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.