laugh.</p> - -<p>“They say I’m in a consumption,” she said; “don’t you believe it. I’ll -see you all out, mind if I don’t. We’re a long-lived family. None of us -ever were known to have anything the matter with our chests.”</p> - -<p>“Have you spoken to a doctor?” said Edgar, with so deep a remorseful -compunction that it made his tone almost tender in kindness.</p> - -<p>“Oh! the doctor—he speaks to me!” she said. “I tell the young ladies -he’s fallen in love with me. Oh! that ain’t so unlikely neither! Men as -good have done it before now; but I wouldn’t have anything to say to -him,” she continued, with her usual laugh. “I don’t make any brag of it, -but I never forget as I’m a married woman. I don’t mind a little -flirtation, just for amusement; but no man has ever had it in his power -to brag that he’s gone further with me.”</p> - -<p>Then there was a pause, for disquiet began to resume its place in -Edgar’s mind, and the poor creature before him had need of rest to -regain her breath. She opened the book she held in her hand, and pushed -to him across the table some written memoranda.</p> - -<p>“There’s where my chapel is as I was married in,” she said, “and -there’s—it’s nothing but a copy, so, if you destroy it, it won’t do me -any harm—the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> Scotch certificate. They were young folks that signed it, -no older than myself, so be sure you’ll find them, if you want to. -There, I’ve given you all that’s needed to prove what I say, and if you -don’t clear me, I’ll tell the Master, that’s all, and he’ll do it, fast -enough! Your fine Mrs. Arden, forsooth, that has no more right to be -Mrs. Arden than you had to be Squire, won’t get off, don’t you think it, -for now my blood’s up. I know what Arthur will do,” she cried, getting -excited again. “He’s a man of sense, and a man of the world, he is. -He’ll come to me on his knees, and offer a good big lump of money, or a -nice allowance. Oh! I know him! He ain’t a poor, mean-spirited cur, to -lick the hand that cuffs him, or to go against his own interest, like -you.”</p> - -<p>Here another fit of coughing came on, worse than the first. Edgar, -compassionate, took up the paper, and left the room.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid Miss Lockwood is ill. Will you send some one to her?” he -said, to the first young lady he met.</p> - -<p>“Hasn’t she a dreadful cough? And she won’t do anything for it, or take -any care of herself. I’ll send one of the young ladies from her own -department,” said this fine personage, rustling along in her black silk -robes. Mr. Watson was hovering near, to claim Edgar’s attention, about -some of the arrangements for the approaching festivity.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Tottenham bade me say, sir, if you’d kindly step this way, into the -hall,” said the walking gentleman.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span></p> - -<p>Poor Edgar! if he breathed a passing anathema upon enlightened schemes -and disciples of social progress, I do not think that anyone need be -surprised.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /><br /> -<small>A Plunge into the Maze.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">“Her</span> plea is simply that she is married—that seems all there is to -say.”</p> - -<p>“I am aware she says that,” said Mr. Tottenham. “I hope to heaven she -can prove it, Earnshaw, and end this tempest in a tea-cup! I am sick of -the whole affair! Has her husband deserted her, or is he dead, or what -has become of him? I hope she gave you some proofs.”</p> - -<p>“I must make inquiries before I can answer,” said Edgar. “By some -miserable chance friends of my own are involved. I must get at the -bottom of it. Her husband—if he is her husband—has married again; in -his own rank—a lady in whom I am deeply interested——”</p> - -<p>“My dear fellow!” said Mr. Tottenham, “what a business for you! Did the -woman know, confound her? There, I don’t often speak rashly, but some of -these women, upon my honour, would try the patience of a saint! I -daresay it’s all a lie. That sort of person cares no more for a lie! -I’ll pack her off out of the establishment, and we’ll think of it no -more.”</p> - -<p>“Pardon me, I must think of it, and follow it out,” said Edgar; “it is -too serious to be neglected.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span> Altogether independent of this woman, a -lady’s—my friend’s happiness, her reputation, perhaps her life—for how -could she outlive name and fame, and love and confidence?” he said, -suddenly feeling himself overcome by the horrible suggestion. “It looks -like preferring my own business to yours, but I must see to this first.”</p> - -<p>“Go, go, my dear Earnshaw—never mind my business—have some money and -go!” cried Mr. Tottenham. “I can’t tell you how grieved I am to have -brought you into this. Poor lady! poor lady!—I won’t ask who it is. But -recollect they lie like the devil!—they don’t mind what they say, like -you or me, who understand the consequences; they think of nothing beyond -the spite of the moment. I am in for three quarrels, and a resignation, -all because I want to please them!” cried the poor master of the great -shop, dolorously. He accompanied Edgar out to the private door, -continuing his plaint. “A nothing will do it,” he said; “and they don’t -care for what happens, so long as they indulge the temper of the moment. -To lose their employment, or their friends, or the esteem of those who -would try to help them in everything—all this is nought. I declare I -could almost cry like a baby when I think of it! Don’t be cast down, -Earnshaw. More likely than not it’s all a lie!”</p> - -<p>“If I cannot get back this evening in time for you—” Edgar began.</p> - -<p>“Never mind, never mind. Go to the Square. I’ll tell them to have a room -ready for you. And take some money—nothing is to be done without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> -money. And, Earnshaw,” lie added, calling after him some minutes later, -when Edgar was at the door, “on second thoughts, you won’t say anything -to Mary about my little troubles? After all, the best of us have got our -tempers; perhaps I am injudicious, and expect too much. She has always -had her doubts about my mode of treatment. Don’t, there’s a good fellow, -betray to them at home that I lost my temper too!”</p> - -<p>This little preliminary to the Entertainment was locked in Edgar’s -bosom, and never betrayed to anyone. To tell the truth, his mind was -much too full of more important matters to think upon any such -inconsiderable circumstance; for he was not the Apostle of the Shop, and -had no scheme to justify and uphold in the eyes of all men and women. -Edgar, I fear, was not of the stuff of which social reformers are made. -The concerns of the individual were more important to him at all times -than those of the mass; and one human shadow crossing his way, -interested his heart and mind far beyond a mere crowd, though the crowd, -no doubt, as being multitudinous, must have been more important. Edgar -turned his back upon the establishment with, I fear, very little -Christian feeling towards Tottenham’s, and all concerned with it—hating -the Entertainment, weary of Mr. Tottenham himself, and disgusted with -the strange impersonation of cruelty and selfishness which had just been -revealed to him in the form of a woman. He could not shut out from his -eyes that thin white face, so full of self, so destitute of any generous -feeling.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span></p> - -<p>Such stories have been told before in almost every tone of sympathy and -reprobation; women betrayed have been wept in every language under -heaven, and their betrayer denounced, but what was there to lament -about, to denounce here? A woman sharp and clever to make the best of -her bargain; a man trying legal cheats upon her; two people drawn -together by some semblance of what is called passion, yet each watching -and scheming, how best, on either side, to outwit the other. Never was -tale of misery and despair so pitiful; for this was all baseness, -meanness, calculation on both hands. They were fitly matched, and it was -little worth any man’s while to interfere between them—but, O heaven! -to think of the other fate involved in theirs. This roused Edgar to an -excitement which was almost maddening. To think that these two base -beings had wound into their miserable tangle the feet of Clare—that her -innocent life must pay the penalty for their evil lives, that she must -bear the dishonour while spotless from the guilt!</p> - -<p>Edgar posted along the great London thoroughfare, through the -continually varying crowd of passers-by, absorbed in an agitation and -disquiet which drove all his own affairs out of his head. His own -affairs might involve much trouble and distress; but neither shame nor -guilt was in them. Heaven above! to think that guilt or shame could have -anything to do with Clare!</p> - -<p>Now Clare had not been, at least at the last, a very good sister to -Edgar—she was not his sister at all, so far as blood went; and when -this had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> discovered, and the homeliness of his real origin -identified, Clare had shrunk from him, notwithstanding that for all her -life, in childish fondness and womanly sympathy, she had loved him as -her only brother. Edgar had mournfully consented to a complete severance -between them. She had married his enemy; and he himself had sunk so much -out of sight that he had felt no further intercourse to be possible, -though his affectionate heart had felt it deeply. But as soon as he -heard of her danger, all his old love for his sister had sprung up in -Edgar’s heart. He took back her name, as it were, into the number of -those sounds most familiar to him. “Clare,” he said to himself, feeling -a thrill of renewed warmth go through him, mingled with poignant -pain—“Clare, my sister, my only sister, the sole creature in the world -that belongs to me!” Alas! she did not belong to Edgar any more than any -inaccessible princess; but in his heart this was what he felt. He pushed -his way through the full streets, with the air and the sentiment of a -man bound upon the most urgent business, seeing little on his way, -thinking of nothing but his object—the object in common which Miss -Lockwood had supposed him to have with herself. But Edgar did not even -remember that—he thought of nothing but Clare’s comfort and well-being -which were concerned, and how it would be possible to confound her -adversaries, and save her from ignoble persecution. If he could keep it -from her knowledge altogether! But, alas! how could that be done? He -went faster and faster, driven by his thoughts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span></p> - -<p>The address Miss Lockwood had given him was in a small street off the -Hampstead Road. That strange long line of street, with here and there a -handful of older houses, a broader pavement, a bit of dusty garden, to -show the suburban air it once had possessed; its heterogeneous shops, -furniture, birdcages, perambulators, all kinds of out-of-the-way wares -fled past the wayfarer, taking wings to themselves, he thought. It is -not an interesting quarter, and Edgar had no time to give to any -picturesque or historical reminiscences. When he reached the little -street in which the chapel he sought was situated, he walked up on one -side and down on the other, expecting every moment to see the building -of which he was in search. A chapel is not a thing apt to disappear, -even in the changeful district of Camden Town. Rubbing his eyes, he went -up and down again, inspecting the close lines of mean houses. The only -break in the street was where two or three small houses, of a more -bilious brick than usual, whose outlines had not yet been toned down by -London soot and smoke, diversified the prospect. He went to a little -shop opposite this yellow patch upon the old grimy garment to make -inquiries.</p> - -<p>“Chapel! there ain’t no chapel hereabouts,” said the baker, who was -filling his basket with loaves.</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue, John,” said his wife, from the inner shop. “I’ll set -you all right in a moment. There’s where the chapel was, sir, right -opposite. There was a bit of a yard where they’ve built them houses. The -chapel is behind; but it ain’t a chapel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> now. It’s been took for an -infant school by our new Rector. Don’t you see a little bit of an entry -at that open door? That’s where you go in. But since it’s been shut up -there’s been a difference in the neighbourhood. Most of us is church -folks now.”</p> - -<p>“And does nothing remain of the chapel—nobody belonging to it, no books -nor records?” cried Edgar, suddenly brought to a standstill. The woman -looked at him surprised.</p> - -<p>“I never heard as they had any books—more than the hymn-books, which -they took with them, I suppose. It’s our new Rector as has bought it—a -real good man, as gives none of us no peace——”</p> - -<p>“And sets you all on with your tongues,” said her husband, throwing his -basket over his shoulder.</p> - -<p>Edgar did not wait to hear the retort of the wife, and felt no interest -in the doings of the new Rector. He did not know what to do in this -unforeseen difficulty. He went across the road, and up the little entry, -and looked at the grimy building beyond, which was no great satisfaction -to his feelings. It was a dreary little chapel, of the most ordinary -type, cleared of its pews, and filled with the low benches and staring -pictures of an infant school, and looked as if it had been thrust up -into a corner by the little line of houses built across the scrap of -open space which had formerly existed in front of its doors. As he gazed -round him helplessly, another woman came up, who asked with bated breath -what he wanted.</p> - -<p>“We’re all church folks now hereabouts,” she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> said; “but I don’t mind -telling you, sir, as a stranger, I was always fond of the old chapel. -What preaching there used to be, to be sure!—dreadful rousing and -comforting! And it’s more relief, like, to the mind, to say, ‘Lord, ha’ -mercy upon us!’ or, ‘Glory, glory!’ or the like o’ that, just when you -pleases, than at set times out o’ a book. There’s nothing most but -prayers here now. If you want any of the chapel folks, maybe I could -tell you. I’ve been in the street twenty years and more.”</p> - -<p>“I want to find out about a marriage that took place here ten years -ago,” said Edgar.</p> - -<p>“Marriage!” said the woman, shaking her head. “I don’t recollect no -marriage. Preachings are one thing, and weddings is another. I don’t -hold with weddings out of church. If there’s any good in church—”</p> - -<p>Edgar had to stop this exposition by asking after the “chapel-folks” to -whom she could direct him, and in answer was told of three tradesmen in -the neighbourhood who “held by the Methodys,” one of whom had been a -deacon in the disused chapel. This was a carpenter, who could not be -seen till his dinner-hour, and on whom Edgar had to dance attendance -with very indifferent satisfaction; for the deacon’s report was that the -chapel had never been, so far as he could remember, licensed for -marriages, and that none had taken place within it. This statement, -however, was flatly contradicted by the pork-butcher, whose name was the -next on his list, and who recollected to have heard that some one had -been married there just about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> the time indicated by Miss Lockwood. -Finally, Edgar lighted on an official who had been a local preacher in -the days of the chapel, and who was now a Scripture-reader, under the -sway of the new Rector, who had evidently turned the church and parish -upside-down. This personage had known something of the Lockwoods, and -was not disinclined—having ascertained that Edgar was a stranger, and -unlikely to betray any of his hankerings after the chapel—to gossip -about the little defunct community. Its books and records had, he said, -been removed, when it was closed, to some central office of the -denomination, where they would, no doubt, be shown on application. This -man was very anxious to give a great deal of information quite apart -from the matter in hand. He gave Edgar a sketch of the decay of the -chapel, in which, I fear, the young man took no interest, though it was -curious enough; and he told him about the Lockwoods, and about the -eldest daughter, who, he was afraid, had come to no good.</p> - -<p>“She said as she was married, but nobody believed her. She was always a -flighty one,” said the Scripture-reader.</p> - -<p>This was all that Edgar picked up out of a flood of unimportant -communications. He could not even find any clue to the place where these -denominational records were kept, and by this time the day was too far -advanced to do more. Drearily he left the grimy little street, with its -damp pavements, its poor little badly-lighted shops and faint lamps, not -without encountering the new Rector in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> person, an omniscient personage, -who had already heard of his inquiries, and regarded him suspiciously, -as perhaps a “Methody” in disguise, planning the restoration of dissent -in a locality just purged from its taint. Edgar was too tired, too -depressed and down-hearted to be amused by the watchful look of the -muscular Christian, who saw in him a wolf prowling about the fold. He -made his way into the main road, and jumped into a hansom, and drove -down the long line of shabby, crowded thoroughfare, so mean and small, -yet so great and full of life. Those miles and miles of mean, monotonous -street, without a feature to mark one from another, full of crowds of -human creatures, never heard of, except as counting so many hundreds, -more or less, in the year’s calendar of mortality—how strangely -impressive they become at last by mere repetition, mass upon mass, crowd -upon crowd, poor, nameless, mean, unlovely! Perhaps it was the general -weariness and depression of Edgar’s whole being that brought this -feeling into his mind as he drove noisily, silently along between those -lines of faintly-lighted houses towards what is impertinently, yet -justly, called the habitable part of London. For one fair, bright path -in the social, as in the physical world, how many mean, and darkling, -and obscure!—how small the spot which lies known and visible to the -general eye!—how great the confused darkness all round! Such -reflections are the mere growth of weariness and despondency, but they -heighten the depression of which they are an evidence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span></p> - -<p>The whole of noisy, crowded London was as a wilderness to Edgar. He -drove to his club, where he had not been since the day when he met Mr. -Tottenham. So short a time ago, and yet how his life had altered in the -interval! He was no longer drifting vaguely upon the current, as he had -been doing. His old existence had caught at him with anxious hands. -Notwithstanding all the alterations of time, circumstances, and being, -he was at this moment not Edgar Earnshaw at all, but the Edgar Arden of -three years ago, caught back into the old sphere, surrounded by the old -thoughts. Such curious vindications of the unchangeableness of -character, the identity of being, which suddenly seize upon a man, and -whirl him back in a moment, defying all external changes, into his old, -his unalterable self, are among the strangest things in humanity. Dizzy -with the shock he had received, harassed by anxiety, worn out by -unsuccessful effort, Edgar felt the world swim round with him, and -scarcely could answer to himself who he was. Had all the Lockwood -business been a dream? Was it a dream that he had been as a stranger for -three long years to Clare, his sister—to Gussy, his almost bride? And -yet his mind at this moment was as full of their images as if no -interval had been.</p> - -<p>After he had dined and refreshed himself, he set to work with, I -think,—notwithstanding his anxiety, the first shock of which was now -over,—a thrill of conscious energy, and almost pleasure in something to -do, which was so much more important than those vague lessons to Phil, -or vaguer<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> studies in experimental philosophy, to which his mind had -been lately turned. To be here on the spot, ready to work for Clare when -she was assailed, was something to be glad of, deeply as the idea of -such an assault upon her had excited and pained him. And at the same -time as his weariness wore off, and the first excitement cooled down, he -began to feel himself more able to realize the matter in all its -particulars, and see the safer possibilities. It began to appear to him -likely enough that all that could be proved was Arthur Arden’s villainy, -a subject which did not much concern him, which had no novelty in it, -and which, though Clare was Arthur Arden’s wife, could not affect her -more now than it had done ever since she married him. Indeed, if it was -but this, there need be no necessity for communicating it to Clare at -all. It was more probable, when he came to think of it, that an educated -and clever man should be able to outwit a dressmaker girl, however -deeply instructed in the laws of marriage by novels and <i>causes -célèbres</i>, than that she should outwit him; and in this case there was -nothing that need ever be made known to Clare.</p> - -<p>Edgar was glad, and yet I don’t know that a certain disappointment, -quite involuntary and unawares, did not steal into his mind with this -thought; for he had begun to cherish an idea of seeing his sister, of -perhaps resuming something of his old intercourse with her, and at least -of being known to have worked for and defended her. These thoughts, -however, were but the secondary current in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> mind, while the working -part of it was planning a further enterprise for the morrow. He got the -directory, and, after considerable trouble, found out from it the names -and addresses of certain officials of the Wesleyan body, to whom he -could go in search of the missing registers of the Hart Street -Chapel—if registers there were—or who could give him definite and -reliable information, in face of the conflicting testimony he had -already received, as to whether marriages had ever been celebrated in -it.</p> - -<p>Edgar knew, I suppose, as much as other men generally do about the -ordinary machinery of society, but he did not know where to lay his hand -on any conclusive official information about the Hart Street Chapel, -whether it had ever been licenced, or had any legal existence as a place -of worship, any more than—you or I would, dear reader, were we in a -similar difficulty. Who knows anything about such matters? He had lost a -day already in the merest A B C of preliminary inquiry, and no doubt -would lose several more.</p> - -<p>Then he took out the most important of Miss Lockwood’s papers, which he -had only glanced at as yet. It was dated from a small village in the -Western Highlands, within reach, as he knew, of Loch Arroch, and was a -certificate, signed by Helen Campbell and John Mactaggart, that Arthur -Arden and Emma Lockwood had that day, in their presence, declared -themselves to be man and wife. Edgar’s knowledge of such matters had, I -fear, been derived entirely from novels and newspaper reports,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> and he -read over the document, which was alarmingly explicit and -straightforward, with a certain panic. He said to himself that there -were no doubt ways in law by which to lessen the weight of such an -attestation, or means of shaking its importance; but it frightened him -just as he was escaping from his first fright, and brought back all his -excitement and alarm.</p> - -<p>He did not go to Berkeley Square, as Mr. Tottenham had recommended, but -to his old lodgings, where he found a bed with difficulty, and where -once more his two lives seemed to meet in sharp encounter. But his head -by this time was too full of schemes for to-morrow to permit of any -personal speculation; he was far, as yet, from seeing any end to his -undertaking, and it was impossible to tell what journeys, what -researches might be still before him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /><br /> -<small>In the Depths.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Next</span> morning he went first to his old lawyer, in whom he had confidence, -and having copied the certificate, carefully changing the names, -submitted it to him. Mr. Parchemin declared that he knew nothing of -Scotch law, but shook his head, and hoped there was nothing very -unpleasant in the circumstances, declaring vehemently that it was a -shame and disgrace that such snares should be spread for the unwary on -the other side of the border. Was it a disgrace that Arthur Arden should -not have been protected in Scotland, as in England, from the -quick-wittedness of the girl whom he had already cheated and meant to -betray? Edgar felt that there might be something to be said on both -sides of the question, as he left his copy in Mr. Parchemin’s hands, who -undertook to consult a Scotch legal authority on the question; then he -went upon his other business. I need not follow him through his manifold -and perplexing inquiries, or inform the reader how he was sent from -office to office, and from secretary to secretary, or with what loss of -time and patience his quest was accompanied. After several days’ work, -however, he ascertained that the chapel in Hart Street had indeed been -licensed, but only used once or twice<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> for marriages, and that no record -of any such marriage as that which he was in search of could be found -anywhere. A stray record of a class-meeting which Emma Lockwood had been -admonished for levity of demeanour, was the sole mention of her to be -found; and though the officials admitted a certain carelessness in the -preservation of books belonging to an extinct chapel, they declared it -to be impossible that such a fact could have been absolutely ignored. -There was, indeed, a rumour in the denomination that a local preacher -had been found to have taken upon himself to perform a marriage, for -which he had been severely reprimanded; but as he had been possessed of -no authority to make such a proceeding legal, no register had been made -of the fact, and only the reprimanded was inscribed on the books of the -community. This was the only opening for even a conjecture as to the -truth of Miss Lockwood’s first story. If the second could only have been -dissipated as easily!</p> - -<p>Edgar’s inquiries among the Wesleyan authorities lasted, as I have said, -several days, and caused him more fatigue of limb and of mind than it is -easy to express. He went to Tottenham’s—where, indeed, he showed -himself every day, getting more and more irritated with the -Entertainment, and all its preparations—as soon as he had ascertained -beyond doubt that the marriage at Hart Street Chapel was fictitious. -Miss Lockwood, he was informed, was an invalid, but would see him in the -young ladies’ dining-room, where, accordingly, he found her, look<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span>ing -sharper, and whiter, and more worn than ever. He told her his news -quietly, with a natural pity for the woman deceived; a gleam of sudden -light shone in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I told you so,” she said, triumphantly; “now didn’t I tell you so? He -wanted to take me in—I felt it from the very first; but he hadn’t got -to do with a fool, as he thought. I was even with him for that.”</p> - -<p>“I have written to find out if your Scotch witnesses are alive,” said -Edgar.</p> - -<p>“Alive!—why shouldn’t they be alive, like I am, and like he is?” she -cried, with feverish irritability. “Folks of our ages don’t die!—what -are you thinking of? And if they were dead, what would it -matter?—there’s their names as good as themselves. Ah! I didn’t botch -my business any more than he botched his. You’ll find it’s all right.”</p> - -<p>“I hope you are better,” Edgar said, with a compassion that was all the -more profound because the object of it neither deserved, nor would have -accepted it.</p> - -<p>“Better—oh! thank you, I am quite well,” she said lightly—“only a bit -of a cold. Perhaps on the whole it’s as well I’m not going to sing -to-night; a cold is so bad for one’s voice. Good-bye, Mr. Earnshaw. -We’ll meet at the old gentleman’s turnout to-night.”</p> - -<p>And she waved her hand, dismissing poor Edgar, who left her with a -warmer sense of disgust, and dislike than had ever moved his friendly -bosom before. And yet it was in this creature’s interests he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> was -working, and against Clare! Mr. Tottenham caught him on his way out, to -hand him a number of letters which had arrived for him, and to call for -his advice in the final preparations. The public had been shut out of -the hall in which the Entertainment was to be, on pretence of -alterations.</p> - -<p>“Three more resignations,” Mr. Tottenham said, who was feverish and -harassed, and looked like a man at the end of his patience. “Heaven be -praised, it will be over to-night? Come early, Earnshaw, if you can -spare the time, and stand by me. If any of the performers get cross, and -refuse to perform, what shall I do?”</p> - -<p>“Let them!” cried Edgar; “ungrateful fools, after all your kindness.”</p> - -<p>Edgar was too much harassed and annoyed himself to be perfectly rational -in his judgments.</p> - -<p>“Don’t let us be uncharitable,” said Mr. Tottenham; “have they perhaps, -after all, much reason for gratitude? Is it not my own crotchet I am -carrying out, in spite of all obstacles? But it will be a lesson—I -think it will be a lesson,” he added. “And, Earnshaw, don’t fail me -to-night.”</p> - -<p>Edgar went straight from the shop to Mr. Parchemin’s, to receive the -opinion of the eminent Scotch law authority in respect to the marriage -certificate. He had written to Robert Campbell, at Loch Arroch Head, -suggesting that inquiries might be made about the persons who signed it, -and had heard from him that morning that the landlady of the inn was -certainly to be found, and that she perfectly remembered having put her -name to the paper.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> The waiter was no longer there, but could be easily -laid hands upon. There was accordingly no hope except in the Scotch -lawyer, who might still make waste paper of the certificate. Edgar found -Mr. Parchemin hot and red, after a controversy with this functionary.</p> - -<p>“He laughs at my indignation,” said the old lawyer. “Well, I suppose if -one did not heat one’s self in argument, what he says might have some -justice in it. He says innocent men that let women alone, and innocent -women that behave as they ought to do, will never get any harm from the -Scotch marriage law; and that it’s always a safeguard for a poor girl -that may have been led astray without meaning it. He says—well, I see -you’re impatient—though how such an anomaly can ever be suffered so -near to civilization! Well, he says it’s as good a marriage as if it had -been done in Westminster Abbey by the Archbishop of Canterbury. That’s -all the comfort I’ve got to give you. I hope it hasn’t got anything -directly to say to you.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks,” said Edgar, faintly; “it has to do with some—very dear -friends of mine. I could scarcely feel it more deeply if it concerned -myself.”</p> - -<p>“It is a disgrace to civilization!” cried the lawyer—“it is a -subversion of every honest principle. You young men ought to take -warning—”</p> - -<p>“—To do a villainy of this kind, when we mean to do it, out of -Scotland?” said Edgar, “or we may find ourselves the victims instead of -the victors?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span> Heaven forbid that I should do anything to save a -scoundrel from his just deserts!”</p> - -<p>“But I thought you were interested—deeply interested——”</p> - -<p>“Not for him, the cowardly blackguard!” cried Edgar, excited beyond -self-control.</p> - -<p>He turned away from the place, holding the lawyer’s opinion, for which -he had spent a large part of his little remaining stock of money, -clutched in his hand. A feverish, momentary sense, almost of -gratification, that Arden should have been thus punished, possessed -him—only for a moment. He hastened to the club, where he could sit -quiet and think it over. He had not been able even to consider his own -business, but had thrust his letters into his pocket without looking at -them.</p> - -<p>When he found himself alone, or almost alone, in a corner of the -library, he covered his face with his hands, and yielded to the crushing -influence of this last certainty. Clare was no longer an honoured -matron, the possessor of a well-recognized position, the mother of -children of whom she was proud, the wife of a man whom at least she had -once loved, and who, presumably, had done nothing to make her hate and -scorn him. God help her! What was she now? What was her position to be? -She had no relations to fall back upon, or to stand by her in her -trouble, except himself, who was no relation—only poor Edgar, her -loving brother, bound to her by everything but blood; but, alas! he knew -that in such emergencies blood is everything, and other ties count for -so little. The thought made his heart<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span> sick; and he could not be silent, -could not hide it from her, dared not shut up this secret in his own -mind, as he might have done almost anything else that affected her -painfully. There was but one way, but one step before him now.</p> - -<p>His letters tumbled out of his pocket as he drew out Miss Lockwood’s -original paper, and he tried to look at them, by way of giving his -overworn mind a pause, and that he might be the better able to choose -the best way of carrying out the duty now before him. These letters -were—some of them, at least—answers to those which he had written in -the excitement and happy tumult of his mind, after Lady Mary’s -unintentional revelation. He read them as through a mist; their very -meaning came dimly upon him, and he could with difficulty realize the -state of his feelings when, all glowing with the prospect of personal -happiness, and the profound and tender exultation with which he found -himself to be still beloved, he had written these confident appeals to -the kindness of his friends. Most likely, had he read the replies with a -disengaged mind, they would have disappointed him bitterly, with a -dreariness of downfall proportioned to his warmth of hope. But in his -present state of mind every sound around him was muffled, every blow -softened. One nail strikes out another, say the astute Italians. The -mind is not capable of two profound and passionate preoccupations at -once. He read them with subdued consciousness, with a veil before his -eyes. They were all friendly, and some were warmly cordial. “What can we -do for you?” they all said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> “If you could take a mastership, I have -interest at more than one public school; but, alas! I suppose you did -not even take your degree in England,” one wrote to him. “If you knew -anything about land, or had been trained to the law,” said another, “I -might have got you a land agency in Ireland, a capital thing for a man -of energy and courage; but then I fear you are no lawyer, and not much -of an agriculturist.” “What can you do, my dear fellow?” said a third, -more cautiously. “Think what you are most fit for—you must know best -yourself—and let me know, and I will try all I can do.”</p> - -<p>Edgar laughed as he bundled them all back into his pocket. What was he -most fit for? To be an amateur detective, and find out secrets that -broke his heart. A dull ache for his own disappointment (though his mind -was not lively enough to feel disappointed) seemed to add to the general -despondency, the lowered life and oppressed heart of which he had been -conscious without this. But then what had he to do with personal comfort -or happiness? In the first place there lay this tremendous passage -before him—this revelation to be made to Clare.</p> - -<p>It was late in the afternoon before he could nerve himself to write the -indispensable letter, from which he felt it was cowardly to shrink. It -was not a model of composition, though it gave him a great deal of -trouble. This is what he said:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="indd"> -“<span class="smcap">Sir</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>“It is deeply against my will that I address you,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> so long after -all communication has ended between us; and it is possible that you -may not remember even the new name with which I sign this. By a -singular and unhappy chance, facts in your past life, affecting the -honour and credit of the family, have been brought to my knowledge, -of all people in the world. If I could have avoided the confidence, -I should have done so; but it was out of my power. When I say that -these facts concern a person called Lockwood (or so called, at -least, before her pretended marriage), you will, I have no doubt, -understand what I mean. Will you meet me, at any place you may -choose to appoint, for the purpose of discussing this most -momentous and fatal business? I have examined it minutely, with the -help of the best legal authority, from whom the real names of the -parties have been concealed, and I cannot hold out to you any hope -that it will be easily arranged. In order, however, to save it from -being thrown at once into professional hands, and exposed to the -public, will you communicate with me, or appoint a time and place -to meet me? I entreat you to do this, for the sake of your children -and family. I cannot trust myself to appeal to any other sacred -claim upon you. For God’s sake, let me see you, and tell me if you -have any plea to raise!</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Edgar Earnshaw.</span>”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>He felt that the outburst at the end was injudicious, but could not -restrain the ebullition of feeling. If he could but be allowed to manage -it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> quietly, to have her misery broken to Clare without any -interposition of the world’s scorn or pity. She was the one utterly -guiltless, but it was she who would be most exposed to animadversion; he -felt this, with his heart bleeding for his sister. If he had but had the -privilege of a brother—if he could have gone to her, and drawn her -gently away, and provided home and sympathy for her, before the blow had -fallen! But neither he nor anyone could do this, for Clare was not the -kind of being to make close friends. She reserved her love for the few -who belonged to her, and had little or none to expend on strangers. Did -she still think of him as one belonging to her, or was his recollection -altogether eclipsed, blotted out from her mind? He began half a dozen -letters to Clare herself, asking if she still thought of him, if she -would allow him to remember that he was once her brother, with a -humility which he could not have shown had she been as happy and -prosperous as all the world believed her to be. But after he had written -these letters, one after another, retouching a phrase here, and an -epithet there, which was too weak or too strong for his excited fancy, -and lingering over her name with tears in his eyes, he destroyed them -all. Until he heard from her husband, he did not feel that he could -venture to write to his sister. His sister!—his poor, forlorn, ruined, -solitary sister, rich as she was, and surrounded by all things -advantageous! a wife, and yet no wife; the mother of children whose -birth would be their shame! Edgar rose up from where he was writing in -the intolerable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span> pang of this thought—he could not keep still while it -flashed through his mind. Clara, the proudest, the purest, the most -fastidious of women—how could she bear it? He said to himself that it -was impossible—impossible—that she must die of it! There was no way of -escape for her. It would kill her, and his was the hand which had to -give the blow.</p> - -<p>In this condition, with such thoughts running over in his vexed brain, -to go back to the shop, and find poor Mr. Tottenham wrestling among the -difficulties which, poor man, were overwhelming him, with dark lines of -care under his eyes, and his face haggard with anxiety—imagine, dear -reader, what it was! He could have laughed at the petty trouble; yet no -one could laugh at the pained face, the kind heart wounded, the manifest -and quite overwhelming trouble of the philanthropist.</p> - -<p>“I don’t even know yet whether they will keep to their engagements; and -we are all at sixes and sevens, and the company will begin to arrive in -an hour or two!” cried poor Mr. Tottenham. Edgar’s anxieties were so -much more engrossing and terrible that to have a share in these small -ones did him good; and he was so indifferent that he calmed everybody, -brought the unruly performers back to their senses, and thrust all the -arrangements on by the sheer carelessness he felt as to whether they -were ready or not. “Who cares about your play?” he said to Watson, who -came to pour out his grievances. “Do you think the Duchess of -Middlemarch is so anxious to hear you? They will enjoy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> themselves a -great deal better chatting to each other.”</p> - -<p>This brought Mr. Watson and his troupe to their senses, as all Mr. -Tottenham’s agitated remonstrances had not brought them. Edgar did not -care to be in the way of the fine people when they arrived. He got a -kind word from Lady Mary, who whispered to him, “How ill you are -looking! You must tell us what it is, and let us help you;” for this -kind woman found it hard to realise that there were things in which the -support of herself and her husband would be but little efficacious; and -he had approached Lady Augusta, as has been recorded, with some wistful, -hopeless intention of recommending Clare to her, in case of anything -that might happen. But Lady Augusta had grown so pale at the sight of -him, and had thrown so many uneasy glances round her, that Edgar -withdrew, with his heart somewhat heavy, feeling his burden rather more -than he could conveniently bear. He had gone and hid himself in the -library, trying to read, and hearing far off the din of applause—the -distant sound of voices. The noise of the visitors’ feet approaching had -driven him from that refuge, when Mr. Tottenham, in high triumph, led -his guests through his huge establishment. Edgar, dislodged, and not -caring to put himself in the way of further discouragement, chose this -moment to give his message to Phil, and strayed away from sound and -light into the retired passages, when that happened to him in his time -of extremity which it is now my business to record.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /><br /> -<small>A New Event.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">“Have</span> you—forgotten me—then?”</p> - -<p>“Forgotten you!” cried Edgar.</p> - -<p>Heaven help him!—he did not advance nor take her hands, which she held -out, kept back by his honour and promise—till he saw that her eyes were -full of tears, that her lips were quivering, unable to articulate -anything more, and that her figure swayed slightly, as if tottering. -Then all that was superficial went to the winds. He took her back -through the half-lighted passage, supporting her tenderly, to Mr. -Tottenham’s room. The door closed behind them, and Gussy turned to him -with swimming eyes—eyes running over with tears and wistful happiness. -She could not speak. She let him hold her, and looked up at him, all her -heart in her face. Poor Edgar was seized upon at the same moment, all -unprepared as he was, by that sudden gush of long-restrained feeling -which carries all before it. “Is this how it is to be?” he said, no -louder than a whisper, holding her fast and close, grasping her slender -arm, as if she might still flee from him, or revolt from his touch. But -Gussy had no mind to escape. Either she had nothing to say, or she was -still too much shaken to attempt to say it. She let her head drop like a -flower overcharged,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> and leaned on him and fell a-sobbing—fell on his -neck, as the Bible says, though Gussy’s little figure fell short of -that, and she only leaned as high as she could reach, resting there like -a child. If ever a man came at a step out of purgatory, or worse, into -Paradise, it was this man. Utterly alone half an hour ago, now companied -so as all the world could not add to him. He did not try to stop her -sobbing, but bent his head down upon hers, and I think for one moment -let his own heart expand into something which was like a sob too—an -inarticulate utterance of all this sudden rapture, unexpected, unlooked -for, impossible as it was.</p> - -<p>I do not know which was the first to come to themselves. It must have -been Gussy, whose sobs had relieved her soul. She stirred within his -arm, and lifted her head, and tried to withdraw from him.</p> - -<p>“Not yet, not yet,” said Edgar. “Think how long I have wanted you, how -long I have yearned for you; and that I have no right to you even now.”</p> - -<p>“Right!” said Gussy, softly—“you have the only right—no one can have -any right but you.”</p> - -<p>“Is it so?—is it so? Say it again,” said Edgar. “Say that I am not a -selfish hound, beguiling you; but that you will have it so. Say you will -have it so! What I will is not the question—it is your will that is my -law.”</p> - -<p>“Do you know what you are saying—or have you turned a little foolish?” -said the Gussy of old, with a laugh which was full of the tears with -which her eyes were still shining and bright; and then she paused, and -looking up at him, blushing, hazarded<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> an inquiry—“Are you in love with -me now?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Now; and for how long?—three years—every day and all day long!” cried -Edgar. “It could not do you any harm so far off. But I should not have -dared to think of you so much if I had ever hoped for this.”</p> - -<p>“Do not hold me so tight now,” said Gussy. “I shall not run away. Do you -remember the last time—ah! we were not in love with each other then.”</p> - -<p>“But loved each other—the difference is not very great,” he said, -looking at her wistfully, making his eyes once more familiar with her -face.</p> - -<p>“Ah! there is a great difference,” said Gussy. “We were only, as you -said, fond of each other; I began to feel it when you were gone. Tell me -all that has happened since,” she said, suddenly—“everything! You said -you had been coming to ask me that dreadful morning. We have belonged to -each other ever since; and so much has happened to you. Tell me -everything; I have a right to know.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing has happened to me but the best of all things,” said Edgar, -“and the worst. I have broken my word; I promised to your mother never -to put myself in the way; I have disgraced myself, and I don’t care. And -this has happened to me,” he said low in her ear, “my darling! Gussy, -you are sure you know what you are doing? I am poor, ruined, with no -prospects for the moment——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t, please,” said Gussy, throwing back her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span> head with the old pretty -movement. “I suppose you don’t mean to be idle and lazy, and think me a -burden; and I can make myself very useful, in a great many ways. Why -should I have to think what I am doing more than I ought to have done -three years ago, when you came to Thornleigh that morning? I had done my -thinking then.”</p> - -<p>“And, please God, you shall not repent of it!” cried the happy young -man—“you shall not repent it, if I can help it. But your mother will -not think so, darling; she will upbraid me with keeping you back—from -better things.”</p> - -<p>“That will be to insult me!” cried Gussy, flaming with hot, beautiful -anger and shame. “Edgar, do you think I should have walked into your -arms like this, not waiting to be asked, if I had not thought all this -time that we have been as good as married these three years? Oh! what am -I saying?” cried poor Gussy, overwhelmed with sudden confusion. It had -seemed so natural, so matter-of-fact a statement to her—until she had -said the words, and read a new significance in the glow of delight which -flashed up in his eyes.</p> - -<p>Is it necessary to follow this couple further into the foolishness of -their mutual talk?—it reads badly on paper, and in cold blood. They had -forgotten what the hour was, and most other things, when Mr. Tottenham, -very weary, but satisfied, came suddenly into the room, with his head -full of the Entertainment. His eyes were more worn than ever, but the -lines of care under them had melted away, and a fatigued, half-imbecile -smile of pleasure was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> hanging about his face. He was too much worn out -to judge anyone—to be hard upon anyone that night. Fatigue and relief -of mind had affected him like a genial, gentle intoxication of the -spirit. He stopped short, startled, and perhaps shocked for the moment, -when Edgar, and that white little figure beside him, rose hastily from -the chairs, which had been so very near each other. I am afraid that, -for the first moment, Mr. Tottenham felt a chill of dread that it was -one of his own young ladies from the establishment. He did not speak, -and they did not speak for some moments. Then, with an attempt at -severity, Mr. Tottenham said,</p> - -<p>“Gussy, is it possible? How should you have come here?”</p> - -<p>“Oh! uncle, forgive us!” said Gussy, taking Edgar’s arm, and clinging to -it, “and speak to mamma for us. I accepted him three years ago, Uncle -Tom. He is the same man—or, rather, a far nicer man,” and here she gave -a closer clasp to his arm, and dropped her voice for the moment, “only -poor. Only poor!—does that make all the difference? Can you tell me any -reason, Uncle Tottenham, why I should give him up, now he has come -back?”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Mr. Tottenham, alarmed yet conciliatory, “your -mother—no, I don’t pretend I see it—your mother, Gussy, must be the -best judge. Earnshaw, my dear fellow, was it not understood between us? -I don’t blame you. I don’t say I wouldn’t have done the same; but was it -not agreed between us? You should have given me fair warning, and she -should never have come here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I gave Lady Mary fair warning,” said Edgar, who felt himself ready at -this moment to confront the whole world. “I promised to deny myself; but -no power in the world should make me deny Gussy anything she pleased; -and this is what she pleases, it appears,” he said, looking down upon -her with glowing eyes. “A poor thing, sir, but her own—and she chooses -it. I can give up my own will, but Gussy shall have her will, if I can -get it for her. I gave Lady Mary fair warning; and then we met -unawares.”</p> - -<p>“And it was all my doing, please, uncle,” said Gussy, with a little -curtsey. She was trembling with happiness, with agitation, with the -mingled excitement and calm of great emotion; but still she could not -shut out from herself the humour of the situation—“it was all my doing, -please.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! I see how it is,” said Mr. Tottenham. “You have been carried off, -Earnshaw, and made a prey of against your will. Don’t ask me for my -opinion, yes or no. Take what good you can of to-night, you will have a -pleasant waking up, I promise you, to-morrow morning. The question is, -in the meantime, how are you to get home? Every soul is gone, and my -little brougham is waiting, with places for two only, at the door. Send -that fellow away, and I’ll take you home to your mother.”</p> - -<p>But poor Gussy had very little heart to send her recovered lover away. -She clung to his arm, with a face like an April day, between smiles and -tears.</p> - -<p>“He says quite true. We shall have a dreadful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span> morning,” she said, -disconsolately. “When can you come, Edgar? I will say nothing till you -come.”</p> - -<p>As Gussy spoke there came suddenly back upon Edgar a reflection of all -he had to do. Life had indeed come back to him all at once, her hands -full of thorns and roses piled together. He fixed the time of his visit -to Lady Augusta next morning, as he put Gussy into Mr. Tottenham’s -brougham, and setting off himself at a great pace, arrived at Berkeley -Square as soon as they did, and attended her to the well-known door. -Gussy turned round on the threshold of the house where he had been once -so joyfully received, but where his appearance now, he knew, would be -regarded with horror and consternation, and waved her hand to him as he -went away. But having done so, I am afraid her courage failed, and she -stole away rapidly upstairs, and took refuge in her own room, and even -put herself within the citadel of her bed.</p> - -<p>“I came home with Uncle Tottenham in his brougham,” she said to Ada, -who, half-alarmed, paid her a furtive visit, “and I am so tired and -sleepy!”</p> - -<p>Poor Gussy, she was safe for that night, but when morning came what was -to become of her? So far from being sleepy, I do not believe that, -between the excitement, the joy, and the terror, she closed her eyes -that whole night.</p> - -<p>Mr. Tottenham, too, got out of the brougham at Lady Augusta’s door; his -own house was on the other side of the Square. He sent the carriage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> -away, and took Edgar’s arm, and marched him solemnly along the damp -pavement.</p> - -<p>“Earnshaw, my dear fellow,” he said, in the deepest of sepulchral tones, -“I am afraid you have been very imprudent. You will have a <i>mauvais -quart d’heure</i> to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“I know it,” said Edgar, himself feeling somewhat alarmed, in the midst -of his happiness.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid—you ought not to have let her carry you off your feet in -this way; you ought to have been wise for her and yourself too; you -ought to have avoided any explanation. Mind, I don’t say that my -feelings go with that sort of thing; but in common prudence—in justice -to her——”</p> - -<p>“Justice to her!” cried Edgar. “If she has been faithful for three -years, do you think she is likely to change now? All that time not a -word has passed between us; but you told me yourself she would not hear -of—anything; that she spoke of retiring from the world. Would that be -wiser or more prudent? Look here, nobody in the world has been so kind -to me as you. I want you to understand me. A man may sacrifice his own -happiness, but has he any right to sacrifice the woman he loves? It -sounds vain, does it not?—but if she chooses to think this her -happiness, am I to contradict her? I will do all that becomes a man,” -cried Edgar, unconsciously adopting, in his excitement, the well-known -words, “but do you mean to say it is a man’s duty to crush, and balk, -and stand out against the woman he loves?”</p> - -<p>“You are getting excited,” said Mr. Tottenham.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> “Speak lower, for -heaven’s sake! Earnshaw; don’t let poor Mary hear of it to-night.”</p> - -<p>There was something in the tone in which he said <i>poor</i> Mary, with a -profound comic pathos, as if his wife would be the chief sufferer, which -almost overcame Edgar’s gravity. Poor Mr. Tottenham was weak with his -own sufferings, and with the blessed sense that he had got over them for -the moment.</p> - -<p>“What a help you were to me this afternoon,” he said, “though I daresay -your mind was full of other things. Nothing would have settled into -place, and we should have had a failure instead of a great success but -for you. You think it was a great success? Everybody said so. And your -poor lady, Earnshaw—your—friend—what of her? Is it as bad as you -feared?”</p> - -<p>“It is as bad as it is possible to be,” said Edgar, suddenly sobered. “I -must ask further indulgence from you, I fear, to see a very bad business -to an end.”</p> - -<p>“You mean, a few days’ freedom? Yes, certainly; perhaps it might be as -well in every way. And money—are you sure you have money? Perhaps it is -just as well you did not come to the Square, though they were ready for -you. Do you come with me to-night?”</p> - -<p>“I am at my old rooms,” said Edgar. “Now that the Entertainment is over, -I shall not return till my business is done—or not then, if you think -it best.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing of the sort!” cried his friend—“only till it is broken to poor -Mary,” he added, once<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> more lachrymose. “But, Earnshaw, poor fellow, I -feel for you. You’ll let me know what Augusta says?”</p> - -<p>And Mr. Tottenham opened his door with his latch-key, and crept upstairs -like a criminal. He was terrified for his wife, to whom he felt this bad -news must be broken with all the precaution possible; and though he -could not prevent his own thoughts from straying into a weak-minded -sympathy with the lovers, he did not feel at all sure that she would -share his sentiments.</p> - -<p>“Mary, at heart, is a dreadful little aristocrat,” he said to himself, -as he lingered in his dressing-room to avoid her questions; not knowing -that Lady Mary’s was the rash hand which had set this train of -inflammables first alight.</p> - -<p>Next morning—ah! next morning, there was the rub!—Edgar would have to -face Lady Augusta, and Gussy her mother, and Mr. Tottenham, who felt -himself by this time an accomplice, his justly indignant wife; besides -that the latter unfortunate gentleman had also to go to the shop, and -face the resignations offered to himself, and deadly feuds raised -amongst his “assistants,” by the preliminaries of last night. In the -meantime, all the culprits tried hard not to think of the terrible -moment that awaited them, and I think the lovers succeeded. Lovers have -the best of it in such emergencies; the enchanted ground of recollection -and imagination to which they can return being more utterly severed from -the common world than any other refuge.</p> - -<p>The members of the party who remained longest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> up were Lady Augusta and -Ada, who sat over the fire in the mother’s bed-room, and discussed -everything with a generally satisfied and cheerful tone in their -communings.</p> - -<p>“Gussy came home with Uncle Tottenham in his brougham,” said Ada. “She -has gone to bed. She was out in her district a long time this morning, -and I think she is very tired to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, her district!” cried Lady Augusta. “I like girls to think of the -poor, my dear—you know I do—I never oppose anything in reason; but why -Gussy should work like a slave, spoiling her hands and complexion, and -exposing herself in all weathers for the sake of her district! And it is -not as if she had no opportunities. I wish <i>you</i> would speak to her, -Ada. She <i>ought</i> to marry, if it were only for the sake of the boys; and -why she is so obstinate, I cannot conceive.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, don’t say so—you know well enough why,” said Ada quietly. “I -don’t say you should give in to her; but at least you know.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I must say I think my daughters have been hard upon me,” said -Lady Augusta, with a sigh—“even you, my darling—though I can’t find it -in my heart to blame you. But, to change the subject, did you notice, -Ada, how well Harry was looking? Dear fellow! he has got over his little -troubles with your father. Tottenham’s has done him good; he always got -on well with Mary and your odd, good uncle. Harry is so good-hearted and -so simple-minded, he can get on with anybody; and I quite feel that I -had a good inspiration,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span> Lady Augusta, with a significant nod of -her head, “when I sent him there. I am sure it has been for everybody’s -good.”</p> - -<p>“In what way, mamma?” said Ada, who was not at all so confident in -Harry’s powers.</p> - -<p>“Well, dear, he has been on the spot,” said Lady Augusta; “he has -exercised an excellent influence. When poor Edgar, poor dear fellow, -came up to me to-night, I could not think what to do for the best, for I -expected Gussy to appear any moment; and even Mary and Beatrice, had -they seen him, would have made an unnecessary fuss. But he took the hint -at my first glance. I can only believe it was dear Harry’s doing, -showing him the utter hopelessness—Poor fellow!” said Lady Augusta, -putting her handkerchief to her eyes. “Oh! my dear, how inscrutable are -the ways of Providence! Had things been ordered otherwise, what a -comfort he might have been to us—what a help!”</p> - -<p>“When you like him so well yourself, mamma,” said gentle Ada, “you -should understand poor Gussy’s feelings, who was always encouraged to -think of him—till the change came.”</p> - -<p>“That is just what I say, dear,” said Lady Augusta; “if things had been -ordered otherwise! We can’t change the arrangements of Providence, -however much we may regret them. But at least it is a great comfort -about dear Harry. How well he was looking!—and how kind and -affectionate! I almost felt as if he were a boy again, just come from -school, and so glad to see his people. It was by far the greatest -pleasure I had to-night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>And so this unsuspecting woman went to bed. She had a good night, for -she was not afraid of the morrow, dismal as were the tidings it was -fated to bring to her maternal ear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /><br /> -<small>Berkeley Square.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">At</span> eleven o’clock next morning, Edgar, with a beating heart, knocked at -the door in Berkeley Square. The footman, who was an old servant, and -doubtless remembered all about him, let him in with a certain -hesitation—so evident that Edgar reassured him by saying, “I am -expected,” which was all he could manage to get out with his dry lips. -Heaven send him better utterance when he gets to the moment of his -trial! I leave the reader to imagine the effect produced when the door -of the morning room, in which Lady Augusta was seated with her -daughters, was suddenly opened, and Edgar, looking very pale, and -terribly serious, walked into the room.</p> - -<p>They were all there. The table was covered with patterns for Mary’s -trousseau, and she herself was examining a heap of shawls, with Ada, at -the window. Gussy, expectant, and changing colour so often that her -agitation had already been remarked upon several times this morning, had -kept close to her mother. Beatrice was practising a piece of music at -the little piano in the corner, which was the girls’ favourite refuge -for their musical studies. They all stopped in their various -occupations, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span> turned round when he came in. Lady Augusta sprang to -her feet, and put out one hand in awe and horror, to hold him at arm’s -length. Her first look was for him, her second for Gussy, to whom she -said, “Go—instantly!” as distinctly as eyes could speak; but, for once -in her life, Gussy would not understand her mother’s eyes. And, what was -worst of all, the two young ones, Mary and Beatrice, when they caught -sight of Edgar, uttered each a cry of delight, and rushed upon him with -eager hands outstretched.</p> - -<p>“Oh! you have come home for It!—say you have come home for It!” cried -Mary, to whom her approaching wedding was the one event which shadowed -earth and heaven.</p> - -<p>“Girls!” cried Lady Augusta, severely, “do not lay hold upon Mr. -Earnshaw in that rude way. Go upstairs, all of you. Mr. Earnshaw’s -business, no doubt, is with me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! mamma, mayn’t I talk to him for a moment?” cried Mary, aggrieved, -and unwilling, in the fulness of her privileges, to acknowledge herself -still under subjection.</p> - -<p>But Lady Augusta’s eyes spoke very decisively this time, and Ada set the -example by hastening away. Even Ada, however, could not resist the -impulse of putting her hand in Edgar’s as she passed him. She divined -everything in a moment. She said “God bless you!” softly, so that no one -could hear it but himself. Only Gussy did not move.</p> - -<p>“I must stay, mamma,” she said, in tones so vehement that even Lady -Augusta was awed by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> them. “I will never disobey you again, but I must -stay!”</p> - -<p>And then Edgar was left alone, facing the offended lady. Gussy had -stolen behind her, whence she could throw a glance of sympathy to her -betrothed, undisturbed by her mother. Lady Augusta did not ask him to -sit down. She seated herself in a stately manner, like a queen receiving -a rebel.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Earnshaw,” she said, solemnly, “after all that has passed between -us, and all you have promised—I must believe that there is some very -grave reason for your unexpected visit to-day.”</p> - -<p>What a different reception it was from that she had given him, -when—coming, as she supposed, on the same errand which really brought -him now—he had to tell her of his loss of everything! Then the whole -house had been pleasantly excited over the impending proposal; and Gussy -had been kissed and petted by all her sisters, as the heroine of the -drama; and Lady Augusta’s motherly heart had swelled with gratitude to -God that she had secured for her daughter not only a good match, but a -good man. It was difficult for Edgar, at least, to shut out all -recollection of the one scene in the other. He answered with less -humility than he had shown before, and with a dignity which impressed -her, in spite of herself,</p> - -<p>“Yes, there is a very grave reason for it,” he said—“the gravest -reason—without which I should not have intruded upon you. I made you a -voluntary promise some time since, seeing your dismay at my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> -re-appearance, that I would not interfere with any of your plans, or put -myself in your way.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Lady Augusta, in all the horror of suspense. Gussy, behind, -whispered, “You have not!—you have not!” till her mother turned and -looked at her, when she sank upon the nearest seat, and covered her face -with her hands.</p> - -<p>“I might say that I have not, according to the mere letter of my word,” -said Edgar; “but I will not stand by that. Lady Augusta, I have come to -tell you that I have broken my promise. I find I had no right to make -it. I answered for myself, but not for another dearer than myself. The -pledge was given in ignorance, and foolishly. I have broken it, and I -have come to ask you to forgive me.”</p> - -<p>“You have broken your word? Mr. Earnshaw, I was not aware that gentlemen -ever did so. I do not believe you are capable of doing so,” she cried, -in great agitation. “Gussy, go upstairs, you have nothing to do with -this discussion—you were not a party to the bargain. I cannot—cannot -allow myself to be treated in this way! Mr. Earnshaw, think what you are -saying! You cannot go back from your word!”</p> - -<p>“Forgive me,” he said, “I have done it. Had I known all, I would not -have given the promise; I told Lady Mary Tottenham so; my pledge was for -myself, to restrain my own feelings. From the moment that it was -betrayed to me that she too had feelings to restrain, my very principle -of action, my rule of honour, was changed. It was no longer my duty to -deny myself to obey you. My first duty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> was to her, Lady Augusta—if in -that I disappoint you, if I grieve you——”</p> - -<p>“You do more than disappoint me—you <i>horrify</i> me!” cried Lady Augusta. -“You make me think that nothing is to be relied upon—no man’s word to -be trusted, No, no, we must have no more of this,” she said, with -vehemence. “Forget what you have said, Mr. Earnshaw, and I will try to -forget it. Go to your room, Gussy—this is no scene for you.”</p> - -<p>Edgar stood before his judge motionless, saying no more. I think he felt -now how completely the tables were turned, and what an almost cruel -advantage he had over her. His part was that of fact and reality, which -no one could conjure back into nothingness; and hers that of opposition, -disapproval, resistance to the inevitable. He was the rock, and she the -vexed and vexing waves, dashing against it, unable to overthrow it. In -their last great encounter these positions had been reversed, and it was -she who had command of the situation. Now, howsoever parental authority -might resist, or the world oppose, the two lovers knew very well, being -persons in their full senses, and of full age, that they had but to -persevere, and their point would be gained.</p> - -<p>Lady Augusta felt it too—it was this which had made her so deeply -alarmed from the first, so anxious to keep Edgar at arm’s length. The -moment she caught sight of him on this particular morning, she felt that -all was over. But that certainty unfortunately does not quench the -feelings of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> opposition, though it may take all hope of eventual success -from them. All that this secret conviction of the uselessness of -resistance did for Lady Augusta was to make her more hot, more -desperate, more <i>acharnée</i> than she had ever been. She grew angry at the -silence of her opponent—his very patience seemed a renewed wrong, a -contemptuous evidence of conscious power.</p> - -<p>“You do not say anything,” she cried. “You allow me to speak without an -answer. What do you mean me to understand by this—that you defy me? I -have treated you as a friend all along. I thought you were good, and -honourable, and true. I have always stood up for you—treated you almost -like a son! And is this to be the end of it? You defy me! You teach my -own child to resist my will! You do not even keep up the farce of -respecting my opinion—now that she has gone over to your side!”</p> - -<p>Here poor Lady Augusta got up from her chair, flushed and trembling, -with the tears coming to her eyes, and an angry despair warring against -very different feelings in her mind. She rose up, not looking at either -of the culprits, and leant her arm on the mantelpiece, and gazed -unawares at her own excited, troubled countenance in the glass. Yes, -they had left her out of their calculations; she who had always (she -knew) been so good to them! It no longer seemed worth while to send -Gussy away, to treat her as if she were innocent of the complot. She had -gone over to the other side. Lady Augusta felt herself deserted, -slighted, injured, with the two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span> against her—and determined, doubly -determined, never to yield.</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Gussy, softly, “do not be angry with Edgar. Don’t you -know, as well as I, that I have always been on his side?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t venture to say a word to me, Gussy,” said Lady Augusta. “I will -not endure it from you!”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, I must speak. It was you who turned my thoughts to him first. -Was it likely that <i>I</i> should forget him because he was in trouble? Why, -<i>you</i> did not! You yourself were fond of him all along, and trusted him -so that you took his pledge to give up his own will to yours. But I -never gave any pledge,” said Gussy, folding her hands. “You never asked -me what I thought, or I should have told you. I have been waiting for -Edgar. He has not dared to come to me since he came back to England, -because of his promise to you; and I have not dared to go to him, -because—simply because I was a woman. But when we met, mamma—when we -<i>met</i>, I say—not his seeking or my seeking—by accident, as you call -it——”</p> - -<p>“Oh! accident!” cried Lady Augusta, with a sneer, which sat very -strangely upon her kind face. “Accident! One knows how such accidents -come to pass!”</p> - -<p>“If you doubt our truth,” cried Gussy, in a little outburst, “of course -there is no more to say.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” said the mother, faintly. She had put herself in -the wrong. The sneer, the first and only sneer of which poor Lady -Augusta<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> had known herself to be guilty, turned to a weapon against her. -Compunction and shame filled up the last drop of the conflicting -emotions that possessed her. “It is easy for you both to speak,” she -said, “very easy; to you it is nothing but a matter of feeling. You -never ask yourself how it is to be done. You never think of the thousand -difficulties with the world, with your father, with circumstances. What -have I taken the trouble to struggle for? You yourself do me justice, -Gussy! Not because I would not have preferred Edgar—oh! don’t come near -me!” she cried, holding out her hand to keep him back; as he approached -a step at the softening sound of his name—“don’t work upon my feelings! -It is cruel; it is taking a mean advantage. Not because I did not prefer -him—but because life is not a dream, as you think it, not a romance, -nor a poem. What am I to do?” cried Lady Augusta, clasping her hands, -and raising them with unconscious, most natural theatricalness. “What am -I to do? How am I to face your father, your brothers, the world?”</p> - -<p>I do not know what the two listeners could have done, after the climax -of this speech, but to put themselves at her feet, with that instinct of -nature in extreme circumstances which the theatre has seized for its -own, and given a partially absurd colour to; but they were saved from -thus committing themselves by the sudden and precipitate entrance of -Lady Mary, who flung the door open, and suddenly rushed among them -without warning or preparation.</p> - -<p>“I come to warn you,” she cried, “Augusta!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span>” Then stopped short, seeing -at a glance the state of affairs.</p> - -<p>They all stood gazing at each other for a moment, the others not -divining what this interruption might mean, and feeling instinctively -driven back upon conventional self-restraint and propriety, by the -entrance of the new-comer. Lady Augusta unclasped her hands, and stole -back guiltily to her chair. Edgar recovered his wits, and placed one for -Lady Mary. Gussy dropped upon the sofa behind her mother, and cast a -secret glance of triumph at him from eyes still wet with tears. He alone -remained standing, a culprit still on his trial, who felt the number of -his judges increased, without knowing whether his cause would take a -favourable or unfavourable aspect in the eyes of the new occupant of the -judicial bench.</p> - -<p>“What have you all been doing?” said Lady Mary—“you look as much -confused and scared by my appearance as if I had disturbed you in the -midst of some wrong-doing or other. Am I to divine what has happened? It -is what I was coming to warn you against; I was going to say that I -could no longer answer for Mr. Earnshaw—”</p> - -<p>“I have spoken for myself,” said Edgar. “Lady Augusta knows that all my -ideas and my duties have changed. I do not think I need stay longer. I -should prefer to write to Mr. Thornleigh at once, unless Lady Augusta -objects; but I can take no final negative now from anyone but Gussy -herself.”</p> - -<p>“And that he shall never have!” cried Gussy, with a ring of premature -triumph in her voice. Her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> mother turned round upon her again with a -glance of fire.</p> - -<p>“Is that the tone you have learned among the Sisters?” said Lady -Augusta, severely. “Yes, go, Mr. Earnshaw, go—we have had enough of -this.”</p> - -<p>Edgar was perhaps as much shaken as any of them by all he had gone -through. He went up to Lady Augusta, and took her half-unwilling hand -and kissed it.</p> - -<p>“Do you remember,” he said, “dear Lady Augusta, when you cried over me -in my ruin, and kissed me like my mother? <i>I</i> cannot forget it, if I -should live a hundred years. You have never abandoned me, though you -feared me. Say one kind word to me before I go.”</p> - -<p>Lady Augusta tried hard not to look at the supplicant. She turned her -head away, she gulped down a something in her throat which almost -overcame her. The tears rushed to her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak to me!” she cried—“don’t speak to me! Shall I not be a -sufferer too? God bless you, Edgar! I have always felt like your mother. -Go away!—go away!—don’t speak to me any more!”</p> - -<p>Edgar had the sense to obey her without another look or word. He did not -even pause to glance at Gussy (at which she was much aggrieved), but -left the room at once. And then Gussy crept to her mother’s side, and -knelt down there, clinging with her arms about the vanquished -Rhadamantha; and the three women kissed each other, and cried<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span> together, -not quite sure whether it was for sorrow or joy.</p> - -<p>“You are in love with him yourself, Augusta!” cried Lady Mary, laughing -and crying together before this outburst was over.</p> - -<p>“And so I am,” said Gussy’s mother, drying her kind eyes.</p> - -<p>Edgar, as he rushed out, saw heads peeping over the staircase, of which -he took no notice, though one of them was no less than the curled and -shining head of the future Lady Granton, destined Marchioness (one day -or other) of Hauteville. He escaped from these anxious spies, and rushed -through the hall, feeling himself safest out of the house. But on the -threshold he met Harry Thornleigh, who looked at him from head to foot -with an insolent surprise which made Edgar’s blood boil.</p> - -<p>“You here!” said Harry, with unmistakably disagreeable intention; then -all at once his tone changed—Edgar could not imagine why—and he held -out his hand in greeting. “Missed you at Tottenham’s,” said Harry; “they -all want you. That little brute Phil is getting unendurable. I wish -you’d whop him when you go back.”</p> - -<p>“I shall not be back for some days,” said Edgar shortly. “I have -business——”</p> - -<p>“Here?” asked Harry, with well-simulated surprise. “If you’ll let me -give you a little advice, Earnshaw, and won’t take it amiss—I can’t -help saying you’ll get no good here.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” said Edgar, feeling a glow of offence mount to his face. “I -suppose every man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span> is the best judge in his own case; but, in the -meantime, I am leaving town—for a day or two.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Au revoir</i>, then, at Tottenham’s,” said Harry, with a nod, -half-hostile, half-friendly, and marched into his own house, or what -would one day be his own house, with the air of a master. Edgar left it -with a curious sense of the discouragement meant to be conveyed to him, -which was half-whimsical, half-painful. Harry meant nothing less than to -make him feel that his presence was undesired and inopportune, without, -however, making any breach with him; he had his own reasons for keeping -up a certain degree of friendship with Edgar, but he had no desire that -it should go any further than he thought proper and suitable. As for his -sister’s feelings in the matter, Harry ignored and scouted them with -perfect calm and self-possession. If she went and entered a Sisterhood, -as they had all feared at one time, why, she would make a fool of -herself, and there would be an end of it! “I shouldn’t interfere,” Harry -had said. “It would be silly; but there would be an end of her—no more -responsibility, and that sort of thing. Let her, if she likes, so long -as you’re sure she’ll stay.” But to allow her to make “a low marriage” -was an entirely different matter. Therefore he set Edgar down, according -to his own consciousness, even though he was quite disinclined to -quarrel with Edgar. He was troubled by no meltings of heart, such as -disturbed the repose of his mother. He liked the man well enough, but -what had that to do with it? It was necessary that Gussy should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> marry -well if she married at all—not so much for herself as for the future -interests of the house of Thornleigh. Harry felt that to have a set of -little beggars calling him “uncle,” in the future ages, and sheltering -themselves under the shadow of Thornleigh, was a thing totally out of -the question. The heir indeed might choose for himself, having it in his -power to bestow honour, as in the case of King Cophetua. But probably -even King Cophetua would have deeply disapproved, and indeed interdicted -beggar-maids for his brother, how much more beggar-men for his -sisters—or any connection which could detract from the importance of -the future head of the house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /><br /> -<small>A Suggestion.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Having</span> found his family in considerable agitation, the cause of which -they did not disclose to him, but from which he formed, by his unaided -genius, the agreeable conclusion that Edgar had been definitely sent -off, probably after some presumptuous offer, which Gussy at last was -wise enough to see the folly of—“I see you’ve sent that fellow off for -good,” he said to his sister; “and I’m glad of it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! yes, for good,” said Gussy, with a flash in her eyes, which he, not -very brilliant in his perceptions, took for indignation at Edgar’s -presumption.</p> - -<p>“He is a cheeky beggar,” said unconscious Harry; “a setting down will do -him good.”</p> - -<p>But though his heart was full of his own affairs, he thought it best, on -the whole, to defer the confidence with which he meant to honour Lady -Augusta, to a more convenient season. Harry was not particularly bright, -and he felt his own concerns to be so infinitely more important than -anything concerning “the girls,” that the two things could not be put in -comparison; but yet the immediate precedent of the sending away of -Gussy’s lover was perhaps not quite the best that could be wished for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> -the favourable hearing of Harry’s love. Besides, Lady Augusta was not so -amiable that day as she often was. She was surrounded by a flutter of -girls, putting questions, teasing her for replies, which she seemed very -little disposed to give; and Harry had somewhat fallen in his mother’s -opinion, since it had been proved that to have him “on the spot” had -really been quite inefficacious for her purpose. Her confidence in him -had been so unjustifiably great, though Harry was totally ignorant of -it, that her unexpected disapproval was in proportion now.</p> - -<p>“It was not Harry’s fault,” Ada had ventured to say. “How could he guide -events that happened in London when he was at Tottenham’s?”</p> - -<p>“He ought to have paid more attention,” was all that Lady Augusta said. -And unconsciously she turned a cold shoulder to Harry, rather glad, on -the whole, that there was somebody, rightly or wrongly, to blame.</p> - -<p>So Harry returned to Tottenham’s with his aunt, hurriedly proffering a -visit a few days after. Nobody perceived the suppressed excitement with -which he made this offer, for the house was too full of the stir of one -storm, scarcely blown over, to think of another. He went back, -accordingly, into the country stillness, and spent another lingering -twilight hour with Margaret. How different the atmosphere seemed to be -in which she was! It was another world to Harry; he seemed to himself a -better man. How kind he felt towards the little girl!—he who would have -liked to kick Phil, and thought the Tottenham children so ridiculously -out of place,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> brought to the front, as they always were. When little -Sibby was “brought to the front,” her mother seemed but to gain a grace -the more, and in the cottage Harry was a better man. He took down with -him the loveliest bouquet of flowers that could be got in Covent Garden, -and a few plants in pots, the choicest of their kind, and quite -unlikely, had he known it, to suit the atmosphere of the poky little -cottage parlour.</p> - -<p>Mr. Franks had begun to move out of the doctor’s house, and very soon -the new family would be able to make their entrance. Margaret and her -brother were going to town to get some furniture, and Harry volunteered -to give them the benefit of his experience, and join their party.</p> - -<p>“But we want cheap things,” Margaret said, true to her principle of -making no false pretences that could be dispensed with. This did not in -the least affect Harry; he would have stood by and listened to her -cheapening a pot or kettle with a conviction that it was the very best -thing to do. There are other kinds of love, and some which do not so -heartily accept as perfect all that is done by their object; and there -are different stages of love, in not all of which, perhaps, is this -beautiful satisfaction apparent; but at present Harry could see nothing -wrong in the object of his adoration. Whatever she did was right, -graceful, beautiful—the wisest and the best. I do not suppose it is in -the nature of things that this lovely and delightful state of sentiment -could last—but for the moment so it was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> And thus, while poor Lady -Augusta passed her days peacefully enough—half happy, half wretched, -now allowing herself to listen to Gussy’s anticipations, now asking -bitterly how on earth they expected to exist—<i>this</i> was preparing for -her which was to turn even the glory of Mary’s approaching wedding into -misery, and overwhelm the whole house of Thornleigh with dismay. So -blind is human nature, that Lady Augusta had not the slightest -apprehension about Harry. He, at least, was out of harm’s way—so long -as the poor boy could find anything to amuse him in the country—she -said to herself, with a sigh of satisfaction and relief.</p> - -<p>At the other Tottenham’s, things were settling down after the -Entertainment, and happily the result had been so gratifying and -successful that all the feuds and searching of hearts had calmed down. -The supper had been “beautiful,” the guests gracious, the enjoyment -almost perfect. Thereafter, to his dying day, Mr. Robinson was able to -quote what Her Grace the Duchess of Middlemarch had said to him on the -subject of his daughter’s performance, and the Duchess’s joke became a -kind of capital for the establishment, always ready to be drawn upon. No -other establishment had before offered a subject of witty remark (though -Her Grace, good soul, was totally unaware of having been witty) to a -Duchess—no other young ladies and gentlemen attached to a house of -business had ever hobbed and nobbed with the great people in society. -The individuals who had sent in resignations were too glad to be allowed -to forget them, and Mr. Tot<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span>tenham was in the highest feather, and felt -his scheme to have prospered beyond his highest hopes.</p> - -<p>“There is nothing so humanizing as social intercourse,” he said. “I -don’t say my people are any great things, and we all know that society, -as represented by Her Grace of Middlemarch, is not overwhelmingly witty -or agreeable—eh, Earnshaw? But somehow, in the clash of the two -extremes, something is struck out—a spark that you could not have -otherwise—a really improving influence. I have always thought so; and, -thank heaven, I have lived to carry out my theory.”</p> - -<p>“At the cost of very hard work, and much annoyance,” said Edgar.</p> - -<p>“Oh! nothing—nothing, Earnshaw—mere bagatelles. I was tired, and had -lost my temper—very wrong, but I suppose it will happen sometimes; and -not being perfect myself, how am I to expect my people to be perfect?” -said the philanthropist. “Never mind these little matters. The pother -has blown over, and the good remains. By the way, Miss Lockwood is -asking for you, Earnshaw—have you cleared up that business of hers? -She’s in a bad way, poor creature! She would expose herself with bare -arms and shoulders, till I sent her an opera-cloak, at a great -sacrifice, from Robinson’s department, to cover her up; and she’s caught -more cold. Go and see her, there’s a good fellow; she’s always asking -for you.”</p> - -<p>Miss Lockwood was in the ladies’ sitting-room, where Edgar had seen her -before, wrapped in the warm red opera-cloak which Mr. Tottenham had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> -sent her, and seated by the fire. Her cheeks were more hollow than ever, -her eyes full of feverish brightness.</p> - -<p>“Look here,” she said, when Edgar entered, “I don’t want you any longer. -You’ve got it in your head I’m in a consumption, and you are keeping my -papers back, thinking I’m going to die. I ain’t going to die—no such -intention—and I’ll trouble you either to go on directly and get me my -rights, or give me back all my papers, and I’ll look after them myself.”</p> - -<p>“You are very welcome to your papers,” said Edgar. “I have written to -Mr. Arden, to ask him to see me, but that is not on your account. I will -give you, if you please, everything back.”</p> - -<p>This did not content the impatient sufferer.</p> - -<p>“Oh! I don’t want them back,” she said, pettishly—“I want you to push -on—to push on! I’m tired of this life—I should like to try what a -change would do. If he does not choose to take me home, he might take me -to Italy, or somewhere out of these east winds. I’ve got copies all -ready directed to send to his lawyers, in case you should play me false, -or delay. I’m not going to die, don’t you think it; but now I’ve made up -my mind to it, I’ll have my rights!”</p> - -<p>“I hope you will take care of yourself in the meantime,” said Edgar, -compassionately, looking at her with a somewhat melancholy face.</p> - -<p>“Oh! get along with your doleful looks,” said Miss Lockwood, “trying to -frighten me, like all the rest. I want a change—that’s what I -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span>want—change of air and scene. I want to go to Italy or somewhere. Push -on—push on, and get it settled. I don’t want your sympathy—<i>that’s</i> -what I want of you.”</p> - -<p>Edgar heard her cough echo after him as he went along the long narrow -passage, where he had met Gussy, back to Mr. Tottenham’s room. His -patron called him from within as he was passing by.</p> - -<p>“Earnshaw!” he cried, dropping his voice low, “I have not asked you -yet—how did you get on, poor fellow, up at the Square?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t quite know,” said Edgar—“better than I hoped; but I must see -Mr. Thornleigh, or write to him. Which will be the best?”</p> - -<p>“Look here,” said Mr. Tottenham, “I’ll do that for you. I know -Thornleigh; he’s not a bad fellow at bottom, except when he’s worried. -He sees when a thing’s no use. I daresay he’d make a stand, if there was -any hope; but as you’re determined, and Gussy’s determined——”</p> - -<p>“We are,” said Edgar. “Don’t think I don’t grudge her as much as anyone -can to poverty and namelessness; but since it is her choice——”</p> - -<p>“So did Mary,” said Mr. Tottenham, following out his own thoughts, with -a comprehensible disregard of grammar. “They stood out as long as they -could, but they had to give in at last; and so must everybody give in at -last, if only you hold to it. That’s the secret—stick to it!—nothing -can stand against that.” He wrung Edgar’s hand, and patted him on the -back, by way of encourage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span>ment. “But don’t tell anyone I said so,” he -added, nodding, with a humorous gleam out of his grey eyes.</p> - -<p>Edgar found more letters awaiting him at his club—letters of the same -kind as yesterday’s, which he read with again a totally changed -sentiment. Clare had gone into the background, Gussy had come uppermost. -He read them eagerly, with his mind on the stretch to see what might be -made of them. Everybody was kind. “Tell us what you can do—how we can -help you,” they said. After all, it occurred to him now, in the -practical turn his mind had taken, “What could he do?” The answer was -ready—“Anything.” But then this was a very vague answer, he suddenly -felt; and to identify any one thing or other that he could do, was -difficult. He was turning over the question deeply in his mind, when a -letter, with Lord Newmarch’s big official seal, caught his eye. He -opened it hurriedly, hoping to find perhaps a rapid solution of his -difficulty there. It ran thus:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="indd"> -“<span class="smcap">My dear Earnshaw</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>“I am sorry to be obliged to inform you that, after keeping us in a -state of uncertainty for about a year, Runtherout has suddenly -announced to me that he feels quite well again, and means to resume -work at once, and withdraw his resignation. He attributes this -fortunate change in his circumstances to Parr’s Life Pills, or -something equally venerable. I am extremely sorry for this -<i>contretemps</i>, which at once defeats my desire of serving you, and -deprives<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> the department of the interesting information which I am -sure your knowledge of foreign countries would have enabled you to -transmit to us. The Queen’s Messengers seem indeed to be in a -preternaturally healthy condition, and hold out few hopes of any -vacancy. Accept my sincere regrets for this disappointment, and if -you can think of anything else I can do to assist you, command my -services.</p> - -<p class="c"> -“Believe me, dear Earnshaw,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">“Very truly yours,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 12em;">“<span class="smcap">Newmarch</span>.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>“P.S.—What would you say to a Consulship?”</p></div> - -<p>Edgar read this letter with a great and sharp pang of disappointment. An -hour before, had anyone asked him, he would have said he had no faith -whatever in Lord Newmarch; yet now he felt, by the keenness of his -mortification, that he had expected a great deal more than he had ever -owned even to himself. He flung the letter down on the table beside him, -and covered his face with his hands. It seemed to him that he had lost -one of the primary supports on which, without knowing, he had been -building of late. Now was there nothing before Gussy’s betrothed—he who -had ventured to entangle her fate with his, and to ask of parents and -friends to bless the bargain—but a tutorship in a great house, and kind -Mr. Tottenham’s favour, who was no great man, nor had any power, nor -anything but mere money. He could not marry Gussy upon Mr. Tottenham’s -money, or take her to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> another man’s house, to be a cherished and petted -dependent, as they had made him. I don’t think it was till next day, -when again the wheel had gone momentarily round, and he had set out on -Clare’s business, leaving Gussy behind him, that he observed the -pregnant and pithy postscript, which threw a certain gleam of light upon -Lord Newmarch’s letter. “How should you like a Consulship?” Edgar had no -great notion what a Consulship was. What kind of knowledge or duties was -required for the humblest representative of Her Majesty, he knew almost -as little as if this functionary had been habitually sent to the moon. -“Should I like a Consulship?” he said to himself, as the cold, yet -cheerful sunshine of early Spring streamed over the bare fields and -hedgerows which swept past the windows of the railway carriage in which -he sat. A vague exhilaration sprang up in his mind—perhaps from that -thought, perhaps from the sunshine only, which always had a certain -enlivening effect upon this fanciful young man. Perhaps, after all, -though he did not at first know what it was, this was the thing that he -could do, and which all his friends were pledged to get for him. And -once again he forgot all about his present errand, and amused himself, -as he rushed along, by attempts to recollect what the Consul was like at -various places he knew where such a functionary existed, and what he -did, and how he lived. The only definite recollection in his mind was of -an office carefully shut up during the heat of the day, with cool, green -<i>persiane</i> all closed, a soft current<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> of air rippling over a marble -floor, and no one visible but a dreamy Italian clerk, to tell when H. B. -M.’s official representative would be visible. “I could do that much,” -Edgar said to himself, with a smile of returning happiness; but what the -Consul did when he was visible, was what he did not know. No doubt he -would have to sing exceedingly small when there was an ambassador within -reach, or even the merest butterfly of an <i>attaché</i>, but apart from such -gorgeous personages, the Consul, Edgar knew, had a certain importance.</p> - -<p>This inquiry filled his mind with animation during all the long, -familiar journey towards Arden, which he had feared would be full of -painful recollections. He was almost ashamed of himself, when he stopped -at the next station before Arden, to find that not a single recollection -had visited him. Hope and imagination had carried the day over -everything else, and the problematical Consul behind his green -<i>persiane</i> had routed even Clare.</p> - -<p>The letter, however, which had brought him here had been of a -sufficiently disagreeable kind to make more impression upon him. Arthur -Arden had never pretended to any loftiness of feeling, or even civility -towards his predecessor, and Edgar’s note had called forth the following -response:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—I don’t know by what claim you, an entire stranger to my -family, take it upon you to thrust yourself into my affairs. I have -had occasion to resent this interference before, and I am certainly -still less inclined to support it now. I know no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span>thing of any -person named Lockwood, who can be of the slightest importance to -me. Nevertheless, as you have taken the liberty to mix yourself up -with some renewed annoyance, I request you will meet me on Friday, -at the ‘Arden Arms,’ at Whitmarsh, where I have some business—to -let me know at once what your principal means—I might easily add -to answer to me what you have to do with it, or with me, or my -concerns.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">A. Arden.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>“P.S.—If you do not appear, I will take it as a sign that you have -thought better of it, and that the person you choose to represent -has come to her senses.”</p></div> - -<p>Edgar had been able to forget this letter, and the interview to which it -conducted him, thinking of his imaginary Consul! I think the reader will -agree with me that his mind must have been in a very peculiar condition. -He kept his great-coat buttoned closely up, and his hat down over his -eyes, as he got out at the little station. He was not known at -Whitmarsh, as he had been known at Arden, but still there was a chance -that some one might recognize him. The agreeable thoughts connected with -the Consul, fortunately, had left him perfectly cool, and when he got -out in Clare’s county, on her very land, the feeling of the past began -to regain dominion over him. If he should meet Clare, what would she say -to him? Would she know him? would she recognize him as her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> brother, or -hold him at arm’s length as a stranger? And what would she think, he -wondered, with the strangest, giddy whirling round of brain and mind, if -she knew that the dream of three years ago was, after all, to come true; -that, though Arden was not his, Gussy was his; and that, though she no -longer acknowledged him as her brother, Gussy had chosen him for her -husband. It was the only question there was any doubt about at one time. -Now it was the only thing that was true.</p> - -<p>With this bewildering consciousness of the revolutions of time, yet the -steadfastness of some things which were above time, Edgar walked into -the little old-fashioned country inn, scarcely venturing to take off his -hat for fear of recognition, and was shown into the best parlour, where -Mr. Arden awaited him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /><br /> -<small>The Ardens.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Arthur Arden</span>, Esq., of Arden, was a different man from the needy cousin -of the Squire, the hanger-on of society, the fine gentleman out at -elbows, whose position had bewildered yet touched the supposed legal -proprietor of the estates, and head of the family, during Edgar’s brief -reign. A poor man knocking about the world, when he has once lost his -reputation, has no particular object to stimulate him to the effort -necessary for regaining it. But when a man who sins by will, and not by -weakness of nature, gains a position in which virtue is necessary and -becoming, and where vice involves a certain loss of prestige, nothing is -easier than moral reformation. Arthur Arden had been a strictly moral -man for all these years; he had given up all vagabond vices, the -peccadilloes of the Bohemian. He was <i>rangé</i> in every sense of the word. -A more decorous, stately house was not in the county; a man more correct -in all his duties never set an example to a parish. I do not know that -the essential gain was very great. He took his vices in another way; he -was hard as the nether millstone to all who came in his way, grasping -and tyrannical. He did nothing that was not exacted from him, either by -law, or public opinion,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span> or personal vanity; on every other side he was -in panoply of steel against all prayers, all intercessions, all -complaints.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Arden made him an excellent wife. She was as proud as he was, and -held her head very high in the county. The Countess of Marchmont, Lord -Newmarch’s mother, was nothing in comparison with Mrs. Arden of Arden. -But people said she was too cold in her manners ever to be popular. When -her husband stood for the county, and she had to show the ordinary -gracious face to all the farmers and farm-men, Clare’s manners lost more -votes than her beauty and her family might have gained. She could not be -cordial to save her life. But then the Ardens were always cold and -proud—it was the characteristic of the family—except the last poor -fellow, who was everybody’s friend, and turned out to be no Arden at -all, as anyone might have seen with half an eye.</p> - -<p>Mr. Arden’s horse and his groom were waiting in the stableyard of the -“Arden Arms.” He himself, looking more gloomy than usual, had gone -upstairs to the best room, to meet the stranger, of whom all the “Arden -Arms” people felt vaguely that they had seen him before. The landlady, -passing the door, heard their voices raised high now and then, as if -there was some quarrel between them; but she was too busy to listen, -even had her curiosity carried her so far. When Mrs. Arden, driving -past, stopped in front of the inn, to ask for some poor pensioner in the -village, the good woman rushed out, garrulous and eager.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span></p> - -<p>“The Squire is here, ma’am, with a gentleman. I heard him say as his -horse was dead beat, and as he’d have to take the train home. What a -good thing as you have come this way! Please now, as they’ve done their -talk, will your ladyship step upstairs?”</p> - -<p>“If Mr. Arden is occupied with some one on business—” said Clare, -hesitating; but then it suddenly occurred to her that, as there had been -a little domestic jar that morning, it might be well to show herself -friendly, and offer to drive her husband home. “You are sure he is not -busy?” she said, doubtfully, and went upstairs with somewhat hesitating -steps. It was a strange thing for Mrs. Arden to do, but something -impelled her unconscious feet, something which the ancients would have -called fate, an impulse she could not resist. She knocked softly at the -door, but received no reply; and there was no sound of voices within to -make her pause. The “business,” whatever it was, must surely be over. -Clare opened the door, not without a thrill at her heart, which she -could scarcely explain to herself, for she knew of nothing to make this -moment or this incident specially important. Her husband sat, with his -back to her, at the table, his head buried in his hands; near him, -fronting the door, his face very serious, his eyes shining with -indignant fire, stood Edgar. Edgar! The sight of him, so unexpected as -it was, touched her heart with a quick, unusual movement of warmth and -tenderness. She gave a sudden cry, and rushed into the room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span></p> - -<p>Arthur Arden raised his head from his hands at the sound of her -voice—he raised himself up, and glanced at her, half-stupefied.</p> - -<p>“What has brought you here?” he cried, hoarsely.</p> - -<p>But Clare had no eyes for him, for the moment. She went up to her -brother, who stood, scarcely advancing to meet her, with no light of -pleasure on his face at the sight of her. They had not met for three -years.</p> - -<p>“Edgar!” she said, with pleasure so sudden that she had not time to -think whether it was right and becoming on the part of Mrs. Arden of -Arden to express such a sentiment. But, before she had reached him, his -pained and serious look, his want of all response to her warm -exclamation, and the curious atmosphere of agitation in the room, -impressed her in spite of herself. She stopped short, her tone changed, -the revulsion of feeling which follows an overture repulsed, suddenly -clouded over her face. “I see I am an intruder,” she said. “I did not -mean to interfere with—business.” Then curiosity got the upper hand. -She paused and looked at them—Edgar so determined and serious, her -husband agitated, sullen—and as pale as if he had been dying. “But what -business can there be between you two?” she asked, with a sharp tone of -anxiety in her voice. The two men were like criminals before her. “What -is it?—what is it?” she cried. “Something has happened. What brings you -two together must concern me.”</p> - -<p>“Go home, Clare, go home,” said Arthur Arden,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> hoarsely. “We don’t want -you here, to make things worse—go home.”</p> - -<p>She looked at Edgar—he shook his head and turned his eyes from her. He -had given her no welcome, no look even of the old affection. Clare’s -blood was up.</p> - -<p>“I have a right to know what has brought you together,” she said, -drawing a chair to the table, and suddenly seating herself between them. -“I will go home when you are ready to come with me, Arthur. What is it? -for, whatever it is, I have a right to know.”</p> - -<p>Edgar came to her side and took her hand, which she gave to him almost -reluctantly, averting her face.</p> - -<p>“Clare,” he said, almost in a whisper, “this is the only moment for all -these years that I could not be happy to see you. Go home, for God’s -sake, as he says——”</p> - -<p>“I will not,” said Clare. “Some new misfortune has occurred to bring you -two together. Why should I go home, to be wretched, wondering what has -happened? For my children’s sake, I will know what it is.”</p> - -<p>Neither of them made her any answer. There were several papers lying on -the table between them—one a bulky packet, directed in what Clare knew -to be his solicitor’s handwriting, to Arthur Arden. Miss Lockwood had -played Edgar false, and, even while she urged him on, had already placed -her papers in the lawyer’s hands. Arden had thus known the full dangers -of the exposure<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> before him, when, with some vague hopes of a -compromise, he had met Edgar, whom he insisted on considering Miss -Lockwood’s emissary. He had been bidding high for silence, for -concealment, and had been compelled to stomach Edgar’s indignant -refusal, which for the moment he dared not resent, when Clare thus burst -upon the scene. They were suddenly arrested by her appearance, stopped -in mid-career.</p> - -<p>“Is it any renewal of the past?—any new discovery? Edgar, you have -found something out—you are, after all——”</p> - -<p>He shook his head.</p> - -<p>“Dear Clare, it is nothing about me. Let me come and see you after, and -tell you about myself. This is business-mere business,” said Edgar, -anxiously. “Nothing,” his voice faltered, “to interest you.”</p> - -<p>“You tell lies badly,” she said; “and he says nothing. What does it -mean? What are these papers?—always papers—more papers—everything -that is cruel is in them. Must I look for myself?” she continued, her -voice breaking, with an agitation which she could not explain. She laid -her hand upon some which lay strewed open upon the table. She saw Edgar -watch the clutch of her fingers with a shudder, and that her husband -kept his eyes upon her with a strange, horrified watchfulness. He seemed -paralyzed, unable to interfere till she had secured them, when he -suddenly grasped her hand roughly, and cried, “Come, give them up; there -is nothing there for you!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Clare was not dutiful or submissive by nature. At the best of times such -an order would have irritated rather than subdued her.</p> - -<p>“I will not,” she repeated, freeing her hand from the clutch that made -it crimson. Only one of the papers she had picked up remained, a scrap -that looked of no importance. She rose and hurried to the window with -it, holding it up to the light.</p> - -<p>“She must have known it one day or other,” said Edgar, speaking rather -to himself than to either of his companions. It was the only sound that -broke the silence. After an interval of two minutes or so, Clare came -back, subdued, and rather pale.</p> - -<p>“This is a marriage certificate, I suppose,” she said. “Yours, Arthur! -You were married, then, before? You might have told me. Why didn’t you -tell me? I should have had no right to be vexed if I had known before.”</p> - -<p>“Clare!” he stammered, looking at her in consternation.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I can’t help being vexed,” she said, her lip quivering a little, -“to find out all of a sudden that I am not the first. I think you should -have told me, Arthur, not left me to find it out. But, after all, it is -only a shock and a mortification, not a crime, that you should look so -frightened,” she added, forcing a faint smile. “I am not a termagant, to -make your life miserable on account of the past.” Here Clare paused, -looked from one to the other, and resumed, with a more anxious voice: -“What do you mean, both of you, by looking at me? Is there more behind? -Ay, I see!” her lip<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span> quivered more and more, her face grew paler, she -restrained herself with a desperate effort. “Tell me the worst,” she -said, hurriedly. “There are other children, older than mine! My boy will -not be the heir?”</p> - -<p>“Clare! Clare!” cried Edgar, putting his arm round her, forgetting all -that lay between them, tears starting to his eyes, “my dear, come away! -Don’t ask any more questions. If you ever looked upon me as your -brother, or trusted me, come—come home, Clare.”</p> - -<p>She shook off his grasp impatiently, and turned to her husband.</p> - -<p>“Arthur, I demand the truth from you,” she cried. “Let no one interfere -between us. Is there—an older boy than mine? Let me hear the worst! Is -not my boy your heir?”</p> - -<p>Arthur Arden, though he was not soft-hearted, uttered at this moment a -lamentable groan.</p> - -<p>“I declare before God I never thought of it!” he cried. “I never meant -it for a marriage at all!”</p> - -<p>“Marriage!” said Clare, looking at him like one bewildered. -“Marriage!—I am not talking of marriage! Is there—a boy—another -heir?”</p> - -<p>And then again there was a terrible silence. The man to whom Clare -looked so confidently as her husband, demanding explanations from him, -shrank away from her, cowering, with his face hidden by his hands.</p> - -<p>“Will no one answer me?” she said. Her face was ghastly with -suspense—every drop of blood seemed to have been drawn out of it. Her -eyes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> went from her husband to Edgar, from Edgar back to her husband. -“Tell me, yes or no—yes or no! I do not ask more!”</p> - -<p>“Clare, it is not that! God forgive me! The woman is alive!” said Arthur -Arden, with a groan that seemed to come from the bottom of his heart.</p> - -<p>“The woman is alive!” she cried, impatiently. “I am not asking about any -woman. What does he mean? The woman is alive!” She stopped short where -she stood, holding fast by the back of her chair, making an effort to -understand. “The woman! What woman? What does he mean?”</p> - -<p>“His wife,” said Edgar, under his breath.</p> - -<p>Clare turned upon him a furious, fiery glance. She did not understand -him. She began to see strange glimpses of light through the darkness, -but she could not make out what it was.</p> - -<p>“Will not you speak?” she cried piteously, putting her hand upon her -husband’s shoulder. “Arthur, I forgive you for keeping it from me; but -why do you hide your face?—why do you turn away? All you can do for me -now is to tell me everything. My boy!—is he disinherited? Stop,” she -cried wildly; “let me sit down. There is more—still more! Edgar, come -here, close beside me, and tell me in plain words. The woman! What does -he mean?”</p> - -<p>“Clare,” cried Edgar, taking her cold hands into his, “don’t let it kill -you, for your children’s sake. They have no one but you. The woman—whom -he married then—is living now.”</p> - -<p>“The woman—whom he married then!” she re<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span>peated, with lips white and -stammering. “The woman!” Then stopped, and cried out suddenly—“My God! -my God!”</p> - -<p>“Clare, before the Lord I swear to you I never meant it—I never thought -of it!” exclaimed Arden, with a hoarse cry.</p> - -<p>Clare took no notice; she sat with her hands clasped, staring blankly -before her, murmuring, “My God! my God!” under her breath. Edgar held -her hands, which were chill and trembled, but she did not see him. He -stood watching her anxiously, fearing that she would faint or fall. But -Clare was not the kind of woman who faints in a great emergency. She sat -still, with the air of one stupefied; but the stupor was only a kind of -external atmosphere surrounding her, within the dim circle of which—a -feverish circle—thought sprang up, and began to whirl and twine. She -thought of everything all in a moment—her children first, who were -dishonoured; and Arden, her home, where she had been born; and her life, -which would have to be wrenched up—plucked like a flower from the soil -in which she had bloomed all her life. They could not get either sound -or movement from her, as she sat there motionless. They thought she was -dulled in mind by the shock, or in body, and that it was a merciful -circumstance to deaden the pain, and enable them to get her home.</p> - -<p>While she sat thus, her husband raised himself in terror, and consulted -Edgar with his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Take her home—take her home,” he whispered behind Clare’s back—“take -her home as long as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> she’s quiet; and till she’s got over the shock, -I’ll keep myself out of the way.”</p> - -<p>Clare heard him, even through the mist that surrounded her, but she -could not make any reply. She seemed to have forgotten all about him—to -have lost him in those mists. When Edgar put his hand on her shoulder, -and called her gently, she stirred at last, and looked up at him.</p> - -<p>“What is it?—what do you want with me?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“I want you to come home,” he said softly. “Come home with me; I will -take care of you; it is not a long drive.”</p> - -<p>Poor Edgar! he was driven almost out of his wits, and did not know what -to say. She shuddered with a convulsive trembling in all her limbs.</p> - -<p>“Home!—yes, I must go and get my children,” she said. “Yes, you are -quite right. I want some one to take care of me. I must go and get my -children; they are so young—so very young! If I take them at once, they -may never know——”</p> - -<p>“Clare,” cried her husband, moaning, “you won’t do anything rash? You -won’t expose our misery to all the world?”</p> - -<p>She cast a quick glance at him—a glance full of dislike and horror.</p> - -<p>“Take me away,” she said to Edgar—“take me away! I must go and fetch -the children before it is dark.” This with a pause and a strange little -laugh. “I speak as if they had been out at some baby-party,” she said. -“Give me your arm. I don’t see quite clear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Arden watched them as they went out of the room—she tottering, as she -leant on Edgar’s arm, moving as he moved, like one blind. Arthur Arden -was left behind with his papers, and with the thought of that other -woman, who had claimed him for her husband. How clearly he remembered -her—her impertinence, her rude carelessness, her manners, that were of -the shop, and knew no better training! Their short life together came -back to him like a picture. How soon his foolish passion for her (as he -described it to himself) had blown over!—how weary of her he had grown! -And now, what was to become of him? If Clare did anything desperate—if -she went and blazoned it about, and removed the children, and took the -whole matter in a passionate way, it would not be she alone who would be -the sufferer. The woman is the sufferer, people say, in such cases; but -this man groaned when he thought, if he could not do something to avert -it, what ruin must overtake him. If Clare left his house, all honour, -character, position would go with her; he could never hold up his head -again. He would retain everything he had before, yet he would lose -everything—not only her and his children, of whom he was as fond as it -was possible to be of any but himself, but every scrap of popular -regard, society, the support of his fellows. All would go from him if -this devil could not be silenced—if Clare could not be conciliated.</p> - -<p>He rose to his feet, feeling sick and giddy, and from a corner, behind -the shadow of the window-curtains, saw his wife—that is, the woman who -was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> no longer his wife—drive away from the door. He was so wretched -that he could not even relieve his mind by swearing at Edgar. He had not -energy enough to think of Edgar, or any one else. Sometimes, indeed, -with a sharp pang, there would gleam across him a sudden vision of his -little boy, Clare’s son, the beautiful child he had been so proud of, -but who—even if Clare should make it up, and brave the shame and -wrong—was ruined and disgraced, and no more the heir of Arden than any -beggar on the road. Poor wretch! when that thought came across him, I -think all the wrongs that Arthur Arden had done in this world were -avenged. He writhed under the sudden thought. He burst out in sudden -crying and sobbing for one miserable moment. It was intolerable—he -could not bear it; yet had to bear it, as we all have, whether our -errors are of our own making or not.</p> - -<p>And Clare drove back over the peaceful country, beginning to green over -faintly under the first impulse of Spring—between lines of ploughed and -grateful fields, and soft furrows of soft green corn. She did not even -put her veil down, but with her white face set, and her eyes gazing -blankly before her, went on with her own thoughts, saying nothing, -seeing nothing. All her faculties had suddenly been concentrated within -her—her mind was like a shaded lamp for the moment, throwing intense -light upon one spot, and leaving all others in darkness. Edgar held her -hand, to which she did not object, and watched her with a pity which -swelled his heart almost to bursting. He could take care of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span> her -tenderly in little things—lift her out of the carriage, give her the -support of his arm, throw off the superabundant wraps that covered her. -But this was all; into the inner world, where she was fighting her -battle, neither he nor any man could enter—there she had to fight it -out alone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br /><br /> -<small>The Old Home.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Clare</span> went to her own room, and shut herself up there. She permitted -Edgar to go with her to the door, and there dismissed him, almost -without a word. What Edgar’s feelings were on entering the house where -he had once been master, and with which so many early associations both -of pleasure and pain were connected, I need not say; he was excited -painfully and strangely by everything he saw. It seemed inconceivable to -him that he should be there; and every step in the staircase, every turn -in the corridor, reminded him of something that had happened in that -brief bit of the past in which his history was concentrated, which had -lasted so short a time, yet had been of more effect than many years. The -one thing, however, that kept him calm, and restrained his excitement, -was the utter absorption of Clare in her own troubles, which were more -absorbing than anything that had ever happened to him. She showed no -consciousness that it was anything to him to enter this house, to lead -her through its familiar passages. She ignored it so completely that -Edgar, always impressionable, felt half ashamed of himself for -recollecting, and tried to make believe, even to himself, that he -ignored it too. He took her to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> door of her room, his head throbbing -with the sense that he was here again, where he had never thought to be; -and then went downstairs, to wait in the room which had once been his -own library, for Arthur Arden’s return. Fortunately the old servants -were all gone, and if any of the present household recognised Edgar at -all, their faces were unfamiliar to him. How strange to look round the -room, and note with instinctive readiness all the changes which another -man’s taste had made! The old cabinet, in which the papers had been -found which proved him no Arden, stood still against the wall, as it had -always done. The books looked neglected in their shelves, as though no -one ever touched them. It was more of a business room than it once was, -less of a library, nothing at all of the domestic place, dear to man and -woman alike, which it had been when Edgar never was so happy as with his -sister beside him. How strange it was to be there—how dismal to be -there on such an errand. In this room Clare had given him the papers -which were his ruin; here she had entreated him to destroy them; here he -had made the discovery public; and now to think the day should have come -when he was here as a stranger, caring nothing for Arden, thinking only -how to remove her of whom he seemed to have become the sole brother and -protector, from the house she had been born in!</p> - -<p>He walked about and about the rooms, till the freshness of these -associations was over, and he began to grow impatient of the stillness -and sus<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span>pense. He had told Clare that he would wait, and that she should -find him there when he was wanted. He had begged her to do nothing that -night—to wait and consider what was best; but he did not even know -whether she was able to understand him, or if he spoke to deaf ears. -Everything had happened so quickly that a sense of confusion was in -Edgar’s mind, confusion of the moral as well as the mental functions; -for he was not at all sure whether the link of sympathetic horror and -wonder between Arden and himself, as to what Clare would do, did not -approach him closer, rather than separate him further from this man, who -hated him, to begin with, and who was yet not his sister’s husband. -Somehow these two, who, since they first met, had been at opposite poles -from each other, seemed to be drawn together by one common misfortune, -rather than placed in a doubly hostile position, as became the injurer -and the defender of the injured.</p> - -<p>When Arden came in some time after, this feeling obliterated on both -sides the enmity which, under any other circumstances, must have blazed -forth. Edgar, as he looked at the dull misery in Arthur’s face, felt a -strange pity for him soften his heart. This man, who had done so well -for himself, who had got Arden, who had married Clare, who had received -all the gifts that heaven could give, what a miserable failure he was -after all, cast down from all that made his eminence tenable or good to -hold. He was the cause of the most terrible misfortune to Clare and her -children, and yet Edgar felt no impulse to take him by the throat,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> but -was sorry for him in his downfall and misery. As for Arthur Arden, his -old dislike seemed exorcised by the same spirit. In any other -circumstances he would have resented Edgar’s interference deeply—but -now a gloomy indifference to everything that could happen, except one -thing, had got possession of him.</p> - -<p>“What does she mean to do?” he said, throwing himself into a chair. All -power of self-assertion had failed in him. It seemed even right and -natural to him that Edgar should know this better than he himself did, -and give him information what her decision was.</p> - -<p>“I think,” said Edgar, instinctively accepting the rôle of adviser, -“that the best and most delicate thing you could do would be to leave -the house to her for a few days. Let it be supposed you have business -somewhere. Go to London, if you think fit, and investigate for yourself; -but leave Clare to make up her mind at leisure. It would be the most -generous thing to do.”</p> - -<p>Arthur stared at him blankly for a moment, with a dull suspicion in his -eyes at the strange, audacious calmness of the proposal. But seeing that -Edgar met his gaze calmly, and said these words in perfect -single-mindedness, and desire to do the best in the painful emergency, -he accepted them as they were given; and thus they remained together, -though they did not talk to each other, waiting for Clare’s appearance, -or some intimation of what she meant to do, till darkness began to fall. -When it was nearly night a maid appeared,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span> with a scared look in her -face, and that strange consciousness of impending evil which servants -often show, like animals, without a word being said to them—and brought -to Edgar the following little note from Clare:—</p> - -<p>“I am not able to see you to-night; and I cannot decide where to go -without consulting you; besides that there are other reasons why I -cannot take the children away, as I intended, at once. I have gone up to -the nursery beside them, and will remain there until to-morrow. Tell him -this, and ask if we may remain so, in his house, without being molested, -till to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>Edgar handed this note to Arden without a word. He saw the quick flutter -of excitement which passed over Arthur’s face. If the letter had been -more affectionate, I doubt whether Clare’s husband could have borne it; -but as it was he gulped down his agitation, and read it without -betraying any angry feeling. When he had glanced it over, he looked -almost piteously at his companion.</p> - -<p>“You think that is what I ought to do?” he said, almost with an appeal -against Edgar’s decision. “Then I’ll go; you can write and tell her so. -I’ll stay away if she likes, until—until she wants me,” he broke off -abruptly, and got up and left the room, and was audible a moment after, -calling loudly for his servant in the hall.</p> - -<p>Edgar wrote this information to Clare. He told her that Arden had -decided to leave the house to her, that she might feel quite free to -make<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span> up her mind; and that he too would go to the village, where he -would wait her call, whensoever she should want him. He begged her once -more to compose herself, not to hasten her final decision, and to -believe that she would be perfectly free from intrusion or interference -of any kind—and bade God bless her, the only word of tenderness he -dared venture to add.</p> - -<p>When he had written this, he walked down the avenue alone, in the dusk, -to the village. Arden had gone before him. The lodge-gates had been left -open, and gave to the house a certain forlorn air of openness to all -assault, which, no doubt, existed chiefly in Edgar’s fancy, but -impressed him more than I can say. To walk down that avenue at all was -for him a strange sensation; but Edgar by this time had got over all the -weaknesses of recollection. It was not hard for him at any time to put -himself to one side. He did it now completely. He felt like a man -walking in a dream; but he no longer consciously recalled to himself the -many times he had gone up and down there, and how it had once been to -him his habitual way home—the entrance to his kingdom. No doubt in his -painful circumstances these thoughts would have been hard upon him. They -died quite naturally out of his mind now. What was to become of -Clare?—where could he best convey her for shelter or safety?—and how -provide for her? His own downfall had made Clare penniless, and now that -she was no longer Arthur Arden’s wife, she could and would, he knew, -accept nothing from <i>him</i>. How was she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> to be provided for? This was a -far more important question to think of than any maunderings of personal -regret over the associations of his past life.</p> - -<p>Next morning he went up again to the Hall, after a night passed not very -comfortably at the “Arden Arms,” where everyone looked at him curiously, -recognising him, but not venturing to say so. As he went up the avenue, -Arthur Arden overtook him, arriving, too, from a different direction. A -momentary flash of indignation came over Edgar’s face.</p> - -<p>“You promised to leave Arden,” he said.</p> - -<p>“And so I did,” said the other. “But I did not say I would not come back -to hear what she said. My God, I may have been a fool, but may I not see -my—my own children before they go? I am not made of wood or stone, do -you suppose, though I may have been in the wrong?”</p> - -<p>His eyes were red and bloodshot, his appearance neglected and wild. He -looked as if he had not slept, nor even undressed, all night.</p> - -<p>“Look here,” he said hoarsely, “I have got another letter, saying <i>she</i> -would accept money—a compromise. Will you persuade Clare to stay, and -make no exposure, and hush it all up, for the sake of the children—if -we have <i>her</i> solemnly bound over to keep the secret and get her sent -away? Will you? What harm could it do you? And it might be the saving of -the boy.”</p> - -<p>“Arden, I pity you from my heart!” said Edgar; “but I could not give -such advice to Clare.”</p> - -<p>“It’s for the boy,” cried Arden. “Look here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> We’ve never been friends, -you and I, and it’s not natural we should be; but that child shall be -brought up to think more of you than of any man on earth—to think of -you as his friend, his—well, his uncle, if you will. Grant that I’m -done for in this world, and poor Clare too, poor girl; but, Edgar, if -you liked, you might save the boy.”</p> - -<p>“By falsehood,” said Edgar, his heart wrung with sympathetic -emotion—“by falsehood, as I was myself set up, till the time came, and -I fell. Better, surely, that he should be trained to bear the worst. You -would not choose for him such a fate as mine?”</p> - -<p>“It has not done you any harm,” said Arden, looking keenly at the man he -had dispossessed—from whom he had taken everything. “You have always -had the best of it!” he cried, with sudden fire. “You have come out of -it all with honour, while everyone else has had a poor enough part to -play. But in this case,” he added, anxiously, in a tone of conciliation, -“nothing of the kind can happen. Who like her son and mine could have -the right here—every right of nature, if not the legal right? And I -declare to you, before God, that I never meant it. I never intended to -marry—that woman.”</p> - -<p>“You intended only to betray her.” It was on Edgar’s lips to say these -words, but he had not the heart to aggravate the misery which the -unhappy man was already suffering. They went on together to the house, -Arden repeating at intervals his entreaties, to which Edgar could give -but little an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span>swer. He knew very well Clare would listen to no such -proposal; but so strangely did the pity within him mingle with all less -gentle sentiments, that Edgar’s friendly lips could not utter a harsh -word. He said what he could, rather, to soothe; for, after all, his -decision was of little importance, and Clare did not take the matter so -lightly as to make a compromise a possible thing to think of.</p> - -<p>The house had already acquired something of that look of agitation which -steals so readily into the atmosphere wherever domestic peace is -threatened. There were two or three servants in the hall, who -disappeared in different directions when the gentlemen were seen -approaching; and Edgar soon perceived, by the deference with which he -himself was treated, that the instinct of the household had jumped to a -conclusion very different from the facts, but so pleasing to the -imagination as to be readily received. He had been recognised, and it -was evident that he was thought to be “righted,” to have got “his own -again.” Arthur Arden was anything but beloved at home, and the popular -heart as well as imagination sprang up, eager to greet the return of the -real master, the true heir.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Arden, sir, has ordered the carriage to meet the twelve o’clock -train. She’s in the morning-room, sir,” said the butler, with solemnity.</p> - -<p>He spoke to Arthur, but he looked at Edgar. They were all of one way of -thinking; further evidence had been found out, or something had occurred -to turn the wheel of fortune, and Edgar had been restored to “his own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Clare was seated alone, dressed for a journey, in the little room which -had always been her favourite room. She was dressed entirely in black, -which made her extraordinary paleness more visible. She had always been -pale, but this morning her countenance was like marble—not a tinge of -colour on it, except the pink, pale also, of her lips. She received them -with equal coldness, bending her head only when the two men, both of -them almost speechless with emotion, came into her presence. She was -perfectly calm; that which had befallen her was too tremendous for any -display of feeling; it carried her beyond the regions of feeling into -those of the profoundest passion—that primitive, unmingled condition of -mind which has to be diluted with many intricate combinations before it -drops into ordinary, expressible emotion. Clare had got beyond the pain -that could be put into words, or cries or tears; she was stern, and -still, and cold, like a woman turned to stone.</p> - -<p>“I want to explain what I am about to do,” she said, in a low tone. “We -are leaving, of course, at once. Mr. Arden” (her voice faltered for one -moment, but then grew more steady than ever), “I have taken with me what -money I have; there is fifty pounds—I will send it back to you when I -have arranged what I am to do. You will wish to see the children; they -are in the nursery waiting. Edgar will go with me to town, and help me -to find a place to live in. I do not wish to make any scandal, or cause -any anxiety. Of course I cannot change my name, as it is my own name, -as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> well as yours, and my children will be called what their mother is -called, as I believe children in their unfortunate position always are.”</p> - -<p>“Clare, for God’s sake do not be so pitiless! Hear me speak. I have -much—much to say to you. I have to beg your pardon on my knees——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t!” she cried suddenly; then went on in her calm tone—“We are past -all the limits of the theatre, Mr. Arden,” she said. “Your knees can do -me no good, nor anything else. All that is over. I cannot either upbraid -or pardon. I will try to forget your existence, and you will forget -mine.”</p> - -<p>“That is impossible!” he cried, going towards her. His eyes were so -wild, and his manner so excited, that Edgar drew near to her in terror; -but Clare was not afraid. She looked up at him with the large, calm, -dilated eyes, which seemed larger and bluer than ever, out of the -extreme whiteness of her face.</p> - -<p>“When I swear to you that I never meant it, that I am more wretched—far -more wretched—than you can be—that I would hang myself, or drown -myself like a dog, if that would do any good——!”</p> - -<p>“Nothing can do any good,” said Clare. Something like a moan escaped -from her breast. “What are words?” she went on, with a certain -quickening of excitement. “I could speak too, if it came to that. There -is nothing—nothing to be said or done. Edgar, when one loses name and -fame, and home, <i>you</i> know what to do.”</p> - -<p>“I know what I did; but I am different from you,” said Edgar—“you, with -your babies. Clare, let us speak; we are not stones—we are men.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Ah! stones are better than men—less cruel, less terrible!” she cried. -“No, no; I cannot bear it. We will go in silence; there is nothing that -anyone can say.”</p> - -<p>“You see,” said Edgar, turning to Arden—“what is my advice or my -suggestions now? To speak of compromise or negotiation——”</p> - -<p>“Compromise!” said Clare, her pale cheek flaming; she rose up with a -sudden impulse of insupportable passion—“compromise!—to me!” Then, -turning to Edgar, she clutched at his arm, and he felt what force she -was putting upon herself, and how she trembled. “Come,” she said, “this -air kills me; take me away!”</p> - -<p>He let her guide him, not daring to oppose her, out to the air—to the -door, down the great steps. She faltered more and more at every step she -took, then, suddenly stopping, leaned against him.</p> - -<p>“Let me sit down somewhere. I am growing giddy,” she said.</p> - -<p>She sat down on the steps, on the very threshold of the home she was -quitting, as she thought, for ever. The servants, in a group behind, -tried to gaze over their master’s shoulders at this extraordinary scene. -Where was she going?—what did she mean? There was a moment during which -no one spoke, and Clare, to her double horror, felt her senses forsaking -her. Her head swam, the light fluttered in her eyes. A moment more, and -she would be conscious of nothing round her. I have said she was not the -kind of woman who faints at a great crisis, but the body has its -revenges, its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span> moments of supremacy, and she had neither slept nor -eaten, neither rested nor forgotten, for all these hours.</p> - -<p>It was at this moment that the messenger from the “Arden Arms,” a boy, -whom no one had noticed coming up the avenue, thrust something into -Edgar’s hand.</p> - -<p>“Be that for you, sir?” said the boy.</p> - -<p>The sound of this new, strange voice roused everybody. Clare came out of -her half-faint, and regained her full sense of what was going on, though -she was unable to rise. Arthur Arden came close to them down the steps, -with wild eagerness in his eyes. Edgar only would have thrust the paper -away which was put into his hands. “Tush!” he said, with the momentary -impulse of tossing it from him; then, suddenly catching, as it were, a -reflection of something new possible in Arden’s wild look, and even a -gleam of some awful sublime of tragic curiosity in the opening eyes of -Clare, he looked at the paper itself, which came to him at that moment -of fate. It was a telegram, in the vulgar livery which now-a-days the -merest trifles and the most terrible events wear alike in England. He -tore it open; it was from Mr. Tottenham, dated that morning, and -contained these words only:—</p> - -<p>“<i>Miss Lockwood died here at nine o’clock.</i>”</p> - -<p>Edgar thrust it into Arden’s hand. He felt something like a wild sea -surging in his ears; he raised up Clare in his arms, and drew her -wondering, resisting, up the great steps.</p> - -<p>“Come back,” he cried—“come home, Clare.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br /><br /> -<small>Harry’s Turn.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> would be vain to tell all that was said, and all that was done, and -all the calculations that were gone through in the house in Berkeley -Square, where Edgar’s visit had produced so much emotion. The interviews -carried on in all the different rooms would furnish forth a volume. The -girls, who had peered over the staircase to see him go away, and whose -state of suspense was indescribable, made a dozen applications at -Gussy’s door before the audience of Ada, who had the best right to hear, -was over. Then Mary insisted upon getting admission in her right of -bride, as one able to enter into Gussy’s feelings, and sympathise with -her; and poor little Beatrice, left out in the cold, had to content -herself with half a dozen words, whispered in the twilight, when they -all went to dress for dinner. Beatrice cried with wounded feeling, to -think that because she, by the decrees of Providence, was neither the -elder sister, nor engaged to be married, she was therefore to be shut -out from all participation in Gussy’s secrets.</p> - -<p>“Could I be more interested if I was twice as old as Ada, and engaged to -six Lord Grantons!” cried the poor child. And Gussy’s prospects were in -that charming state of uncertainty that they would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span> stand discussing for -hours together; whereas, by the time Lord Granton had been pronounced a -darling, and the dresses all decided upon, even down to the colour of -the bridesmaids’ parasols, there remained absolutely nothing new to be -gone over with Mary, but just the same thing again and again.</p> - -<p>“When do you think you shall be married?” said Beatrice, tremulously.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, and I don’t very much care, so long as it is all right,” -said Gussy, half laughing, half crying.</p> - -<p>“But what if papa will not consent?” said Mary, with a face of awe.</p> - -<p>“Papa is too sensible to fight when he knows he should not win the -battle,” said the deliciously, incomprehensibly courageous Gussy.</p> - -<p>There was some gratification to be got out of a betrothed sister of this -fashion. Beatrice even began to look down upon Mary’s unexciting loves.</p> - -<p>“As for your affair, it is so dreadfully tame,” she said, contemptuously -lifting her little nose in the air. “Everybody rushing to give their -consent, and presents raining down upon you, and you all so -self-satisfied and confident.”</p> - -<p>Mary was quite taken down from her pedestal of universal observation. -She became the commonest of young women about to be married, by Gussy’s -romantic side.</p> - -<p>Alas! the Thornleighs were by no means done with sensation in this -<i>genre</i>. Two days after these events, before Edgar had come back, Harry -came early to the house one morning and asked to see<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span> his mother alone. -Lady Augusta was still immersed in patterns, and she had that morning -received a letter from her husband, which had brought several lines upon -her forehead. Mr. Thornleigh had the reputation, out of doors, of being -a moderate, sensible sort of man, not apt to commit himself, though -perhaps not brilliant, nor very much to be relied upon in point of -intellect. He deserved, indeed, to a considerable extent this character; -but what the world did not know, was that his temper was good and -moderate, by reason of the domestic safety-valve which he had always by -him. When anything troublesome occurred he had it out with his wife, -giving her full credit for originating the whole business.</p> - -<p>“You ought to have done this, or you ought to have done that,” he would -say, “and then, of course, nothing of the kind could have happened.” -After, he would go upstairs, and brush his hair, and appear as the most -sensible and good-tempered of men before the world. Mr. Thornleigh had -got Mr. Tottenham’s letter informing him of the renewed intercourse -between Edgar and Gussy; and the Squire had, on the spot, indited a -letter to his wife, breathing fire and flame. This was the preface of a -well-conditioned, gentlemanly letter to Mr. Tottenham, in which the -father expressed a natural regret that Gussy should show so little -consideration of external advantages, but fully acknowledged Edgar’s -excellent qualities, and asked what his prospects were, and what he -thought of doing.</p> - -<p>“I will never be tyrannical to any of my chil<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span>dren,” Mr. Thornleigh -said; “but, on the other hand, before I can give my sanction, however -unwillingly, to any engagement, I must fully understand his position, -and what he expects to be able to do.”</p> - -<p>But Lady Augusta’s letter was not couched in these calm and friendly -terms; and knowing as she did the exertions she had made to keep Edgar -at arm’s length, poor Lady Augusta felt that she did not deserve the -assault made upon her, and consequently took longer to calm down than -she generally did. It was while her brow was still puckered, and her -cheek flushed with this unwelcome communication, that Harry came in. -When he said, “I want to speak to you, mother,” her anxious mind already -jumped at some brewing harm. She took him into the deserted library, -feeling that this was the most appropriate place in which to hear any -confession her son might have to make to her. The drawing-room, where -invasion was always to be feared, and the morning-room, which was -strewed with patterns and girls, might do very well for the confession -of feminine peccadilloes, but a son’s ill-doing was to be treated with a -graver care. She led Harry accordingly into the library, and put herself -into his father’s chair, and said, “What is it, my dear boy?” with a -deeper gravity than usual. Not that Harry was to be taken in by such -pretences at severity. He knew his mother too well for that.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” he said, sitting down near her, but turning his head partially -away from her gaze, “you have often said that my father wanted me—to -marry.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“To marry!—why, Harry? Yes, dear, and so he does,” said Lady Augusta; -“and I too,” she added, less decidedly. “I wish it, too—if it is some -one very nice.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Harry, looking at her with a certain shamefaced ostentation -of boldness, “I have seen some one whom I could marry at last.”</p> - -<p>“At last! You are not so dreadfully old,” said the mother, with a smile. -“You, too! Well, dear, tell me who it is. Some one you have met at your -Aunt Mary’s”? Oh! Harry, my dear boy, I trust most earnestly it is some -one very nice!”</p> - -<p>“It is some one much better than nice—the most lovely creature, mother, -you ever saw in your life. I never even dreamt of anything like her,” -said Harry, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“I hope she is something more than a lovely creature,” said Lady -Augusta. “Oh! Harry, your father is so put out about Gussy’s business; I -do hope, dear, that this is something which will put him in good-humour -again. I can take her loveliness for granted. Tell me—do tell me who -she is?”</p> - -<p>“You don’t mean to say that you are going to let that fellow marry -Gussy’?” said Harry, coming to a sudden pause.</p> - -<p>“Harry, if this is such a connection as I hope, it will smooth -everything,” said Lady Augusta. “My dearest boy, tell me who she is.”</p> - -<p>“She is the only woman I will ever marry,” said Harry, doggedly.</p> - -<p>And then his poor mother divined, without further words, that the match -was not an advan<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span>tageous one, and that she had another disappointment on -her hands.</p> - -<p>“Harry, you keep me very anxious. Is she one of Mary’s neighbours? Tell -me her name.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, she is one of Aunt Mary’s neighbours and chief favourites,” said -Harry. “Aunt Mary is by way of patronizing her.” And here he laughed; -but the laugh was forced, and had not the frank amusement in it which he -intended it to convey.</p> - -<p>Lady Augusta’s brow cleared for a moment, then clouded again.</p> - -<p>“You do not mean Myra Witherington?” she said, faintly. “Oh! not one of -that family, I hope!”</p> - -<p>“Myra Witherington!” he cried. “Mother, what do you take me for? It is -clear you know nothing about my beautiful Margaret. In her presence, you -would no more notice Myra Witherington than a farthing candle in the -sun!”</p> - -<p>Poor Lady Augusta took courage again. The very name gave her a little -courage. It is the commonest of all names where Margaret came from; but -not in England, where its rarity gives it a certain distinction.</p> - -<p>“My dear boy,” she said tremulously, “don’t trifle with me—tell me her -name.”</p> - -<p>A strange smile came upon Harry’s lips. In his very soul he, too, was -ashamed of the name by which some impish trick of fortune had shadowed -his Margaret. An impulse came upon him to get it over at once; he felt -that he was mocking both himself and his mother, and her, the most of -all, who bore that terrible appellation. He burst into a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span> harsh, coarse -laugh, a bravado of which next moment he was heartily ashamed.</p> - -<p>“Her name,” he said, with another outburst, “is—Mrs. Smith!”</p> - -<p>“Good heavens, Harry!” cried Lady Augusta, with a violent start. Then -she tried to take a little comfort from his laughter, and said, with a -faint smile, though still trembling, “You are laughing at me, you unkind -boy!”</p> - -<p>“I am not laughing at all!” cried Harry, “except, indeed, at the -misfortune which gave her such a name. It is one of Aunt Mary’s -favourite jokes.” Then he changed his tone, and took his mother’s hand -and put it up caressingly to his cheek to hide the hot flush that -covered it. “Mother, you don’t know how I love her. She is the only -woman I will ever marry, though I should live a hundred years.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! my poor boy—my poor boy!” cried Lady Augusta. “This is all I -wanted to make an end of me. I think my heart will break!”</p> - -<p>“Why should your heart break?” said Harry, putting down her hand and -looking half cynically at her. “What good will that do? Look here, -mother. Something much more to the purpose will be to write to my -father, and break the news quietly to him—gently, so as not to bother -him, as I have done to you; you know how.”</p> - -<p>“Break the news to him!” she said. “I have not yet realised it myself. -Harry, wait a little. Why, she is not even——. Mrs. Smith! You mean -that she is a widow, I suppose?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“You did not think I could want to marry a wife, did you?” he growled. -“What is the use of asking such useless questions? Of course she is a -widow—with one little girl. There, now you know the worst!”</p> - -<p>“A widow, with one little girl!”</p> - -<p>Lady Augusta looked at him aghast. What could make up for these -disadvantages? The blood went back upon her heart, then rallied slightly -as she remembered her brother-in-law’s shopkeeping origin, and that the -widow might be some friend of his.</p> - -<p>“Is she—very rich?” she stammered.</p> - -<p>To do her justice, she was thinking then of her husband, not herself; -she was thinking how she could write to him, saying, “These are terrible -drawbacks, but nevertheless——”</p> - -<p>But nevertheless—Harry burst into another loud, coarse laugh. Poor -fellow! nobody could feel less like laughing; he did it to conceal his -confusion a little, and the terrible sense he began to have that, so far -as his father and mother were concerned, he had made a dreadful mistake.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know how rich she is, nor how poor. That is not what I ever -thought of,” he cried, with lofty scorn.</p> - -<p>This somehow appeased the gathering terror of Lady Augusta.</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose you did think of it,” she said; “but it is a thing your -father will think of. Harry, tell me in confidence—I shall never think -you mercenary—what is her family? Are they rich people?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> Are they -friends of your uncle Tottenham? Dear Harry, why should you make a -mystery of this with me?”</p> - -<p>“Listen, then,” he said, setting his teeth, “and when you know -everything you will not be able to ask any more questions. She is a -cousin of your Edgar’s that you are so fond of. Her brother is the new -doctor at Harbour Green, and she lives with him. There, now you know as -much as I know myself.”</p> - -<p>Words would fail me to tell the wide-eyed consternation with which Lady -Augusta listened. It seemed to her that everything that was obnoxious -had been collected into this description. Poor, nobody, the sister of a -country doctor; a widow with a child; and finally, to wind up -everything, and make the combination still more and more terrible, -Edgar’s cousin! Heaven help her! It was hard enough to think of this for -herself; but to let his father know!—this was more than any woman could -venture to do. She grew sick and faint in a horrible sense of the -desperation of the circumstances; the girls might be obstinate, but they -would not take the bit in their teeth and go off, determined to have -their way, like the boy, who was the heir, and knew his own importance; -and what could any exhortation of hers do for Harry, who knew as well as -she did the frightful consequences, and had always flattered himself on -being a man of the world? She was so stupefied that she scarcely -understood all the protestations that he poured into her ear after this. -What was it to her that Margaret<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> was the loveliest creature in the -world? Faugh! Lady Augusta turned sickening from the words. Lovely -creatures who rend peaceful families asunder; who lead young men astray, -and ruin all their hopes and prospects; who heighten all existing -difficulties, and make everything that was bad before worse a thousand -times—is it likely that a middle-aged mother should be moved by their -charms?</p> - -<p>“It is ruin and destruction!—ruin and destruction!” she repeated to -herself.</p> - -<p>And soon the whole house had received the same shock, and trembled under -it to its foundations. Harry went off in high dudgeon, not finding the -sympathy he (strangely enough, being a man of the world) had looked -forward to as his natural right. The house, as I have said, quivered -with the shock; a sense of sudden depression came over them all. Little -Mary cried, thinking what a very poor-looking lot of relations she would -carry with her into the noble house she was about to enter. Gussy, with -a more real sense of the fatal effect of this last complication, felt, -half despairing, that her momentary gleam of hope was dying away in the -darkness, and began to think the absence of Edgar at this critical -moment almost a wrong to her. He had been absent for years, and she had -kept steadily faithful to him, hopeful in him; but his absence of to-day -filled her with a hopeless, nervous irritability and pain. As for Lady -Augusta, she lost heart altogether.</p> - -<p>“Your father will never listen to it,” she said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span>—“never, never; he will -think they are in a conspiracy. You will be the sufferer, Gussy, you and -poor Edgar, for Harry will not be restrained; he will take his own way.”</p> - -<p>What could Gussy reply? She was older than Harry; she was sick of -coercion—why should not she, too, have her own way? But she did not say -this, being grieved for the unfortunate mother, whom this last shock had -utterly discomposed. Ada could do nothing but be the grieved spectator -and sympathizer of all; as for the young Beatrice, her mind was divided -between great excitement over the situation generally, and sorrow for -poor Gussy, and an illegitimate, anxious longing to see the “lovely -creature” of whom Harry had spoken in such raptures. Why should not -people love and marry, without all these frightful complications? -Beatrice was not so melancholy as the rest. She got a certain amount of -pleasure out of the imbroglio; she even hoped that for herself there -might be preparing something else even more romantic than Gussy’s—more -desperate than Harry’s. Fate, which had long forgotten the Thornleigh -household, and permitted them to trudge on in perfect quiet, had now -roused out of sleep, and seemed to intend to give them their turn of -excitement again.</p> - -<p>Edgar made his appearance next day, looking so worn and fatigued that -Lady Augusta had not the heart to warn him, as she had intended to do, -that for the present she could not receive his visits—and that Gussy -had not the heart to be cross. He told them he had been to Arden on -business<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> concerning Clare, and that Arthur Arden had come to town with -him, and that peace and a certain friendship reigned, at least for the -moment, between them. He did not confide even to Gussy what the cause of -this singular amity was; but after he had been a little while in her -company, his forehead began to smoothe, his smile to come back, the -colour to appear once more in his face. He took her aside to the window, -where the girls had been arranging fresh Spring flowers in a -<i>jardinière</i>. He drew her arm into his, bending over the hyacinths and -cyclamens. Now, for the first time, he could ask the question which had -been thrust out of his mind by all that had happened within the last few -days. A soft air of Spring, of happiness, of all the sweetness of life, -which had been so long plucked from him, seemed to blow in Edgar’s face -from the flowers.</p> - -<p>“How should we like a Consulship?” he said, bending down to whisper in -her ear.</p> - -<p>“A what?” cried Gussy, astonished. She thought for the moment that he -was speaking of some new flower.</p> - -<p>Then Edgar took Lord Newmarch’s letter from his pocket, and held out the -postscript to her, holding her arm fast in his, and his head close to -hers.</p> - -<p>“How should you like a Consulship?” he said.</p> - -<p>Then the light and the life in his face communicated itself to her.</p> - -<p>“A Consulship! Oh! Edgar, what does it mean?”</p> - -<p>“To me it means you,” he said—“it means life; it means poverty too, -perhaps, and humility, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> are not what I would choose for my Gussy; -but to me it means life, independence, happiness. Gussy, what am I to -say?”</p> - -<p>“Say!” she cried—“yes, of course—yes. What else? Italy, perhaps, and -freedom—freedom once in our lives—and our own way; but, ah! what is -the use of speaking of it?” said Gussy, dropping away from his arm, and -stamping her foot on the ground, and falling into sudden tears, “when we -are always to be prevented by other people’s folly, always stopped by -something we have nothing to do with? Ask mamma, Edgar, what has -happened since you went away.”</p> - -<p>Then Lady Augusta drew near, having been a wondering and somewhat -anxious spectator all the time of this whispered conversation, and told -him with tears of her interview with Harry.</p> - -<p>“What can I do?” she cried. “I do not want to say a word against your -cousin. She may be nice, as nice as though she were a duke’s daughter; -but Harry is our eldest son, and all my children have done so badly in -this way except little Mary. Oh! my dears, I beg your pardon!” cried -poor Lady Augusta, drying her eyes, “but what can I say? Edgar, I have -always felt that I could ask you to do anything, if things should ever -be settled between Gussy and you. Oh! save my boy! She cannot be very -fond of him, she has known him so little; and his father will be -furious, and will never consent—never! And until Mr. Thornleigh dies, -they would have next to nothing, Oh! Edgar, if she is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> sensible, and -would listen to reason, I would go to her myself—or Gussy could go.”</p> - -<p>“Not I,” said Gussy, stealing a deprecating look at Edgar, who stood -stupefied by this new complication—“how could I? It is terrible. How -can I, who am pleasing myself, say anything to Harry because he wants to -please himself?—or to <i>her</i>, who has nothing to do with our miserable -and mercenary ways? Oh! yes, they are miserable and mercenary!” cried -Gussy, crying in her turn; “though I can’t help feeling as you do, -though my mind revolts against this poor girl, whom I don’t know, and I -want to save Harry, too, as you say. But how dare I make Harry unhappy, -in order to be happy myself? Oh! mamma, seek some other messenger—not -me!—not me!”</p> - -<p>“My darling,” said Lady Augusta, “it is for Harry’s good.”</p> - -<p>“And it was for my good a little while ago!” cried Gussy. “You meant it, -and so did they all. If you could have persuaded me to marry some one I -cared nothing for, with my heart always longing for another, you would -have thought it for my good; and now must I try to buy my happiness by -ruining Harry’s?” cried the girl; “though I, too, am so dreadful, that I -think it would be for Harry’s good. Oh! no, no, let it be some one -else!”</p> - -<p>“Edgar,” said Lady Augusta, “speak to her, show her the difference. -Harry never saw this—this young woman till about a fortnight since. -What can he know of her, what can she know of him, to be ready to marry -him in a fortnight? Oh! Edgar, try<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> to save my boy! Even if you were to -represent to him that it would be kind to let your business be settled -first,” she went on, after a pause. “A little time might do everything. -I hope it is not wrong to scheme a little for one’s own children and -their happiness. You might persuade him to wait, for Gussy’s sake—not -to make his father furious with two at a time.”</p> - -<p>Thus the consultation went on, if that could be called a consultation -where the advice was all on one side. Edgar was fairly stupefied by this -new twist in his affairs. He saw the fatal effect as clearly as even -Lady Augusta could see it, but he could not see his own way to interfere -in it, as she saw. To persuade Harry Thornleigh to give up or postpone -his own will, in order that he, Edgar Earnshaw, might get his—an object -in which Harry, first of all, had not the slightest sympathy—was about -as hopeless an attempt as could well be thought of; and what right had -he to influence Margaret, whom he did not know, to give up the brother, -in order that he himself might secure the sister? Edgar left the house -in as sore a dilemma as ever man was in. To give up Gussy now was a -simple impossibility, but to win her by persuading her brother to the -sacrifice of his love and happiness, was surely more impossible still.<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>Other People’s Affairs.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Thus</span>, after the long lull that had happened in his life, Edgar found -himself deep in occupation, intermingled in the concerns of many -different people. Arthur Arden had come with him to town, and, by some -strange operation of feeling, which it is difficult to follow, this man, -in his wretchedness, clung to Edgar, who might almost be supposed the -means of bringing it about. All his old jealousy, his old enmity, seemed -to have disappeared. He who had harshly declined to admit that the -relationship of habit and affection between his wife and her supposed -brother must survive even when it was known that no tie of blood existed -between them, acknowledged the fact now without question, almost with -eagerness, speaking to the man he had hated, and disowned all connection -with, of “your sister,” holding by him as a link between himself and the -wife he had so nearly lost. This revolution was scarcely less wonderful -than the position in which Edgar found himself in respect to Clare. Not -a reference to their old affection had come from her lips, not a word of -present regard. She had scarcely even given him her hand voluntarily; -but she had accepted him at once and instinctively as her natural -support, her “next friend,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span>” whose help and protection she took as a -matter of course. Clare treated him as if his brotherhood had never been -questioned, as if he was her natural and legal defender and sustainer: -up to this moment she had not even opened her mind to him, or told him -what she meant to do, but she had so far accepted his guidance, and -still more accepted his support, without thanking him or asking him for -it, as a matter of course.</p> - -<p>Edgar knew Clare too well to believe that when the marriage ceremony -should be repeated between her husband and herself—which was the next -step to be taken—their life would simply flow on again in the same -channel, as if this tragical interruption to its course had never -occurred. This was what Arthur Arden fondly pictured to himself, and a -great many floating intentions of being a better husband, and a better -man, after the salvation which had suddenly come to him, in the very -moment of his need, were in his mind, softening the man imperceptibly by -their influence. But Edgar did not hope for this; he made as little -answer as he could to Arthur’s anticipations of the future, to his -remorseful desire to be friendly.</p> - -<p>“After it’s all over you must not drift out of sight again,—you must -come to us when you can,” Arden said. “You’ve always behaved like a -brick in all circumstances; I see it now. You’ve been my best friend in -this terrible business. I wish I may never have a happy hour if I ever -think otherwise of you than as Clare’s brother again.”</p> - -<p>All this Edgar did his best to respond to, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> he could not but feel -that Arden’s hopes were fallacies. Clare had given him no insight into -her plans, perhaps, even, had not formed any. She had gone back into the -house at Edgar’s bidding; she had dully accepted the fact that the -situation was altered, and consented to the private repetition of her -marriage; but she had never looked at her husband, never addressed him; -and Edgar felt, with a shudder, that, though she would accept such -atonement as was possible, she was far, very far, from having arrived at -the state of mind which could forgive the injury. That a woman so deeply -outraged should continue tranquilly the life she had lived before she -was aware of the outrage, was, he felt, impossible. He had done what he -could to moderate Arden’s expectations on this point, but with no -effect; and, as he did not really know, but merely feared, some -proceeding on Clare’s part which should shatter the expected happiness -of the future, he held his peace, transferring, almost involuntarily, a -certain share of his sympathy to the guilty man, whose guilt was not to -escape retribution.</p> - -<p>Edgar’s next business was with Mr. Tottenham, who, all unaware of -Harry’s folly, showed to him, with much pleasure, and some -self-satisfaction, the moderate and sensible letter of Mr. Thornleigh -above referred to, in which he expressed his natural regret, etc., but -requested to know what the young man’s prospects were, and what he meant -to do. Then Edgar produced once more Lord Newmarch’s letter, and, in the -consultation which followed, almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> forgot, for the moment, all that -was against him. For Mr. Tottenham thought it a good opening enough, and -began, with sanguine good-nature, to prophesy that Edgar would soon -distinguish himself—that he would be speedily raised from post to post, -and that, “with the excellent connections and interest you will have,” -advancement of every kind would be possible.</p> - -<p>“Why, in yesterday’s <i>Gazette</i>,” said Mr. Tottenham, “no farther gone, -there is an appointment of Brown, Consul-General, to be Ambassador -somewhere—Argentine States, or something of that sort. And why should -not you do as well as Brown? A capital opening! I should accept it at -once.”</p> - -<p>And Edgar did so forthwith, oblivious of the circumstance that the -Consulship, such as it was, the first step upon the ladder, had been, -not offered, but simply suggested to him—nay, scarcely even that. This -little mistake, however, was the best thing that could have happened; -for Lord Newmarch, though at first deeply puzzled and embarrassed by the -warm acceptance and thanks he received, nevertheless was ashamed to fall -back again, and, bestirring himself, did secure the appointment for his -friend. It was not very great in point of importance, but it was ideal -in point of situation; and when, a few days after, Edgar saw his name -gazzetted as Her Majesty’s Consul at Spezzia, the emotions which filled -his mind were those of happiness as unmingled as often falls to the lot -of man. He was full of cares and troubles at that particular moment, and -did not see his way at all clear before<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span> him; but he suddenly felt as a -boat might feel (if a boat could feel anything) which has been lying -high and dry ashore, when at last the gentle persuasion of the sunshiny -waves reaches it, lifts, floats it off into soft, delicious certainty of -motion; or perhaps it would be more correct to say, as shipwrecked -sailors might feel when they see their cobbled boat, their one ark of -salvation, float strong and steady on the treacherous sea. This was the -little ark of Edgar’s happier fortunes, and lo! at last it was afloat!</p> - -<p>After he had written his letter to Lord Newmarch, he went down to -Tottenham’s, from which he had been absent for a fortnight, to the total -neglect of Phil’s lessons, and Lady Mary’s lectures, and everything else -that had been important a fortnight ago. He went by railway, and they -met him at the station, celebrating his return by a friendly -demonstration. On the road by the green they met Harry, walking towards -Mrs. Sims’ lodgings. He gave Edgar a very cold greeting.</p> - -<p>“Oh! I did not know you were coming back,” he said, and pursued his way, -affecting to take a different turn, as long as they were in sight.</p> - -<p>Harry’s countenance was lowering and overcast, his address scarcely -civil. He felt his interests entirely antagonistic to those of his -sister and her betrothed. The children burst into remarks upon his -bearishness as they went on.</p> - -<p>“He was bearable at first,” said Phil, “but since you have been away, -and while papa has been away, he has led us such a life, Mr. Earnshaw.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“He is always in the village—always, always in the village; and Sibby -says she <i>hates</i> him!” cried little Molly, who was enthusiastic for her -last new friend.</p> - -<p>“Hush, children—don’t gossip,” said their mother; but she too had a -cloud upon her brow.</p> - -<p>Then Edgar had a long conversation with Lady Mary in the conservatory, -under the palm-tree, while the children had tea. He told her of all his -plans and prospects, and of the Consulship, upon which he reckoned so -confidently, and which did not, to Lady Mary’s eyes, look quite so fine -an opening as it seemed to her husband.</p> - -<p>“Of course, then, we must give you up,” she said, regretfully; “but I -think Lord Newmarch might have done something better for an old friend.”</p> - -<p>Something better! The words seemed idle words to Edgar, so well pleased -was he with his prospective appointment. Then he told her of Mr. -Thornleigh’s letter, which was so much more gracious than he could have -hoped for; and then the cloud returned to Lady Mary’s brow.</p> - -<p>“I am not at all easy about Harry,” she said. “Mr. Earnshaw—no, I will -call you Edgar, because I have always heard you called Edgar, and always -wanted to call you so; Edgar, then—now don’t thank me, for it is quite -natural—tell me one thing. Have you any influence with your cousin?”</p> - -<p>“The doctor?”</p> - -<p>“No, not the doctor; if I wanted anything of him, I should ask it -myself. His sister; she is a very beautiful young woman, and, so far as -I can see, very sensible and well-behaved, and discreet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span>—no one can say -a word against her; but if you had any influence with her, as being her -cousin——”</p> - -<p>“Is it about Harry?” asked Edgar, anxiously.</p> - -<p>“About Harry!—how do you know?—have you heard anything?”</p> - -<p>“Harry has told his mother,” said Edgar; “they are all in despair.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! I knew it!” cried Lady Mary. “I told Tom so, and he would not -believe me. What, has it come so far as that, that he has spoken to his -mother? Then, innocent as she looks, she must be a designing creature, -after all.”</p> - -<p>“He may not have spoken to her, though he has spoken to his mother,” -said Edgar. Was it the spell of kindred blood working in him? for he did -not like this to be said of Margaret, and instinctively attempted to -defend her.</p> - -<p>Lady Mary shook her head.</p> - -<p>“Do you think any man would be such a fool as to speak to his parents -before he had spoken to the woman?” she said. “One never knows how such -a boy as Harry may act, but I should not have thought that likely. -However, you have not answered my question. Do you think you have any -influence, being her cousin, over her?”</p> - -<p>“I do not know her,” said Edgar. “I have only spoken to her once.”</p> - -<p>Would this be sufficient defence for him? he wondered, or must he hear -himself again appealed to, to interfere in another case so like his own?</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span></p> -<p>“That is very unfortunate,” said Lady Mary, with a sigh; but, happily -for him, she there left the subject. “I cannot say that she has ever -given him any encouragement,” she said presently, in a subdued tone. -Margaret had gained her point; she was acquitted of this sin, at least; -but Lady Mary pronounced the acquittal somewhat grudgingly. Perhaps, -when a young man is intent upon making a foolish marriage, it is the -best comfort to his parents and friends to be able to feel that <i>she</i> is -artful and designing, and has led the poor boy away.</p> - -<p>Edgar went out next morning to see his cousins; he announced his -intention at the breakfast-table, to make sure of no encounter with poor -Harry, who was flighty and unpleasant in manner, and seemed to have some -wish to fix a quarrel upon him. Harry looked up quickly, as if about to -speak, but changed his mind, and said nothing. And Edgar went his -way—hoping the doctor might not be gone upon his round of visits, yet -hoping he might; not wishing to see Margaret, and yet wishing to see -her—in a most uncomfortable and painful state of mind. To his partial -surprise and partial relief, he met her walking along the green towards -the avenue with her little girl. It was impossible not to admire her -grace, her beautiful, half-pathetic countenance, and the gentle -maternity of the beautiful young woman never separate from the beautiful -child, who clung to her with a fondness and dependence which no -indifferent mother ever earns. She greeted Edgar with the sudden smile -which was like sunshine on her face, and held out her hand to him with -frank sweetness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I am very glad you have come back,” she said. “It has been unfortunate -for us your being away.”</p> - -<p>“Only unfortunate for me, I think,” said Edgar, “for you seem to have -made friends with my friends as much as if I had been here to help it -on. Is this Sibby? I have heard of nothing but Sibby since I came back.”</p> - -<p>“Lady Mary has been very kind,” said Margaret, with, he thought, a faint -flush over her pale, pretty cheek.</p> - -<p>“And you like the place? And Dr. Charles has got acquainted with his -patients?”</p> - -<p>“My brother would like to tell you all that himself,” said Margaret; -“but I want to speak to you of Loch Arroch, and of the old house, and -dear granny. Did you know that she was ill again?”</p> - -<p>Margaret looked at him with her beautiful eyes full of tears. Edgar was -not for a moment unfaithful to his Gussy, but after that look I believe -he would have dared heaven and earth, and Mr. Thornleigh, rather than -interfere with anything upon which this lovely creature had set her -heart. Could it be that she had set her heart on Harry Thornleigh, he -asked himself with a groan?</p> - -<p>“No,” he said; “they write to me very seldom. When did you hear?”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Earnshaw, I have had a letter this morning—it has shaken me very -much,” said Margaret. “Will you come to the cottage with me till I tell -you? Do you remember?—but you could not remember—it was before your -time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“What?—I may have heard of it—something which agitates you?”</p> - -<p>“Not painfully,” said Margaret, with a faltering voice and unsteady -smile; “gladly, if I could put faith in it. Jeanie had a brother that -was lost at sea, or we thought he was lost. It was his loss that made -her so—ill; and she took you for him—you are like him, Mr. Earnshaw. -Well,” said Margaret, two tears dropping out of her eyes, “they have had -a letter—he is not dead, he is perhaps coming home.”</p> - -<p>“What has become of him, then?—and why did he never send word?” cried -Edgar. “How heartless, how cruel!”</p> - -<p>Margaret laid her hand softly on his arm.</p> - -<p>“Ah! you must not say that!” she cried. “Sailors do not think so much of -staying away a year or two. He was shipwrecked, and lost everything, and -he could not come home in his poverty upon granny. Oh! if we were all as -thoughtful as that! Mr. Earnshaw, sailors are not just to be judged like -other men.”</p> - -<p>“He might have killed his poor little sister!” cried Edgar, indignantly; -“that is a kind of conduct for which I have no sympathy. And granny, as -you call her——”</p> - -<p>“Ah! you never learnt to call her granny,” said Margaret, with -animation. “Dear granny has never been strong since her last attack—the -shock, though it was joy, was hard upon her. And she was afraid for -Jeanie; but Jeanie has stood it better than anybody could hope; and -perhaps he is there now,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span>” said Margaret, with once more the tears -falling suddenly from her eyes.</p> - -<p>“You know him?” said Edgar.</p> - -<p>“Oh! <i>know</i> him! I knew him like my own heart!” cried Margaret, a flush -of sudden colour spreading over her pale face. She did not look up, but -kept her eyes upon the ground, going softly along by Edgar’s side, her -beautiful face full of emotion. “He would not write till he had gained -back again what was lost. He is coming home captain of his ship,” she -said, with an indescribable soft triumph.</p> - -<p>At that moment a weight was lifted off Edgar’s mind—it was as when the -clouds suddenly break, and the sun bursts forth. He too could have -broken forth into songs or shoutings, to express his sense of release. -“I am glad that everything is ending so happily,” he said, in a subdued -tone. He did not trust himself to look at her, any more than Margaret -could trust herself to look at him. When they reached the cottage, she -went in, and got her letter, and put it into his hand to read; while she -herself played with Sibby, throwing her ball for her, entering into the -child’s glee with all the lightness of a joyful heart. Edgar could not -but look at her, between the lines of Jeanie’s simple letter. He seemed -to himself so well able to read the story, and to understand what -Margaret’s soft blush and subdued excitement of happiness meant.</p> - -<p>And yet Harry Thornleigh was still undismissed, and hoped to win her. He -met him as he himself returned to the house. Harry was still uncivil, -and had barely acknowledged Edgar’s presence at break<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span>fast; but he -stopped him now, almost with a threatening look.</p> - -<p>“Look here, Earnshaw,” he said, “I daresay they told you what is in my -mind. I daresay they tried to set you over me as a spy. Don’t you think -I’ll bear it. I don’t mean to be tricked out of my choice by any set of -women, and I have made my choice now.”</p> - -<p>“Do you know you are mighty uncivil?” said Edgar. “If you had once -thought of what you were saying, you would not venture upon such a word -as spy to me.”</p> - -<p>“Venture!” cried the young man. Then, calming himself, “I didn’t mean -it—of course I beg your pardon. But these women are enough to drive a -man frantic; and I’ve made my choice, let them do what they will, and -let my father rave as much as he pleases.”</p> - -<p>“This is not a matter which I can enter into,” said Edgar; “but just one -word. Does the lady know how far you have gone?—and has she made her -choice as well as you?”</p> - -<p>Harry’s face lighted up, then grew dark and pale.</p> - -<p>“I thought so once,” he said, “but now I cannot tell. She is as -changeable as—as all women are,” he broke off, with a forced laugh. -“It’s their way.”</p> - -<p>Edgar did not see Harry again till after dinner, and then he was -stricken with sympathy to see how ill he looked. What had happened? But -there was no time or opportunity to inquire what had happened to him. -That evening the mail brought him a letter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> from Robert Campbell, at -Loch Arroch Head, begging him, if he wanted to see his grandmother -alive, to come at once. She was very ill, and it was not possible that -she could live more than a day or two. He made his arrangements -instantly to go to her, starting next morning, for he was already too -late to catch the night mail. When he set out at break of day, in order -to be in time for the early train from London, he found Margaret already -at the station. She had been summoned also. He had written the night -before a hurried note to Gussy, announcing his sudden call to Loch -Arroch, but he was not aware then that he was to have companionship on -his journey. He put his cousin into the carriage, not ill-pleased to -have her company, and then, leaving many misconceptions behind him, -hurried away, to wind up in Scotland one portion of his -strangely-mingled life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br /><br /> -<small>Margaret.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> relations between Harry Thornleigh and Margaret had never come to -any distinct explanation. They had known each other not much more than a -fortnight, which was quite reason enough, on Margaret’s side, at least, -for holding back all explanation, and discouraging rather than helping -on the too eager young lover.</p> - -<p>During all the time of Edgar’s absence, it would be useless to deny that -Harry’s devotion suggested very clearly to the penniless young widow, -the poor doctor’s sister, such an advancement in life as might well have -turned any woman’s head. She who had nothing, who had to make a hard -light to get the ends to meet for the doctor and herself, who had for -years exercised all the shifts of genteel poverty, and who, before that, -had been trained to a homely life anything but genteel—had suddenly set -open to her the gates of that paradise of wealth, and rank, and luxury, -which is all the more ecstatic to the poor for being unknown. She, too, -might “ride in her carriage,” might wear diamonds, might go to Court, -might live familiarly with the great people of the land, like Lady Mary; -she who had been bred at the Castle Farm on Loch Arroch, and had known<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span> -what it was to “supper the beasts,” and milk the kye; she who had not -disdained the household work of her own little house, in the days of the -poor young Glasgow clerk whom she had married. There had been some -natural taste for elegance in the brother and sister, both handsome -young people, which had developed into gentility by reason of his -profession, and their escape from all the associations of home, where no -one could have been deceived as to their natural position. But Dr. -Charles had made no money anywhere; he had nothing but debts; though -from the moment when he had taken his beautiful sister to be his -housekeeper and companion, he had gradually risen in pretension and aim. -Their transfer to England, a step which always sounds very grand in -homely Scotch ears, had somehow dazzled the whole kith and kin. Even -Robert Campbell, at Loch Arroch Head, had been induced to draw his -cautious purse, and contribute to this new establishment. And now the -first fruits of the venture hung golden on the bough—Margaret had but -to put forth her hand and pluck them; nay, she had but to be passive, -and receive them in her lap. She had held Harry back from a premature -declaration of his sentiments, but she had done this so sweetly that -Harry had been but more and more closely enveloped in her toils; and she -had made up her mind that his passion was to be allowed to ripen, and -that finally she would accept him, and reign like a princess, and live -like Lady Mary, surrounded by all the luxuries which were sweet to her -soul.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span></p> - -<p>It is not necessary, because one is born poor, that one should like the -conditions of that lowly estate, or have no taste for better things. On -the contrary, Margaret was born with a love of all that was soft, and -warm, and easy, and luxurious. She loved these things and prized them; -she felt it in her to be a great lady; her gentle mind was such that she -would have made an excellent princess, all the more sweet, gracious, and -good the less she was crossed, and the more she had her own way.</p> - -<p>I am disposed to think, for my own part, that for every individual who -is mellowed and softened by adversity, there are at least ten in the -world whom prosperity would mollify and bring to perfection; but then -that latter process of development is more difficult to attain to. -Margaret felt that it was within her reach. She would have done nothing -unwomanly to secure her lover; nay, has it not been already said that -she had made up her mind to be doubly prudent, and to put it in no one’s -power to say that she had “given him encouragement?” But with that -modest reserve, she had made up her mind to Harry’s happiness and her -own. In her heart she had already consented, and regarded the bargain as -concluded. She would have made him a very sweet wife, and Harry would -have been happy. No doubt he was sufficiently a man of the world to have -felt a sharp twinge sometimes, when his wife’s family was brought in -question; but he thought nothing of that in his hot love, and I believe -she would have made him so good a wife, and been so sweet to Harry, that -this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> drawback would have detracted very little from his happiness.</p> - -<p>So things were going on, ripening pleasantly towards a <i>dénouement</i> -which could not be very far off, when that unlucky letter arrived from -Loch Arroch, touching the re-appearance of Jeanie’s brother, the lost -sailor, who had been Margaret’s first love. This letter upset her, poor -soul, amid all her plans and hopes. If it had not, however, unluckily -happened that the arrival of Edgar coincided with her receipt of the -letter, and that both together were followed by the expedition to Loch -Arroch, to the grandmother’s deathbed, I believe the sailor’s return -would only have caused a little tremulousness in Margaret’s resolution, -a momentary shadow upon her sweet reception of Harry, but that nothing -more would have followed, and all would have gone well. Dear reader, -forgive me if I say all would have gone well; for, to tell the truth, -though it was so much against Edgar’s interests, and though it partook -of the character of a mercenary match, and of everything that is most -repugnant to romance, I cannot help feeling a little pang of regret that -any untoward accident should have come in Margaret’s way. Probably the -infusion of her good, wholesome Scotch blood, her good sense, and her -unusual beauty, would have done a great deal more good to the Thornleigh -race than a Right Honourable grandfather; and she would have made such a -lovely great lady, and would have enjoyed her greatness so much (far -more than any Lady Mary ever could enjoy it), and been so good a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> wife, -and so sweet a mother! That she should give up all this at the first -returning thrill of an old love, is perhaps very much more poetical and -elevating; but I who write am not so young or so romantic as I once was, -and I confess that I look upon the interruption of the story, which was -so clearly tending towards another end, with a great deal of regret. -Even Edgar, when he found her ready to accompany him to Scotland, felt a -certain excitement which was not unmingled with regret. He felt by -instinct that Harry’s hopes were over, and this thought gave him a great -sense of personal comfort and relief. It chased away the difficulties -out of his own way; but at the same time he could not but ask himself -what was the inducement for which she was throwing away all the -advantages that Harry Thornleigh could give her?—the love of a rough -sailor, captain at the best, of a merchant-ship, who had been so little -thoughtful of his friends as to leave them three or four years without -any news of him, and who probably loved her no longer, if he had ever -loved her. It was all to Edgar’s advantage that she should come away at -this crisis, and what was it to him if she threw her life away for a -fancy? But Edgar had never been in the way of thinking of himself only, -and the mingled feelings in his mind found utterance in a vague warning. -He did not know either her or her circumstances well enough to venture -upon more plain speech.</p> - -<p>“Do you think you are right to leave your brother just at this moment, -when he is settling down?” Edgar said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span></p> - -<p>A little cloud rose upon Margaret’s face. Did not she know better than -anyone how foolish it was?</p> - -<p>“Ah!” she said, “but if granny is dying, as they say, I must see her,” -and the ready tears sprung to her eyes.</p> - -<p>Edgar was so touched by her looks, that, though it was dreadfully -against his own interest, he tried again.</p> - -<p>“Of all the women in the world,” he said, “she is the most considerate, -the most understanding. It is a long and an expensive journey, and your -life, she would say, is of more importance than her dying.”</p> - -<p>He ventured to look her in the face as he spoke these words, and -Margaret grew crimson under his gaze.</p> - -<p>“I do not see how it can affect my life, if I am away for a week or -two,” she said lightly, yet with a tone which showed him that her mind -was made up. Perhaps he thought she was prudently retiring to be quit of -Harry—perhaps withdrawing from a position which became untenable; or -why might it not be pure gratitude and love to the only mother she had -known in her life? Anyhow, whatever might be the reason, there was no -more to be said.</p> - -<p>I will not attempt to describe the feelings of Harry Thornleigh, when he -found that Margaret had gone away, and gone with Edgar. He came back to -Lady Mary raving and white with rage, to pour out upon her the first -outburst of his passion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span></p> - -<p>“The villain!—the traitor!—the low, sneaking rascal!” Harry cried, -foaming. “He has made a catspaw of Gussy and a fool of me. We might have -known it was all a lie and pretence. He has carried her off under our -very eyes.”</p> - -<p>Even Lady Mary was staggered, strong as was her faith in Edgar; and -Harry left her doubtful, and not knowing what to make of so strange a -story, and rushed up to town, to carry war and devastation into his -innocent family. He went to Berkeley Square, and flung open the door of -the morning-room, where they were all seated, and threw himself among -them like a thunderbolt. Gussy had received Edgar’s note a little while -before, and she had been musing over it, pensive, not quite happy, not -quite pleased, and saying to herself how very wrong and how very foolish -she was. Of course, if his old mother were dying, he must go to her—he -had no choice; but Gussy, after waiting so long for him, and proving -herself so exceptionally faithful, felt that she had a certain right to -Edgar’s company now, and to have him by her side, all the more that Lady -Augusta had protested that she did not think it would be right to permit -it in the unsettled state of his circumstances, and of the engagement -generally. To have your mother hesitate, and declare that she does not -think she ought to admit him, and then to have your lover abstain from -asking admission, is hard upon a girl. Lord Granton (though, to be sure, -he was a very young man, with nothing to do) was dangling constantly -about little Mary; and Gussy felt that Edga<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span>r’s many businesses, which -led him here, and led him there, altogether out of her way, were -inopportune, to say the least.</p> - -<p>Harry assailed his mother fiercely, without breath or pause. He accused -her of sending “that fellow” down to Tottenham’s, on purpose to -interfere with him, to be a spy upon him, to ruin all his hopes.</p> - -<p>“I have seen a change since ever he came!” he cried wildly. “If it is -your doing, mother, I will never forgive you! Don’t think I am the sort -of man to take such a thing without resenting it! When you see me going -to the devil, you will know whose fault it is. <i>Her</i> fault?—no, she has -been deceived. You have sent that fellow down upon her with his devilish -tongue, to persuade her and delude her. It is he that has taken her -away. No, it is not her fault, it is your fault!” cried Harry. “I should -have grown a good man. I should have given up everything she did not -like; and now you have made up some devilish conspiracy, and you have -taken her away.”</p> - -<p>“Harry, do you remember that you are talking to your mother?” cried Lady -Augusta, with trembling lips.</p> - -<p>“My mother! A mother helps one, loves one, makes things easy for one!” -he cried. “That’s the ordinary view. Excuses you, and does her best for -you, not her worst; when you take up your <i>rôle</i> as you ought, I’ll take -mine. But since you’ve set your mind on thwarting, deceiving, injuring -me in my best hopes!” cried Harry, white with rage,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> “stealing from me -the blessing I had almost got, that I would have got, had you stopped -your d——d interference!”</p> - -<p>His voice broke here; he had not meant to go so far. As a gentleman at -least, he ought, he knew, to use no oath to ladies; but poor Harry was -beside himself. He stopped short, half-appalled, half-satisfied that he -had spoken his mind.</p> - -<p>“Harry, how dare you?” cried Gussy, facing him. “Do you not see how you -are wounding mamma? Has there ever been a time when she has not stood up -for you? And now because she is grieved to think that you are going to -ruin yourself, unwilling that you should throw yourself away——”</p> - -<p>“All this comes beautifully from you!” cried Harry, with a sneer—“you -who have never thought of throwing yourself away. But I am sorry for -you, Gussy. I don’t triumph over you. You have been taken in, poor girl, -the worst of the two!”</p> - -<p>Gussy was shaken for the moment by his change of tone, by his sudden -compassion. She felt as if the ground had suddenly been cut from under -her feet, and a dizzy sense of insecurity came over her. She looked at -her mother, half frightened, not knowing what to think or say.</p> - -<p>“When you have come to your senses, Harry, you will perhaps tell us the -meaning of this!” cried Lady Augusta. “Girls, it is time for you to keep -your appointment with Elise. Ada will go with you to-day, for I don’t -feel quite well. If you have anything to say to me another time,” she -added<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> with dignity, addressing her son, “especially if it is of a -violent description, you will be good enough to wait until Mary has left -the room. I do not choose that she should carry away into her new family -the recollection of brutality at home.”</p> - -<p>Lady Augusta’s grand manner was known in the household. Poor Gussy, -though sad and sorry enough, found it difficult to keep from a laugh in -which there would have been but little mirth. But Harry’s perceptions -were not so lively, or his sense of the ridiculous so strong. He was -somehow cowed by the idea of his little sister carrying a recollection -of brutality into so new and splendid a connection as the Marquis of -Hauteville’s magnificent family.</p> - -<p>“Oh, bosh!” he said; but it was almost under his breath. And then he -told them of Edgar’s departure from Tottenham’s, and of the discovery he -had made that Margaret had gone too. “You set him on, I suppose, to -cross me,” said Harry; “because I let you know there was one woman in -the world I could fancy—therefore you set him on to take her from me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! Harry, how can you say so? <i>I</i> set him on!” cried Lady Augusta. -“What you are telling me is all foolishness. You are both of you -frightening yourselves about nothing. If there is anyone dying, and they -were sent for, there is no harm in two cousins travelling together. -Harry, did this lady—know what your feelings were?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said Harry, after a moment’s hesita<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span>tion, “women are not -such fools but that they must know.”</p> - -<p>“Then you had said nothing to her?” said his mother, pursuing the -subject. Perhaps she permitted a little gleam of triumph to appear in -her eye, for he jumped up instantly, more excited than ever.</p> - -<p>“I am going after them,” he said. “I don’t mean to be turned off without -an answer. Whether she has me or not, she shall decide herself; it shall -not be done by any plot against us. This is what you drive me to, with -your underhand ways. I shall not wait a day longer. I’ll go down to -Scotland to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Do not say anything to him, Gussy,” cried Lady Augusta. “Let him accuse -his mother and sister of underhand ways, if he likes. And you can go, -sir, if you please, on your mad errand. If the woman is a lady, she will -know what to think of your suspicions. If she is not a lady——”</p> - -<p>“What then?” he cried, in high wrath.</p> - -<p>“Probably she will accept you,” said Lady Augusta, pale and grand. “I do -not understand the modes of action of such people. You will have had -your way, in any case—and then you will hear what your father has to -say.”</p> - -<p>Harry flung out of the house furious. He was very unhappy, poor fellow! -He was chilled and cast down, in spite of himself, by his mother’s -speech. Why should he follow Margaret as if he suspected her? What right -had he to interfere with her actions? If he went he might be supposed to -insult her—if he stayed he should lose her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span> What was he to do? Poor -Harry!—if Dr. Murray had not been so obnoxious to him, I think he would -have confided his troubles to, and asked advice from, Margaret’s -brother; but Dr. Charles had replied to his inquiry with a confidential -look, and a smile which made him furious.</p> - -<p>“She will be back in a week or two. I am not afraid just now, in present -circumstances, that she will forsake me for long,” he had said. “We -shall soon have her back again.”</p> - -<p>We!—whom did the fellow mean by we? Harry resolved on the spot that, if -she ever became his wife, she should give up this cad of a brother. -Which I am glad to say, for her credit, was a thing that Margaret would -never have consented to do.</p> - -<p>But the Thornleigh family was not happy that day. Gussy, though she had -never doubted Edgar before, yet felt cold shivers of uncertainty shoot -through her heart now. Margaret was beautiful, and almost all women -exaggerate the power of beauty. They give up instinctively before it, -with a conviction, which is so general as to be part of the feminine -creed, that no man can resist that magic power. No doubt Edgar meant to -do what was best; no doubt, she said to herself, that in his heart he -was true—but with a lovely woman there, so lovely, and with claims upon -his kindness, who could wonder if he went astray? And this poor little -scanty note which advised Gussy of his necessary absence, said not a -word about Margaret. She read it over and over again, finding it each -time less satisfactory. At the first reading it had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span> disappointing, -but nothing more; now it seemed cold, unnecessarily hurried, careless. -She contrasted it with a former one he had written to her, and it seemed -to her that no impartial eye could mistake the difference. She -sympathized with her brother, and yet she envied him, for he was a man, -and could go and discover what was false and what was true; but she had -to wait and be patient, and betray to no one what was the matter, though -her heart might be breaking—yes, though her heart might be breaking! -For, after all, might it not be said that it was she who made the first -overtures to Edgar, not he to her? It might be pity only for her long -constancy that had drawn him to her, and the sight of this woman’s -beautiful face might have melted away that false sentiment. When the -thoughts once fall to such a catastrophe as this, the velocity with -which they go (does not science say so?) doubles moment by moment. I -cannot tell you to what a pitch of misery Gussy had worn herself before -the end of that long—terribly long, silent, and hopeless Spring day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br /><br /> -<small>Loch Arroch once more.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Edgar</span> and Margaret (accompanied, as she always was, by her child) -arrived at Loch Arroch early on the morning of the second day. They were -compelled to stay in Glasgow all night—she with friends she had there, -he in an inn. It was a rainy, melancholy morning when they got into the -steamer, and crossed the broad Clyde, and wound upward among the hills -to Loch Arroch Head, where Robert Campbell, with an aspect of formal -solemnity, waited with his gig to drive them to the farm.</p> - -<p>“You’re in time—oh ay, you’re in time; but little more,” he said, and -went on at intervals in a somewhat solemn monologue, as they drove down -the side of the grey and misty loch, under dripping cloaks and -umbrellas. “She’s been failing ever since the new year,” he said. “It’s -not to be wondered at, at her age; neither should we sorrow, as them -that are without hope. She’s lived a good and useful life, and them that -she brought into the world have been enabled to smooth her path out of -it. We’ve nothing to murmur at; she’ll be real glad to see you -both—you, Marg’ret, and you, Mr. Edgar. Often does she speak of you. -It’s a blessing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span> of Providence that her life has been spared since the -time last Autumn when we all thought she was going. She’s had a real -comfortable evening time, with the light in it, poor old granny, as she -had a right to, if any erring mortal can be said to have a right. And -now, there’s Willie restored, that was thought to be dead and gone.”</p> - -<p>“Has Willie come back?” asked Margaret hastily.</p> - -<p>“He’s expected,” said Robert Campbell, with a curious dryness, changing -the lugubrious tone of his voice; “and I hope he’ll turn out an altered -man; but it’s no everyone going down to the sea in ships that sees the -wisdom o’ the Lord in the great waters, as might be hoped.”</p> - -<p>The rain blew in their faces, the mists came down over the great -mountain range which separates Loch Arroch from Loch Long, and the -Castle Farm lay damp and lonely in its little patch of green, with the -low ruins on the other side of the house shining brown against the cut -fields and the slaty blueness of the loch. It was not a cheerful -prospect, nor was it cheerful to enter the house itself, full of the -mournful bustle and suppressed excitement of a dying—that high -ceremonial, to which, in respect, or reverence, or dire curiosity, or -acquisitiveness, more dreadful still, so many spectators throng in the -condition of life to which all Mrs. Murray’s household belonged.</p> - -<p>In the sitting-room there were several people seated. Mrs. MacColl, the -youngest daughter, in her mother’s chair, with her handkerchief to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span> -eyes, and Mrs. Campbell opposite, telling her sister, who had but lately -arrived, the details of the illness; Jeanie MacColl, who had come with -her mother, sat listlessly at the window, looking out, depressed by the -day and the atmosphere, and the low hum of talk, and all the dismal -accessories of the scene. James Murray’s wife, a hard-featured, homely -person, plain in attire, and less refined in manner than any of the -others, went and came between the parlour and the kitchen.</p> - -<p>“They maun a’ have their dinner,” she said to Bell, “notwithstanding -that there’s a dying person in the house;” and with the corners of her -mouth drawn down, and an occasional sigh making itself audible, she laid -the cloth, and prepared the table.</p> - -<p>Now and then a sound in the room above would make them pause and -listen—for, indeed, at any moment they might all be called to witness -the exit of the departing soul. Bell’s steps in the kitchen, which were -unsubduable in point of sound, ran through all the more gentle stir of -this melancholy assembly. Bell was crying over her work, pausing now and -then to go into a corner, and wipe the tears from her cheeks; but she -could not make her footsteps light, or diminish the heaviness of her -shoes.</p> - -<p>There was a little additional bustle when the strangers arrived, and -Margaret and her child, who were wrapped up in cloaks and shawls, were -taken into the kitchen to have their wraps taken off, and to be warmed -and comforted. Edgar gave his own dripping coat to Bell, and stole -upstairs out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span> “the family,” in which he was not much at home. Little -Jeanie had just left her grandmother’s room on some necessary errand, -when he appeared at the top of the stair. She gave a low cry, and the -little tray she was carrying trembled in her hands. Her eyes were large -with watching, and her cheeks pale, and the sudden sight of him was -almost more than the poor little heart could bear; but, after a moment’s -silence, Jeanie, with an effort, recovered that command of herself which -is indispensable to women.</p> - -<p>“Oh! but she’ll be glad—glad to see you!” she cried—“it’s you she’s -aye cried for night and day.”</p> - -<p>Edgar stood still and held her hand, looking into the soft little face, -in which he saw only a tender sorrow, not harsh or despairing, but deep -and quiet.</p> - -<p>“Before even I speak of her,” he said, “my dear little Jeanie, let me -say how happy I am to hear about your brother—he is safe after all.”</p> - -<p>Jeanie’s countenance was moved, like the loch under the wind. Her great -eyes, diluted with sorrow, swelled full; a pathetic smile came upon her -lips.</p> - -<p>“He was dead, and is alive again,” she said softly; “he was lost and is -found.”</p> - -<p>“And now you will not be alone, whatever happens,” said Edgar.</p> - -<p>I don’t know what mixture of poignant pain came over the grateful gleam -in little Jeanie’s face. She drew her hand from him, and hastened -downstairs. “What does it matter to him, what does it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> matter to anyone, -how lonely I am?” was the thought that went through her simple heart. -Only one creature in the world had ever cared, chiefly, above everything -else, for Jeanie’s happiness, and that one was dying, not to be detained -by any anxious hold. Jeanie, simple as she was, knew better than to -believe that anything her brother could give her would make up for what -she was about to lose.</p> - -<p>Edgar went into the sick-room reverently, as if he had been going into a -holy place. Mrs. Murray lay propped up with pillows on the bed. For the -first moment it seemed to him that the summons which brought him there -must have been altogether uncalled for and foolish. The old woman’s eyes -were as bright and soft as Jeanie’s; the pale faint pink of a Winter -rose lingered in her old cheeks; her face seemed smoothed out of many of -the wrinkles which he used to know; and expanded into a calm and -largeness of peace which filled him with awe. Was it that all mortal -anxieties, all fears and questions of the lingering day were over? By -the bedside, in her own chair, sat the minister of the parish, an old -man, older than herself, who had known her all her life. He had been -reading to her, with a voice more tremulous than her own; and the two -old people had been talking quietly and slowly of the place to which -they were so near. I have no doubt that in the pulpit old Mr. Campbell, -like other divines, talked of golden streets, and harps and crowns, in -the New Jerusalem above. But here there was little room for such -anticipa<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span>tions. A certain wistfulness was in their old eyes, for the -veil before them was still impenetrable, though they were so near it; -but they were not excited.</p> - -<p>“You’re sure of finding Him,” the old man was saying; “and where He is, -there shall His people be.”</p> - -<p>“Ay,” said Mrs. Murray. “And, oh! it’s strange lying here, no sure -sometimes if it’s me or no; no sure which me it is—an auld woman or a -young woman; and then to think that a moment will make a’ clear.”</p> - -<p>This was the conversation that Edgar interrupted. She held out her -withered hand to him with a glow of joy that lighted up her face.</p> - -<p>“<i>My</i> son,” she said. There was something in the words that seemed to -fill the room, Edgar thought, with an indescribable warmth and fulness -of meaning, yet with that strange uncertainty which belongs to the last -stage of life. He felt that she might be identifying him, unawares, with -some lost son of thirty years ago, not forgetting his own individuality, -yet mingling the two in one image. “This is the one I told you of,” she -said, turning to her old friend.</p> - -<p>“He is like his mother,” said the old man dreamily, putting out a hand -of silent welcome.</p> - -<p>They might have been two spirits talking over him, Edgar felt, as he -stood, young, anxious, careful, and troubled, between the two who were -lingering so near the calm echoes of the eternal sea.</p> - -<p>“You’ve come soon, soon, my bonnie man,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span>” said Mrs. Murray, holding his -hand between hers; “and, oh, but I’m glad to see you! Maybe it’s but a -fancy, and maybe it’s sinful vanity, but, minister, when I look at him, -he minds me o’ mysel’. Ye’ll say it’s vain—the like of him, a comely -young man, and me; but it’s no in the outward appearance. I’ve had much, -much to do in my generation,” she said, slowly looking at him, with a -smile in her eyes. “And, Edgar, my bonnie lad, I’m thinking, so will -you——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t think of me,” he said; “but tell me how you are. You are not -looking ill, my dear old mother. You will be well again before I go.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! ay, I’ll be well again,” she said. “I’m no ill—I’m only slipping -away; but I would like to say out my say. The minister has his ain way -in the pulpit,” she went on, with a smile of soft humour, and with a -slowness and softness of utterance which looked like the very perfection -of art to cover her weakness; “and so may I on my deathbed, my bonnie -man. As I was saying, I’ve had much, much to do in my generation, -Edgar—and so will you.”</p> - -<p>She smoothed his hand between her own, caressing it, and looking at him -always with a smile.</p> - -<p>“And you may say it’s been for little, little enough,” she went on. “Ah! -when my bairns were bairns, how muckle I thought of them! I toiled, and -I toiled, and rose up early and lay down late, aye thinking they must -come to mair than common folk. It was vanity, minister, vanity; I ken -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span> weel. You need not shake your head. God be praised, it’s no a’ in -a moment you find out the like o’ that. But I’m telling you, Edgar, to -strengthen your heart. They’re just decent men and decent women, nae -mair—and I’ve great, great reason to be thankful; and it’s you, my -bonnie man, the seed that fell by the wayside—none o’ my training, none -o’ my nourishing—— Eh! how the Lord maun smile at us whiles,” she -added, slowly, one lingering tear running over her eyelid, “and a’ our -vain hopes!—no laugh. He’s ower tender for that.”</p> - -<p>“Or weep, rather,” said Edgar, penetrated by sympathetic understanding -of the long-concealed, half-fantastic pang of wounded love and pride, -which all these years had wrung silently the high heart now so near -being quieted for ever. She could smile now at her own expectations and -vanities—but what pathos was in the smile!</p> - -<p>“We must not put emotions like our own into His mind that’s over all,” -said the old minister. “Smiling or weeping’s no for Him.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, but I canna see that,” said the old woman. “Would He be kinder down -yonder by the Sea of Tiberias than He is up there in His ain house? It’s -at hame that the gentle heart’s aye kindest, minister. Mony a day I’ve -wondered if it mightna be just like our own loch, that Sea of -Galilee—the hills about, and the white towns, as it might be Loch -Arroch Head (though it’s more grey than white), and the fishing-cobbles. -But I’m wandering—I’m wandering. Edgar, my bonnie man, you’re<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> tired -and hungry; go down the stair and get a rest, and something to eat.”</p> - -<p>Little though Edgar was disposed to resume the strange relationship -which linked him to the little party of homely people in the farm -parlour, with whom he felt so little sympathy, he had no alternative but -to obey. The early dinner was spread when he got downstairs, and a large -gathering of the family assembled round the table. All difference of -breeding and position disappear, we are fond of saying, in a common -feeling—a touch of nature makes the whole world kin; but Edgar felt, I -am afraid, more like the unhappy parson at tithing time, in Cowper’s -verses, than any less prosaic hero. With whimsical misery he felt the -trouble of being too fine for his company—he, the least fine of mortal -men.</p> - -<p>Margaret, upon whom his eye lingered almost lovingly, as she appeared -among the rest, a lily among briers, was not ill at ease as he was; -perhaps, to tell the truth, she was more entirely at her ease than when -she had sat, on her guard, and very anxious not to “commit any -solecism,” at Lady Mary’s table. To commit a solecism was the bugbear -which had always been held before her by her brother, whose fears on -this account made his existence miserable. But here Margaret felt the -sweetness of her own superiority, without being shocked by the -homeliness of the others. She had made a hurried visit to her -grandmother, and had cried, and had been comforted, and was now smiling -softly at them all, full of content and pleasant anti<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span>cipations. Jeanie, -who never left her grandmother, was not present; the Campbells, the -MacColls and the Murrays formed the company, speaking low, yet eating -heartily, who thus waited for the death which was about to take place -above.</p> - -<p>“I never thought you would have got away so easy,” said Mrs. Campbell. -“I would scarcely let your uncle write. ‘How can she leave Charles, and -come such a far gait, maybe just for an hour or two?’ I said. But here -you are, Margaret, notwithstanding a’ my doubts. Ye’ll have plenty of -servant-maids, and much confidence in them, that ye can leave so easy -from a new place?”</p> - -<p>“We are not in our house yet, and we have no servant,” said Margaret. -“Charles is in lodgings, with a very decent person. It was easy enough -to get away.”</p> - -<p>“Lodgings are awful expensive,” said Mrs. MacColl. “I’m sure when we -were in lodgings, Mr. MacColl and me, the Exhibition year, I dare not -tell what it cost. You should get into a house of your ain—a doctor is -never anything thought of without a house of his ain.”</p> - -<p>“I hope you found the information correct?” said Robert Campbell, -addressing Edgar. “The woman at Dalmally minded the couple fine. It was -the same name as your auld friend yonder,” and he pointed with his thumb -over his left shoulder, to denote England, or Arden, or the world in -general. “One of the family, perhaps?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! I want to spy into no secrets. Things of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> this kind are often -turning up. They may say what they like against our Scotch law, but it -prevents villainy now and then, that’s certain. Were you interested for -the man or the leddy, if it’s a fair question? For it all depends upon -that.”</p> - -<p>“In neither of them,” said Edgar. “It was a third party, whom they had -injured, that I cared for. When is—Jeanie’s brother—expected back?”</p> - -<p>“He may come either the day or the morn,” said Mrs. MacColl. “I wish he -was here, for mother’s very weak. Do you not think she’s weaker since -the morning? I thought her looking just wonderful when I saw her first, -but at twelve o’clock—What did the doctor think?”</p> - -<p>“He canna tell more than the rest of us,” said James Murray’s wife. -“She’s going fast—that’s all that can be said.”</p> - -<p>And then there was a little pause, and everybody looked sad for the -moment. They almost brightened up, however, when some hasty steps were -heard overhead, and suspended their knives and forks and listened. -Excitement of this kind is hard to support for a stretch. Nature longs -for a crisis, even when the crisis is more terrible than their mild -sorrow could be supposed to be. When it appeared, however, that nothing -was about to happen, and the steps overhead grew still again, they all -calmed down and resumed their dinner, which was an alleviation of the -tedium.</p> - -<p>“She’s made a’ the necessary dispositions?” said James Murray’s wife, -interrogatively. “My man is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> coming by the next steamer. No that there -can be very muckle to divide.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing but auld napery, and the auld sticks of furniture. It will -bring very little—and the cow,” said Robert Campbell. “Jean likes the -beast, so we were thinking of making an offer for the cow.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll no think I’m wanting to get anything by my mother’s death,” said -Mrs. MacColl; “for I’m real well off, the Lord be thanked! with a good -man, and the bairns doing well; I would rather give than take, if there -was any occasion; but Robert has aye had a great notion of the old clock -on the stairs. There’s a song about it that one of the lassies sings. I -would like that, to keep the bairns in mind o’ their granny. She’s been -a kind granny to them all.”</p> - -<p>She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Margaret and Jeanie MacColl -cried a little. The rest of the company shook their heads, and assented -in different tones.</p> - -<p>“Real good and kind, good and kind to everybody! Ower guid to some that -little deserved it!” was the general burden, for family could not but -have its subdued fling at family, even in this moment of melancholy -accord.</p> - -<p>“You are forgetting,” said Edgar, “the only one of the family who is not -provided for. What my grandmother leaves should be for little Jeanie. -She is the only helpless one of all.”</p> - -<p>At this there was a little murmur round the table, of general -objection.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Jeanie has had far more than her share already,” said one.</p> - -<p>“She’s no more to granny than all the rest of the bairns,” cried -another.</p> - -<p>Robert Campbell, the only other man present, raised his voice, and made -himself heard.</p> - -<p>“Jeanie will never want,” he said; “here’s her brother come back, no -very much of a man, but still with heart enough in him to keep her from -wanting. Willie’s but a roving lad, but the very rovingness of him is -good for this, that he’ll not marry; and Jeanie will have a support, -till she gets a man, which is aye on the cards for such a bonnie lass.”</p> - -<p>This was said with more than one meaning. Edgar saw Margaret’s eyelashes -flutter on her cheek, and she moved a little uneasily, as though unable -to restrain all evidence of a painful emotion. Just at this moment, -however, a shadow darkened the window. Margaret, more keenly on the -watch than anyone, lifted her eyes suddenly, and, rising to her feet, -uttered a low cry. A young man in sailor’s dress came into the room, -with a somewhat noisy greeting.</p> - -<p>“What, all of you here! What luck!” he cried. “But where’s granny?”</p> - -<p>He had to be hushed into silence, and to have all the circumstances -explained to him; while Jeanie MacColl, half-reluctant to go, was sent -upstairs to call her cousin and namesake, and to take her place as nurse -for the moment. Edgar called her back softly, and offered himself for -this duty. He cast<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span> a glance at the returned prodigal as he left the -room, the brother for whom Jeanie had taken him, and whom everybody had -acknowledged his great likeness to. Edgar looked at him with mingled -amusement and curiosity, to see what he himself must look like. Perhaps -Willie had not improved during his adventurous cruise. Edgar did not -think much of himself as reflected in his image; and how glad he was to -escape from his uncle and his aunt, and their family talk, to the -stillness and loftier atmosphere of the death-chamber upstairs!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br /><br /> -<small>The End of a Drama.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Murray</span> lived two days longer. They were weary days to Edgar. It -seems hard to grudge another hour, another moment to the dying, but how -hard are those last lingerings, when hope is over, when all work is -suspended, and a whole little world visibly standing still, till the -lingerer can make up his mind to go! The sufferer herself was too human, -too deeply experienced in life, not to feel the heavy interval as much -as they did. “I’m grieved, grieved,” she said, with that emphatic -repetition which the Scotch peasant uses in common with all naturally -eloquent races, “to keep you waiting, bairns.” Sometimes she said this -with a wistful smile, as claiming their indulgence; sometimes with a -pang of consciousness that they were as weary as she was. She had kissed -and blessed her prodigal returned, and owned to herself with a groan, -which was, however, breathed into her own breast, and of which no one -was the wiser, that Willie, too, was “no more than common folk.”</p> - -<p>I cannot explain more than the words themselves do how this high soul in -homely guise felt the pang of her oft-repeated disappointment. Children -and grandchildren, she had fed them not with com<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span>mon food, the bread -earned with ordinary labours, but with her blood, like the pelican; with -the toil of man and woman, of ploughman and hero, all mingled into one. -High heart, heroic in her weakness as in her strength! They had turned -out but “common folk,” and, at each successive failure, that pang had -gone through and through her which common folk could not comprehend. She -looked at Willie the last, with a mingled pleasure and anguish in her -dying mind—I say pleasure, and not joy, for the signs of his face were -not such as to give that last benediction of happiness. Nature was glad -in her to see the boy back whom she had long believed at the bottom of -the sea; but her dying eyes looked at him wistfully, trying to penetrate -his heart, and reach its excuses.</p> - -<p>“You should have written, to ease our minds,” she said gently.</p> - -<p>“How was I to know you would take it to heart so? Many a man has stayed -away longer, and no harm come of it,” cried Willie, self-defending.</p> - -<p>The old woman put her hand upon his bended head, as he sat by her -bedside, half sullen, half sorry. She stroked his thick curling locks -softly, saying nothing for a few long silent moments. She did not blame -him further, nor justify him, but simply was silent. Then she said,</p> - -<p>“You will take care of your sister, Willie, as I have taken care of her? -She has suffered a great deal for you.”</p> - -<p>“But oh!” cried Jeanie, when they were alone together—kneeling by the -bedside, with her face<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span> upon her grandmother’s hand, “you never called -him but Willie—you never spoke to him soft and kind, as you used to -do.”</p> - -<p>“Was I no kind?” said the dying woman, with a mingled smile and sigh; -but she kept “My bonnie man!” her one expression of homely fondness, for -Edgar’s ear alone.</p> - -<p>They had more than one long conversation before her end came. Edgar was -always glad to volunteer to relieve the watchers in her room, feeling -infinitely more at home there than with the others below. On the night -before her death, she told him of the arrangements she had made.</p> - -<p>“You gave me your fortune, Edgar, ower rashly, my bonnie man. Your deed -was so worded, they tell me, that I might have willed your siller away -from you, had I no been an honest woman.”</p> - -<p>“And so I meant,” said Edgar, though he was not very clear that at the -time he had any meaning at all. “And there is Jeanie——”</p> - -<p>“You will not take Jeanie upon you,” said the old woman—“I charge ye -not to do it. The best thing her brother can have to steady him and keep -him right, is the thought of Jeanie on his hands—Jeanie to look for him -when he comes home. You’ll mind what I say. Meddling with nature is aye -wrong; I’ve done it in my day, and I’ve repented. To make a’ sure, I’ve -left a will, Edgar, giving everything to you—everything. What is it? My -auld napery, and the auld, auld remains of my mother’s—most of it her -spinning and mine. Give it to your aunts, Edgar, for they’ll think it -their due; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span> keep a something—what are the auld rags worth to -you?—keep a little piece to mind me by—a bit of the fine auld -damask—so proud as I was of it once! I’ve nae rings nor bonny-dies, -like a grand leddy, to keep you in mind of me.”</p> - -<p>She spoke so slowly that these words took her a long time to say, and -they were interrupted by frequent pauses; but her voice had not the -painful labouring which is so common at such a moment; it was very low, -but still sweet and clear. Then she put out her hand, still so fine, and -soft, and shapely, though the nervous force had gone out of it, upon -Edgar’s arm.</p> - -<p>“I’m going where I’ll hear nothing of you, maybe, for long,” she said. -“I would like to take all the news with me—for there’s them to meet -yonder that will want to hear. There’s something in your eye, my bonnie -man, that makes me glad. You’re no just as you were—there’s more light -and more life. Edgar, you’re seeing your way?”</p> - -<p>Then, in the silence of the night, he told her all his tale. The -curtains had been drawn aside, that she might see the moon shining over -the hills. The clearest still night had succeeded many days of rain; the -soft “hus-sh” of the loch lapping upon the beach was the only sound that -broke the great calm. He sat between her and that vision of blue sky and -silvered hill which was framed in by the window; by his side a little -table, with a candle on it, which lighted one side of his face; behind -him the shadowy dimness of the death-chamber; above him that gleam of -midnight sky. He saw nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span> but her face; she looked wistfully, -fondly, as on a picture she might never see more, upon all the -circumstances of this scene. He told her everything—more than he ever -told to mortal after her—how he had been able to serve Clare, and how -she had been saved from humiliation and shame; how he had met Gussy, and -found her faithful; and how he was happy at the present moment, already -loved and trusted, but happier still in the life that lay before him, -and the woman who was to share it. She listened to every word with -minute attention, following him with little exclamations, and all the -interest of youth.</p> - -<p>“And oh! now I’m glad!” cried the old woman, making feeble efforts, -which wasted almost all the little breath left to her, to draw something -from under her pillow—“I’m glad I have something that I never would -part with. You’ll take her this, Edgar—you’ll give her my blessing. -Tell her my man brought me this when I was a bride. It’s marked out mony -a weary hour and mony a light one; it’s marked the time of births and of -deaths. When my John died, my man, it stoppit at the moment, and it was -long, long or I had the heart to wind it again and set it going. It’s -worn now, like me; but you’ll bid her keep it, Edgar, my bonnie man! -You’ll give her my blessing, and you’ll bid her to keep it, for your old -mother’s sake.”</p> - -<p>Trembling, she put into his hand an old watch, which he had often seen, -but never before so near. It was large and heavy, in an old case of -coppery gold, half hid under partially-effaced enamel, want<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span>ing -everything that a modern watch should have, but precious as an antiquity -and work of art.</p> - -<p>“A trumpery thing that cost five pounds would please <i>them</i> better,” she -said. “It’s nae value, but it’s old, old, and came to John from a -far-off forbear. You’ll give it to her with my blessing. Ay, blessings -on her!—blessings on her sweet face!—for sweet it’s bound to be; and -blessings on her wise heart, that’s judged weel! eh, but I’m glad to -have one thing to send her. And, Edgar, now I’ve said all my say, turn -me a little, that I may see the moon. Heaven’s but a step on such a -bonnie night. If I’m away before the morning, you’ll shed nae tear, but -praise the Lord the going’s done. No, dinna leave it; take it away. Put -it into your breast-pocket, where you canna lose it. And now say -fare-ye-weel to your old mother, my bonnie man.”</p> - -<p>These were the last words she said to him alone. When some one came to -relieve him, Edgar went out with a full heart into the silvery night. -Not a sound of humanity broke the still air, which yet had in it a -sharpness of the spring frosts. The loch rose and fell upon its pebbles, -as if it hushed its own very waves in sorrow. The moon shone as if with -a purpose—as if holding her lovely lamp to light some beloved wayfarer -up the shining slope.</p> - -<p>“Heaven’s but a step on such a night,” he said to himself, with tears of -which his manhood was not ashamed. And so the moon lighted the traveller -home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span></p> - -<p>With the very next morning the distractions of common earth returned. -Behind the closed shutters, the women began to examine the old napery, -and the men to calculate what the furniture, the cow, the cocks and hens -would bring. James Murray valued it all, pencil and notebook in hand. -Nothing would have induced the family to show so little respect as to -shorten the six or seven days’ interval before the funeral, but it was a -very tedious interval for them all. Mrs. Campbell drove off with her -husband to her own house on the second day, and James Murray returned to -Greenock; but the MacColls stayed, and Margaret, and made their “blacks” -in the darkened room below, and spoke under their breath, and wearied -for the funeral day which should release them.</p> - -<p>Margaret, perhaps, was the one on whom this interval fell most lightly; -but yet Margaret had her private sorrows, less easy to bear than the -natural grief which justified her tears. The sailor Willie paid but -little attention to her beauty and her pathetic looks. He was full of -plans about his little sister, about taking her with him on his next -voyage, to strengthen her and “divert” her; and poor Margaret, whose -heart had gone out of her breast at first sight of him, as it had done -in her early girlhood, felt her heart sicken with the neglect, yet could -not believe in it. She could not believe in his indifference, in his -want of sympathy with those feelings which had outlived so many other -things in her mind. She went to Edgar a few days after their -grandmother’s death with a letter in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span> hand. She went to him for -advice, and I cannot tell what it was she wished him to advise her. She -did not know herself; she wanted to do two things, and she could but -with difficulty and at a risk to herself do one.</p> - -<p>“This is a letter I have got from Mr. Thornleigh,” she said, with -downcast looks. “Oh! Cousin Edgar, my heart is breaking! Will you tell -me what to do?”</p> - -<p>Harry’s letter was hot and desperate, as was his mind. He implored her, -with abject entreaties, to marry him, not to cast him off; to remember -that for a time she had smiled upon him, or seemed to smile upon him, -and not to listen now to what anyone might say who should seek to -prejudice her against him. “What does my family matter when I adore -you?” cried poor Harry, unwittingly betraying himself. And he begged her -to send him one word, only one word—permission to come down and speak -for himself. Edgar felt, as he read this piteous epistle, like the wolf -into whose fangs a lamb had thrust its unsuspecting head.</p> - -<p>“How can I advise you how to answer?” he said, giving her back the -letter, glad to get it out of his hands. “You must answer according to -what is in your heart.”</p> - -<p>Upon this Margaret wept, wringing her lily hands.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Edgar,” she said, “you cannot think that I am not moved by such a -letter. Oh! I’m not mercenary, I don’t think I am mercenary! but to have -all this put at my feet, to feel that it would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> be for Charles’s good -and for Sibby’s good, if I could make up my mind!”</p> - -<p>Here she stopped, and cast a glance back at the house again. Edgar had -been taking a melancholy walk along the side of the loch, where she had -joined him. Her heart was wrung by a private conflict, which she could -not put into words, but which he divined. He felt sure of it, from all -he had seen and heard since they came, as well as from the impression -conveyed to his mind the moment she had named the sailor Willie’s name. -I do not know why it should be humbling for a woman to love without -return, when it is not humbling for a man; but it is certain that for -nothing in the world would Margaret have breathed the cause of her -lingering unwillingness to do anything which should separate her from -Willie; and that Edgar felt hot and ashamed for her, and turned away his -eyes, that she might not see any insight in them. At the same time, -however, the question had another side for him, and involved his own -fortunes. He tried to dismiss this thought altogether out of his mind, -but it was hard to do so. Had she loved Harry Thornleigh, Edgar would -have felt himself all the more pledged to impartiality, because this -union would seriously endanger his own; but to help to ruin himself by -encouraging a mercenary marriage, this would be hard indeed!</p> - -<p>“Are you sure that you would get so many advantages?—to Charles and to -Sibby?” he cried, with a coldness impossible to conceal.</p> - -<p>She looked at him startled, the tears arrested<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span> in her blue eyes. She -had never doubted upon this point. Could she make up her mind to marry -Harry, every external advantage that heart could desire she felt would -be secured. This first doubt filled her with dismay.</p> - -<p>“Would I no?” she cried faltering. “He is a rich man’s heir, Lady Mary’s -nephew—a rich gentleman. Oh! Cousin Edgar, what will you think of me? I -have always been poor, and Charles is poor—how can I put that out of my -mind?”</p> - -<p>“I do not blame you,” said Edgar, feeling ashamed both of himself and -her. And then he added, “He is a rich man’s son, but his father is not -old; and he would not receive you gladly into his family. Forgive me -that I say so—I ought to tell you that I am not a fair judge. I am -going to marry Harry’s sister, and they object very much to me.”</p> - -<p>“Object to <i>you</i>!—they are ill to please,” cried Margaret, with simple -natural indignation. “But if you were in the family, that would make -things easier for us,” she added, wistfully, looking up in his face.</p> - -<p>“You have made up your mind, then, to run the risk?” said Edgar, feeling -his heart sink.</p> - -<p>“I did not say that.” She gave another glance at the house again. Willie -was standing at the door, in the morning sunshine, and beckoned to her -to come back. She turned to him, as a flower turns to the sun. “No, I am -far, far from saying that,” said the young woman, with a mixture of -sadness and gladness, turning to obey the summons.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span></p> - -<p>Edgar stood still, looking after her with wondering gaze. The -good-looking sailor, whose likeness to himself did not make him proud, -was a poor creature enough to be as the sun in the heavens to this -beautiful, stately young woman, who looked as if she had been born to be -a princess. What a strange world it is, and how doubly strange is human -nature! Willie had but to hold up a finger, and Margaret would follow -him to the end of the earth; though the rest of his friends judged him -rightly enough, and though even little Jeanie, though she loved, could -scarcely approve her brother, Margaret was ready to give up even her -hope of wealth and state, which she loved, for this Sultan’s notice. -Strange influence, which no man could calculate upon, which no prudence -restrained, nor higher nor lower sentiment could quite subdue!</p> - -<p>Edgar followed his beautiful cousin to the house with pitying eyes. He -did not want her to marry Harry Thornleigh, but even to marry Harry -Thornleigh, though she did not love him, seemed less degrading than to -hang upon the smile, the careless whistle to his hand, of a man so -inferior to her. I don’t know if, in reality, Willie was inferior to -Margaret. She, for one, would have been quite satisfied with him; but -great beauty creates an atmosphere about it which dazzles the beholder. -It was not fit, Edgar felt, in spite of himself, that a woman so lovely -should thus be thrown away.</p> - -<p>As this is but an episode in my story, I may here follow Margaret’s -uncomfortable wooing to its end. Poor Harry, tantalized and driven -desperate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span> by a letter, which seemed, to Margaret, the most gently -temporising in the world, and which was intended to keep him from -despair, and to retain her hold upon him until Willie’s purposes were -fully manifested, at last made his appearance at Loch Arroch Head, where -she was paying the Campbells a visit, on the day after Edgar left the -loch. He came determined to hear his fate decided one way or another, -almost ill with the excitement in which he had been kept, wilder than -ever in the sudden passion which had seized upon him like an evil -spirit. He met her, on his unexpected arrival, walking with Willie, who, -having nothing else to do, did not object to amuse his leisure with his -beautiful cousin, whose devotion to him, I fear, he knew. Poor Margaret! -I know her behaviour was ignoble, but I regret—as I have confessed to -the reader—that she did not become the great lady she might have been; -and, notwithstanding that Edgar’s position would have been deeply -complicated thereby, I wish the field had been left clear for Harry -Thornleigh, who would have made her a good enough husband, and to whom -she would have made, in the end, a very sweet wife. Forgive me, young -romancist, I cannot help this regret. Even at that moment Margaret did -not want to lose her young English Squire, and her friends were so far -from wanting to lose him that Harry, driven to dire disgust, hated them -ever after with a strenuous hatred, which he transferred to their nation -generally, not knowing any better. He lingered for a day or more, -waiting for the answer which Margaret<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span> was unwilling to give, and -tortured by Willie, who, seeing the state of affairs, felt his vanity -involved, and was more and more loverlike to his cousin. The issue was -that Harry rushed away at last half mad, and went abroad, and wasted his -substance more than he had ever done up to that moment, damaged his -reputation, and encumbered his patrimony, and fell into that state of -cynical disbelief in everybody, which, bad as are its effects even upon -the cleverest and brightest intelligence, has a worse influence still -upon the stupid, to whom there is no possibility of escape from its -withering power.</p> - -<p>When Harry was fairly off the scene, his rival slackened in his -attentions; and after a while Margaret returned to her brother, and they -did their best to retrieve their standing at Tottenham’s, and to make -the position of the doctor’s family at Harbour Green a pleasant one. But -Lady Mary, superior to ordinary prejudices as she was, was not so -superior as to be altogether just to Margaret, who, though she deserved -blame, got more blame than she deserved. The Thornleighs all believed -that she had “laid herself out” to “entrap” Harry—which was not the -case; and Lady Mary looked coldly upon the woman who had permitted -herself to be loved by a man so far above her sphere. And then Lady Mary -disliked the doctor, who never could think even of the most interesting -“case” so much as to be indifferent to what people were thinking of -himself. So Harbour Green proved unsuccessful, as their other -experiments had proved, and the brother and sister drifted off again -into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span> world, where they drift still, from place to place, always -needy, anxious, afraid of their gentility, yet with that link of -fraternal love between them, and with that toleration of each other and -mutual support, which gives a certain beauty, wherever they go, to the -family group formed by this handsome brother and sister, and the -beautiful child, whom her uncle cherishes almost as dearly as her mother -does.</p> - -<p>Ah, me! if Margaret had made that “good match,” though it was not all -for love, would it not have been better for everybody concerned?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br /><br /> -<small>Another Winding-up.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">I hope</span> it will not give the reader a poor idea of Edgar’s heart if I say -that it was with a relief which it was impossible to exaggerate that he -felt the last dreary day of darkness pass, and was liberated from his -melancholy duties. This did not affect his sorrow for the noble old -woman who had made him at once her confidant and her -inheritor—inheritor not of land or wealth, but of something more subtle -and less tangible. But indeed for her there was no sorrow needed. Out of -perennial disappointments she had gone to her kind, to those with whom -she could no longer be disappointed. Heaven had been “but a step” to -her, which she took smiling. For her the hearse, the black funeral, the -nodding plumes, were inappropriate enough; but they pleased the family, -of whom it never could be said by any detractor that they had not paid -to their mother “every respect.”</p> - -<p>Edgar felt that his connection with them was over for ever when he took -leave of them on the evening of the funeral. The only one over whom his -heart yearned a little was Jeanie, who was the true mourner of the only -mother she had ever<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span> known, but who, in the midst of her mourning, poor -child, felt another pang, perhaps more exquisite, at the thought of -seeing him, too, no more. All the confusion of sentiment and feeling, of -misplaced loves and indifferences, which make up the world were in this -one little family. Jeanie had given her visionary child’s heart to -Edgar, who, half aware of, half disowning the gift, thought of her ever -with tender sympathy and reverence, as of something sacred. Margaret, -less exquisite in her sentiments, yet a loving soul in her way, had -given hers to Willie, who was vain of her preference, and laughed at -it—who felt himself a finer fellow, and she a smaller creature because -she loved him. Dr. Charles, uneasy soul, would have given his head had -he dared to marry Jeanie, yet would not, even had she cared for him, -have ventured to burden his tottering gentility with a wife so homely.</p> - -<p>Thus all were astray from the end which might have made each a nobler -and certainly a happier creature. Edgar never put these thoughts into -words, for he was too chivalrous a man even to allow to himself that a -woman had given her heart to him unsought; but the complications of -which he was conscious filled him with a vague pang—as the larger -complications of the world—that clash of interests, those broken -threads, that never meet, those fulnesses and needinesses, which never -can be brought to bear upon each other—perplex and pain the spectator. -He was glad, as we all are, to escape from them; and when he reached -London, where his love was, and where, the first thing he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span> found on his -arrival was the announcement of his appointment, his heart rose with a -sudden leap, spurning the troubles of the past, in elastic revulsion. He -had his little fortune again, not much, at any time, but yet something, -which Gussy could hang at her girdle, and his old mother’s watch for -her, quaint, but precious possession. He was scarcely anxious as to his -reception, though she had written him but one brief note since his -absence; for Edgar was himself so absolutely true that it did not come -into his heart that he could be doubted. But he could not go to Gussy at -once, even on his arrival. Another and a less pleasant task remained for -him. He had to meet his sister at the hotel she had gone to, and be -present at the clandestine marriage—for it was no better—which was at -last to unite legally the lives of Arthur Arden and Clare.</p> - -<p>Clare had arrived in town the evening before. He found her waiting for -him, in her black dress, her children by her, in black also. She was -still as pale as when he left her at Arden, but she received him with -more cordiality than she had shown when parting with him. There was -something in her eyes which alarmed him—an occasional vagueness, almost -wildness.</p> - -<p>“We did wrong, Edgar,” she said, when the children were sent away, and -they were left together—“we did wrong.”</p> - -<p>“In what did we do wrong, Clare?”</p> - -<p>“In ever thinking of those—those papers. We should have burnt them, you -and I together. What was it to anyone what happened between us? We<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span> were -the sole Ardens of the family—the only ones to be consulted.”</p> - -<p>“Clare! Clare! I am no Arden at all. Would you have had me live on a lie -all my life, and build my own comfort upon some one else’s wrong?”</p> - -<p>“You were always too high-flown, Edgar,” she said, with the practical -quiet of old. “Why did you come to me whenever you heard that trouble -was coming? Because you were my brother. Instinct proves it. If you are -my brother, then it is you who should be master at Arden, and -not—anyone else.”</p> - -<p>“It is true I am your brother,” he said, sitting down by her, and -looking tenderly into her colourless face.</p> - -<p>“Then we were wrong, Edgar—we were wrong—I know we were wrong; and now -we must suffer for it,” she said, with a low moan. “My boy will be like -you, the heir, and yet not the heir; but for him I will do more than I -did for you. I will not stop for lying. What is a lie? A lie does not -break you off from your life.”</p> - -<p>“Does it not? Clare, if you would think a moment——”</p> - -<p>“Oh! I think!” she cried—“I think!—I do nothing but think! Come, now, -we must not talk any more; it is time to go.”</p> - -<p>They drove together in a street cab to an obscure street in the city, -where there was a church which few people ever entered. I doubt if this -choice was so wise as they thought, but the incumbent was old, the clerk -old, and everything in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span> their favour, so far as secrecy was concerned. -Arthur Arden met them there, pale, but eager as any bridegroom could be. -Clare had her veil—a heavy veil of black lace—over her face; the very -pew-opener shuddered at such a dismal wedding, and naturally all the -three officials, clergyman, clerk, and old woman, exerted all their aged -faculties to penetrate the mystery. The bridal party went back very -silently in another cab to Clare’s hotel, where Arthur Arden saw his -children, seizing upon them with hungry love and caresses. He did not -suspect, as Edgar did, that the play was not yet played out.</p> - -<p>“You have never said that you forgive me, Clare,” he said, after, to his -amazement, she had sent her boy and girl away.</p> - -<p>“I cannot say what I do not mean,” she said, in a very low and tremulous -voice. “I have said nothing all this time; now it is my turn to speak. -Oh! don’t look at me so, Edgar!—don’t ask me to be merciful with your -beseeching eyes! We were not merciful to you.”</p> - -<p>“What does she mean?” said Arthur Arden, looking dully at him; and then -he turned to his wife. “Well, Clare, you’ve had occasion to be angry—I -don’t deny it. I don’t excuse myself. I ought to have looked deeper into -that old affair. But the punishment has been as great on me as on you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, the punishment!” she cried. “What is the punishment in comparison? -It is time I should tell you what I am going to do.”</p> - -<p>“There, there now!” he said, half frightened,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span> half coaxing. “We are -going home. Things will come right, and time will mend everything. No -one knows but Edgar, and we can trust Edgar. I will not press you for -pardon. I will wait; I will be patient——”</p> - -<p>“I am not going home any more. I have no home,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Clare, Clare!”</p> - -<p>“Listen to what I say. I am ill. There shall be no slander—no story for -the world to talk of. I have told everybody that I am going to Italy for -my health. It need not even be known that you don’t go with me. I have -made all my arrangements. You go your way, and I go mine. It is all -settled, and there is nothing more to say.”</p> - -<p>She rose up and stood firm before them, very pale, very shadowy, a -slight creature, but immovable, invincible. Arthur Arden knew his wife -less than her brother did. He tried to overcome her by protestations, by -entreaties, by threats, by violence. Nothing made any impression upon -her; she had made her decision, and Heaven and earth could not turn her -from it. Edgar had to hold what place he could between them—now -seconding Arden’s arguments, now subduing his violence; but neither the -one nor the other succeeded in their efforts. She consented to wait in -London a day or two, and to allow Edgar to arrange her journey for -her—a journey upon which she needed and would accept no escort—but -that was all. Arden came away a broken man, on Edgar’s arm, almost -sobbing in his despair.</p> - -<p>“You won’t leave me, Edgar—you’ll speak for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span> me—you’ll persuade her it -is folly—worse than folly!” he cried.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>It was long before Edgar could leave him, a little quieted by promises -of all that could be done. Arden clung to him as to his last hope. Thus -it was afternoon when at last he was able to turn his steps towards -Berkeley Square.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Gussy knew he was to arrive in town that morning, and, torn by painful -doubts as she was, every moment of delay naturally seemed to her a -further evidence that Edgar had other thoughts in his mind more -important to him than she was. She had said nothing to anyone about -expecting him, but within herself had privately calculated that by -eleven o’clock at least she might expect him to explain everything and -make everything clear. Eleven o’clock came, and Gussy grew <i>distraite</i>, -and counted unconsciously the beats of the clock, with a pulsation -quicker and quite as loud going on in her heart. Twelve o’clock, and her -heart grew sick with the deferred hope, and the explanation seemed to -grow dim and recede further and further from her. He had never mentioned -Margaret in his letters, which were very short, though frequent; and -Gussy knew that her brother, in wild impatience, had gone off two days -before to ascertain his fate. But she was a woman, and must wait till -her fate came to her, counting the cruel moments, and feeling the time -pass slowly, slowly dragging its weary course. One o’clock; then -luncheon, which she had to make a pretence to eat, amid the chatter of -the girls, who were so merry<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span> and so loud that she could not hear the -steps without and the knocks at the door.</p> - -<p>When they were all ready to go out after, Gussy excused herself. She had -a headache, she said, and indeed she was pale enough for any headache. -He deserved that she should go out as usual, and wait no longer to -receive him; but she would not treat him as he deserved. When they were -all gone she could watch at the window, in the shade of the curtains, to -see if he was coming, going over a hundred theories to explain his -conduct. That he had been mistaken in his feeling all along, and never -had really cared for her; that Margaret’s beauty had been too much for -him, and had carried him away; that he cared for her a little, enough to -fulfil his engagements, and observe a kindly sort of duty towards her, -but that he had other friends to see, and business to do, more important -than she was. All these fancies surged through her head as she stood, -the dark damask half hiding her light little figure at the window.</p> - -<p>The days had lengthened, the sounds outside were sounds of spring, the -trees in the square garden were coloured faintly with the first tender -wash of green. Steps went and came along the pavement, carriages drew -up, doors opened and shut, but no Edgar. She was just turning from the -window, half blind and wholly sick with the strain, when the sound of a -light, firm foot on the stair caught her ears, and Edgar made his -appearance at last. There was a glow of pleasure on his face, but care -and wrinkles on his forehead. Was the rush with which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span> he came forward -to her, and the warmth of his greeting, and the light on his face, -fictitious? Gussy felt herself warm and brighten, too, involuntarily, -but yet would have liked best to sit down in a corner and cry.</p> - -<p>“How glad I am to find you alone!” he said. “What a relief it is to get -here at last! I am tired, and dead beat, and sick and sorry, dear. Now I -can breathe and rest.”</p> - -<p>“You have been long, long of coming,” said Gussy, half wearily, half -reproachfully.</p> - -<p>“Haven’t I? It seems about a year since I arrived this morning, and not -able to get near you till now. Gussy, tell me, first of all, did you see -it?—do you know?”</p> - -<p>“What?” Her heart was melting—all the pain and all the anger, quite -unreasonably as they had risen, floating away.</p> - -<p>“Our Consulship,” he said, opening up his newspaper with one hand, and -spreading it out, to be held by the other hand, on the other side of -her. The two heads bent close together to look at this blessed -announcement. “Not much for you, my darling—for me everything,” said -Edgar, with a voice in which bells of joy seemed to be ringing, dancing, -jostling against each other for very gladness. “I was half afraid you -would see it before I brought the news.”</p> - -<p>“I had no heart to look at the paper this morning,” she said.</p> - -<p>“No heart! Something has happened? Your father—Harry—what is it?” -cried Edgar, in alarm.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh! nothing,” cried Gussy, crying. “I was unhappy, that was all. I did -not know what you would say to me. I thought you did not care for me. I -had doubts, dreadful doubts! Don’t ask me any more.”</p> - -<p>“Doubts—of me!” cried Edgar, with a surprised, frank laugh.</p> - -<p>Never in her life had Gussy felt so much ashamed of herself. She did not -venture to say another word about those doubts which, with such -laughing, pleasant indifference, he had dismissed as impossible. She sat -in a dream while he told her everything, hearing it all like a tale that -she had read in a book. He brought out the old watch and gave it to her, -and she kissed it and put it within her dress, and cried when he -described to her the last words of his old mother. Loch Arroch and all -its homely circumstances became as a scene of the Scriptures to Gussy; -she seemed to see a glory of ideal hills and waters, and the moonlight -filling the sky and earth, and the loveliness of the night which made it -look “but a step” between earth and heaven. Her heart grew so full over -those details that Edgar, unsuspicious, never discovered the compunction -which mingled in that sympathetic grief. He told her about his journey; -then paused, and looked her in the eyes.</p> - -<p>“Last year it was you who travelled with me. You were the little -sister?” he said. “Ah! yes, I know it was you. You came and kissed me in -my sleep——”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I did not, sir!” cried Gussy, in high in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span>dignation. “I would not -have done such a thing for all the world.”</p> - -<p>Edgar laughed, and held her so fast that she could not turn from him.</p> - -<p>“You did in spirit,” he said; “and I had it in a dream. Ever since I -have had a kind of hope in my life; I dreamt that you put the veil -aside, and I saw you. When I woke I could not believe it, though I knew -it; but the other sister, the real one, would not tell me your name.”</p> - -<p>“Poor sister Susan!” cried Gussy, the tears disappearing, the sunshine -bursting out over all her face; “she will not like me to go back into -the world.”</p> - -<p>“Nor to go out to Italy as a Consul,” said Edgar, gay as a boy in his -new happiness, “to talk to all the ships’ captains, and find out about -the harbour dues.”</p> - -<p>“Foolish! there are no ship captains, nor ships either, nor dues of any -kind—”</p> - -<p>“Nothing but the bay and the hills, and the sunsets and the moonrises; -the Riviera, which means Paradise—”</p> - -<p>“And to be together—”</p> - -<p>“Which has the same meaning,” he said. And then they stopped in this -admirable fooling, and laughed the foolish laughter of mere happiness, -which is not such a bad thing, when one can have it, once in a way.</p> - -<p>“What a useless, idle, Sybarite life you have sketched out for us!” -Gussy said at last. “I hope<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span> it is not a mere sunshiny sinecure. I hope -there is something to do.”</p> - -<p>“I am very good at doing nothing,” Edgar replied—too glad, at last, to -return to homely reality and matter of fact; and until the others came -home, these two talked as much nonsense as it is given to the best of us -to talk; and got such good of it as no words can describe.</p> - -<p>When Lady Augusta returned, she pretended to frown upon Edgar, and -smiled; and then gave him her hand, and then inclined her cheek towards -him. They had the paper out again, and she shook her head; then kissed -Gussy, and told them that Spezzia was the most lovely place in all the -world. Edgar stayed to dinner, as at last a recognised belonging of the -household, and met Lord Granton, who was somewhat frightened of him, and -respectful, having heard his praises celebrated by Mary as something -more than flesh and blood; and for that evening “the Grantons” that were -to be, were nobodies—not even redeemed from insignificance by the fact -that their marriage was approaching, while the other marriage was still -in the clouds.</p> - -<p>“How nice it would be if they could be on the same day!” little Mary -whispered, rather, I fear, with the thought of recovering something of -her natural consequence as bride than for any other reason.</p> - -<p>“As if the august ceremonial used at an Earl’s wedding would do for a -Consul’s!” cried saucy Gussy, tossing her curls as of old. And -notwithstanding Edgar’s memories, and the dark shadow of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span> Clare’s -troubles that stood by his side, and the fear that now and then -overwhelmed them all about Harry’s movements—in spite of all this, I do -not think a merrier evening was ever spent in Berkeley Square. Gussy had -been in a cloud, in a veil, for all these years; she had not thought it -right to laugh much, as the Associate of a Sisterhood—which is to say -that Gussy was not happy enough to want to laugh, and founded that grey, -or brown, or black restriction for herself, with the ingenuity of an -unscrupulous young woman. But now sweet laughter had become again as -natural to her as breath.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br /><br /> -<small>H.B.M.’s Consul.—Conclusion.</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Clare</span> carried out her intentions, unmoved by all the entreaties -addressed to her. She heard everything that was said with perfect calm; -either her capabilities of emotion were altogether exhausted, or her -passionate sense of wrong was too deep to show at the surface, and she -was calm as a marble statue; but she was equally inflexible. Edgar -turned, in spite of himself, into Arthur Arden’s advocate; pleaded with -her, setting forth every reason he could think of, partly against his -own judgment—and failed. Her husband, against whom she did not -absolutely close her door, threw himself at her feet, and entreated, for -the children’s sake, for the sake of all that was most important to them -both—the credit of their house, the good name of their boy. These were -arguments which with Clare, in her natural mind, would have been -unanswerable; but that had happened to Clare which warps the mind from -its natural modes of thought. The idea of disgrace had got into her very -soul, like a canker. She was unable to examine her reasons—unable to -resist, even in herself, this overwhelming influence; it overcame her -principles, and even her prejudices, which are more difficult<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span> to -overcome. The fear of scandal, which those who knew Clare would have -supposed sufficient to make her endure anything, failed totally here. -She knew that her behaviour would make the world talk, and she even felt -that, with this clue to some profound disagreement between her husband -and herself, the whole story might be more easily revealed, and her -boy’s heirship made impossible; but even with this argument she could -not subdue herself, nor suffer herself to be subdued. The sense of -outrage had taken possession of her; she could not forget it—could not -realize the possibility of ever forgetting it. It was not that she had -been brought within the reach of possible disgrace. She <i>was</i> disgraced; -the very formality of the new marriage, though she consented to it -without question, as a necessity, was a new outrage. In short, Clare, -though she acted with a determination and steadiness which seemed to add -force to her character, and showed her natural powers as nothing else -had ever done, was not, for the first time in her life, a free agent. -She had been taken possession of by a passionate sense of injury, which -seized upon her as an evil spirit might seize upon its victim. In the -very fierceness of her individual resentment, she ceased to be an -individual, and became an abstraction, a woman wronged, capable of -feeling, knowing, thinking of nothing but her wrong. This made all -arguments powerless, all pleas foolish. She could not admit any -alternative into her mind; her powers of reasoning failed her altogether -on this subject; on all others she was sane and sensible,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span> but on this -had all the onesidedness, the narrowness of madness—or of the -twin-sister of madness—irrepressible and irrepressed passion.</p> - -<p>Without knowing anything of the real facts of the story, the Thornleighs -were admitted to see her, on Clare’s own suggestion; for her warped mind -was cunning to see where an advantage could be drawn from partial -publicity. They found her on her sofa, looking, in the paleness which -had now become habitual to her, like a creature vanishing out of the -living world.</p> - -<p>“Why did you not let us know you were ill? You must have been suffering -long, and never complained!” cried Lady Augusta, moved almost to tears.</p> - -<p>“Not very long,” said Clare.</p> - -<p>She had permitted her husband to be present at this interview, to keep -up appearances to the last; and Arthur felt as if every word was a dart -aimed at him, though I do not think she meant it so.</p> - -<p>“Not long! My dear child, you are quite thin and wasted; this cannot -have come on all at once. But Italy will do you all the good in the -world,” Lady Augusta added, trying to be cheerful. “<i>They</i>, you know, -are going to Italy too.”</p> - -<p>“But not near where I shall be,” said Clare.</p> - -<p>“You must go further south? I am very sorry. Gussy and you would have -been company for each other. You are not strong enough for company? My -poor child! But once out of these cold spring winds, you will do well,” -said kind Lady Augusta.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span></p> - -<p>But though she thus took the matter on the surface, she felt that there -was more below. Her looks grew more and more perplexed as they discussed -Edgar’s appointment, and the humble beginning which the young couple -would make in the world.</p> - -<p>“It is very imprudent—very imprudent,” Lady Augusta said, shaking her -head. “I have said all I can, Mrs. Arden, and so has Mr. Thornleigh. I -don’t know how they are to get on. It is the most imprudent thing I ever -heard of.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing is imprudent,” said Clare, with a hard, dry intonation, which -took all pleasant meaning out of the words, “when you can trust fully -for life or death; and my brother Edgar is one whom everybody can -trust.”</p> - -<p>“At all events, we are both of us old enough to know our own minds,” -said Gussy, hastily, trying to laugh off this impression. “If we choose -to starve together, who should prevent us?”</p> - -<p>Arthur Arden took them to their carriage, but Lady Augusta remarked that -he did not go upstairs again. “There is something in all this more than -meets the eye,” she said, oracularly.</p> - -<p>Many people suspected this, after Lady Augusta, when Clare was gone, and -when it came out that Mr. Arden was not with her, but passing most of -his time in London, knocking about from club to club, through all the -dreary winter. He made an effort to spend his time as virtuously as -possible that first year; but the second year he was more restless and -less virtuous, having fallen into despair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span> Then everybody talked of the -breach between them, and a great deal crept out that they had thought -buried in silence. Even the real facts of the case were guessed at, -though never fully established, and the empty house became the subject -of many a tale. People remarked that there were many strange stories -about the Ardens; that they had behaved very strangely to the last -proprietor before Arthur; that nobody had ever heard the rights of that -story, and that Edgar had been badly used.</p> - -<p>Whilst all this went on, Clare lived gloomy and retired by herself, in a -little village on the Neapolitan coast. She saw nobody, avoiding the -wandering English, and everybody who could have known her in better -times; and I don’t know how long her reason could have stood the wear -and tear, but for the illness and death of the poor little heir, whose -hapless position had given the worst pang to her shame and horror. -Little Arthur died, his mother scarcely believing it, refusing to think -such a thing possible. Her husband had heard incidentally of the child’s -illness, and had hurried to the neighbourhood, scarcely hoping to be -admitted. But Clare neither welcomed him nor refused him admission, but -permitted his presence, and ignored it. When the child was gone, -however, it was Arthur’s vehement grief which first roused her out of -her stupor.</p> - -<p>“It is you who have done it!” she cried, turning upon him with eyes full -of tearless passion. But she did not send him out of her house. She felt -ill, worn out in body and mind, and left everything in his hands. And -by-and-by, when she came to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span> herself, Clare allowed herself to be taken -home, and fled from her duties no longer.</p> - -<p>This was the end of their story. They were more united in the later -portion of their lives than in the beginning, but they have no heir to -come after them. The history of the Ardens will end with them, for the -heir-at-law is distant in blood, and has a different name.</p> - -<p>As for the other personages mentioned in this story, Mr. Tottenham still -governs his shop as if it were an empire, and still comes to a -periodical crisis in the shape of an Entertainment, which threatens to -fail up to the last moment, and then is turned into a great success. The -last thing I have heard of Tottenham’s was, that it had set up a little -daily newspaper of its own, written and printed on the establishment, -which Mr. Tottenham thought very likely to bring forward some latent -talent which otherwise might have been lost in dissertations on the -prices of cotton, or the risings and fallings of silks. After Gussy’s -departure, I hear the daily services fell off in the chapel; flowers -were no longer placed fresh and fragrant on the temporary altar, there -was no one to play the harmonium, and the attendance gradually -decreased. It fell from a daily to a weekly service, and then came to an -end altogether, for it was found that the young ladies and the gentlemen -preferred to go out on Sunday, and to choose their own preachers after -their differing tastes. How many of them strayed off to chapel instead -of church, it would have broken Gussy’s heart to hear. I do not think, -however, that this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span> disturbed Mr. Tottenham much, who was too viewy not -to be very tolerant, and who liked himself to hear what every new -opinion had to say for itself. Lady Mary was very successful with her -lectures, and I hope improved the feminine mind very much at Harbour -Green. She thought she improved her own mind, which was of course a -satisfaction; and did her best to transmit to little Molly very high -ideas of intellectual training; but Molly was a dunce, as providentially -happens often in the families of very clever people; and distinguished -herself by a curious untractableness, which did not hinder her from -being her mother’s pride, and the sweetest of all the cousins—or so at -least Lady Mary thought.</p> - -<p>The marriage of “the Grantons” took place in April, with the greatest -<i>éclat</i>. It was at Easter, when everybody was in the country; and was -one of the prettiest of weddings, as well as the most magnificent, which -Thornleigh ever saw. Mary’s presents filled a large room to overflowing. -She got everything possible and impossible that ever bride was blessed -with; and the young couple went off with a maid, and a valet and a -courier, and introductions to every personage in Europe. Their movements -were chronicled in the newspapers; their letters went and came in -ambassadorial despatch boxes. Short of royalty, there could have been -nothing more splendid, more “perfectly satisfactory,” as Lady Augusta -said. The only drawback was that Harry would not come to his sister’s -wedding; but to make up for that everybody else came—all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span> the great -Hauteville connections, and Lady Augusta’s illustrious family, and all -the Thornleighs, to the third and fourth generations. Not only -Thornleigh itself, but every house within a radius of ten miles was -crowded with fine people and their servants; and the bells were rung in -half a dozen parish churches in honour of the wedding. It was described -fully in the <i>Morning Post</i>, with details of all the dresses, and of the -bride’s ornaments and <i>coiffure</i>.</p> - -<p>“We shall have none of these fine things, I suppose,” Gussy said, when -it was all over, turning to Edgar with a mock sigh.</p> - -<p>“No, my dear; and I don’t see how you could expect them,” said Lady -Augusta. “Instead of spending our money vainly on making a great show -for you, we had much better save it, to buy some useful necessary things -for your housekeeping. Mary is in quite a different case.”</p> - -<p>“Buy us pots and pans, mamma,” said Gussy, laughing; “though perhaps -earthen pipkins would do just as well in Italy. We shall not be such a -credit to you, but we shall be much cheaper. There is always something -in that.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! Gussy, it is easy to speak now; but wait till you are buried in the -cares of life,” said her mother, going away to superintend the -arrangements for the ball in the evening. So grand a wedding was -certainly very expensive; she never liked to tell anyone how much that -great ceremonial cost.</p> - -<p>A little later, the little church dressed itself in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span> a few modest spring -flowers, and the school-children, with baskets full of primroses—the -last primroses of the season—made a carpet under Gussy’s feet as she, -in her turn, went along the familiar path between the village -gravestones, a bride. There were not more than a dozen people at the -breakfast, and Lady Augusta’s little brougham took them to the station -afterwards, where they set out quite humbly and cheerily by an ordinary -train.</p> - -<p>“Quite good enough for a Consul,” Gussy said, always the first to laugh -at her own humbleness. She wore a grey gown to go away in, which did not -cost a tenth part so much as Lady Granton’s, and the <i>Post</i> took no -notice of them. They wandered about their own country for a week or two, -like the Babes in the Wood, Gussy said, expected in no great country -house, retiring into no stately seclusion, but into the far more -complete retirement of common life and common ways. Gussy, as she was -proud to tell, had learned to do many things in her apprenticeship to -the sisters of the Charity-house as associate of the order; and I think -the pleasure to her of this going forth unattended, unsuspected, in the -freedom of a young wife—the first smack of absolute freedom which women -ever taste—had something far more exquisite in it to Gussy than any -delight her sister could have in her more splendid honeymoon. Lord and -Lady Granton were limited, and kept in curb by their own very greatness; -they were watched over by their servants, and kept by public opinion in -the right way; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311">{311}</a></span> Edgar and Gassy went where they would, as free as -the winds, and thought of nobody’s opinion. The Consul in this had an -unspeakable advantage over the Earl.</p> - -<p>They got to their home at last on a May evening, when Italy is indeed -Paradise; they had driven all day long from the Genoa side along the -lovely Riviera di Levante, tracing the gracious curves from village to -village along that enchanting way. The sun was setting when they came in -sight of Spezzia, and before they reached the house which had been taken -for them, the Angelus was sounding from the church, and the soft -dilating stars of Italian skies had come out to hear the homely litany -sung shrilly in side-chapels, and out of doors, among the old nooks of -the town, of the angelic song, “Hail, Mary, full of grace!” The women -were singing in an old three-cornered piazzetta, close under the loggia -of the Consul’s house, which looked upon the sea. On the sea itself the -magical sky was shining with all those listening stars. In Italy the -stars take more interest in human life than they do in this colder -sphere. Those that were proper to that space of heaven, crowded -together, Edgar thought to himself, to see his bride. On the horizon the -sea and sky blended in one infinite softness and blueness; the lights -began to twinkle in the harbour and in its ships; the far-off villages -among the woods lent other starry tapers to make the whole landscape -kind and human. Heaven and earth were softly illuminated, not for -them—for the dear common uses and ends of existence; yet un<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312">{312}</a></span>consciously -with a softer and fuller lustre, because of the eyes that looked upon -them so newly, as if earth and heaven, and the kindly light, and all the -tender bonds of humanity, had been created fresh that very day.</p> - -<p class="fint">THE END.<br /><br /><br /> -<small>PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.</small><br /> -</p> - -<hr class="full" /> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOR LOVE OF LIFE; VOL. 2 OF 2 ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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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