For love of life; vol. 2 of 2

There is, perhaps, no such crisis in the life of a man as that which occurs when, for the first time, he feels the welfare and happiness of another to be involved in his own. A woman is seldom so entirely detached from ordinary ties of nature as to make this discovery suddenly, or even to be in the position when such a discovery is possible. So long as you have but yourself to think of, you may easily be pardoned for thinking very little of that self, for being careless of its advantage, and letting favourable opportunities slip through your fingers; but suppose you find out in a moment, without warning, that your interests are another’s interests, that to push your own fortune is to push some one else’s fortune, much dearer to you than yourself; and that, in short, you are no longer you at all, but the active member of a double personality—is as startling a sensation as can well be conceived. This was the idea which Edgar had received into his mind for the first time, and it was not wonderful that it excited, nay, intoxicated him, almost beyond his power of self-control. I say for the first time, though he had been on the eve of asking Gussy Thornleigh to marry him three years before, and had therefore realised, or thought he realised, what it would be to enter into such a relationship; but in those days Edgar was rich, and petted by the world, and his bride would have been only a delight and honour the more, not anything calling for sacrifice or effort on his part. He could have given her everything she desired in the world, without losing a night’s rest, or disturbing a single habit. Now the case was very different. The new-born pride which had made him, to his own surprise, so reluctant to apply to anyone for employment, and so little satisfied to dance attendance on Lord Newmarch, died at that single blow.

Dance attendance on Lord Newmarch! ask anybody, everybody for work! Yes, to be sure he would, and never think twice; for had he not now her to think of? A glow of exhilaration came over him. He had been careless, indifferent, sluggish, so long as it was himself only that had to be thought of. Thinking of himself did not suit Edgar; he got sick of the subject, and detested himself, and felt a hundred pricks of annoyance at the thought of being a suitor and applicant for patronage, bearing the scorns of office, and wanting as “patient merit” in a great man’s ante-room. But now! what did he care for those petty annoyances? Why should he object, like a pettish child, to ask for what he wanted? It was for her. He became himself again the moment that the strange and penetrating sweetness of this suggestion (which he declared to himself was incredible, yet believed with all his heart) stole into his soul. This had been what he wanted all along. To have some one to work for, some one to give him an object in life.

Lady Mary had not a notion what she was doing when she set light to the fire which was all ready for that touch—ready to blaze up, and carry with it her own schemes as well as her sister’s precautions. I suppose it was by reason of the fundamental difference between man and woman, that neither of these ladies divined how their hint would act upon Edgar. They thought his virtue (for which they half despised him—for women always have a secret sympathy for the selfish ardour of men in all questions of love) was so great that he might be trusted to restrain even Gussy herself in her “impetuosity,” as they called it, without considering that the young man was disposed to make a goddess of Gussy, to take her will for law, and compass heaven and earth to procure her a gratification. Gussy, though she held herself justified in her unswerving attachment to Edgar, by the fact that, had it not been for his misfortune, she would long ago have been his wife, would, notwithstanding this consolation, have died of shame had she known how entirely her secret had been betrayed. But the betrayal was as a new life to Edgar. His heart rose with all its natural buoyancy; he seemed to himself to spurn his lowliness, his inactivity, his depressed and dejected state from him. That evening he beguiled his hosts into numberless discussions, out of sheer lightness of heart. He laughed at Lady Mary about her educational mania, boldly putting forth its comic side, and begging to know whether German lectures and the use of the globes were so much better, as means of education, than life itself, with all its many perplexities and questions, its hard lessons, its experiences, which no one can escape.

“If a demigod from the sixth form were to come down and seat himself on a bench in a dame’s school,” cried Edgar, “why, to be sure, he might learn something; but what would you think of the wisdom of the proceeding?”

“I am not a demigod from the sixth form,” said Lady Mary.

“Pardon me, but you are. You have been among the regnant class all your life, which of itself is an enormous cultivation. You have lived familiarly with people who guide the nation; you have spoken with most of those who are known to be worth speaking to, in England at least; and you have had a good share of the problems of life submitted to you. Mr. Tottenham’s whole career, for instance, which he says you decided—”

“What is that?” said Mr. Tottenham, looking up. “Whatever it is, what you say is quite true. I don’t know if it’s anything much worth calling a career; but, such as it is, it’s all her doing. You’re right there.”

“I am backed up by indisputable testimony,” said Edgar, laughing; “and in the face of all this, you can come and tell me that you want to educate your mind by means of the feeblest of lectures! Lady Mary, are you laughing at us? or are the dry lessons of grammar and such like scaffolding, really of more use in educating the mind than the far higher lessons of life?”

“How you set yourself to discourage me,” cried Lady Mary, half angry, half laughing. “That is not what you mean, Mr. Earnshaw. You mean that it is hopeless to train women to the accuracy, the exactness of thought which men are trained to. I understand you, though you put it so much more prettily.”

“I am afraid I don’t know what accuracy means,” said Edgar, “and exactness of thought suggests only Lord Newmarch to me; and Heaven deliver us from prigs, male and female! If you find, however, that the mass of young university men are so accurate, so exact, so accomplished, so trained to think well and clearly, then I envy you your eyes and perceptions—for to me they have a very different appearance; many of them, I should say, never think at all, and know a good deal less than Phil does, of whom I am the unworthy instructor—save the mark!” he added, with a laugh. “On the whole, honours have showered on my head; I have had greatness thrust upon me like Malvolio; not only to instruct Phil, but to help to educate Lady Mary Tottenham! What a frightful impostor I should feel myself if all this was my doing, and not yours.”

Lady Mary laughed too, but not without a little flush of offence. It even crossed her mind to wonder whether the young man had taken more wine than usual? for there was an exhilaration, a boldness, an élan about him which she had never perceived before. She looked at him with mingled suspicion and indignation—but caught such a glance from his eyes, which were full of a new warmth, life, and meaning, that Lady Mary dropped hers, confused and confounded, not knowing what to make of it. Had the porter, and the footman, and the under-gardener, who had seen Edgar kiss Lady Mary’s hand, been present at that moment, they would certainly have drawn conclusions very unfavourable to Mr. Tottenham’s peace of mind. But that unsuspecting personage sat engaged in his own occupation, and took no notice. He was turning over some papers which he had brought back with him from Tottenham’s that very day.

“When you two have done sparring,” he said—“Time will wait for no man, and here we are within a few days of the entertainment at the shop. Earnshaw, I wish you would go in with me on Wednesday, and help me to help them in their arrangements. I have asked a few people for the first time, and it will be amusing to see the fine ladies, our customers, making themselves agreeable to my ‘assistants.’ By-the-way, that affair of Miss Lockwood gives me a great deal of uneasiness. I don’t like to send her away. She seemed disposed to confide in you, my dear fellow—”

“I will go and secure her confidence,” said Edgar, with that gay readiness for everything which Lady Mary, with such amaze, had remarked already in his tone. Up to this moment he had wanted confidence in himself, and carried into everything the insouciance of a man who takes up with friendliness the interests of others, but has none of his own. All this was changed. He was another man, liberated somehow from chains which she had never realised until now, when she saw they were broken. Could her conversation with him to-day have anything to do with it? Lady Mary was a very clever woman, but she groped in vain in the dark for some insight into the mind of this young man, who had seemed to her so simple. And the less she understood him, the more she respected Edgar; nay, her respect for him began to increase, from the moment when she found out that he was not so absolutely virtuous as she had taken him to be.

Next day, as soon as Phil’s lessons were over, Edgar shut himself up, and, with a flush upon his face, and a certain tremor, which seemed to him to make his hand and his writing, by some curious paradox, more firm than usual, began to write letters. He wrote to Lord Newmarch, he wrote to one or two others whom he had known in his moment of prosperity, with a boldness and freedom at which he was himself astonished. He recalled to his old acquaintances, without feeling the least hesitation in doing so, the story of his past life, about which he had been, up to this moment, so proudly silent, and appealed to them to find him something to do. He wrote, not as a humble suitor does, but as one conscious of no humiliation in asking. The last time he had asked he had been conscious of humiliation; but every shadow of that self-consciousness had blown away from him now. He wondered at himself even, while he looked at those letters closed and directed on his writing-table. What was it that had taken away from him all sense of dislike to this proceeding, all his old inclination to let things go as they would? With that curious tremor which was so full of firmness and force still vibrating through him, he went out, avoiding Phil, who was lying in wait for him, and who moaned his absence like a sheep deprived of its lamb—which, I think, was something like the parental feeling Phil experienced for his tutor—and set out for a long solitary walk across country, leaping ditches and stumbling across ploughed fields, by way of exhausting a little his own superabundant force and energy. Only a day or two since how dreary was the feeling with which he had left the house, where perhaps, for aught he knew, Gussy was at the moment thinking, with a sickening at his heart which seemed to make all nature dim, how he must never see her again, how he had pledged himself to keep out of the way, never to put himself consciously where he might have even the dreary satisfaction of a look at her. The same pledge was upon him still, and Edgar was ready to keep it to the last letter of his promise; but now it had become a simple dead letter. There was no more force, no more vital power in it, to keep the two apart, who had but one strong wish between them. He could keep it now gaily, knowing that he was in heart emancipated from it. There was nothing he could not have done on that brilliant wintry afternoon, when the sun shone upon him as if he had wanted cheering, and every pool glittered, and the sky warmed and flushed under his gaze with all the delightful sycophancy of nature for the happy. The dullest afternoon would have been just the same to Edgar. He was liberated, he was inspired, he felt himself a strong man, and with his life before him. Cold winds and dreary skies would have had no effect upon his spirits, and for this reason, I suppose, everything shone on him and flattered. To him that hath, shall be given.

He was not to get back, however, without being roused from this beatific condition to a consciousness of his humanity. As he passed through the village, chance drew Edgar’s eye to the house which Lady Mary had noted as that of the doctor, and about which Miss Annetta Baker had discoursed so largely. A cab was at the door, boxes were standing about the steps, and an animated conversation seemed to be going on between two men, one an elderly personage without a hat, who stood on the steps with the air of a man defending his door against an invader, while another and younger figure, standing in front of the cab, seemed to demand admission. “The new doctor has arrived before the old one is ready to go away,” Edgar said to himself, amused by the awkwardness of the situation. He slackened his pace, that the altercation might be over before he passed, and saw the coach man surlily putting back again the boxes upon the cab. The old doctor pointed over Edgar’s head to a cottage in the distance, where, he was aware, there was lodgings to be had; and as Edgar approached, the new doctor, as he supposed the stranger to be, turned reluctantly away, with a word to some one in the cab, which also began to turn slowly round to follow him. The stranger came along the broad sandy road which encircled the Green, towards Edgar, who, on his side, approached slowly. What was there in this slim tall figure which filled him with vague reminiscences? He got interested in spite of himself; was it some one he had known in his better days? who was it? The same fancy, I suppose, rose in the mind of the new-comer. When he turned round for the second time, after various communications with the inmates of the cab, and suddenly perceived Edgar, who was now within speaking distance, he gave a perceptible start. Either his reminiscences were less vague, or he was more prepared for the possibility of such a meeting. He hurried forward, holding out his hand, while Edgar stood still like one stunned. “Dr. Murray?” he said, at last, feeling for the moment as if he had been transported back to Loch Arroch. He was too bewildered to say more.

“You are very much surprised to see me,” said Charles Murray, with his half-frank, half-sidelong aspect; “and it is not wonderful. When we met last I had no thought of making any move. But circumstances changed, and a chance threw this in my way. Is it possible that we are so lucky as to find you a resident here?”

“For the moment,” said Edgar; “but indeed I am very much surprised. You are to be Dr. Frank’s successor? It is very odd that you should hit upon this village of all the world.”

“I hope it is a chance not disagreeable to either of us,” said the young doctor, with a glance of the suspicion which was natural to him; “but circumstances once more seem against us,” he added hurriedly, going back to the annoyance, which was then uppermost. “Here I have to go hunting through a strange place for lodgings at this hour,—my sister tired by a long journey. By the way, you have not seen Margaret; she is behind in the cab; all because the Franks forsooth, cannot go out of their house when they engaged to do so!”

“But the poor lady, I suppose, could not help it,” said Edgar, “according to what I have heard.”

“No, I suppose she couldn’t help it—on the whole,” he allowed, crossly. “Cabman, stop a moment—stop, I tell you! Margaret, here is some one you have often heard of—our cousin, who has been so good to the dear old granny—Edgar Earnshaw.”

Dr. Charles pronounced these last words with a sense of going further than he had ever gone before, in intimacy with Edgar. He had never ventured to call his cousin by his Christian name; and even now it was brought in by a side wind, as it were, and scarcely meant so much as a direct address. Edgar turned with some curiosity to the cab, to see the sister whom he had seen waiting at the station for Dr. Murray some months ago. He expected to see a pretty and graceful young woman; but he was not prepared for the beauty of the face which looked at him from the carriage-window with a soft appealing smile, such as turns men’s heads. She was tall, with a slight stoop (though that he could not see) and wore a hat with a long feather, which drooped with a graceful undulation somewhat similar, he thought, to the little bow she made him. She was pale, with very fine, refined features, a large pair of the softest, most pathetic blue eyes, and that smile which seemed to supplicate and implore for sympathy. There was much in Margaret’s history which seemed to give special meaning to the plaintive affecting character of her face; but her face was so by nature, and looked as if its owner threw herself upon your sympathies, when indeed she had no thought of anything of the sort. A little girl of six or seven hung upon her, standing up in the carriage, and leaning closely against her mother’s shoulder, in that clinging inseparable attitude, which, especially when child and mother are both exceptionally handsome, goes to the heart of the spectator. Edgar was subjugated at once; he took off his hat and went reverently to the carriage-door, as if she had been a saint.

“It is very pleasant that you should be here, and I am very glad to see you,” she said, in soft Scotch accents, in which there was a plaintive, almost a complaining tone. Edgar found himself immediately voluble in his regrets as to the annoyance of their uncomfortable reception, and, ere he knew what he was doing, had volunteered to go with Dr. Charles to the lodgings, to introduce him, and see whether they were satisfactory. He could not quite understand why he had done it, and thus associated himself with a man who did not impress him favourably, as soon as he had turned from the door of the cab, and lost sight of that beautiful face; of course he could not help it, he could not have refused his good offices to any stranger, he said to himself. He went on with his cousin to the cottage, where the landlady curtseyed most deeply to the gentleman from Tottenham’s, and was doubly anxious to serve people who were his friends; and before he left he had seen the beautiful new-comer, her little girl as always standing by her side leaning against her, seated on a sofa by a comfortable fire, and forgetting or seeming to forget, her fatigues. Dr. Charles could not smile so sweetly or look so interesting as his sister; he continued to inveigh against Dr. Franks, and his rashness in maintaining possession of the house.

“But the poor thing could not help it,” said Margaret, in her plaintive voice, but not without a gleam of fun (if that were possible without absolute desecration) in her eyes.

“They should not have stayed till the last moment; they should have made sure that nothing would happen,” the doctor said, hurrying in and out, and filling the little sitting-room with cloaks and wraps, and many small articles. Margaret made no attempt to help him, but she gave Edgar a look which seemed to say, “Forgive him! poor fellow, he is worried, and I am so sorry he has not a good temper.” Edgar did not know what to make of this angelical cousin. He walked away in the darkening, after he had seen them settled, with a curious feeling, which he could not explain to himself. Was he guilty of the meanness of being annoyed by the arrival of these relatives, who were in a position so different from that of his other friends? Was it possible that so paltry, so miserable a feeling could enter his mind—or what was it? Edgar could render no distinct account to himself of the sensation which oppressed him; but as he walked rapidly up the avenue in the quickly falling darkness, he felt that something had happened, which, somehow or other, he could not tell how, was to affect his future life.

Edgar felt so strong an inclination to say nothing about the sudden arrival of his cousins, that he thought it best to communicate at once what had happened. He told his hosts at dinner, describing the brother and sister, and Margaret’s remarkable beauty, which had impressed him greatly.

“And really you did not know she was so pretty?” Lady Mary said, fixing a searching look upon him. Instant suspicion flashed up in her mind, a suspicion natural to womankind, that his evident admiration meant at least a possibility of something else. And if she had been consistent, no doubt she would have jumped at this, and felt in it an outlet for all her difficulties, and the safest of all ways of detaching Edgar from any chance of influence over her niece; but she was as inconsistent as most other people, and did not like this easy solution of the difficulty. She offered promptly to call upon the new-comers; but she did not cease to question Edgar about them with curiosity, much sharpened by suspicion. She extracted from him, in full detail, the history of the Murrays, of Margaret’s early widowhood, and the special union which existed between her and her brother. Harry Thornleigh had arrived at Tottenham’s that day, and the story interested him still more than it did Lady Mary. Poor Harry was glad enough to get away from his father’s sole companionship; but he did not anticipate very much enjoyment of the kindred seclusion here. He grasped at Edgar as a drowning man grasps at a rope.

“I say, let’s go somewhere and smoke. I have so many things to tell you, and so many things to ask you,” he cried, when Lady Mary had gone to bed, and Mr. Tottenham, too, had departed to his private retirement, and Edgar, not knowing, any more than Harry himself did, that young Thornleigh was set over him as a sentinel, to guard him from all possibility of mischief, was but too glad to find himself with an uninstructed bystander, from whom he could have those bare “news” without consciousness or under-current of meaning, which convey so much more information than the scrap of enlightenment which well-meaning friends dole out with more and more sparing hands, in proportion as the feelings of the hearer are supposed to be more or less concerned. Harry was not so ignorant as Edgar thought him. He was not bright, but he flattered himself on being a man of the world, and was far from being uninterested in Gussy’s persistent neglect of all possible “opportunities.” “A girl don’t stand out like that without some cause for it,” Harry would have said, sagaciously; but he was too knowing to let it be perceived that he knew.

“There is a deal of difference up at home now,” he said. “I don’t mean my father—but you can’t think what changes Arden has made. Do you like to hear, or don’t you like to hear? I’ll guide myself accordingly. Very well, then I’ll speak. He’s on the right side in politics, you know, which you never were, and that’s a good thing: but he’s done everything you felt yourself bound not to do. Clare don’t like it, I don’t think. You should see the lot of new villas and houses. Arden ain’t a bit like Arden; it’s a new spick and span Yankee sort of town. I say, what would the old Squire have thought? but Arthur Arden don’t care.”

“He is right enough, Harry. He was not bound to respect anyone’s prejudices.”

“Well, there was Clare,” said Thornleigh. “They may be prejudices, you know; but I wouldn’t spite my wife for money—I don’t think. To be sure, if a man wants it badly that’s an excuse; but Arden has plenty of money, thanks to you. What a softy you were, to be sure, not to say anything disagreeable! Even if I had had to give up in the end, wouldn’t I have made him pay!”

“Never mind that,” said Edgar. “Tell me some more news. He hasn’t changed the house, I suppose, and they are very happy, and that sort of thing? How is she looking”? It is three years since I left, and one likes to hear of old friends.”

“Happy?” said Harry, “meaning Mrs. Arden? She’s gone off dreadfully; oh, I suppose she’s happy enough. You know, old fellow,” the young man continued, with a superior air of wisdom, “I don’t pretend to believe in the old-fashioned idea of living happy ever after. That’s bosh! but I daresay they’re just as comfortable as most people. Clare has gone off frightfully. She’s not a bit the girl she was; and of course Arden can’t but see that, and a man can’t be always doing the lover.”

“Is it so?” cried Edgar, with flashing eyes. He got up unconsciously, as if he would have rushed to Clare’s side on the spot, to defend her from any neglect. All the old affection surged up in his heart. “My poor Clare!” he said, “and I cannot do anything for you! Don’t think me a fool, Harry. She’s my only sister, though she doesn’t belong to me; and that fellow—What do you mean by gone off? She was always pale.”

“Oh, he don’t beat her or that sort of thing,” said Thornleigh. “She’s safe enough. I wouldn’t excite myself, if I were you; Mrs. Arden can take care of herself; she’ll give as good as she gets. Well, you needn’t look so fierce. I don’t think, as far as I’ve heard, that she stood up like that for you.”

“She was very good to me,” said Edgar, “better than I deserved, for I was always a trouble to her, with my different ways of thinking; and the children,” he added, softly, with an ineffable melting of his heart over Clare’s babies, which took him by surprise. “Tell me all you can, Harry. Think how you should feel if you had not heard of your own people for so many years.”

“I don’t know that I should mind much,” said honest Harry; “there are such heaps of them, for one thing; and children ain’t much in my way. There’s two little things, I believe—little girls, which riles Arden. Helena’s got a baby, by the way—did you know?—the rummiest little customer, bald, like its father. Nell was as mad as could be when I said so. By Jove! what fun it was! with a sort of spectacled look about the eyes. If that child don’t take to lecturing as soon as it can speak, I’ll never trust my judgment again.”

Edgar did not feel in a humour to make any response to young Thornleigh’s laughter. He felt himself like an instrument which was being played upon, struck by one rude touch after another, able to do nothing but give out sounds of pain or excitement. He could do nothing to help Clare, nothing to liberate Gussy; and yet Providence had thrust him into the midst of them without any doing of his, and surrounded him once more with at least the reflection of their lives. He let Harry laugh and stop laughing without taking any notice. He began to be impatient of his own position, and to feel a longing to plunge again into the unknown, it did not matter where, and get rid of those dear visions. Excitement brought its natural reaction in a sudden fit of despondency. If he could do nothing—and it was evident he could do nothing—would it not be better to save himself the needless pain, the mingled humiliation and anguish of helplessness? So long as he was here, he could not but ask, he could not but know. Though the ink was scarcely dry upon the letters he had been writing, the cry for aid to establish himself somehow, in an independent position which he had sent forth to all who could help—a sudden revulsion of feeling struck him, brought out by his despair and sense of impotence. Far better to go away to Australia, to New Zealand, to the end of the world, and at least escape hearing of the troubles he could do nothing to relieve, than to stay here and know all, and be able to do nothing. An instrument upon which now one strain of emotion, now another, was beaten out—that was the true image. Lady Mary had played upon him the other day, eliciting all sorts of confused sounds, wound up by a sudden strain of rapture; and now Harry struck the passive cords, and brought forth vaguer murmurs of fury, groans of impotence, and pain. It would not do. He was not a reed to be thus piped upon, but a man suffering, crying out in his pain, and he must make an end of it. Thus he thought, musing moodily, while Harry laughed over his sister’s bald baby. Harry himself was a dumb Memnon, whom no one had ever woke into sound, and he did not understand anything about his companion’s state of mind.

“Have you come to an end of your questions?” he said. “You ain’t so curious as I expected. Now here goes on my side? First and foremost, in the name of all that’s wonderful, how did you come here?”

Edgar shrugged his shoulders. “You will do me a better service if you will tell me how to get out of here,” he said. “I was a fool to stay. To tell the truth, I had not woke up to any particular interest in what became of me. I had only myself to think of; but I can’t bear to remember them all, and have nothing to do with them—that’s the truth.”

“You must make up your mind to that, old fellow,” said Harry, the philosopher; “few people get just all they want. But you can’t go and run away for that. You shouldn’t have run away at the first. It’s the coming back that does it. I know. You thought it was all over and done with, and that you could begin straight off, without coming across old things and old faces. I’ve turned over about as many new leaves, and made about as many fresh starts as most people, and I can feel for you. It ain’t no manner of use; you can’t get done with one set of people and take up with another; the old ones are always cropping up again,” said Harry, oracularly. “You’ve got to make up your mind to it. But I must say,” he added, changing his tone, “that of all places in the world for getting shut of the past, to come here!”

“I was a fool,” said Edgar, with his head between his hands. Up to this moment he had thought of Harry Thornleigh as a somewhat stupid boy. Now the young man of the world had the better of him. For the first time he fully realised that he had been foolish in coming here, and had placed himself in an exceptionally difficult position by his own act, and not by the action of powers beyond his control, as he thought. In short, he had allowed himself to be passive, to drift where the current led him, to do what was suggested, to follow any one that took it upon him to lead. I suppose it is consistent with the curious vagaries of human nature that this sudden sense of his impotence to direct his fate should come just after the warm flush of self-assertion and self-confidence which had made him feel his own fate to be once more worth thinking of. Harry, elevated on his calm height of matter-of-fact philosophy, had never in his life experienced so delightful a sense of capacity to lecture another, and he did not lose the opportunity.

“Don’t be down about it,” he said, condescendingly. “Most fellows make some mistake or other when they come to again after a bad fall. The brain gets muzzy, you know; and between a stark staring madman like old Tottenham, and a mature Syren like Aunt Mary, what were you to do? I don’t blame you. And now you’ve done it, you’ll have to stick to it. As for Clare Arden, I shouldn’t vex myself about her. She knew the kind of fellow she was marrying. Besides, if a man was to put himself out for all his sisters, good Lord! what a life he’d have. I don’t know that Helena’s happy with that professor fellow. If she ain’t, it’s her own business; she would have him. And I don’t say Clare’s unhappy. She’s not the sort of person to go in for domestic bliss, and make a show of herself. Cheer up, old fellow; things might be a deal worse. And ain’t old Tottenham a joke? But, by-the-way, take my advice; don’t do too much for that little cub of his. He’ll make a slave of you, if you don’t mind. Indeed,” said Harry, lighting a fresh cigar, “they’ll all make a slave of you. Don’t you let my lady get the upper hand. You can always manage a woman if you take a little trouble, but you must never let her get the upper hand.”

“And how do you manage a woman, oh, Solomon?” said Edgar, laughing, in spite of himself.

“I’ve had a deal of experience,” said Harry, gravely; “it all depends on whether you choose to take the trouble. The regular dodge about young men having their fling, and that sort of thing, does for my mother; she’s simple, poor dear soul. Aunt Mary wants a finer hand. Now you have the ball at your feet, if you choose to play it; only make a stand upon your mind, and that sort of thing, and she’ll believe you. She wouldn’t believe me if I were to set up for a genius, ’cause why? that’s not my line. Be difficile,” said Harry, imposingly, very proud of his French word; “that’s the great thing; and the more high and mighty you are, the more she’ll respect you. That’s my advice to you. As for dear old Tottenham, you can take your choice, anything will do for him; he’s the best old fellow, and the greatest joke in the world.”

With this Harry lit his candle and marched off to bed, very well pleased with himself. He had done all that Lady Augusta had hoped for. So far as his own family were concerned, he had comported himself like a precocious Macchiavelli. He had named no names, he had made no allusions, he had renewed his old friendship as frankly as possible, without however indulging Edgar in a single excursion into the past. He had mentioned Helena, who was perfectly safe and proper to be mentioned, a sign that he talked to his old friend with perfect freedom; but with the judgment of a Solomon he had gone no further. Not in vain did Harry flatter himself on being a man of the world. He was fond of Edgar, but he would have considered his sister’s choice of him, in present circumstances, as too ludicrous to be thought of. And there can be little doubt that Harry’s demeanour had an influence upon Edgar far more satisfactory for Lady Augusta than her sister’s intervention had been. All the visionary possibilities that had revealed themselves in Lady Mary’s warning, disappeared before the blank suavity of Harry. In that friendly matter-of-fact discussion of his friend’s difficulties, he had so entirely left out the chief difficulty, so taken it for granted that nothing of the kind existed, that Edgar felt like a man before whom a blank wall has suddenly risen, where a moment before there were trees and gardens. Harry’s was the man’s point of view, not the woman’s. Those regrets and longings for what might have been, which Lady Mary could not prevent from influencing her, even when she sincerely wished that the might have been should never be, were summarily extinguished in Harry’s treatment. Of course the old must crop up, and confront the new, and of course the complication must be faced and put up with, not run away from. Such was the young man of the world’s philosophy. Edgar sat long after he was gone, once more feeling himself the instrument on which every one played, rather than a conscious actor in the imbroglio. The image got possession of his fanciful brain. Like the thrill of the chords after the hand that struck them had been withdrawn, he seemed to himself to keep on vibrating with long thrills of after sensation, even when the primary excitement was over. But words are helpless to describe the thousand successive changes of feeling of which the mind is capable at a great crisis, especially without immediate power to act one way or another. Edgar, in despair, went and shut himself into the library and read, without knowing well what he read. The passage of those long processions of words before his eyes, gave him a certain occupation, even if they conveyed but little meaning. How easy it would be to do anything; how difficult it was to bear, and go on, and wait!

All this, perhaps, might be easier to support if life were not so cruelly ironical. That morning Edgar, who felt his own position untenable, and whose future seemed to be cut off under his feet—who felt himself to be standing muffled and invisible between two suffering women, each with the strongest claim upon him, for whom he could do nothing—was carried off to assist in getting up an entertainment at Mr. Tottenham’s shop. Entertainments, in the evening—duets, pieces on the cornet, Trial Scene from Pickwick; and in the morning, lectures, the improvement of Lady Mary Tottenham’s mind, and the grand office of teaching the young ladies of Harbour Green to think! What a farce it all seemed! And what an insignificant farce all the lighter external circumstances of life always seem to the compulsory actors in them, who have, simultaneously, the tragedy or even genteel comedy of their own lives going on, and all its most critical threads running through the larger lighter foolish web which concerns only the outside of man. The actor who has to act, and the singer who has to sing, and the romancist who has to go on weaving his romance through all the personal miseries of their existence, is scarcely more to be pitied than those unprofessional sufferers who do much the same thing, without making any claim, or supposing themselves to have any right to our sympathy. Edgar was even half glad to go, to get himself out of the quiet, and out of hearing of the broken bits of talk which went on around him; but I do not think that he was disposed to look with a very favourable eye on the entertainment at Tottenham’s, or even on the benevolent whimsey of the owner of that enormous shop.

Harry Thornleigh was anything but content to be left alone at Tottenham’s. He proposed that he should accompany Edgar and Mr. Tottenham, but the latter personage, benevolent as he was, had the faculty of saying No, and declined his nephew’s company. Then he wandered all about the place, looked at the house, inspected the dogs, strolled about the plantations, everything a poor young man could do to abridge the time till luncheon. He took Phil with him, and Phil chattered eternally of Mr. Earnshaw.

“I wish you wouldn’t call him by that objectionable name,” said Harry.

“It’s a capital good name,” cried Phil. “I wish you could see their blazon, in Gwillim. Earnshaw says it ain’t his family; but everybody says he’s a great swell in disguise, and I feel sure he is.”

“Hallo!” said Harry, idly, “what put that into your head? It’s all the other way, my fine fellow.”

“I don’t know what you mean by the other way. His name wasn’t always Earnshaw,” said Phil, triumphantly. “They’ve got about half a hundred quarterings, real old gentry, not upstarts like us.”

“That’s admirable,” said Harry. “I suppose that’s what you study all the time you are shut up together, eh?”

“No, he don’t care for heraldry, more’s the pity,” said Phil. “I can’t get him to take any interest. It’s in other ways he’s so jolly. I say, I’ve made up a coat for us, out of my own head. Listen! First and fourth, an ellwand argent; second and third, three shawls proper—But you don’t understand, no more than Earnshaw does. I showed it to the mother, and she boxed my ears.”

“Serve you right, you little beggar. I say, Phil, what is there to do in this old place? I’m very fond of Tottenham’s in a general way, but I never was here in winter before. What are you up to, little ’un? There’s the hounds on Thursday, I know; but Thursday’s a long way off. What have you got for a fellow to do, to-day?”

“Come up to the gamekeeper’s and see the puppies,” said Phil; “it’s through the woods all the way. Earnshaw went with me the other day. They’re such jolly little mites; and if you don’t mind luncheon very much, we can take a long stretch on to the pond at Hampton, and see how it looks. It’s shallower than our pond here.”

“I don’t care for a muddy walk, thanks,” said Harry, contemplating his boots, “and I do mind luncheon. Come along, and I’ll teach you billiards, Phil. I suppose there’s a billiard table somewhere about.”

“Teach me!” cried Phil, with a great many notes of admiration; “why, I can beat Earnshaw all to sticks!”

“If you mention his name again for an hour, I’ll punch your head,” cried Harry, and strolled off dreamily to the billiard-room, Phil following with critical looks. The boy liked his cousin, but at the same time he liked to have his say, and did not choose to be snubbed.

“What a thing it is to have nothing to do!” he said, sententiously. “How often do you yawn of a morning, Harry? We’re not allowed to do that. Earnshaw—”

“You little beggar! didn’t I promise to punch your head?” cried Harry; and they had an amiable struggle at the door of the billiard-room, by which Phil’s satirical tendencies were checked for the moment.

“Ain’t you strong, just!” Phil said, after this trial, with additional respect.

But notwithstanding the attractions of the billiard-table, Harry, yawning, stalked into luncheon with an agreeable sense of variety. “When you have nothing else to do, eat,” he said, displaying his wisdom in turn, for the edification of Phil. “That’s a great idea; I learned it at Oxford where it’s very useful.”

“And not very much else, acknowledge, Harry,” said Lady Mary.

“Well, as much as I was wanted to learn. You are very hard upon a fellow, Aunt Mary. John, I allow, was intended to do some good; but me, no one expected anything from me—and why should a fellow bother his brains when he hasn’t got any, and doesn’t care, and nobody cares for him? That’s what I call unreasonable. I suppose you’ll keep poor Phil at high pressure, till something happens. It ain’t right to work the brain too much at his age.”

“What about John?” said Lady Mary, “he has gone back to Oxford and is working in earnest now, isn’t he? Your mother told me—”

“Poor dear old mother, she’s so easy taken in, it’s a shame. Yes, he’s up at old Christ Church, sure enough; but as for work! when a thing ain’t in a fellow, you can’t get it out of him,” said Harry oracularly. “I don’t say that that isn’t rather hard upon the old folks.”

“You are a saucy boy to talk about old folks.”

“Well, they ain’t young,” said Harry calmly. “Poor old souls, I’m often sorry for them. We haven’t turned out as they expected, neither me nor the rest. Ada an old maid, and Gussy a ‘Sister,’ which is another name for an old maid, and Jack ploughed, and me—well, I’m about the best if you look at it dispassionately. By the way, no, little Mary’s the best. There is one that has done her duty; but Granton has a devil of a temper though they don’t know it. On the whole, I think the people who have no children are the best off.”

“Upon what facts may that wise conclusion rest?” said Lady Mary.

“I have just given you a lot of facts; me, Jack, Ada, Gussy, and you may add, Helena. Five failures against one success; if that ain’t enough to make life miserable I don’t know what is. I am very sorry for the Governor; my mother takes it easier on the whole, though she makes a deal more fuss; but it’s deuced hard upon him, poor old man. The Thornleighs don’t make such a figure in the county now as they did in his days; for it stands to reason that eight children, with debts to pay, &c., takes a good deal out of the spending-money; and of course the old maids of the family must come upon the estate.”

“When you see the real state of the case so plainly,” said Lady Mary, “and express yourself so sensibly—don’t you think you might do something to mend matters, and make your poor father a little happier?”

“Ah, that’s different,” said Harry, “I’ve turned over so many new leaves I don’t believe in them now. Besides a fellow gets into a groove and what is he to do?”

“Phil, if you have finished your lunch, you and Molly may run away and amuse yourselves,” said Lady Mary, feeling that here was an opportunity for moral influence. The two children withdrew rather unwillingly, for like all other children they were fond of personal discussions, and liked to hear the end of everything. Harry laughed as they went away.

“You want to keep Phil out of hearing of my bad example,” he said, “and you are going to persuade me to be good, Aunt Mary; I know all you’re going to say. Don’t you know I’ve had it all said to me a hundred times? Don’t bother yourself to go over the old ground. May I have the honour of attending your ladyship anywhere this afternoon, or won’t you have me, any more than Mr. Tottenham?”

“Oh, Harry, you’re a sad boy,” said Lady Mary, shaking her head. She had thought, perhaps, that she might have put his duty more clearly before him than any previous monitor had been able to do, for we all have confidence in our own special powers in this way; but she gave up judiciously when she saw how her overture was received. “I am going to the village,” she said, “to call upon those new people, Mr. Earnshaw’s cousins.”

“Oh, the beauty!” cried Harry with animation, “come along! Sly fellow to bring her here, where he’ll be always on the spot.”

“Ah, that was my first idea; but he knew nothing of it. To tell the truth,” said Lady Mary, “I wish it were so; I should be a good deal easier in my mind, and so would your mother if I could believe he was thinking seriously of anyone—in his own rank of life.”

“Why, I thought you were a democrat, and cared nothing for rank; I thought you were of the opinion that all men are equal, not to speak of women—”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Harry; an abstract belief, one way or other, has nothing to do with one’s family arrangements. I like Mr. Earnshaw very much; he is more than my equal, for he is an educated man, and knows much more than I do, which is my standard of position; but still, at the same time, I should not like him—in his present circumstances—to enter my family—”

“Though a few years ago we should all have been very glad of him,” said Harry. “Oh, I agree with you entirely, Aunt Mary. If Gussy is such a fool she must be stopped, that’s all. I’d have no hesitation in locking her up upon bread and water rather than stand any nonsense. I’d have done the same by Helena if I’d had my way.”

“How odd,” said Lady Mary, veering round instantly, and somewhat abashed to find herself thus supported, “and yet you are young, and might be supposed to have some sort of sympathy—”

“Not a bit,” cried Harry, “I don’t mind nonsense; but as soon as it gets serious I’m serious too. If this fellow, whom you call Earnshaw, has any notions of that kind I’ll show him the difference. Oh, yes, I like him; but you may like a fellow well enough, and not give him your sister. Besides, what made him such a fool as to give up everything? He might have fought it out.”

“Harry, you are very worldly—you do not understand generous sentiments—”

“No, I don’t,” said Harry stoutly, “what’s the good of generous sentiments if all that they bring you to is tutorizing in a private family? I’d rather put my generous sentiments in my pocket and keep my independence. Hallo, here’s your pony carriage. Shall you drive, or shall I?”

Lady Mary was crushed by her nephew’s straightforward worldliness. Had she been perfectly genuine in her own generosity, I have no doubt she would have metaphorically flown at his throat; but she was subdued by the consciousness that, much as she liked Edgar, any sort of man with a good position and secure income would appear to her a preferable husband for Gussy. This sense of weakness cowed her, for Harry, though he was stupid intellectually, was more than a match for his aunt in the calm certainty of his sentiments on this point. He was a man of the world, disposed to deal coolly with the hearts and engagements of his sisters, which did not affect him personally, and quite determined as to the necessary character of any stranger entering his family, which did affect him.

“I will have no snobs or cads calling me brother-in-law,” he said. “No, he ain’t a snob nor a cad; but he’s nobody, which is just the same. It’s awfully good of you to visit these other nobodies, his relations. Oh, yes, I’ll go in with you, and see if she’s as pretty as he said.”

The lodging in which Dr. Murray had established himself and his sister, so much against his will, was a succession of low-roofed rooms in a cottage of one story, picturesque with creepers and heavy masses of ivy, but damp, and somewhat dark. The sitting-room was very dim on this wintry afternoon. It was a dull day, with grey skies and mist; the two little windows were half-obscured with waving branches of ivy, and the glimmer of the fire flickered into the dark corners of the dim green room. You could scarcely pass from the door to the fireplace without dragging the red and blue tablecloth off the table, or without stumbling against the sofa on one side, or the little chiffonier on the other. When Lady Mary went in, like a queen to visit her subjects, two figures rose simultaneously to meet her. Margaret had been seated in the recess of the window to catch the last rays of the afternoon, and she let her work drop hurriedly out of her fingers, and rose up, undecipherable, except in outline, against the light. Dr. Charles rose too in the same way against the firelight. Neither of the four could make each other out, and the strangers were embarrassed and silent, not knowing who their visitor was. Lady Mary, however, fortunately was equal to the occasion. She introduced herself, and mentioned Edgar, and introduced her nephew, all in a breath. “I am so sorry you should have had so uncomfortable a reception,” she said, “but you must not be angry with poor Mrs. Franks, for it could not be helped.”

“Oh, no, it could not be helped,” they both said, in unison, with low Scotch voices, the accent of which puzzled Lady Mary; and then Margaret added, still more softly, “I am sorry for her, poor woman, stopped at such a moment.” The voice was very soft, shy, full of self-consciousness and embarrassment. Harry stood by the window, and looked out, and felt more bored than ever. He had come to see a beauty, and he saw nothing but the little grass-plot before the cottage-door, shut in by bushes of holly and rhododendron. And Lady Mary went on talking in a sort of professional lady-of-the-manor strain, telling Dr. Murray what he had to look forward to, and wherein Dr. Franks had been deficient.

“You will find it a very good house, when you can get in to it,” she said, “and a pleasant neighbourhood;” and then in the little pause that followed these gracious intimations, Edgar’s name was introduced, and the mutual surprise with which his cousins and he had met; while the brother and sister explained, both together, now one strange soft voice breaking in, now the other, how much and how little they knew of him, Harry still stood leaning on the window, waiting, with a little impatience, till his aunt should have got through her civilities. But just then the mistress of the cottage appeared, holding in both hands a homely paraffin lamp, by no means free of smell, which she placed on the table, suddenly illuminating the dim interior. Harry had to move from the window while she proceeded to draw down the blinds, and thus of a sudden, without warning or preparation, he received the electric shock which had been preparing for him. Margaret had seated herself on the end of the little sofa close to the table. She had raised her eyes to look at him, probably with something of the same curiosity which had brought him to the cottage—Lady Mary’s nephew, a person in the best society, could not be without interest to the new-comers. Margaret looked up at him with the unconscious look of appeal which never went out of her beautiful eyes. The young man was, to use his own language, struck “all of a heap.” He thought she was asking something of him. In his hurry and agitation, he made a step towards her.

“You were asking—” cried Harry, eagerly, affected as he had never been in his life before. What was it she wanted? He did not stop to say to himself how beautiful she was. He felt only that she had asked him for something, and that if it were the moon she wanted, he would try to get it for her. His sudden movement, and the sound of his voice, startled Lady Mary too, who could not make out what he meant.

“I did not say anything,” said Margaret, in the slightly plaintive voice which was peculiar to her, with a smile, which seemed to the young man like thanks for the effort he had made. He took a chair, and drew it to the table, not knowing what he did. A sudden maze and confusion of mind came over him, in which he felt as if some quite private intercourse had gone on between this stranger and himself. She had asked him, he could not tell for what—and he had thrown his whole soul into the attempt to get it for her; and she had thanked him. Had this happened really, or was it only a look, a smile that had done it? The poor boy could not tell. He drew his chair close to the table to be near her. She was not a stranger to him; he felt at once that he could say anything to her, accept anything from her. He was dazed and stunned, yet excited and exhilarated by her mere look, he could not tell why.

And the talk went on again. Harry said nothing; he sat casting a glance at her from time to time, eager, hoping she would ask that service from him once more. Perhaps Margaret was accustomed to produce this effect on strangers. She went on in her plaintive voice, telling how little she knew of Edgar, and what he had done for his family, in an even flow of soft speech, answering all Lady Mary’s questions, not looking at the new worshipper—while Dr. Murray, in his embarrassed way, anxious to make a good impression, supplemented all his sister said. Margaret was not embarrassed; she was shy, yet frank; her eyes were cast down generally as she talked, over the work she held in her hands, but now and then she raised them to give emphasis to a sentence, looking suddenly full in the face of the person she was addressing. It was her way. She renewed her spell thus from moment to moment. Even Lady Mary, though she had all her wits about her, was impressed and attracted; and as for poor Harry, he sat drawing his chair closer and closer, trying to put himself so near as to intercept one of those glances which she raised to Lady Mary’s face.

“Our old mother brought us up,” she said. “I cannot tell how good she was to Charles and me, and what it cost us not to be rich enough to help her.”

“Margaret,” said Dr. Charles, “Lady Mary cannot care to hear all this about you and me.”

“Oh, pray go on, I am so much interested,” said Lady Mary.

“For we have never been rich, never anything but poor,” said Margaret, suddenly lifting her beautiful eyes, and thus giving double effect to the acknowledgment; while her brother fretted a little, and moved on his chair with impatience of her frankness.

“We have been able to make our way,” he said, in an under-tone.

“You see, I have always been a drag on him, I and my little girl,” she went on, with a soft sigh, “so that he was not able to help when he wanted to help. And then Mr. Earnshaw came in, and did all, and more than all, that Charles could have hoped to do. For this we can never think too highly of him, never be grateful enough.”

“It was what any fellow would have done,” interrupted Harry, putting his head forward. He did not know what he was saying. And Lady Mary, suddenly looking at him, took fright.

“Thank you so much for telling me this,” she said, rising. “I am so glad to hear another good thing of Mr. Earnshaw who is one of my first favourites. For his sake you must let me know if there is anything I can do to make you comfortable. Harry, it is time for us to go; it will be quite dark in the avenue. Pardon me, Dr. Murray, but I don’t know your sister’s name; foolishly, I never thought to ask?”

“Mrs. Smith,” said Dr. Charles, as they both got up, filling the little dark room with their tall figures. Harry did not know how he made his exit. One moment, it seemed to him he was surrounded with an atmosphere of light and sadness from those wonderful blue eyes, and the next he was driving along the darkling road, with the sound of the wheels and the ponies’ hoofs ringing all about him, and unsympathetic laughter breaking from under Lady Mary’s veil by his side.

“Mrs. Smith!” she cried; “what a prodigious anti-climax! It was all I could do to keep my gravity till I got outside. That wonderful creature with such eyes, and her pretty plaintive voice. It is too absurd. Mrs. Smith!”

“You seem to enjoy the joke!” said Harry, stiffly, feeling offended.

“Enjoy the joke! don’t you? But it was rather a shock than a joke. What a pretty woman! what a pretty voice! It reminds me of blue-bells and birch trees, and all kinds of pleasant things in Burns and Scott. But Mrs. Smith! And how that lamp smelt! My dear Harry, I wish you would be a little more cautious, or else give me the reins. I don’t want to be upset in the mud. Mrs. Smith!”

“You seem to be mightily amused,” said Harry, more gruff than ever.

“Yes, considerably; but I see you don’t share my amusement,” said Lady Mary, still more amused at this sudden outburst of temper, or propriety, or whatever it might be.

“I always thought you were very sympathetic, Aunt Mary,” said the young man, with a tone of dignified reproof. “It is one of the words you ladies use to express nothing particular, I suppose? The girls are always dinning it into my ears.”

“And you think I don’t come up to my character, Harry?”

“I don’t understand your joke, I confess,” said Harry, with the loftiest superiority, drawing up at the great hall door.

Mr. Tottenham came back from town that evening alone. He explained that Earnshaw had stayed behind on business. “Business partly mine, and partly his own; he’s the best fellow that ever lived,” was all the explanation he gave to his wife; and Lady Mary was unquestionably curious. They talked a great deal about Edgar at dinner that evening, and Phil made himself especially objectionable by his questions and his indignation.

“He hasn’t been here so long that he should go away,” said Phil. “Don’t he like us, papa? I am sure there is something wrong by your face.”

“So am I,” said little Molly. “You only look like that when some one has been naughty. But this time you must have made a mistake. Even you might make a mistake. To think of Mr. Earnshaw being naughty, like one of us, is ridiculous.”

“Naughty!” cried Phil. “Talk of things you understand, child. I’d like to know what Earnshaw is supposed to have done,” cried the boy, swelling with indignation and dignity, with tears rising in his eyes.

“I’ve locked him up in the dark closet in the shop till he will promise to be good,” said the father, with a laugh; “and if you will throw yourself at my feet, Molly, and promise to bear half of his punishment for him, I will, perhaps, let him out to-morrow.”

Little Molly half rose from her chair. She gave a questioning glance at her mother before she threw herself into the breach; while Phil, reddening and wondering, stood on the alert, ready to undertake he knew not what.

“Nonsense, children; sit down; your father is laughing at you. Seriously, Tom, without any absurdity, what is it?” cried Lady Mary. “I wanted him so to-morrow to hear the first lecture—and he did not mean to stay in town when he left here this morning.”

“It is business, mere business,” repeated Mr. Tottenham. “We are not all fine ladies and gentlemen, like you and Phil, Molly. Some of us have to work for our living. If it hadn’t been for Earnshaw, I should, perhaps, have stayed myself. I think we had better stay in town the night of the entertainment, Mary. It will be a long drive for you back here, and still longer for the children. They are going to have a great turn out. I have been writing invitations all day to the very finest of people. I don’t suppose Her Grace of Middlemarch ever heard anything so fine as Mr. Watson’s solo on the cornet. And, Phil, I rely on you to get an encore.”

“Oh! I like old Watson. I’ll clap for him,” cried Phil, with facile change of sentiments; though little Molly kept still eyeing her father and mother alternately, not quite reassured. And thus the conversation slid away from Edgar to the usual crotchets of the establishment.

“We have settled all about the seats, and about the refreshments,” said Mr. Tottenham, with an air of content. “You great people will sit in front, and the members of the establishment who are non-performers, on the back seats; and the grandest flunkies that ever were seen shall serve the ices. Oh! John is nothing to them. They shall be divinely tall, and powdered to their eyebrows; in new silk stockings taken from our very best boxes, for that night only. Ah, children, you don’t know what is before you! Miss Jemima Robinson is to be Serjeant Buzfuz. She is sublime in her wig. She is out of the fancy department, and is the best of saleswomen. We are too busy, we have too much to do to spend time in improving our minds, like you and your young ladies, Mary; but you shall see how much native genius Tottenham’s can produce.”

Harry Thornleigh kept very quiet during this talk. His head was still rather giddy, poor fellow; his balance was still disturbed by the face and the eyes and the look which had come to him like a revelation. It would be vain to say that he had never been in love before; he had been in love a dozen times, lightly, easily, without much trouble to himself or anyone else. But now he did not know what had happened to him. He kept thinking what she would be likely to like, what he could get for her—if, indeed, he ever was again admitted to her presence, and had that voiceless demand made upon him. Oh! what a fool he had been, Harry thought, to waste his means and forestall his allowance, and spend money for no good, when all the time there was existing in the world a being like that! I don’t know what his allowance had to do with it, and neither, I suppose, did Harry; but the thought went vaguely through his head amid a flood of other thoughts equally incoherent. He was glad of Edgar’s absence, though he could not have told why; and when Lady Mary began, in the drawing-room after dinner, to describe the new-comer to her husband, he sat listening with glaring eyes till she returned to that stale and contemptible joke about Mrs. Smith, upon which Harry retired in dudgeon, feeling deeply ashamed of her levity. He went to the smoking-room and lit his cigar, and then he strolled out, feeling a want of fresh air, and of something cool and fresh to calm him down. It was a lovely starlight night, very cold and keen. All the mists and heavy vapours had departed with the day, and the sky over Tottenham’s was ablaze with those silvery celestial lights, which woke I cannot tell how many unusual thoughts, and what vague inexplicable emotion and delicious sadness in Harry’s mind. Something was the matter with him; he could have cried, though nobody was less inclined to cry in general; the water kept coming to his eyes, and yet his soul was lost in a vague sense of happiness. How lovely the stars were; how stupid to sit indoors in a poky room, and listen to bad jokes and foolish laughter when it was possible to come out to such a heavenly silence, and to all those celestial lights. The Aurora Borealis was playing about the sky, flinging waving rosy tints here and there among the stars, and as he stood gazing, a great shadowy white arm and hand seemed to flit across the heavens, dropping something upon him. What was it? the fairy gift for which those blue eyes had asked him, those eyes which were like the stars? Harry was only roused from his star-gazing by the vigilant butler, attended by a footman with a lantern, who made a survey of the house every night, to see that all the windows and doors were shut, and that no vagrants were about the premises.

“Beg your pardon, Sir,” said that functionary, “but there’s a many tramps about, and we’re obliged to be careful.”

Harry threw away his cigar, and went indoors; but he did not attempt to return to the society of his family. Solitude had rather bored him than otherwise up to this moment; but somehow he liked it that night.

Next morning was as bright and sunshiny as the night had been clear, and Lady Mary was again bound for the village, with Phil and his sister.

“Come with us, Harry; it will do you good to see what is going on,” she said.

Harry had no expectation of getting any good, but he had nothing to do, and it seemed possible that he might see or hear of the beautiful stranger, so he graciously accompanied the little party in their walk. Lady Mary was in high spirits. She had brought all her schemes to completion, and on this day her course of lectures was to begin. Nothing could surpass her own conscientiousness in the matter. No girl graduate, or boy graduate either, for that matter, was ever more determined to work out every exercise and receive every word of teaching from the instructors she had chosen. I do not think that Lady Mary felt herself badly equipped in general for the work of life; indeed, I suppose she must have felt, as most clever persons do, a capability of doing many things better than other people, and of understanding any subject that was placed before her, with a rapidity and clearness which had been too often remarked upon to be unknown to herself. She must have been aware too, I suppose, that the education upon which she harped so much, had not done everything for its male possessors which she expected it to do for the women whose deficiencies she so much lamented. I suppose she must have known this, though she never betrayed her consciousness of it; but by whatever means it came about, it is certain that Lady Mary was a great deal more eager for instruction, and more honestly determined to take the good of it, than any one of the girls at Harbour Green for whose benefit she worked with such enthusiasm, and who acquiesced in her efforts, some of them for fun, some of them with a half fictitious reflection of her enthusiasm, and all, or almost all, because Lady Mary was the fashion in her neighbourhood, and it was the right thing to follow her in her tastes and fancies. There was quite a pretty assembly in the schoolroom when the party from Tottenham’s arrived—all the Miss Witheringtons in a row, and the young ladies from the Rectory, and many other lesser lights. Harry Thornleigh was somewhat frightened to find himself among so many ladies, though most of them were young, and many pretty.

“I’ll stay behind backs, thanks,” he said, hurriedly, and took up a position near the door, where Phil joined him, and where the two conversed in whispers.

“They’re going to do sums, fancy,” said Phil, opening large eyes, “mamma and all! though nobody can make them do it unless they like.”

“By Jove!” breathed Harry into his moustache. Amaze could go no further, and he felt words incapable of expressing his sentiments. I don’t know whether the spectacle did the young fellow good, but it stupefied and rendered him speechless with admiration or horror, I should not like to say which. “What are they doing it for?” he whispered to Phil, throwing himself in his consternation even upon that small commentator for instruction.

Phil’s eyes were screwed tightly in his head, round as two great O’s of amazement; but he only shook that organ, and made no response. I think, on the whole, Phil was the one of all the assembly (except his mother) who enjoyed it most. He was privileged to sit and look on, while others were, before his eyes, subjected to the torture from which he had temporarily escaped. Phil enjoyed it from this point of view; and Lady Mary enjoyed it in the delight of carrying out her plan, and riding high upon her favourite hobby. She listened devoutly while the earliest propositions of Euclid were being explained to her, with a proud and happy consciousness that thus, by her means, the way to think was opened to a section at least of womankind; and what was more, this very clever woman put herself quite docilely at her lecturer’s feet, and listened to every word he said with the full intention of learning how to think in her own person—notwithstanding that, apart from her hobby, she had about as much confidence in her own power of thought as most people. This curious paradox, however, is not so uncommon that I need dwell upon it. The other persons who enjoyed the lecture most, were, I think, Myra Witherington, who now and then looked across to her friend Phil, and made up her pretty face into such a delightful copy of the lecturer’s, that Phil rolled upon his seat with suppressed laughter; and Miss Annetta Baker, who—there being no possibility of croquet parties at this time of the year—enjoyed the field-day immensely, and nodded to her friends, and made notes of Lady Mary’s hat, and of the new Spring dresses in which the Rectory girls certainly appeared too early, with genuine pleasure. The other ladies present did their best to be very attentive. Sometimes a faintly smothered sigh would run through the assembly; sometimes a little cough, taken up like a fugue over the different benches, gave a slight relief to their feelings; sometimes it would be a mere rustle of dresses, indicative of a slight universal movement. The curate’s wife, unable to keep up her attention, fell to adding up her bills within herself, a much more necessary mathematical exercise in her case, but one also which did very little towards paying the same, as poor Mrs. Mildmay knew too well. Miss Franks, the old doctor’s eldest daughter, after the first solemnity of the commencement wore off, began to think of her packing, and what nonsense it was of papa to send her here when there was so much to do—especially as they were leaving Harbour Green, and Lady Mary’s favour did not matter now. There was one real student, besides Lady Mary, and that was Ellen Gregory, the daughter of the postmistress, who sat far back, and was quite unthought of by the great people, and whose object was to learn a little Euclid for an approaching examination of pupil-teachers, and not in the least the art of thinking. Ellen was quite satisfied as to her powers in that particular; but she knew the effect that a little Euclid had upon a school-inspector, and worked away with a will, with a mind as much intent as Lady Mary’s, and eyes almost as round as Phil’s.

From this it will be seen that Lady Mary’s audience was about as little prepared for abstract education as most other audiences. When it was over, there was a pleasant stir of relief, and everybody began to breathe freely. The lecturer came from behind his table, and the ladies rose from their benches, and everybody shook hands.

“Oh, it was delightful, Lady Mary!” said the eldest Miss Witherington; “how it does open up one’s mental firmament.”

“Mr. Thornleigh, will you help me to do the fourth problem?” said Myra. “I don’t understand it a bit—but of course you know all about it.”

“I!” cried Harry, recoiling in horror, “you don’t mean it, Miss Witherington? It’s a shame to drag a fellow into this sort of thing without any warning. I couldn’t do a sum to save my life!”

“Lady Mary, do you hear? is it any shame to me not to understand it, when a University man says just the same?” cried Myra, laughing. Poor Harry felt himself most cruelly assailed, as well as ill-used altogether, by being led into this extraordinary morning’s work.

“I hope there’s more use in a University than that rot,” he said. “By Jove, Aunt Mary! I’ve often heard women had nothing to do—but if you can find no better way of passing your time than doing sums and problems, and getting up Euclid at your time of life——”

“Take him away, for heaven’s sake, Myra!” whispered Lady Mary; “he is not a fool when you talk to him. He is just like other young men, good enough in his way; but I can’t be troubled with him now.”

“Ah!” cried Myra, with an unconscious imitation of Lady Mary’s own manner, which startled, and terrified, and enchanted all the bystanders, “if the higher education was only open to us poor women, if we were not persistently kept from all means of improving ourselves—we might get in time to be as intellectual as Mr. Thornleigh,” she added, laughing in her own proper voice.

Lady Mary did not hear the end of this speech; she did not see herself in the little mimic’s satire. She was too much preoccupied, and too serious to notice the fun—and the smiles upon the faces of her friends annoyed without enlightening her.

“How frivolous we all are,” she said, turning to the eldest Miss Baker, with a sigh; “off at a tangent, as soon as ever the pressure is removed. I am sure I don’t want to think it—but sometimes I despair, and feel that we must wait for a new generation before any real education is possible among women. They are all like a set of schoolboys let loose.”

“My dear Lady Mary, that is what I am always telling you; not one in a hundred is capable of any intellectual elevation,” said the only superior person in the assembly; and they drew near the lecturer, and engaged him in a tough conversation, though he, poor man, having done his duty, and being as pleased to get it over as the audience, would have much preferred the merrier crowd who were streaming—with suppressed laughter, shaking their heads and uttering admonitions to wicked Myra—out into the sunshine, through the open door.

“Don’t do that again,” cried Phil, very red. “I say, Myra, I like you and your fun, and all that; but I’ll never speak to you again, as long as I live, if you take off mamma!”

“I didn’t mean it, dear,” said Myra, penitent. “I’m so sorry, I beg your pardon, Phil. Lady Mary’s a dear, and I wouldn’t laugh at her for all the world. But don’t you ever mimic anyone, there’s a good boy; for one gets into the habit without knowing what one does.”

“Oh, that’s all very fine,” said Phil, feeling the exhortation against a sin for which he had no capability to be out of place; but he did not refuse to make up the incipient quarrel. As for Harry, he had not listened, and consequently was not aware how much share he had in the cause of the general hilarity.

“I should like to know what all the fun’s about,” he said. “Good lord! to see you all at it like girls at school! Ladies are like sheep, it seems to me—where one goes you all follow; because that good little aunt of mine has a craze about education, do you all mean to make muffs of yourselves? Well, I’m not a man that stands up for superior intellect and that sort of thing—much; but, good gracious! do you ever see men go in for that sort of nonsense?”

“That is because you are all so much cleverer, and better educated to start with, Mr. Thornleigh,” said Sissy Witherington. He looked up at her to see if she were laughing at him; but Sissy was incapable of satire, and meant what she said.

“Well, perhaps there is something in that,” said Harry, mollified, stroking his moustache.

Harry lunched with the Witheringtons at their urgent request, and thus shook himself free from Phil, who was disposed, in the absence of Earnshaw, to attach himself to his cousin. Mrs. Witherington made much of the visitor, not without a passing thought that if by any chance he should take a fancy to Myra—and of course Myra to him, though that was a secondary consideration—why, more unlikely things might come to pass. But Harry showed no dispositions that way, and stood and stared out of the window of the front drawing-room, after luncheon, towards Mrs. Smith’s lodgings, on the other side of the Green, with a pertinacity which amazed his hostesses. When he left them he walked in the same direction slowly, with his eyes still fixed on the cottage with its green shutters and dishevelled creepers. Poor Harry could not think of any excuse for a second call; he went along the road towards the cottage hoping he might meet the object of his thoughts, and stared in at the window through the matted growth of holly and rhododendrons in the little garden, equally without effect. She had been seated there on the previous evening, but she was not seated there now. He took a long walk, and came back again once more, crossing slowly under the windows, and examining the place; but still saw nothing. If Margaret had only known of it, where she sat listlessly inside feeling extremely dull, and in want of a little excitement, how much good it would have done her! and she would not have been so unkind as to refuse her admirer a glance. But she did not know, and Harry went back very unhappy, dull and depressed, and feeling as if life were worth very little indeed to him. Had that heavenly vision appeared, only to go out again, to vanish for ever, from the eyes which could never forget the one glimpse they had had of her? Harry had never known what it was to be troubled with extravagant hopes or apprehensions before.

“Still no Mr. Earnshaw,” said Lady Mary. “This business of his and yours is a long affair then, Tom. I wanted to send down to those cousins of his to ask them to dinner, or something. I suppose I must write a little civil note, and tell Mrs. Smith why I delay doing so. It is best to wait till he comes back.”

“I’ll take your note, Aunt Mary,” said Harry, with alacrity. “Oh, no, it will not inconvenience me in the least. I shall be passing that way.”

“I suppose you want to see the beauty again?” said Lady Mary, smiling. “She is very pretty. But I don’t care much for the looks of the brother. He has an uncertain way, which would be most uncomfortable in illness. If he were to stand on one foot, and hesitate, and look at you like that, to see what you were thinking of him, when some one was ill! A most uncomfortable doctor. I wish we may not have been premature about poor old Dr. Franks.”

“Anyhow it was not your doing,” said Mr. Tottenham.

Lady Mary blushed slightly. She answered with some confusion: “No, I don’t suppose it was.” But at the same time she felt upon her conscience the weight of many remarks, as to country practitioners, and doctors of the old school, and men who did not advance with the progress of science even in their own profession, which she had made at various times, and which, no doubt, had gone forth with a certain influence. She had not had it in her power to influence Dr. Franks as to the person who should succeed him; but she had perhaps been a little instrumental in dethroning the old country doctor of the old school, whose want of modern science she had perceived so clearly. These remarks were made the second day after the lecture, and Edgar had not yet returned. Nobody at Tottenham’s knew where he was, or what had become of him; nobody except the master of the house, who kept his own counsel. Harry had made another unavailing promenade in front of Mrs. Smith’s lodgings on the day before, and had caught a glimpse of Margaret in a cab, driving with her brother to some patient, following the old lofty gig which was Dr. Franks’ only vehicle. He had taken off his hat, and stood at the gate of Tottenham’s, worshipping while she passed, and she had given him a smile and a look which went to his heart. This look and smile seemed the sole incidents that had happened to Harry; he could not remember anything else; and when Lady Mary spoke of the note his heart leaped into his mouth. She had, as usual, a hundred things to do that morning while he waited, interviews with the housekeeper, with the gardener, with the nurse, a hundred irrelevant matters. And then she had her letters to write, a host of letters, at which he looked on with an impatience almost beyond concealment—letters enclosing circulars, letters asking for information, letters about her lectures, about other “schemes” of popular enlightenment, letters to her friends, letters to her family. Harry counted fifteen while he waited. Good lord! did any clerk in an office work harder? “And most of them about nothing, I suppose,” Harry said cynically to himself. Luncheon interrupted her in the middle of her labours, and Harry had to wait till that meal was over before he could obtain the small envelope, with its smaller enclosure, which justified his visit. He hurried off as soon as he could leave the table, but not without a final arrangement of his locks and tie. The long avenue seemed to flee beneath his feet as he walked down, the long line of trees flew past him. His heart went quicker than his steps, and so did his pulse, both of them beating so that he grew dizzy and breathless. Why this commotion? he said to himself. He was going to visit a lady whom he had only seen once before; the loveliest woman he had ever seen in his life, to be sure; but it was only walking so quickly, he supposed, which made him so panting and excited. He lost time by his haste, for he had to pause and get command of himself, and calm down, before he could venture to go and knock at the shabby little green door.

Margaret was seated on the end of the little sofa, which was placed beside the fire. This, he said to himself, no doubt was the reason why he had not seen her at the window. She had her work-basket on the table, and was sewing, with her little girl seated on a stool at her feet. The little girl was about seven, very like her mother, seated in the same attitude, and bending her baby brows over a stocking which she was knitting. Margaret was very plainly, alas! she herself felt, much too plainly-dressed, in a dark gown of no particular colour, with nothing whatever to relieve it except a little white collar; her dark hair, which she also lamented over as quite unlike and incapable of being coaxed into, the fashionable colour of hair, was done up simply enough, piled high up upon her head. She had not even a ribbon to lend her a little colour. And she was not wise enough to know that chance had befriended her, and that her beautiful pale face looked better in this dusky colourless setting, in which there was no gleam or reflection to catch the eye, than it would have done in the most splendid attire. She raised her eyes when the door opened and rose up, her tall figure, with a slight wavering stoop, looking more and more like a flexile branch or tall drooping flower. She put out her hand quite simply, as if he had been an old friend, and looked no surprise, nor seemed to require any explanation of his visit, but seated herself again and resumed her work. So did the child, who had lifted its violet eyes also to look at him, and now bent them again on her knitting. Harry thought he had never seen anything so lovely as this group, the child a softened repetition of the mother—in the subdued greenish atmosphere with winter outside, and the still warmth within.

“I came from my aunt with this note,” said Harry, embarrassed. She looked up again as he spoke, and this way she had of looking at him only now and then gave a curious particularity to her glance. He thought, poor fellow, that his very tone must be suspicious, that her eyes went through and through him, and that she had found him out. “I mean,” he added, somewhat tremulously, “that I was very glad of—of the chance of bringing Lady Mary’s note; and asking you how you liked the place.”

“You are very kind to come,” said Margaret in her soft voice, taking the note. “It’s a little lonely, knowing nobody—and a visit is very pleasant.”

The way in which she lingered upon the “very,” seemed sweetness itself to Harry Thornleigh. Had a prejudiced Englishman written down the word, probably he would, after Margaret’s pronunciation, have spelt it “varry;” but that would be because he knew no better, and would not really represent the sound, which had a caressing, lingering superlativeness in it to the listener. She smiled as she spoke, then opened her letter, and read it over slowly. Then she raised her eyes to his again with still more brightness in them.

“Lady Mary is very kind, too,” she said, with a brightening of pleasure all over her face.

“She’s waiting for your cousin to come back—I suppose she says so—before asking you to the house; and I hope it will not be long first, for I am only a visitor here,” said Harry impulsively. Margaret gave him another soft smile, as if she understood exactly what he meant.

“You are not staying very long, perhaps?” she said.

“Oh, for some weeks, I hope; I hope long enough to improve my acquaintance with—with Dr. Murray and yourself.”

“I hope so too,” said Margaret, with another smile. “Charlie is troubled with an anxious mind. To see you so friendly will be very good for him, very good.”

“Oh, I hope you will let me be friendly!” cried Harry, with a glow of delight. “When does he go out? I suppose he is busy with the old doctor, visiting the sick people. You were with him yesterday—”

“He thinks it is good for my health to go with him; and then he thinks I am dull when he’s away,” said Margaret. “He is a real good brother; there are not many like him. Yes, he is going about with Dr. Franks nearly all the day.”

“And you are quite alone, and dull? I am so sorry. I wish you would let me show you the neighbourhood; or if you would come and walk in the park or the wood—my aunt, I am sure, would be too glad.”

“Oh, I’m not dull,” said Margaret. “I have my little girl. She is all I have in the world, except Charles; and we are great companions, are we no, Sibby?”

This was said with a change in the voice, which Harry thought, made it still more like a wood-pigeon’s note.

“Ay are we,” said the little thing, putting down her knitting, and laying back her little head, like a kitten, rubbing against her mother’s knee. Nothing could be prettier as a picture, more natural, more simple; and though the child’s jargon was scarcely comprehensible to Harry, his heart answered to this renewed appeal upon it.

“But sometimes,” he said, “you must want other companionship than that of a child.”

“Do I?” said Margaret, pressing the little head against her. “I am not sure. After all, I think I’m happiest with her, thinking of nothing else; but you, a young man, will scarcely understand that.”

“Though I am a young man, I think I can understand it,” said Harry. He seemed to himself to be learning a hundred lessons, with an ease and facility he was never conscious of before. “But if I were to come and take you both out for a walk, into the woods, or through the park, to show you the country, that would be good both for her and you.”

“Very good,” said Margaret, raising her eyes, “and very kind of you; but I think I know why you’re so very good. You know my cousin, Edgar Earnshaw, too?”

“Yes; I know him very well,” said Harry.

“He must be very good, since everybody is so kind that knows him; and fancy, I don’t know him!” said Margaret. “Charles and he are friends, but Sibby and I have only seen him once. We have scarcely a right to all the kind things that are done for his sake.”

“Oh, it isn’t for his sake,” cried Harry. “I like him very much; but there are other fellows as good as he is. I wouldn’t have you make a hero of Edgar; he is odd sometimes, as well as other folks.”

“Tell me something about him; I don’t know him, except what he did for Granny,” said Margaret. “It’s strange that, though I am his relative, you should know him so much better. Will you tell me? I would like to know.”

“Oh, there’s nothing very wonderful to tell,” said Harry, somewhat disgusted; “he’s well enough, and nice enough, but he has his faults. You must not think that I came for his sake. I came because I thought you would feel a little lonely, and might be pleased to have some one to talk to. Forgive me if I was presumptuous.”

“Presumptuous! no,” said Margaret, with a smile. “You were quite right. Would you like a cup of tea? it is just about the time. Sibby, go ben and tell Mrs. Sims we will have some tea.”

“She is very like you,” said Harry, taking this subject, which he felt would be agreeable, as a new way of reaching the young mother’s heart.

“So they tell me,” said Margaret. “She is like what I can mind of myself, but gentler, and far more good. For, you see, there were always two of us, Charlie and me.”

“You have always been inseparable?”

“We were separated, so long as I was married; but that was but two years,” said Margaret, with a sigh; and here the conversation came to a pause.

Harry was so touched by her sigh and her pause, that he did not know how to show his sympathy. He would have liked to say on the spot, “Let me make it all up to you now;” but he did not feel that this premature declaration would be prudent. And then he asked himself, what did she mean? that the time of her separation from her brother was sad? or that she was sad that it came to an end so soon? With natural instinct, he hoped it might be the former. He was looking at her intently, with interest and sympathy in every line of his face, when she looked up suddenly, as her manner was, and caught him—with so much more in his looks than he ventured to say.

Margaret was half amused, half touched, half flattered; but she did not let the amusement show. She said, gratefully, “You are very kind to take so much interest in a stranger like me.”

“I do not feel as if you were a stranger,” cried Harry eagerly; and then not knowing how to explain this warmth of expression, he added in haste, “you know I have known—we have all known your cousin for years.”

Margaret accepted the explanation with a smile, “You all? You are one of a family too—you have brothers and sisters like Charles and me?”

“Not like you. I have lots of brothers and sisters, too many to think of them in the same way. There is one of my sisters whom I am sure you would like,” said Harry, who had always the fear before his eyes that the talk would flag, and his companion get tired of him—a fear which made him catch wildly at any subject which presented itself.

“Yes?” said Margaret, “tell me her name, and why you think I would like her best.”

From this it will be seen that she too was not displeased to keep up the conversation, nor quite unskilled in the art.

“The tea’s coming,” said little Sibby, running in and taking her seat on her footstool. Perhaps Harry thought he had gone far enough in the revelation of his family, or perhaps only that this was a better subject. He held out his hand and made overtures of friendship to the little girl.

“Come and tell me your name,” he said, “shouldn’t you like to come up with me to the house, and play with my little cousins in the nursery? There are three or four of them, little things. Shouldn’t you like to come with me?”

“No without mamma,” said little Sibby, putting one hand out timidly, and with the other clinging to her mother’s dress.

“Oh, no,” said Harry, “not without mamma, she must come too; but you have not told me your name. She is shy, I suppose.”

“A silly thing,” said Margaret, stroking her child’s dark hair. “Her name is Sybilla, Sybil is prettier; but in Scotland we call it Sibby, and sometimes Bell for short. Now, dear, you must not hold me, for the gentleman will not eat you, and here is the tea.”

Harry felt himself elected into one of the family, when Mrs. Sims came in, pushing the door open before her, with the tray in her arms; upon which there was much bread and butter of which he partook, finding it delightful, with a weakness common to young men in the amiable company of the objects of their affection. He drew his chair to the table opposite to Margaret, and set Sibby up on an elevated seat at the other side, and felt a bewildering sensation come over him as if they belonged to him. It was not a very high ideal of existence to sit round a red and blue table in a cottage parlour of a winter’s afternoon, and eat bread and butter; but yet Harry felt as if nothing so delightful and so elevating had ever happened to him before in all his life.

It was a sad interruption to his pleasure, when Dr. Murray came in shortly afterwards, pushing the door open as Mrs. Sims had done, and entering with the air of a man to whom, and not to Harry, the place belonged. He had his usual doubtful air, looking, as Lady Mary said, to see what you thought of him, and not sure that his sister was not showing an injudicious confidence in thus revealing to Harry the existence of such a homely meal as tea. But he had no desire to send the visitor away, especially when Margaret, who knew her brother’s humour, propitiated him by thrusting into his hand Lady Mary’s note.

“I am sure her Ladyship is very kind,” he said, his face lighting up, “Margaret, I hope you have written a proper reply.”

“When we have had our tea, Charles—will you not have some tea?” his sister said; she always took things so easily, so much more easily than he could ever do.

“Oh, you are having tea with the child, five o’clock tea,” said the poor doctor, who was so anxious to make sure that everybody knew him to have been “brought up a gentleman;” and he smiled a bland uneasy smile, and sat down by Sibby. He would not take any bread and butter, though he was hungry after a long walk; he preferred Harry to think that he was about to dine presently, which was far from being the case. But Harry neither thought of the matter nor cared; he had no time nor attention to spare, though he was very civil to her brother, and engaged him at once in conversation, making himself agreeable with all his might.

“I suppose you are making acquaintance with quantities of people, and I hope you think you will like the place,” he said.

“Yes, a great many people,” said Dr. Charles, “and it was full time that somebody should come who knew what he was doing. Dr. Franks, I am afraid, is no better than an old wife.”

“Oh, Charlie, how rashly you speak! he always says out what he thinks,” said Margaret with an appealing look at Harry, “and it is often very far from a wise thing to do.”

“Bravo, Aunt Mary will be delighted,” cried Harry, “it is what she always said.”

“I knew Lady Mary Tottenham was very talented,” said Dr. Murray with some pomp, “and that she would see the state of affairs. I can’t tell you what a pleasure and support it is to have a discriminating person in the neighbourhood. He is just an old wife. You need not shake your head at me, Margaret, I know Mr. Thornhill is a gentleman, and that he will not repeat what is said.”

“Surely not,” said Harry, somewhat surprised to find himself thus put on his honour; “but my name is Thornleigh; never mind, it was a very simple mistake.”

The doctor blushed with annoyance, and confounded himself in excuses. Harry took his leave before these apologies were half over. He was rather glad to get away at the last, feeling that a shadow had come over his happiness; but before he had left the Green, this momentary shade disappeared, and all the bliss of recollection came back upon him. What an hour he had spent, of happiness pure and unalloyed, with so many smiles, so many looks to lay up as treasures! how lovely she was, how simple, how superior to everything he had ever seen before! Talk of fashion, Harry said to himself hotly, talk of rank and society and high birth, and high breeding! here was one who had no need of such accessories, here was a perfect creature, made in some matchless mould that the world had never seen before; and how kindly she had looked at him, how sweetly talked to him! What had he done, that he should have suddenly fallen upon such happiness?

Life had become a new thing altogether for Harry Thornleigh. Up to this time his existence had been that of his immediate surroundings, an outward life so to speak. The history of the visible day in any household of which he formed a part would have been his history, not much more nor less; but this easy external existence was over for him. He began to have a double being from the moment he saw Margaret. All that he was most conscious of, was within him, a life of thought, of recollection, of musing, and imagination; and external matters affected him but vaguely through the cloud of this more intimate consciousness. Yet his faculties were at the same time quickened, and the qualities of his mind brought out—or so at least he felt. He had been very angry with Lady Mary for her mirth over Mrs. Smith’s name; but his new feelings (though they originated this anger) seemed to give him prudence and cleverness enough to make an instrument of the very jest he detested. He began to speak of Mrs. Smith the morning after his visit to her, restraining his temper admirably, and opening the subject in the most good-humoured way.

“I delivered your note, Aunt Mary,” he said; “you are right after all, about the name. It is ridiculous. Mrs. Smith! after being Miss Murray, as I suppose she was. She ought to change back again.”

“There are other ways of changing,” said Lady Mary, “and I daresay such a pretty woman could easily do it if she wished. Yes, I got a very nice little note from her, thanking me. Though I am disappointed in the brother, I must show them some civility. Did you hear when they were to get into their house?”

Harry had not heard; but he propitiated his aunt by telling her what was Dr. Murray’s opinion of his predecessor, an opinion which greatly comforted Lady Mary, and made her feel herself quite justified in the part she had taken in the matter.

“There must be more in him than I thought,” she said, in high good-humour; and then Harry felt bold to make his request.

“The sister,” he said, toning down the superlatives in which he felt disposed to speak of that peerless being, with an astuteness of which he felt half-ashamed, half-proud, “is rather lonely, I should think, in that poky little place; and she has a nice little girl about Molly’s age.” (This was a very wild shot, for Harry had about as much idea of their relative ages as he had about the distances between two stars). “They don’t know any one, and I don’t think she’s very strong. Without asking them formally, Aunt Mary, don’t you think you might have her and the child up to luncheon or something, to see the conservatories and all that? it would be a little change for them. They looked rather dismal in Mrs. Sims’ parlour, far from everything they know.”

“How considerate and kind of you, Harry!” cried Lady Mary. “I am ashamed of myself for not having thought of it. Of course, poor thing, she must be lonely—nothing to do, and probably not even any books. The Scotch all read; they are better educated a great deal than we are. To be sure, you are quite right. I might drive down to-morrow, and fetch her to lunch. But, by-the-by, I have Herr Hartstong coming to-morrow, who is to give the botany lecture—”

“An extra lady and a little girl would not hurt Herr Hartstong.”

“There is no telling,” said Lady Mary, with a laugh, “such a pretty creature as she is. But I think he has a wife already. I only meant I could not go to fetch her. But to be sure she’s a married woman, and I don’t see what harm there would be. You might do that.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” cried Harry, trying with all his might to keep down his exultation, and not let it show too much in his face and voice.

“Then we’ll settle it so. You can take the ponies, and a fur cloak to wrap her in, as she’s delicate; and Herr Hartstong must take his chance. But, by the way,” Lady Mary added, pausing, turning round and looking at him—“by the way, you are of a great deal more importance. You must take care she does not harm you.”

“Me!” said Harry, with a wild flutter at his heart, forcing to his lips a smile of contempt. “I am a likely person, don’t you think, to be harmed by anybody belonging to the country doctor? I thought, Aunt Mary, you had more knowledge of character.”

“Your class exclusivism is revolting, Harry,” cried Lady Mary, severely. “A young man with such notions is an anachronism; I can’t understand how you and I can come of the same race. But perhaps it’s just as well in this case,” she added, gliding back into her easier tone. “Your mother would go mad at the thought of any such danger for you.”

“I hope I can take care of myself by this time, without my mother’s help,” said Harry, doing his best to laugh. He was white with rage and self-restraint; and the very sound of that laugh ought to have put the heedless aunt, who was thus helping him on the way to destruction, on her guard. But Lady Mary’s mind was occupied by so many things, that she had no attention to bestow on Harry; besides the high confidence she felt in him as an unimpressionable blockhead and heart-hardened young man of the world.

To-morrow, however—this bliss was only to come to-morrow—and twenty-four hours had to be got through somehow without seeing her. Harry once more threw himself in the way persistently. He went down to the village, and called upon all his old acquaintances; he kept about the Green the whole afternoon; but Margaret did not appear. At last, when his patience would hold out no longer, he called at the cottage, saying to himself, that in case Lady Mary had forgotten to write, it would be kind to let her know what was in store for her. But, alas! she was not to be found at the cottage. How she had been able to go out without being seen, Harry could not tell, but he had to go back drearily at night without even a glimpse of her. What progress his imagination had made in three or four days! The very evening seemed darker, the stars less divine, the faint glimmers of the Aurora which kept shooting across the sky had become paltry and unmeaning. If that was all electricity could do, Harry felt it had better not make an exhibition of itself. Was it worth while to make confusion among the elements for so little? was it worth while to suffer the bondage of society, to go through luncheons and dinners, and all the common action of life without even a glance or a smile to make a man feel that he had a soul in him and a heaven above him? Thus wildly visionary had poor Harry become all in a moment, who had never of his own free will read a line of poetry in his life.

“I am so sorry to give you the trouble, Harry,” said Lady Mary, pausing for a moment in her conversation with Herr Hartstong (whose lecture was to be given next morning) to see the ponies go off.

“Oh! I don’t mind it once in a way,” said the young man, scarcely able to restrain the laughter with which, partly from sheer delight, partly from a sense of the ludicrous inappropriateness of her apology, he was bursting. He went down the avenue like an arrow, the ponies tossing their heads, and ringing their bells, the wintry sunshine gleaming on him through the long lines of naked trees. Margaret, to whom Lady Mary had written, was waiting for him with a flush of pleasure upon her pale face, and a look of soft grateful friendliness in her beautiful eyes.

“It was kind of you to come for us,” she said, looking up at him.

“I am so glad to come,” said Harry, with all his heart in his voice. He wrapt her in the warm furs, feeling somehow, with a delicious sense of calm and security, that, for the moment, she belonged to him. “The morning is so fine, and the ponies are so fresh, that I think we might take a turn round the park,” he said. “You are not afraid of them?”

“Oh no! the bonnie little beasties,” cried Margaret, leaning back with languid enjoyment. She had often harnessed the rough pony at Loch Arroch with her own hands, and driven him to the head of the loch without thinking of fear, though she looked now so dainty and delicate; but she did not feel inclined to tell Harry this, or even to recall to herself so homely a recollection. Margaret had been intended by nature for a fine lady. She lay back in the luxurious little carriage, wrapped in the furred mantle, and felt herself whisked through the sunny wintry air to the admiration of all beholders, with a profound sense of enjoyment. She liked the comfort dearly. She liked the dreamy pleasure which was half of the mind, and half of the body. She liked the curtseys of the gatekeepers, and the glances of the stray walkers, who looked after her, she thought, with envy. She felt it natural that she should thus be surrounded by things worthy, and pleasant, and comfortable. Even the supreme gratification of the young attendant by her side, whose infatuation began to shew itself so clearly in his eyes, was a climax of pleasure to Margaret, which she accepted easily without fear of the consequences.

Yes, she thought, he was falling in love with her, poor boy; and it is seldom unpleasant to be fallen in love with. Most probably his people would put a stop, to it, and as she did not mean to give him what she called “any encouragement,” there would be no harm done. Whereas, on the other hand, if his people did not interfere, there was always the chance that it might come to something. Margaret did not mean any harm—she was only disposed to take the Scriptural injunction as her rule, and to let the morrow care for the things of itself.

She lay back in the little carriage with the grey feather in her hat swaying like her slight figure, and Sibby held fast in her arms.

“I feel as if I were in a nest,” she said, when Harry asked tenderly if she felt the cold; and thus they flew round the park, where a little stir of Spring was visible in the rough buds, and where here and there one dewy primrose peeped forth in a sheltered nook—the ponies’ hoofs ringing, and their heads tossing, and their bells tinkling—Harry lost in a foolish joy beyond expression, and she wrapped in delicious comfort. He was thinking altogether of her, she almost altogether of herself—and of her child, who was another self.

“I have enjoyed it so much,” she said softly, as he helped her to get out in front of the hall door.

“I do not think I ever spent so happy a morning,” Harry said very low.

Margaret made no sign of having heard him. She walked upstairs without any reply, leaving him without ceremony. “He is going too fast,” she said to herself. And Harry was a little, just a little, mortified, but soon got over that, and went after her, and was happy once more—happy as the day was long. Indeed, the visit altogether was very successful. Margaret was full of adaptability, very ready to accept any tone which such a personage as Lady Mary chose to give to the conversation, and with, in reality, a lively and open intelligence, easily roused to interest. Besides, though an eager young admirer like Harry was pleasant enough, and might possibly become important, she never for a moment deceived herself as to the great unlikelihood that his friends would permit him to carry out his fancy; and the chance that, instead of bringing advantage, she might bring harm to herself and her brother if she gave any one a right to say that she had “encouraged” him. Whereas nothing but unmingled good could come from pleasing Lady Mary, who was, in every way, the more important person. This being the principle of Margaret’s conduct, it is almost unnecessary to say that Lady Mary found it perfect, and felt that nothing could be in better taste than the way in which the young Scotchwoman kept Harry’s attentions down, and accorded the fullest attention to her own observations. She even took her nephew aside after luncheon, to impress upon him a greater respect for their guest.

“This Mrs. Smith is evidently a very superior person,” said Lady Mary, “and I am sorry to see, Harry, that you are rather disposed to treat her simply as a very pretty young woman. I am not at all sure that you have not been trying to flirt with her during lunch.”

“I—flirt!—Aunt Mary,” stammered Harry, “you altogether mistake—”

“Oh, of course, you never did such a thing in your life,” she said mocking, “but this is not quite an ordinary young lady. The Scotch are so well educated—we can see at a glance that she has read a great deal, and thought as well—which is by no means common. If you take her round the conservatories, you must recollect that it is not a mere pretty girl you are with, Harry. She will not understand your nonsense,” said Lady Mary with a little warmth.

She, herself, had some final arrangements to make with Herr Hartstong, who was also very much interested in the graceful listener, from whom he had received such flattering attention. He made her his best bow, and hoped he should see her next day at the lecture, when Harry, doing his best to suppress all manifestations of feeling, led her away.

“It is so kind of you to let me treat you without ceremony,” said Lady Mary. “Show Mrs. Smith the orchids, Harry. Before you get to the palm tree, I shall be with you—” and then Harry was free and alone with his enchantress. He could not talk to her—he was so happy—he led her away quickly out of sight of his aunt—who had seated herself in a corner of the big drawing-room, to settle all her final arrangements with the botanist—and of Herr Hartstong’s big yellow eyes, which looked after him with suspicion. Harry was eager to get her to himself, to have her alone, out of sight of everybody; but when he had secured this isolation, he could not make much use of it. He was dumb with bliss and excitement—he took her into the fairy palace of flowers where summer reigned in the midst of winter; and instead of making use of his opportunities in this still perfumy place, where everything suited the occasion, found that he had nothing to say. He had talked, laboriously it is true, but still he had talked, when he had called on her at the cottage; he had made a few remarks while he drove her round the park; but on this, the first opportunity he had of being alone with her, he felt his tongue tied. Instead of taking her to the orchids as Lady Mary had suggested, he conducted her straight to the palm tree, and there placed her on the sofa, and stood by, gazing at her, concealing his agitation by cutting sprays of Cape jasmine, of which there happened to be a great velvety cluster in front of her seat.

“It is like something in a book,” said Margaret, with a sigh. “What a fine thing it is to be very rich! I never was in such a beautiful place.”

“Yes, it’s nice to be well off,” said Harry; “but heaps of people are well off who never could invent anything so pretty. You see Tottenham was very much in love with Aunt Mary. She’s a nice little woman,” he added, parenthetically. “A man in love will do a deal to please the woman he likes.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Margaret, feeling somewhat disposed to laugh; “and that makes it all the more interesting. Is Mr. Tottenham very poetical and romantic? I have not seen him yet.”

“Tottenham poetical!” cried Harry, with a laugh; “no, not exactly. And that’s an old affair now, since they’ve been married about a century; but it shows what even a dull man can do. Don’t you think love’s a very rum thing?” said the young man, cutting the Cape jasmine all to pieces; “don’t you think so? A fellow doesn’t seem to know what he is doing.”

“Does Lady Mary let you cut her plants to pieces, Mr. Thornleigh?” said Margaret, feeling her voice quaver with amusement. Upon which Harry stopped short, and looked sheepishly down at the bunch of flowers in his hand.

“I meant to get you a nosegay, and here is a great sheaf like a coachman’s bouquet on a drawing-room day,” cried Harry, half conscious of this very distinct commentary upon his words. “Never mind, I’ll tell the gardener. I suppose there are heaps more.”

“How delightful to have heaps more!” said Margaret. “I don’t think poor folk should ever be brought into such fairy places. I used to think myself so lucky with a half-a-dozen plants.”

“Then you are fond of flowers?” said Harry.

What woman, nay, what civilised person of the present age, ever made but one answer to such a question? There are a few people left in the world, and only a few, who still dare to say they are not fond of music; but fond of flowers!

“I do so wish you would let me keep you supplied,” said Harry, eagerly. “Trouble! it would be the very reverse of trouble; it would be the very greatest pleasure—and I could do it so easily—”

“Are you a cultivator, then?” said Margaret, “a great florist?” she said it with a half-consciousness of the absurdity, yet half deceived by his earnestness. Harry himself was startled for the moment by the question.

“A florist! Oh, yes, in a kind of a way,” he said, trying to restrain an abrupt momentary laugh. A florist? yes; by means of Covent Garden, or some ruinous London nurseryman. But Margaret knew little of such refinements. “It would be such a pleasure to me,” he said, anxiously. “May I do it? And then you will not be able quite to forget my very existence.”

Margaret got up, feeling the conversation had gone far enough. “May not I see the—orchids? It was the orchids I think that Lady Mary said.”

“This is the way,” said Harry, almost sullen, feeling that he had fallen from a great height. He went after her with his huge handful of velvety jasmine flowers. He did not like to offer them, he did not dare to strew them at her feet that she might walk upon them, which was what he would have liked best. He flung them aside into a corner in despite and vexation. Was he angry with her? If such a sentiment had been possible, that would have been, he felt, the feeling in his mind. But Margaret was not angry nor annoyed, though she had stopped the conversation, feeling it had gone far enough. To “give him encouragement,” she felt, was the very last thing that, in her position, she dared to do. She liked the boy, all the same, for liking her. It gave her a soothing consciousness of personal well-being. She was glad to please everybody, partly because it pleased herself, partly because she was of a kindly and amiable character. She had no objection to his admiration, to his love, if the foolish boy went so far, so long as no one had it in his power to say that she had given him encouragement; that was the one thing upon which her mind was fully made up; and then, whatever came of it, she would have nothing with which to reproach herself. If his people made a disturbance, as they probably would, and put a stop to his passion, why, then, Margaret would not be to blame; and if, on the contrary, he had strength of mind to persevere, or they, by some wonderful chance, did not oppose, why then Margaret would reap the benefit. This seems a somewhat selfish principle, looking at it from outside, but I don’t think that Margaret had what is commonly called a selfish nature. She was a perfectly sober-minded unimpassioned woman, very affectionate in her way, very kind, loving comfort and ease, but liking to partake these pleasures with those who surrounded her. If fate had decreed that she should marry Harry Thornleigh, she knew very well that she would make him an admirable wife, and she would have been quite disposed to adapt herself to the position. But in the meantime she would do nothing to commit herself, or to bring this end, however desirable it might be in itself, about.

“You must not take any more trouble with me,” said Margaret, “my brother will come up for me; it will be quite pleasant to walk down in the gloaming—I mean—” she added, with a slight blush over her vernacular, “in the twilight, before it is quite dark.”

“Oh! pray don’t give up those pretty Scotch words,” said Lady Mary, “gloaming is sweeter than twilight. Do you know I am so fond of Scotch, the accent as well as the words.”

Margaret replied only by a dubious smile. She would rather have been complimented on her English; and as she could not make any reply to her patroness’ enthusiasm, she continued what she was saying:

“Charles wishes to call and tell you how much he is gratified by your kindness, and the walk will be pleasant. You must not let me give you more trouble.”

“No trouble,” said Lady Mary, “but you shall have the close carriage, which will be better for you than Harry and the ponies. I hope he did not frighten you in the morning. I don’t think I could give him a character as coachman; he all but upset me the other night, when we left your house—to be sure I had been aggravating—eh, Harry?” she said, looking wickedly at him. “It was very good of you to let me have my talk out with the Professor; ladies will so seldom understand that business goes before pleasure. And I hope you will do as he asked, and come to the lecture to-morrow.”

“I am not very understanding about lectures,” said Margaret.

“Are not you? you look very understanding about everything,” said Lady Mary. She too, as well as Harry, had fallen in love with the doctor’s sister. The effect was not perhaps so sudden; but Lady Mary was a woman of warm sympathies, and sudden likings, and after a few hours in Margaret’s society she had quite yielded to her charm. She found it pleasant to look at so pretty a creature, pleasant to meet her interested look, her intelligent attention. There could not be a better listener, or a more delightful disciple; she might not perhaps know a great deal herself, but then she was so willing to adopt your views, or at least to be enlightened by them. Lady Mary sat by, and looked at her after the promenade round the conservatories, with all a woman’s admiration for beauty of the kind which women love. This, as all the world knows, is not every type; but Margaret’s drooping shadowy figure, her pathetic eyes, her soft paleness, and gentle deferential manner, were all of the kind that women admire. Lady Mary “fell in love” with the stranger. They were all three seated in the conservatory in the warm soft atmosphere, under the palm tree, and the evening was beginning to fall. The great fire in the drawing-room shone out like a red star in the distance, through all the drooping greenness of the plants, and they began half to lose sight of each other, shadowed, as this favourite spot was, by the great fan branches of the palm.

“I think there never was such delightful luxury as this,” said Margaret, softly. “Italy must be like it, or some of the warm islands in the sea.”

“In the South Sea?” said Lady Mary, smiling, “perhaps; but both the South Seas and Italy are homes of indolence, and I try all I can to keep that at arm’s length. But I assure you Herr Hartstong was not so poetical; he gave me several hints about the management of the heat. Do come to-morrow and hear him, my dear Mrs. Smith. Botany is wonderfully interesting. Many people think it a dilettante young-lady-like science; but I believe in the hands of a competent professor it is something very different. Do let me interest you in my scheme. You know, I am sure, and must feel, how little means of education there are—and as little Sibby will soon be craving for instruction like my child—”

“I suppose there is no good school for little girls here?” said Margaret, timidly; her tact told her that schools for little girls were not in question; but she did not know what else to say.

“Oh!” said Lady Mary, with momentary annoyance; “for mere reading and writing, yes, I believe there is one; but it is the higher instruction I mean,” she added, recovering herself, “probably you have not had your attention directed to it; and to be sure in Scotland the standard is so much higher, and education so much more general.”

Margaret had the good sense to make no reply. She had herself received a solid education at the parish school of Loch Arroch, along with all the ploughboys and milkmaids of the district, and had been trained into English literature and the Shorter Catechism, in what was then considered a very satisfactory way. No doubt she was so much better instructed than her patroness that Lady Mary scarcely knew what the Shorter Catechism was. But Margaret was not proud of this training, though she was aware that the parochial system had long been a credit to Scotland—and would much rather have been able to say that she was educated at Miss So-and-So’s seminary for young ladies. As she could not claim any such Alma Mater, she held her tongue, and listened devoutly, and with every mark of interest while Lady Mary’s scheme was propounded to her. Though, however, she was extremely attentive, she did not commit herself by any promise, not knowing how far her Loch Arroch scholarship would carry her in comparison with the young ladies of Harbour Green. She consented only conditionally to become one of Lady Mary’s band of disciples.

“If I have time,” she said; and then Lady Mary, questioning, drew from her a programme of her occupations, which included the housekeeping, Sibby’s lessons, and constant attendance, when he wanted her, upon her brother. “I drive with him,” said Margaret, “for he thinks it is good for my health—and then there is always a good deal of sewing.”

“But,” said Lady Mary, “that is bad political economy. You neglect your mind for the sake of the sewing, when there are many poor creatures to whom, so to speak, the sewing belongs, who have to make their livelihood by working, and whom ladies’ amateur performances throw out of bread.”

Thus the great lady discoursed the poor doctor’s sister, who but for him would probably have been one of the said poor creatures; this, however, it did not enter into Lady Mary’s mind to conceive. Margaret was overawed by the grandeur of the thought. For the first moment, she could not even laugh covertly within herself at the thought of her own useful sewing being classified as a lady’s amateur performance. She was silent, not venturing to say anything for herself, and Lady Mary resumed.

“I really must have you among my students; think how much more use you would be to Sibby, if you kept up, or even extended, your own acquirements. Of course, I say all this with diffidence, because I know that in Scotland education is so much more thought of, and is made so much more important than it is with us.”

“Oh, no!” cried Margaret. She could not but laugh now, thinking of the Loch Arroch school. And after all, the Loch Arroch school is the point in which Scotland excels England, or did excel her richer neighbour; and the idea of poor Margaret being better educated than the daughter of an English earl, moved even her tranquil spirit to laughter. “Oh, no; you would not think that if you knew,” she said, controlling herself with an effort. If it had not been for a prudent sense that it was best not to commit herself, she would have been deeply tempted to have her laugh out, and confide the joke to her companions. As it was, however, this suppressed sense of ridicule was enough to make her uncomfortable. “I will try to go,” she said gently, changing the immediate theme, “after the trouble of the flitting is over, when we have got into our house.”

Lady Mary fell into the snare. She began to ask about the house, and whether they had brought furniture, or what they meant to do, and entered into all the details with a frank kindness which went to Margaret’s heart. During all this conversation, Harry Thornleigh kept coming and going softly, gliding among the plants, restless, but happy. He could not have her to himself any longer. He could not talk to her; but yet she was there, and making her way into the heart of at least one of his family. While these domestic subjects were discussed, and as the evening gradually darkened, Harry said to himself that he had always been very fond of his aunt, and that she was very nice and sympathetic, and that to secure her for a friend would be wise in any case. It was almost night before Dr. Murray made his appearance, and he was confounded by the darkness of the place into which he was ushered, where he could see nothing but shadows among the plants and against the pale lightness of the glass roofs. I am not sure, for the moment, that he was not half offended by being received in so unceremonious a way. He stood stiffly, looking about him, till Lady Mary half rose from her seat.

“Excuse me for having brought you here,” she said; “this is our favourite spot, where none but my friends ever come.”

Lady Mary felt persuaded that she saw, even in the dark, the puffing out of the chest with which this friendly speech was received.

“For such a pleasant reason one would excuse a much worse place,” he said, with an attempt at ease, to the amusement of the great lady who was condescending to him. Excuse his introduction to her conservatory! He should never have it in his power to do so again. Dr. Charles then turned to his sister, and said, “Margaret, we must be going. You and the child have troubled her Ladyship long enough.”

“I am delighted with Mrs. Smith’s society, and Sibby has been a godsend to the children,” said Lady Mary. “Let us go into the drawing-room, where there are lights, and where we can at least see each other. I like the gloaming, your pretty Scotch word; but I daresay Dr. Murray thinks us all rather foolish, sitting like crows in the dark.”

She led the way in, taking Margaret’s arm, while Margaret, with a little thrill of annoyance, tried through the imperfect light to throw a warning look at her brother. Why did he speak so crossly, he who was never really cross; and why should he say ladyship? Margaret knew no better than he did, and yet instinct kept her from going wrong.

Dr. Murray entered the drawing-room, looking at the lady who had preceded him, to see what she thought of him, with furtive, suspicious looks. He was very anxious to please Lady Mary, and still more anxious to show himself an accomplished man of the world; but he could not so much as enter a room without this subtle sense of inferiority betraying itself. Harry, coming after him, thought the man a cad, and writhed at the thought; but he was not at all a cad. He hesitated between the most luxurious chair he could find, and the hardest, not feeling sure whether it was best to show confidence or humility. When he did decide at last, he looked round with what seemed a defiant look. “Who can say I have no right to be here?” poor fellow, was written all over his face.

“You have been making acquaintance with your patients? I hope there are no severe cases,” said Lady Mary.

“No, none at all, luckily for them—or I should not have long answered for their lives,” he said, with an unsteady smile.

“Ah! you do not like Dr. Franks’ mode of treatment? Neither do I. I have disapproved of him most highly sometimes; and I assure you,” said Lady Mary, in her most gracious tone, “I am so very glad to know that there is now some one on the spot who may be trusted, whatever happens. With one’s nursery full of children, that question becomes of the greatest importance. Many an anxious moment I have had.”

And then there was a pause. Dr. Murray was unbending, less afraid of how people looked at him.

“My cousin Mr. Earnshaw has not yet come back?” he said.

“He is occupied with some business in town. I am only waiting, as I told your sister, till he comes. As soon as he does so, I hope we may see more of you here; but in the meantime, Mrs. Smith must come to me. I hope I shall see a great deal of her; and you must spare her for my lectures, Dr. Murray. You must not let her give herself up too much to her housekeeping, and all her thrifty occupations.”

“Margaret has no occasion to be overthrifty,” he said, looking at her. “I have always begged her to go into society. We have not come to that, that my sister should be a slave to her housekeeping. Margaret, remember, I hope you will not neglect what her Ladyship says.”

“After the flitting,” said Margaret, softly.

“Ah, yes; after our removal. We shall then have a room more fit to receive you in,” he said. “I hear on all hands that it is a very good house.”

At this moment some one came in to announce the carriage, which Lady Mary had ordered to take her visitor home; and here there arose another conflict in Dr. Murray’s mind. Which was best, most like what a man of the world would do? to drive down with his sister or to walk? He was tired, and the drive would certainly be the easier; but what if they should think it odd? The doctor was saved from this dilemma by Harry, who came unwittingly to the rescue, and proposed to walk down the avenue with him. Harry had not fallen in love with him as with his sister; but still he was at that stage when a man is anxious to conciliate everybody belonging to the woman whom he loves. And then little Sibby was brought down from the nursery, clasping closely a doll which had been presented to her by the children in a body, with eyes blazing like two stars, and red roses of excitement upon her little cheeks. Never in all her life before had Sibby spent so happy a day. And when she and her mother had been placed in the warm delicious carriage, is it wonderful that various dreams floated into Margaret’s mind as she leant back in her corner, and was whirled past those long lines of trees. Harry had been ready to give her his arm downstairs, to put her into the carriage. He had whispered, with a thrill in his voice:

“May I bring those books to-morrow?”

He had all but brushed her dress with his face, bowing over her in his solicitude. Ah, how comfortable it would be, how delightful to have a house like that, a carriage like this, admiring, soft-mannered people about her all day long, and nothing to do but what she pleased to do! Had she begun to cherish a wish that Harry’s fancy might not be a temporary one, that he might persevere in it, and overcome opposition? It would be hard to expect from Margaret such perfection of goodness as never to allow such a train of thought to enter her mind; but at the same time her practical virtue stood all assaults. She would never encourage him; this she vowed over again, though with a sensation almost of hope, and a wish unexpressed in her heart.

For ah! what a difference there is between being poor and being rich—between Lady Mary in the great house, and Margaret Murray, or Smith, in Mrs. Sims’ lodging!—and if you went to the root of the matter, the one woman was as good as the other, as well adapted to “ornament her station,” as old-fashioned people used to say. I think, on the whole, it was greatly to Margaret’s credit, seeing that so much was at stake, that she never wavered in her determination to give Harry no encouragement. But she meant to put no barrier definitively in his way, no obstacle insuperable. She was willing enough to be the reward of his exertions, should he be successful in the lists; and Lady Mary’s kindness, nay, affectionateness towards her seemed to point to a successful issue of the struggle, if Harry went into it with perseverance and vigour. She could not help being a little excited by the thought.

Lady Mary, on her side, was charmed with her new friend. “The brother may be a cad, as you say, but she is perfection,” she said incautiously to Harry, when he came in with a glowing countenance from his walk. “What good breeding, what grace, what charming graceful ways she has! and yet always the simplicity of that pretty Scotch accent, and of the words which slip out now and then. The children are all in raptures with little Sibby. Fancy making a graceful name like Sybil into such a hideous diminutive! But that is Scotch all over. They seem to take a pleasure in keeping their real refinement in the background, and showing a rough countenance to the world. They are all like that,” said Lady Mary, who was fond of generalizations.

Harry did not say much, but he drew a chair close to the fire, and sat and mused over it with sparkling eyes, when his aunt went to dress for dinner. He did not feel capable of coherent thought at all; he was lost in a rapture of feeling which would not go into words. He felt that he could sit there all night long not wishing to budge, to be still, not even thinking, existing in the mere atmosphere of the wonderful day which was now over. Would it come back again? would it prolong itself? would his life grow into a lengthened sweet repetition of this day? He sat there with his knees into the fire, gazing into the red depths till his eyes grew red in sympathy, until the bell for dinner began to peal through the silent winter air. Mr. Tottenham had come home, and was visible at the door in evening costume, refreshed and warmed after his drive, when Harry, half-blind, rushed out to make a hasty toilette. His distracted looks made his host wonder.

“I hope you are not letting that boy get into mischief,” he said to his wife.

“Mischief! what mischief could he get into here?” Lady Mary replied, with a smile; and then they began to talk on very much more important matters—on Herr Hartstong’s visit, and the preparations at the Shop, which were now complete.

“I expect you to show a good example, and to treat my people like friends,” said Mr. Tottenham.

“Oh, friends!—am not I the head shopwoman?” asked Lady Mary, laughing. “You may be sure I intend to appear so.”

The entertainment was to take place on the next evening, after the botanical lecture at Harbour Green. It was, indeed, likely to be an exciting day, with so much going on.

And when the people at Tottenham’s went to dinner, the Murrays had tea, for which they were all quite ready after the sharp evening air. “You were wrong to speak about your housekeeping, and all that,” the doctor said, in the mildest of accents, and with no appearance of suspicion, for in the bosom of his family he feared no criticism. “Remember always, Margaret, that people take you at your own estimate. It does not do to let yourself down.”

“And it does not do to set yourself up, beyond what you can support,” said Margaret. “We are not rich folk, and we must not give ourselves airs. And oh, Charles, one thing I wanted to say. If you wouldn’t say ladyship—at least, not often. No one else seems to do it, except the servants. Don’t be angry. I watch always to see what people say.”

“I hope I know what to say as well as anyone,” said the doctor, with momentary offence; but, nevertheless, he made a private note of it, having confidence in his sister’s keen observation. Altogether, the start at Harbour Green had been very successful, and it was not wonderful if both Dr. Charles and his sister felt an inward exhilaration in such a prosperous commencement of their new life.

The botanical lecture passed off very well indeed, and was productive of real and permanent advantage to Harbour Green, by giving to Myra Witherington a totally new study of character. She talked so completely like Herr Hartstong for the rest of the day, that even her mother was deceived, and would not enter the drawing-room till she had changed her cap, in consideration of the totally new voice which she heard proceeding from within. Strange to say, Harry Thornleigh, who last time had been so contemptuous, had now thrown himself most cordially into Lady Mary’s plans, so cordially that he made of himself a missionary to gain new converts for her.

“I will take those books you promised to Mrs. Smith, and try to persuade her to come to the lecture. Is there anyone else I can look up for you, Aunt Mary?” said this reformed character.

“Do, Harry; go to the Red House, and to the Rectory, and tell them half-past twelve precisely. We did not quite settle upon the hour,” said Lady Mary. “And you might ask Sissy Witherington to send round to some of the other people; she knows them all. You will meet us at the schoolroom? So many thanks!”

“I shall be there,” said Harry, cheerily, marching off with his books under his arm.

If Lady Mary had not been so busy, no doubt she would have asked herself the cause of this wonderful conversion; but with a lecture to attend to in the morning, and an entertainment at night, what time had she for lesser matters? And she had to send some servants to Berkeley Square to get the rooms ready, as the family were to dine and sleep there; altogether she had a great deal upon her hands. Harry had his difficulties, too, in getting safely out of the house without Phil, who, abandoned by Edgar, and eluded by his cousin, was in a very restless state of mind, and had determined this morning, of all others, not to be left behind. Harry, however, inspired by the thoughts of Mrs. Smith, was too clever for Phil, and shot down the avenue like an arrow, with his books under his arm, happy in his legitimate and perfectly correct errand, to which no one could object. He left his message with the Witheringtons on his way, for he was too happy not to be virtuous, poor fellow. It damped his ardour dreadfully to find that no plea he could put forth would induce Margaret to go to the lecture.

“I don’t take any interest in botany,” she said, “and I have no time for it, to keep it up if I began.”

“What of that,” said Harry; “do you think I take an interest in botany?”

“But you are a great florist, Mr. Thornleigh,” she said, demurely. It was some time before he remembered his pretence about the flowers.

“I shall bring you some specimens of my skill to-morrow,” he said, laughing, with a flush of pleasure. At least, if she would not come to-day, here was an excuse for making another day happy—and as a lover lives upon the future, Harry was partially consoled for his disappointment. I don’t think he got much good of the lecture; perhaps no one got very much good. Ellen Gregory did not come, for botany was not in her list of subjects for the pupil-teachers’ examination, and Lady Mary did not take any notes, but only lent the students the encouragement of her presence; for she could not, notwithstanding what she had said, quite disabuse her own mind from the impression that this was a young-lady-like science, and not one of those which train the mind to thought. So that on the whole, as I have said, the chief result was that Myra “got up” Herr Hartstong to the great delight of all the light-minded population at Harbour Green, who found the professor much more amusing in that audacious young mimic’s rendering than in his own person.

In the afternoon the whole party went to London. “Everybody is going,” said little Molly, in huge excitement. “It is like the pantomime; and Phil is to do the cheering. Shouldn’t you like to be him, Harry? It will almost be as good as being on the stage oneself.”

“Don’t talk of things you don’t understand,” said Phil, who was too grand to be spoken to familiarly, and whose sense of responsibility was almost too heavy for perfect happiness. “I sha’n’t cheer unless they deserve it. But the rehearsal was awful fun,” he added, unbending. “You’ll say you never saw anything better, if they do half as well to-night.”

Tottenham’s was gorgeous to behold when the guests began to arrive. The huge central hall, with galleries all round it, and handsome carpeted stairs leading on every hand up to the galleries, was the scene of the festivity. On ordinary occasions the architectural splendour of this hall was lost, in consequence of the crowd of tables, and goods, and customers which filled it. It had been cleared, however, for the entertainment. Rich shawls in every tint of softened colour were hung about, coloured stuffs draped the galleries, rich carpets covered the floors; no palace could have been more lavish in its decorations, and few palaces could have employed so liberally those rich Oriental fabrics which transcend all others in combinations of colour. Upstairs, in the galleries, were the humbler servants of the establishment, porters, errand boys, and their relatives; down below were “the young ladies” and “the gentlemen” of Tottenham’s occupying the seats behind their patrons in clouds of white muslin and bright ribbons.

“Very nice-looking people, indeed,” the Duchess of Middlemarch said, as she came in on Mr. Tottenham’s arm, putting up her eyeglass. Many of the young ladies curtseyed to Her Grace in sign of personal acquaintance, for she was a constant patroness of Tottenham’s. “I hope you haven’t asked any of my sons,” said the great lady, looking round her with momentary nervousness.

Mr. Tottenham himself was as pleased as if he had been exhibiting “a bold tenantry their country’s pride” to his friends. “They are nice-looking, though I say it as shouldn’t,” he said, “and many of them as good as they look.” He was so excited that he began to give the Duchess an account of their benefit societies, and saving banks, and charities, to which Her Grace replied with many benevolent signs of interest, though I am afraid she did not care any more about them than Miss Annetta Baker did about the lecture. She surveyed the company, as they arrived, through her double eyeglass, and watched “poor little Mary Horton that was, she who married the shopkeeper,” receiving her guests, with her pretty children at her side. It was very odd altogether, but then, the Hortons were always odd, she said to herself—and graciously bowed her head as Mr. Tottenham paused, and said, “How very admirable!” with every appearance of interest.

A great many other members of the aristocracy shared Her Grace’s feelings, and many of them were delighted by the novelty, and all of them gazed at the young ladies and gentlemen of the establishment as if they were animals of some unknown description. I don’t think the gentlemen and the young ladies were at all offended. They gazed too with a kindred feeling, and made notes of the dresses, and watched the manners and habits of “the swells” with equal curiosity and admiration. The young ladies in the linen and in the cloak and mantle department were naturally more excited about the appearance of the fine ladies from a book-of-fashion point of view than were the dressmakers and milliners, who sat, as it were, on the permanent committee of the “Mode,” and knew “what was to be worn.” But even they were excited to find themselves in the same room with so many dresses from Paris, with robes which Wörth had once tried on, and ribbons which Elise had touched. I fear all these influences were rather adverse to the due enjoyment of the trial scene from Pickwick, with Miss Robinson in the part of Serjeant Buzfuz. The fine people shrugged their shoulders, and lifted their eyebrows at each other, and cheered ironically now and then with twitters of laughter; and the small people were too intent upon the study of their betters to do justice to the performance. Phil, indeed, shrieked with laughter, knowing all the points, with the exactitude of a showman, and led his claque vigorously; but I think, on the whole, the employés of Tottenham’s would have enjoyed this part of the entertainment more had their attention been undisturbed. After the first part of the performances was over, there was an interval for “social enjoyment;” and it was now that the gorgeous footmen appeared with the ices, about whom Mr. Tottenham had informed his children. Lady Mary, perhaps, required a little prompting from her husband before she withdrew herself from the knot of friends who had collected round her, and addressed herself instead to the young ladies of the shop.

“Must we go and talk to them, Mr. Tottenham? Will they like it? or shall we only bore them?” asked the fine ladies.

The Duchess of Middlemarch was, as became her rank, the first to set them the example. She went up with her double eyeglass in her hand to a group of the natives who were standing timorously together—two young ladies and a gentleman.

“It has been very nice, has it not,” said Her Grace; “quite clever. Will you get me an ice, please? and tell me who was the young woman—the young lady who acted so well? I wonder if I have seen her when I have been here before.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said one of the young ladies. “She is in the fancy department, Miss Robinson. Her father is at the head of the cloaks and mantles, Your Grace.”

“She did very nicely,” said the Duchess, condescendingly, taking the ice from the young man whom she had so honoured. “Thanks, this will do very well, I don’t want to sit down. It is very kind of Mr. Tottenham, I am sure, to provide this entertainment for you. Do you all live here now?—and how many people may there be in the establishment? He told me, but I forget.”

It was the gentleman who supplied the statistics, while the Duchess put up her eyeglass, and once more surveyed the assembly. “You must make up quite a charming society,” she said; “like a party in a country-house. And you have nice sitting-rooms for the evening, and little musical parties, eh? as so many can sing, I perceive; and little dances, perhaps?”

“Oh no, Your Grace,” said one of the young ladies, mournfully. “We have practisings sometimes, when anything is coming off.”

“And we have an excellent library, Your Grace,” said the gentleman, “and all the new books. There is a piano in the ladies’ sitting-room, and we gentlemen have chess and so forth, and everything extremely nice.”

“And a great deal of gossip, I suppose,” said Her Grace; “and I hope you have chaperons to see that there is not too much flirting.”

“Oh, flirting!” said all three, in a chorus. “There is a sitting-room for the ladies, and another for the gentlemen,” the male member of the party said, somewhat primly, for he was one of the class of superintendents, vulgarly called shopwalkers, and he knew his place.

“Oh—h!” said the Duchess, putting down her eyeglass; “then it must be a great deal less amusing than I thought!”

“It was quite necessary, I assure you, Your Grace,” said the gentleman; and the two young ladies who had been tittering behind their fans, gave him each a private glance of hatred. They composed their faces, however, as Mr. Tottenham came up, called by the Duchess from another group.

“You want me, Duchess?” how fine all Tottenham’s who were within hearing, felt at this—especially the privileged trio, to whom she had been talking, “Duchess!” that sublime familiarity elevated them all in the social scale.

“Nothing is perfect in this world,” said Her Grace, with a sigh. “I thought I had found Utopia; but even your establishment is not all it might be. Why aren’t they all allowed to meet, and sing, and flirt, and bore each other every evening, as people do in a country house?”

“Come, Duchess, and look at my shawls,” said Mr. Tottenham, with a twinkle out of his grey eyes. Her Grace accepted the bait, and sailed away, leaving the young ladies in a great flutter. A whole knot of them collected together to hear what had happened, and whisper over it in high excitement.

“I quite agree with the Duchess,” said Miss Lockwood, loud enough to be heard among the fashionables, as she sat apart and fanned herself, like any fine lady. Her handsome face was almost as pale as ivory, her cheeks hollow. Charitable persons said, in the house, that she was in a consumption, and that it was cruel to stop her duet with Mr. Watson, and to inquire into her past life, when, poor soul, it was clear to see that she would soon be beyond the reach of all inquiries. It was the Robinsons who had insisted upon it chiefly—Mr. Robinson, who was at the head of the department, and who had daughters of his own, about whom he was very particular. His youngest was under Miss Lockwood, in the shawls and mantles, and that was why he was so inexorable pursuing the matter; though why he should make objections to Miss Lockwood’s propriety, and yet allow Jemima to act in public, as she had just done, was more than the shop could make out. Miss Lockwood sat by herself, having thus been breathed upon by suspicion; but no one in the place was more conspicuous. She had an opera cloak of red, braided with gold, which the young ladies knew to be quite a valuable article, and her glossy dark hair was beautifully dressed, and her great paleness called attention to her beauty. She kept her seat, not moving when the others did, calling to her anyone she wanted, and indeed, generally taking upon herself the rôle of fine lady. And partly from sympathy for her illness, partly from disapproval of what was called the other side, the young ladies and gentlemen of Tottenham’s stood by her. When she said, “I agree with the Duchess,” everybody looked round to see who it was that spoke.

When the pause for refreshments was over, Mr. Tottenham led Her Grace back to her place, and the entertainment recommenced. The second part was simply music. Mr. Watson gave his solo on the cornet, and another gentleman of the establishment accompanied one of the young ladies on the violin, and then they sang a number of part songs, which was the best part of the programme. The excitement being partially over, the music was much better attended to than the Trial Scene from Pickwick; and all the fine people, used to hear Joachim play, or Patti sing, listened with much gracious restraint of their feelings. It had been intended at first that the guests and the employés should sup together, Mr. Robinson offering his arm to Lady Mary, and so on. But at the last moment this arrangement had been altered, and the visitors had wine and cake, and sandwiches and jellies in one room, while the establishment sat down to a splendid table in another, and ate and drank, and made speeches and gave toasts to their hearts’ content, undisturbed by any inspection. What a place it was! The customers went all over it, conducted by Mr. Tottenham and his assistants through the endless warehouses, and through the domestic portion of the huge house, while the young ladies and gentlemen of Tottenham’s were at supper. The visitors went to the library, and to the sitting-rooms, and even to the room which was used as a chapel, and which was full of rough wooden chairs, like those in a French country church, and decorated with flowers. This curious adjunct to the shop stood open, with faint lights burning, and the spring flowers shedding faint odours.

“I did not know you had been so High Church, Mr. Tottenham,” said the Duchess. “I was not prepared for this.”

“Oh, this is Saint Gussy’s chapel,” cried Phil, who was too much excited to be kept silent. “We all call it Saint Gussy’s. There is service every day, and it is she who puts up the flowers. Ah, ah!”

Phil stopped suddenly, persuaded thereto by a pressure on the arm, and saw Edgar standing by him in the crowd. There were so many, and they were all crowding so close upon each other, that his exclamation was not noticed. Edgar had been conjoining to the other business which detained him in town a great deal of work about the entertainment, and he had appeared with the other guests in the evening, but had been met by Lady Augusta with such a face of terror, and hurried anxious greeting, that he had withdrawn himself from the assembly, feeling his own heart beat rather thick and fast at the thought, perhaps, of meeting Gussy without warning in the midst of this crowd. He had kept himself in the background all the evening, and now he stopped Phil, to send a message to his father.

“Say that he will find me in his room when he wants me; and don’t use a lady’s name so freely, or tell family jokes out of the family,” he said to the boy, who was ashamed of himself. Edgar’s mind was full of new anxieties of which the reader shall hear presently. The Entertainment was a weariness to him, and everything connected with it. He turned away when he had given the message, glad to escape from the riot—the groups trooping up and down the passages, and examining the rooms as if they were a settlement of savages—the Duchess sweeping on in advance on Mr. Tottenham’s arm, with her double eye-glass held up. He turned away through an unfrequented passage, dimly lighted and silent, where there was nothing to see, and where nobody came. In the distance the joyful clatter of the supper-table, where all the young ladies and gentlemen of the establishment were enjoying themselves came to his ears on one side—while the soft laughter and hum of voices on the other, told of the better bred crowd who were finding their way again round other staircases and corridors to the central hall. It is impossible, I suppose, to hear the sounds of festive enjoyment with which one has nothing to do, and from which one has withdrawn thus sounding from the distance without some symptoms of a gentle misanthropy, and that sense of superiority to common pursuits and enjoyments which affords compensation to those who are left out in the cold, whether in great things or small things. Edgar’s heart was heavy, and he felt it more heavy in consequence of the merry-making. Among all these people, so many of whom he had known, was there one that retained any kind thought of him—one that would not, like Lady Augusta, the kindest of them all, have felt a certain fright at his re-appearance, as of one come from the dead? Alas, he ought to have remained dead, when socially he was so. Edgar felt, at least, his resurrection ought not to have been here.

With this thought in his mind, he turned a dim corner of the white passage, where a naked gaslight burned dimly. He was close to Mr. Tottenham’s room, where he meant to remain until he was wanted. With a start of surprise, he saw that some one else was in the passage coming the other way, one of the ladies apparently of the fashionable party. The passage was narrow, and Edgar stood aside to let her pass. She was wrapped in a great white cloak, the hood half over her head, and came forward rapidly, but uncertain, as if she had lost herself. Just before they met, she stopped short, and uttered a low cry.

Had not his heart told him who it was? Edgar stood stock still, scarcely breathing, gazing at her. He had wondered how this meeting would come about, for come it must, he knew—and whether he would be calm and she calm, as if they had met yesterday? Yet when the real emergency arrived he was quite unprepared for it. He did not seem able to move, but gazed at her as if all his heart had gone into his eyes, incapable of more than the mere politeness of standing by to let her pass, which he had meant to do when he thought her a stranger. The difficulty was all thrown upon her. She too had made a pause. She looked up at him with a tremulous smile and a quivering lip. She put out her hands half timidly, half eagerly; her colour changed from red to pale, and from pale to red. “Have you forgotten me, then?” she said.

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.

“Her plea is simply that she is married—that seems all there is to say.”

“I am aware she says that,” said Mr. Tottenham. “I hope to heaven she can prove it, Earnshaw, and end this tempest in a tea-cup! I am sick of the whole affair! Has her husband deserted her, or is he dead, or what has become of him? I hope she gave you some proofs.”

“I must make inquiries before I can answer,” said Edgar. “By some miserable chance friends of my own are involved. I must get at the bottom of it. Her husband—if he is her husband—has married again; in his own rank—a lady in whom I am deeply interested——”

“My dear fellow!” said Mr. Tottenham, “what a business for you! Did the woman know, confound her? There, I don’t often speak rashly, but some of these women, upon my honour, would try the patience of a saint! I daresay it’s all a lie. That sort of person cares no more for a lie! I’ll pack her off out of the establishment, and we’ll think of it no more.”

“Pardon me, I must think of it, and follow it out,” said Edgar; “it is too serious to be neglected. Altogether independent of this woman, a lady’s—my friend’s happiness, her reputation, perhaps her life—for how could she outlive name and fame, and love and confidence?” he said, suddenly feeling himself overcome by the horrible suggestion. “It looks like preferring my own business to yours, but I must see to this first.”

“Go, go, my dear Earnshaw—never mind my business—have some money and go!” cried Mr. Tottenham. “I can’t tell you how grieved I am to have brought you into this. Poor lady! poor lady!—I won’t ask who it is. But recollect they lie like the devil!—they don’t mind what they say, like you or me, who understand the consequences; they think of nothing beyond the spite of the moment. I am in for three quarrels, and a resignation, all because I want to please them!” cried the poor master of the great shop, dolorously. He accompanied Edgar out to the private door, continuing his plaint. “A nothing will do it,” he said; “and they don’t care for what happens, so long as they indulge the temper of the moment. To lose their employment, or their friends, or the esteem of those who would try to help them in everything—all this is nought. I declare I could almost cry like a baby when I think of it! Don’t be cast down, Earnshaw. More likely than not it’s all a lie!”

“If I cannot get back this evening in time for you—” Edgar began.

“Never mind, never mind. Go to the Square. I’ll tell them to have a room ready for you. And take some money—nothing is to be done without money. And, Earnshaw,” lie added, calling after him some minutes later, when Edgar was at the door, “on second thoughts, you won’t say anything to Mary about my little troubles? After all, the best of us have got our tempers; perhaps I am injudicious, and expect too much. She has always had her doubts about my mode of treatment. Don’t, there’s a good fellow, betray to them at home that I lost my temper too!”

This little preliminary to the Entertainment was locked in Edgar’s bosom, and never betrayed to anyone. To tell the truth, his mind was much too full of more important matters to think upon any such inconsiderable circumstance; for he was not the Apostle of the Shop, and had no scheme to justify and uphold in the eyes of all men and women. Edgar, I fear, was not of the stuff of which social reformers are made. The concerns of the individual were more important to him at all times than those of the mass; and one human shadow crossing his way, interested his heart and mind far beyond a mere crowd, though the crowd, no doubt, as being multitudinous, must have been more important. Edgar turned his back upon the establishment with, I fear, very little Christian feeling towards Tottenham’s, and all concerned with it—hating the Entertainment, weary of Mr. Tottenham himself, and disgusted with the strange impersonation of cruelty and selfishness which had just been revealed to him in the form of a woman. He could not shut out from his eyes that thin white face, so full of self, so destitute of any generous feeling.

Such stories have been told before in almost every tone of sympathy and reprobation; women betrayed have been wept in every language under heaven, and their betrayer denounced, but what was there to lament about, to denounce here? A woman sharp and clever to make the best of her bargain; a man trying legal cheats upon her; two people drawn together by some semblance of what is called passion, yet each watching and scheming, how best, on either side, to outwit the other. Never was tale of misery and despair so pitiful; for this was all baseness, meanness, calculation on both hands. They were fitly matched, and it was little worth any man’s while to interfere between them—but, O heaven! to think of the other fate involved in theirs. This roused Edgar to an excitement which was almost maddening. To think that these two base beings had wound into their miserable tangle the feet of Clare—that her innocent life must pay the penalty for their evil lives, that she must bear the dishonour while spotless from the guilt!

Edgar posted along the great London thoroughfare, through the continually varying crowd of passers-by, absorbed in an agitation and disquiet which drove all his own affairs out of his head. His own affairs might involve much trouble and distress; but neither shame nor guilt was in them. Heaven above! to think that guilt or shame could have anything to do with Clare!

Now Clare had not been, at least at the last, a very good sister to Edgar—she was not his sister at all, so far as blood went; and when this had been discovered, and the homeliness of his real origin identified, Clare had shrunk from him, notwithstanding that for all her life, in childish fondness and womanly sympathy, she had loved him as her only brother. Edgar had mournfully consented to a complete severance between them. She had married his enemy; and he himself had sunk so much out of sight that he had felt no further intercourse to be possible, though his affectionate heart had felt it deeply. But as soon as he heard of her danger, all his old love for his sister had sprung up in Edgar’s heart. He took back her name, as it were, into the number of those sounds most familiar to him. “Clare,” he said to himself, feeling a thrill of renewed warmth go through him, mingled with poignant pain—“Clare, my sister, my only sister, the sole creature in the world that belongs to me!” Alas! she did not belong to Edgar any more than any inaccessible princess; but in his heart this was what he felt. He pushed his way through the full streets, with the air and the sentiment of a man bound upon the most urgent business, seeing little on his way, thinking of nothing but his object—the object in common which Miss Lockwood had supposed him to have with herself. But Edgar did not even remember that—he thought of nothing but Clare’s comfort and well-being which were concerned, and how it would be possible to confound her adversaries, and save her from ignoble persecution. If he could keep it from her knowledge altogether! But, alas! how could that be done? He went faster and faster, driven by his thoughts.

The address Miss Lockwood had given him was in a small street off the Hampstead Road. That strange long line of street, with here and there a handful of older houses, a broader pavement, a bit of dusty garden, to show the suburban air it once had possessed; its heterogeneous shops, furniture, birdcages, perambulators, all kinds of out-of-the-way wares fled past the wayfarer, taking wings to themselves, he thought. It is not an interesting quarter, and Edgar had no time to give to any picturesque or historical reminiscences. When he reached the little street in which the chapel he sought was situated, he walked up on one side and down on the other, expecting every moment to see the building of which he was in search. A chapel is not a thing apt to disappear, even in the changeful district of Camden Town. Rubbing his eyes, he went up and down again, inspecting the close lines of mean houses. The only break in the street was where two or three small houses, of a more bilious brick than usual, whose outlines had not yet been toned down by London soot and smoke, diversified the prospect. He went to a little shop opposite this yellow patch upon the old grimy garment to make inquiries.

“Chapel! there ain’t no chapel hereabouts,” said the baker, who was filling his basket with loaves.

“Hold your tongue, John,” said his wife, from the inner shop. “I’ll set you all right in a moment. There’s where the chapel was, sir, right opposite. There was a bit of a yard where they’ve built them houses. The chapel is behind; but it ain’t a chapel now. It’s been took for an infant school by our new Rector. Don’t you see a little bit of an entry at that open door? That’s where you go in. But since it’s been shut up there’s been a difference in the neighbourhood. Most of us is church folks now.”

“And does nothing remain of the chapel—nobody belonging to it, no books nor records?” cried Edgar, suddenly brought to a standstill. The woman looked at him surprised.

“I never heard as they had any books—more than the hymn-books, which they took with them, I suppose. It’s our new Rector as has bought it—a real good man, as gives none of us no peace——”

“And sets you all on with your tongues,” said her husband, throwing his basket over his shoulder.

Edgar did not wait to hear the retort of the wife, and felt no interest in the doings of the new Rector. He did not know what to do in this unforeseen difficulty. He went across the road, and up the little entry, and looked at the grimy building beyond, which was no great satisfaction to his feelings. It was a dreary little chapel, of the most ordinary type, cleared of its pews, and filled with the low benches and staring pictures of an infant school, and looked as if it had been thrust up into a corner by the little line of houses built across the scrap of open space which had formerly existed in front of its doors. As he gazed round him helplessly, another woman came up, who asked with bated breath what he wanted.

“We’re all church folks now hereabouts,” she said; “but I don’t mind telling you, sir, as a stranger, I was always fond of the old chapel. What preaching there used to be, to be sure!—dreadful rousing and comforting! And it’s more relief, like, to the mind, to say, ‘Lord, ha’ mercy upon us!’ or, ‘Glory, glory!’ or the like o’ that, just when you pleases, than at set times out o’ a book. There’s nothing most but prayers here now. If you want any of the chapel folks, maybe I could tell you. I’ve been in the street twenty years and more.”

“I want to find out about a marriage that took place here ten years ago,” said Edgar.

“Marriage!” said the woman, shaking her head. “I don’t recollect no marriage. Preachings are one thing, and weddings is another. I don’t hold with weddings out of church. If there’s any good in church—”

Edgar had to stop this exposition by asking after the “chapel-folks” to whom she could direct him, and in answer was told of three tradesmen in the neighbourhood who “held by the Methodys,” one of whom had been a deacon in the disused chapel. This was a carpenter, who could not be seen till his dinner-hour, and on whom Edgar had to dance attendance with very indifferent satisfaction; for the deacon’s report was that the chapel had never been, so far as he could remember, licensed for marriages, and that none had taken place within it. This statement, however, was flatly contradicted by the pork-butcher, whose name was the next on his list, and who recollected to have heard that some one had been married there just about the time indicated by Miss Lockwood. Finally, Edgar lighted on an official who had been a local preacher in the days of the chapel, and who was now a Scripture-reader, under the sway of the new Rector, who had evidently turned the church and parish upside-down. This personage had known something of the Lockwoods, and was not disinclined—having ascertained that Edgar was a stranger, and unlikely to betray any of his hankerings after the chapel—to gossip about the little defunct community. Its books and records had, he said, been removed, when it was closed, to some central office of the denomination, where they would, no doubt, be shown on application. This man was very anxious to give a great deal of information quite apart from the matter in hand. He gave Edgar a sketch of the decay of the chapel, in which, I fear, the young man took no interest, though it was curious enough; and he told him about the Lockwoods, and about the eldest daughter, who, he was afraid, had come to no good.

“She said as she was married, but nobody believed her. She was always a flighty one,” said the Scripture-reader.

This was all that Edgar picked up out of a flood of unimportant communications. He could not even find any clue to the place where these denominational records were kept, and by this time the day was too far advanced to do more. Drearily he left the grimy little street, with its damp pavements, its poor little badly-lighted shops and faint lamps, not without encountering the new Rector in person, an omniscient personage, who had already heard of his inquiries, and regarded him suspiciously, as perhaps a “Methody” in disguise, planning the restoration of dissent in a locality just purged from its taint. Edgar was too tired, too depressed and down-hearted to be amused by the watchful look of the muscular Christian, who saw in him a wolf prowling about the fold. He made his way into the main road, and jumped into a hansom, and drove down the long line of shabby, crowded thoroughfare, so mean and small, yet so great and full of life. Those miles and miles of mean, monotonous street, without a feature to mark one from another, full of crowds of human creatures, never heard of, except as counting so many hundreds, more or less, in the year’s calendar of mortality—how strangely impressive they become at last by mere repetition, mass upon mass, crowd upon crowd, poor, nameless, mean, unlovely! Perhaps it was the general weariness and depression of Edgar’s whole being that brought this feeling into his mind as he drove noisily, silently along between those lines of faintly-lighted houses towards what is impertinently, yet justly, called the habitable part of London. For one fair, bright path in the social, as in the physical world, how many mean, and darkling, and obscure!—how small the spot which lies known and visible to the general eye!—how great the confused darkness all round! Such reflections are the mere growth of weariness and despondency, but they heighten the depression of which they are an evidence.

The whole of noisy, crowded London was as a wilderness to Edgar. He drove to his club, where he had not been since the day when he met Mr. Tottenham. So short a time ago, and yet how his life had altered in the interval! He was no longer drifting vaguely upon the current, as he had been doing. His old existence had caught at him with anxious hands. Notwithstanding all the alterations of time, circumstances, and being, he was at this moment not Edgar Earnshaw at all, but the Edgar Arden of three years ago, caught back into the old sphere, surrounded by the old thoughts. Such curious vindications of the unchangeableness of character, the identity of being, which suddenly seize upon a man, and whirl him back in a moment, defying all external changes, into his old, his unalterable self, are among the strangest things in humanity. Dizzy with the shock he had received, harassed by anxiety, worn out by unsuccessful effort, Edgar felt the world swim round with him, and scarcely could answer to himself who he was. Had all the Lockwood business been a dream? Was it a dream that he had been as a stranger for three long years to Clare, his sister—to Gussy, his almost bride? And yet his mind at this moment was as full of their images as if no interval had been.

After he had dined and refreshed himself, he set to work with, I think,—notwithstanding his anxiety, the first shock of which was now over,—a thrill of conscious energy, and almost pleasure in something to do, which was so much more important than those vague lessons to Phil, or vaguer studies in experimental philosophy, to which his mind had been lately turned. To be here on the spot, ready to work for Clare when she was assailed, was something to be glad of, deeply as the idea of such an assault upon her had excited and pained him. And at the same time as his weariness wore off, and the first excitement cooled down, he began to feel himself more able to realize the matter in all its particulars, and see the safer possibilities. It began to appear to him likely enough that all that could be proved was Arthur Arden’s villainy, a subject which did not much concern him, which had no novelty in it, and which, though Clare was Arthur Arden’s wife, could not affect her more now than it had done ever since she married him. Indeed, if it was but this, there need be no necessity for communicating it to Clare at all. It was more probable, when he came to think of it, that an educated and clever man should be able to outwit a dressmaker girl, however deeply instructed in the laws of marriage by novels and causes célèbres, than that she should outwit him; and in this case there was nothing that need ever be made known to Clare.

Edgar was glad, and yet I don’t know that a certain disappointment, quite involuntary and unawares, did not steal into his mind with this thought; for he had begun to cherish an idea of seeing his sister, of perhaps resuming something of his old intercourse with her, and at least of being known to have worked for and defended her. These thoughts, however, were but the secondary current in his mind, while the working part of it was planning a further enterprise for the morrow. He got the directory, and, after considerable trouble, found out from it the names and addresses of certain officials of the Wesleyan body, to whom he could go in search of the missing registers of the Hart Street Chapel—if registers there were—or who could give him definite and reliable information, in face of the conflicting testimony he had already received, as to whether marriages had ever been celebrated in it.

Edgar knew, I suppose, as much as other men generally do about the ordinary machinery of society, but he did not know where to lay his hand on any conclusive official information about the Hart Street Chapel, whether it had ever been licenced, or had any legal existence as a place of worship, any more than—you or I would, dear reader, were we in a similar difficulty. Who knows anything about such matters? He had lost a day already in the merest A B C of preliminary inquiry, and no doubt would lose several more.

Then he took out the most important of Miss Lockwood’s papers, which he had only glanced at as yet. It was dated from a small village in the Western Highlands, within reach, as he knew, of Loch Arroch, and was a certificate, signed by Helen Campbell and John Mactaggart, that Arthur Arden and Emma Lockwood had that day, in their presence, declared themselves to be man and wife. Edgar’s knowledge of such matters had, I fear, been derived entirely from novels and newspaper reports, and he read over the document, which was alarmingly explicit and straightforward, with a certain panic. He said to himself that there were no doubt ways in law by which to lessen the weight of such an attestation, or means of shaking its importance; but it frightened him just as he was escaping from his first fright, and brought back all his excitement and alarm.

He did not go to Berkeley Square, as Mr. Tottenham had recommended, but to his old lodgings, where he found a bed with difficulty, and where once more his two lives seemed to meet in sharp encounter. But his head by this time was too full of schemes for to-morrow to permit of any personal speculation; he was far, as yet, from seeing any end to his undertaking, and it was impossible to tell what journeys, what researches might be still before him.

Next morning he went first to his old lawyer, in whom he had confidence, and having copied the certificate, carefully changing the names, submitted it to him. Mr. Parchemin declared that he knew nothing of Scotch law, but shook his head, and hoped there was nothing very unpleasant in the circumstances, declaring vehemently that it was a shame and disgrace that such snares should be spread for the unwary on the other side of the border. Was it a disgrace that Arthur Arden should not have been protected in Scotland, as in England, from the quick-wittedness of the girl whom he had already cheated and meant to betray? Edgar felt that there might be something to be said on both sides of the question, as he left his copy in Mr. Parchemin’s hands, who undertook to consult a Scotch legal authority on the question; then he went upon his other business. I need not follow him through his manifold and perplexing inquiries, or inform the reader how he was sent from office to office, and from secretary to secretary, or with what loss of time and patience his quest was accompanied. After several days’ work, however, he ascertained that the chapel in Hart Street had indeed been licensed, but only used once or twice for marriages, and that no record of any such marriage as that which he was in search of could be found anywhere. A stray record of a class-meeting which Emma Lockwood had been admonished for levity of demeanour, was the sole mention of her to be found; and though the officials admitted a certain carelessness in the preservation of books belonging to an extinct chapel, they declared it to be impossible that such a fact could have been absolutely ignored. There was, indeed, a rumour in the denomination that a local preacher had been found to have taken upon himself to perform a marriage, for which he had been severely reprimanded; but as he had been possessed of no authority to make such a proceeding legal, no register had been made of the fact, and only the reprimanded was inscribed on the books of the community. This was the only opening for even a conjecture as to the truth of Miss Lockwood’s first story. If the second could only have been dissipated as easily!

Edgar’s inquiries among the Wesleyan authorities lasted, as I have said, several days, and caused him more fatigue of limb and of mind than it is easy to express. He went to Tottenham’s—where, indeed, he showed himself every day, getting more and more irritated with the Entertainment, and all its preparations—as soon as he had ascertained beyond doubt that the marriage at Hart Street Chapel was fictitious. Miss Lockwood, he was informed, was an invalid, but would see him in the young ladies’ dining-room, where, accordingly, he found her, looking sharper, and whiter, and more worn than ever. He told her his news quietly, with a natural pity for the woman deceived; a gleam of sudden light shone in her eyes.

“I told you so,” she said, triumphantly; “now didn’t I tell you so? He wanted to take me in—I felt it from the very first; but he hadn’t got to do with a fool, as he thought. I was even with him for that.”

“I have written to find out if your Scotch witnesses are alive,” said Edgar.

“Alive!—why shouldn’t they be alive, like I am, and like he is?” she cried, with feverish irritability. “Folks of our ages don’t die!—what are you thinking of? And if they were dead, what would it matter?—there’s their names as good as themselves. Ah! I didn’t botch my business any more than he botched his. You’ll find it’s all right.”

“I hope you are better,” Edgar said, with a compassion that was all the more profound because the object of it neither deserved, nor would have accepted it.

“Better—oh! thank you, I am quite well,” she said lightly—“only a bit of a cold. Perhaps on the whole it’s as well I’m not going to sing to-night; a cold is so bad for one’s voice. Good-bye, Mr. Earnshaw. We’ll meet at the old gentleman’s turnout to-night.”

And she waved her hand, dismissing poor Edgar, who left her with a warmer sense of disgust, and dislike than had ever moved his friendly bosom before. And yet it was in this creature’s interests he was working, and against Clare! Mr. Tottenham caught him on his way out, to hand him a number of letters which had arrived for him, and to call for his advice in the final preparations. The public had been shut out of the hall in which the Entertainment was to be, on pretence of alterations.

“Three more resignations,” Mr. Tottenham said, who was feverish and harassed, and looked like a man at the end of his patience. “Heaven be praised, it will be over to-night? Come early, Earnshaw, if you can spare the time, and stand by me. If any of the performers get cross, and refuse to perform, what shall I do?”

“Let them!” cried Edgar; “ungrateful fools, after all your kindness.”

Edgar was too much harassed and annoyed himself to be perfectly rational in his judgments.

“Don’t let us be uncharitable,” said Mr. Tottenham; “have they perhaps, after all, much reason for gratitude? Is it not my own crotchet I am carrying out, in spite of all obstacles? But it will be a lesson—I think it will be a lesson,” he added. “And, Earnshaw, don’t fail me to-night.”

Edgar went straight from the shop to Mr. Parchemin’s, to receive the opinion of the eminent Scotch law authority in respect to the marriage certificate. He had written to Robert Campbell, at Loch Arroch Head, suggesting that inquiries might be made about the persons who signed it, and had heard from him that morning that the landlady of the inn was certainly to be found, and that she perfectly remembered having put her name to the paper. The waiter was no longer there, but could be easily laid hands upon. There was accordingly no hope except in the Scotch lawyer, who might still make waste paper of the certificate. Edgar found Mr. Parchemin hot and red, after a controversy with this functionary.

“He laughs at my indignation,” said the old lawyer. “Well, I suppose if one did not heat one’s self in argument, what he says might have some justice in it. He says innocent men that let women alone, and innocent women that behave as they ought to do, will never get any harm from the Scotch marriage law; and that it’s always a safeguard for a poor girl that may have been led astray without meaning it. He says—well, I see you’re impatient—though how such an anomaly can ever be suffered so near to civilization! Well, he says it’s as good a marriage as if it had been done in Westminster Abbey by the Archbishop of Canterbury. That’s all the comfort I’ve got to give you. I hope it hasn’t got anything directly to say to you.”

“Thanks,” said Edgar, faintly; “it has to do with some—very dear friends of mine. I could scarcely feel it more deeply if it concerned myself.”

“It is a disgrace to civilization!” cried the lawyer—“it is a subversion of every honest principle. You young men ought to take warning—”

“—To do a villainy of this kind, when we mean to do it, out of Scotland?” said Edgar, “or we may find ourselves the victims instead of the victors? Heaven forbid that I should do anything to save a scoundrel from his just deserts!”

“But I thought you were interested—deeply interested——”

“Not for him, the cowardly blackguard!” cried Edgar, excited beyond self-control.

He turned away from the place, holding the lawyer’s opinion, for which he had spent a large part of his little remaining stock of money, clutched in his hand. A feverish, momentary sense, almost of gratification, that Arden should have been thus punished, possessed him—only for a moment. He hastened to the club, where he could sit quiet and think it over. He had not been able even to consider his own business, but had thrust his letters into his pocket without looking at them.

When he found himself alone, or almost alone, in a corner of the library, he covered his face with his hands, and yielded to the crushing influence of this last certainty. Clare was no longer an honoured matron, the possessor of a well-recognized position, the mother of children of whom she was proud, the wife of a man whom at least she had once loved, and who, presumably, had done nothing to make her hate and scorn him. God help her! What was she now? What was her position to be? She had no relations to fall back upon, or to stand by her in her trouble, except himself, who was no relation—only poor Edgar, her loving brother, bound to her by everything but blood; but, alas! he knew that in such emergencies blood is everything, and other ties count for so little. The thought made his heart sick; and he could not be silent, could not hide it from her, dared not shut up this secret in his own mind, as he might have done almost anything else that affected her painfully. There was but one way, but one step before him now.

His letters tumbled out of his pocket as he drew out Miss Lockwood’s original paper, and he tried to look at them, by way of giving his overworn mind a pause, and that he might be the better able to choose the best way of carrying out the duty now before him. These letters were—some of them, at least—answers to those which he had written in the excitement and happy tumult of his mind, after Lady Mary’s unintentional revelation. He read them as through a mist; their very meaning came dimly upon him, and he could with difficulty realize the state of his feelings when, all glowing with the prospect of personal happiness, and the profound and tender exultation with which he found himself to be still beloved, he had written these confident appeals to the kindness of his friends. Most likely, had he read the replies with a disengaged mind, they would have disappointed him bitterly, with a dreariness of downfall proportioned to his warmth of hope. But in his present state of mind every sound around him was muffled, every blow softened. One nail strikes out another, say the astute Italians. The mind is not capable of two profound and passionate preoccupations at once. He read them with subdued consciousness, with a veil before his eyes. They were all friendly, and some were warmly cordial. “What can we do for you?” they all said. “If you could take a mastership, I have interest at more than one public school; but, alas! I suppose you did not even take your degree in England,” one wrote to him. “If you knew anything about land, or had been trained to the law,” said another, “I might have got you a land agency in Ireland, a capital thing for a man of energy and courage; but then I fear you are no lawyer, and not much of an agriculturist.” “What can you do, my dear fellow?” said a third, more cautiously. “Think what you are most fit for—you must know best yourself—and let me know, and I will try all I can do.”

Edgar laughed as he bundled them all back into his pocket. What was he most fit for? To be an amateur detective, and find out secrets that broke his heart. A dull ache for his own disappointment (though his mind was not lively enough to feel disappointed) seemed to add to the general despondency, the lowered life and oppressed heart of which he had been conscious without this. But then what had he to do with personal comfort or happiness? In the first place there lay this tremendous passage before him—this revelation to be made to Clare.

It was late in the afternoon before he could nerve himself to write the indispensable letter, from which he felt it was cowardly to shrink. It was not a model of composition, though it gave him a great deal of trouble. This is what he said:—

He felt that the outburst at the end was injudicious, but could not restrain the ebullition of feeling. If he could but be allowed to manage it quietly, to have her misery broken to Clare without any interposition of the world’s scorn or pity. She was the one utterly guiltless, but it was she who would be most exposed to animadversion; he felt this, with his heart bleeding for his sister. If he had but had the privilege of a brother—if he could have gone to her, and drawn her gently away, and provided home and sympathy for her, before the blow had fallen! But neither he nor anyone could do this, for Clare was not the kind of being to make close friends. She reserved her love for the few who belonged to her, and had little or none to expend on strangers. Did she still think of him as one belonging to her, or was his recollection altogether eclipsed, blotted out from her mind? He began half a dozen letters to Clare herself, asking if she still thought of him, if she would allow him to remember that he was once her brother, with a humility which he could not have shown had she been as happy and prosperous as all the world believed her to be. But after he had written these letters, one after another, retouching a phrase here, and an epithet there, which was too weak or too strong for his excited fancy, and lingering over her name with tears in his eyes, he destroyed them all. Until he heard from her husband, he did not feel that he could venture to write to his sister. His sister!—his poor, forlorn, ruined, solitary sister, rich as she was, and surrounded by all things advantageous! a wife, and yet no wife; the mother of children whose birth would be their shame! Edgar rose up from where he was writing in the intolerable pang of this thought—he could not keep still while it flashed through his mind. Clara, the proudest, the purest, the most fastidious of women—how could she bear it? He said to himself that it was impossible—impossible—that she must die of it! There was no way of escape for her. It would kill her, and his was the hand which had to give the blow.

In this condition, with such thoughts running over in his vexed brain, to go back to the shop, and find poor Mr. Tottenham wrestling among the difficulties which, poor man, were overwhelming him, with dark lines of care under his eyes, and his face haggard with anxiety—imagine, dear reader, what it was! He could have laughed at the petty trouble; yet no one could laugh at the pained face, the kind heart wounded, the manifest and quite overwhelming trouble of the philanthropist.

“I don’t even know yet whether they will keep to their engagements; and we are all at sixes and sevens, and the company will begin to arrive in an hour or two!” cried poor Mr. Tottenham. Edgar’s anxieties were so much more engrossing and terrible that to have a share in these small ones did him good; and he was so indifferent that he calmed everybody, brought the unruly performers back to their senses, and thrust all the arrangements on by the sheer carelessness he felt as to whether they were ready or not. “Who cares about your play?” he said to Watson, who came to pour out his grievances. “Do you think the Duchess of Middlemarch is so anxious to hear you? They will enjoy themselves a great deal better chatting to each other.”

This brought Mr. Watson and his troupe to their senses, as all Mr. Tottenham’s agitated remonstrances had not brought them. Edgar did not care to be in the way of the fine people when they arrived. He got a kind word from Lady Mary, who whispered to him, “How ill you are looking! You must tell us what it is, and let us help you;” for this kind woman found it hard to realise that there were things in which the support of herself and her husband would be but little efficacious; and he had approached Lady Augusta, as has been recorded, with some wistful, hopeless intention of recommending Clare to her, in case of anything that might happen. But Lady Augusta had grown so pale at the sight of him, and had thrown so many uneasy glances round her, that Edgar withdrew, with his heart somewhat heavy, feeling his burden rather more than he could conveniently bear. He had gone and hid himself in the library, trying to read, and hearing far off the din of applause—the distant sound of voices. The noise of the visitors’ feet approaching had driven him from that refuge, when Mr. Tottenham, in high triumph, led his guests through his huge establishment. Edgar, dislodged, and not caring to put himself in the way of further discouragement, chose this moment to give his message to Phil, and strayed away from sound and light into the retired passages, when that happened to him in his time of extremity which it is now my business to record.

“Have you—forgotten me—then?”

“Forgotten you!” cried Edgar.

Heaven help him!—he did not advance nor take her hands, which she held out, kept back by his honour and promise—till he saw that her eyes were full of tears, that her lips were quivering, unable to articulate anything more, and that her figure swayed slightly, as if tottering. Then all that was superficial went to the winds. He took her back through the half-lighted passage, supporting her tenderly, to Mr. Tottenham’s room. The door closed behind them, and Gussy turned to him with swimming eyes—eyes running over with tears and wistful happiness. She could not speak. She let him hold her, and looked up at him, all her heart in her face. Poor Edgar was seized upon at the same moment, all unprepared as he was, by that sudden gush of long-restrained feeling which carries all before it. “Is this how it is to be?” he said, no louder than a whisper, holding her fast and close, grasping her slender arm, as if she might still flee from him, or revolt from his touch. But Gussy had no mind to escape. Either she had nothing to say, or she was still too much shaken to attempt to say it. She let her head drop like a flower overcharged, and leaned on him and fell a-sobbing—fell on his neck, as the Bible says, though Gussy’s little figure fell short of that, and she only leaned as high as she could reach, resting there like a child. If ever a man came at a step out of purgatory, or worse, into Paradise, it was this man. Utterly alone half an hour ago, now companied so as all the world could not add to him. He did not try to stop her sobbing, but bent his head down upon hers, and I think for one moment let his own heart expand into something which was like a sob too—an inarticulate utterance of all this sudden rapture, unexpected, unlooked for, impossible as it was.

I do not know which was the first to come to themselves. It must have been Gussy, whose sobs had relieved her soul. She stirred within his arm, and lifted her head, and tried to withdraw from him.

“Not yet, not yet,” said Edgar. “Think how long I have wanted you, how long I have yearned for you; and that I have no right to you even now.”

“Right!” said Gussy, softly—“you have the only right—no one can have any right but you.”

“Is it so?—is it so? Say it again,” said Edgar. “Say that I am not a selfish hound, beguiling you; but that you will have it so. Say you will have it so! What I will is not the question—it is your will that is my law.”

“Do you know what you are saying—or have you turned a little foolish?” said the Gussy of old, with a laugh which was full of the tears with which her eyes were still shining and bright; and then she paused, and looking up at him, blushing, hazarded an inquiry—“Are you in love with me now?” she said.

“Now; and for how long?—three years—every day and all day long!” cried Edgar. “It could not do you any harm so far off. But I should not have dared to think of you so much if I had ever hoped for this.”

“Do not hold me so tight now,” said Gussy. “I shall not run away. Do you remember the last time—ah! we were not in love with each other then.”

“But loved each other—the difference is not very great,” he said, looking at her wistfully, making his eyes once more familiar with her face.

“Ah! there is a great difference,” said Gussy. “We were only, as you said, fond of each other; I began to feel it when you were gone. Tell me all that has happened since,” she said, suddenly—“everything! You said you had been coming to ask me that dreadful morning. We have belonged to each other ever since; and so much has happened to you. Tell me everything; I have a right to know.”

“Nothing has happened to me but the best of all things,” said Edgar, “and the worst. I have broken my word; I promised to your mother never to put myself in the way; I have disgraced myself, and I don’t care. And this has happened to me,” he said low in her ear, “my darling! Gussy, you are sure you know what you are doing? I am poor, ruined, with no prospects for the moment——”

“Don’t, please,” said Gussy, throwing back her head with the old pretty movement. “I suppose you don’t mean to be idle and lazy, and think me a burden; and I can make myself very useful, in a great many ways. Why should I have to think what I am doing more than I ought to have done three years ago, when you came to Thornleigh that morning? I had done my thinking then.”

“And, please God, you shall not repent of it!” cried the happy young man—“you shall not repent it, if I can help it. But your mother will not think so, darling; she will upbraid me with keeping you back—from better things.”

“That will be to insult me!” cried Gussy, flaming with hot, beautiful anger and shame. “Edgar, do you think I should have walked into your arms like this, not waiting to be asked, if I had not thought all this time that we have been as good as married these three years? Oh! what am I saying?” cried poor Gussy, overwhelmed with sudden confusion. It had seemed so natural, so matter-of-fact a statement to her—until she had said the words, and read a new significance in the glow of delight which flashed up in his eyes.

Is it necessary to follow this couple further into the foolishness of their mutual talk?—it reads badly on paper, and in cold blood. They had forgotten what the hour was, and most other things, when Mr. Tottenham, very weary, but satisfied, came suddenly into the room, with his head full of the Entertainment. His eyes were more worn than ever, but the lines of care under them had melted away, and a fatigued, half-imbecile smile of pleasure was hanging about his face. He was too much worn out to judge anyone—to be hard upon anyone that night. Fatigue and relief of mind had affected him like a genial, gentle intoxication of the spirit. He stopped short, startled, and perhaps shocked for the moment, when Edgar, and that white little figure beside him, rose hastily from the chairs, which had been so very near each other. I am afraid that, for the first moment, Mr. Tottenham felt a chill of dread that it was one of his own young ladies from the establishment. He did not speak, and they did not speak for some moments. Then, with an attempt at severity, Mr. Tottenham said,

“Gussy, is it possible? How should you have come here?”

“Oh! uncle, forgive us!” said Gussy, taking Edgar’s arm, and clinging to it, “and speak to mamma for us. I accepted him three years ago, Uncle Tom. He is the same man—or, rather, a far nicer man,” and here she gave a closer clasp to his arm, and dropped her voice for the moment, “only poor. Only poor!—does that make all the difference? Can you tell me any reason, Uncle Tottenham, why I should give him up, now he has come back?”

“My dear,” said Mr. Tottenham, alarmed yet conciliatory, “your mother—no, I don’t pretend I see it—your mother, Gussy, must be the best judge. Earnshaw, my dear fellow, was it not understood between us? I don’t blame you. I don’t say I wouldn’t have done the same; but was it not agreed between us? You should have given me fair warning, and she should never have come here.”

“I gave Lady Mary fair warning,” said Edgar, who felt himself ready at this moment to confront the whole world. “I promised to deny myself; but no power in the world should make me deny Gussy anything she pleased; and this is what she pleases, it appears,” he said, looking down upon her with glowing eyes. “A poor thing, sir, but her own—and she chooses it. I can give up my own will, but Gussy shall have her will, if I can get it for her. I gave Lady Mary fair warning; and then we met unawares.”

“And it was all my doing, please, uncle,” said Gussy, with a little curtsey. She was trembling with happiness, with agitation, with the mingled excitement and calm of great emotion; but still she could not shut out from herself the humour of the situation—“it was all my doing, please.”

“Ah! I see how it is,” said Mr. Tottenham. “You have been carried off, Earnshaw, and made a prey of against your will. Don’t ask me for my opinion, yes or no. Take what good you can of to-night, you will have a pleasant waking up, I promise you, to-morrow morning. The question is, in the meantime, how are you to get home? Every soul is gone, and my little brougham is waiting, with places for two only, at the door. Send that fellow away, and I’ll take you home to your mother.”

But poor Gussy had very little heart to send her recovered lover away. She clung to his arm, with a face like an April day, between smiles and tears.

“He says quite true. We shall have a dreadful morning,” she said, disconsolately. “When can you come, Edgar? I will say nothing till you come.”

As Gussy spoke there came suddenly back upon Edgar a reflection of all he had to do. Life had indeed come back to him all at once, her hands full of thorns and roses piled together. He fixed the time of his visit to Lady Augusta next morning, as he put Gussy into Mr. Tottenham’s brougham, and setting off himself at a great pace, arrived at Berkeley Square as soon as they did, and attended her to the well-known door. Gussy turned round on the threshold of the house where he had been once so joyfully received, but where his appearance now, he knew, would be regarded with horror and consternation, and waved her hand to him as he went away. But having done so, I am afraid her courage failed, and she stole away rapidly upstairs, and took refuge in her own room, and even put herself within the citadel of her bed.

“I came home with Uncle Tottenham in his brougham,” she said to Ada, who, half-alarmed, paid her a furtive visit, “and I am so tired and sleepy!”

Poor Gussy, she was safe for that night, but when morning came what was to become of her? So far from being sleepy, I do not believe that, between the excitement, the joy, and the terror, she closed her eyes that whole night.

Mr. Tottenham, too, got out of the brougham at Lady Augusta’s door; his own house was on the other side of the Square. He sent the carriage away, and took Edgar’s arm, and marched him solemnly along the damp pavement.

“Earnshaw, my dear fellow,” he said, in the deepest of sepulchral tones, “I am afraid you have been very imprudent. You will have a mauvais quart d’heure to-morrow.”

“I know it,” said Edgar, himself feeling somewhat alarmed, in the midst of his happiness.

“I am afraid—you ought not to have let her carry you off your feet in this way; you ought to have been wise for her and yourself too; you ought to have avoided any explanation. Mind, I don’t say that my feelings go with that sort of thing; but in common prudence—in justice to her——”

“Justice to her!” cried Edgar. “If she has been faithful for three years, do you think she is likely to change now? All that time not a word has passed between us; but you told me yourself she would not hear of—anything; that she spoke of retiring from the world. Would that be wiser or more prudent? Look here, nobody in the world has been so kind to me as you. I want you to understand me. A man may sacrifice his own happiness, but has he any right to sacrifice the woman he loves? It sounds vain, does it not?—but if she chooses to think this her happiness, am I to contradict her? I will do all that becomes a man,” cried Edgar, unconsciously adopting, in his excitement, the well-known words, “but do you mean to say it is a man’s duty to crush, and balk, and stand out against the woman he loves?”

“You are getting excited,” said Mr. Tottenham. “Speak lower, for heaven’s sake! Earnshaw; don’t let poor Mary hear of it to-night.”

There was something in the tone in which he said poor Mary, with a profound comic pathos, as if his wife would be the chief sufferer, which almost overcame Edgar’s gravity. Poor Mr. Tottenham was weak with his own sufferings, and with the blessed sense that he had got over them for the moment.

“What a help you were to me this afternoon,” he said, “though I daresay your mind was full of other things. Nothing would have settled into place, and we should have had a failure instead of a great success but for you. You think it was a great success? Everybody said so. And your poor lady, Earnshaw—your—friend—what of her? Is it as bad as you feared?”

“It is as bad as it is possible to be,” said Edgar, suddenly sobered. “I must ask further indulgence from you, I fear, to see a very bad business to an end.”

“You mean, a few days’ freedom? Yes, certainly; perhaps it might be as well in every way. And money—are you sure you have money? Perhaps it is just as well you did not come to the Square, though they were ready for you. Do you come with me to-night?”

“I am at my old rooms,” said Edgar. “Now that the Entertainment is over, I shall not return till my business is done—or not then, if you think it best.”

“Nothing of the sort!” cried his friend—“only till it is broken to poor Mary,” he added, once more lachrymose. “But, Earnshaw, poor fellow, I feel for you. You’ll let me know what Augusta says?”

And Mr. Tottenham opened his door with his latch-key, and crept upstairs like a criminal. He was terrified for his wife, to whom he felt this bad news must be broken with all the precaution possible; and though he could not prevent his own thoughts from straying into a weak-minded sympathy with the lovers, he did not feel at all sure that she would share his sentiments.

“Mary, at heart, is a dreadful little aristocrat,” he said to himself, as he lingered in his dressing-room to avoid her questions; not knowing that Lady Mary’s was the rash hand which had set this train of inflammables first alight.

Next morning—ah! next morning, there was the rub!—Edgar would have to face Lady Augusta, and Gussy her mother, and Mr. Tottenham, who felt himself by this time an accomplice, his justly indignant wife; besides that the latter unfortunate gentleman had also to go to the shop, and face the resignations offered to himself, and deadly feuds raised amongst his “assistants,” by the preliminaries of last night. In the meantime, all the culprits tried hard not to think of the terrible moment that awaited them, and I think the lovers succeeded. Lovers have the best of it in such emergencies; the enchanted ground of recollection and imagination to which they can return being more utterly severed from the common world than any other refuge.

The members of the party who remained longest up were Lady Augusta and Ada, who sat over the fire in the mother’s bed-room, and discussed everything with a generally satisfied and cheerful tone in their communings.

“Gussy came home with Uncle Tottenham in his brougham,” said Ada. “She has gone to bed. She was out in her district a long time this morning, and I think she is very tired to-night.”

“Oh, her district!” cried Lady Augusta. “I like girls to think of the poor, my dear—you know I do—I never oppose anything in reason; but why Gussy should work like a slave, spoiling her hands and complexion, and exposing herself in all weathers for the sake of her district! And it is not as if she had no opportunities. I wish you would speak to her, Ada. She ought to marry, if it were only for the sake of the boys; and why she is so obstinate, I cannot conceive.”

“Mamma, don’t say so—you know well enough why,” said Ada quietly. “I don’t say you should give in to her; but at least you know.”

“Well, I must say I think my daughters have been hard upon me,” said Lady Augusta, with a sigh—“even you, my darling—though I can’t find it in my heart to blame you. But, to change the subject, did you notice, Ada, how well Harry was looking? Dear fellow! he has got over his little troubles with your father. Tottenham’s has done him good; he always got on well with Mary and your odd, good uncle. Harry is so good-hearted and so simple-minded, he can get on with anybody; and I quite feel that I had a good inspiration,” said Lady Augusta, with a significant nod of her head, “when I sent him there. I am sure it has been for everybody’s good.”

“In what way, mamma?” said Ada, who was not at all so confident in Harry’s powers.

“Well, dear, he has been on the spot,” said Lady Augusta; “he has exercised an excellent influence. When poor Edgar, poor dear fellow, came up to me to-night, I could not think what to do for the best, for I expected Gussy to appear any moment; and even Mary and Beatrice, had they seen him, would have made an unnecessary fuss. But he took the hint at my first glance. I can only believe it was dear Harry’s doing, showing him the utter hopelessness—Poor fellow!” said Lady Augusta, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. “Oh! my dear, how inscrutable are the ways of Providence! Had things been ordered otherwise, what a comfort he might have been to us—what a help!”

“When you like him so well yourself, mamma,” said gentle Ada, “you should understand poor Gussy’s feelings, who was always encouraged to think of him—till the change came.”

“That is just what I say, dear,” said Lady Augusta; “if things had been ordered otherwise! We can’t change the arrangements of Providence, however much we may regret them. But at least it is a great comfort about dear Harry. How well he was looking!—and how kind and affectionate! I almost felt as if he were a boy again, just come from school, and so glad to see his people. It was by far the greatest pleasure I had to-night.”

And so this unsuspecting woman went to bed. She had a good night, for she was not afraid of the morrow, dismal as were the tidings it was fated to bring to her maternal ear.

At eleven o’clock next morning, Edgar, with a beating heart, knocked at the door in Berkeley Square. The footman, who was an old servant, and doubtless remembered all about him, let him in with a certain hesitation—so evident that Edgar reassured him by saying, “I am expected,” which was all he could manage to get out with his dry lips. Heaven send him better utterance when he gets to the moment of his trial! I leave the reader to imagine the effect produced when the door of the morning room, in which Lady Augusta was seated with her daughters, was suddenly opened, and Edgar, looking very pale, and terribly serious, walked into the room.

They were all there. The table was covered with patterns for Mary’s trousseau, and she herself was examining a heap of shawls, with Ada, at the window. Gussy, expectant, and changing colour so often that her agitation had already been remarked upon several times this morning, had kept close to her mother. Beatrice was practising a piece of music at the little piano in the corner, which was the girls’ favourite refuge for their musical studies. They all stopped in their various occupations, and turned round when he came in. Lady Augusta sprang to her feet, and put out one hand in awe and horror, to hold him at arm’s length. Her first look was for him, her second for Gussy, to whom she said, “Go—instantly!” as distinctly as eyes could speak; but, for once in her life, Gussy would not understand her mother’s eyes. And, what was worst of all, the two young ones, Mary and Beatrice, when they caught sight of Edgar, uttered each a cry of delight, and rushed upon him with eager hands outstretched.

“Oh! you have come home for It!—say you have come home for It!” cried Mary, to whom her approaching wedding was the one event which shadowed earth and heaven.

“Girls!” cried Lady Augusta, severely, “do not lay hold upon Mr. Earnshaw in that rude way. Go upstairs, all of you. Mr. Earnshaw’s business, no doubt, is with me.”

“Oh! mamma, mayn’t I talk to him for a moment?” cried Mary, aggrieved, and unwilling, in the fulness of her privileges, to acknowledge herself still under subjection.

But Lady Augusta’s eyes spoke very decisively this time, and Ada set the example by hastening away. Even Ada, however, could not resist the impulse of putting her hand in Edgar’s as she passed him. She divined everything in a moment. She said “God bless you!” softly, so that no one could hear it but himself. Only Gussy did not move.

“I must stay, mamma,” she said, in tones so vehement that even Lady Augusta was awed by them. “I will never disobey you again, but I must stay!”

And then Edgar was left alone, facing the offended lady. Gussy had stolen behind her, whence she could throw a glance of sympathy to her betrothed, undisturbed by her mother. Lady Augusta did not ask him to sit down. She seated herself in a stately manner, like a queen receiving a rebel.

“Mr. Earnshaw,” she said, solemnly, “after all that has passed between us, and all you have promised—I must believe that there is some very grave reason for your unexpected visit to-day.”

What a different reception it was from that she had given him, when—coming, as she supposed, on the same errand which really brought him now—he had to tell her of his loss of everything! Then the whole house had been pleasantly excited over the impending proposal; and Gussy had been kissed and petted by all her sisters, as the heroine of the drama; and Lady Augusta’s motherly heart had swelled with gratitude to God that she had secured for her daughter not only a good match, but a good man. It was difficult for Edgar, at least, to shut out all recollection of the one scene in the other. He answered with less humility than he had shown before, and with a dignity which impressed her, in spite of herself,

“Yes, there is a very grave reason for it,” he said—“the gravest reason—without which I should not have intruded upon you. I made you a voluntary promise some time since, seeing your dismay at my re-appearance, that I would not interfere with any of your plans, or put myself in your way.”

“Yes,” said Lady Augusta, in all the horror of suspense. Gussy, behind, whispered, “You have not!—you have not!” till her mother turned and looked at her, when she sank upon the nearest seat, and covered her face with her hands.

“I might say that I have not, according to the mere letter of my word,” said Edgar; “but I will not stand by that. Lady Augusta, I have come to tell you that I have broken my promise. I find I had no right to make it. I answered for myself, but not for another dearer than myself. The pledge was given in ignorance, and foolishly. I have broken it, and I have come to ask you to forgive me.”

“You have broken your word? Mr. Earnshaw, I was not aware that gentlemen ever did so. I do not believe you are capable of doing so,” she cried, in great agitation. “Gussy, go upstairs, you have nothing to do with this discussion—you were not a party to the bargain. I cannot—cannot allow myself to be treated in this way! Mr. Earnshaw, think what you are saying! You cannot go back from your word!”

“Forgive me,” he said, “I have done it. Had I known all, I would not have given the promise; I told Lady Mary Tottenham so; my pledge was for myself, to restrain my own feelings. From the moment that it was betrayed to me that she too had feelings to restrain, my very principle of action, my rule of honour, was changed. It was no longer my duty to deny myself to obey you. My first duty was to her, Lady Augusta—if in that I disappoint you, if I grieve you——”

“You do more than disappoint me—you horrify me!” cried Lady Augusta. “You make me think that nothing is to be relied upon—no man’s word to be trusted, No, no, we must have no more of this,” she said, with vehemence. “Forget what you have said, Mr. Earnshaw, and I will try to forget it. Go to your room, Gussy—this is no scene for you.”

Edgar stood before his judge motionless, saying no more. I think he felt now how completely the tables were turned, and what an almost cruel advantage he had over her. His part was that of fact and reality, which no one could conjure back into nothingness; and hers that of opposition, disapproval, resistance to the inevitable. He was the rock, and she the vexed and vexing waves, dashing against it, unable to overthrow it. In their last great encounter these positions had been reversed, and it was she who had command of the situation. Now, howsoever parental authority might resist, or the world oppose, the two lovers knew very well, being persons in their full senses, and of full age, that they had but to persevere, and their point would be gained.

Lady Augusta felt it too—it was this which had made her so deeply alarmed from the first, so anxious to keep Edgar at arm’s length. The moment she caught sight of him on this particular morning, she felt that all was over. But that certainty unfortunately does not quench the feelings of opposition, though it may take all hope of eventual success from them. All that this secret conviction of the uselessness of resistance did for Lady Augusta was to make her more hot, more desperate, more acharnée than she had ever been. She grew angry at the silence of her opponent—his very patience seemed a renewed wrong, a contemptuous evidence of conscious power.

“You do not say anything,” she cried. “You allow me to speak without an answer. What do you mean me to understand by this—that you defy me? I have treated you as a friend all along. I thought you were good, and honourable, and true. I have always stood up for you—treated you almost like a son! And is this to be the end of it? You defy me! You teach my own child to resist my will! You do not even keep up the farce of respecting my opinion—now that she has gone over to your side!”

Here poor Lady Augusta got up from her chair, flushed and trembling, with the tears coming to her eyes, and an angry despair warring against very different feelings in her mind. She rose up, not looking at either of the culprits, and leant her arm on the mantelpiece, and gazed unawares at her own excited, troubled countenance in the glass. Yes, they had left her out of their calculations; she who had always (she knew) been so good to them! It no longer seemed worth while to send Gussy away, to treat her as if she were innocent of the complot. She had gone over to the other side. Lady Augusta felt herself deserted, slighted, injured, with the two against her—and determined, doubly determined, never to yield.

“Mamma,” said Gussy, softly, “do not be angry with Edgar. Don’t you know, as well as I, that I have always been on his side?”

“Don’t venture to say a word to me, Gussy,” said Lady Augusta. “I will not endure it from you!”

“Mamma, I must speak. It was you who turned my thoughts to him first. Was it likely that I should forget him because he was in trouble? Why, you did not! You yourself were fond of him all along, and trusted him so that you took his pledge to give up his own will to yours. But I never gave any pledge,” said Gussy, folding her hands. “You never asked me what I thought, or I should have told you. I have been waiting for Edgar. He has not dared to come to me since he came back to England, because of his promise to you; and I have not dared to go to him, because—simply because I was a woman. But when we met, mamma—when we met, I say—not his seeking or my seeking—by accident, as you call it——”

“Oh! accident!” cried Lady Augusta, with a sneer, which sat very strangely upon her kind face. “Accident! One knows how such accidents come to pass!”

“If you doubt our truth,” cried Gussy, in a little outburst, “of course there is no more to say.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the mother, faintly. She had put herself in the wrong. The sneer, the first and only sneer of which poor Lady Augusta had known herself to be guilty, turned to a weapon against her. Compunction and shame filled up the last drop of the conflicting emotions that possessed her. “It is easy for you both to speak,” she said, “very easy; to you it is nothing but a matter of feeling. You never ask yourself how it is to be done. You never think of the thousand difficulties with the world, with your father, with circumstances. What have I taken the trouble to struggle for? You yourself do me justice, Gussy! Not because I would not have preferred Edgar—oh! don’t come near me!” she cried, holding out her hand to keep him back; as he approached a step at the softening sound of his name—“don’t work upon my feelings! It is cruel; it is taking a mean advantage. Not because I did not prefer him—but because life is not a dream, as you think it, not a romance, nor a poem. What am I to do?” cried Lady Augusta, clasping her hands, and raising them with unconscious, most natural theatricalness. “What am I to do? How am I to face your father, your brothers, the world?”

I do not know what the two listeners could have done, after the climax of this speech, but to put themselves at her feet, with that instinct of nature in extreme circumstances which the theatre has seized for its own, and given a partially absurd colour to; but they were saved from thus committing themselves by the sudden and precipitate entrance of Lady Mary, who flung the door open, and suddenly rushed among them without warning or preparation.

“I come to warn you,” she cried, “Augusta!” Then stopped short, seeing at a glance the state of affairs.

They all stood gazing at each other for a moment, the others not divining what this interruption might mean, and feeling instinctively driven back upon conventional self-restraint and propriety, by the entrance of the new-comer. Lady Augusta unclasped her hands, and stole back guiltily to her chair. Edgar recovered his wits, and placed one for Lady Mary. Gussy dropped upon the sofa behind her mother, and cast a secret glance of triumph at him from eyes still wet with tears. He alone remained standing, a culprit still on his trial, who felt the number of his judges increased, without knowing whether his cause would take a favourable or unfavourable aspect in the eyes of the new occupant of the judicial bench.

“What have you all been doing?” said Lady Mary—“you look as much confused and scared by my appearance as if I had disturbed you in the midst of some wrong-doing or other. Am I to divine what has happened? It is what I was coming to warn you against; I was going to say that I could no longer answer for Mr. Earnshaw—”

“I have spoken for myself,” said Edgar. “Lady Augusta knows that all my ideas and my duties have changed. I do not think I need stay longer. I should prefer to write to Mr. Thornleigh at once, unless Lady Augusta objects; but I can take no final negative now from anyone but Gussy herself.”

“And that he shall never have!” cried Gussy, with a ring of premature triumph in her voice. Her mother turned round upon her again with a glance of fire.

“Is that the tone you have learned among the Sisters?” said Lady Augusta, severely. “Yes, go, Mr. Earnshaw, go—we have had enough of this.”

Edgar was perhaps as much shaken as any of them by all he had gone through. He went up to Lady Augusta, and took her half-unwilling hand and kissed it.

“Do you remember,” he said, “dear Lady Augusta, when you cried over me in my ruin, and kissed me like my mother? I cannot forget it, if I should live a hundred years. You have never abandoned me, though you feared me. Say one kind word to me before I go.”

Lady Augusta tried hard not to look at the supplicant. She turned her head away, she gulped down a something in her throat which almost overcame her. The tears rushed to her eyes.

“Don’t speak to me!” she cried—“don’t speak to me! Shall I not be a sufferer too? God bless you, Edgar! I have always felt like your mother. Go away!—go away!—don’t speak to me any more!”

Edgar had the sense to obey her without another look or word. He did not even pause to glance at Gussy (at which she was much aggrieved), but left the room at once. And then Gussy crept to her mother’s side, and knelt down there, clinging with her arms about the vanquished Rhadamantha; and the three women kissed each other, and cried together, not quite sure whether it was for sorrow or joy.

“You are in love with him yourself, Augusta!” cried Lady Mary, laughing and crying together before this outburst was over.

“And so I am,” said Gussy’s mother, drying her kind eyes.

Edgar, as he rushed out, saw heads peeping over the staircase, of which he took no notice, though one of them was no less than the curled and shining head of the future Lady Granton, destined Marchioness (one day or other) of Hauteville. He escaped from these anxious spies, and rushed through the hall, feeling himself safest out of the house. But on the threshold he met Harry Thornleigh, who looked at him from head to foot with an insolent surprise which made Edgar’s blood boil.

“You here!” said Harry, with unmistakably disagreeable intention; then all at once his tone changed—Edgar could not imagine why—and he held out his hand in greeting. “Missed you at Tottenham’s,” said Harry; “they all want you. That little brute Phil is getting unendurable. I wish you’d whop him when you go back.”

“I shall not be back for some days,” said Edgar shortly. “I have business——”

“Here?” asked Harry, with well-simulated surprise. “If you’ll let me give you a little advice, Earnshaw, and won’t take it amiss—I can’t help saying you’ll get no good here.”

“Thank you,” said Edgar, feeling a glow of offence mount to his face. “I suppose every man is the best judge in his own case; but, in the meantime, I am leaving town—for a day or two.”

“Au revoir, then, at Tottenham’s,” said Harry, with a nod, half-hostile, half-friendly, and marched into his own house, or what would one day be his own house, with the air of a master. Edgar left it with a curious sense of the discouragement meant to be conveyed to him, which was half-whimsical, half-painful. Harry meant nothing less than to make him feel that his presence was undesired and inopportune, without, however, making any breach with him; he had his own reasons for keeping up a certain degree of friendship with Edgar, but he had no desire that it should go any further than he thought proper and suitable. As for his sister’s feelings in the matter, Harry ignored and scouted them with perfect calm and self-possession. If she went and entered a Sisterhood, as they had all feared at one time, why, she would make a fool of herself, and there would be an end of it! “I shouldn’t interfere,” Harry had said. “It would be silly; but there would be an end of her—no more responsibility, and that sort of thing. Let her, if she likes, so long as you’re sure she’ll stay.” But to allow her to make “a low marriage” was an entirely different matter. Therefore he set Edgar down, according to his own consciousness, even though he was quite disinclined to quarrel with Edgar. He was troubled by no meltings of heart, such as disturbed the repose of his mother. He liked the man well enough, but what had that to do with it? It was necessary that Gussy should marry well if she married at all—not so much for herself as for the future interests of the house of Thornleigh. Harry felt that to have a set of little beggars calling him “uncle,” in the future ages, and sheltering themselves under the shadow of Thornleigh, was a thing totally out of the question. The heir indeed might choose for himself, having it in his power to bestow honour, as in the case of King Cophetua. But probably even King Cophetua would have deeply disapproved, and indeed interdicted beggar-maids for his brother, how much more beggar-men for his sisters—or any connection which could detract from the importance of the future head of the house.

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:—

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:—

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.

Arthur Arden, Esq., of Arden, was a different man from the needy cousin of the Squire, the hanger-on of society, the fine gentleman out at elbows, whose position had bewildered yet touched the supposed legal proprietor of the estates, and head of the family, during Edgar’s brief reign. A poor man knocking about the world, when he has once lost his reputation, has no particular object to stimulate him to the effort necessary for regaining it. But when a man who sins by will, and not by weakness of nature, gains a position in which virtue is necessary and becoming, and where vice involves a certain loss of prestige, nothing is easier than moral reformation. Arthur Arden had been a strictly moral man for all these years; he had given up all vagabond vices, the peccadilloes of the Bohemian. He was rangé in every sense of the word. A more decorous, stately house was not in the county; a man more correct in all his duties never set an example to a parish. I do not know that the essential gain was very great. He took his vices in another way; he was hard as the nether millstone to all who came in his way, grasping and tyrannical. He did nothing that was not exacted from him, either by law, or public opinion, or personal vanity; on every other side he was in panoply of steel against all prayers, all intercessions, all complaints.

Mrs. Arden made him an excellent wife. She was as proud as he was, and held her head very high in the county. The Countess of Marchmont, Lord Newmarch’s mother, was nothing in comparison with Mrs. Arden of Arden. But people said she was too cold in her manners ever to be popular. When her husband stood for the county, and she had to show the ordinary gracious face to all the farmers and farm-men, Clare’s manners lost more votes than her beauty and her family might have gained. She could not be cordial to save her life. But then the Ardens were always cold and proud—it was the characteristic of the family—except the last poor fellow, who was everybody’s friend, and turned out to be no Arden at all, as anyone might have seen with half an eye.

Mr. Arden’s horse and his groom were waiting in the stableyard of the “Arden Arms.” He himself, looking more gloomy than usual, had gone upstairs to the best room, to meet the stranger, of whom all the “Arden Arms” people felt vaguely that they had seen him before. The landlady, passing the door, heard their voices raised high now and then, as if there was some quarrel between them; but she was too busy to listen, even had her curiosity carried her so far. When Mrs. Arden, driving past, stopped in front of the inn, to ask for some poor pensioner in the village, the good woman rushed out, garrulous and eager.

“The Squire is here, ma’am, with a gentleman. I heard him say as his horse was dead beat, and as he’d have to take the train home. What a good thing as you have come this way! Please now, as they’ve done their talk, will your ladyship step upstairs?”

“If Mr. Arden is occupied with some one on business—” said Clare, hesitating; but then it suddenly occurred to her that, as there had been a little domestic jar that morning, it might be well to show herself friendly, and offer to drive her husband home. “You are sure he is not busy?” she said, doubtfully, and went upstairs with somewhat hesitating steps. It was a strange thing for Mrs. Arden to do, but something impelled her unconscious feet, something which the ancients would have called fate, an impulse she could not resist. She knocked softly at the door, but received no reply; and there was no sound of voices within to make her pause. The “business,” whatever it was, must surely be over. Clare opened the door, not without a thrill at her heart, which she could scarcely explain to herself, for she knew of nothing to make this moment or this incident specially important. Her husband sat, with his back to her, at the table, his head buried in his hands; near him, fronting the door, his face very serious, his eyes shining with indignant fire, stood Edgar. Edgar! The sight of him, so unexpected as it was, touched her heart with a quick, unusual movement of warmth and tenderness. She gave a sudden cry, and rushed into the room.

Arthur Arden raised his head from his hands at the sound of her voice—he raised himself up, and glanced at her, half-stupefied.

“What has brought you here?” he cried, hoarsely.

But Clare had no eyes for him, for the moment. She went up to her brother, who stood, scarcely advancing to meet her, with no light of pleasure on his face at the sight of her. They had not met for three years.

“Edgar!” she said, with pleasure so sudden that she had not time to think whether it was right and becoming on the part of Mrs. Arden of Arden to express such a sentiment. But, before she had reached him, his pained and serious look, his want of all response to her warm exclamation, and the curious atmosphere of agitation in the room, impressed her in spite of herself. She stopped short, her tone changed, the revulsion of feeling which follows an overture repulsed, suddenly clouded over her face. “I see I am an intruder,” she said. “I did not mean to interfere with—business.” Then curiosity got the upper hand. She paused and looked at them—Edgar so determined and serious, her husband agitated, sullen—and as pale as if he had been dying. “But what business can there be between you two?” she asked, with a sharp tone of anxiety in her voice. The two men were like criminals before her. “What is it?—what is it?” she cried. “Something has happened. What brings you two together must concern me.”

“Go home, Clare, go home,” said Arthur Arden, hoarsely. “We don’t want you here, to make things worse—go home.”

She looked at Edgar—he shook his head and turned his eyes from her. He had given her no welcome, no look even of the old affection. Clare’s blood was up.

“I have a right to know what has brought you together,” she said, drawing a chair to the table, and suddenly seating herself between them. “I will go home when you are ready to come with me, Arthur. What is it? for, whatever it is, I have a right to know.”

Edgar came to her side and took her hand, which she gave to him almost reluctantly, averting her face.

“Clare,” he said, almost in a whisper, “this is the only moment for all these years that I could not be happy to see you. Go home, for God’s sake, as he says——”

“I will not,” said Clare. “Some new misfortune has occurred to bring you two together. Why should I go home, to be wretched, wondering what has happened? For my children’s sake, I will know what it is.”

Neither of them made her any answer. There were several papers lying on the table between them—one a bulky packet, directed in what Clare knew to be his solicitor’s handwriting, to Arthur Arden. Miss Lockwood had played Edgar false, and, even while she urged him on, had already placed her papers in the lawyer’s hands. Arden had thus known the full dangers of the exposure before him, when, with some vague hopes of a compromise, he had met Edgar, whom he insisted on considering Miss Lockwood’s emissary. He had been bidding high for silence, for concealment, and had been compelled to stomach Edgar’s indignant refusal, which for the moment he dared not resent, when Clare thus burst upon the scene. They were suddenly arrested by her appearance, stopped in mid-career.

“Is it any renewal of the past?—any new discovery? Edgar, you have found something out—you are, after all——”

He shook his head.

“Dear Clare, it is nothing about me. Let me come and see you after, and tell you about myself. This is business-mere business,” said Edgar, anxiously. “Nothing,” his voice faltered, “to interest you.”

“You tell lies badly,” she said; “and he says nothing. What does it mean? What are these papers?—always papers—more papers—everything that is cruel is in them. Must I look for myself?” she continued, her voice breaking, with an agitation which she could not explain. She laid her hand upon some which lay strewed open upon the table. She saw Edgar watch the clutch of her fingers with a shudder, and that her husband kept his eyes upon her with a strange, horrified watchfulness. He seemed paralyzed, unable to interfere till she had secured them, when he suddenly grasped her hand roughly, and cried, “Come, give them up; there is nothing there for you!”

Clare was not dutiful or submissive by nature. At the best of times such an order would have irritated rather than subdued her.

“I will not,” she repeated, freeing her hand from the clutch that made it crimson. Only one of the papers she had picked up remained, a scrap that looked of no importance. She rose and hurried to the window with it, holding it up to the light.

“She must have known it one day or other,” said Edgar, speaking rather to himself than to either of his companions. It was the only sound that broke the silence. After an interval of two minutes or so, Clare came back, subdued, and rather pale.

“This is a marriage certificate, I suppose,” she said. “Yours, Arthur! You were married, then, before? You might have told me. Why didn’t you tell me? I should have had no right to be vexed if I had known before.”

“Clare!” he stammered, looking at her in consternation.

“Yes, I can’t help being vexed,” she said, her lip quivering a little, “to find out all of a sudden that I am not the first. I think you should have told me, Arthur, not left me to find it out. But, after all, it is only a shock and a mortification, not a crime, that you should look so frightened,” she added, forcing a faint smile. “I am not a termagant, to make your life miserable on account of the past.” Here Clare paused, looked from one to the other, and resumed, with a more anxious voice: “What do you mean, both of you, by looking at me? Is there more behind? Ay, I see!” her lip quivered more and more, her face grew paler, she restrained herself with a desperate effort. “Tell me the worst,” she said, hurriedly. “There are other children, older than mine! My boy will not be the heir?”

“Clare! Clare!” cried Edgar, putting his arm round her, forgetting all that lay between them, tears starting to his eyes, “my dear, come away! Don’t ask any more questions. If you ever looked upon me as your brother, or trusted me, come—come home, Clare.”

She shook off his grasp impatiently, and turned to her husband.

“Arthur, I demand the truth from you,” she cried. “Let no one interfere between us. Is there—an older boy than mine? Let me hear the worst! Is not my boy your heir?”

Arthur Arden, though he was not soft-hearted, uttered at this moment a lamentable groan.

“I declare before God I never thought of it!” he cried. “I never meant it for a marriage at all!”

“Marriage!” said Clare, looking at him like one bewildered. “Marriage!—I am not talking of marriage! Is there—a boy—another heir?”

And then again there was a terrible silence. The man to whom Clare looked so confidently as her husband, demanding explanations from him, shrank away from her, cowering, with his face hidden by his hands.

“Will no one answer me?” she said. Her face was ghastly with suspense—every drop of blood seemed to have been drawn out of it. Her eyes went from her husband to Edgar, from Edgar back to her husband. “Tell me, yes or no—yes or no! I do not ask more!”

“Clare, it is not that! God forgive me! The woman is alive!” said Arthur Arden, with a groan that seemed to come from the bottom of his heart.

“The woman is alive!” she cried, impatiently. “I am not asking about any woman. What does he mean? The woman is alive!” She stopped short where she stood, holding fast by the back of her chair, making an effort to understand. “The woman! What woman? What does he mean?”

“His wife,” said Edgar, under his breath.

Clare turned upon him a furious, fiery glance. She did not understand him. She began to see strange glimpses of light through the darkness, but she could not make out what it was.

“Will not you speak?” she cried piteously, putting her hand upon her husband’s shoulder. “Arthur, I forgive you for keeping it from me; but why do you hide your face?—why do you turn away? All you can do for me now is to tell me everything. My boy!—is he disinherited? Stop,” she cried wildly; “let me sit down. There is more—still more! Edgar, come here, close beside me, and tell me in plain words. The woman! What does he mean?”

“Clare,” cried Edgar, taking her cold hands into his, “don’t let it kill you, for your children’s sake. They have no one but you. The woman—whom he married then—is living now.”

“The woman—whom he married then!” she repeated, with lips white and stammering. “The woman!” Then stopped, and cried out suddenly—“My God! my God!”

“Clare, before the Lord I swear to you I never meant it—I never thought of it!” exclaimed Arden, with a hoarse cry.

Clare took no notice; she sat with her hands clasped, staring blankly before her, murmuring, “My God! my God!” under her breath. Edgar held her hands, which were chill and trembled, but she did not see him. He stood watching her anxiously, fearing that she would faint or fall. But Clare was not the kind of woman who faints in a great emergency. She sat still, with the air of one stupefied; but the stupor was only a kind of external atmosphere surrounding her, within the dim circle of which—a feverish circle—thought sprang up, and began to whirl and twine. She thought of everything all in a moment—her children first, who were dishonoured; and Arden, her home, where she had been born; and her life, which would have to be wrenched up—plucked like a flower from the soil in which she had bloomed all her life. They could not get either sound or movement from her, as she sat there motionless. They thought she was dulled in mind by the shock, or in body, and that it was a merciful circumstance to deaden the pain, and enable them to get her home.

While she sat thus, her husband raised himself in terror, and consulted Edgar with his eyes.

“Take her home—take her home,” he whispered behind Clare’s back—“take her home as long as she’s quiet; and till she’s got over the shock, I’ll keep myself out of the way.”

Clare heard him, even through the mist that surrounded her, but she could not make any reply. She seemed to have forgotten all about him—to have lost him in those mists. When Edgar put his hand on her shoulder, and called her gently, she stirred at last, and looked up at him.

“What is it?—what do you want with me?” she asked.

“I want you to come home,” he said softly. “Come home with me; I will take care of you; it is not a long drive.”

Poor Edgar! he was driven almost out of his wits, and did not know what to say. She shuddered with a convulsive trembling in all her limbs.

“Home!—yes, I must go and get my children,” she said. “Yes, you are quite right. I want some one to take care of me. I must go and get my children; they are so young—so very young! If I take them at once, they may never know——”

“Clare,” cried her husband, moaning, “you won’t do anything rash? You won’t expose our misery to all the world?”

She cast a quick glance at him—a glance full of dislike and horror.

“Take me away,” she said to Edgar—“take me away! I must go and fetch the children before it is dark.” This with a pause and a strange little laugh. “I speak as if they had been out at some baby-party,” she said. “Give me your arm. I don’t see quite clear.”

Arden watched them as they went out of the room—she tottering, as she leant on Edgar’s arm, moving as he moved, like one blind. Arthur Arden was left behind with his papers, and with the thought of that other woman, who had claimed him for her husband. How clearly he remembered her—her impertinence, her rude carelessness, her manners, that were of the shop, and knew no better training! Their short life together came back to him like a picture. How soon his foolish passion for her (as he described it to himself) had blown over!—how weary of her he had grown! And now, what was to become of him? If Clare did anything desperate—if she went and blazoned it about, and removed the children, and took the whole matter in a passionate way, it would not be she alone who would be the sufferer. The woman is the sufferer, people say, in such cases; but this man groaned when he thought, if he could not do something to avert it, what ruin must overtake him. If Clare left his house, all honour, character, position would go with her; he could never hold up his head again. He would retain everything he had before, yet he would lose everything—not only her and his children, of whom he was as fond as it was possible to be of any but himself, but every scrap of popular regard, society, the support of his fellows. All would go from him if this devil could not be silenced—if Clare could not be conciliated.

He rose to his feet, feeling sick and giddy, and from a corner, behind the shadow of the window-curtains, saw his wife—that is, the woman who was no longer his wife—drive away from the door. He was so wretched that he could not even relieve his mind by swearing at Edgar. He had not energy enough to think of Edgar, or any one else. Sometimes, indeed, with a sharp pang, there would gleam across him a sudden vision of his little boy, Clare’s son, the beautiful child he had been so proud of, but who—even if Clare should make it up, and brave the shame and wrong—was ruined and disgraced, and no more the heir of Arden than any beggar on the road. Poor wretch! when that thought came across him, I think all the wrongs that Arthur Arden had done in this world were avenged. He writhed under the sudden thought. He burst out in sudden crying and sobbing for one miserable moment. It was intolerable—he could not bear it; yet had to bear it, as we all have, whether our errors are of our own making or not.

And Clare drove back over the peaceful country, beginning to green over faintly under the first impulse of Spring—between lines of ploughed and grateful fields, and soft furrows of soft green corn. She did not even put her veil down, but with her white face set, and her eyes gazing blankly before her, went on with her own thoughts, saying nothing, seeing nothing. All her faculties had suddenly been concentrated within her—her mind was like a shaded lamp for the moment, throwing intense light upon one spot, and leaving all others in darkness. Edgar held her hand, to which she did not object, and watched her with a pity which swelled his heart almost to bursting. He could take care of her tenderly in little things—lift her out of the carriage, give her the support of his arm, throw off the superabundant wraps that covered her. But this was all; into the inner world, where she was fighting her battle, neither he nor any man could enter—there she had to fight it out alone.

Clare went to her own room, and shut herself up there. She permitted Edgar to go with her to the door, and there dismissed him, almost without a word. What Edgar’s feelings were on entering the house where he had once been master, and with which so many early associations both of pleasure and pain were connected, I need not say; he was excited painfully and strangely by everything he saw. It seemed inconceivable to him that he should be there; and every step in the staircase, every turn in the corridor, reminded him of something that had happened in that brief bit of the past in which his history was concentrated, which had lasted so short a time, yet had been of more effect than many years. The one thing, however, that kept him calm, and restrained his excitement, was the utter absorption of Clare in her own troubles, which were more absorbing than anything that had ever happened to him. She showed no consciousness that it was anything to him to enter this house, to lead her through its familiar passages. She ignored it so completely that Edgar, always impressionable, felt half ashamed of himself for recollecting, and tried to make believe, even to himself, that he ignored it too. He took her to the door of her room, his head throbbing with the sense that he was here again, where he had never thought to be; and then went downstairs, to wait in the room which had once been his own library, for Arthur Arden’s return. Fortunately the old servants were all gone, and if any of the present household recognised Edgar at all, their faces were unfamiliar to him. How strange to look round the room, and note with instinctive readiness all the changes which another man’s taste had made! The old cabinet, in which the papers had been found which proved him no Arden, stood still against the wall, as it had always done. The books looked neglected in their shelves, as though no one ever touched them. It was more of a business room than it once was, less of a library, nothing at all of the domestic place, dear to man and woman alike, which it had been when Edgar never was so happy as with his sister beside him. How strange it was to be there—how dismal to be there on such an errand. In this room Clare had given him the papers which were his ruin; here she had entreated him to destroy them; here he had made the discovery public; and now to think the day should have come when he was here as a stranger, caring nothing for Arden, thinking only how to remove her of whom he seemed to have become the sole brother and protector, from the house she had been born in!

He walked about and about the rooms, till the freshness of these associations was over, and he began to grow impatient of the stillness and suspense. He had told Clare that he would wait, and that she should find him there when he was wanted. He had begged her to do nothing that night—to wait and consider what was best; but he did not even know whether she was able to understand him, or if he spoke to deaf ears. Everything had happened so quickly that a sense of confusion was in Edgar’s mind, confusion of the moral as well as the mental functions; for he was not at all sure whether the link of sympathetic horror and wonder between Arden and himself, as to what Clare would do, did not approach him closer, rather than separate him further from this man, who hated him, to begin with, and who was yet not his sister’s husband. Somehow these two, who, since they first met, had been at opposite poles from each other, seemed to be drawn together by one common misfortune, rather than placed in a doubly hostile position, as became the injurer and the defender of the injured.

When Arden came in some time after, this feeling obliterated on both sides the enmity which, under any other circumstances, must have blazed forth. Edgar, as he looked at the dull misery in Arthur’s face, felt a strange pity for him soften his heart. This man, who had done so well for himself, who had got Arden, who had married Clare, who had received all the gifts that heaven could give, what a miserable failure he was after all, cast down from all that made his eminence tenable or good to hold. He was the cause of the most terrible misfortune to Clare and her children, and yet Edgar felt no impulse to take him by the throat, but was sorry for him in his downfall and misery. As for Arthur Arden, his old dislike seemed exorcised by the same spirit. In any other circumstances he would have resented Edgar’s interference deeply—but now a gloomy indifference to everything that could happen, except one thing, had got possession of him.

“What does she mean to do?” he said, throwing himself into a chair. All power of self-assertion had failed in him. It seemed even right and natural to him that Edgar should know this better than he himself did, and give him information what her decision was.

“I think,” said Edgar, instinctively accepting the rôle of adviser, “that the best and most delicate thing you could do would be to leave the house to her for a few days. Let it be supposed you have business somewhere. Go to London, if you think fit, and investigate for yourself; but leave Clare to make up her mind at leisure. It would be the most generous thing to do.”

Arthur stared at him blankly for a moment, with a dull suspicion in his eyes at the strange, audacious calmness of the proposal. But seeing that Edgar met his gaze calmly, and said these words in perfect single-mindedness, and desire to do the best in the painful emergency, he accepted them as they were given; and thus they remained together, though they did not talk to each other, waiting for Clare’s appearance, or some intimation of what she meant to do, till darkness began to fall. When it was nearly night a maid appeared, with a scared look in her face, and that strange consciousness of impending evil which servants often show, like animals, without a word being said to them—and brought to Edgar the following little note from Clare:—

“I am not able to see you to-night; and I cannot decide where to go without consulting you; besides that there are other reasons why I cannot take the children away, as I intended, at once. I have gone up to the nursery beside them, and will remain there until to-morrow. Tell him this, and ask if we may remain so, in his house, without being molested, till to-morrow.”

Edgar handed this note to Arden without a word. He saw the quick flutter of excitement which passed over Arthur’s face. If the letter had been more affectionate, I doubt whether Clare’s husband could have borne it; but as it was he gulped down his agitation, and read it without betraying any angry feeling. When he had glanced it over, he looked almost piteously at his companion.

“You think that is what I ought to do?” he said, almost with an appeal against Edgar’s decision. “Then I’ll go; you can write and tell her so. I’ll stay away if she likes, until—until she wants me,” he broke off abruptly, and got up and left the room, and was audible a moment after, calling loudly for his servant in the hall.

Edgar wrote this information to Clare. He told her that Arden had decided to leave the house to her, that she might feel quite free to make up her mind; and that he too would go to the village, where he would wait her call, whensoever she should want him. He begged her once more to compose herself, not to hasten her final decision, and to believe that she would be perfectly free from intrusion or interference of any kind—and bade God bless her, the only word of tenderness he dared venture to add.

When he had written this, he walked down the avenue alone, in the dusk, to the village. Arden had gone before him. The lodge-gates had been left open, and gave to the house a certain forlorn air of openness to all assault, which, no doubt, existed chiefly in Edgar’s fancy, but impressed him more than I can say. To walk down that avenue at all was for him a strange sensation; but Edgar by this time had got over all the weaknesses of recollection. It was not hard for him at any time to put himself to one side. He did it now completely. He felt like a man walking in a dream; but he no longer consciously recalled to himself the many times he had gone up and down there, and how it had once been to him his habitual way home—the entrance to his kingdom. No doubt in his painful circumstances these thoughts would have been hard upon him. They died quite naturally out of his mind now. What was to become of Clare?—where could he best convey her for shelter or safety?—and how provide for her? His own downfall had made Clare penniless, and now that she was no longer Arthur Arden’s wife, she could and would, he knew, accept nothing from him. How was she to be provided for? This was a far more important question to think of than any maunderings of personal regret over the associations of his past life.

Next morning he went up again to the Hall, after a night passed not very comfortably at the “Arden Arms,” where everyone looked at him curiously, recognising him, but not venturing to say so. As he went up the avenue, Arthur Arden overtook him, arriving, too, from a different direction. A momentary flash of indignation came over Edgar’s face.

“You promised to leave Arden,” he said.

“And so I did,” said the other. “But I did not say I would not come back to hear what she said. My God, I may have been a fool, but may I not see my—my own children before they go? I am not made of wood or stone, do you suppose, though I may have been in the wrong?”

His eyes were red and bloodshot, his appearance neglected and wild. He looked as if he had not slept, nor even undressed, all night.

“Look here,” he said hoarsely, “I have got another letter, saying she would accept money—a compromise. Will you persuade Clare to stay, and make no exposure, and hush it all up, for the sake of the children—if we have her solemnly bound over to keep the secret and get her sent away? Will you? What harm could it do you? And it might be the saving of the boy.”

“Arden, I pity you from my heart!” said Edgar; “but I could not give such advice to Clare.”

“It’s for the boy,” cried Arden. “Look here. We’ve never been friends, you and I, and it’s not natural we should be; but that child shall be brought up to think more of you than of any man on earth—to think of you as his friend, his—well, his uncle, if you will. Grant that I’m done for in this world, and poor Clare too, poor girl; but, Edgar, if you liked, you might save the boy.”

“By falsehood,” said Edgar, his heart wrung with sympathetic emotion—“by falsehood, as I was myself set up, till the time came, and I fell. Better, surely, that he should be trained to bear the worst. You would not choose for him such a fate as mine?”

“It has not done you any harm,” said Arden, looking keenly at the man he had dispossessed—from whom he had taken everything. “You have always had the best of it!” he cried, with sudden fire. “You have come out of it all with honour, while everyone else has had a poor enough part to play. But in this case,” he added, anxiously, in a tone of conciliation, “nothing of the kind can happen. Who like her son and mine could have the right here—every right of nature, if not the legal right? And I declare to you, before God, that I never meant it. I never intended to marry—that woman.”

“You intended only to betray her.” It was on Edgar’s lips to say these words, but he had not the heart to aggravate the misery which the unhappy man was already suffering. They went on together to the house, Arden repeating at intervals his entreaties, to which Edgar could give but little answer. He knew very well Clare would listen to no such proposal; but so strangely did the pity within him mingle with all less gentle sentiments, that Edgar’s friendly lips could not utter a harsh word. He said what he could, rather, to soothe; for, after all, his decision was of little importance, and Clare did not take the matter so lightly as to make a compromise a possible thing to think of.

The house had already acquired something of that look of agitation which steals so readily into the atmosphere wherever domestic peace is threatened. There were two or three servants in the hall, who disappeared in different directions when the gentlemen were seen approaching; and Edgar soon perceived, by the deference with which he himself was treated, that the instinct of the household had jumped to a conclusion very different from the facts, but so pleasing to the imagination as to be readily received. He had been recognised, and it was evident that he was thought to be “righted,” to have got “his own again.” Arthur Arden was anything but beloved at home, and the popular heart as well as imagination sprang up, eager to greet the return of the real master, the true heir.

“Mrs. Arden, sir, has ordered the carriage to meet the twelve o’clock train. She’s in the morning-room, sir,” said the butler, with solemnity.

He spoke to Arthur, but he looked at Edgar. They were all of one way of thinking; further evidence had been found out, or something had occurred to turn the wheel of fortune, and Edgar had been restored to “his own.”

Clare was seated alone, dressed for a journey, in the little room which had always been her favourite room. She was dressed entirely in black, which made her extraordinary paleness more visible. She had always been pale, but this morning her countenance was like marble—not a tinge of colour on it, except the pink, pale also, of her lips. She received them with equal coldness, bending her head only when the two men, both of them almost speechless with emotion, came into her presence. She was perfectly calm; that which had befallen her was too tremendous for any display of feeling; it carried her beyond the regions of feeling into those of the profoundest passion—that primitive, unmingled condition of mind which has to be diluted with many intricate combinations before it drops into ordinary, expressible emotion. Clare had got beyond the pain that could be put into words, or cries or tears; she was stern, and still, and cold, like a woman turned to stone.

“I want to explain what I am about to do,” she said, in a low tone. “We are leaving, of course, at once. Mr. Arden” (her voice faltered for one moment, but then grew more steady than ever), “I have taken with me what money I have; there is fifty pounds—I will send it back to you when I have arranged what I am to do. You will wish to see the children; they are in the nursery waiting. Edgar will go with me to town, and help me to find a place to live in. I do not wish to make any scandal, or cause any anxiety. Of course I cannot change my name, as it is my own name, as well as yours, and my children will be called what their mother is called, as I believe children in their unfortunate position always are.”

“Clare, for God’s sake do not be so pitiless! Hear me speak. I have much—much to say to you. I have to beg your pardon on my knees——”

“Don’t!” she cried suddenly; then went on in her calm tone—“We are past all the limits of the theatre, Mr. Arden,” she said. “Your knees can do me no good, nor anything else. All that is over. I cannot either upbraid or pardon. I will try to forget your existence, and you will forget mine.”

“That is impossible!” he cried, going towards her. His eyes were so wild, and his manner so excited, that Edgar drew near to her in terror; but Clare was not afraid. She looked up at him with the large, calm, dilated eyes, which seemed larger and bluer than ever, out of the extreme whiteness of her face.

“When I swear to you that I never meant it, that I am more wretched—far more wretched—than you can be—that I would hang myself, or drown myself like a dog, if that would do any good——!”

“Nothing can do any good,” said Clare. Something like a moan escaped from her breast. “What are words?” she went on, with a certain quickening of excitement. “I could speak too, if it came to that. There is nothing—nothing to be said or done. Edgar, when one loses name and fame, and home, you know what to do.”

“I know what I did; but I am different from you,” said Edgar—“you, with your babies. Clare, let us speak; we are not stones—we are men.”

“Ah! stones are better than men—less cruel, less terrible!” she cried. “No, no; I cannot bear it. We will go in silence; there is nothing that anyone can say.”

“You see,” said Edgar, turning to Arden—“what is my advice or my suggestions now? To speak of compromise or negotiation——”

“Compromise!” said Clare, her pale cheek flaming; she rose up with a sudden impulse of insupportable passion—“compromise!—to me!” Then, turning to Edgar, she clutched at his arm, and he felt what force she was putting upon herself, and how she trembled. “Come,” she said, “this air kills me; take me away!”

He let her guide him, not daring to oppose her, out to the air—to the door, down the great steps. She faltered more and more at every step she took, then, suddenly stopping, leaned against him.

“Let me sit down somewhere. I am growing giddy,” she said.

She sat down on the steps, on the very threshold of the home she was quitting, as she thought, for ever. The servants, in a group behind, tried to gaze over their master’s shoulders at this extraordinary scene. Where was she going?—what did she mean? There was a moment during which no one spoke, and Clare, to her double horror, felt her senses forsaking her. Her head swam, the light fluttered in her eyes. A moment more, and she would be conscious of nothing round her. I have said she was not the kind of woman who faints at a great crisis, but the body has its revenges, its moments of supremacy, and she had neither slept nor eaten, neither rested nor forgotten, for all these hours.

It was at this moment that the messenger from the “Arden Arms,” a boy, whom no one had noticed coming up the avenue, thrust something into Edgar’s hand.

“Be that for you, sir?” said the boy.

The sound of this new, strange voice roused everybody. Clare came out of her half-faint, and regained her full sense of what was going on, though she was unable to rise. Arthur Arden came close to them down the steps, with wild eagerness in his eyes. Edgar only would have thrust the paper away which was put into his hands. “Tush!” he said, with the momentary impulse of tossing it from him; then, suddenly catching, as it were, a reflection of something new possible in Arden’s wild look, and even a gleam of some awful sublime of tragic curiosity in the opening eyes of Clare, he looked at the paper itself, which came to him at that moment of fate. It was a telegram, in the vulgar livery which now-a-days the merest trifles and the most terrible events wear alike in England. He tore it open; it was from Mr. Tottenham, dated that morning, and contained these words only:—

“Miss Lockwood died here at nine o’clock.”

Edgar thrust it into Arden’s hand. He felt something like a wild sea surging in his ears; he raised up Clare in his arms, and drew her wondering, resisting, up the great steps.

“Come back,” he cried—“come home, Clare.”

It would be vain to tell all that was said, and all that was done, and all the calculations that were gone through in the house in Berkeley Square, where Edgar’s visit had produced so much emotion. The interviews carried on in all the different rooms would furnish forth a volume. The girls, who had peered over the staircase to see him go away, and whose state of suspense was indescribable, made a dozen applications at Gussy’s door before the audience of Ada, who had the best right to hear, was over. Then Mary insisted upon getting admission in her right of bride, as one able to enter into Gussy’s feelings, and sympathise with her; and poor little Beatrice, left out in the cold, had to content herself with half a dozen words, whispered in the twilight, when they all went to dress for dinner. Beatrice cried with wounded feeling, to think that because she, by the decrees of Providence, was neither the elder sister, nor engaged to be married, she was therefore to be shut out from all participation in Gussy’s secrets.

“Could I be more interested if I was twice as old as Ada, and engaged to six Lord Grantons!” cried the poor child. And Gussy’s prospects were in that charming state of uncertainty that they would stand discussing for hours together; whereas, by the time Lord Granton had been pronounced a darling, and the dresses all decided upon, even down to the colour of the bridesmaids’ parasols, there remained absolutely nothing new to be gone over with Mary, but just the same thing again and again.

“When do you think you shall be married?” said Beatrice, tremulously.

“I don’t know, and I don’t very much care, so long as it is all right,” said Gussy, half laughing, half crying.

“But what if papa will not consent?” said Mary, with a face of awe.

“Papa is too sensible to fight when he knows he should not win the battle,” said the deliciously, incomprehensibly courageous Gussy.

There was some gratification to be got out of a betrothed sister of this fashion. Beatrice even began to look down upon Mary’s unexciting loves.

“As for your affair, it is so dreadfully tame,” she said, contemptuously lifting her little nose in the air. “Everybody rushing to give their consent, and presents raining down upon you, and you all so self-satisfied and confident.”

Mary was quite taken down from her pedestal of universal observation. She became the commonest of young women about to be married, by Gussy’s romantic side.

Alas! the Thornleighs were by no means done with sensation in this genre. Two days after these events, before Edgar had come back, Harry came early to the house one morning and asked to see his mother alone. Lady Augusta was still immersed in patterns, and she had that morning received a letter from her husband, which had brought several lines upon her forehead. Mr. Thornleigh had the reputation, out of doors, of being a moderate, sensible sort of man, not apt to commit himself, though perhaps not brilliant, nor very much to be relied upon in point of intellect. He deserved, indeed, to a considerable extent this character; but what the world did not know, was that his temper was good and moderate, by reason of the domestic safety-valve which he had always by him. When anything troublesome occurred he had it out with his wife, giving her full credit for originating the whole business.

“You ought to have done this, or you ought to have done that,” he would say, “and then, of course, nothing of the kind could have happened.” After, he would go upstairs, and brush his hair, and appear as the most sensible and good-tempered of men before the world. Mr. Thornleigh had got Mr. Tottenham’s letter informing him of the renewed intercourse between Edgar and Gussy; and the Squire had, on the spot, indited a letter to his wife, breathing fire and flame. This was the preface of a well-conditioned, gentlemanly letter to Mr. Tottenham, in which the father expressed a natural regret that Gussy should show so little consideration of external advantages, but fully acknowledged Edgar’s excellent qualities, and asked what his prospects were, and what he thought of doing.

“I will never be tyrannical to any of my children,” Mr. Thornleigh said; “but, on the other hand, before I can give my sanction, however unwillingly, to any engagement, I must fully understand his position, and what he expects to be able to do.”

But Lady Augusta’s letter was not couched in these calm and friendly terms; and knowing as she did the exertions she had made to keep Edgar at arm’s length, poor Lady Augusta felt that she did not deserve the assault made upon her, and consequently took longer to calm down than she generally did. It was while her brow was still puckered, and her cheek flushed with this unwelcome communication, that Harry came in. When he said, “I want to speak to you, mother,” her anxious mind already jumped at some brewing harm. She took him into the deserted library, feeling that this was the most appropriate place in which to hear any confession her son might have to make to her. The drawing-room, where invasion was always to be feared, and the morning-room, which was strewed with patterns and girls, might do very well for the confession of feminine peccadilloes, but a son’s ill-doing was to be treated with a graver care. She led Harry accordingly into the library, and put herself into his father’s chair, and said, “What is it, my dear boy?” with a deeper gravity than usual. Not that Harry was to be taken in by such pretences at severity. He knew his mother too well for that.

“Mother,” he said, sitting down near her, but turning his head partially away from her gaze, “you have often said that my father wanted me—to marry.”

“To marry!—why, Harry? Yes, dear, and so he does,” said Lady Augusta; “and I too,” she added, less decidedly. “I wish it, too—if it is some one very nice.”

“Well,” said Harry, looking at her with a certain shamefaced ostentation of boldness, “I have seen some one whom I could marry at last.”

“At last! You are not so dreadfully old,” said the mother, with a smile. “You, too! Well, dear, tell me who it is. Some one you have met at your Aunt Mary’s”? Oh! Harry, my dear boy, I trust most earnestly it is some one very nice!”

“It is some one much better than nice—the most lovely creature, mother, you ever saw in your life. I never even dreamt of anything like her,” said Harry, with a sigh.

“I hope she is something more than a lovely creature,” said Lady Augusta. “Oh! Harry, your father is so put out about Gussy’s business; I do hope, dear, that this is something which will put him in good-humour again. I can take her loveliness for granted. Tell me—do tell me who she is?”

“You don’t mean to say that you are going to let that fellow marry Gussy’?” said Harry, coming to a sudden pause.

“Harry, if this is such a connection as I hope, it will smooth everything,” said Lady Augusta. “My dearest boy, tell me who she is.”

“She is the only woman I will ever marry,” said Harry, doggedly.

And then his poor mother divined, without further words, that the match was not an advantageous one, and that she had another disappointment on her hands.

“Harry, you keep me very anxious. Is she one of Mary’s neighbours? Tell me her name.”

“Yes, she is one of Aunt Mary’s neighbours and chief favourites,” said Harry. “Aunt Mary is by way of patronizing her.” And here he laughed; but the laugh was forced, and had not the frank amusement in it which he intended it to convey.

Lady Augusta’s brow cleared for a moment, then clouded again.

“You do not mean Myra Witherington?” she said, faintly. “Oh! not one of that family, I hope!”

“Myra Witherington!” he cried. “Mother, what do you take me for? It is clear you know nothing about my beautiful Margaret. In her presence, you would no more notice Myra Witherington than a farthing candle in the sun!”

Poor Lady Augusta took courage again. The very name gave her a little courage. It is the commonest of all names where Margaret came from; but not in England, where its rarity gives it a certain distinction.

“My dear boy,” she said tremulously, “don’t trifle with me—tell me her name.”

A strange smile came upon Harry’s lips. In his very soul he, too, was ashamed of the name by which some impish trick of fortune had shadowed his Margaret. An impulse came upon him to get it over at once; he felt that he was mocking both himself and his mother, and her, the most of all, who bore that terrible appellation. He burst into a harsh, coarse laugh, a bravado of which next moment he was heartily ashamed.

“Her name,” he said, with another outburst, “is—Mrs. Smith!”

“Good heavens, Harry!” cried Lady Augusta, with a violent start. Then she tried to take a little comfort from his laughter, and said, with a faint smile, though still trembling, “You are laughing at me, you unkind boy!”

“I am not laughing at all!” cried Harry, “except, indeed, at the misfortune which gave her such a name. It is one of Aunt Mary’s favourite jokes.” Then he changed his tone, and took his mother’s hand and put it up caressingly to his cheek to hide the hot flush that covered it. “Mother, you don’t know how I love her. She is the only woman I will ever marry, though I should live a hundred years.”

“Oh! my poor boy—my poor boy!” cried Lady Augusta. “This is all I wanted to make an end of me. I think my heart will break!”

“Why should your heart break?” said Harry, putting down her hand and looking half cynically at her. “What good will that do? Look here, mother. Something much more to the purpose will be to write to my father, and break the news quietly to him—gently, so as not to bother him, as I have done to you; you know how.”

“Break the news to him!” she said. “I have not yet realised it myself. Harry, wait a little. Why, she is not even——. Mrs. Smith! You mean that she is a widow, I suppose?”

“You did not think I could want to marry a wife, did you?” he growled. “What is the use of asking such useless questions? Of course she is a widow—with one little girl. There, now you know the worst!”

“A widow, with one little girl!”

Lady Augusta looked at him aghast. What could make up for these disadvantages? The blood went back upon her heart, then rallied slightly as she remembered her brother-in-law’s shopkeeping origin, and that the widow might be some friend of his.

“Is she—very rich?” she stammered.

To do her justice, she was thinking then of her husband, not herself; she was thinking how she could write to him, saying, “These are terrible drawbacks, but nevertheless——”

But nevertheless—Harry burst into another loud, coarse laugh. Poor fellow! nobody could feel less like laughing; he did it to conceal his confusion a little, and the terrible sense he began to have that, so far as his father and mother were concerned, he had made a dreadful mistake.

“I don’t know how rich she is, nor how poor. That is not what I ever thought of,” he cried, with lofty scorn.

This somehow appeased the gathering terror of Lady Augusta.

“I don’t suppose you did think of it,” she said; “but it is a thing your father will think of. Harry, tell me in confidence—I shall never think you mercenary—what is her family? Are they rich people? Are they friends of your uncle Tottenham? Dear Harry, why should you make a mystery of this with me?”

“Listen, then,” he said, setting his teeth, “and when you know everything you will not be able to ask any more questions. She is a cousin of your Edgar’s that you are so fond of. Her brother is the new doctor at Harbour Green, and she lives with him. There, now you know as much as I know myself.”

Words would fail me to tell the wide-eyed consternation with which Lady Augusta listened. It seemed to her that everything that was obnoxious had been collected into this description. Poor, nobody, the sister of a country doctor; a widow with a child; and finally, to wind up everything, and make the combination still more and more terrible, Edgar’s cousin! Heaven help her! It was hard enough to think of this for herself; but to let his father know!—this was more than any woman could venture to do. She grew sick and faint in a horrible sense of the desperation of the circumstances; the girls might be obstinate, but they would not take the bit in their teeth and go off, determined to have their way, like the boy, who was the heir, and knew his own importance; and what could any exhortation of hers do for Harry, who knew as well as she did the frightful consequences, and had always flattered himself on being a man of the world? She was so stupefied that she scarcely understood all the protestations that he poured into her ear after this. What was it to her that Margaret was the loveliest creature in the world? Faugh! Lady Augusta turned sickening from the words. Lovely creatures who rend peaceful families asunder; who lead young men astray, and ruin all their hopes and prospects; who heighten all existing difficulties, and make everything that was bad before worse a thousand times—is it likely that a middle-aged mother should be moved by their charms?

“It is ruin and destruction!—ruin and destruction!” she repeated to herself.

And soon the whole house had received the same shock, and trembled under it to its foundations. Harry went off in high dudgeon, not finding the sympathy he (strangely enough, being a man of the world) had looked forward to as his natural right. The house, as I have said, quivered with the shock; a sense of sudden depression came over them all. Little Mary cried, thinking what a very poor-looking lot of relations she would carry with her into the noble house she was about to enter. Gussy, with a more real sense of the fatal effect of this last complication, felt, half despairing, that her momentary gleam of hope was dying away in the darkness, and began to think the absence of Edgar at this critical moment almost a wrong to her. He had been absent for years, and she had kept steadily faithful to him, hopeful in him; but his absence of to-day filled her with a hopeless, nervous irritability and pain. As for Lady Augusta, she lost heart altogether.

“Your father will never listen to it,” she said—“never, never; he will think they are in a conspiracy. You will be the sufferer, Gussy, you and poor Edgar, for Harry will not be restrained; he will take his own way.”

What could Gussy reply? She was older than Harry; she was sick of coercion—why should not she, too, have her own way? But she did not say this, being grieved for the unfortunate mother, whom this last shock had utterly discomposed. Ada could do nothing but be the grieved spectator and sympathizer of all; as for the young Beatrice, her mind was divided between great excitement over the situation generally, and sorrow for poor Gussy, and an illegitimate, anxious longing to see the “lovely creature” of whom Harry had spoken in such raptures. Why should not people love and marry, without all these frightful complications? Beatrice was not so melancholy as the rest. She got a certain amount of pleasure out of the imbroglio; she even hoped that for herself there might be preparing something else even more romantic than Gussy’s—more desperate than Harry’s. Fate, which had long forgotten the Thornleigh household, and permitted them to trudge on in perfect quiet, had now roused out of sleep, and seemed to intend to give them their turn of excitement again.

Edgar made his appearance next day, looking so worn and fatigued that Lady Augusta had not the heart to warn him, as she had intended to do, that for the present she could not receive his visits—and that Gussy had not the heart to be cross. He told them he had been to Arden on business concerning Clare, and that Arthur Arden had come to town with him, and that peace and a certain friendship reigned, at least for the moment, between them. He did not confide even to Gussy what the cause of this singular amity was; but after he had been a little while in her company, his forehead began to smoothe, his smile to come back, the colour to appear once more in his face. He took her aside to the window, where the girls had been arranging fresh Spring flowers in a jardinière. He drew her arm into his, bending over the hyacinths and cyclamens. Now, for the first time, he could ask the question which had been thrust out of his mind by all that had happened within the last few days. A soft air of Spring, of happiness, of all the sweetness of life, which had been so long plucked from him, seemed to blow in Edgar’s face from the flowers.

“How should we like a Consulship?” he said, bending down to whisper in her ear.

“A what?” cried Gussy, astonished. She thought for the moment that he was speaking of some new flower.

Then Edgar took Lord Newmarch’s letter from his pocket, and held out the postscript to her, holding her arm fast in his, and his head close to hers.

“How should you like a Consulship?” he said.

Then the light and the life in his face communicated itself to her.

“A Consulship! Oh! Edgar, what does it mean?”

“To me it means you,” he said—“it means life; it means poverty too, perhaps, and humility, which are not what I would choose for my Gussy; but to me it means life, independence, happiness. Gussy, what am I to say?”

“Say!” she cried—“yes, of course—yes. What else? Italy, perhaps, and freedom—freedom once in our lives—and our own way; but, ah! what is the use of speaking of it?” said Gussy, dropping away from his arm, and stamping her foot on the ground, and falling into sudden tears, “when we are always to be prevented by other people’s folly, always stopped by something we have nothing to do with? Ask mamma, Edgar, what has happened since you went away.”

Then Lady Augusta drew near, having been a wondering and somewhat anxious spectator all the time of this whispered conversation, and told him with tears of her interview with Harry.

“What can I do?” she cried. “I do not want to say a word against your cousin. She may be nice, as nice as though she were a duke’s daughter; but Harry is our eldest son, and all my children have done so badly in this way except little Mary. Oh! my dears, I beg your pardon!” cried poor Lady Augusta, drying her eyes, “but what can I say? Edgar, I have always felt that I could ask you to do anything, if things should ever be settled between Gussy and you. Oh! save my boy! She cannot be very fond of him, she has known him so little; and his father will be furious, and will never consent—never! And until Mr. Thornleigh dies, they would have next to nothing, Oh! Edgar, if she is sensible, and would listen to reason, I would go to her myself—or Gussy could go.”

“Not I,” said Gussy, stealing a deprecating look at Edgar, who stood stupefied by this new complication—“how could I? It is terrible. How can I, who am pleasing myself, say anything to Harry because he wants to please himself?—or to her, who has nothing to do with our miserable and mercenary ways? Oh! yes, they are miserable and mercenary!” cried Gussy, crying in her turn; “though I can’t help feeling as you do, though my mind revolts against this poor girl, whom I don’t know, and I want to save Harry, too, as you say. But how dare I make Harry unhappy, in order to be happy myself? Oh! mamma, seek some other messenger—not me!—not me!”

“My darling,” said Lady Augusta, “it is for Harry’s good.”

“And it was for my good a little while ago!” cried Gussy. “You meant it, and so did they all. If you could have persuaded me to marry some one I cared nothing for, with my heart always longing for another, you would have thought it for my good; and now must I try to buy my happiness by ruining Harry’s?” cried the girl; “though I, too, am so dreadful, that I think it would be for Harry’s good. Oh! no, no, let it be some one else!”

“Edgar,” said Lady Augusta, “speak to her, show her the difference. Harry never saw this—this young woman till about a fortnight since. What can he know of her, what can she know of him, to be ready to marry him in a fortnight? Oh! Edgar, try to save my boy! Even if you were to represent to him that it would be kind to let your business be settled first,” she went on, after a pause. “A little time might do everything. I hope it is not wrong to scheme a little for one’s own children and their happiness. You might persuade him to wait, for Gussy’s sake—not to make his father furious with two at a time.”

Thus the consultation went on, if that could be called a consultation where the advice was all on one side. Edgar was fairly stupefied by this new twist in his affairs. He saw the fatal effect as clearly as even Lady Augusta could see it, but he could not see his own way to interfere in it, as she saw. To persuade Harry Thornleigh to give up or postpone his own will, in order that he, Edgar Earnshaw, might get his—an object in which Harry, first of all, had not the slightest sympathy—was about as hopeless an attempt as could well be thought of; and what right had he to influence Margaret, whom he did not know, to give up the brother, in order that he himself might secure the sister? Edgar left the house in as sore a dilemma as ever man was in. To give up Gussy now was a simple impossibility, but to win her by persuading her brother to the sacrifice of his love and happiness, was surely more impossible still.

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.

The relations between Harry Thornleigh and Margaret had never come to any distinct explanation. They had known each other not much more than a fortnight, which was quite reason enough, on Margaret’s side, at least, for holding back all explanation, and discouraging rather than helping on the too eager young lover.

During all the time of Edgar’s absence, it would be useless to deny that Harry’s devotion suggested very clearly to the penniless young widow, the poor doctor’s sister, such an advancement in life as might well have turned any woman’s head. She who had nothing, who had to make a hard light to get the ends to meet for the doctor and herself, who had for years exercised all the shifts of genteel poverty, and who, before that, had been trained to a homely life anything but genteel—had suddenly set open to her the gates of that paradise of wealth, and rank, and luxury, which is all the more ecstatic to the poor for being unknown. She, too, might “ride in her carriage,” might wear diamonds, might go to Court, might live familiarly with the great people of the land, like Lady Mary; she who had been bred at the Castle Farm on Loch Arroch, and had known what it was to “supper the beasts,” and milk the kye; she who had not disdained the household work of her own little house, in the days of the poor young Glasgow clerk whom she had married. There had been some natural taste for elegance in the brother and sister, both handsome young people, which had developed into gentility by reason of his profession, and their escape from all the associations of home, where no one could have been deceived as to their natural position. But Dr. Charles had made no money anywhere; he had nothing but debts; though from the moment when he had taken his beautiful sister to be his housekeeper and companion, he had gradually risen in pretension and aim. Their transfer to England, a step which always sounds very grand in homely Scotch ears, had somehow dazzled the whole kith and kin. Even Robert Campbell, at Loch Arroch Head, had been induced to draw his cautious purse, and contribute to this new establishment. And now the first fruits of the venture hung golden on the bough—Margaret had but to put forth her hand and pluck them; nay, she had but to be passive, and receive them in her lap. She had held Harry back from a premature declaration of his sentiments, but she had done this so sweetly that Harry had been but more and more closely enveloped in her toils; and she had made up her mind that his passion was to be allowed to ripen, and that finally she would accept him, and reign like a princess, and live like Lady Mary, surrounded by all the luxuries which were sweet to her soul.

It is not necessary, because one is born poor, that one should like the conditions of that lowly estate, or have no taste for better things. On the contrary, Margaret was born with a love of all that was soft, and warm, and easy, and luxurious. She loved these things and prized them; she felt it in her to be a great lady; her gentle mind was such that she would have made an excellent princess, all the more sweet, gracious, and good the less she was crossed, and the more she had her own way.

I am disposed to think, for my own part, that for every individual who is mellowed and softened by adversity, there are at least ten in the world whom prosperity would mollify and bring to perfection; but then that latter process of development is more difficult to attain to. Margaret felt that it was within her reach. She would have done nothing unwomanly to secure her lover; nay, has it not been already said that she had made up her mind to be doubly prudent, and to put it in no one’s power to say that she had “given him encouragement?” But with that modest reserve, she had made up her mind to Harry’s happiness and her own. In her heart she had already consented, and regarded the bargain as concluded. She would have made him a very sweet wife, and Harry would have been happy. No doubt he was sufficiently a man of the world to have felt a sharp twinge sometimes, when his wife’s family was brought in question; but he thought nothing of that in his hot love, and I believe she would have made him so good a wife, and been so sweet to Harry, that this drawback would have detracted very little from his happiness.

So things were going on, ripening pleasantly towards a dénouement which could not be very far off, when that unlucky letter arrived from Loch Arroch, touching the re-appearance of Jeanie’s brother, the lost sailor, who had been Margaret’s first love. This letter upset her, poor soul, amid all her plans and hopes. If it had not, however, unluckily happened that the arrival of Edgar coincided with her receipt of the letter, and that both together were followed by the expedition to Loch Arroch, to the grandmother’s deathbed, I believe the sailor’s return would only have caused a little tremulousness in Margaret’s resolution, a momentary shadow upon her sweet reception of Harry, but that nothing more would have followed, and all would have gone well. Dear reader, forgive me if I say all would have gone well; for, to tell the truth, though it was so much against Edgar’s interests, and though it partook of the character of a mercenary match, and of everything that is most repugnant to romance, I cannot help feeling a little pang of regret that any untoward accident should have come in Margaret’s way. Probably the infusion of her good, wholesome Scotch blood, her good sense, and her unusual beauty, would have done a great deal more good to the Thornleigh race than a Right Honourable grandfather; and she would have made such a lovely great lady, and would have enjoyed her greatness so much (far more than any Lady Mary ever could enjoy it), and been so good a wife, and so sweet a mother! That she should give up all this at the first returning thrill of an old love, is perhaps very much more poetical and elevating; but I who write am not so young or so romantic as I once was, and I confess that I look upon the interruption of the story, which was so clearly tending towards another end, with a great deal of regret. Even Edgar, when he found her ready to accompany him to Scotland, felt a certain excitement which was not unmingled with regret. He felt by instinct that Harry’s hopes were over, and this thought gave him a great sense of personal comfort and relief. It chased away the difficulties out of his own way; but at the same time he could not but ask himself what was the inducement for which she was throwing away all the advantages that Harry Thornleigh could give her?—the love of a rough sailor, captain at the best, of a merchant-ship, who had been so little thoughtful of his friends as to leave them three or four years without any news of him, and who probably loved her no longer, if he had ever loved her. It was all to Edgar’s advantage that she should come away at this crisis, and what was it to him if she threw her life away for a fancy? But Edgar had never been in the way of thinking of himself only, and the mingled feelings in his mind found utterance in a vague warning. He did not know either her or her circumstances well enough to venture upon more plain speech.

“Do you think you are right to leave your brother just at this moment, when he is settling down?” Edgar said.

A little cloud rose upon Margaret’s face. Did not she know better than anyone how foolish it was?

“Ah!” she said, “but if granny is dying, as they say, I must see her,” and the ready tears sprung to her eyes.

Edgar was so touched by her looks, that, though it was dreadfully against his own interest, he tried again.

“Of all the women in the world,” he said, “she is the most considerate, the most understanding. It is a long and an expensive journey, and your life, she would say, is of more importance than her dying.”

He ventured to look her in the face as he spoke these words, and Margaret grew crimson under his gaze.

“I do not see how it can affect my life, if I am away for a week or two,” she said lightly, yet with a tone which showed him that her mind was made up. Perhaps he thought she was prudently retiring to be quit of Harry—perhaps withdrawing from a position which became untenable; or why might it not be pure gratitude and love to the only mother she had known in her life? Anyhow, whatever might be the reason, there was no more to be said.

I will not attempt to describe the feelings of Harry Thornleigh, when he found that Margaret had gone away, and gone with Edgar. He came back to Lady Mary raving and white with rage, to pour out upon her the first outburst of his passion.

“The villain!—the traitor!—the low, sneaking rascal!” Harry cried, foaming. “He has made a catspaw of Gussy and a fool of me. We might have known it was all a lie and pretence. He has carried her off under our very eyes.”

Even Lady Mary was staggered, strong as was her faith in Edgar; and Harry left her doubtful, and not knowing what to make of so strange a story, and rushed up to town, to carry war and devastation into his innocent family. He went to Berkeley Square, and flung open the door of the morning-room, where they were all seated, and threw himself among them like a thunderbolt. Gussy had received Edgar’s note a little while before, and she had been musing over it, pensive, not quite happy, not quite pleased, and saying to herself how very wrong and how very foolish she was. Of course, if his old mother were dying, he must go to her—he had no choice; but Gussy, after waiting so long for him, and proving herself so exceptionally faithful, felt that she had a certain right to Edgar’s company now, and to have him by her side, all the more that Lady Augusta had protested that she did not think it would be right to permit it in the unsettled state of his circumstances, and of the engagement generally. To have your mother hesitate, and declare that she does not think she ought to admit him, and then to have your lover abstain from asking admission, is hard upon a girl. Lord Granton (though, to be sure, he was a very young man, with nothing to do) was dangling constantly about little Mary; and Gussy felt that Edgar’s many businesses, which led him here, and led him there, altogether out of her way, were inopportune, to say the least.

Harry assailed his mother fiercely, without breath or pause. He accused her of sending “that fellow” down to Tottenham’s, on purpose to interfere with him, to be a spy upon him, to ruin all his hopes.

“I have seen a change since ever he came!” he cried wildly. “If it is your doing, mother, I will never forgive you! Don’t think I am the sort of man to take such a thing without resenting it! When you see me going to the devil, you will know whose fault it is. Her fault?—no, she has been deceived. You have sent that fellow down upon her with his devilish tongue, to persuade her and delude her. It is he that has taken her away. No, it is not her fault, it is your fault!” cried Harry. “I should have grown a good man. I should have given up everything she did not like; and now you have made up some devilish conspiracy, and you have taken her away.”

“Harry, do you remember that you are talking to your mother?” cried Lady Augusta, with trembling lips.

“My mother! A mother helps one, loves one, makes things easy for one!” he cried. “That’s the ordinary view. Excuses you, and does her best for you, not her worst; when you take up your rôle as you ought, I’ll take mine. But since you’ve set your mind on thwarting, deceiving, injuring me in my best hopes!” cried Harry, white with rage, “stealing from me the blessing I had almost got, that I would have got, had you stopped your d——d interference!”

His voice broke here; he had not meant to go so far. As a gentleman at least, he ought, he knew, to use no oath to ladies; but poor Harry was beside himself. He stopped short, half-appalled, half-satisfied that he had spoken his mind.

“Harry, how dare you?” cried Gussy, facing him. “Do you not see how you are wounding mamma? Has there ever been a time when she has not stood up for you? And now because she is grieved to think that you are going to ruin yourself, unwilling that you should throw yourself away——”

“All this comes beautifully from you!” cried Harry, with a sneer—“you who have never thought of throwing yourself away. But I am sorry for you, Gussy. I don’t triumph over you. You have been taken in, poor girl, the worst of the two!”

Gussy was shaken for the moment by his change of tone, by his sudden compassion. She felt as if the ground had suddenly been cut from under her feet, and a dizzy sense of insecurity came over her. She looked at her mother, half frightened, not knowing what to think or say.

“When you have come to your senses, Harry, you will perhaps tell us the meaning of this!” cried Lady Augusta. “Girls, it is time for you to keep your appointment with Elise. Ada will go with you to-day, for I don’t feel quite well. If you have anything to say to me another time,” she added with dignity, addressing her son, “especially if it is of a violent description, you will be good enough to wait until Mary has left the room. I do not choose that she should carry away into her new family the recollection of brutality at home.”

Lady Augusta’s grand manner was known in the household. Poor Gussy, though sad and sorry enough, found it difficult to keep from a laugh in which there would have been but little mirth. But Harry’s perceptions were not so lively, or his sense of the ridiculous so strong. He was somehow cowed by the idea of his little sister carrying a recollection of brutality into so new and splendid a connection as the Marquis of Hauteville’s magnificent family.

“Oh, bosh!” he said; but it was almost under his breath. And then he told them of Edgar’s departure from Tottenham’s, and of the discovery he had made that Margaret had gone too. “You set him on, I suppose, to cross me,” said Harry; “because I let you know there was one woman in the world I could fancy—therefore you set him on to take her from me.”

“Oh! Harry, how can you say so? I set him on!” cried Lady Augusta. “What you are telling me is all foolishness. You are both of you frightening yourselves about nothing. If there is anyone dying, and they were sent for, there is no harm in two cousins travelling together. Harry, did this lady—know what your feelings were?”

“I suppose,” said Harry, after a moment’s hesitation, “women are not such fools but that they must know.”

“Then you had said nothing to her?” said his mother, pursuing the subject. Perhaps she permitted a little gleam of triumph to appear in her eye, for he jumped up instantly, more excited than ever.

“I am going after them,” he said. “I don’t mean to be turned off without an answer. Whether she has me or not, she shall decide herself; it shall not be done by any plot against us. This is what you drive me to, with your underhand ways. I shall not wait a day longer. I’ll go down to Scotland to-night.”

“Do not say anything to him, Gussy,” cried Lady Augusta. “Let him accuse his mother and sister of underhand ways, if he likes. And you can go, sir, if you please, on your mad errand. If the woman is a lady, she will know what to think of your suspicions. If she is not a lady——”

“What then?” he cried, in high wrath.

“Probably she will accept you,” said Lady Augusta, pale and grand. “I do not understand the modes of action of such people. You will have had your way, in any case—and then you will hear what your father has to say.”

Harry flung out of the house furious. He was very unhappy, poor fellow! He was chilled and cast down, in spite of himself, by his mother’s speech. Why should he follow Margaret as if he suspected her? What right had he to interfere with her actions? If he went he might be supposed to insult her—if he stayed he should lose her. What was he to do? Poor Harry!—if Dr. Murray had not been so obnoxious to him, I think he would have confided his troubles to, and asked advice from, Margaret’s brother; but Dr. Charles had replied to his inquiry with a confidential look, and a smile which made him furious.

“She will be back in a week or two. I am not afraid just now, in present circumstances, that she will forsake me for long,” he had said. “We shall soon have her back again.”

We!—whom did the fellow mean by we? Harry resolved on the spot that, if she ever became his wife, she should give up this cad of a brother. Which I am glad to say, for her credit, was a thing that Margaret would never have consented to do.

But the Thornleigh family was not happy that day. Gussy, though she had never doubted Edgar before, yet felt cold shivers of uncertainty shoot through her heart now. Margaret was beautiful, and almost all women exaggerate the power of beauty. They give up instinctively before it, with a conviction, which is so general as to be part of the feminine creed, that no man can resist that magic power. No doubt Edgar meant to do what was best; no doubt, she said to herself, that in his heart he was true—but with a lovely woman there, so lovely, and with claims upon his kindness, who could wonder if he went astray? And this poor little scanty note which advised Gussy of his necessary absence, said not a word about Margaret. She read it over and over again, finding it each time less satisfactory. At the first reading it had been disappointing, but nothing more; now it seemed cold, unnecessarily hurried, careless. She contrasted it with a former one he had written to her, and it seemed to her that no impartial eye could mistake the difference. She sympathized with her brother, and yet she envied him, for he was a man, and could go and discover what was false and what was true; but she had to wait and be patient, and betray to no one what was the matter, though her heart might be breaking—yes, though her heart might be breaking! For, after all, might it not be said that it was she who made the first overtures to Edgar, not he to her? It might be pity only for her long constancy that had drawn him to her, and the sight of this woman’s beautiful face might have melted away that false sentiment. When the thoughts once fall to such a catastrophe as this, the velocity with which they go (does not science say so?) doubles moment by moment. I cannot tell you to what a pitch of misery Gussy had worn herself before the end of that long—terribly long, silent, and hopeless Spring day.

Edgar and Margaret (accompanied, as she always was, by her child) arrived at Loch Arroch early on the morning of the second day. They were compelled to stay in Glasgow all night—she with friends she had there, he in an inn. It was a rainy, melancholy morning when they got into the steamer, and crossed the broad Clyde, and wound upward among the hills to Loch Arroch Head, where Robert Campbell, with an aspect of formal solemnity, waited with his gig to drive them to the farm.

“You’re in time—oh ay, you’re in time; but little more,” he said, and went on at intervals in a somewhat solemn monologue, as they drove down the side of the grey and misty loch, under dripping cloaks and umbrellas. “She’s been failing ever since the new year,” he said. “It’s not to be wondered at, at her age; neither should we sorrow, as them that are without hope. She’s lived a good and useful life, and them that she brought into the world have been enabled to smooth her path out of it. We’ve nothing to murmur at; she’ll be real glad to see you both—you, Marg’ret, and you, Mr. Edgar. Often does she speak of you. It’s a blessing of Providence that her life has been spared since the time last Autumn when we all thought she was going. She’s had a real comfortable evening time, with the light in it, poor old granny, as she had a right to, if any erring mortal can be said to have a right. And now, there’s Willie restored, that was thought to be dead and gone.”

“Has Willie come back?” asked Margaret hastily.

“He’s expected,” said Robert Campbell, with a curious dryness, changing the lugubrious tone of his voice; “and I hope he’ll turn out an altered man; but it’s no everyone going down to the sea in ships that sees the wisdom o’ the Lord in the great waters, as might be hoped.”

The rain blew in their faces, the mists came down over the great mountain range which separates Loch Arroch from Loch Long, and the Castle Farm lay damp and lonely in its little patch of green, with the low ruins on the other side of the house shining brown against the cut fields and the slaty blueness of the loch. It was not a cheerful prospect, nor was it cheerful to enter the house itself, full of the mournful bustle and suppressed excitement of a dying—that high ceremonial, to which, in respect, or reverence, or dire curiosity, or acquisitiveness, more dreadful still, so many spectators throng in the condition of life to which all Mrs. Murray’s household belonged.

In the sitting-room there were several people seated. Mrs. MacColl, the youngest daughter, in her mother’s chair, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and Mrs. Campbell opposite, telling her sister, who had but lately arrived, the details of the illness; Jeanie MacColl, who had come with her mother, sat listlessly at the window, looking out, depressed by the day and the atmosphere, and the low hum of talk, and all the dismal accessories of the scene. James Murray’s wife, a hard-featured, homely person, plain in attire, and less refined in manner than any of the others, went and came between the parlour and the kitchen.

“They maun a’ have their dinner,” she said to Bell, “notwithstanding that there’s a dying person in the house;” and with the corners of her mouth drawn down, and an occasional sigh making itself audible, she laid the cloth, and prepared the table.

Now and then a sound in the room above would make them pause and listen—for, indeed, at any moment they might all be called to witness the exit of the departing soul. Bell’s steps in the kitchen, which were unsubduable in point of sound, ran through all the more gentle stir of this melancholy assembly. Bell was crying over her work, pausing now and then to go into a corner, and wipe the tears from her cheeks; but she could not make her footsteps light, or diminish the heaviness of her shoes.

There was a little additional bustle when the strangers arrived, and Margaret and her child, who were wrapped up in cloaks and shawls, were taken into the kitchen to have their wraps taken off, and to be warmed and comforted. Edgar gave his own dripping coat to Bell, and stole upstairs out of “the family,” in which he was not much at home. Little Jeanie had just left her grandmother’s room on some necessary errand, when he appeared at the top of the stair. She gave a low cry, and the little tray she was carrying trembled in her hands. Her eyes were large with watching, and her cheeks pale, and the sudden sight of him was almost more than the poor little heart could bear; but, after a moment’s silence, Jeanie, with an effort, recovered that command of herself which is indispensable to women.

“Oh! but she’ll be glad—glad to see you!” she cried—“it’s you she’s aye cried for night and day.”

Edgar stood still and held her hand, looking into the soft little face, in which he saw only a tender sorrow, not harsh or despairing, but deep and quiet.

“Before even I speak of her,” he said, “my dear little Jeanie, let me say how happy I am to hear about your brother—he is safe after all.”

Jeanie’s countenance was moved, like the loch under the wind. Her great eyes, diluted with sorrow, swelled full; a pathetic smile came upon her lips.

“He was dead, and is alive again,” she said softly; “he was lost and is found.”

“And now you will not be alone, whatever happens,” said Edgar.

I don’t know what mixture of poignant pain came over the grateful gleam in little Jeanie’s face. She drew her hand from him, and hastened downstairs. “What does it matter to him, what does it matter to anyone, how lonely I am?” was the thought that went through her simple heart. Only one creature in the world had ever cared, chiefly, above everything else, for Jeanie’s happiness, and that one was dying, not to be detained by any anxious hold. Jeanie, simple as she was, knew better than to believe that anything her brother could give her would make up for what she was about to lose.

Edgar went into the sick-room reverently, as if he had been going into a holy place. Mrs. Murray lay propped up with pillows on the bed. For the first moment it seemed to him that the summons which brought him there must have been altogether uncalled for and foolish. The old woman’s eyes were as bright and soft as Jeanie’s; the pale faint pink of a Winter rose lingered in her old cheeks; her face seemed smoothed out of many of the wrinkles which he used to know; and expanded into a calm and largeness of peace which filled him with awe. Was it that all mortal anxieties, all fears and questions of the lingering day were over? By the bedside, in her own chair, sat the minister of the parish, an old man, older than herself, who had known her all her life. He had been reading to her, with a voice more tremulous than her own; and the two old people had been talking quietly and slowly of the place to which they were so near. I have no doubt that in the pulpit old Mr. Campbell, like other divines, talked of golden streets, and harps and crowns, in the New Jerusalem above. But here there was little room for such anticipations. A certain wistfulness was in their old eyes, for the veil before them was still impenetrable, though they were so near it; but they were not excited.

“You’re sure of finding Him,” the old man was saying; “and where He is, there shall His people be.”

“Ay,” said Mrs. Murray. “And, oh! it’s strange lying here, no sure sometimes if it’s me or no; no sure which me it is—an auld woman or a young woman; and then to think that a moment will make a’ clear.”

This was the conversation that Edgar interrupted. She held out her withered hand to him with a glow of joy that lighted up her face.

“My son,” she said. There was something in the words that seemed to fill the room, Edgar thought, with an indescribable warmth and fulness of meaning, yet with that strange uncertainty which belongs to the last stage of life. He felt that she might be identifying him, unawares, with some lost son of thirty years ago, not forgetting his own individuality, yet mingling the two in one image. “This is the one I told you of,” she said, turning to her old friend.

“He is like his mother,” said the old man dreamily, putting out a hand of silent welcome.

They might have been two spirits talking over him, Edgar felt, as he stood, young, anxious, careful, and troubled, between the two who were lingering so near the calm echoes of the eternal sea.

“You’ve come soon, soon, my bonnie man,” said Mrs. Murray, holding his hand between hers; “and, oh, but I’m glad to see you! Maybe it’s but a fancy, and maybe it’s sinful vanity, but, minister, when I look at him, he minds me o’ mysel’. Ye’ll say it’s vain—the like of him, a comely young man, and me; but it’s no in the outward appearance. I’ve had much, much to do in my generation,” she said, slowly looking at him, with a smile in her eyes. “And, Edgar, my bonnie lad, I’m thinking, so will you——”

“Don’t think of me,” he said; “but tell me how you are. You are not looking ill, my dear old mother. You will be well again before I go.”

“Oh! ay, I’ll be well again,” she said. “I’m no ill—I’m only slipping away; but I would like to say out my say. The minister has his ain way in the pulpit,” she went on, with a smile of soft humour, and with a slowness and softness of utterance which looked like the very perfection of art to cover her weakness; “and so may I on my deathbed, my bonnie man. As I was saying, I’ve had much, much to do in my generation, Edgar—and so will you.”

She smoothed his hand between her own, caressing it, and looking at him always with a smile.

“And you may say it’s been for little, little enough,” she went on. “Ah! when my bairns were bairns, how muckle I thought of them! I toiled, and I toiled, and rose up early and lay down late, aye thinking they must come to mair than common folk. It was vanity, minister, vanity; I ken that weel. You need not shake your head. God be praised, it’s no a’ in a moment you find out the like o’ that. But I’m telling you, Edgar, to strengthen your heart. They’re just decent men and decent women, nae mair—and I’ve great, great reason to be thankful; and it’s you, my bonnie man, the seed that fell by the wayside—none o’ my training, none o’ my nourishing—— Eh! how the Lord maun smile at us whiles,” she added, slowly, one lingering tear running over her eyelid, “and a’ our vain hopes!—no laugh. He’s ower tender for that.”

“Or weep, rather,” said Edgar, penetrated by sympathetic understanding of the long-concealed, half-fantastic pang of wounded love and pride, which all these years had wrung silently the high heart now so near being quieted for ever. She could smile now at her own expectations and vanities—but what pathos was in the smile!

“We must not put emotions like our own into His mind that’s over all,” said the old minister. “Smiling or weeping’s no for Him.”

“Eh, but I canna see that,” said the old woman. “Would He be kinder down yonder by the Sea of Tiberias than He is up there in His ain house? It’s at hame that the gentle heart’s aye kindest, minister. Mony a day I’ve wondered if it mightna be just like our own loch, that Sea of Galilee—the hills about, and the white towns, as it might be Loch Arroch Head (though it’s more grey than white), and the fishing-cobbles. But I’m wandering—I’m wandering. Edgar, my bonnie man, you’re tired and hungry; go down the stair and get a rest, and something to eat.”

Little though Edgar was disposed to resume the strange relationship which linked him to the little party of homely people in the farm parlour, with whom he felt so little sympathy, he had no alternative but to obey. The early dinner was spread when he got downstairs, and a large gathering of the family assembled round the table. All difference of breeding and position disappear, we are fond of saying, in a common feeling—a touch of nature makes the whole world kin; but Edgar felt, I am afraid, more like the unhappy parson at tithing time, in Cowper’s verses, than any less prosaic hero. With whimsical misery he felt the trouble of being too fine for his company—he, the least fine of mortal men.

Margaret, upon whom his eye lingered almost lovingly, as she appeared among the rest, a lily among briers, was not ill at ease as he was; perhaps, to tell the truth, she was more entirely at her ease than when she had sat, on her guard, and very anxious not to “commit any solecism,” at Lady Mary’s table. To commit a solecism was the bugbear which had always been held before her by her brother, whose fears on this account made his existence miserable. But here Margaret felt the sweetness of her own superiority, without being shocked by the homeliness of the others. She had made a hurried visit to her grandmother, and had cried, and had been comforted, and was now smiling softly at them all, full of content and pleasant anticipations. Jeanie, who never left her grandmother, was not present; the Campbells, the MacColls and the Murrays formed the company, speaking low, yet eating heartily, who thus waited for the death which was about to take place above.

“I never thought you would have got away so easy,” said Mrs. Campbell. “I would scarcely let your uncle write. ‘How can she leave Charles, and come such a far gait, maybe just for an hour or two?’ I said. But here you are, Margaret, notwithstanding a’ my doubts. Ye’ll have plenty of servant-maids, and much confidence in them, that ye can leave so easy from a new place?”

“We are not in our house yet, and we have no servant,” said Margaret. “Charles is in lodgings, with a very decent person. It was easy enough to get away.”

“Lodgings are awful expensive,” said Mrs. MacColl. “I’m sure when we were in lodgings, Mr. MacColl and me, the Exhibition year, I dare not tell what it cost. You should get into a house of your ain—a doctor is never anything thought of without a house of his ain.”

“I hope you found the information correct?” said Robert Campbell, addressing Edgar. “The woman at Dalmally minded the couple fine. It was the same name as your auld friend yonder,” and he pointed with his thumb over his left shoulder, to denote England, or Arden, or the world in general. “One of the family, perhaps?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! I want to spy into no secrets. Things of this kind are often turning up. They may say what they like against our Scotch law, but it prevents villainy now and then, that’s certain. Were you interested for the man or the leddy, if it’s a fair question? For it all depends upon that.”

“In neither of them,” said Edgar. “It was a third party, whom they had injured, that I cared for. When is—Jeanie’s brother—expected back?”

“He may come either the day or the morn,” said Mrs. MacColl. “I wish he was here, for mother’s very weak. Do you not think she’s weaker since the morning? I thought her looking just wonderful when I saw her first, but at twelve o’clock—What did the doctor think?”

“He canna tell more than the rest of us,” said James Murray’s wife. “She’s going fast—that’s all that can be said.”

And then there was a little pause, and everybody looked sad for the moment. They almost brightened up, however, when some hasty steps were heard overhead, and suspended their knives and forks and listened. Excitement of this kind is hard to support for a stretch. Nature longs for a crisis, even when the crisis is more terrible than their mild sorrow could be supposed to be. When it appeared, however, that nothing was about to happen, and the steps overhead grew still again, they all calmed down and resumed their dinner, which was an alleviation of the tedium.

“She’s made a’ the necessary dispositions?” said James Murray’s wife, interrogatively. “My man is coming by the next steamer. No that there can be very muckle to divide.”

“Nothing but auld napery, and the auld sticks of furniture. It will bring very little—and the cow,” said Robert Campbell. “Jean likes the beast, so we were thinking of making an offer for the cow.”

“You’ll no think I’m wanting to get anything by my mother’s death,” said Mrs. MacColl; “for I’m real well off, the Lord be thanked! with a good man, and the bairns doing well; I would rather give than take, if there was any occasion; but Robert has aye had a great notion of the old clock on the stairs. There’s a song about it that one of the lassies sings. I would like that, to keep the bairns in mind o’ their granny. She’s been a kind granny to them all.”

She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Margaret and Jeanie MacColl cried a little. The rest of the company shook their heads, and assented in different tones.

“Real good and kind, good and kind to everybody! Ower guid to some that little deserved it!” was the general burden, for family could not but have its subdued fling at family, even in this moment of melancholy accord.

“You are forgetting,” said Edgar, “the only one of the family who is not provided for. What my grandmother leaves should be for little Jeanie. She is the only helpless one of all.”

At this there was a little murmur round the table, of general objection.

“Jeanie has had far more than her share already,” said one.

“She’s no more to granny than all the rest of the bairns,” cried another.

Robert Campbell, the only other man present, raised his voice, and made himself heard.

“Jeanie will never want,” he said; “here’s her brother come back, no very much of a man, but still with heart enough in him to keep her from wanting. Willie’s but a roving lad, but the very rovingness of him is good for this, that he’ll not marry; and Jeanie will have a support, till she gets a man, which is aye on the cards for such a bonnie lass.”

This was said with more than one meaning. Edgar saw Margaret’s eyelashes flutter on her cheek, and she moved a little uneasily, as though unable to restrain all evidence of a painful emotion. Just at this moment, however, a shadow darkened the window. Margaret, more keenly on the watch than anyone, lifted her eyes suddenly, and, rising to her feet, uttered a low cry. A young man in sailor’s dress came into the room, with a somewhat noisy greeting.

“What, all of you here! What luck!” he cried. “But where’s granny?”

He had to be hushed into silence, and to have all the circumstances explained to him; while Jeanie MacColl, half-reluctant to go, was sent upstairs to call her cousin and namesake, and to take her place as nurse for the moment. Edgar called her back softly, and offered himself for this duty. He cast a glance at the returned prodigal as he left the room, the brother for whom Jeanie had taken him, and whom everybody had acknowledged his great likeness to. Edgar looked at him with mingled amusement and curiosity, to see what he himself must look like. Perhaps Willie had not improved during his adventurous cruise. Edgar did not think much of himself as reflected in his image; and how glad he was to escape from his uncle and his aunt, and their family talk, to the stillness and loftier atmosphere of the death-chamber upstairs!

Mrs. Murray lived two days longer. They were weary days to Edgar. It seems hard to grudge another hour, another moment to the dying, but how hard are those last lingerings, when hope is over, when all work is suspended, and a whole little world visibly standing still, till the lingerer can make up his mind to go! The sufferer herself was too human, too deeply experienced in life, not to feel the heavy interval as much as they did. “I’m grieved, grieved,” she said, with that emphatic repetition which the Scotch peasant uses in common with all naturally eloquent races, “to keep you waiting, bairns.” Sometimes she said this with a wistful smile, as claiming their indulgence; sometimes with a pang of consciousness that they were as weary as she was. She had kissed and blessed her prodigal returned, and owned to herself with a groan, which was, however, breathed into her own breast, and of which no one was the wiser, that Willie, too, was “no more than common folk.”

I cannot explain more than the words themselves do how this high soul in homely guise felt the pang of her oft-repeated disappointment. Children and grandchildren, she had fed them not with common food, the bread earned with ordinary labours, but with her blood, like the pelican; with the toil of man and woman, of ploughman and hero, all mingled into one. High heart, heroic in her weakness as in her strength! They had turned out but “common folk,” and, at each successive failure, that pang had gone through and through her which common folk could not comprehend. She looked at Willie the last, with a mingled pleasure and anguish in her dying mind—I say pleasure, and not joy, for the signs of his face were not such as to give that last benediction of happiness. Nature was glad in her to see the boy back whom she had long believed at the bottom of the sea; but her dying eyes looked at him wistfully, trying to penetrate his heart, and reach its excuses.

“You should have written, to ease our minds,” she said gently.

“How was I to know you would take it to heart so? Many a man has stayed away longer, and no harm come of it,” cried Willie, self-defending.

The old woman put her hand upon his bended head, as he sat by her bedside, half sullen, half sorry. She stroked his thick curling locks softly, saying nothing for a few long silent moments. She did not blame him further, nor justify him, but simply was silent. Then she said,

“You will take care of your sister, Willie, as I have taken care of her? She has suffered a great deal for you.”

“But oh!” cried Jeanie, when they were alone together—kneeling by the bedside, with her face upon her grandmother’s hand, “you never called him but Willie—you never spoke to him soft and kind, as you used to do.”

“Was I no kind?” said the dying woman, with a mingled smile and sigh; but she kept “My bonnie man!” her one expression of homely fondness, for Edgar’s ear alone.

They had more than one long conversation before her end came. Edgar was always glad to volunteer to relieve the watchers in her room, feeling infinitely more at home there than with the others below. On the night before her death, she told him of the arrangements she had made.

“You gave me your fortune, Edgar, ower rashly, my bonnie man. Your deed was so worded, they tell me, that I might have willed your siller away from you, had I no been an honest woman.”

“And so I meant,” said Edgar, though he was not very clear that at the time he had any meaning at all. “And there is Jeanie——”

“You will not take Jeanie upon you,” said the old woman—“I charge ye not to do it. The best thing her brother can have to steady him and keep him right, is the thought of Jeanie on his hands—Jeanie to look for him when he comes home. You’ll mind what I say. Meddling with nature is aye wrong; I’ve done it in my day, and I’ve repented. To make a’ sure, I’ve left a will, Edgar, giving everything to you—everything. What is it? My auld napery, and the auld, auld remains of my mother’s—most of it her spinning and mine. Give it to your aunts, Edgar, for they’ll think it their due; but keep a something—what are the auld rags worth to you?—keep a little piece to mind me by—a bit of the fine auld damask—so proud as I was of it once! I’ve nae rings nor bonny-dies, like a grand leddy, to keep you in mind of me.”

She spoke so slowly that these words took her a long time to say, and they were interrupted by frequent pauses; but her voice had not the painful labouring which is so common at such a moment; it was very low, but still sweet and clear. Then she put out her hand, still so fine, and soft, and shapely, though the nervous force had gone out of it, upon Edgar’s arm.

“I’m going where I’ll hear nothing of you, maybe, for long,” she said. “I would like to take all the news with me—for there’s them to meet yonder that will want to hear. There’s something in your eye, my bonnie man, that makes me glad. You’re no just as you were—there’s more light and more life. Edgar, you’re seeing your way?”

Then, in the silence of the night, he told her all his tale. The curtains had been drawn aside, that she might see the moon shining over the hills. The clearest still night had succeeded many days of rain; the soft “hus-sh” of the loch lapping upon the beach was the only sound that broke the great calm. He sat between her and that vision of blue sky and silvered hill which was framed in by the window; by his side a little table, with a candle on it, which lighted one side of his face; behind him the shadowy dimness of the death-chamber; above him that gleam of midnight sky. He saw nothing but her face; she looked wistfully, fondly, as on a picture she might never see more, upon all the circumstances of this scene. He told her everything—more than he ever told to mortal after her—how he had been able to serve Clare, and how she had been saved from humiliation and shame; how he had met Gussy, and found her faithful; and how he was happy at the present moment, already loved and trusted, but happier still in the life that lay before him, and the woman who was to share it. She listened to every word with minute attention, following him with little exclamations, and all the interest of youth.

“And oh! now I’m glad!” cried the old woman, making feeble efforts, which wasted almost all the little breath left to her, to draw something from under her pillow—“I’m glad I have something that I never would part with. You’ll take her this, Edgar—you’ll give her my blessing. Tell her my man brought me this when I was a bride. It’s marked out mony a weary hour and mony a light one; it’s marked the time of births and of deaths. When my John died, my man, it stoppit at the moment, and it was long, long or I had the heart to wind it again and set it going. It’s worn now, like me; but you’ll bid her keep it, Edgar, my bonnie man! You’ll give her my blessing, and you’ll bid her to keep it, for your old mother’s sake.”

Trembling, she put into his hand an old watch, which he had often seen, but never before so near. It was large and heavy, in an old case of coppery gold, half hid under partially-effaced enamel, wanting everything that a modern watch should have, but precious as an antiquity and work of art.

“A trumpery thing that cost five pounds would please them better,” she said. “It’s nae value, but it’s old, old, and came to John from a far-off forbear. You’ll give it to her with my blessing. Ay, blessings on her!—blessings on her sweet face!—for sweet it’s bound to be; and blessings on her wise heart, that’s judged weel! eh, but I’m glad to have one thing to send her. And, Edgar, now I’ve said all my say, turn me a little, that I may see the moon. Heaven’s but a step on such a bonnie night. If I’m away before the morning, you’ll shed nae tear, but praise the Lord the going’s done. No, dinna leave it; take it away. Put it into your breast-pocket, where you canna lose it. And now say fare-ye-weel to your old mother, my bonnie man.”

These were the last words she said to him alone. When some one came to relieve him, Edgar went out with a full heart into the silvery night. Not a sound of humanity broke the still air, which yet had in it a sharpness of the spring frosts. The loch rose and fell upon its pebbles, as if it hushed its own very waves in sorrow. The moon shone as if with a purpose—as if holding her lovely lamp to light some beloved wayfarer up the shining slope.

“Heaven’s but a step on such a night,” he said to himself, with tears of which his manhood was not ashamed. And so the moon lighted the traveller home.

With the very next morning the distractions of common earth returned. Behind the closed shutters, the women began to examine the old napery, and the men to calculate what the furniture, the cow, the cocks and hens would bring. James Murray valued it all, pencil and notebook in hand. Nothing would have induced the family to show so little respect as to shorten the six or seven days’ interval before the funeral, but it was a very tedious interval for them all. Mrs. Campbell drove off with her husband to her own house on the second day, and James Murray returned to Greenock; but the MacColls stayed, and Margaret, and made their “blacks” in the darkened room below, and spoke under their breath, and wearied for the funeral day which should release them.

Margaret, perhaps, was the one on whom this interval fell most lightly; but yet Margaret had her private sorrows, less easy to bear than the natural grief which justified her tears. The sailor Willie paid but little attention to her beauty and her pathetic looks. He was full of plans about his little sister, about taking her with him on his next voyage, to strengthen her and “divert” her; and poor Margaret, whose heart had gone out of her breast at first sight of him, as it had done in her early girlhood, felt her heart sicken with the neglect, yet could not believe in it. She could not believe in his indifference, in his want of sympathy with those feelings which had outlived so many other things in her mind. She went to Edgar a few days after their grandmother’s death with a letter in her hand. She went to him for advice, and I cannot tell what it was she wished him to advise her. She did not know herself; she wanted to do two things, and she could but with difficulty and at a risk to herself do one.

“This is a letter I have got from Mr. Thornleigh,” she said, with downcast looks. “Oh! Cousin Edgar, my heart is breaking! Will you tell me what to do?”

Harry’s letter was hot and desperate, as was his mind. He implored her, with abject entreaties, to marry him, not to cast him off; to remember that for a time she had smiled upon him, or seemed to smile upon him, and not to listen now to what anyone might say who should seek to prejudice her against him. “What does my family matter when I adore you?” cried poor Harry, unwittingly betraying himself. And he begged her to send him one word, only one word—permission to come down and speak for himself. Edgar felt, as he read this piteous epistle, like the wolf into whose fangs a lamb had thrust its unsuspecting head.

“How can I advise you how to answer?” he said, giving her back the letter, glad to get it out of his hands. “You must answer according to what is in your heart.”

Upon this Margaret wept, wringing her lily hands.

“Mr. Edgar,” she said, “you cannot think that I am not moved by such a letter. Oh! I’m not mercenary, I don’t think I am mercenary! but to have all this put at my feet, to feel that it would be for Charles’s good and for Sibby’s good, if I could make up my mind!”

Here she stopped, and cast a glance back at the house again. Edgar had been taking a melancholy walk along the side of the loch, where she had joined him. Her heart was wrung by a private conflict, which she could not put into words, but which he divined. He felt sure of it, from all he had seen and heard since they came, as well as from the impression conveyed to his mind the moment she had named the sailor Willie’s name. I do not know why it should be humbling for a woman to love without return, when it is not humbling for a man; but it is certain that for nothing in the world would Margaret have breathed the cause of her lingering unwillingness to do anything which should separate her from Willie; and that Edgar felt hot and ashamed for her, and turned away his eyes, that she might not see any insight in them. At the same time, however, the question had another side for him, and involved his own fortunes. He tried to dismiss this thought altogether out of his mind, but it was hard to do so. Had she loved Harry Thornleigh, Edgar would have felt himself all the more pledged to impartiality, because this union would seriously endanger his own; but to help to ruin himself by encouraging a mercenary marriage, this would be hard indeed!

“Are you sure that you would get so many advantages?—to Charles and to Sibby?” he cried, with a coldness impossible to conceal.

She looked at him startled, the tears arrested in her blue eyes. She had never doubted upon this point. Could she make up her mind to marry Harry, every external advantage that heart could desire she felt would be secured. This first doubt filled her with dismay.

“Would I no?” she cried faltering. “He is a rich man’s heir, Lady Mary’s nephew—a rich gentleman. Oh! Cousin Edgar, what will you think of me? I have always been poor, and Charles is poor—how can I put that out of my mind?”

“I do not blame you,” said Edgar, feeling ashamed both of himself and her. And then he added, “He is a rich man’s son, but his father is not old; and he would not receive you gladly into his family. Forgive me that I say so—I ought to tell you that I am not a fair judge. I am going to marry Harry’s sister, and they object very much to me.”

“Object to you!—they are ill to please,” cried Margaret, with simple natural indignation. “But if you were in the family, that would make things easier for us,” she added, wistfully, looking up in his face.

“You have made up your mind, then, to run the risk?” said Edgar, feeling his heart sink.

“I did not say that.” She gave another glance at the house again. Willie was standing at the door, in the morning sunshine, and beckoned to her to come back. She turned to him, as a flower turns to the sun. “No, I am far, far from saying that,” said the young woman, with a mixture of sadness and gladness, turning to obey the summons.

Edgar stood still, looking after her with wondering gaze. The good-looking sailor, whose likeness to himself did not make him proud, was a poor creature enough to be as the sun in the heavens to this beautiful, stately young woman, who looked as if she had been born to be a princess. What a strange world it is, and how doubly strange is human nature! Willie had but to hold up a finger, and Margaret would follow him to the end of the earth; though the rest of his friends judged him rightly enough, and though even little Jeanie, though she loved, could scarcely approve her brother, Margaret was ready to give up even her hope of wealth and state, which she loved, for this Sultan’s notice. Strange influence, which no man could calculate upon, which no prudence restrained, nor higher nor lower sentiment could quite subdue!

Edgar followed his beautiful cousin to the house with pitying eyes. He did not want her to marry Harry Thornleigh, but even to marry Harry Thornleigh, though she did not love him, seemed less degrading than to hang upon the smile, the careless whistle to his hand, of a man so inferior to her. I don’t know if, in reality, Willie was inferior to Margaret. She, for one, would have been quite satisfied with him; but great beauty creates an atmosphere about it which dazzles the beholder. It was not fit, Edgar felt, in spite of himself, that a woman so lovely should thus be thrown away.

As this is but an episode in my story, I may here follow Margaret’s uncomfortable wooing to its end. Poor Harry, tantalized and driven desperate by a letter, which seemed, to Margaret, the most gently temporising in the world, and which was intended to keep him from despair, and to retain her hold upon him until Willie’s purposes were fully manifested, at last made his appearance at Loch Arroch Head, where she was paying the Campbells a visit, on the day after Edgar left the loch. He came determined to hear his fate decided one way or another, almost ill with the excitement in which he had been kept, wilder than ever in the sudden passion which had seized upon him like an evil spirit. He met her, on his unexpected arrival, walking with Willie, who, having nothing else to do, did not object to amuse his leisure with his beautiful cousin, whose devotion to him, I fear, he knew. Poor Margaret! I know her behaviour was ignoble, but I regret—as I have confessed to the reader—that she did not become the great lady she might have been; and, notwithstanding that Edgar’s position would have been deeply complicated thereby, I wish the field had been left clear for Harry Thornleigh, who would have made her a good enough husband, and to whom she would have made, in the end, a very sweet wife. Forgive me, young romancist, I cannot help this regret. Even at that moment Margaret did not want to lose her young English Squire, and her friends were so far from wanting to lose him that Harry, driven to dire disgust, hated them ever after with a strenuous hatred, which he transferred to their nation generally, not knowing any better. He lingered for a day or more, waiting for the answer which Margaret was unwilling to give, and tortured by Willie, who, seeing the state of affairs, felt his vanity involved, and was more and more loverlike to his cousin. The issue was that Harry rushed away at last half mad, and went abroad, and wasted his substance more than he had ever done up to that moment, damaged his reputation, and encumbered his patrimony, and fell into that state of cynical disbelief in everybody, which, bad as are its effects even upon the cleverest and brightest intelligence, has a worse influence still upon the stupid, to whom there is no possibility of escape from its withering power.

When Harry was fairly off the scene, his rival slackened in his attentions; and after a while Margaret returned to her brother, and they did their best to retrieve their standing at Tottenham’s, and to make the position of the doctor’s family at Harbour Green a pleasant one. But Lady Mary, superior to ordinary prejudices as she was, was not so superior as to be altogether just to Margaret, who, though she deserved blame, got more blame than she deserved. The Thornleighs all believed that she had “laid herself out” to “entrap” Harry—which was not the case; and Lady Mary looked coldly upon the woman who had permitted herself to be loved by a man so far above her sphere. And then Lady Mary disliked the doctor, who never could think even of the most interesting “case” so much as to be indifferent to what people were thinking of himself. So Harbour Green proved unsuccessful, as their other experiments had proved, and the brother and sister drifted off again into the world, where they drift still, from place to place, always needy, anxious, afraid of their gentility, yet with that link of fraternal love between them, and with that toleration of each other and mutual support, which gives a certain beauty, wherever they go, to the family group formed by this handsome brother and sister, and the beautiful child, whom her uncle cherishes almost as dearly as her mother does.

Ah, me! if Margaret had made that “good match,” though it was not all for love, would it not have been better for everybody concerned?

I hope it will not give the reader a poor idea of Edgar’s heart if I say that it was with a relief which it was impossible to exaggerate that he felt the last dreary day of darkness pass, and was liberated from his melancholy duties. This did not affect his sorrow for the noble old woman who had made him at once her confidant and her inheritor—inheritor not of land or wealth, but of something more subtle and less tangible. But indeed for her there was no sorrow needed. Out of perennial disappointments she had gone to her kind, to those with whom she could no longer be disappointed. Heaven had been “but a step” to her, which she took smiling. For her the hearse, the black funeral, the nodding plumes, were inappropriate enough; but they pleased the family, of whom it never could be said by any detractor that they had not paid to their mother “every respect.”

Edgar felt that his connection with them was over for ever when he took leave of them on the evening of the funeral. The only one over whom his heart yearned a little was Jeanie, who was the true mourner of the only mother she had ever known, but who, in the midst of her mourning, poor child, felt another pang, perhaps more exquisite, at the thought of seeing him, too, no more. All the confusion of sentiment and feeling, of misplaced loves and indifferences, which make up the world were in this one little family. Jeanie had given her visionary child’s heart to Edgar, who, half aware of, half disowning the gift, thought of her ever with tender sympathy and reverence, as of something sacred. Margaret, less exquisite in her sentiments, yet a loving soul in her way, had given hers to Willie, who was vain of her preference, and laughed at it—who felt himself a finer fellow, and she a smaller creature because she loved him. Dr. Charles, uneasy soul, would have given his head had he dared to marry Jeanie, yet would not, even had she cared for him, have ventured to burden his tottering gentility with a wife so homely.

Thus all were astray from the end which might have made each a nobler and certainly a happier creature. Edgar never put these thoughts into words, for he was too chivalrous a man even to allow to himself that a woman had given her heart to him unsought; but the complications of which he was conscious filled him with a vague pang—as the larger complications of the world—that clash of interests, those broken threads, that never meet, those fulnesses and needinesses, which never can be brought to bear upon each other—perplex and pain the spectator. He was glad, as we all are, to escape from them; and when he reached London, where his love was, and where, the first thing he found on his arrival was the announcement of his appointment, his heart rose with a sudden leap, spurning the troubles of the past, in elastic revulsion. He had his little fortune again, not much, at any time, but yet something, which Gussy could hang at her girdle, and his old mother’s watch for her, quaint, but precious possession. He was scarcely anxious as to his reception, though she had written him but one brief note since his absence; for Edgar was himself so absolutely true that it did not come into his heart that he could be doubted. But he could not go to Gussy at once, even on his arrival. Another and a less pleasant task remained for him. He had to meet his sister at the hotel she had gone to, and be present at the clandestine marriage—for it was no better—which was at last to unite legally the lives of Arthur Arden and Clare.

Clare had arrived in town the evening before. He found her waiting for him, in her black dress, her children by her, in black also. She was still as pale as when he left her at Arden, but she received him with more cordiality than she had shown when parting with him. There was something in her eyes which alarmed him—an occasional vagueness, almost wildness.

“We did wrong, Edgar,” she said, when the children were sent away, and they were left together—“we did wrong.”

“In what did we do wrong, Clare?”

“In ever thinking of those—those papers. We should have burnt them, you and I together. What was it to anyone what happened between us? We were the sole Ardens of the family—the only ones to be consulted.”

“Clare! Clare! I am no Arden at all. Would you have had me live on a lie all my life, and build my own comfort upon some one else’s wrong?”

“You were always too high-flown, Edgar,” she said, with the practical quiet of old. “Why did you come to me whenever you heard that trouble was coming? Because you were my brother. Instinct proves it. If you are my brother, then it is you who should be master at Arden, and not—anyone else.”

“It is true I am your brother,” he said, sitting down by her, and looking tenderly into her colourless face.

“Then we were wrong, Edgar—we were wrong—I know we were wrong; and now we must suffer for it,” she said, with a low moan. “My boy will be like you, the heir, and yet not the heir; but for him I will do more than I did for you. I will not stop for lying. What is a lie? A lie does not break you off from your life.”

“Does it not? Clare, if you would think a moment——”

“Oh! I think!” she cried—“I think!—I do nothing but think! Come, now, we must not talk any more; it is time to go.”

They drove together in a street cab to an obscure street in the city, where there was a church which few people ever entered. I doubt if this choice was so wise as they thought, but the incumbent was old, the clerk old, and everything in their favour, so far as secrecy was concerned. Arthur Arden met them there, pale, but eager as any bridegroom could be. Clare had her veil—a heavy veil of black lace—over her face; the very pew-opener shuddered at such a dismal wedding, and naturally all the three officials, clergyman, clerk, and old woman, exerted all their aged faculties to penetrate the mystery. The bridal party went back very silently in another cab to Clare’s hotel, where Arthur Arden saw his children, seizing upon them with hungry love and caresses. He did not suspect, as Edgar did, that the play was not yet played out.

“You have never said that you forgive me, Clare,” he said, after, to his amazement, she had sent her boy and girl away.

“I cannot say what I do not mean,” she said, in a very low and tremulous voice. “I have said nothing all this time; now it is my turn to speak. Oh! don’t look at me so, Edgar!—don’t ask me to be merciful with your beseeching eyes! We were not merciful to you.”

“What does she mean?” said Arthur Arden, looking dully at him; and then he turned to his wife. “Well, Clare, you’ve had occasion to be angry—I don’t deny it. I don’t excuse myself. I ought to have looked deeper into that old affair. But the punishment has been as great on me as on you.”

“Oh, the punishment!” she cried. “What is the punishment in comparison? It is time I should tell you what I am going to do.”

“There, there now!” he said, half frightened, half coaxing. “We are going home. Things will come right, and time will mend everything. No one knows but Edgar, and we can trust Edgar. I will not press you for pardon. I will wait; I will be patient——”

“I am not going home any more. I have no home,” she said.

“Clare, Clare!”

“Listen to what I say. I am ill. There shall be no slander—no story for the world to talk of. I have told everybody that I am going to Italy for my health. It need not even be known that you don’t go with me. I have made all my arrangements. You go your way, and I go mine. It is all settled, and there is nothing more to say.”

She rose up and stood firm before them, very pale, very shadowy, a slight creature, but immovable, invincible. Arthur Arden knew his wife less than her brother did. He tried to overcome her by protestations, by entreaties, by threats, by violence. Nothing made any impression upon her; she had made her decision, and Heaven and earth could not turn her from it. Edgar had to hold what place he could between them—now seconding Arden’s arguments, now subduing his violence; but neither the one nor the other succeeded in their efforts. She consented to wait in London a day or two, and to allow Edgar to arrange her journey for her—a journey upon which she needed and would accept no escort—but that was all. Arden came away a broken man, on Edgar’s arm, almost sobbing in his despair.

“You won’t leave me, Edgar—you’ll speak for me—you’ll persuade her it is folly—worse than folly!” he cried.

 

It was long before Edgar could leave him, a little quieted by promises of all that could be done. Arden clung to him as to his last hope. Thus it was afternoon when at last he was able to turn his steps towards Berkeley Square.

 

Gussy knew he was to arrive in town that morning, and, torn by painful doubts as she was, every moment of delay naturally seemed to her a further evidence that Edgar had other thoughts in his mind more important to him than she was. She had said nothing to anyone about expecting him, but within herself had privately calculated that by eleven o’clock at least she might expect him to explain everything and make everything clear. Eleven o’clock came, and Gussy grew distraite, and counted unconsciously the beats of the clock, with a pulsation quicker and quite as loud going on in her heart. Twelve o’clock, and her heart grew sick with the deferred hope, and the explanation seemed to grow dim and recede further and further from her. He had never mentioned Margaret in his letters, which were very short, though frequent; and Gussy knew that her brother, in wild impatience, had gone off two days before to ascertain his fate. But she was a woman, and must wait till her fate came to her, counting the cruel moments, and feeling the time pass slowly, slowly dragging its weary course. One o’clock; then luncheon, which she had to make a pretence to eat, amid the chatter of the girls, who were so merry and so loud that she could not hear the steps without and the knocks at the door.

When they were all ready to go out after, Gussy excused herself. She had a headache, she said, and indeed she was pale enough for any headache. He deserved that she should go out as usual, and wait no longer to receive him; but she would not treat him as he deserved. When they were all gone she could watch at the window, in the shade of the curtains, to see if he was coming, going over a hundred theories to explain his conduct. That he had been mistaken in his feeling all along, and never had really cared for her; that Margaret’s beauty had been too much for him, and had carried him away; that he cared for her a little, enough to fulfil his engagements, and observe a kindly sort of duty towards her, but that he had other friends to see, and business to do, more important than she was. All these fancies surged through her head as she stood, the dark damask half hiding her light little figure at the window.

The days had lengthened, the sounds outside were sounds of spring, the trees in the square garden were coloured faintly with the first tender wash of green. Steps went and came along the pavement, carriages drew up, doors opened and shut, but no Edgar. She was just turning from the window, half blind and wholly sick with the strain, when the sound of a light, firm foot on the stair caught her ears, and Edgar made his appearance at last. There was a glow of pleasure on his face, but care and wrinkles on his forehead. Was the rush with which he came forward to her, and the warmth of his greeting, and the light on his face, fictitious? Gussy felt herself warm and brighten, too, involuntarily, but yet would have liked best to sit down in a corner and cry.

“How glad I am to find you alone!” he said. “What a relief it is to get here at last! I am tired, and dead beat, and sick and sorry, dear. Now I can breathe and rest.”

“You have been long, long of coming,” said Gussy, half wearily, half reproachfully.

“Haven’t I? It seems about a year since I arrived this morning, and not able to get near you till now. Gussy, tell me, first of all, did you see it?—do you know?”

“What?” Her heart was melting—all the pain and all the anger, quite unreasonably as they had risen, floating away.

“Our Consulship,” he said, opening up his newspaper with one hand, and spreading it out, to be held by the other hand, on the other side of her. The two heads bent close together to look at this blessed announcement. “Not much for you, my darling—for me everything,” said Edgar, with a voice in which bells of joy seemed to be ringing, dancing, jostling against each other for very gladness. “I was half afraid you would see it before I brought the news.”

“I had no heart to look at the paper this morning,” she said.

“No heart! Something has happened? Your father—Harry—what is it?” cried Edgar, in alarm.

“Oh! nothing,” cried Gussy, crying. “I was unhappy, that was all. I did not know what you would say to me. I thought you did not care for me. I had doubts, dreadful doubts! Don’t ask me any more.”

“Doubts—of me!” cried Edgar, with a surprised, frank laugh.

Never in her life had Gussy felt so much ashamed of herself. She did not venture to say another word about those doubts which, with such laughing, pleasant indifference, he had dismissed as impossible. She sat in a dream while he told her everything, hearing it all like a tale that she had read in a book. He brought out the old watch and gave it to her, and she kissed it and put it within her dress, and cried when he described to her the last words of his old mother. Loch Arroch and all its homely circumstances became as a scene of the Scriptures to Gussy; she seemed to see a glory of ideal hills and waters, and the moonlight filling the sky and earth, and the loveliness of the night which made it look “but a step” between earth and heaven. Her heart grew so full over those details that Edgar, unsuspicious, never discovered the compunction which mingled in that sympathetic grief. He told her about his journey; then paused, and looked her in the eyes.

“Last year it was you who travelled with me. You were the little sister?” he said. “Ah! yes, I know it was you. You came and kissed me in my sleep——”

“Indeed I did not, sir!” cried Gussy, in high indignation. “I would not have done such a thing for all the world.”

Edgar laughed, and held her so fast that she could not turn from him.

“You did in spirit,” he said; “and I had it in a dream. Ever since I have had a kind of hope in my life; I dreamt that you put the veil aside, and I saw you. When I woke I could not believe it, though I knew it; but the other sister, the real one, would not tell me your name.”

“Poor sister Susan!” cried Gussy, the tears disappearing, the sunshine bursting out over all her face; “she will not like me to go back into the world.”

“Nor to go out to Italy as a Consul,” said Edgar, gay as a boy in his new happiness, “to talk to all the ships’ captains, and find out about the harbour dues.”

“Foolish! there are no ship captains, nor ships either, nor dues of any kind—”

“Nothing but the bay and the hills, and the sunsets and the moonrises; the Riviera, which means Paradise—”

“And to be together—”

“Which has the same meaning,” he said. And then they stopped in this admirable fooling, and laughed the foolish laughter of mere happiness, which is not such a bad thing, when one can have it, once in a way.

“What a useless, idle, Sybarite life you have sketched out for us!” Gussy said at last. “I hope it is not a mere sunshiny sinecure. I hope there is something to do.”

“I am very good at doing nothing,” Edgar replied—too glad, at last, to return to homely reality and matter of fact; and until the others came home, these two talked as much nonsense as it is given to the best of us to talk; and got such good of it as no words can describe.

When Lady Augusta returned, she pretended to frown upon Edgar, and smiled; and then gave him her hand, and then inclined her cheek towards him. They had the paper out again, and she shook her head; then kissed Gussy, and told them that Spezzia was the most lovely place in all the world. Edgar stayed to dinner, as at last a recognised belonging of the household, and met Lord Granton, who was somewhat frightened of him, and respectful, having heard his praises celebrated by Mary as something more than flesh and blood; and for that evening “the Grantons” that were to be, were nobodies—not even redeemed from insignificance by the fact that their marriage was approaching, while the other marriage was still in the clouds.

“How nice it would be if they could be on the same day!” little Mary whispered, rather, I fear, with the thought of recovering something of her natural consequence as bride than for any other reason.

“As if the august ceremonial used at an Earl’s wedding would do for a Consul’s!” cried saucy Gussy, tossing her curls as of old. And notwithstanding Edgar’s memories, and the dark shadow of Clare’s troubles that stood by his side, and the fear that now and then overwhelmed them all about Harry’s movements—in spite of all this, I do not think a merrier evening was ever spent in Berkeley Square. Gussy had been in a cloud, in a veil, for all these years; she had not thought it right to laugh much, as the Associate of a Sisterhood—which is to say that Gussy was not happy enough to want to laugh, and founded that grey, or brown, or black restriction for herself, with the ingenuity of an unscrupulous young woman. But now sweet laughter had become again as natural to her as breath.

Clare carried out her intentions, unmoved by all the entreaties addressed to her. She heard everything that was said with perfect calm; either her capabilities of emotion were altogether exhausted, or her passionate sense of wrong was too deep to show at the surface, and she was calm as a marble statue; but she was equally inflexible. Edgar turned, in spite of himself, into Arthur Arden’s advocate; pleaded with her, setting forth every reason he could think of, partly against his own judgment—and failed. Her husband, against whom she did not absolutely close her door, threw himself at her feet, and entreated, for the children’s sake, for the sake of all that was most important to them both—the credit of their house, the good name of their boy. These were arguments which with Clare, in her natural mind, would have been unanswerable; but that had happened to Clare which warps the mind from its natural modes of thought. The idea of disgrace had got into her very soul, like a canker. She was unable to examine her reasons—unable to resist, even in herself, this overwhelming influence; it overcame her principles, and even her prejudices, which are more difficult to overcome. The fear of scandal, which those who knew Clare would have supposed sufficient to make her endure anything, failed totally here. She knew that her behaviour would make the world talk, and she even felt that, with this clue to some profound disagreement between her husband and herself, the whole story might be more easily revealed, and her boy’s heirship made impossible; but even with this argument she could not subdue herself, nor suffer herself to be subdued. The sense of outrage had taken possession of her; she could not forget it—could not realize the possibility of ever forgetting it. It was not that she had been brought within the reach of possible disgrace. She was disgraced; the very formality of the new marriage, though she consented to it without question, as a necessity, was a new outrage. In short, Clare, though she acted with a determination and steadiness which seemed to add force to her character, and showed her natural powers as nothing else had ever done, was not, for the first time in her life, a free agent. She had been taken possession of by a passionate sense of injury, which seized upon her as an evil spirit might seize upon its victim. In the very fierceness of her individual resentment, she ceased to be an individual, and became an abstraction, a woman wronged, capable of feeling, knowing, thinking of nothing but her wrong. This made all arguments powerless, all pleas foolish. She could not admit any alternative into her mind; her powers of reasoning failed her altogether on this subject; on all others she was sane and sensible, but on this had all the onesidedness, the narrowness of madness—or of the twin-sister of madness—irrepressible and irrepressed passion.

Without knowing anything of the real facts of the story, the Thornleighs were admitted to see her, on Clare’s own suggestion; for her warped mind was cunning to see where an advantage could be drawn from partial publicity. They found her on her sofa, looking, in the paleness which had now become habitual to her, like a creature vanishing out of the living world.

“Why did you not let us know you were ill? You must have been suffering long, and never complained!” cried Lady Augusta, moved almost to tears.

“Not very long,” said Clare.

She had permitted her husband to be present at this interview, to keep up appearances to the last; and Arthur felt as if every word was a dart aimed at him, though I do not think she meant it so.

“Not long! My dear child, you are quite thin and wasted; this cannot have come on all at once. But Italy will do you all the good in the world,” Lady Augusta added, trying to be cheerful. “They, you know, are going to Italy too.”

“But not near where I shall be,” said Clare.

“You must go further south? I am very sorry. Gussy and you would have been company for each other. You are not strong enough for company? My poor child! But once out of these cold spring winds, you will do well,” said kind Lady Augusta.

But though she thus took the matter on the surface, she felt that there was more below. Her looks grew more and more perplexed as they discussed Edgar’s appointment, and the humble beginning which the young couple would make in the world.

“It is very imprudent—very imprudent,” Lady Augusta said, shaking her head. “I have said all I can, Mrs. Arden, and so has Mr. Thornleigh. I don’t know how they are to get on. It is the most imprudent thing I ever heard of.”

“Nothing is imprudent,” said Clare, with a hard, dry intonation, which took all pleasant meaning out of the words, “when you can trust fully for life or death; and my brother Edgar is one whom everybody can trust.”

“At all events, we are both of us old enough to know our own minds,” said Gussy, hastily, trying to laugh off this impression. “If we choose to starve together, who should prevent us?”

Arthur Arden took them to their carriage, but Lady Augusta remarked that he did not go upstairs again. “There is something in all this more than meets the eye,” she said, oracularly.

Many people suspected this, after Lady Augusta, when Clare was gone, and when it came out that Mr. Arden was not with her, but passing most of his time in London, knocking about from club to club, through all the dreary winter. He made an effort to spend his time as virtuously as possible that first year; but the second year he was more restless and less virtuous, having fallen into despair. Then everybody talked of the breach between them, and a great deal crept out that they had thought buried in silence. Even the real facts of the case were guessed at, though never fully established, and the empty house became the subject of many a tale. People remarked that there were many strange stories about the Ardens; that they had behaved very strangely to the last proprietor before Arthur; that nobody had ever heard the rights of that story, and that Edgar had been badly used.

Whilst all this went on, Clare lived gloomy and retired by herself, in a little village on the Neapolitan coast. She saw nobody, avoiding the wandering English, and everybody who could have known her in better times; and I don’t know how long her reason could have stood the wear and tear, but for the illness and death of the poor little heir, whose hapless position had given the worst pang to her shame and horror. Little Arthur died, his mother scarcely believing it, refusing to think such a thing possible. Her husband had heard incidentally of the child’s illness, and had hurried to the neighbourhood, scarcely hoping to be admitted. But Clare neither welcomed him nor refused him admission, but permitted his presence, and ignored it. When the child was gone, however, it was Arthur’s vehement grief which first roused her out of her stupor.

“It is you who have done it!” she cried, turning upon him with eyes full of tearless passion. But she did not send him out of her house. She felt ill, worn out in body and mind, and left everything in his hands. And by-and-by, when she came to herself, Clare allowed herself to be taken home, and fled from her duties no longer.

This was the end of their story. They were more united in the later portion of their lives than in the beginning, but they have no heir to come after them. The history of the Ardens will end with them, for the heir-at-law is distant in blood, and has a different name.

As for the other personages mentioned in this story, Mr. Tottenham still governs his shop as if it were an empire, and still comes to a periodical crisis in the shape of an Entertainment, which threatens to fail up to the last moment, and then is turned into a great success. The last thing I have heard of Tottenham’s was, that it had set up a little daily newspaper of its own, written and printed on the establishment, which Mr. Tottenham thought very likely to bring forward some latent talent which otherwise might have been lost in dissertations on the prices of cotton, or the risings and fallings of silks. After Gussy’s departure, I hear the daily services fell off in the chapel; flowers were no longer placed fresh and fragrant on the temporary altar, there was no one to play the harmonium, and the attendance gradually decreased. It fell from a daily to a weekly service, and then came to an end altogether, for it was found that the young ladies and the gentlemen preferred to go out on Sunday, and to choose their own preachers after their differing tastes. How many of them strayed off to chapel instead of church, it would have broken Gussy’s heart to hear. I do not think, however, that this disturbed Mr. Tottenham much, who was too viewy not to be very tolerant, and who liked himself to hear what every new opinion had to say for itself. Lady Mary was very successful with her lectures, and I hope improved the feminine mind very much at Harbour Green. She thought she improved her own mind, which was of course a satisfaction; and did her best to transmit to little Molly very high ideas of intellectual training; but Molly was a dunce, as providentially happens often in the families of very clever people; and distinguished herself by a curious untractableness, which did not hinder her from being her mother’s pride, and the sweetest of all the cousins—or so at least Lady Mary thought.

The marriage of “the Grantons” took place in April, with the greatest éclat. It was at Easter, when everybody was in the country; and was one of the prettiest of weddings, as well as the most magnificent, which Thornleigh ever saw. Mary’s presents filled a large room to overflowing. She got everything possible and impossible that ever bride was blessed with; and the young couple went off with a maid, and a valet and a courier, and introductions to every personage in Europe. Their movements were chronicled in the newspapers; their letters went and came in ambassadorial despatch boxes. Short of royalty, there could have been nothing more splendid, more “perfectly satisfactory,” as Lady Augusta said. The only drawback was that Harry would not come to his sister’s wedding; but to make up for that everybody else came—all the great Hauteville connections, and Lady Augusta’s illustrious family, and all the Thornleighs, to the third and fourth generations. Not only Thornleigh itself, but every house within a radius of ten miles was crowded with fine people and their servants; and the bells were rung in half a dozen parish churches in honour of the wedding. It was described fully in the Morning Post, with details of all the dresses, and of the bride’s ornaments and coiffure.

“We shall have none of these fine things, I suppose,” Gussy said, when it was all over, turning to Edgar with a mock sigh.

“No, my dear; and I don’t see how you could expect them,” said Lady Augusta. “Instead of spending our money vainly on making a great show for you, we had much better save it, to buy some useful necessary things for your housekeeping. Mary is in quite a different case.”

“Buy us pots and pans, mamma,” said Gussy, laughing; “though perhaps earthen pipkins would do just as well in Italy. We shall not be such a credit to you, but we shall be much cheaper. There is always something in that.”

“Ah! Gussy, it is easy to speak now; but wait till you are buried in the cares of life,” said her mother, going away to superintend the arrangements for the ball in the evening. So grand a wedding was certainly very expensive; she never liked to tell anyone how much that great ceremonial cost.

A little later, the little church dressed itself in a few modest spring flowers, and the school-children, with baskets full of primroses—the last primroses of the season—made a carpet under Gussy’s feet as she, in her turn, went along the familiar path between the village gravestones, a bride. There were not more than a dozen people at the breakfast, and Lady Augusta’s little brougham took them to the station afterwards, where they set out quite humbly and cheerily by an ordinary train.

“Quite good enough for a Consul,” Gussy said, always the first to laugh at her own humbleness. She wore a grey gown to go away in, which did not cost a tenth part so much as Lady Granton’s, and the Post took no notice of them. They wandered about their own country for a week or two, like the Babes in the Wood, Gussy said, expected in no great country house, retiring into no stately seclusion, but into the far more complete retirement of common life and common ways. Gussy, as she was proud to tell, had learned to do many things in her apprenticeship to the sisters of the Charity-house as associate of the order; and I think the pleasure to her of this going forth unattended, unsuspected, in the freedom of a young wife—the first smack of absolute freedom which women ever taste—had something far more exquisite in it to Gussy than any delight her sister could have in her more splendid honeymoon. Lord and Lady Granton were limited, and kept in curb by their own very greatness; they were watched over by their servants, and kept by public opinion in the right way; but Edgar and Gassy went where they would, as free as the winds, and thought of nobody’s opinion. The Consul in this had an unspeakable advantage over the Earl.

They got to their home at last on a May evening, when Italy is indeed Paradise; they had driven all day long from the Genoa side along the lovely Riviera di Levante, tracing the gracious curves from village to village along that enchanting way. The sun was setting when they came in sight of Spezzia, and before they reached the house which had been taken for them, the Angelus was sounding from the church, and the soft dilating stars of Italian skies had come out to hear the homely litany sung shrilly in side-chapels, and out of doors, among the old nooks of the town, of the angelic song, “Hail, Mary, full of grace!” The women were singing in an old three-cornered piazzetta, close under the loggia of the Consul’s house, which looked upon the sea. On the sea itself the magical sky was shining with all those listening stars. In Italy the stars take more interest in human life than they do in this colder sphere. Those that were proper to that space of heaven, crowded together, Edgar thought to himself, to see his bride. On the horizon the sea and sky blended in one infinite softness and blueness; the lights began to twinkle in the harbour and in its ships; the far-off villages among the woods lent other starry tapers to make the whole landscape kind and human. Heaven and earth were softly illuminated, not for them—for the dear common uses and ends of existence; yet unconsciously with a softer and fuller lustre, because of the eyes that looked upon them so newly, as if earth and heaven, and the kindly light, and all the tender bonds of humanity, had been created fresh that very day.

THE END.


PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.

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