WHILE all these discussions were going on in Berkeley Square, Edgar was preparing in the most leisurely and easy-minded way for his return home. He had forgotten the urgency of Clare’s letter, but he was glad to emancipate himself from the social treadmill which he did not understand, and set his face again towards the fair green country and his duties and his home. It seemed so rational a life in comparison that he had even a higher opinion of himself when he turned his back upon town and its amusements. Not for anything bad he had encountered there; the wickedness had not thrust itself upon him—his own temper and thoughts leaving him out of harmony with it; but the foolishness had struck him with double force. Wickedness itself is better than no meaning, at least it is less contemptible, less bewildering, more comprehensible. He was not only going home, but he was about to change the fashion of his life, to begin who could tell what alterations in everything about him; and a little gentle excitement was in his mind; not any impassioned sentiment, not any whirlwind of fear and hope. He could not even say to himself that the happiness of his life depended on Gussy’s reply, or on the chance whether or not she would share the rest of his life with him. But still the thought of so sweet a companion moved him with a little thrill of pleasurable emotion. There was still the chance that he should meet them the next day, a chance which Lady Augusta did not take into consideration; and as the shopping occupied the girls and withdrew them from the usual regions of society, the fact was that he did not meet them anywhere, and found the day hang very heavy on his hands in consequence. When he fell suddenly upon Ada late in the afternoon, returning accompanied by her maid from a visit to some “Sisters” with whom she was allied, Edgar brightened up instantly. He came to her side, and insisted on walking with her across the Park. She had very little to say, except at moments when her sympathy was in forcible requisition, and was not in the least an amusing companion. But he did his best to talk to her, and showed her clearly how glad he was to see her. “I was told I was not wanted at Berkeley Square to-day,” he said, “which has been very doleful for me. I shall ride over to Thorne on Tuesday and bid you welcome home.” “I am sure mamma will be pleased to see you,” said gentle Ada; and she, too, went home a little excited by the encounter. “He said he would ride over on Tuesday to bid us welcome,” she repeated to Lady Augusta the moment she entered. “So, perhaps, mamma, you will not require to send that invitation which troubles Gussy so much. It is best when these things come of themselves.” “So it is, my dear,” said Lady Augusta. “I knew he was the nicest fellow! he shall stay to dinner if he comes.” And so that matter was settled. Gussy even made up her mind what dress she would put on to meet him on that eventful afternoon, which probably would decide her fate. Her mother liked her best in blue, and so she decided did he, for had he not once said—— So Gussy made a mental memorandum, and felt a warm little thrill of tender kindness at her heart for the man who loved her. Of course he loved her. She might have other inducements to marry him. The charm of Arden, the necessity of being provided for, the trade, as Helena called it, of getting married, would all weigh consciously or unconsciously with her. But with him there could be but one reason—love; and Gussy’s heart swelled with that tender gratitude and kindness and half pity with which a woman whose affections are quite free and disengaged often regards the man who has (as people say) fallen in love with her. Pity, she could not tell why, a soft half regret that she could not give him so much as he gave her. “Poor, dear boy!” she said to herself; and then shyly peeping, as it were, behind a veil, found out that she might love him too, could be very fond of him after—when—— And she caressed her blue dress with a smile and a little emotion, and looked that the ribbons were fresh that must be worn with it, before Angelique packed it away. “Mamma likes me in blue,” she said with a conscious smile. Alas!—But nobody knew nor suspected how little the blue dress would be thought of, or how different the reality and the imagination would be!
Edgar went down next morning to his nearest railway station with an absolute absence of every exciting incident. The groom was waiting with his dogcart, the western sun threw a slanting line on the country, everything looked like home-coming and peace. “Is all right at the Hall?” he asked for mere custom’s sake, as he took the reins. “Yes, sir, so far as I know, sir, but Mrs. Fillpot, she thinks there’s something to do with Miss Arden,” said the groom. “Something to do?” Edgar echoed, unfamiliar with the homely phrase. “Poorly, sir, she thinks, does Mrs. Fillpot,” said the man. A headache, I suppose, Edgar thought to himself, and drove on without alarm. How fresh the country was, how green the trees, how restful all those houses, the villagers at their doors, the village patriarchs working leisurely in their little gardens. Even the Red House as he passed it blinked and shone in the sunshine, offering him a certain welcome. Was Arthur Arden there still, he wondered, and how was his suit progressing, and what did Alice Pimpernel think of it? Had she said, “Oh yes, Mr. Arden,” to his kinsman’s wooing? All these things passed through Edgar’s mind as he drove along with a smile upon his face, and the pleasant confidence of a man going home. He was glad to recognise the very trees, much more the familiar faces; glad to think of his sister’s welcome which awaited him—full of natural satisfaction and content.
The first shadow that crossed him was at the corner of the road which led to the Red House. There he paused for a moment, hearing behind him a sudden rush and din upon the road, the sound as of horses that had run away. Then they appeared in sight, tearing onward, coming full speed towards him, making his own horse plunge and struggle between the shafts. Edgar flung the reins to his groom, and jumped down instantly to see if he could be of use—but had not touched the ground when they rushed past him—Mr. Pimpernel’s bays, a high-spirited, high-fed, excitable pair. The reins were flying loosely about their necks, the horses were half-mad with fright and agitation, and a succession of screams proved, if the gleam of feminine dress had not been enough to do so, that the light waggon had not its ordinary passengers, but was driven by a lady. It swept round the corner like a whirlwind, and Edgar with hopeless horror rushed after. As he did so, he perceived two figures running wildly across a field, in advance, to cut off their progress. It was Mr. Pimpernel and Arthur Arden. Edgar stopped, seeing how hopeless was an idea of being of use, and watched with breathless interest the course of the two men who might yet be in time. Then there was a plunge—a shriek—the appearance as of something falling, like the flight of a bird or an arrow, from the high seat to the ground. Edgar shut his eyes involuntarily with a movement of sympathetic pain. When he opened them again, the horses were standing trembling and panting, with the groom at their heads, who had appeared, he could not tell how or whence; and Mr. Pimpernel and Arthur Arden were standing each by a little particoloured heap on the roadside. A sudden wild fancy that Clare might have been one of the sufferers came into Edgar’s mind, and he called to his man to follow him, and hastened up to the scene of the accident. When he reached it, he found Mr. Pimpernel, pale as death and trembling, lifting up his daughter, who had been thrown upon a mossy bank at the foot of the hedge. Alice was ghastly, with little streams of blood trickling down her forehead; but she was conscious, and not apparently severely injured. “It is nothing, papa; I am only scratched and shaken, that is all,” she was saying, while her father, too much agitated to understand, dragged her up in his arms and overwhelmed her with incoherent questions. Edgar ran and brought her water from a pool close by, which was not of the clearest, and yet sufficed to wash the trickling drops off her forehead, and lessen her father’s apprehensions. And then he produced his travelling flask of sherry, which revived her still more completely. It did not occur to him even that there was another sufferer, nor that his cousin whom he had seen a moment before was lending no assistance here. “See, I can stand—I am not hurt, papa; I am only shaken,” Alice was repeating, till Edgar almost loved her for her pertinacity. The father was totally helpless and overcome. “My girl, my child!” he was repeating, with white lips, drawing her into his arms. “I do not think she is hurt, sir,” said Edgar, whose impressionable heart was touched. “Let us put her into my dogcart, and my groom will drive her gently home.” “Yes, yes, that is best,” said Alice. “Papa, you hurt me; but, oh! I am not injured—I am only aching and shaken—and, oh, papa!——”
“What is it?” cried Edgar, seeing her anxious glance round.
“Jeanie!” The name sounded like a cry; and then, all at once, the whole party were aware of Arthur Arden making his way towards the nearest cottage with something in his arms. Even Mr. Pimpernel grew silent in his anxiety. Alice shivered violently, and fell back upon Edgar, who put out his arm to support her with a sudden spasm of pain and terror in his heart. No moan nor cry came from the thing in Arthur Arden’s arms. Was it Jeanie who lay thus, in a heap, silent, undistinguishable? Alice shuddered more and more, and fell down on her knees, and began to cry; while old Pimpernel, in his excitement, rose and said—“If anything has happened to her, I will shoot those d—d horses, and that d—d fool. But for him, curse him, it would never have happened.” Edgar felt as if he had been suddenly turned to stone. What was Jeanie to him that her peril should so move him? It was the horror of it, done as it were before his eyes. And then her grandmother—— While Alice wept and her father stormed, Edgar felt his very heart grow sick. “Take her home,” he said peremptorily to Mr. Pimpernel, who, stilled in his excitement by any sudden voice of authority, humbly obeyed. Between them they lifted Alice, still weeping and moaning, into the dogcart, and slowly and steadily she was driven home to the Red House. Edgar drew a long breath of relief when she was gone; and then he turned with the silent speed of excitement after Arthur Arden to the cottage door.
There, there was nothing but excitement and commotion. One neighbour had gone already for Dr. Somers; another was carrying water to bring the sufferer to herself. One woman shook her head and said—“I saw her face, and it’s the face of death; she’ll never come round.” “Hold your tongue,” said another; “she’s as like life as you or me; she’ll come round fast enough if you’ll hold your noise and look after the children.” “Little the children’s din will hurt her,” said a third. Was Jeanie killed? All in a moment, the harmless, gentle little creature, had she been dashed into the unknown world? As this thought went through Edgar’s mind, he heard a little stir among the gossips—a silence, and rustle of all their dresses as they stood back instinctively. “It is her grandmother,” they said; and immediately after Mrs. Murray, very pale and steadfast, suddenly passed through the crowd. How Edgar’s heart yearned over the old woman whom he knew so little of—who was nothing to him! Admiration, pity, something more deep than either, swept over him. This poor woman who had done so much, who had taken upon her so many burdens, was this the reward God was about to give for all her toils and trials?—her child snatched from her in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. The other was safe, who, herself and all belonging to her, had thought of nothing but their own pleasure and profit, all their lives. And it was this woman who had suffered and toiled, and spent her life for others, who was to open her breast again and receive the cruellest blow. Strange compensation, reward, and encouragement! Edgar attempted to enter two or three times, but was kept back by the crowd. “Lord bless you, sir, you can’t do no good,” they said to him. “There’s one gentleman there already, and better they’d be without him.” Somehow it was a kind of comfort to think that Arthur Arden was in the way, and of no use. It made even Edgar more patient as he stood without, waiting for his dogcart, and brooding over those strange imperfections of life. One taken, and the other left. But why Jeanie—why the old mother’s one comfort and consolation? When the dogcart arrived he sent it off in search of the doctor. He forgot all about Clare and her anxiety, and thought of nothing but the dead or dying girl.
After a while Arthur Arden came out, very pale, with a tremor and suppressed agitation that was pitiful to see. His mind was not even sufficiently disengaged to be surprised at this sudden appearance of his cousin. He put out his hand to Edgar unconsciously, with a certain appeal to his sympathy. “It was my fault,” he said hoarsely. And thus the two stood, almost clinging together till the dogcart rattled past over the bit of causeway, bringing the doctor. Arthur put his arm within Edgar’s in the excitement of the moment. “If she dies,” he repeated hoarsely, with large drops standing on his forehead, “it will be my fault.”