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.