EDGAR set off on a brisk walk up the loch when he parted from the two women at the door of the farmhouse. The previous history of this young man had been an extraordinary one, and has had its record elsewhere; but as it is not to be expected that any—even the gentlest reader—could remember a story told them several years ago, I will briefly recapitulate its chief incidents. Till he was five-and-twenty, this young man had known himself only as the heir of a great estate, and of an old and honourable name, and for some few months he had been in actual possession of all the honours he believed his own. He was a great English squire, one of the most important men in his district, with an only sister, to whom he was deeply attached, and no drawback in his life except the mysterious fact, which no longer affected him except as a painful recollection, that his father, during his lifetime, had banished him from his home, and apparently regarded him with a sentiment more like hatred than affection. But Clare his sister loved him, and Edgar, on coming to his fortune, had begun to form friendships and attachments of his own, and had been drawn gently and pleasantly—not fallen wildly and vehemently—into love with the daughter of one of his near neighbours, Augusta (better known as Gussy) Thornleigh, whom he was on the very eve of asking to be his wife, when his whole existence, name, and identity were suddenly altered by the discovery that he was an innocent impostor, and had no right to any of the good things he enjoyed. I do not attempt to repeat any description of the change thus made, for it was beyond description—terrible, complete, and overwhelming. It plunged him out of wealth and honours into indigence and shame—shame not merited, but yet clinging to the victim of a long-continued deception. It not only took from him all his hopes, but it embittered his very recollections. He lost past, and present, and future, all at a blow. His identity, and all the outward apparel of life by which he had known himself, were taken from him. Not only was the girl whom he loved hopelessly lost to him, but she who had been his sister, his only relative, as he supposed, and his dearest companion, became nothing to him—a stranger, and worse than a stranger—for the man whom she loved and married was his enemy. And in place of these familiar figures, there came a crowd of shadows round him who were his real relations, his unknown family, to whom, and not to the Ardens, he now belonged. This fatal and wonderful change was made all the harder to him from the fact that he was thus transplanted into an altogether lower level, and that his new family was little elevated above the class from which he had been in the habit of drawing his servants, not his friends. Their habits, their modes of speech, their ways of thinking, were all strange to him. It is true that he accommodated himself readily to these differences, as exhibited in the old grandmother whom I have just presented to the reader, and the gentle, soft-voiced, poetic Jeanie; but with the other members of his new family, poor Edgar had felt all his powers of self-control fail him. Their presence, their contact, their familiarity, and the undeniable fact that it was to them and their sphere that he actually belonged was terrible to the young man, who, in his better days, had not known what pride meant. Life is in reality so much the same in all classes that no doubt he would have come to perceive the identity of substance notwithstanding the difference of form, had he not been cast so suddenly into this other phase of existence without preparation, without anything to break the fall; but as it was, he had no preparation, and the blow went to his heart.
This fall had taken place nearly three years before the time at which this story opens, and poor Edgar, stunned by his overthrow, repelled by his new relatives, vaguely wretched, notwithstanding the stoutness of heart with which he had braced himself to meet calamity, had done but little with his life for these two years. A small provision had been secured for him from his successor in the estates of Arden, the rightful heir whom he had unwittingly wronged, and to whom he did instant justice as soon as he heard of the wrong; and this little provision had been augmented by the small property of the Rector of Arden, Mr. Fielding, who had left him everything he possessed. He had thus enough to support him, that most dangerous of all endowments for a young man. Poor fellow! he had made his sacrifice with great bravery, and had wrenched himself away from all he cared for with the smile of a hero, neither sinking under the blow, nor exaggerating its force. “Courage!” he had said to himself, when he lost the place where he had been lord and master, and went forth poor, humble, and nameless, to face the world. He meant nothing less than to make a new life for himself better than the last, to assert the superiority of a guiltless heart and free conscience over fate. But, alas, it is so easy to do this in the general, so difficult in detail! “We will make our lives sublime,” says the poet, with such cheap magniloquence—and how many an enthusiast youth has delighted himself with the thought!
Edgar was a very sensible, reasonable young fellow, but yet it was a consolation to him, in his sudden fall, to reflect that every man may conquer circumstances, and that will and energy are better than riches. He had dreamt of “doing something,” if not to make himself known and famous, at least to be of use in this life to his fellow-creatures and to himself. He meant it firmly up to the day when he left everything he knew or cared for, and he meant it the next day, and the day after, and even the next year; but up to this moment he had done nothing. For after all what was there to do?
Young Paladins cannot kill fiery dragons, cannot meet giants in single combat, cannot deliver a whole district now-a-days by the stroke of a sword. To be sure, a man whose tastes lie that way may tackle the giant, Sewage, or attack the dragon, Ignorance; but that is slow work, seldom of a primitive, straightforward kind, and leading the fighter into many entanglements, dubious company, and very uncertain results. So the consequence was that poor Edgar meaning to do much, did nothing—not because he loved idleness, but because he did not know what to do. He wandered off abroad very soon disgusted with everything; with his downfall and his inability to surmount that downfall; with the meanness of estimating worth by rank and wealth, and the still greater meanness of his own incapacity to get quite free from that standard, which, so long as he was himself rich and great, he had disowned manfully. Cheerily he had laughed at the frivolity of the young men of fashion surrounding him when he was as they, but his laugh now had a certain bitterness, and he felt himself turn with a sickening of the heart from intercourse with a lower class, and then deeply and bitterly despised himself for this ignoble sentiment. His state of mind, indeed, though strange and miserable to himself, was no more than was natural and to be looked for in a man forcibly transplanted from the place of his natural growth, and from all the habits and traditions of his previous life.
Therefore, these three years had been a failure with Edgar. He had done nothing with them, he who had gone out of his old existence firmly determined to do so much. He had wandered about over the face of the earth, to and fro, an unquiet spirit—but no good had come from any of his wanderings. He could not help being kind and charitable; it was no virtue on his part, but “just a carnal inclination;” and except this inevitable goodness, which was an affair of temperament, nothing had come of him, nothing had come from him, in these years.
Thus, probably, he would have continued, if not always, until weariness had come on, and his vital strength was broken. He would have become, without vice, one of the thousand English vagabonds of quality who haunt every thoroughfare in Europe; and what a downfall would this have been for Edgar!—a greater downfall even than that which circumstances had brought upon him. The sudden summons which had brought him to Mrs. Murray’s sick-bed, the sudden call upon his charity, so characteristically adapted to move him, arrested him in the painful insignificance of this career. He had resolved to make the sacrifice which was involved, before it even occurred to him how much that sacrifice would involve; for he was of that species of humankind which, bestowing help and succour does first and considers afterwards. It cost him no struggle, no conflict with himself, to decide that everything he had must go at once to the aid of his mother’s mother, to her preservation in comfort—notwithstanding that she had wronged him, and that the tragic confusion and aimlessness of his life was her fault. He had taken all the steps at once which were necessary to carry out this transfer, and it was only now, when he had fully resolved upon it, that the cost to himself occurred to him. He counted that cost as he walked, stepping out as if he trod on air to the head of the loch.
What would it cost him? It would take away all his certain living, every penny he had; it would force him to work one way or another in order to maintain himself. After his brief experience of wealth and its ways, and after the vague and unsatisfactory existence which he had led when he had just “enough to live on,” he must make a fresh start again, like any country lad setting forth to seek his fortune. The third start, he said to himself, with a certain rueful amusement; for Edgar was one of those who could laugh at his own misfortunes. I cannot tell how it was that this prospect did not discourage him, but certainly it did not; a certain exhilaration crept into his soul as he faced the wind, walking fast with joyous defiance. The third time of beginning must be lucky at last; was it not a mystical number, acknowledged by the very children in their games? He had heard an urchin assuring another that very morning that “the third ca’ was canny.” It was poor Edgar’s third trial. The first time he had been foiled by no fault of his—by arbitrary circumstances. The second time he had foiled himself by want of purpose, absence of anything direct to do, and languor of motive for attempting anything. But the third ca’ would be canny—nature and necessity would help him. He would be driven to work by infallible potency of need, and he would make something of it; so he said to himself.
There was something exhilarating in the day, or else he thought so. The high wind was of itself a blessing after days of that weary rain, which is so common in the west of Scotland. The damp corn out on the fields, the still damper corn which stood in faint whiteness upon the hillside was shaking off some part of its superabundant moisture in the cheerful breeze. The white clouds were scudding over the mountains, throwing a poetic and perpetual interchange of light and shade over those silent spectators who occupied so large a share in the landscape, and whose sudden glories and brightness gave a human aspect to their everlasting strength. The deep blue of the distance, deep, and dark, and dreamy, against the open of the lighter sky; the thousand soft tones of purple, of grey, of brown, and soft green; the whiteness of a sudden peak starting into sunshine; the dark unfathomable depth of water, across which a sudden shadow would fall dramatically like an event, made even the silent country a partaker in the commotion which filled the young man’s mind.
In this dramatic tumult of the elements, there was no knoll, no hollow, no tree, which had not its share. And in the midst of the animated scene, a sudden rush of alien sound, the rustle and sputter and commotion of the little steamer fretting its busy, fussy way to the head of the loch, which was the chief medium of communication with the outside world, struck upon Edgar’s ear with not unpleasant discord. It was work, it was life, it was the labour by which a man could live and serve his generation, that was embodied to him in this little noisy interruption which he had so often condemned as alien to the scene. Yes, it was alien to the scene. But to be reminded of the world without, of the noise, and movement, and high-pressure of life, was pleasant to Edgar at this moment of his existence; it helped to stimulate the thrill of new energy which seemed to be rising in his heart.
There was, however, a motive less elevated which, I am bound to admit, affected the young man in his toleration of the steamer and its discord. He was eager to get away from Loch Arroch back into the world, where, at least, he would escape from the contemplation of that contrast between his present and his past, which was forced upon him here. All the confusion of his life, its conflicts between the sentiments which he felt he ought to entertain and those which, in spite of him, came uppermost in his mind, were kept painfully and constantly before his eyes. Every detail of the homely farmhouse existence brought them before him. The chief sting in all this was his vexation with himself for feeling these details to be of importance. Had he retained his original position, so little affected was he really by external circumstances, that I believe he would have found the life at the Castle Farm infinitely more reasonable, sensible, and natural than that which, as a man of fortune and fashion, he would himself have been compelled to lead, The simple fare, the plain rooms, the absence of luxuries, and even some of those everyday luxuries which we call comforts, did not really distress him; it was the sense of missing them, the quick and vivid consciousness of this and that a-wanting, which made the young man sore, and bitter, and ashamed of himself. And he felt in his heart that everything would be easier to him when he could but get away. I must add, however, that Edgar never showed his consciousness of the change of sphere to others, deeply as he felt it. The farmhouse servant, and little Jeanie, and even old Mrs. Murray herself, who had more insight, considered him much more “easy to please” than any other man of the kindred. “He gives just nae trouble,” Bell said, “and aye a ‘thank you, Bell,’ for every hand’s turn I do for him. Eh! when it’s Johnnie Campbell that’s i’ the house, ye can see the difference. It’s Bell here, and Bell there, like as I had nothing a do but wait upon him. But it’s a pleasure to serve Mr. Edgar, night or day.”
This was the testimony of one very clear-sighted witness; and even Mrs. Murray concluded, with a relief which it would have been impossible to put into words, that the change had passed lightly over her grandson’s head without affecting him. “He has one of those blessed natures that are aye content, and take everything easy from the hand of God,” she said to herself, with a mixture of joy and disappointment; for this blessed nature, blessed as it is, is secretly looked down upon by persons conscious of more acute feeling. I believe my good Edgar had thus something in his character of what is commonly called humbug. He deceived people as to his own feelings by very consideration for their feelings. It was so absolutely indispensable to his being to set his companions at their ease, and make them comfortable so far as he could, that he took them in habitually, to use another vulgar expression, and was believed by everybody to be as happy as the day was long at Loch Arroch, while all the while he was secretly longing to get away. I believe that in some respects this kind of nature (not a very common one) is less good, being less honest, than that more general disposition which, when uncomfortable or dissatisfied itself, loses no opportunity of making others so, and states its sentiments frankly, whether they are likely to please its companions or not. I allow that Edgar’s special peculiarities had their disadvantages. I do not attempt to excuse him, I only state what they were.
Just as he came in sight of Loch Arroch head—the village which, seated at the extremity of the loch, was the post town and general centre of the district—Edgar was joined by Robert Campbell, the husband of his eldest aunt, a man to whom he was expected to give the title of uncle, and who regarded him with a mingled feeling of rough amity, respect (for, was he not independent, with an income of his own, and able to live like a gentleman?), and conscientious conviction that something might be got out of him. He was a land-agent, in not a very great way, a factor for some of the less important land-owners of the district, a man not without education and information in his way, with considerable practical knowledge of law, and still greater of agriculture, racy of the soil, the sort of person whom a great landed proprietor from England, such as poor Edgar had been a few years before, would have appreciated mightily, and quoted for months after their meeting. But to enjoy the shrewdness and profit by the conversation of such an individual, when you are elevated a whole world above him,—and to take him into your heart as one of your own relatives, are very different things. Edgar shrank with a whimsical sense of moral cowardice as he saw this personage approaching. He laughed ruefully at himself. “Oh, why are uncles made so coarse, and nephews made so fine?” he said. But to see the fun of a situation does not always enable you to bear it with equanimity. He would have been very glad to get out of Robert Campbell’s way had that been possible; but as it was not possible he did his best to meet him with a smile.
“How’s the auld leddy the day?” said Campbell, stretching out a huge hand to grasp Edgar’s; “living, and like to live, I’ll be bound. We maunna grumble, for she’s given an aixcellent constitution to her descendants, of which my lad is one as well as you. But, puir body, if it had been the Almighty’s will—lang life’s a grand thing when you’re well provided for,” Mr. Campbell concluded, with a sigh.
“I hope none of her descendants will grudge her the little she wants,” Edgar began—
“Saftly, saftly, my man! nobody grudges her the little she wants. The difficulty is, wha’s to provide that little,” said Campbell. “We’re all decently well off in one sense, with no scrimping of meal or milk and a good suit of black for a Sunday or a funeral, and a silk gown for the wife. But to keep up a farm upon our joint contributions, as I hear is what you’re thinking of—a farm, the chanciest thing in creation!—I allow I canna see my way to that. Excuse me, Mr. Edgar, for speaking my mind, but you’re young, and your notions are too grand for the like of us—I’m no saying it’s your fault. We maun cut our coat according to our cloth. I’m no fond of relations in the house; but she’s a harmless body, and I’ll stretch a point for once: and John Bryce, in Sauchiehall St., will take Jeanie. He’s a man in a very decent way of business, and I’ve no doubt he could make her useful in the shop.”
“But cannot you see,” cried Edgar, with a start and sudden wince, interrupting him, “that my poor old grandmother would be wretched without Jeanie? And Jeanie herself is too delicate a creature for any such life. They must stay together. Surely, surely,” cried the young man, “when she is helpless who has done so much for everybody, it is not too much that we should provide for something beyond her mere existence—her happiness as well.”
Campbell had watched him very closely while he made this speech. The generous feeling with which he spoke brought the colour to Edgar’s cheek; he was unsuspicious of the meaning of the close scrutiny to which he was thus subjected, and made no effort to conceal this glow of natural emotion.
“If it’s Jeanie you’re meaning,” said Campbell, with a laugh and significant look, “no doubt there are other arrangements that might be thought of; and a good man’s aye the best thing, especially when he has enough to live on. If that’s your thought, my lad, I am not the one to say you nay.”
“If what is my thought?” said Edgar, bewildered.
I do not think the idea had ever occurred to him before, and I cannot describe the thrill of wounded pride with which he received this shock. Jeanie! A child—a creature altogether out of his sphere. Jeanie! with her pretty peasant manners, and poetic homely dialect, a little girl whom he could be kind to, as he would be kind to the maid who milked the cows, or the child who ran his errands! In all the course of the three painful years that were past, I do not think Edgar had received any such cutting and sudden blow. He realized all his own humiliation when he saw himself placed in the imagination of the neighbourhood by little Jeanie’s side—her cousin, her often companion, her so-possible wooer! The thought stiffened him up all at once to stone. He forgot even his usual consideration for the feelings of others.
“I have no thought of any kind in respect to Jeanie,” he said, coldly, “except in so far as concerns my grandmother. The two ought not to be separated. I cannot indeed allow them to be separated,” he added, still more proudly. “I have a little money, as you know, and if nobody else will do it, I must do it. I will make over to my grandmother my little income, such as it is. She can live and keep her favourite with her, if she has that.”
“Your—income!” Mr. Campbell could scarcely gasp out the words, so breathless was he and dumb-foundered. “Your—income! And what will you do yoursel’? But you mean an allowance; that’s a different matter,” he added, recovering himself. “You’ll give in proportion to what the rest of us give? Ay, ay. I can understand that.”