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:—
“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.