COLLECTION 
 
 Ol' 
 
 BRITISII AUTITOES 
 
 TAITCITNITZ EDITION. 
 
 VOL. 1419. 
 FOE LOVE AND LIFE BY MES. OLIPIIANT. 
 
 IN TWO VOI.IMES. 
 VOL. L
 
 "Tlie device on his shield was a young oak tree pulled 
 up by the roots, with the Spanish word Dcsdir/iado, signifying 
 Disinherited."
 
 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 MRS. OLIPHANT, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 'chronicles of CARLINGFORD," "OIMBRA," "mAY," ETC. 
 
 COPYRIGHT EDITION. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 
 
 1874. 
 
 The Right of Translation is reserveiU 
 
 #
 
 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Oil the Shores of Loch Arroch. 
 
 Three people were walking slowly along to- 
 gether by the side of the water. One of them an 
 invalid, as was apparent by the softly measured 
 steps of her companions, subdued to keep in har- 
 mony with hers. These two attendants were both 
 young; the girl about twenty, a little light creature, 
 with the golden hair so frequent in Scotland, and 
 a face of the angelic kind, half- childish, half- 
 visionary, over-brimming with meaning, or almost 
 entirely destitute of it, according to the eyes with 
 which you happened to regard her. Both she and 
 the invalid, a handsome old woman of about seventy, 
 were well and becomingly dressed in a homely way, 
 but they had none of the subtle traces about them 
 which mark the "lady" in conventional parlance. 
 They were not in the smallest degree what people 
 call "common -looking." The girl's beauty and 
 natural grace would have distinguished her anywhere, 
 and the old lady \vas even dignified in her bearing. 
 But yet it was plain that they were of a caste not 
 the highest. They moved along the narrow path,
 
 6 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 skirting the newly-cut stubble, with the air of people 
 entirely at home, amid their natural surroundings. 
 The homely farm-house within sight was evidently 
 their home. They belonged to the place and the 
 place to them. Notwithstanding the angelic face 
 of the one, and the natural stateliness of the other, 
 they were farmer folk, of a kind not unusual on 
 that proud half-Highland soil. I will not even pretend 
 to say that good blood gave a grace to their de- 
 cayed fortunes; I do not believe their race had 
 ever held a more exalted position than it did now. 
 They were independent as queens, proud yet open- 
 hearted, sociable, courteous, hospitable, possessed 
 of many of the special virtues which ought to be- 
 long to the nobly born; but they were only farmer 
 folk of Loch Arroch, of a family who had lived for 
 ages on that farm, and nothing more. 
 
 It would have been unnecessary to dwell on 
 this particular, had not the appearance of the young 
 man upon whose arm the invalid leant, been so 
 different. As distinctly as they were native to the 
 place, and to the position, was he stranger to them. 
 He was not so handsome by nature as they, but he 
 had about him all those signs of a man "in good 
 society" which it is impossible to define in words, 
 or to mistake in fact. His dress was extremely 
 simple, but it was unmistakeably that of a gen- 
 tleman. Not the slightest atom of pretension was 
 in his aspect or manner, but his very simplicity was 
 his distinction. The deferential way in which he 
 bent his head to hear what his companion was say- 
 ing, the respect he showed to them both, was more
 
 ON THE SHORES OF LOCH ARROCH. 7 
 
 than a son or brother in their own rank would ever 
 have dreamed of showing. He was kind in all his 
 words and looks, even tender; but the ease of 
 familiarity was wanting to him; he was in a sphere 
 different from his own. He showed this only by a 
 respect infinitely more humble and anxious than 
 any farmer-youth or homely young squire would 
 have felt; yet to his own fastidious taste it was ap- 
 parent that he did show it; and the thought made 
 him condemn himself. His presence introduced 
 confusion and difficulty into the tranquil picture; 
 though there was nothing of the agitation of a lover 
 in his aspect. Love makes all things easy; it is 
 agitating, but it is tranquillizing. Had he been the 
 lover of the beautiful young creature by his side, 
 he would have been set at his ease with her old 
 mother, and with the conditions of her lot. Love 
 is itself so novel, so revolutionary, such a break- 
 down of all boundaries, that it accepts with a cer- 
 tain zest the differences of condition; and all the 
 ■embarrassments of social difference such as trouble 
 the acquaintance, and drive the married man wild, 
 become in the intermediate stage of courtship de- 
 lightful auxiliaries, which he embraces with all his 
 heart. But Edgar Earnshavv was not pretty Jeanie 
 Murray's lover. He had a dutiful affection for 
 both of the women. Mingled with this was a cer- 
 tain reverential respect, mingled with a curious 
 painful sense of wrong, for the elder; and a pitying 
 and protecting anxiety about the girl. But these 
 sentiments were not love. Therefore he was kind, 
 tender, respectful, almost devoted, but not at his
 
 8 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 ease, never one with them; in heart as in appear- 
 ance, there *was a difference such as could not be 
 put into words. 
 
 "I cannot accept it from you," said old Mrs. 
 Murray, who was the grandmother of both. She 
 spoke with a little vehemence, with a glimmering 
 of tears in the worn old eyes, which were still so 
 bright and full of vital force. She was recovering 
 from an illness, and thus the tears came more easily 
 than usual. "Of all that call kin with me, Edgar, 
 my bonnie lad, you are the last that should sacrifice 
 your living to keep up my auld and weary life. I 
 canna do it. It's pride, nothing but pride, that 
 makes me loth to go away — loth, loth to eat other 
 folk's bread. But wherefore should I be proud? 
 What should an old woman like me desire better 
 than a chair at my ain daughter's chimney-corner, 
 and a share of what she has, poor woman? I say 
 to myself it's her man's bread I will eat, and no 
 hers; but Robert Campbell will be kind — enough. 
 He'll no grudge me my morsel. When a woman 
 has been a man's faithful wife for thirty years, 
 surely, surely she has a right to the gear she has 
 helped to make. And I'll no be that useless when 
 I'm weel; there's many a thing about a house that 
 an old woman can do. Na, na, it's nothing but 
 pride." 
 
 "And what if I had my pride too?" he asked. 
 "My dear old mother, it goes against me to think 
 of you as anywhere but at Loch Arroch. Mr, 
 Campbell is an excellent man, I have no doubt,
 
 ON THE SHORES OF LOCH ARROCH. Q 
 
 and kind— enough, as you say; and his wife very 
 good and excellent — " 
 
 "You might say your aunt, Edgar," said the old 
 lady, with a half-reproach. 
 
 He winced, though almost imperceptibly. 
 
 "Well," he said with a smile, "my aunt, if you 
 prefer it. One thing I don't like about you proud 
 people is, that you never make allowance for other 
 people's pride. Mine demands that my old mother 
 should be independent in her own old house; that 
 she shovdd have her pet companion with her to 
 nurse her and care for her." Here he laid his 
 hand kindly, with a light momentary touch, upon 
 the girl's shoulder, who looked up at him with 
 wistful tender eyes. "That she should keep her 
 old servants, and continue to be the noble old lady 
 she is — " 
 
 "Na, na, Edgar; no lady. You must not use 
 such a word to me. No, my bonnie man; you 
 must not deceive yourself. It's hard, hard upon 
 you, and God forgive me for all I have done to 
 make my good lad unhappy! We are decent folk, 
 Edgar, from father to son, from mother to daughter; 
 but I'm no a lady; an old country wife, nothing 
 more — though you are a gentleman." 
 
 "We will not dispute about words," said Edgar, 
 with a shrug of his shoulders. "What would be- 
 come of Jeanie, grandmother, if you went to your 
 daughter, as you say?" 
 
 "Ah!" cried the old woman, pausing suddenly, 
 and raising both her hands to her face, "that's what 
 I canna bear — I canna bear it! Though I must,"
 
 10 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 she added hurriedly, drying her eyes, "if it's God's 
 will." 
 
 "I would go to my uncle in Glasgow," said 
 Jeanie; "he's not an ill man. They would take me 
 in if I was destitute; that's what they aye said." 
 
 "If you were destitute!" cried Edgar. "My 
 poor little Jeanie destitute, and you, my old mother, 
 eating the bread of dependence, watching a coarse 
 man's look to see if you are welcome or not! Im- 
 possible! I have arranged everything. There is 
 enough to keep you both comfortable here — not 
 luxuriously, as I should wish; not with the comfort 
 and the prettiness I should like to spread round 
 you two; but yet enough. Now listen, grandmother. 
 You must yield to me or to some one else; to me 
 or to — Mr. Campbell. I think I have the best 
 right." 
 
 "He has the best right," said little Jeanie, look- 
 ing in her grandmother's face. "Oh, granny, he 
 would like to be good to you and me!" 
 
 "Yes; I should like to be good to you," said 
 Edgar, turning to the girl gratefully. "That is the 
 truth. It is the highest pleasure you could give 
 me." 
 
 "To heap coals of fire," said the old woman in 
 her deep voice. 
 
 "1 know nothing about coals," said Edgar, 
 laughing; "they should be more in Mr. Campbell's 
 way, who trafficks in them. Come, Jeanie, we must 
 take her in, the wind grows cold. I shall go off to 
 Loch Arroch Head to get the newspaper when the 
 boat comes, and you must persuade her in the
 
 ON THE SHORES OF LOCH ARROCH. I I 
 
 meantime. You are my representative. I leave it 
 all to you." 
 
 A flush ran over Jeanie's angelic little coun- 
 tenance. She looked at him with eyes full of an 
 adoring admiration as he led the old woman care- 
 fully to the door of the farm-house. He patted 
 her pretty shoulder as she followed, looking kindly 
 at her. 
 
 "Take care of the old mother, Jeanie," he said, 
 smiling. "I make you my representative." 
 
 Poor little innocent Jeanie! There was no one 
 like him in all her sphere. She knew no other who 
 spoke so softly, who looked so kindly, wlio was so 
 thoughtful of others, so little occupied with himself. 
 Her little heart swelled as she went into the low, 
 quaint room with its small windows, where the 
 grandmother had already seated herself. To be the 
 parlour of a farm-house, it was a pretty room. The 
 walls were greenish; the light that came in through 
 foliage which overshadowed the small panes in the 
 small windows was greenish too; but there were 
 book -cases in the corners, and books upon the 
 table, for use, not ornament, and an air of well- 
 worn comfort and old respectability were about the 
 place. It was curiously irregular in form; two 
 windows in the front looked out upon the loch and 
 the mountains, a prospect which a prince might 
 have envied; and one on the opposite side of the 
 fire-place, in the gable end of the house, in a deep 
 recess, looked straight into the ivied walls of the 
 ruin which furnished so many stories to Loch Ar- 
 roch. This window was almost blocked up by a
 
 12 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 vast fuchsia, which still waved its long flexile 
 branches in the air laden with crimson bells. In 
 front of the house stood a great ash, dear northern 
 tree which does not disdain the rains and winds. 
 Its sweeping boughs stood out against the huge hill 
 opposite, which was the background of the whole 
 landscape. The blue water gleamed and shone 
 beneath that natural canopy. Mrs. Murray's large 
 high-backed easy-chair was placed by the side of 
 the fire, so that she had full command of the view. 
 The gable window with its fuchsia bush was behind 
 her. Never, except for a few months, during her 
 whole seventy years of life, had she been out of 
 sight of that hill. She seated herself in the stillness 
 of age, and looked out wistfully upon the familiar 
 scene. Day by day through all her lifetime, across 
 her own homely table with its crimson cover, across 
 the book she was reading or the stocking she was 
 knitting, under the green arch of the ash-branches, 
 she had seen the water break, sometimes with foam- 
 ing wrath, sometimes quietly as a summer brook, 
 upon the huge foot of that giant hill. Was this now 
 to be over? The noiseless tears of old age came 
 into her eyes. 
 
 "We'll aye have the sky, Jeanie, wherever we 
 go," she said, softly; "and before long, before long, 
 the gates of gold will have to open for me." 
 
 "But no for me," said Jeanie, seating herself on 
 a stool by her grandmotlier's side. The little girlish 
 face was Hashing and shining with some illumination 
 more subtle than that of the firelight. "We canna 
 die when we will. Granny, you've often said that;
 
 ON THE SHORES OF LOCH ARROCH. 1 3 
 
 and sometimes," the girl added shyly, "we might 
 not wish if we would." 
 
 This brought the old woman back from her 
 momentary reverie. 
 
 "God forbid!" she cried, putting her hand on 
 Jeanie's golden locks; "though Heaven will scarce 
 be Heaven without you, Jeanie. God forbid! No, 
 my bonnie lamb, I have plenty there without you. 
 There's your father, and his mother, and my ain 
 little angel Jeanie with the gold locks like you — 
 — her that I have told you of so often. She was 
 younger than you are, just beginning to be a bless- 
 ing and a comfort, when, you mind^ — oh, so often 
 as 1 have told you! — on the Saturday after the new 
 year — " 
 
 "I mind," said Jeanie softly, holding the withered 
 hand in both of hers; "but, granny, even you, though 
 you're old, you cannot make sure that you'll die 
 when you want to die." 
 
 "No; more's the pity; though it's a thankless 
 thing — a thankless thing to say." 
 
 "You canna die when you will," repeated Jeanie. 
 "Wasna your father ninety, granny, and Aunty Jean 
 a hundred] Granny, listen to me. You must do 
 what he says." 
 
 ''He, Jeanie]" 
 
 "Ay, he. I might say his name if there were 
 two like him in the world," said Jeanie, with enthu- 
 siasm. "It's your pride that will not let him serve 
 you as he says. It would make him happy. I saw 
 it in his kind e'en. I was watching him while he 
 was speaking to you. It was like the light and the
 
 14 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 shadows over Benvohrlan. The brightness gHnted 
 up when he spoke, and when you said 'No,' granny, 
 the cloud came over. Oh, how could you set your 
 face against himi The only one of us a' (you say) 
 you ever did an ill turn to; and him the only one 
 to bring you back good, and comfort, and suc- 
 cour." 
 
 "Jeanie, you must not blame the rest," said the 
 old woman. "They have no siller to give me. They 
 would take me into their houses. What more could 
 they dol No, Jeanie; you may be just to him, and 
 yet no cruel to them. Besides, poor lad," said Mrs. 
 Murray with a sigh, "he has a rich man's ways, 
 though he's rich no more." 
 
 "He has the kindest ways in all the world," 
 cried Jeanie. "Granny, you'll do what he says." 
 
 The old woman leant back in her chair, cross- 
 ing her thin hands in her lap; her musing eyes 
 sought the hills outside and the gleam of the water, 
 her old, old counsellors, not the anxious face of the 
 child at her feet. She was but a farmer's wife, a 
 farmer herself, a lowly, homely woman; but many a 
 princess was less proud. She sat and looked at the 
 blue loch, and thought of the long succession of 
 years in which she had reigned as a queen in this 
 humble house, a centre of beneficence, giving to all. 
 She had never shut her heart against the cry of the 
 poor, she who was poor herself; she had brought up 
 children, she had entertained strangers, she had 
 done all that reigning princesses could do. For 
 forty years all who had any claim on her kindness 
 had come to her unhesitatingly in every strait. Silver
 
 ON THE SHORES OF LOCH ARROCH. I 5 
 
 and gold she had little, but everything else she gave, 
 the shelter of her house, her best efforts, her ready 
 counsel, her unfailing help. All this she had be- 
 stowed munificently in her day; and now — had she 
 come to the point when she must confess that her 
 day was over, when she must retire from her place, 
 giving way to others, and become dependent— she 
 who had always been the head of her house"? I 
 do not say that the feelings in the mind of this old 
 Sovereign about to be dethroned were entirely with- 
 out admixture of ignoble sentiment. It went to her 
 heart to be dethroned. She said to herself, with a 
 proud attempt at philosophy, that it was the natural 
 fate, and that everything was as it ought to be. She 
 tried to persuade herself that a chair in the chimney- 
 corner was all the world had henceforth for her, 
 and that her daughter and her daughter's husband 
 would be kind — enough. But it went to her heart. 
 She was making up her mind to it as men make up 
 their minds to martyrdom; and the effort was bitter. 
 I do not know whether it ever occurred to her pain- 
 fully that she herself, had she been in the fulness 
 of her powers, would never have suffered her old 
 mother to be driven from that homely roof which 
 she loved — or if something whispered in her soul 
 that she had done better by her children than they 
 were doing by her; but if such thoughts arose in her 
 mind, she dismissed them unembodied, with an ex- 
 ercise of her will, which was as proud as it was 
 strong. Her very pride prevented her from assum- 
 ing even to herself the appearance of a victim. "It 
 is but the natural end," she said, stoically, trying to
 
 I 6 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 look her trouble in the face. She was ready to ac- 
 cept it as the inevitable, rather than own to herself 
 that her children failed in their duty — rather than 
 feel, much less admit, that she had expected more 
 of them than they were willing to give. 
 
 The cause of this deep but undisclosed pain 
 was, that things had been going badly for some 
 time with the Castle Farm. Mrs. Murray herself 
 was growing old, and less strong than is necessary 
 for a farmer, and she had been absent for some 
 time, a few years before, an absence which had 
 wrought much trouble in the homestead. These 
 misfortunes had been complicated, as was inevitable, 
 by one or two cold springs and wet autumns. It 
 was October now, and the harvest was but accom- 
 plishing itself slowly even on the level fields on the 
 loch side. The higher lying acres of corn land still 
 lay in sickly yellow patches on the braes behind the 
 house, half-ripened, damp and sprouting, sodden 
 with many a rain-storm; a great part of the corn 
 would be fit for nothing but fodder, and what re- 
 mained for the woman-farmer, unable to cope with 
 these difficulties as she once had done, before 
 strength and courage failed — what remained for her 
 to do? She had made up her mind to abandon 
 the old house she loved — to sell all her belongings, 
 the soft-eyed cows whom she called by their names, 
 and who came at her call like children — and the 
 standing crops, the farm implements, even her old 
 furniture, to denude herself of everything, and pay 
 her debts, and commit the end of her life to Pro- 
 vidence. This had been the state of affairs when
 
 ON THE SHORES OF LOCH ARROCH. I 7 
 
 she fell ill, and Edgar Earnshaw was summoned to 
 come to her, to receive her blessing and farewell. 
 But then, in contradiction to all her wishes, to all 
 that was seemly and becoming, she did not die. 
 When she knew she was to get better, the old 
 woman broke forth into complainings such as had 
 never been heard from her lips in her worst 
 moments. "To lead me forth so far on the 
 way, and then to send me back when the worst 
 was over — me that must make the journey so 
 soon, that must begin all over again, maybe the 
 morn!" she cried, with bitter tears in her eyes. But 
 Heaven's decree is inexorable, whether it be for life 
 or death, and she had to consent to recover. It 
 was then that Edgar, her grandson, had made the 
 proposal to settle upon her a little income which he 
 possessed, and which would secure her a peaceful end 
 to her days in her old home. That he should do 
 this had filled her with poignant emotions of joy 
 and shame. The only one of her kith and kin 
 whom she had wronged, and he was the one to 
 make her this amends. If she accepted it, she 
 would retain all that she desired — everything that 
 was personally important to her in this life. But 
 she would denude him of his living. He was young, 
 learned (as she thought), accomplished (as she 
 thought), able "to put his hand to anything," doubt- 
 less able to earn a great deal more than that, did 
 he choose to try. It might even be for his advan- 
 tage, as he said, to have the spur of necessity to 
 force him into exertion. All this was mingled to- 
 gether in her mind, the noble and generous feeling 
 
 For Love Mid Life. I. 2
 
 1 8 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 that would rather suffer than harm another, rather 
 die than blame, mixed with sharp stings of pride 
 and some sophistries of argument by which she 
 tried to persuade herself against her conscience to 
 do what she wished. The struggle was going on 
 hotly, as she sat by her homely fireside and gazed 
 out at the loch, and the shadow of the big ash, 
 which seemed to shadow over all Benvohrlan; things 
 which are close at hand are so much bigger and 
 more imposing than things afar.
 
 EDGAR. 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 Edgar. 
 
 Edgar set off on a brisk walk up the loch when 
 he parted from the two women at the door of the 
 farmhouse. The previous history of this young man 
 had been an extraordinary one, and has had its 
 record elsewhere; but as it is not to be expected 
 that any — even the gentlest reader — could remember 
 a story told them several years ago, I will briefly 
 recapitulate its chief incidents. Till he was five- 
 and-twenty, this young man had known himself only 
 as the heir of a great estate, and of an old and 
 honourable name, and for some few months he had 
 been in actual possession of all the honours he 
 believed his own. He was a great English squire, 
 one of the most important men in his district, with 
 an only sister, to whom he was deeply attached, 
 and no drawback in his life except the mysterious 
 fact, which no longer affected him except as a pain- 
 ful recollection, that his father, during his lifetime, 
 had banished him from his home, and apparently 
 regarded him with a sentiment more like hatred 
 than affection. But Clare his siste: loved him, and 
 Edgar, on coming to his fortune, had begun to form 
 friendships and attachments of his own, and had 
 been drawn gently and pleasantly — not fallen wildly
 
 20 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 and vehemently — into love with the daughter of 
 one of his near neighbours, Augusta (better known 
 as Gussy) Thornleigh, whom he was on the very 
 eve of asking to be his wife, when his whole 
 existence, name, and identity were suddenly altered 
 by the discovery that he was an innocent impostor, 
 and had no right to any of the good things he 
 enjoyed. I do not attempt to repeat any description 
 of the change thus made, for it was beyond de- 
 scription — terrible, complete, and overwhelming. It 
 plunged him out of wealth and honours into in- 
 digence and shame — shame not merited, but yet 
 clinging to the victim of a long-continued deception. 
 It not only took from him all his hopes, but it 
 embittered his very recollections. He lost past, and 
 present, and future, all at a blow. His identity, 
 and all the outward apparel of life by which he had 
 known himself, were taken from him. Not only 
 was the girl whom he loved hopelessly lost to him, 
 but she who had been his sister, his only relative, 
 as he supposed, and his dearest companion, became 
 nothing to him — a stranger, and worse than a 
 stranger — for the man whom she loved and married 
 was his enemy. And in place of these familiar 
 figures, there came a crowd of shadows round him 
 who were his real relations, his unknown family, 
 to whom, and not to the Ardens, he now belonged. 
 This fatal and wonderful change was made all the 
 harder to him fnm the fact that he was thus trans- 
 planted into an altogether lower level, and that his 
 new family was little elevated above the class from 
 which he had been in the habit of drawing his
 
 \ 
 
 EDGAR. 2 1 
 
 servants, not his friends. Their habits, their modes 
 of speech, their ways of thinking, were all strange 
 to him. It is true that he accommodated himself 
 readily to these differences, as exhibited in the old 
 grandmother whom I have just presented to the 
 reader, and the gentle, soft-voiced, poetic Jeanie; 
 but with the other members of his new family, poor 
 Edgar had felt all his powers of self-control fail 
 him. Their presence, their contact, their familiarity, 
 and the undeniable fact that it was to them and 
 their sphere that he actually belonged was terrible 
 to the young man, who, in his better days, had not 
 known what pride meant. Life is in reality so much 
 the same in all classes that no doubt he would have 
 come to perceive the identity of substance notwith- 
 standing the difference of form, had he not been 
 cast so suddenly into this other phase of existence 
 without preparation, without anything to break the 
 fall; but as it was, he had no preparation, and the 
 blow went to his heart. 
 
 This fall had taken place nearly three years be- 
 fore the time at which this story opens, and poor 
 Edgar, stunned by his overthrow, repelled by his 
 new relatives, vaguely wretched, notwithstanding the 
 stoutness of heart with which he had braced him- 
 self to meet calamity, had done but little with his 
 life for these two years. A small provision had 
 been secured for him from his successor in the 
 estates of Arden, the rightful heir whom he had 
 unwittingly wronged, and to whom he did instant 
 iustice as soon as he heard of the wrong; and this 
 '■.tie provision had been augmented by the small
 
 22 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 property of the Rector of Arden, Mr. Fielding, who 
 had left him everything he possessed. He had thus 
 enough to support him, that most dangerous of all 
 endowments for a young man. Poor fellow! he 
 had made his sacrifice with great bravery, and had 
 wrenched himself away from all he cared for with 
 the smile of a hero, neither sinking under the blow, 
 nor exaggerating its force. "Courage!" he had said 
 to himself, when he lost the place where he had 
 been lord and master, and went forth poor, humble, 
 and nameless, to face the world. He meant nothing 
 less than to make a new life for himself better than 
 the last, to assert the superiority of a guiltless heart 
 and free conscience over fate. But, alas, it is so 
 easy to do this in the general, so difficult in detail! 
 "We will make our lives sublime," says the poet, 
 with such cheap magniloquence — and how many 
 an enthusiast youth has delighted himself with the 
 thought! 
 
 Edgar was a very sensible, reasonable young 
 fellow, but yet it was a consolation to him, in his 
 sudden fall, to reflect that every man may conquer 
 circumstances, and that will and energy are better 
 than riches. He had dreamt of "doing something," 
 if not to make himself known and famous, at least 
 to be of use in this life to his fellow-creatures and 
 to himself. He meant it firmly up to the day when 
 he left everything he knew or cared for, and he 
 meant it the next day, and the day after, and even 
 the next year; but up to this moment he had done 
 nothing. For after all what was there to do? 
 
 Young Paladins cannot kill fiery dragons, cannot/
 
 EDGAR. 2^ 
 
 meet giants in single combat, cannot deliver a 
 whole district no\v-a-days by the stroke of a sword. 
 To be sure, a man whose tastes lie that way may 
 tackle the giant, Sewage, or attack the dragon, 
 Ignorance; but that is slow work, seldom of a pri- 
 mitive, straightforward kind, and leading the fighter 
 into many entanglements, dubious company, and 
 very uncertain results. So the consequence was 
 that poor Edgar meaning to do much, did nothing 
 — not because he loved idleness, but because he 
 did not know what to do. He wandered off abroad 
 very soon disgusted with everything; with his down- 
 fall and his inability to surmount that downfall; 
 with the meanness of estimating worth by rank and 
 wealth, and the still greater meanness of his own 
 incapacity to get quite free from that standard, 
 which, so long as he was himself rich and great, 
 he had disowned manfully. Cheerily he had laughed 
 at the frivolity of the young men of fashion sur- 
 rounding him when he was as they, but his laugh 
 now had a certain bitterness, and he felt himself 
 turn with a sickening of the heart from intercourse 
 with a lower class, and then deeply and bitterly 
 despised himself for this ignoble sentiment. His 
 state of mind, indeed, though strange and miserable 
 to himself, was no more than was natural and to 
 be looked for in a man forcibly transplanted from 
 the place of his natural growth, and from all the 
 habits and traditions of his previous life. 
 
 Therefore, these three years had been a failure 
 
 with Edgar. He had done nothing with them, he 
 
 ^ who had gone out of his old existence firmly de-
 
 24 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 termined to do so much. He had wandered about 
 over the face of the earth, to and fro, an unquiet 
 spirit — but no good had come from any of his 
 wanderings. He could not help being kind and 
 charitable; it was no virtue on his part, but "just a 
 carnal inclination;" and except this inevitable 
 goodness, which was an affair of temperament, 
 nothing had come of him , nothing had come from 
 him, in these years. 
 
 Thus, probably, he would have continued, if not 
 always, until weariness had come on, and his vital 
 strength was broken. He would have become, 
 without vice, one of the thousand English vaga- 
 bonds of quality who haunt every thoroughfare in 
 Europe; and what a downfall would this have 
 been for Edgar! — a greater downfall even than that 
 which circumstances had brought upon him. The 
 sudden summons which had brought him to Mrs. 
 Murray's sick-bed, the sudden call upon his charity, 
 so characteristically adapted to move him, arrested 
 him in the painful insignificance of this career. He 
 had resolved to make the sacrifice which was in- 
 volved, before it even occurred to him how much 
 that sacrifice would involve; for he was of that 
 species of humankind which, bestowing help and 
 succour does first and considers afterwards. It cost 
 him no struggle, no conflict with himself, to decide 
 that everything he had must go at once to the aid 
 of his mother's mother, to her preservation in com- 
 fort—notwithstanding that she had wronged him, 
 and that the tragic confusion and aimlessness of his 
 life was her fault. He had taken all the steps at
 
 EDGAR. 25 
 
 once which were necessary to carry out this transfer, 
 and it was only now, when he had fully resolved 
 upon it, that the cost to himself occurred to him. 
 He counted that cost as he walked, stepping out as 
 if he trod on air to the head of the loch. 
 
 What would it cost himi It would take away 
 all his certain living, every penny he had; it would 
 force him to work one way or another in order to 
 maintain himself. After his brief experience of 
 wealth and its ways, and after the vague and un- 
 satisfactory existence which he had led when he had 
 just "enough to live on," he must make a fresh 
 start again, like any country lad setting forth to 
 seek his fortune. The third start, he said to him- 
 self, with a certain rueful amusement; for Edgar 
 was one of those who could laugh at his own mis- 
 fortunes. I cannot tell how it was that this prospect 
 did not discourage him, but certainly it did not; a 
 certain exhilaration crept into his soul as he faced 
 the wind, walking fast with joyous defiance. The 
 third time of beginning must be lucky at last; was it 
 not a mystical number, acknowledged by the very 
 children in their games'? He had heard an urchin 
 assuring another that very morning that "the third 
 ca' was canny." It was poor Edgar's third trial. 
 The first time he had been foiled by no fault of 
 his — by arbitrary circumstances. The second time 
 he had foiled himself by want of purpose, absence 
 of anything direct to do, and languor of motive for 
 attempting anything. But the third ca' would be 
 canny — nature and necessity would help him. He 
 would be driven to work by infallible potency of
 
 26 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 need, and he would make something of it; so he 
 said to himself. 
 
 There was something exhilarating in the day, or 
 else he thought so. The high wind was of itself a 
 blessing after days of that weary rain, which is so 
 common in the west of Scotland. The damp corn 
 out on the fields, the still damper corn which stood 
 in faint whiteness upon the hillside was shaking off 
 some part of its superabundant moisture in the 
 cheerful breeze. The white clouds were scudding 
 over the mountains, throwing a poetic and perpetual 
 interchange of light and shade over those silent spec- 
 tators who occupied so large a share in the land- 
 scape, and whose sudden glories and brightness 
 gave a human aspect to their everlasting strength. 
 The deep blue of the distance, deep, and dark, and 
 dreamy, against the open of the lighter sky; the 
 thousand soft tones of purple, of grey, of brown, 
 and soft green; the whiteness of a sudden peak 
 starting into sunshine; the dark unfathomable depth 
 of water, across which a sudden shadow would fall 
 dramatically like an event, made even the silent 
 country a partaker in the commotion which filled 
 the young man's mind. 
 
 In this dramatic tumult of the elements, there 
 was no knoll, no hollow, no tree, which had not its 
 share. And in the midst of the animated scene, a 
 sudden rush of alien sound, the rustle and sputter 
 and commotion of the little steamer fretting its 
 busy, fussy way to the head of the loch, which was 
 the chief medium of communication with the out- 
 side world, struck upon Edgar's ear with not un-
 
 EDGAR. 27 
 
 pleasant discord. It was work, it was life, it was 
 the labour by which a man could live and serve 
 his generation, that was embodied to him in this 
 little noisy interruption which he had so often con- 
 demned as alien to the scene. Yes, it was alien to 
 the scene. But to be reminded of the world with- 
 out, of the noise, and movement, and high-pressure 
 of life, was pleasant to Edgar at this moment of 
 his existence; it helped to stimulate the thrill of 
 new energy which seemed to be rising in liis heart. 
 There was, however, a motive less elevated 
 which, I am bound to admit, affected the young 
 man in his toleration of the steamer and its dis- 
 cord. He was eager to get away from Loch Ar- 
 roch back into the world, where, at least, he would 
 escape from the contemplation of that contrast be- 
 tween his present and his past, which was forced 
 upon him here. All the confusion of his life, its 
 conflicts between the sentiments which he felt he 
 ought to entertain and those which, in spite of him, 
 came uppermost in his mind, were kept painfully 
 and constantly before his eyes. Every detail of the 
 homely farmhouse existence brought them before 
 him. The chief sting in all this was his vexation 
 with himself for feeling these details to be of im- 
 portance. Had he retained his original position, so 
 little affected was he really by external circum- 
 stances, that I believe he would have found the life 
 at the Castle Farm infinitely more reasonable, sen- 
 sible, and natural than that which, as a man of 
 fortune and fashion, he would himself have been 
 compelled to lead. The simple fare, the plain
 
 28 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 rooms, tlie absence of luxuries, and even some of 
 those everyday luxuries which we call comforts, did 
 not really distress him; it was the sense of missing 
 them, the quick and vivid consciousness of this and 
 that a-wanting, which made the young man sore, 
 and bitter, and ashamed of himself And he felt in 
 his heart that everything would be easier to him 
 when he could but get away. I must add, however, 
 that Edgar never showed his consciousness of the 
 change of sphere to others, deeply as he felt it. 
 The farmhouse servant, and little Jeanie, and even 
 old Mrs. Murray herself, who had more insight, 
 considered him much more "easy to please" than 
 any other man of the kindred. "He gives just nae 
 trouble," Bell said, "and aye a 'thank you. Bell,' 
 for every hand's turn I do for him. Eh! when it's 
 Johnnie Campbell that's i' the house, ye can see the 
 difference. It's Bell here, and Bell there, like as I 
 had nothing a do but wait upon him. But it's a 
 pleasure to serve Mr. Edgar, night or day." 
 
 This was the testimony of one very clear-sighted 
 witness; and even Mrs. Murray concluded, with a 
 relief which it would have been impossible to put 
 into words, that the change had passed lightly over 
 her grandson's head without affecting him. "He 
 has one of those blessed natures that are aye con- 
 tent, and take everything easy from the hand of 
 God," she said to herself, with a mixture of joy and 
 disappointment; for this blessed nature, blessed as 
 it is, is secretly looked down upon by persons con- 
 scious of more acute feeling. I believe my good 
 Edgar had thus something in his character of what
 
 EDGAR. 29 
 
 is commonly called humbug. He deceived people 
 as to his own feelings by very consideration for 
 their feelings. It was so absolutely indispensable 
 to his being to set his companions at their ease, 
 and make them comfortable so far as he could, 
 that he took them in habitually, to use another 
 vulgar expression, and was believed by everybody 
 to be as happy as the day was long at Loch Ar- 
 roch, while all the while he was secretly longing to 
 get away. I believe that in some respects this kind 
 of nature (not a very common one) is less good, 
 being less honest, than that more general disposi- 
 tion which, when uncomfortable or dissatisfied itself, 
 loses no opportunity of making others so, and states 
 its sentiments frankly, whether they are likely to 
 please its companions or not. I allow that Edgar's 
 special peculiarities had their disadvantages. I do not 
 attempt to excuse him, I only state what they were. 
 Just as he came in sight of Loch Arroch head 
 — the village which, seated at the extremity of the 
 loch, was the post town and general centre of the 
 district — Edgar was joined by Robert Campbell, 
 the husband of his eldest aunt, a man to whom he 
 was expected to give the title of uncle, and who 
 regarded him with a mingled feeling of rough 
 amity, respect (for, was he not independent, with 
 an income of his own, and able to live like a gen- 
 tleman?), and conscientious conviction that some- 
 thing might be got out of him. He was a land- 
 agent, in not a very great way, a factor for some of 
 the less important land-owners of the district, a 
 man not without education and information in his
 
 30 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 way, with considerable practical knowledge of law, 
 and still greater of agriculture, racy of the soil, the 
 sort of person whom a great landed proprietor from 
 England, such as poor Edgar had been a few years 
 before, would have appreciated mightily, and quoted 
 for months after their meeting. But to enjoy the 
 shrewdness and profit by the conversation of such 
 an individual, when you are elevated a whole world 
 above him, — and to take him into your heart as 
 one of your own relatives, are very different things. 
 Edgar shrank with a whimsical sense of moral 
 cowardice as he saw this personage approaching. 
 He laughed ruefully at himself. "Oh, why are uncles 
 made so coarse, and nephews made so fine?" he said. 
 But to see the fun of a situation does not always 
 enable you to bear it with equanimity. He would 
 have been very glad to get out of Robert Camp- 
 bell's way had that been possible; but as it was 
 not possible he did his best to meet him with a smile. 
 
 "How's the auld leddy the day?" said Camp- 
 bell, stretching out a huge hand to grasp Edgar's; 
 "living, and like to live, I'll be bound. We maunna 
 grumble, for she's given an aixcellent constitution 
 to her descendants, of which my lad is one as well 
 as you. But, puir body, if it had been the Al- 
 mighty's will — lang life's a grand thing when you're 
 well provided for," Mr. Campbell concluded, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 "I hope none of her descendants will grudge 
 her the little she wants," Edgar began — 
 
 "Saftly, saftly, my man! nobody grudges her 
 the little she wants. The difficulty is, wha's to
 
 EDGAR. 31 
 
 provide that little," said Campbell. "We're all de- 
 cently well off in one sense, with no scrimping of 
 meal or milk and a good suit of black for a Sun- 
 day or a funeral, and a silk gown for the wife. But 
 to keep up a farm upon our joint contributions, as 
 I hear is what you're thinking of — a farm, the 
 chanciest thing in creation! — I allow I canna see 
 my way to that. Excuse me, Mr. Edgar, for speak- 
 ing my mind, but you're young, and your notions 
 are too grand for the like of us — I'm no saying it's 
 your fault. We maun cut our coat according to 
 our cloth. I'm no fond of relations in the house; 
 but she's a harmless body, and I'll stretch a point 
 for once: and John Bryce, in Sauchiehall St., will 
 take Jeanie. He's a man in a very decent way of 
 business, and I've no doubt he could make her use- 
 ful in the shop." 
 
 "But cannot you see," cried Edgar, with a start 
 and sudden wince, interrupting him, "that my poor 
 old grandmother would be wretched without Jeanie? 
 And Jeanie herself is too delicate a creature for 
 any such life. They must stay together. Surely, 
 surely," cried the young man, "when she is helpless 
 who has done so much for everybody, it is not too 
 much that we should provide for something beyond 
 her mere existence — her happiness as well." 
 
 Campbell had watched him very closely while 
 he made this speech. The generous feeling with 
 which he spoke brought the colour to Edgar's cheek; 
 he was unsuspicious of the meaning of the close 
 scrutiny to which he was thus subjected, and made 
 no effort to conceal this glow of natural emotion.
 
 ^2 FOR LOVE AMD LIFE. 
 
 "If it's Jeanie you're meaning," said Campbell, 
 with a laugh and significant look, "no doubt there 
 are other arrangements that might be thought of; 
 and a good man's aye the best thing, especially 
 when he has enough to live on. If that's your 
 thought, my lad, I am not the one to say you nay." 
 
 "If what is my thought^" said Edgar, be- 
 wildered. 
 
 I do not think the idea had ever occurred to 
 him before, and I cannot describe the thrill of 
 wounded pride with which he received this shock. 
 Jeanie! A child — a creature altogether out of his 
 sphere. Jeanie! with her pretty peasant manners, 
 and poetic homely dialect, a little girl whom he 
 could be kind to, as he would be kind to the maid 
 who milked the cows, or the child who ran his 
 errands! In all the course of the three painful years 
 that were past, I do not think Edgar had received 
 any such cutting and sudden blow. He realized 
 all his own humiliation when he saw himself placed 
 in the imagination of the neighbourhood by little 
 Jeanie's side — her cousin, her often companion, her 
 so-possible wooer! The thought stiffened him up all 
 at once to stone. He forgot even his usual con- 
 sideration for the feelings of others. 
 
 "I have no thought of any kind in respect to 
 Jeanie," he said, coldly, "except in so far as con- 
 cerns my grandmother. The two ought not to be 
 separated. I cannot indeed allow them to be 
 separated," he added, still more proudly. "I have 
 a little money, as you know, and if nobody else 
 will do it, I must do it. I will make over to my
 
 EDGAR. 33 
 
 grandmother my little income, such as it is. She 
 can live and keep her favourite with her, if she has 
 that." 
 
 "Your — income!" Mr. Campbell could scarcely 
 gasp out the words, so breathless was he and dumb- 
 foundered. "Your — income! And what will you 
 do yoursel'l But you mean an allowance; that's a 
 different matter," he added, recovering himself. 
 "You'll give in proportion to what the rest of us 
 give? Ay, ay. I can understand that." 
 
 Por Love and Life. I.
 
 34 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 Jeanie. 
 
 Edgar did not come home till the evening -was 
 considerably advanced. He -.vent with Campbell to 
 his house, and partook of the substantial family tea 
 in the best parlour, which Mrs. Campbell, his aunt, 
 called the drawing-room — so that it was late before 
 he returned home. 
 
 "There's a moon," Campbell said. "Ye need 
 be in no hurry. A young fellow in certain states 
 of mind, as we a' know, takes to moonlight walks 
 like a duck to the water." 
 
 At which speech Mrs. Campbell laughed, being 
 evidently in the secret; but John, the only son, who 
 was a student at the University of Glasgow, and 
 just about to set out for the winter session, looked 
 black and fierce as any mountain storm. These 
 inferences of some supposed sentiment, which he 
 was totally ignorant of, might have passed quite 
 innocuously over Edgar only a day before, but they 
 filled him now with suppressed rage and deep 
 mortification. Perhaps unreasonably; but there is 
 nothing which a man resents so much as to be 
 supposed "in love" with some one Avhom he con- 
 siders beneath him. Even when there is truth in 
 the supposition, he resents the discovery which
 
 JEANIE. 35 
 
 brings all the inappropriateness of the conjunction 
 before his mind; and if there is no truth in it, he 
 feels himself injured in the tenderest point — ill-used, 
 humbled, wronged. Edgar's impulse was to leave 
 the house where he was thus insulted by inference; 
 but partly pride, partly his usual deference to other 
 people's feelings, and partly the necessity which was 
 now stronger than ever of carrying out his intentions 
 and leaving the place where he was subject to such 
 an insane suggestion triumphed over his first im- 
 pulse. 
 
 Even Campbell was staggered in his vulgar 
 notion that only Jeanie and her fresh beauty could 
 account for the young man's prolonged stay and 
 unusual devotion, when he began to perceive the 
 munificence of Edgar's intentions. A young man 
 who wanted to marry might indeed be guilty of a 
 great many foolishnesses; he might be ready, Mr. 
 Campbell thought, to burden himself with the old 
 mother for the sake of the pretty child; but to 
 alienate a portion of his income (for Edgar did not 
 enter fully into his plan) was a totally different and 
 quite impossible sort of sacrifice. What could be 
 his motive? Was it that Jeanie might be educated 
 and made a lady of before he should marry her? 
 As for pure duty towards the old mother, honour 
 of her long and virtuous life, compassion for the 
 downfall of so proud a spirit, being motives strong 
 enough for such a sacrifice, at this the worthy man 
 guffawed loudly. 
 
 "I'm no the man to be taken in with fine words," 
 he said, with a broad smile.
 
 36 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 While these jokes and discussions were going on 
 in the best parlour at Loch Arroch Head, Jeanie, 
 unconscious of any debate in which her name could 
 be involved, went about her usual occupations at 
 home. She got the tea ready, coming and going 
 with soft steps from the parlour to the kitchen, 
 carrying in the tray, and "masking" the tea with 
 her own hands. As for Bell, she was "suppering" 
 the kye, and looking after the outdoor work, and 
 had no time for such daintier service. Jeanie 
 would steal a moment now and then, while she 
 prepared this simple meal, to step noiselessly to the 
 ever open door, and cast a wistful look up the 
 loch-side to see "if he was coming." The gloaming 
 grew darker and darker, the stars came out over 
 the hill, the moon rose, and still Jeanie strained her 
 eyes to see if any figure approached on the long 
 line of almost level road by the side of the loch. 
 Once her heart leaped up, thinking she saw him; 
 but it was only a shearer taking his way home 
 from tlie West Park, where, taking advantage of a 
 good day, the harvest had gone on as long as the 
 light permitted. Poor Jeanie! what a difference 
 there was between this heavy rustic form as it drew 
 near, relieved against the dark yet gleaming water 
 of the loch, and the erect, light-footed, elastic figure 
 she looked for! As she washed the old china cups 
 brought out in his honour, and put the tea-things 
 away, she wondered with a pang in her kind little 
 heart what could have kept him? Had he met some 
 of his grand friends, sportsmen arriving by the 
 boat, or those tourists whom the natives looked
 
 JEANIE. 37 
 
 upon with mingled admiration and scorn? or could 
 any accident have happened? a thought which 
 blanched her pretty cheek with fear. 
 
 She would have liked to talk to her grand- 
 mother about Edgar, but she did not venture to do 
 more than wonder "what could be keeping him?" 
 a question to which Mrs. Murray responded placidly 
 that no doubt he was "drinking tea" with some- 
 body at Loch Arroch Head. The old lady was not 
 discomposed by Edgar's absence as Jeanie was; 
 and poor Jeanie, in the flutter and warmth of her 
 feelings, could have cried with vexation at the con- 
 trast between her own agitated heart and this calm, 
 which she thouglit indifference. Her grandmother 
 "did not care." "Oh, how could she help caring, 
 and him so good to her!" poor Jeanie said to her- 
 self. And Bell went about her work out of doors, 
 cheerily singing, in her full rustic voice, as she 
 prepared the supper for the kye, and carried it out 
 to the byre, coming and going in her strong shoes, 
 with clink of pails, and loud talking now and then 
 to Sandy, who was helping. Nobody cared but 
 Jeanie that he was so late of coming home. 
 
 Then she went upstairs with her grandmother, 
 who was still an invalid, and helped her to bed, 
 and read "the chapter" with which the day was 
 always concluded; and put a great old stick, with a 
 gold head, which had belonged to some ancestor, 
 by the bedside, in order that Mrs. Murray, if she 
 wanted anything, should "knock down," for there 
 were not many bells in the little farmhouse. The 
 sitting-room was immediately below, and this was
 
 38 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 the recognised way at the Castle Farm of calling for 
 the attendants. When this last duty was done, 
 Jeanie was free for the night to "take her book" or 
 "her seam," and do as she pleased, for she had 
 never had anything to do with "the beasts" or out- 
 door matters. 
 
 By this time Bell had finished with her clinking 
 pails. She was in the kitchen, still moving about, 
 frying the cold potatoes into a savoury mess, with 
 which Sandy and she were about to regale them- 
 selves. Where Bell's strong shoes were, and her 
 hearty voice, not to speak of Sandy's, which was 
 very deep bass, there could scarcely be stillness in 
 the house; but when the kitchen door was closed, 
 and the two (who were sweethearts) talked lower, 
 the spell of the quiet grew strong upon Jeanie. 
 She put down her seam, and stole out very quietly 
 to the door, which still stood innocently open; for 
 at the Castle Farm they feared no evil. If you 
 could but have seen her, no prettier figure ever 
 watched for a tardy lover. She was dressed in a 
 plain little brown frock, without any furbelows, with 
 a little rim of white collar round her neck. Her 
 golden hair was fastened up with a large tortoise- 
 shell comb, thought "very old-fashioned" by all the 
 girls about Loch Arroch, which had belonged to 
 Jeanie's mother, and of which, as a valuable article, 
 costing originally "more than a pound-note," as her 
 grandmother had often told her, Jeanie was proud. 
 The comb was scarcely visible in the soft bright 
 mass of hair, which Jeanie had not neglected to 
 twist up in its abundance into some semblance of
 
 JEANIE. 39 
 
 "the fashion." .She leant against the doorway with 
 her chin propped in the hollow of her hand, 
 and one folded arm supporting the elbow of the 
 other. 
 
 The stars shone high over head, high up above 
 the big summit of Benvohrlan, which shut out from 
 her half the heavens. The moon was behind, 
 silvering over the red roof of the house, and falling 
 glorious upon the dark water, making it one sheet 
 of silver from where it opened out of the bigger 
 loch up to the very foot of the mountain. The 
 side of Benvohrlan was almost as light as in the 
 day-time, and Loch Long on the other turn of the 
 gigantic corner formed by the hill, went gleaming 
 away into invisible space, betraying itself in un- 
 definable distance by here and there a line or speck 
 of silver. All up the loch side, at Jeanie's left 
 hand, the path lay clear and vacant, without a 
 shadow on it. On the other side, the glimmering 
 lightness of the stubble field, with its sheaves look- 
 ing like strange animals in the moonlight, extended 
 to the water edge, rounding out to where if too 
 gained the margin of the parent loch. I do not 
 know any finer combination of hill and water. The 
 level fields of the Castle Farm on one side, and 
 Big Benvohrlan on the other, form the doorway by 
 which the lesser loch enters the greater; on one 
 side an angle of cultivated land: on the other a 
 gigantic angle of mountain. But little Jeanie thought 
 little of the familiar scene around her. The moon, 
 newly risen, cast a soft shadow of her little figure, 
 the same way as her heart went, upon the road
 
 40 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 from the loch-head by which Edgar was coming. 
 He saw this shadow with a Uttle impatient vexation 
 as he approached the house, but not till long after 
 little Jeanie's heart had jumped to perceive him. 
 
 Poor little gentle soul! her large eyes made 
 larger and softer still by her wistful anxiety and 
 longing for his presence, had watched with patience 
 unwavering for more than an hour. She had not 
 minded the chill wind nor the weariness of stand- 
 ing so long, with no support but the doorway. The 
 attitude, the strained look, the patience, were all 
 characteristic of Jeanie. She was the kind of being 
 which in all second-rate poetry, and most second- 
 rate imaginations, is the one sole type of woman. 
 Looking for some one who was the lord of her life, 
 or looking to some one — with soft eyes intent, with 
 quick ears waiting, with gentle heart ready to 
 receive whatever impression he wished to convey, 
 the soft soul turned to the man who had caught 
 her heart or her imagination as the flower turns to 
 the sun. To use the jargon of the day, poor little 
 Jeanie was receptive to the highest degree. She 
 never originated anything, nor advised anything, 
 nor took any part as an individual being in the 
 conduct of life, either her own or that of others. 
 Hers were not those eager youthful opinions, those 
 harsh judgments, those daring comments which 
 belong as much to youth as its bloom. She was 
 too artless to know anything of the prettiness of 
 her upUfted eyes, or the delicious flattery which lay 
 in her absolute submissiveness. Poor Jeanie did 
 not know that these were charms much more potent
 
 JEANIE. 4 1 
 
 than the talents which she was aware she did not 
 possess. She listened, and looked, and watched for 
 those signs of guidance, which she obeyed by 
 instinct with the docility of a dumb creature, be- 
 cause it was her nature. She did not even intend 
 to please; though she was happy beyond description 
 when she found that she had pleased, she did but 
 act as she could not help acting, according as her 
 disposition moved her. Edgar, who had not been 
 used to this kind of woman, had been half annoyed, 
 half amused by her powerlessness to advise or help, 
 her soft devotion of look, now addressed to himself, 
 now to Mrs. Murray. He had wondered at it, and 
 objected to it; yet he had been moved like any 
 other man to a softening sense of protection and 
 almost tenderness. He was flattered too in spite of 
 himself to find her thus watching for him. It made 
 him more than half angry, but yet it pleased him 
 involuntarily, 
 
 "You will catch cold standing out here in the 
 night air," he said pettishly at the first moment. 
 Then he added with compunction, "It is kind of 
 you to look for me, Jeanie; but you should not stand 
 out in the cold without a shawl." 
 
 "I'm glad you're come home," said Jeanie, with 
 instinctive policy ignoring this reproof, "Grannie 
 is in her bed, and it is lonely without you. Will I 
 make you some teal or will you haye your supper? 
 You've been long away." 
 
 "Not so very long," said Edgar, touched by 
 the soft complaint, "but I ought to have recollected 
 that you were alone. Are you afraid, Jeanie, at
 
 42 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 night with no one but Bell and the granny to take 
 care of you? It is a lonely house." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Jeanie, looking brightly round 
 upon him, as he followed her into the low parlour, 
 where two candles were flickering on the table be- 
 fore the fire. 
 
 "But it is a lonely house?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," she repeated softly, "but what o' 
 that? Nobody would meddle with us. Granny is 
 as well known as Loch Arroch Kirk. Nobody 
 dares meddle with us. I'm never lonely, except 
 when granny is ill and goes to her bed, and I can 
 hear Bell and Sandy in the kitchen. That makes 
 me think I would like somebody to speak to, 
 too." 
 
 "But Bell and Sandy,"— Edgar began: if he was 
 going to be so incautious as to add, — "are sweet- 
 hearts," I don't know what would have become of 
 him; but happily Jeanie, with a sudden blush inter- 
 posed. 
 
 "I was not meaning Bell and Sandy; any 
 voices have the same sound. They make you feel 
 how lone you are." 
 
 "That is true," said Edgar, seating himself by 
 the fire, which Jeanie had kept bright, with a clean- 
 swept hearth, and a clear red glow for his coming. 
 He sat down meditatively in the old mother's chair. 
 "That is truc,"<, he repeated slowly, "I have felt it 
 often of winter nights when I have gone upstairs to 
 my chilly room, and heard the people chatting to- 
 gether as I passed their doors." 
 
 " Voti have felt that, too?" said Jeanie timidly,
 
 JEANIE. 43 
 
 with reverential wonder, "but you need never be 
 your lane unless you like." 
 
 "1 assure you I have often been 'my lane,' as 
 you call it, when I did not like at all," said Edgar 
 smiling, "you have much too high an opinion, Jeanie, 
 of what I can do 'if I like.' " 
 
 "Oh, no," said Jeanie, "you are not the same 
 as the like of us; you are a man, which is a great 
 difference, — and then you're a grand gentleman." 
 
 "Jeanie, my foolish little Jeanie! I am your 
 cousin and your granny's child like you," he cried, 
 putting his hand upon hers, to stop her in the little 
 outburst of innocent enthusiasm, which was, he felt, 
 for an ideal Edgar — not for him. 
 
 "It's very hard to understand," said Jeanie 
 shaking her head softly with a little sigh, "why you 
 should be yonder the greatest of the land, and now 
 only granny's son, like me. I'll no try. When I 
 think, I get back a pain in my head like what I had 
 —when I was ill." 
 
 "You must not think," said Edgar, "but, Jeanie, 
 tell me, did you do my commission? Did you per- 
 suade granny to let me do what I wish?" 
 
 "Yes," said Jeanie eagerly; she came forward 
 and stood by him in the pleasure of making this 
 report of her own faithfulness, — and the cheerful 
 ruddy gleam of the firelight flickered about her, 
 shining in her hair and eyes, and adding a tint to 
 the colour on her cheek, which was pale by nature. 
 "1 told her a' you said, I did not miss a word. I 
 said it would be fine for her, but better for you; 
 that you would do something then, and now you
 
 44 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 were doing nothing; and tliat you would be glad 
 aye to think of Loch Arroch, and that there was a 
 house there where you were thought upon day and 
 night, and named in a' the prayers, and minded, 
 whatever you did, and whatever we did." 
 
 "That was your own, Jeanie," said Edgar, taking 
 her hand, and looking up at her with gratified ten- 
 derness. She was to him as a little sister, and her 
 affectionate half-childish enthusiasm brought a suf- 
 fusion to his eyes. 
 
 "If it was, may I no say what I think — me tool" 
 said Jeanie, with modest grace. "I told her that 
 you couldna bear the thought of her away in an- 
 other man's house, after so long keeping her own 
 over a' our heads, that the siller was nothing to you, 
 but that her — and me — were something to you, your 
 nearest friends in this world. Eh, I'm glad we're 
 your nearest friends! though it's strange, strange to 
 think of," said Jeanie, in a parenthesis. "I told her 
 that though she couldna work and I couldna work, 
 you could work, and win a fortune if you liked. I 
 did not forget a single word," cried the girl, "not a 
 word! I told her all you said." 
 
 For a moment Edgar made no reply. He listened 
 with a half smile, wonderingly endeavouring to put 
 himself in the place of this limited yet clear in- 
 telligence, which was capable of stating his own 
 generous arguments so fully, yet incapable, as it 
 seemed, of so much reflection as would make her 
 hesitate to expound them. Jeanie, so far as her 
 personal sentiment went, accepted his sacrifice with 
 matter-of-fact simplicity, without ever thinking of
 
 jEANIE. 45 
 
 his side of it, or of the deprivations involved. She 
 took his offer to denude himself of everything he 
 had, with the same absolute pleasure and satisfac- 
 tion with which a child would accept a present. 
 Was it her unbounded confidence in his power to 
 win a fortune if he liked? Or was it her simple 
 instinct that this was natural, and that the weak and 
 helpless had a right to the services of the strong? 
 Edgar was bewildered by this question which never 
 entered into Jeanie's mind. He was almost glad of 
 her incapacity to see beyond the surface of things, 
 and yet wondered at it with something between 
 amusement and pain. Here was the primitive na- 
 ture, commonplace, unsophisticated, he said to him- 
 self, which believed what was said to it simply de- 
 manding without motive or reason. No second 
 thoughts troubled the limpid surface of Jeanie's 
 gentle mind. She believed unhesitatingly not only 
 that he meant what he said (which was true), but 
 that the arguments she repeated were infallible, 
 without perceiving the sophistry of which Edgar 
 himself, the author of them, was fully conscious. 
 Truly and sincerely she made as light of his self- 
 renunciation as he himself had made — a thing which 
 is bewildering to the self-sacrificer, though it may be 
 the thing which is most desirable to him and suits 
 his purpose best. I do not know if Jeanie was 
 aware of the half tone of descent in the moral scale 
 which made itself apparent in Edgar's voice. 
 
 "You have been a clever advocate, Jeanie," he 
 said with a smile, "and I hope a successful one," 
 and with that he dropped her hand and took out
 
 46 FOR LOVE AND LIFE, 
 
 his newspaper. Was there anything amiss, or was 
 it merely his lordly pleasure to end the conversa- 
 tion 1 With a momentary sense of pain, Jeanie 
 wondered which it was, but accepted the latter ex- 
 planation, got her seam, and sat down within reach 
 of the pleasant warmth of the fire, happy in the 
 silence, asking nothing more.
 
 A FAMILY CONSULTATION. 47 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A Family Consultation. 
 
 A FEW days after, various members of the family 
 arrived at the Castle Farm, with the intention of 
 deciding what was to be done. An arrangement 
 had been partially made with a young farmer 
 of the district, who was ready to enter upon the 
 remainder of the lease, and whom the factor on the 
 part of the Duke was ready to accept as replacing 
 Mrs. Murray in the responsibilities of the tenancy. 
 This, of course, everybody felt was the natural step 
 to be taken, and it left the final question as to how 
 the old lady herself was to be disposed of, clear 
 and unembarrassed. Even Edgar himself was not 
 sufficiently Quixotic to suppose that Mrs. Murray's 
 feelings and pride should be so far consulted as to 
 keep up the farm for her amusement, while she 
 was no longer able to manage its manifold con- 
 cerns. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Campbell arrived first in their gig, 
 which was seated for four persons, and which, in- 
 deed, Mr. Campbell called a phaeton. Their horse 
 was a good steady, sober-minded brown horse, quite 
 free from any imaginativeness or eccentricity, plump 
 and sleek, and well-groomed; and the whole turn- 
 out had an appearance of comfort and well-being.
 
 48 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 They brought with tiaem a young man whom Edgar 
 had not yet seen, a Dr. Charles Murray, from the 
 East-country, the son of Mrs. Murray's eldest son, 
 who had arrived that morning by the steamboat at 
 Loch Arroch Head. From Greenock by the same 
 conveyance — but not in Mr. Campbell's gig^came 
 James Murray, another of the old lady's sons, who 
 was "a provision merchant" in that town, dealing 
 largely in hams and cheeses, and full of that re- 
 verential respect for money which is common with 
 his kind. Lastly there arrived from Kildarton on 
 the other side of Loch Long, a lady who had taken 
 the opportunity, as she explained to Edgar, of in- 
 dulging her young people with a picnic, which they 
 were to hold in a little wooded dell, round the 
 corner of the stubble field, facing Loch Long, while 
 she came on to join the family party, and decide 
 upon her mother's destiny. This was Mrs. Mac 
 Kell, Mrs. Murray's youngest daughter, a good- 
 looking, high-complexioned woman of forty-five, 
 the wife of a Glasgow "merchant" (the phrase is 
 wide, and allows of many gradations), who had been 
 living in sea-side quarters, or, as her husband in- 
 sisted on expressing it, "at the saut water," in the 
 pleasant sea-bathing village of Kildarton, opposite 
 the mouth of Loch Arroch. The boat which de- 
 posited her at the little landing-place belonging to 
 the Castle Farm, was a heavy boat of the district, 
 filled with a bright-coloured and animated party, 
 and provided with the baskets and hampers neces- 
 sary for their party of pleasure. Mrs. MacKell 
 stood on the bank, waving her hand to them as
 
 A FAMILY CONSULTATION. 49 
 
 they hoisted the sail and floated back again round 
 the yellow edge of the stubble field. 
 
 "Mind you keep your warm haps on, girls, and 
 don't wet your feet," she called to them; "and oh, 
 Andrew, my man, for mercy's sake take care of that 
 awful sail!" 
 
 This adjuration was replied to by a burst of 
 laughter in many voices, and a "Never fear, mother," 
 from Andrew; but Mrs. MacKell shook her good- 
 looking head as she accepted Edgar's hand to ascend 
 the slope. All the kindred regarded Edgar with a 
 mixture of curiosity and awe, and it was, perhaps, 
 a slight nervous shyness in respect to this stranger, 
 so aristocratical-looking, as Mrs. MacKell expressed 
 herself, which gave a little additional loudness and 
 apparent gaiety to that excellent woman's first ad- 
 dress. 
 
 "I'm always afraid of those sails. They're very 
 uncanny sort of things when a person does not 
 quite understand the nature of our lochs. I sup- 
 pose, Mr. Edgar, you're in that easel" said Mrs. 
 MacKell, looking at him with an ingratiating smile. 
 
 He was her nephew, there could be no doubt 
 of it, and she had a right to talk to him familiarly; 
 but at the same time he was a fine gentleman 
 and a stranger, and made an impression upon 
 her mind which was but inadequately counter- 
 balanced by any self-assurances that he was "just 
 an orphan lad — no better — not to say a great deal 
 worse off than our own bairns." Such representa- 
 tions did not affect the question as they ought to 
 have done, when this strange personage, "no better, 
 
 For Love and Life. I. 4
 
 50 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 not to say a great deal worse" than themselves, 
 stood with his smile which made them slightly un- 
 comfortable, before them. It was the most open 
 and genial smile, and in former times Edgar had 
 been supposed a great deal too much disposed to 
 place himself on a level with all sorts of people; 
 but now-a-days his look embarrassed his humble 
 relations. There was a certain amusement in it, 
 which bore no reference to them, which was entirely 
 at himself, and the quaintly novel position in which 
 he found himself, but which nevertheless affected 
 them, nobody could have told why. He was not 
 laughing at them, respectablest of people. They 
 could not take offence, neither could they divine 
 what he was laughing at; but the curious, whimsical, 
 and often rueful amusement which mingled with 
 many much less agreeable feelings, somehow made 
 itself felt and produced an effect upon which he 
 had never calculated. It was something they did not 
 understand, and this consciousness partially irritated, 
 partially awed these good people, who felt that the 
 new man in their midst was a being beyond their 
 comprehension. They respected his history and 
 his previous position, though with a little of that 
 characteristic contempt which mingles so strangely 
 in Scotland with many old prejudices in favour of 
 rank and family; they respected more honestly and 
 entirely his little property, the scraps of his former 
 high estate which made him still independent; but 
 above all they now respected, though with some ir- 
 ritation, what seemed to them the unfathomableness 
 of his character, the lurking smile in his eyes. It
 
 A FAMILY CONSULTATION. 5 I 
 
 confirmed the superiority which imagination already 
 acknowledged. 
 
 "I have not had much experience of the lochs," 
 said Edgar, following with his eyes the clumsy but 
 gay boat, with its cargo of laughter, and frankly gay, 
 if somewhat loud, merry-making. 
 
 Mrs. MacKell saw his look and was gratified. 
 
 " You'll not know which are your cousins among 
 so many," she said; "and, indeed, the girls have 
 been plaguing me to write over and ask you to 
 come. They were all away back in Glasgow when 
 my mother took ill, and just came down last week 
 on my account. It's late for sea-bathing quarters 
 in Scotland; and, indeed, when they took it into 
 their heads about this pic-nic, I just raged at them. 
 A pic-nic in October, and on the loch! But when 
 children set their hearts on a thing the mother's aye 
 made to give way; and they had to be kept quiet, 
 you see, while my mother was ill, not knowing how 
 it might end." 
 
 "That is true," said Edgar; "otherwise, so far 
 as my poor grandmother is concerned, this cannot 
 be called a very joyful occasion." 
 
 "I don't see that for my part," cried Mrs. Mac- 
 Kell, feeling herself attacked, and responding with 
 instant readiness. "Dear me! if I were in my 
 mother's position, to see all my children about me, 
 all that remain, would aye be a joyful occasion, 
 whatever was the cause; and what better could she 
 do at her age than go up the loch to my sister 
 Jean's comfortable house, where she would be much 
 made of, and have all her old friends about her? 
 
 4*
 
 52 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 My mother has been a good mother. I have not 3L 
 word to say against that; but she's always been a 
 proud woman, awfully proud, holding her head as 
 high as the Duchess, and making everybody stand 
 about. I'll not say but what it has been very good 
 for us, for we've never fallen among the common 
 sort. But still, you know, unless where there's siller 
 that sort of thing cannot be kept up. Of course, I 
 would like it better," added Mrs. MacKell, "to have 
 my mother near, where I could send the bairns — 
 excuse me for using the words of the place." 
 
 "Oh, I like the words," said Edgar, with a laugh, 
 which he could not quite restrain — better than the 
 sentiments, he would have said. 
 
 "Where I could send any of my young folk that 
 happened to be looking white, at any moment," she 
 went on; "far different from what 1 could do with 
 Jean, who has the assurance to tell me she always 
 invites her friends when she wants them, though 
 her son has his dinner with us every Sunday of his 
 life during the Session! Therefore it's clear what 
 my interest is. But you see, Mr. Edgar," she con- 
 tinued, softening, "you have the ways of a rich 
 man. You never think of the difficulties. Oh! 
 Charles, is that youl I'm glad to see you looking 
 so well; and how are things going in the East 
 country? and how is your sister Marg'ret, and little 
 Bein If my young folk had known you were here, 
 they would have wanted you away with them in 
 the boat. But I must go ben and see my mother 
 before all the folk come in. I suppose you are
 
 A FAMILY CONSULTATION. 53 
 
 .going to look over the farm, and the beasts, with 
 the rest." 
 
 The young doctor — upon whom as a man of 
 his own age, and one more like the people he had 
 been accustomed to than those he now found around 
 him, Edgar had looked, with more interest than any 
 of his other relations had called from him — came 
 up to him now with a face overcast with care. 
 
 "May I speak to you about this painful subject," 
 he said, "before the others come in?" 
 
 "Why a painful subject?" asked Edgar, with a 
 smile, which was half tremulous with feeling, and 
 half indignant, too proud for sympathy. 
 
 "It may not be so to you," said the young man, 
 ^'She brought us up, every one of my family; but 
 what can I do? I have a brother in Australia, too 
 iar off to help, and another a clerk in London. As 
 for me, I have the charge of my eldest sister, who 
 is a widow with a child. You don't know what a 
 hard fight it is for a young medical man struggling 
 to make his way." 
 
 "No, not yet," said Edgar, with a smile. 
 
 "Not yet? How can you know? If I were to 
 take my grandmother home with me, which I would 
 do gladly, she would be far from everything that 
 she knows and cares for — in a new place, among 
 strangers. Her whole life would be broken up. 
 And I could not take Jeanie," the young man added, 
 with a thrill of still greater pain in his voice. "There 
 would be other dangers. What can we do? I 
 cannot bear to think that she must leave this place.
 
 54 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 But I have so little power to help, and consequently 
 so little voice in the matter." 
 
 "I have not very much," said Edgar; "but yet 
 enough, I think, to decide this question. And so 
 long as I have a shilling, she shall not be driven 
 away from her home. On that I have made up my 
 mind." 
 
 His new cousin looked at him with admiration 
 — then with a sigh: 
 
 "What a thing money is," he said; "ever so 
 little of it. You can take a high hand with them, 
 having something; but I, to whom Robert Campbell 
 and Mr. MacKell have both lent money to set me 
 going—" 
 
 Edgar held out his hand to his companion. 
 
 "When this is settled I shall be in the same 
 position," he said; "worse, for you have a profes- 
 sion, and I have none. You must teach me how 
 I can best work for daily bread." 
 
 "You are joking," said the young doctor, with 
 a smile. 
 
 Like the others, he could not believe that Edgar, 
 once so rich, could ever be entirely poor; and that 
 he should denude himself altogether of his living 
 for the sake of the old mother, whom they were all 
 quite ready to help — in reason, was an idea im- 
 possible to be comprehended, and which nobody 
 believed for a moment. He said nothing in reply, 
 and the two stood together before the door waiting 
 for the other men of the party, who were looking 
 over "the beasts" and farm implements, and cal- 
 culating how much they would bring.
 
 A FAMILY CONSULTATION. 55 
 
 James Murray, the provision merchant, was the 
 typical Scotchman of fiction and drama — a dry, 
 yellow man, with keen grey eyes, surrounded by 
 many puckers, scrubby sandy hair, and a constant 
 regard for his own interest. The result had been 
 but indifferent, for he was the poorest of the family, 
 always in difficulties, and making the sparest of 
 livings by means of tremendous combinations of 
 skill and thought sufficient to have made the most 
 fabulous fortune — only fortune had never come his 
 way. He had been poking the cows in the ribs, 
 and inspecting the joints of every plough and har- 
 row as if his life depended upon them. As he came 
 forward to join the others, he put down in the 
 note-book which he held in his hand, the different 
 sums which he supposed they would bring. Alto- 
 gether, it was a piece of business which pleased 
 him. If he had ever had any sentimental feeling 
 towards his old home, that was over many a long 
 year ago; and that his mother, when she could no 
 longer manage the farm, should give it up, and be 
 happy and thankful to find a corner at her daughter's 
 fireside, was to him the most natural thing in life. 
 The only thing that disturbed him, was the impos- 
 sibility of making her seek a composition with her 
 creditors, and thus saving something "for an emer- 
 gency." 
 
 "James has aye an eye to what may come after," 
 Mr. Campbell said, with his peculiar humour, and 
 a laugh which made Edgar long to pitch him into 
 the loch; "he's thinking of the succession. Not 
 that I'm opposed to compounding with the creditors
 
 56 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 in such a case. She's well-known for an honest 
 woman that's paid her way, and held up her head 
 with the best, and we all respect her, and many of 
 us would have no objection to make a bit small 
 sacrifice. I'm one myself, and I can speak. But 
 your mother is a woman that has always had a great 
 deal of her own way." 
 
 "More than was good for her," said James 
 Murray, shaking his head. "She's as obstinate as 
 an auld mule when she takes a notion. She's been 
 mistress and mair these forty year, and like a' 
 women, she'll hear no reason. Twelve or fifteen 
 shillings in the pound is a very fine composition, 
 and touches no man's credit, besides leaving an 
 old wife something in her pocket to win respect." 
 
 "And to leave behind her," said Campbell, 
 laughing and slapping his brother-in-law on the 
 back. 
 
 This was at the door of the farm-house, where 
 they lingered a moment before going in. The loud 
 laugh of the one and testy exclamation of the other, 
 sounded in through the open windows of the par- 
 lour, where the mistress of the house sat with her 
 daughters; probably the entire conversation had 
 reached them in the same way. But of that no 
 one took any thought. This meeting and family 
 consultation was rather "a ploy" than otherwise to 
 all the party. They liked the outing, the inspec- 
 tion, the sense of superiority involved. The sons 
 and the daughters were intent upon making their 
 mother hear reason and putting all nonsense out 
 of her head. She had been foolish in these last
 
 A FAMILY CONSULTATION. 57 
 
 years of her life. She had brought up Tom's bairns, 
 for instance, in a ridiculous way. It was all very 
 well for Robert Campbell's son, who was able to 
 afford it, to be sent to College, but what right had 
 Charlie Murray to be made a gentleman of at the 
 expense of all the rest? To be sm^e his uncles and 
 aunts were somewhat proud of him now that the 
 process was completed, and liked to speak of "my 
 nephew the doctor;" but still it was a thing that a 
 grandmother, alV whose descendants had an equal 
 right to her favours, had no title to do. 
 
 "My bairns are just as near in blood, and have 
 just as good a right to a share of what's going; 
 and when you think how many there are of them, 
 and the fight we have had to 'give them all they 
 require," Mrs. MacKell said to Mrs. Campbell. 
 
 "Many or few," said Mrs. Campbell to Mrs. 
 MacKell, "we have all a right to our share. I've 
 yet to learn that being one of ten bairns gives more 
 claim than being an only child. Johnnie ought to 
 be as much to his grandmother as any grand-bairn 
 she has — as much as Charlie Murray that has cost 
 her hundreds. But she never spent a pound note 
 on my Johnnie all his life." 
 
 "There have been plenty pound-notes spent on 
 him," said the younger sister, "but we need not 
 quarrel, for neither yours nor mine will get any- 
 thing from their grandmother now. But I hope the 
 men will stand fast, and not yield to any fancies. 
 My mother's always been a good mother to us, but 
 very injudicious with these children. There's Jeanie,
 
 58 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 now, never taught to do a hand's turn, but en- 
 couraged in all her fancies." 
 
 "I would like to buy in the china," said Mrs. 
 Campbell. "Auld china is very much thought of 
 now-a-days. I hear the Duchess drinks her tea out 
 of nothing else, and the dafter-like the better. You'll 
 be surprised when you see how many odds and 
 ends there are about the house, that would make a 
 very good show if they were rightly set out." 
 
 "My mother has some good things too, if all 
 the corners were cleared, that are of no use to her, 
 but that would come in very well for the girls," 
 said Mrs. MacKell; and with these kind and 
 reverential thoughts they met their mother, who 
 perhaps also — who' knows 1 — had in her day been 
 covetous of things that would come in for the girls. 
 This was the easy and cheerful view which the 
 family took of the circumstances altogether. Not 
 one of them intended to be unkind. They were 
 all quite determined that she should "want for no- 
 thing;" but still it was, on the whole, rather "a 
 ploy" and pleasant expedition, this family assembly, 
 which had been convened for the purpose of de- 
 throning its head.
 
 THE FAMILY MARTYR. 59 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Family Martyr. 
 
 I NEED not say that the feehngs with which the 
 old woman awaited the decision of her fate were of 
 a very different character. She had lain awake al- 
 most the whole night, thinking over the long life 
 which she had spent within those walls. She had 
 been married at eighteen, and now she was seventy. 
 I wonder whether she felt in herself one tithe of 
 the difference which these words imply. I do not 
 believe she did; except at special moments we never 
 feel ourselves old; we are, to ourselves, what we 
 always were, the same creature, inexhaustible, un- 
 changeable, notwithstanding all vulgar exterior trans- 
 formation. Poor old Mrs. Murray at seventy, poor, 
 aged, ruined, upon whom her children were to sit 
 that day and give forth her sentence of banishment, 
 her verdict of destitution, never more to call any- 
 thing her own, to lodge in the house of another, 
 to eat a stranger's bread — was to her own know- 
 ledge the same girl, eighteen years old, who had 
 opened bright eyes in that chamber in those early 
 summer mornings fifty years ago when life was so 
 young. Fifty years passed before her as she lay 
 with her eyes turned to the wall. How many joys 
 in them, how many sorrows! how tired she had lain
 
 6o FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 down, how lightly risen up, how many plans she 
 had pondered there, how many prayers she had 
 murmured unheard of by any but God, prayers, 
 many of them never answered, many forgotten even 
 by herself, some, which she remembered best, 
 granted almost as soon as said. How she had cried 
 and wept in an agony, for example, for the life of 
 her youngest child, and how it had been better al- 
 most from that hour! The child was her daughter, 
 Mrs. MacKell, now a virtuous mother of a family; 
 but after all to her own mother, perhaps it would 
 not now have mattered very much had that prayer 
 dropped unheard. How many recollections there 
 are to look back on in seventy years, and how be- 
 wildering the effort to remember whether the dreamer 
 lying there is eighteen, or forty, or seventy! and 
 she to be judged and sentenced and know her 
 doom to-day. 
 
 She did not shed any tear or make any com- 
 plaint, but acknowledged to herself with the wonder- 
 ful stoicism of the poor that it was natural, that 
 nothing else was to be looked for. Jean and her 
 husband would be kind — enough; they would give 
 the worn-out mother food and shelter; they would 
 not neglect nor treat her cruelly. All complaint 
 was silent in her heart; but yet the events of this 
 day were no "ploy" to her. She got up at her 
 usual time, late now in comparison to the busy and 
 active past, and came down with Jeanie's help to 
 the parlour, and seated herself in the arm-chair 
 where she had sat for so many years. There she 
 passed the morning very silent, spending the time
 
 THE FAMILY MARTYR. 6r 
 
 with her own thoughts. She had told Jeanie what 
 to do, to prepare for the early dinner, which they 
 were all to eat together. 
 
 "You would be a good bairn," she had said 
 with a smile, "if you would take it upon you to do 
 all this, Jeanie, and say nothing to me." 
 
 Jeanie had sense enough to take her at her word, 
 and thus all the morning she had been alone, sitting 
 with eyes fixed on Benvohrlan, often with a strange 
 smile on her face, pondering and thinking. She 
 had her stocking in her hands, and knitted on and 
 on, weaving in her musing soul with the thread. 
 AVhen her daughters came in she received them 
 very kindly with a wistful smile, looking up into 
 their faces, wondering if the sight of the mother 
 who bore them had any effect upon these women. 
 Still more wistfully she looked at the men who 
 followed. Many a volume has been written about 
 the love of parents, the love of mothers, its enthu- 
 siasms of hope and fancy, its adorations of the un- 
 worthy, its agony for the lost; but I do not remem- 
 ber that anyone has ventured to touch upon a still 
 more terrible view of the subject, the disappoint- 
 ment, for example, with which such a woman as I 
 have attempted to set before the reader — a woman 
 full of high aspirations, noble generosities, and per- 
 haps an unwarrantable personal pride, all intensified 
 by the homely circumstances of life around her — 
 sometimes looks upon the absolutely commonplace 
 people whom she has brought into the world. She, 
 too, has had her dreams about them while they 
 were children and all things seemed possible — while
 
 62 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 they were youths with still some grace and freshness 
 of the morning veiling their unheroic outlines. But 
 a woman of seventy can cherish no fond delusions 
 about her middle-aged sons and daughters who are 
 to all intents and purposes as old as she is. What 
 a dismal sense of failure must come into such a 
 woman's heart while she looks at them! Perhaps 
 this is one reason why grandfathers and grand- 
 mothers throw themselves so eagerly into the new 
 generation, by means of which human nature can 
 always go on deceiving itself. Heavens! what a 
 difference between the ordinary man or woman at 
 fifty, and that ideal creature which he, or she, ap- 
 peared to the mother's eyes at fifteen! The old 
 people gaze and gaze to see our old features in us; 
 and who can express the blank of that disappoint- 
 ment, the cruel mortification of those old hopes, 
 which never find expression in any words'? 
 
 Mrs. Murray, from the household place where 
 she had ruled so long, where she had brought up 
 upon her very life-blood like the pelican, those same 
 commonplace people — where she had succoured the 
 poor, and entertained strangers, and fed from her 
 heart two generations — looked wistfully, half won- 
 deringly at them as they all entered, and sat down 
 round her, to decide what was to be dope with her. 
 Something of a divine despair, like that God Him- 
 self might have felt when the creation he had pro- 
 nounced good, turned to evil — but with a more 
 poignant thrill of human anguish in the fact of her 
 own utter powerlessness to move to good or to 
 evil those independent souls which once had seemed
 
 THE FAMILY MARTYR. 63 
 
 all hers, to influence as site would — swept through 
 her like a sudden storm. But to show any outward 
 sign of this was impossible. Theirs now was the 
 upper hand; they were in the height of life, and she 
 was old. "When thou wast young, thou girdedst 
 thyself, and walkedst whither thou wouldest; but 
 when thou shalt be old, thou shalt stretch forth thy 
 hands, and another shall gird thee, and carry thee 
 whither thou wouldest not;" she said these words 
 to herself with a piteous patience and submission; 
 but unheard by any soul, — unless, indeed, it was by 
 those sympathisers in Heaven, who hear so much, 
 yet make no sign that we can hear or see. 
 
 They came in quite cheerfully all of them, full 
 of the many and diversified affairs which, for the 
 moment, they were to make the sacrifice of laying 
 aside to settle the fate of their mother, and held 
 over her body, as it were, a pleasant little family 
 palaver. 
 
 "The children have gone down the loch for a 
 pic-nic; they would have come in to see Granny, 
 but I said you would have no time for them to- 
 day. The weather is just wonderful for this time 
 of the year, or I never would have allowed such a 
 thing." 
 
 "It's all very well for you town-folk to praise 
 up a good day," said Mr. Campbell, "which is no 
 doubt pleasant when it comes to them that have no 
 interest in the land — but a kind of an insult to us 
 after all the soft weather that has ruined the corn. 
 What's the use of one good day except for your 
 pic-nics and nonsense? nothing but to make the
 
 64 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 handful of wheat sprout the faster. And the glass 
 is down again — We'll have more rain the morn." 
 
 "You'll find it very dry in the East country, 
 Chairles," said Mrs. Camj^bell; "more pleasant for 
 walking, but very stour and troublesome to keep a 
 house clean, and a great want of water. Your 
 sister Marg'ret was aye ill to please about the 
 weather; but after a' that's come and gone, I hope 
 she's no so fanciful now"?" 
 
 "You'll be setting up a gig soon?" said James 
 Murray, "or, perhaps, you've done it already"? It's 
 expensive, but it's a kind of necessity for a doc- 
 tor." 
 
 "Indeed I cannot see that; a strong young man 
 like Charles that's well able to walk! but some folk 
 are always taking care of themselves," said Mrs. 
 MacKell. "In Glasgow, the richest men in the 
 place think nothing of a walk, wet or dry — and my 
 bairns, I assure you, are never spoiled with such 
 luxurier." 
 
 "A gig to a doctor is like a spade to a labour- 
 ing man," said Robert Campbell, sententiously; 
 "that's an expense that I approve. Keep you up 
 appearances, Charles- — that's as long as you can do 
 it out of your own pocket," he said with a laugh, 
 thrusting his hand deep into his own. 
 
 "I know where you could lay your hand on a 
 very decent machine, cheaper, I answer for't, than 
 anything you'll get in the East country," said James. 
 
 "And I am sure you have plenty of old harness 
 that could be cleaned up, Robert," said Mrs. Camp- 
 bell, "if it's thought necessary. To be sure, if he
 
 THE FAMILY MARTYR. 65 
 
 was sent for in a hurry to some country place, per- 
 haps, or the other side of the town — " 
 
 "Thank you all," said the young doctor, "but I 
 have a — conveyance. I could not do without it. I 
 took it from my predecessor, along with the house 
 and the goodwill." 
 
 "Did you hear what he said?" said Mrs. Mac- 
 Kell, aside, to Mrs. Campbell, "a conveyance, not 
 a gig, as we were all saying. Depend upon it, it's 
 some grand landau, or something, where Marg'ret 
 can lie and take her ease. To think how my 
 mother spoiled these bairns!" 
 
 Mrs. Murray took no part in all their talk. She 
 sat with her old eyes sadly turned upon them, eyes 
 that were clear with the pallid liquid light of a sky 
 just cleared from rain. I think the only one who 
 was at all interested in the old woman, beyond the 
 matter-of-fact interest which belonged to her as the 
 cause of the meeting, was Edgar, who had seated 
 himself close to her, and who now laid his hand, 
 in a silent sympathy which nobody else felt, upon 
 the hand with which she held the arm of her chair. 
 Her hand was grey- white, the colour of old age, 
 with all the veins visible on the wrinkled surface. 
 When he put his young warm hand upon it, it felt 
 almost as cold as death. 
 
 "Don't you think," he said, with some abrupt- 
 ness, "that my grandmother's concerns ought to be 
 settled before we talk of anything else?" 
 
 They had all, as I have said, a respect for 
 Edgar, and his voice had an immediate effect. 
 
 'That's true," said Mr. Campbell, "it would be 
 
 For Love and Life, I. 5
 
 66 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 better to settle everything before dinner;" and with 
 this comfortable levity they all gathered more 
 closely round the table. The drawing in of chairs 
 and the little noise of coughing and clearing throats 
 which heralded the commencement of a new sub- 
 ject, occupied the first minute; then James Murray 
 edged slightly away from the table the chair which 
 he had drawn close to it, and prepared to speak. 
 But before he had opened his lips an unforeseen 
 interruption arose; Mrs. Murray herself took the 
 initiative, a thing entirely unexpected by her chil- 
 dren, who had felt, with a sense of security, that 
 they had her fairly in hand. 
 
 "Bairns," she said slowly, and at first in a low 
 tone, while they all turned upon her with surprise, 
 "bairns, I am leaving you to settle everything. I 
 am old; I would fain have gone to them that's 
 passed before me, but the Lord hasna been of my 
 mind. Things have gone badly with the farm, 
 partly by His providence, partly by my fault — you 
 know that as well as I do. In my time, I've com- 
 manded you and done what I thought best. Now 
 the power has gone out of my hands; settle as ye 
 will, and I'll no complain, so long as every man 
 has his ain, and no debt is left, nor any person to 
 rise up against me and call me an unjust dealer. 
 I've done my best for you while it was in my 
 power. Now, do your best, I'll no complain. 
 Beggars should not be choosers. It's all in your 
 hands." 
 
 "Mother, you shouldna speak like that! as if 
 you doubted that we could think of anything but
 
 THE FAMILY MARTYR. 67 
 
 your good," cried both her daughters in a breath; 
 "and as for beggars — not one of us would use Such 
 a word." 
 
 "It's what I am," said the old woman firmly. 
 "And there's but one word I have to say. You 
 ken all of you what I would like best; that's all I'll 
 say; every one of you kens what I would like best. 
 But, failing that, I'll do whatever's settled on. I'll 
 no complain." 
 
 "What you would like, we all know very well," 
 said James Murray, hastily; "but it's impossible, 
 mother, impossible. You canna afford the farm, 
 you canna afford to keep up a house, doing nothing 
 for it, or to keep up a family. There's j^o?*;, and 
 we'll do our best." 
 
 She made a little gesture with her hands, and 
 relapsed into the stillness which she had not broken 
 when they talked of other affairs. The discrowned 
 monarch sat still to let whoever would take her 
 sceptre from her. She took up the stocking she 
 had laid in her lap, and began knitting again, look- 
 ing at them with eyes out of which the wistfulness 
 had faded. An almost stern submission had re- 
 placed the wondering anxious look with which she 
 had looked round to see if anyone would under- 
 stand her, if any would deal with her as she had 
 dealt by them. 
 
 "For you see," continued James Murray, dog- 
 gedly, "mother, we are none of us rich, to be 
 guided by your fancies. If we were great ones of 
 this earth, and you the auld Duchess, say, for ex- 
 ample's sake, you might have your will, whatever it 
 
 5*
 
 68 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 cost. But we're all poor folk — or comparatively 
 poor folk. We may give you a welcome to our 
 houses, such as they are, and a share of what we 
 have; but as for siller we have not got it, and we 
 cannot give you what we have not got to give." 
 
 "That's just about the real state of the case," 
 said Robert Campbell. "There are many things 
 more rife among us than siller. We've all sense 
 enough to see what's for our advantage, and we're 
 all industrious folk, doing our best; but siller is not 
 rife. As for us, Jean and me have long made up 
 our minds what to do. It's our duty, or at least 
 it's her duty, as the eldest of the daughters; and 
 your mother was always a kind guid-mother to me, 
 and never interfered or made mischief; so I would 
 never oppose Jean's righteous desire. We'll take 
 the old leddy in. vShe shall have a room to herself, 
 and nothing to do, one way or other, more than 
 she pleases. If she likes to do any small turn in 
 the house, in the way of helping, well and good; 
 but nothing will be asked from her. And anything 
 that the rest of you think that you could spare — 
 I'm not a man to haggle about my good-mother's 
 board. She shall have her share of all that's going 
 the same as one of ourselves; but if any of you 
 have anything to spare " 
 
 "Would it not be more satisfactory to us all, 
 and more agreeable to my grandmother," said 
 Edgar, suddenly, "if, without charging Mr. Camp- 
 bell above the rest, we were to make up a little 
 income for her, to enable her to keep her own 
 house?"
 
 THE FAMILY MARTYR. 69 
 
 This suggestion fell like a sudden cannon-ball 
 into the group. There was a universal movement. 
 
 "Well, well, I'm no forcing myself on anybody. 
 Try what you can do," cried Campbell, offended, 
 pushing his chair from the table. 
 
 "It's just all stuff and nonsense!" cried his wife, 
 reddening with anger. 
 
 The other two elder people regarded Edgar 
 with a mixture of disapproval and dismay. And 
 the young doctor, the only one of the party who 
 showed some sympathy for him, grew very red, and 
 hesitated and cleared his throat as if to speak — but 
 said nothing. After a moment's pause, James Mur- 
 ray turned upon the inconsiderate speaker with a 
 certain solemnity. 
 
 "Who are you, young man," he said, "that you 
 should put in your word and do what you can to 
 unsettle a well-considered family arrangement"? You 
 heard me say not ten minutes since that just the 
 thing we were wanting in was money. We're no in 
 a position to make up incomes either for auld 
 wives or young lads. We're all ready to acknow- 
 ledge our duty to my mother, and to pay it in kind 
 according to our ability. If she tires of Jean, she 
 may come to me; none of us would shut our 
 houses against her; but as for an income, and to 
 leave her free to make her house a refuge for the 
 destitute, as she has aye done, more's the pity — " 
 
 "Mother," cried Mrs. MacKell, suddenly, "what 
 for are you looking so at me? Do you think I 
 wouldna rather, far rather, see you in your own 
 house? But I'm no an independent woman as
 
 70 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 you've been a' your days. I'm a man's wife that 
 has plenty to do with his siller. I brought him not 
 a sixpence, as ye well know, but a large expensive 
 family, that wants a great deal mair than ever we 
 got, as I often tell them. And what can I do? I 
 went to my man without a penny, and how can I 
 ask him to spend his siller on my folk? Mother," 
 and here Mrs. MacKell burst into hasty sudden 
 crying, half-vexation, half-shame, "it's awfu' unkind, 
 when you ken how I am situate, to give such looks 
 at me!" 
 
 "I gave you no looks, Agnes," said the old 
 woman. "Oh, Sirs, hold all your tongues. I'm the 
 mother that bore you, and never counted the cost 
 for aught that was in my power to get for you. But 
 I will have no strife of tongues over me. Ye shall 
 not quarrel what you're to give, or how little 
 you're to give. I canna bear it. Edgar, my bonnie 
 man, you mean well, but every word is another 
 stab. Robert Campbell, I take your offer kindly. 
 I'll no be much trouble. I canna promise that I'll 
 no last long, for that's in the Lord's hand, and waes 
 me, I canna cut it short, no by an hour. But it's 
 little I want, and I'll give little trouble — " 
 
 She paused, with a piteous smile upon her face, 
 gulping down something which rose in her throat. 
 With this smile she made her abdication, looking 
 round upon them with an anguish of submission 
 and endurance so curiously compounded of a hun- 
 dred different ingredients of pain, each giving 
 sharpness and poignancy to the others, that to de- 
 scribe them all exceeds my power.
 
 THE FAMILY MARTYR. 7 I 
 
 "We'll go ben and get our dinner," she added 
 hurriedly; "we'll say no more about it. I take it a' 
 for granted, and the rest you can settle among your- 
 selves." 
 
 "But I cannot take it for granted," said Edgar. 
 "Stop a little. I will not give any stabs, my old 
 mother. Look here, my aunts and uncles." He 
 said this with a momentary hesitation, with the half- 
 smile which they resented; but still they listened, 
 having a respect for him and his independence. "I 
 am not like you," said Edgar, still with that half- 
 smile. "The only thing I have is money, a little, 
 not worth speaking of, but still it is mine to do 
 what I like with it. Is it not true that there is some 
 talk of building a new farmhouse for the new far- 
 mer, as this one is old and in want of repair? I 
 think I heard you say so the other day." 
 
 "It's true enough — what's about it?" said Camp- 
 bell, shortly. 
 
 "Then my grandmother shall stay here," said 
 Edgar, decisively; "she shall not be turned out of 
 her home, either by her creditors, or — by her sons 
 and daughters. I have nobody to stop me, neither 
 wife, nor sister, nor child, nor duty. Thank heaven, 
 I have enough left for that! If you will take the 
 trouble to settle all about it, Mr. Campbell, I shall 
 be grateful; it is all we will ask you for, not your 
 hospitality, only a little trouble. I don't suppose 
 the Duke will make any difficulties, nor the young 
 farmer whom I saw yesterday. Thank you for your 
 kind intentions. My grandmother will not be able 
 to set up a refuge for the destitute, but no doubt
 
 72 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 she will serve you all when you require her ser- 
 vices, as she has been used to do all her life," said 
 Edgar, with some excitement. "Mother, not a word; 
 it is all done, past my power of changing as well 
 as yours." 
 
 They all sat and looked at him with momentary 
 stupefaction, staring, turning to give questioning 
 looks at each other. Was the young man mad? 
 When Edgar ended by pushing some papers across 
 the table to Campbell, they all drew close to look, 
 James Murray taking out eagerly, and putting on 
 with hands that trembled, a large pair of clumsy 
 spectacles. All the four heads of the elder people 
 clustered about these documents; they read the 
 papers each over the other's shoulder. 
 
 "It's all in order— all in order. Young idiot! 
 he's bound himself as long as she lives," Campbell 
 muttered in an undertone. "Why the deevil didn't 
 ye let us know your intentions and save us a' this 
 trouble 1" he exclaimed aloud, putting away the 
 women from behind him with a gesture, and turn- 
 ing with wcll-put-on indignation to the young man, 
 whose excitement had not yet calmed down. 
 
 "Saftly, saftly," said James Murray, "we must 
 not let ourselves be carried away by our feelings. I 
 approve the lad; it's just what I would have done 
 myself had I been without the burden of a family, 
 and plenty of siller to come and go upon. I'll 
 shake hands with you, Edgar, my lad; it's well 
 done and well thought! Robert, here, may have a 
 little feeling on the subject, as being the one that 
 offered his house; but for my part, I've no hesita-
 
 THE FAMILY MARTYR. 73 
 
 tion in saying it's well done, Edgar — well done — 
 just what, in your circumstances, I would have done 
 myself!" 
 
 "By George! you're a clever fellow, Jamie Mur- 
 ray!" cried Campbell, with a loud laugh. 
 
 The two women did not say anything; they 
 looked at each other, and Mrs. MacKell, who was 
 the most soft-hearted, began to cry. 
 
 "It's what we would all have liked to have 
 done," she said feebly, after an interval. 
 
 Her sister turned round sharply and scolded 
 Jeanie, who had been sitting behind backs looking 
 on, and who now looked up at Edgar with a face 
 so radiant that it struck her aunt with sharp offence 
 — more sharp than the real offence of the stranger's 
 superior generosity, of which it was a reflection. 
 
 "What are you doing there," she said, "you 
 little idle cutty? Did not Granny tell you to see 
 after the dinner? It may be good for her, but it's 
 ruination to you, if you had the sense to see it. 
 Dinna let me see you sit there, smil — smiling at a 
 young lad! I wonder you dinna think shame! It's 
 all my mother's fault," she added bitterly, placing 
 herself in the chair by the window, which Jeanie, in 
 dismay and tears, hastily evacuated; "ive were kept 
 to our work and kept in order, in our day; but 
 she's spoiled every creature that's come near her 
 since. I'm glad I've nae girls mysel that she can 
 ruin as she's ruined Jeanie!" 
 
 "Poor thing, she has nae mother to keep her 
 right," said the softer sister. 
 
 I think, for my part, that the sharp offence and
 
 74 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 bitterness of the women at the sudden turn that 
 things had taken, showed a higher moral sense than 
 the eager satisfaction with which, after the first 
 moment, the men received it. Murray and Camp- 
 bell both felt the immediate relief, as far as they 
 themselves were concerned. The women felt first 
 the shame and stigma of not having attempted to 
 do for their mother what this stranger was so ready 
 to do. The result was much less pleasant and less 
 amiable to witness, but it showed, I think, a higher 
 feeling of right and wrong.
 
 A PARTY IN A PARLOUR. 75 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A Party in a Parlour. 
 
 The dinner which followed was not, the first 
 part of it at least, a very comfortable meal. Mrs. 
 Murray herself was profoundly shaken by the con- 
 ference altogether. She was unable to say anything 
 to her grandson except the almost wild "No, lad; 
 no, Edgar, my bonnie man!" with which she had 
 endeavoured to stop him at first. After this she 
 had not uttered a word. She had taken his hand 
 between her old and worn hands, and raised her 
 face as if to God — praying for blessings on him? 
 No — I do not think her mind was capable of such 
 an effort — she was looking up to the Divine Friend 
 who had been her refuge in everything these seventy 
 years, in a strange rapture of surprise and joy. How 
 much part the sudden change in her circumstances 
 had to do with the joy, I cannot tell — very little I 
 think, infinitesimally little. "I have one son, one 
 true son, after all; heart of my heart, and soul of 
 my soul!" This was the predominating thought in 
 her mind, the half-ecstatic feeling which flooded her 
 old being like sudden sunshine. Amid all the griefs 
 and disappointments to which such a soul is liable, 
 there remains to one now and then the tender and 
 generous delight of seeing others do by her as she
 
 ^6 FOR LOVE AND LIFE, 
 
 would have done by them. How sweet it is; before 
 all delight in gifts, or even in affection! We think 
 of the golden rule more often in the way of a com- 
 mand, employing it to touch our own souls to lan- 
 guid duty; but there are occasions when it is given 
 back to us, so to speak, in the way of recompense, 
 vivified and quickened into rapture. This old wo- 
 man had practised it as she could all her life, and 
 others had not done to her as she had done to 
 them; but here, at the end of her existence, came 
 one — her reward, one heir of her nature, one issue 
 of her soul. Thus she had her glimpse of heaven 
 in the very moment of her lowest humiliation. She 
 had done little personally for him — little — nothing 
 — except to harm him; but she had done much for 
 others, sacrificing herself that they might live, and 
 the stranger, in whose training she had had no 
 hand, who had with her no link of union but the 
 mystic tie of blood, gave back to her full measure, 
 heaped up, and running over. I must leave to the 
 imagination of the reader the keen satisfaction and 
 joy, sharp and poignant almost as pain, with which 
 this aged soul, worn out and weary, received full 
 in her heart, all at once, as by a shot or thunder- 
 bolt, the unthought of, unhoped-for recompense. 
 
 The men, as I have said, were the first to re- 
 concile themselves to the sudden revolution. If any 
 thrill of shame came over them, it was instantly 
 quenched, and ceased to influence the hardened 
 mail, beaten by much vicissitude of weather, which 
 covered them. The women were thinner-skinned, 
 so to speak, more easily touched in their pride, and
 
 A PARTY IN A PARLOUR. 77 
 
 were sensible of the irony with which, half-con- 
 sciously to himself, Edgar had spoken. But, per- 
 haps, the person most painfully affected of all was 
 the young doctor, who had listened to Edgar with 
 a painful flush on his face, and with a pang of 
 jealous pain and shame, not easy to bear. He 
 went up to the old lady as soon as the discussion 
 was over, and sat down close by her, and held a 
 long conversation in an undertone. 
 
 "Grandmother," he said, the flush returning and 
 covering his face with painful heat, "you do not 
 think me ungrateful or slow to interfere? You know it is 
 not want of will, but want of means. You know — " 
 
 "Charlie, was I asking anything, that you speak 
 so to me? I know you could not interfere. You 
 are in their debt still, poor lad?" 
 
 "Yes, I am in their debt still. I don't know 
 how to get out of it; it grinds me to the ground!" 
 cried the young man. "But what can I do?" 
 
 Mrs. Murray patted his hand softly with her old 
 worn fingers; but she was silent, with that silence 
 which the weak nature, eager for approbation, but 
 unable to make a bold effort after good, feels so 
 profoundly. 
 
 "You don't say anything," said Dr. Charles, with 
 a mixture of petulance. "You think I might have 
 done more?" 
 
 "No, Charlie, no," said the old woman; "as you 
 say not. I would be glad to see you free of this 
 bondage; but you must know best yourself" 
 
 "There is so much to do," said the young 
 doctor. "I must get a position. I must make an
 
 78 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 appearance like others in my profession. So many 
 things are necessary that you never think of here in 
 a country place; and you know Margaret has no 
 health to speak of. There is so much expense in 
 every way." 
 
 "She was always handless," said Mrs. Murray, 
 "She should come to me with little Bell, and let 
 you take )'Our chance. Living costs but little here, 
 and what is enough for one is enough for two," 
 said the old woman, with her perennial and in- 
 stinctive liberality of heart. 
 
 "Enough for one! Jeanie is going to leave you 
 then, as the Campbells told me," said the young 
 man hastily. "He is to marry her as they said?" 
 
 "I ken nothing about marrying or giving in 
 marriage," said the grandmother, with some severity 
 of tone. "If that is still in your mind, Charlie — " 
 
 "It is not in my mind — it was never in my 
 mind," he said with an eagerness which was almost 
 passionate. "She has a lovely face, but she never 
 was or could be a fit wife for a man in my posi- 
 tion. There never was anything in that." 
 
 "Charlie, my man, you think too much of your 
 position," said the old woman, shaking her head; 
 "and if there was nothing in it, why should you 
 gloom and bend your brows at the thought that 
 Edgar might care for the bonnie face as well as 
 youl He does not, more's the pity." 
 
 "And why should you say more's the pity? Do 
 you want to be rid of Jeanie? Do you want to be 
 left alone?" 
 
 "I'm but a bruised reed for anyone to trust to,"
 
 A PARTY IN A PARLOUR. 79 
 
 she said. "Soon, so(5h I'll have passed away, and 
 the place that now knows me will know me no 
 more. I would be glad to see my poor bairn 
 in somebody's hand that would last longer than 
 me." 
 
 A momentary flush of strong feeling passed over 
 the young man's face. 
 
 "Grandmother," he said, "you were too good 
 to me. If I had been bred a farmer like your- 
 self—" 
 
 "You would have made but a weirdless farmer, 
 Charlie, my man. It's not the trade that does it," 
 said Mrs. Murray, with some sadness. "ButMarg'ret 
 had better come to me. She may hinder you, but 
 she'll no help you. The bairns are maybe right; I 
 was injudicious, Charlie, and grieved for you that 
 were all delicate things without a mother. I should 
 have known better. You are little able to fend 
 for yourselves in this world, either Marg'ret or 
 you." 
 
 "I don't know why you should say so, grand- 
 mother. I am making my way in my profession," 
 said Dr. Charles, not without offence, " and Margaret 
 is very greatly thought of, and asked to the best 
 houses. If you have nothing more to blame your- 
 self with than you have in our case — " 
 
 Mrs. Murray sighed, but she made no answer. 
 It was not for nothing that her daughters had re- 
 proached her. Charles Murray and his sister Mar- 
 garet had been the two youngest of the flock, her 
 eldest son Tom's children, whom the brave old 
 woman had taken into her house, and brought up
 
 8o FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 with the labour of her own ifknds. The others were 
 scattered about the world, fighting their way in all 
 regions; but Charlie and Margaret had been as 
 apples of her eye. She had done everything for 
 them, bringing up the son to a learned profession, 
 and "making a lady of" the gentle and pretty girl, 
 who was of a stock less robust than the other Hur- 
 rays. And as Mrs. Murray had no patent of ex- 
 emption from the failures that follow sometimes the 
 best efforts, she had not succeeded in this case. 
 Charles Murray, without being absolutely unsuccess- 
 ful, had fulfilled none of the high hopes entertained 
 concerning him; and Margaret had made a foolish 
 marriage, and had been left in a few years a pen- 
 niless widow dependent upon her brother. No one 
 knew exactly what the two were doing now. They 
 were "genteel" and "weirdless," living, it was 
 feared, above their means, and making no attempt 
 to pay back the money which had been lent 
 by their wealthier friends to set the young doctor 
 afloat. 
 
 This was why the children she had trained so 
 carefully could give their old mother no help. 
 Margaret had cried bitterly when she heard that the 
 old home was about to be broken up, and Charles's 
 heart was torn with a poignant sense of inability to 
 help. But the tears and the pain would have done 
 Mrs. Murray little good, and they were not of any 
 profound importance to the brother and sister, both 
 of whom were capable of some new piece of ex- 
 travagance next day by way of consoling them- 
 selves. But though Mrs. Murray was not aware of
 
 A PARTY IN A PARLOUR. 01 
 
 it, the sharp shock of Edgar's unlooked-for muni- 
 ficence towards her, and the jealousy and shame 
 with which Dr. Charles witnessed it, was the most 
 salutary accident that had happened to him all his 
 life. The contrast of his own conduct, he who was 
 so deeply indebted to her, and that of his unknown 
 cousin, gave such a violent concussion to all his 
 nerves as the young man had never felt before; and 
 whatever might be the after result of this shock, its 
 present issue was not agreeable. A sullen shadow 
 came over him at the homely dinner to which they 
 all sat down with such changed feelings. He had 
 been the only one to whom Edgar had turned in- 
 stinctively for sympathy, and Edgar was the first 
 to feel this change. James Murray and Robert 
 Campbell were the only two who kept up the 
 languid conversation, and their talk, we need not 
 add, was not of a very elevated kind. 
 
 "The mutton's good, mother," said James; 
 "you've aye good mutton at Loch Arroch; not like 
 the stuff that's vended to us at 1 canna tell how 
 much the pound. That's a great advantage you 
 have in the country. Your own mutton, or next 
 thing to it; your own fowls and eggs, and all that. 
 You should go on keeping poultry; you were a 
 very good henwife in the old days, when we were 
 all young; and there's nothing that sells better than 
 new-laid eggs and spring chickens. Though you 
 give up the farm, I would advise you to keep them 
 on still." 
 
 "And I would not wonder but you might have 
 grass enough for a cow," said Campbell. "A cow's 
 
 For Love and Life. I. 6
 
 &2 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 a great thing in a house. There's aye the milk 
 whatever happens, and a pickle butter is never lost. 
 It sells at as much as eighteen pence a pound on 
 the other side of the loch, when those Glasgow 
 people are down for the saut water. Asking your 
 pardon, Agnes, I was not meaning the like of you; 
 there are plenty Glasgow people that are very 
 decent folk, but it cannot be denied that they make 
 everything very dear." 
 
 "And what is that but an advantage to every- 
 body as long as we can pay, aye, the double if we 
 like'?" cried Mrs. MacKell, forgetting her previous 
 plea of comparative poverty. "We like everything 
 of the best, I don't deny it; and who has a better 
 right, seeing our men work hard for every penny 
 they make?" 
 
 "For that matter so do the colliers and that 
 kind of cattle, that consume all they earn in eating 
 and drinking," said Campbell. "I like a good 
 dinner myself; but the way you Glasgow folk give 
 yourselves up to it, beats me. That's little to the 
 purpose, however, in the present case. James's 
 advice is very good advice, and so you'll find is 
 mine. I would not object to being at the expense 
 of buying in that bonnie brown cow, the one you 
 fancied, Jean — women are aye fanciful in these 
 matters — if there will be anybody about the house 
 that could supper and milk a cow?" 
 
 He looked doubtfully at Jeanie as he spoke, 
 and they all looked at her, some suspiciously, some 
 contemptuously. They all seemed to Jeanie to
 
 A PARTY IN A PARLOUR. 83 
 
 reproach her that she was not a strong, robust 
 " lass " ready to help her grandmother. 
 
 "I can milk Brounie; she's so gentle," said 
 Jeanie, half under her breath, looking wistfully at 
 her critics. James Murray uttered a suppressed 
 "humph!" 
 
 "A bonnie young woman for a farm-house!" 
 he said, "that can milk a cow when it's gentle. I 
 hope you'll save the lad's siller as much as possible, 
 mother; no running into your old ways, taking folk 
 into your bosom, or entertaining strangers on the 
 smallest provocation, as you used to do." 
 
 "I hope my grandmother will do precisely as 
 she likes — in the way that pleases her best," said 
 Edgar with emphasis. 
 
 "I am saying," said Campbell with emphasis, "a 
 cow; and the cocks and hens, according to James. 
 An honest penny is aye a good thing, however it's 
 got. If young Glen gets the farm, as is likely, 
 he'll be wanting a lodging till the new house is 
 built. I would take the lad in and give him ac- 
 commodation, if it was me. In short, there's a 
 variety of things that would be little trouble, and 
 would show a desire to make the best of what's 
 given you; and any assistance that I can be of, or 
 Jean—" 
 
 "Oh my mother's above my help or yours 
 either," said Mrs. Campbell, with some bitterness. 
 "You need not push yourself in, Rob, when neither 
 you nor me are wanted." 
 
 Mrs. Murray listened to all this with grave 
 patience and forbearance. She smiled faintly at 
 
 6*
 
 84 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 her daughter's petulance, and shook her head. 
 "Bairns," she said, gently, "I guided my own 
 concerns before you were born." It was the only 
 reproof she attempted to administer, and it was 
 followed by a pause, during which the sound of 
 knives and forks was very audible, each individual 
 of the party plying his as for a wager, in the sudden 
 stillness which each affronted person thought it 
 doubly incumbent on him and her to keep up. 
 Mrs. Murray looked round upon them all with a 
 smile, which gradually softened into suppressed but 
 genial humour. "I hope you are all making a good 
 dinner," she said. 
 
 The afternoon after this passed as a Sunday 
 afternoon often passes in a family gathering. They 
 all stood a little on their defence, but, with a keen 
 appreciation of the fact, that the mother, whom 
 they all intended to advise and lecture, had cer- 
 tainly got the upper hand, and had been on the 
 verge of laughing at them, if she had not actually 
 done so, were prudent, and committed themselves 
 no further. They all went out after dinner to see 
 the site where the new farm-house was to be built, 
 and to speculate on the way in which young Glen 
 would manage the farm, and whether he would 
 succeed better than its previous occupant. The 
 women of the party visited "the beasts," as the men 
 had done before dinner, and the men strolled out 
 to the fields, and weighed in their hands the damp 
 ears of corn, and shook their heads over the length 
 of the straw, and pointed out to each other how 
 badly the fields were arranged, and how the crops
 
 A PARTY IN A PARLOUR. 85 
 
 had been repeated year after year. "It's tirhe it 
 was all in other hands," they said to each other. 
 As for Dr. Charles, he avoided the other members 
 of the party — the uncles who might ask for the 
 money they had lent him, and the aunts who might 
 inquire with an vindue closeness of criticism into 
 his proceedings and those of his sister. He sat and 
 talked with his grandmother in the parlour, answer- 
 ing her questions, and making conversation with her 
 in a way which was somewhat formal. In short, it 
 was very like a Sunday afternoon — and the sense 
 of being in their best clothes, and having nothing 
 to do, and being, as it were, bound over to keep 
 the peace, was very wearisome to all these good 
 people. The little excitement of pulling to pieces, 
 so to speak, the house which had sheltered and 
 reared them, was over, and thus a certain flat of 
 disappointment and everyday monotony mingled 
 with the sense of something unusual Avhich was in 
 their meeting. Their purpose was foiled altogether, 
 and the business manque, yet they could not but 
 profess pleasure in the unexpected turn that things 
 had taken. It was very like a Sunday afternoon. 
 
 And it is impossible to tell what a relief it was 
 to all, when the big fishing-boat came heavily 
 round the corner with the picnic party, and Jeanie, 
 in her plain brown frock, ran down to the landing 
 to bid her cousins come into tea. There were 
 some six or seven in the boat, slightly damp and 
 limp, but in high spirits; three of whom were girls, 
 much more gaily dressed than Jeanie, yet with a 
 certain general resemblance to her. They all rushed
 
 86 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 fluttering in their gay ribbons up to the farm-house, 
 glad of the novelty, and threw themselves upon 
 "Granny," whom they admired without the criticism 
 in which their mother indulged less than her brothers 
 and sisters. They did not take much notice of 
 Jeanie, but Dr. Charles was full of interest for them, 
 and the unknown Edgar, who was still more em- 
 phatically "a gentleman," excited their intensest 
 curiosity. "Where is hel which is himl" they 
 whispered to each other; and when Bell, the 
 youngest, exclaimed with disappointment, that he 
 was just like Charlie Murray, and nothing particular 
 after all, her two elder sisters snubbed her at once. 
 "If you cannot see the difference you should hold 
 your tongue," said Jeanie MacKell, who called her- 
 self Jane, and had been to a school in England, 
 crowning glory of a Scotch girl on her promotion. 
 "Not but what Charles is very nice-looking, and 
 quite a gentleman," said Margaret, more meekly, 
 who was the second daughter. The presence of 
 these girls, and of the young men in attendance 
 upon them, to wit Andrew, their brother, and two 
 friends of his own class, young men for whom 
 natural good looks did not do so much as for the 
 young women, and who were, perhaps, better 
 educated, without being half so presentable — made 
 the tea-table much merrier and less embarrassed 
 than the dinner had been. The MacKells ended 
 by being all enthralled by Edgar, whose better 
 manners told upon them, (as a higher tone always 
 tells upon women,) whose superiority to their former 
 attendants was clear as daylight, and who was not
 
 A PARTV IN A PARLOUR. 87 
 
 stiff and afraid to commit himself like Charles 
 Murray; "quite a gentleman," though they all held 
 the latter to be. As for Edgar himself, he was so 
 heartily thankful for the relief afforded by this in- 
 road of fresh guests, that he was willing to think 
 the very best of his cousins, and to give them 
 credit — that is the female part of them — for being 
 the best of the family he had yet seen. He walked 
 with them to their boat, and put them in, when 
 sunset warned them to cross the loch without delay, 
 and laughingly excused himself from accepting their 
 eager invitations, only on the ground that "business" 
 demanded his departure on the next day. Mrs. 
 MacKell took him aside before she embarked, and 
 shook his hand with tears gathering in her eyes. 
 
 "I could not say anything before them all," she 
 said, with an emotion which was partly real; "but 
 I'll never forget what you've done for my mother — 
 and oh, what a comfort it is to me to think I leave 
 her in her ain old house! God bless you for it!" 
 
 "Good-bye," said Edgar, cheerily, and he stood 
 on the banks and watched the boat with a smile. 
 True feeling enough, perhaps, and yet how oddly 
 mingled! He laughed to himself as he went back 
 to the house with an uneasy, mingling of pain and 
 shame.
 
 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Gentility. 
 
 Charles Murray did not return to the Camp- 
 bells' house for the night as he had originally intended. 
 The relatives were all out of sorts with each other, 
 and inclined to quarrel among themselves in con- 
 sequence of the universal discomfiture which had 
 come upon them, not from each others' hands, but 
 from the stranger in their midst. And as it was quite 
 possible that Campbell, being sore and irritable,' 
 might avenge himself by certain inquiries into Dr. 
 Charles's affairs, the young man thought it wiser on 
 the whole to keep out of his way. And the grand- 
 mother's house was common property. Although 
 only a few hours before they had all made up their 
 minds that it was to be no longer hers, and that 
 she thenceforward was to be their dependent, the 
 moment that she became again certain of being 
 mistress in her own house, that very moment all 
 her family returned to their ancient conviction that 
 they had a right to its shelter and succour under all 
 and every kind of circumstances. 
 
 James Murray went away arranging in his own 
 mind that he would send his youngest daughter 
 "across" before the winter came on, "to get her 
 strength up." "One bairn makes little difference in 
 the way of meals, and she can bring some tea and
 
 GENTILITY. 8g 
 
 sugar in a present," he said to himself; while Dr. 
 Charles evidenced still more instantaneously the 
 family opinion by saying at once that he should 
 stay where he was till to-morrow. 
 
 "It seems much more natural to be here than in 
 any other house," he said caressingly to his grand- 
 mother. 
 
 She smiled, but she made no reply. Even, she 
 liked it, for the position of a superior dispensing 
 favours had been natural to her all her life, and the 
 power to retain this position was not one of the 
 least advantages that Edgar's liberality gave her. 
 But even while she liked it, she saw through the 
 much less noble sentiment of her descendants, and 
 a passing pang mingled with her pleasure. She said 
 nothing to Dr. Charles; but when Edgar gave her 
 his arm for the brief evening walk which she took 
 before going to rest, she made to him a curious 
 apology for the rest. Charles was standing on the 
 loch-side looking out, half-jealous that it was Edgar 
 who naturally took charge of the old mother, and 
 half glad to escape out of Edgar's way. 
 
 "We mustna judge them by ourselves," she said, 
 in a deprecating tone. "Charlie was aye a weak 
 lad, meaning no harm— and used to depend upon 
 somebody. Edgar, they are not to be judged like 
 you and me." 
 
 "No," said Edgar, with a smile; then rapidly 
 passing from the subject which he could not enter 
 on. "Does he want to marry Jeanie?" he asked. 
 
 "That I canna tell — that I do not know. He 
 cannot keep his eyes off her bonnie face; but, Edgar,
 
 go FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 the poor lad has strange fancies. He has taken it 
 into his head to be genteel — and Marg'ret, poor 
 thing, is genteel." 
 
 "What has that to do with it?" said Edgar, 
 laughing. 
 
 "We are not genteel, Jeanie and me," said the 
 old woman, with a gleam of humour. "But, Edgar, 
 my man, still you must not judge Charlie. You are 
 a gentleman, that nobody could have any doubt of; 
 but the danger of being a poor man's son, and 
 brought up to be a gentleman, is that you're never 
 sure of yourself. You are always in a fear to know 
 if you are behaving right — if you are doing some- 
 thing you ought not to do." 
 
 "Then, perhaps," said Edgar, "my cousin would 
 have been happier if he had not been brought up, 
 as you say, to be a gentleman." 
 
 "What could I make him? Farming's but a 
 poor trade for them that have little capital and little 
 energy. Maybe you will say a Minister? but it's a 
 responsibility bringing up a young man to be a 
 Minister, when maybe he will have no turn that way 
 but just seek a priest's office for a piece of bread. 
 A good doctor serves both God and man; and 
 Charlie is not an ill doctor," she added, hurriedly. 
 "His very weakness gives him a soft manner, and 
 as he's aye on the outlook whether he's pleasing 
 you or not, it makes him quick to notice folk's 
 feelings in general. Sick men, and still more sick 
 women, like that." 
 
 "You are a philosopher, grandmother," said 
 Edgar.
 
 GENTILITY. Q I 
 
 "Na, na, not that," said the old woman; "but at 
 seventy you must ken something of your fellow- 
 creature's ways, or you must be a poor creature 
 indeed." 
 
 Meanwhile Charles Murray had gone back to 
 the house, and was talking to Jeanie, who for some 
 reason which she did not herself quite divine, had 
 been shy of venturing out this special evening with 
 the others. Perhaps the young doctor thought she 
 was waiting for him. At all events it was a relief 
 to go and talk to one in whom no criticism could be. 
 
 "You feel quite strong and well again, Jeanie 1" 
 he said. 
 
 "Oh yes, quite strong and well — quite better," 
 she said, looking up at him with that soft smile of 
 subjection and dependence which most people to 
 whom it is addressed find so sweet. 
 
 "You should not say quite better," he said, 
 smiling too, though the phrase would by times steal 
 even from his own educated lips. "I wonder some- 
 times, Jeanie, after passing some months in England 
 as you did, that yo\i should still continue so Scotch. 
 I like it, of course — in a way." 
 
 Here Jeanie, whose face had overcast, brightened 
 again and smiled — a smile which this time, however, 
 did not arrest him in his critical career. 
 
 "I like it, in a way," said Charles, doubtfully. 
 "Here on Loch Arroch side it is very sweet, and 
 appropriate to the place; but if you were going out 
 — into the world, Jeanie." 
 
 "No fear of that," said Jeanie, with a soft laugh. 
 
 "On the contrary, there is much fear of it — or
 
 92 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 much hope of it, I should say. There are many 
 men who would give all they have in the world for 
 a smile from your sweet face. I mean," said the 
 young man, withdrawing half a step backward, and 
 toning himself down from this extravagance, "I 
 mean that there is no doubt you could marry ad- 
 vantageously — if you liked to exert yourself." 
 
 "You should not speak like that to me," cried 
 Jeanie, with a sudden hot flush; "there is nothing 
 of the kind in my head." 
 
 "Say your mind, not your head, Jeanie; and like 
 the dear good girl you are, say head, not heed," said 
 Dr. Charles with a curious mixture of annoyance 
 and admiration; and then he added, drawing closer. 
 "Jeanie, do you not think you would like to go to 
 school 1" 
 
 "To school I am not a little bairn," said Jeanie 
 with some indignation, "I have had my schooling, 
 all that Granny thought I wanted. Besides," she 
 continued proudly, "I must look after Granny now." 
 
 "She has asked Margaret to come to her," said 
 the young man, "and don't you think, Jeanie, if 
 you could be sent to a school for a time — not to 
 learn much you know, not for lessons or anything 
 of that kind; but to get more used to the world, 
 and to what you would have to encounter if you 
 went into the world — and joerhaps to get a few 
 accomplishments, a little French, or the piano, or 
 something like tliaf?" 
 
 "What would I do, learning French and the 
 piano?" said Jeanie; her countenance had over- 
 clouded during the first part of his speech, but
 
 GENTILITY. 93 
 
 gradually gave way to wonder and amusement as 
 he went on. "Are you thinking of Jeanie MacKell 
 who can play tunes, and speak such fine English? 
 Granny would not like that, and neither would I." 
 
 "But Granny is not the only person in the 
 world," he said, "there are others who would like 
 it. Men like it, Jeanie; they like to see their wife 
 take her place with anyone, and you cannot always 
 be with Granny — you will marry some day." 
 
 Jeanie's fair soft countenance glowed like the 
 setting sun, a bright and tender consciousness lit 
 up her features; her blue eyes shone. Dr. Charles, 
 who had his back to the loch, as he stood at the 
 farm-house door, did not perceive that Edgar had 
 come into sight with Mrs. Murray leaning on his 
 arm. 
 
 "May-be all that may be true," said Jeanie, "I 
 cannot tell; but in the meantime I cannot leave 
 Granny, for Granny has nobody but me." 
 
 "She has asked my sister Margaret, as I told 
 you — " 
 
 "Margaret instead of me!" said Jeanie, with a 
 slight tone of wonder. 
 
 "It is strange how disagreeable you all are to 
 my sister," said Dr. Charles with some impatience. 
 "It need not be instead of you; but Granny has 
 asked Margaret, and she and the little one will 
 come perhaps before winter sets in — the change 
 would do them good. I should be left alone then," 
 he said, softening, "and if Margaret stays with 
 Granny, I should be left always alone. Jeanie, if 
 you would but get a little education and polish,
 
 94 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 and make yourself more like what a man wishes his 
 wife to be — " 
 
 Jeanie was looking behind him all the time with 
 a vague dreamy smile upon her face. "If that is 
 a' he wants!" she said dreamily to herself. She 
 was thinking not of the man before her, whose 
 heart, such as it was, was full of her image; but of 
 the other man approaching, who did not think of 
 Jeanie except as a gentle and affectionate child. 
 If that was a' he wanted! though even in her imagi- 
 native readiness to find everything sublime that 
 Edgar did, there passed through Jeanie's mind a 
 vague pang to think that he would pay more re- 
 gard to French and the piano, than to her tender 
 enthusiast passion, the innocent adoration of her 
 youth. 
 
 "If you would do that, Jeanie — to please me!" 
 said the unconscious young Doctor, taking her 
 hand. 
 
 "Here is Granny coming," said Jeanie hastily, 
 "and — Mr. Edgar. Go ben the house, please, and 
 never mind me. I have to see that the rooms are 
 right and all ready. Are you tired, Granny? You 
 have had a sore day. Mr, Edgar, say good night 
 to her now, she ought to go to her bed." 
 
 Thus Dr. Charles was thrust aside at the moment 
 when he was about to commit himself. Jeanie put 
 him away as if he had been a ploughman, or she 
 a fine lady used to the fine art of easy impertinence. 
 So little thought had she of him at all, that she was 
 not aware of the carelessness with which she had 
 received his semi-declaration, and while he v.'ith-
 
 GENTILITY. 05 
 
 drew stung all over as by mental nettles, abashed, 
 insulted, and furious, she went innocently upstairs, 
 without the faintest idea of the offence she had 
 given. And Edgar went into the parlour after his 
 cousin humming an air, with the freshness of the 
 fields about him. The uisouciance of the one who 
 had that day given away his living, and the dis- 
 turbed and nervous trouble of the other, self-con- 
 scious to his very finger points, irritated by a con- 
 stant notion that he was despised and lightly thought 
 of, made the strangest possible contrast between 
 them, notwithstanding a certain family resemblance 
 in their looks. 
 
 "I am staying to-night," said Dr. Charles, with 
 a certain abruptness, and that tone of irritated 
 apology which mingled more or less in all he said, 
 "because it is too late for me to get home." 
 
 "And I am staying," said Edgar, "because it is 
 too late to start, I must go to-morrow. I suppose 
 our road lies so far in the same direction." 
 
 "You can get the London express at Glasgow, 
 or even Greenock. I am going to Edinburgh." 
 
 "I have business in Edinburgh too," said Edgar. 
 He was so good-humoured, so friendly, that it was 
 very hard to impress upon him the fact that his 
 companion regarded him in no friendly light. 
 
 "You will leave the loch with very pleasant 
 feelings," said Dr. Charles, "very different to the 
 rest of us. Fortune has given you the superiorit}^ 
 What I would have done and couldn't, you have 
 been able to do. It is hard not to grudge a little 
 at such an advantage. The man who has nothing
 
 96 FOR LOVE AND LIFE, 
 
 feels himself always so inferior to the man who has 
 something, however small." 
 
 "Do you think so?" said Edgar, "my experience 
 would not lead me to that conclusion; and few 
 people can have greater experience. Once I sup- 
 posed myself to be rather rich. I tumbled down 
 from that all in a moment, and now I have nothing 
 at all; but it seems to me I am the same man as 
 when I was a small potentate in my way, thinking 
 rather better than worse of myself, if truth must be 
 told," he added with a laugh. 
 
 "I wish I had your nothing at all," said Dr. 
 Charles, bitterly; "to us really poor people that is 
 much, which seems little to you." 
 
 "Well," said Edgar, with a shrug of his shoulders, 
 "my poverty is absolute, not comparative now. And 
 you have a profession, while I have none. On the 
 whole, whatever there may be to choose between 
 us, you must have the best of it; for to tell the 
 truth I am in the dismal position of not knowing 
 what to do." 
 
 "To do! what does it matter? you have enough 
 to live upon." 
 
 "I have nothing to live upon," said Edgar, with 
 a smile. 
 
 The young men looked at each other, one with 
 a half-amusement in his face, the other full of 
 wonder and consternation. "You don't mean to 
 say," he asked, with a gasp, "that you have given 
 her alii" 
 
 "I have no income left," said Edgar. "I have 
 some debts, unfortunately, like most men. Now a
 
 GENTILITY. 97 
 
 man who has no income has no right to have any 
 debts. That is about my sole maxim in political 
 economy. I must pay them off, and then I shall 
 have fifty pounds or so left." 
 
 "Good heavens!" said the other, "and you take 
 this quite easily without anxiety " 
 
 "Anxiety will not put anything in my pocket, 
 or teach me a profession," said Edgar. "Don't let's 
 talk of it, 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil there- 
 of.'" 
 
 "But," cried the other, almost wildly, "in that 
 case all of us — I too — " 
 
 "Don't say anything more about it," said Edgar. 
 "We all act according to impulses. Perhaps it is 
 well for those who have no impulses; but one cannot 
 help one's self. I should like to start by the early 
 boat to-morrow morning, and before I go I have 
 something to say to Jeanie." 
 
 "I fear I am in your way," cried Dr. Charles, 
 rising hastily, with the feeling, which was rather 
 pleasant to him than otherwise, that at last he had 
 a real reason for taking offence. 
 
 "Oh, dear no, not at all. It is only to give her 
 some advice about our old mother," said Edgar; 
 but they both reddened as they stood fronting each 
 other, Charles from wild and genuine jealousy — 
 Edgar, from a disagreeable and impatient conscious- 
 ness of the silly speeches which had associated 
 his name with that of Jeanie. He stood for a 
 moment uncertain, and then his natural frankness 
 broke forth, "Look here," he said, "don't let us 
 make any mistake. I don't know what your feelings 
 
 Fo>- Love and Life. L 7
 
 98 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 may be about Jeanie, but mine are those of an 
 elder brother — a very much elder brother," he went 
 on, with a laugh, "to a child." 
 
 "Every man says that, until the moment comes 
 when he feels differently," said Charles, in his un- 
 easy didactic way. 
 
 "Does he? then that moment will never come 
 for me," said Edgar, carelessly. 
 
 Poor little Jeanie! she had opened the door, 
 the two young men not observing her in their pre- 
 occupation, and Edgar's words came fully into her 
 heart like a volley of musketry. She stood behind 
 them for a moment in the partial gloom — for they 
 were standing between her and the light of the 
 feeble candles — unnoticed, holding the door. Then 
 noiselessly she stole back, closing it, her heart all 
 riddled by that chance discharge, wounded and 
 bleeding. Then she went to the kitchen softly, and 
 called Bell. "My head's sair," she said, which on 
 Eoch Arroch means, my head aches. "Will you 
 see if they want anything in the parlour. Belli" 
 
 "My poor lamb!" said Bell, "I wish it beena 
 your heart that's sair. Ye are as white as a ghost. 
 Go to your bed, my bonnie woman, and I'll see 
 after them. Lord bless us, what a bit white face! 
 Go to your bed, and dinna let your Granny see 
 you like that. Oh ay! I'll see to the two men." 
 
 Jeanie crept up-stairs like a mouse, noiseless in 
 the dark staircase. She needed no light, and to 
 hide herself seemed so much the most natural thing 
 to do. White! Jeanie felt as if her face must be 
 scorched as her heart seemed to be. Why should
 
 GENTILITY. 99 
 
 lie have volunteered this profession of indifference? 
 It seemed so much the worse because it was un- 
 called for. Did anyone say he cared for her] Had 
 any one accused him of being "fond" of Jeanie? 
 Shame seemed to take possession of the little soft 
 creature. Had she herself done anything to put 
 such a degrading idea into his mindl Why should 
 he care for her? "I never asked him — I never 
 wanted him," poor Jeanie cried to herself. 
 
 Edgar never knew the second great effect he 
 had produced on this eventful day. When Jeanie 
 appeared at the early breakfast before he set out 
 next morning, he was honestly concerned to see 
 how pale she looked. "My poor dear child, you 
 are ill," he cried, drawing her towards him, and his 
 look of anxious kindness struck poor Jeanie like a 
 blow. 
 
 "I'm not ill. It's my head. It's nothing," she 
 said, starting away from him. Edgar looked at her 
 with mild astonished eyes. 
 
 "You are not vexed with me this last morning? 
 Take care of the dear old mother, Jeanie — but I 
 know you will do that — and write to me sometimes 
 to say she is well; and talk of me sometimes, as 
 you promised — you remember?" 
 
 His kind friendly words broke Jeanie's heart. 
 "Oh, how can you look so pleased and easy in 
 your mind!" she said, turning, as was natural, the 
 irritation of her personal pain into the first possible 
 channel, "when you know you are going away with- 
 out a penny, for our sake — for her sake "
 
 100 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "And yours," Edgar added cheerily. "That is 
 what makes me easy in my mind." 
 
 And he smiled, and took both her hands, and 
 kissed her on the forehead, a salutation which made 
 little Scotch Jeanie — little used to such caresses — 
 flame crimson with shame. Charles Murray looked 
 on with sullen fury. He dared not do as much. 
 This way of saying farewell was not cousinly or 
 brotherly to him.
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEY. 10 1 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A Railway Journey : The Scotch Express. 
 
 The two young men set out together from Loch 
 Arroch. The old lady whose children they both 
 •were, waved her handkerchief to them from her 
 window as the steamer rustled down the loch, and 
 round the windy corner of the stubble field into 
 Loch Long. They stood on the deck^ and gazed 
 at the quiet scene they were leaving till the farm- 
 house and the ruin died out of sight. How peace- 
 ful it all looked in the bright but watery sunshine! 
 The ivy waving softly from the walls of the ruin, 
 the smoke rising blue from the roof of the farm- 
 house, which nestled under the shadow of the old 
 castle, the stocks standing in the pale field glisten- 
 ing with morning dew. Bell stood at the door in 
 her short petticoats, shading her eyes with one hand 
 as she watched them, and old Mrs. Murray showed 
 a smiling, mournful face at her window, and the 
 long branches of the fuchsias waved and made 
 salutations with all their crimson bells. Even Bell's 
 shadow had a distinct importance in the scene, 
 which was so still — still as the rural country is be- 
 tween mountain and water, with mysterious shadows 
 flitting in the silence, and strange ripples upon the 
 beach. The scene was still more sweet ''from the
 
 102 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 shore, though not so entirely enveloped in this 
 peaceable habitual calm; for great Benvohrlan was 
 kept in constant life with moving clouds which 
 crossed the sunshine; and the eyes of the spectators 
 on the land did not disdain the bright, many- 
 coloured boat, floating, as it seemed, between three 
 elements — the water, the mountain, and the sky. 
 The shadow-ship floated over the side of the shadow- 
 hill among all the reflected shades; it floated double 
 like the swan on St. Mary's Lake, and. it was hard 
 to tell which was the reality and which the symbol. 
 Such were the variations of the scene from the loch 
 and from the shore. 
 
 But though Bell was visible and Bell's mistress, 
 Jeanie was not to be seen. She had disappeared 
 within the ruins of the Castle, and watched the 
 boat from behind an old block of masonry, with 
 eyes full of longing and sadness. Why had she 
 been so harsh, so hard? Why had she not parted 
 with him "friends'?" What did it matter what he 
 said, so long as he said that he looked upon her 
 as an elder brother'? Was it not better to be Edgar's 
 sister than any other man's beloved? She cried, re- 
 flecting sadly that she had not been so kind, so 
 gentle as she ought to this man who was so unlike 
 all others. Like an elder brother — what more could 
 she wish for? Thus poor little Jeanie began to dree 
 her fate. 
 
 The day was fine, notwithstanding the prophecy 
 of "saft weather" with which all the observers of 
 sea and sky in the West of Scotland keep up their 
 character as weather prophets as Edgar and Charles
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEV. IO3 
 
 Murray travelled to Edinburgh. There was no 
 subject of quarrel between them, therefore they did 
 not quarrel; indeed Edgar, for his part, was amused, 
 when he was not pained, by his cousin's perpetual 
 self-consciousness and painful desire to keep up his 
 profession of gentleman, and conduct himself in all 
 details of behaviour as a gentleman should. The 
 young Doctor nervously unbuttoned his over-coat, 
 which was much more spruce and glossy than 
 Edgat's, when he observed that his companion, 
 never a model of neatness or order, wore his loose. 
 He looked with nervous observation at Edgar's 
 portmanteau, at the shape and size of his umbrella. 
 Edgar had lived in the great world; he had been 
 (or so at least his cousin thought) fashionable; there- 
 fore Dr. Charles gave a painful regard to all the 
 minutite of his appearance. Thus a trim poor girl 
 might copy a tawdry duchess, knowing no better — 
 might, but seldom does, having a better instinct. 
 But if any one had breathed into Charles Murray's 
 ear a suggestion of what he was consciously (yet 
 almost against his will) doing, he would have for- 
 given an accusation of crime more readily. He 
 knew his own weakness, and the knowledge made 
 him wretched; but had any one else suspected it, 
 that would have been the height of insult, and 
 would have roused him to desperate passion. 
 
 Thus they travelled together, holding but little 
 communication. The young Doctor's destination 
 was one of the smaller stations before they reached 
 Edinburgh, where Edgar saw, as the train approached, 
 a graceful young woman, with that air of refinement
 
 I04 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 which a slim and tall figure gives, but too far off 
 to be recognizable, accompanied by a little girl — 
 waiting by the roadside in a little open carriage, 
 half phaeton, half gig. 
 
 "Is that your sister?" he asked, taking off his 
 hat, as the lady waved her hand towards them. 
 
 "Yes," said Dr. Charles, shortly, and he added, 
 in his usual tone of apology, "a doctor can do 
 nothing without a conveyance, and as I had to get 
 one, and Margaret is so delicate, it was better to 
 have something in which she could drive with me." 
 
 "Surely," said Edgar, with some wonder at the 
 appealing tone in which this half statement, half 
 question was made. But a little sigh came from 
 his heart, against his will, as he saw Charles Mur- 
 ray's welcome, and felt himself rolled away into the 
 cold, into the unknown, without any one to bear 
 him company. He too had once had, or thought 
 he had, a sister, and enjoyed for a short time that 
 close, tender, and familiar friendship which only 
 can exist between a young man and woman when 
 they are thus closely related. Edgar, who was 
 foolishly soft-hearted, had gone about the world ever 
 since, missing this, without knowing what it was he 
 missed. He was fond of the society of women, and 
 he had been shut out from it; for he neither wished 
 to marry, nor was rich enough so to indulge him- 
 self, and people with daughters, as he found, were 
 not so anxious to invite a poor man, nor so com- 
 placent towards him as they had been when he 
 was rich. To be sure he had met women as 
 he had met men at the foreign towns which he
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEY. IO5 
 
 had chiefly frequented during the aimless years just 
 past; but these were chiefly old campaigners, with 
 all the freshness dried out of them, ground down 
 into the utmost narrowness of limit in which the 
 mind is capable of being restrained, or else at the 
 opposite extreme, liberated in an alarming way from 
 all the decorums and prejudices of life. Neither of 
 these classes were attractive, though they amused 
 him, each in its way. 
 
 But somehow the sight of his two cousins, 
 brother and sister, gave him a pang which was all 
 the sharper for being entirely unexpected. It made 
 him feel his own forlornness and solitude, how cut 
 off he was from all human solace and companionship. 
 Into his ancient surroundings he could not return; 
 and his present family, the only one which he had 
 any claim upon, was distasteful beyond description. 
 Even his grandmother and Jeanie, whom he had 
 known longest, and with whom he felt a certain 
 sympathy, were people so entirely out of his sphere, 
 that his intercourse with them never could be easy 
 nor carried on on equal terms. He admired Mrs. 
 Murray's noble character, and was proud to have 
 been able to stand by her against her sordid re- 
 lations; he even loved her in a way, but did not, 
 could not adopt the ways of thinking, the manners 
 and forms of existence, which were natural and 
 seemly in the little farm-house. 
 
 As for Jeanie, poor, gentle, pretty Jeanie! A 
 slight flush came over Edgar's face as her name 
 occurred to him; he was no lady-killer, proud to 
 think that he had awakened a warmer feeling than
 
 I06 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 was safe for her in the girl's heart. On the con- 
 trary, he was not only pained, but ashamed of him- 
 self for the involuntary consciousness which he 
 never put into words, that perhaps it was better for 
 Jeanie that he should go away. He dismissed the 
 thought, feeling hot and ashamed. Was it some 
 latent coxcombry on his part that brought such an 
 idea into his head? 
 
 His business in Edinburgh was of a simple kind, 
 to see the lawyer who had prepared the papers for 
 the transfer of his little income, and who, knowing 
 his history, was curious and interested in him, asked 
 him to dinner, and would have made much of the 
 strange young man who had descended from the 
 very height of prosperity, and now had denuded 
 himself of the last humble revenue upon which he 
 could depend. 
 
 "I have ventured to express my disapproval, 
 Mr. Earnshaw," this good man had said; "but hav- 
 ing done so, and cleared my conscience —if there 
 is anytliing I can be of use to you in, tell me." 
 
 "Nothing," said Edgar; "but a thousand thanks 
 for the goodwill, which is better than anything." 
 
 Then he went away, declining the invitation, 
 and walked about Edinburgh in the dreamy solitude 
 which began to be habitual to him, friendly and 
 social as his nature was. In the evening he dined 
 alone in one of the Princes Street hotels, near a 
 window which looked out upon the Castle and 
 the old town, all glimmering with lights in the soft 
 darkness, which was just touched with frost. The 
 irregular twinkle of the lights scattered about upon
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEY. I07 
 
 the fine bank of towers and spires and houses op- 
 posite; the dark depth below, where dark trees 
 rustled, and stray lights gleamed here and there; 
 the stream of traffic always pouring through the 
 street below, notwithstanding the picturesque land- 
 scape on the other side — all attracted Edgar with 
 the charm which they exercise on every sensitive 
 mind. When the bugle sounded low and sweet up 
 in mid-air from the Castle, he started up as if that 
 visionary note had been for him. The darkness 
 and the lights, the new and the old, seemed to him 
 alike a dream, and he not less a dream pursuing 
 his way between them, not sure which was real and 
 which fictitious in his own Hfe; which present and 
 which past. The bugle called him — to what? Not 
 to the sober limits of duty, to obedience and to rest, 
 as it called the unwilling soldiers out of their riots 
 and amusements; but perhaps to as real a world 
 still unknown to him, compassed — hke the dark 
 Castle, standing deep in undistinguishable, rustling 
 trees — with mists and dream-like uncertainty. Who 
 has ever sat at a dark window looking out upon 
 the gleaming, darkling crest of that old Edinburgh, 
 with the crown of St. Giles hovering over it in the 
 blue, and the Castle half way up to heaven, without 
 feehng something weird and mystical beyond words, 
 in the call of the bugle, sudden, sweet, and pene- 
 trating, out of the clouds'? What- Edgar had to do 
 after the call of this bugle was no deed of high 
 emprise. He had no princess to rescue, no dragon 
 to kill. He got up with that half-laugh at himself 
 and his own fancies which was habitual to him.
 
 Io8 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 and paid his bill and collected his few properties, 
 and went to the railway. Other people were begin- 
 ning to go to bed; the shop windows were closing; 
 the lights mounting higher from story to story. But 
 a stream of people and carriages was pouring 
 steadily down into the hollow, bound like himself, 
 for the London Express. Edgar walked up natur- 
 ally, mechanically to the window at which first- 
 class tickets were being issued. But while he 
 waited his turn, his eye and his ear were attracted 
 by a couple of women in the dress of an English 
 Sisterhood, who were standing in front of him, 
 holding a close conversation. One of them, at 
 least, was in the nun's costume of severe black and 
 white; the other, a young slim figure, wore a black 
 cloak and close bonnet, and was deeply veiled; 
 but was not a "Sister," though in dress closely ap- 
 proaching the garb. Edgar's eyes however were not 
 clever enough to make out this difference. The 
 younger one seemed to him to have made some 
 timid objection to the second class. 
 
 "Second class, my dear!" said the elder. "I 
 understand first class, and I understand third; but 
 second is neither one thing nor another. No, my 
 dear. If we profess to give up forms and cere- 
 monies and the pomps of this world, let us do it 
 thoroughly, or not at all. If you take second class, 
 you will be put in with your friend's maid and 
 footman. No, no, no; third class is the thing." 
 
 "To be sure. What am I thinking of!" said 
 Edgar to himself, with his habitual smile. "Of course, 
 third class is the thing."
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEY. lOg 
 
 It liad been from pure inadvertence that he had 
 been about to take the most expensive place, no- 
 thing else having occurred to him. I do not know 
 whether I can make the reader understand how 
 entirely without bitterness, and, indeed, with how 
 much amusement Edgar contemplated himself in 
 his downfall and penniless condition, and what a 
 joke he found it. For the moment rather a good 
 joke — for, indeed, he had suffered nothing, his 
 amour propi'e not being any way involved, and no 
 immediate want of a five-pound note or a shilling 
 having yet happened to him to ruffle his composure. 
 He kept the two Sisters in sight as he went down 
 the long stairs to the railway with his third-class 
 ticket. He thought it possible that they might be 
 exposed to some annoyance, two women in so 
 strange a garb, and in a country where Sisterhoods 
 have not yet developed, and where the rudeness of 
 the vulgar is doubly rude, perhaps in contrast with, 
 perhaps in consequence of (who knowsl) the general 
 higher level of education on which we Scotch 
 plume ourselves. They had given him his first 
 lesson in practical contempt of the world; he would 
 give them the protection of his presence, at least, 
 in case of any annoyance. Not to give them any 
 reason, however, to suppose that he was following 
 them, he waited for some minutes before he took 
 his seat in a corner of the same carriage in which 
 they had established themselves. He took off his 
 hat, foreign fashion, as he went into the railway 
 carriage (Edgar had many foreign fashions). At 
 sight of him there seemed a little flutter of interest
 
 no FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 between the Sisters, and when he took his seat 
 they bent their heads together, and talked long in 
 whispers. The result of this was that the two 
 changed seats, the younger one taking the further 
 corner of the same seat on which he had placed 
 himself; while the elder, a cheerful middle-aged 
 woman, whose comely countenance became the 
 close white cap, and whose pleasant smile did it 
 honour, sat opposite to her companion. 
 
 I cannot say that this arrangement pleased 
 Edgar, for the other was young — a fact which be- 
 trayed itself rather by some subtle atmosphere about 
 her than by any visible sign — and his curiosity was 
 piqued and himself interested to see the veiled 
 maiden. But, after all, the disappointment was not 
 great, and he leaned back in the hard corner, say- 
 ing to himself that the third class might be the 
 thing, but was not very comfortable, without any 
 particular dissatisfaction. 
 
 Two other travellers, a woman and a boy, took 
 their places opposite to him. They were people 
 from London, who had gone to Scotland for the 
 boy's holidays after some illness, and they brought 
 a bag of sandwiches with them and a bottle of 
 bad sherry, of which they ate and drank as soon 
 as the train started, preparing themselves for the 
 night. Then these two went to sleep and snored, 
 and Edgar, too, went partially to sleep, dozing be- 
 tween the stations, lying back in the corner which 
 was so hard, and seeing the dim lamp sway, and 
 the wooden box in which he was confined, creak, 
 and jolt, and roll about as the train rushed on,
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEY. I I I 
 
 clamping and striding like a giant through the dark. 
 What a curious, prolonged dream it was — the dim, 
 uncertain light swaying like a light at sea, the 
 figures dimly seen, immoveable, or turning uneasily 
 like spectres in a fever, veiled figures, with little 
 form visible under the swaying of the lamp; and 
 now and then the sudden jar and pause, the un- 
 earthly and dissipated gleam from some miserable 
 midnight station, where the porters ran about pale 
 and yawning, and the whole sleepy, weary place 
 did its best to thrust them on, and get rid of the 
 intruder. 
 
 Just before morning, however, in the cold be- 
 fore the dawning, Edgar had a real dream, a dream 
 of sleep, and not of waking, so vivid that it came 
 into his mind often afterwards with a thrill of 
 wonder. He dreamt that he saw standing by him 
 the figure of her who had touched his heart in his 
 earlier years, of Gussy, who might have been his 
 wife had all gone well, and of whom he had thought 
 more warmly and constantly, perhaps, since she 
 became impossible to him, than when she was 
 within his reach. She seemed to come to him out 
 of a cloud, out of a mist, stooping over him with a 
 smile; but when he tried to spring up, to take the 
 hand which she held out, some icy restraint came 
 upon him — he could not move, chains of ice 
 seemed to bind his hands and arrest even his voice 
 in his throat. While he struggled to rise, the beau- 
 tiful figure glided away, saying, "After, after — but 
 not yet!" and — strange caprice of fancy — dropped 
 over her face the heavy veil of the young sister
 
 112 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 who had excited his curiosity, and who was seated 
 in the other corner of this same hard wooden bench, 
 just as Edgar, struggUng up, half awake, found that 
 his raihvay wrapper had dropped from his knees, 
 and that he was indeed ahnost motionless with 
 cold. 
 
 The grey dawn was breaking, coldest and most 
 miserable hour of the twenty-four, and the other 
 figures round him were nodding in their sleep, or 
 swayed about with the jarring movement of the 
 carriage. Strange, Edgar thought to himself, how 
 fancy can pick up an external circumstance, and 
 weave it into the fantastic web of dreams! How 
 naturally his dream visitor had taken the aspect of 
 the last figure his musing eyes had closed upon! 
 and how naturally, too, the physical chill of the 
 moment had shaped itself into a mental impos- 
 sibility — a chain of fate. He smiled at the com- 
 bination as he wrapped himself shivering in his rug. 
 The slight little figure in the other corner was, he 
 thought, awake too, she was so perfectly still. The 
 people on the other side dozed and nodded, chang- 
 ing their positions with the jerking movement of 
 restless sleep, but she was still, moving only with 
 the swaying of the carriage. Her veil was still 
 down, but one little white hand came forth out of 
 the opening of her black cloak. What a pity that 
 so pretty a hand should not be given to some man 
 to help him along the road of life, Edgar thought 
 to himself with true English sentiment, and then 
 paused to remember that English sisterhoods could 
 take no irrevocable vows, at least, in law. He toyed
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEY. 1 1 3 
 
 with this idea, he could not tell why, giving far 
 more attention to the veiled figure than half-a-dozen 
 unveiled women would have procured from him. 
 
 Foolish and short-sighted mortal! He dreamed 
 and wondered at his dream, and made his ingenious 
 little theory and amused explanation to himself of 
 the mutual reaction of imagination and sensation. 
 How little he knew what eyes were watching him 
 from behind the safe shelter of that heavy black 
 veil! 
 
 For Love and Life. I.
 
 114 FO^ LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Alone. 
 
 Edgar did not well know where to go on his 
 arrival in London. He knew nothing about Lon- 
 don except in its most expensive regions, and the 
 only place to which he could direct the driver 
 of the cab into which he jumped, was the 
 chambers in Piccadilly which he had occupied in 
 his earlier days. He said to himself "For a day or 
 two it cannot matter where I live;" and, besides, 
 the season was over and everything cheap, or so, at 
 least, Edgar thought. 
 
 The first thing he had to do was to see that his 
 lawyers had carried out his directions and paid his 
 debts — the number of wliich ap[)alled him — out of 
 his capital. Decidedly it was time that he should 
 do something, and should shake himself out of those 
 habits of a rich man, which had, in these three 
 years, though he had no idea of it, compromised 
 him to the extent of half his little fortune. This 
 debt he felt he could not trifle with. The more 
 indifferent he was about money, and the better able 
 he was to do without it, the more necessity was 
 there for the clearing off to begin with, of everything 
 in the shape of debt. After all was paid, and the 
 residue settled on the old lady at Loch Arroch,
 
 ALONE. 115 
 
 there remained to him about a hundred pounds in 
 the bank, besides the two ten-pound notes which he 
 had in his pocket-book. "I must not touch the 
 money in the bank," he said to himself, with a 
 prudence which contrasted beautifully with his other 
 extravagances, "that must remain as something to 
 fall back upon. Suppose, for instance, I should 
 be ill," Edgar reasoned with himself, always with a 
 delicious suppressed consciousness of the joke in- 
 volved under the utter gravity and extreme rea- 
 sonableness of his own self-communings, "how 
 necessary it would be to have something to fall 
 back upon!" When he had made this little speech 
 to himself, he subsided into silence, and it v/as not 
 until half-an-hour later that he permitted himself to 
 laugh. 
 
 Both of his own suggestions seemed so oddly 
 impossible to him. To be ill — he, in whose veins 
 the blood ran so lightly, so tunefully, his pulse 
 beating with the calm and continued strength of 
 perfect harmony; or to want a pound or two — he 
 who had possessed unlimited credit and means 
 which he had never exhausted all his life. The 
 change was so great that it affected him almost 
 childishly — as a poor man might be affected by 
 coming into a sudden fortune, or as a very young 
 wife is sometimes affected by the bewildering and 
 laughable, yet certain fact, that she, the other day 
 only a little girl in pinafores, is now at the head of 
 a house, free to give as many orders as she pleases, 
 and sure to be obeyed. The extreme humour of 
 the situation is the first thing that strikes a lively
 
 Il6 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 girl, under these circumstances, and it was the 
 humour of it which struck Edgar: a fact, perhaps, 
 which may lower his character in the reader's eyes. 
 But that, alas, I cannot help, for such as he was, 
 such I must show him, and his character had many 
 defects. Often had he been upbraided that he did 
 not feel vicissitudes which looked like ruin and 
 destruction to minds differently constituted. He 
 did not — he was the most insouciant, the most care- 
 hating of men. Up to tliis period of his life he 
 had found the means, somehow, of getting a smile, 
 or some gleam of fun, out of everything that hap- 
 pened. When he could not manage this the cir- 
 cumstances were very strange indeed, and I suppose 
 he felt it; but at all events, in such cases, he kept 
 his failure to himself. 
 
 As soon as he had refreshed himself and break- 
 fasted, he went out to see his lawyer, who received 
 him with that air of melancholy disappointment 
 which distinguishes all agents who are compelled to 
 carry out what they think the foolish will of their 
 principals: but who submitted the accounts to him, 
 which showed that his directions had been obeyed, 
 explaining everything in a depressed and despondent 
 voice, full of the sense of injury. 
 
 "I am compelled to say, Mr. Earnshaw," said 
 this good man, "that, as you have paid so little 
 attention to our wishes, I and my firm would hence- 
 forward have declined to take charge of your 
 business transactions, if it had been the least likely 
 that you would have had any more business to do; 
 but as this is not possible, or at least probable — "
 
 ALONE. 117 
 
 "You will continue to do it," said Edgar, laugh- 
 ing. "I hope so; it would be kind of you. No, I 
 don't suppose I shall have much more business 
 to do." 
 
 "And may I ask without offence," said Mr. 
 Parchemin, who was an old friend of Edgar's old 
 friend, Mr. Farqakerley, and had taken up the foolish 
 young fellow on the recommendation of that ex- 
 cellent and long-established family solicitor. "May 
 I ask how, now you have given away all your money, 
 you mean to live?" 
 
 "I must work," said Edgar, cheerfully. 
 
 "Clearly; but what can you work atV 
 
 "You have hit the difficulty exactly," said Edgar, 
 laughing. "To tell the truth, I don't know. What 
 do you suppose I could do best? There must be 
 many men in my position, left in the lurch by cir- 
 cumstances — and they must have some way of 
 providing for themselves. What do they generally 
 dol" 
 
 "Go to the dogs," said Mr. Parchemin, succinctly, 
 for he was still offended, and had not yet forgiven 
 his impracticable client. 
 
 "I sha'n't do that," said Edgar as briefly — and 
 with, for the first time, and for one of the first times 
 in his life, a shade of offence on his face. 
 
 "There are a good many other things they try 
 to do," said Mr. Parchemin; "for instance they take 
 pupils — most men feel themselves capable of that 
 when they are driven to it; or they get into a public 
 office, if they have interest and can pass the ex- 
 amination; or they read for the bar if they have
 
 n8 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 friends who can support them for a dozen years; 
 or they write for the papers — " 
 
 "Stop a httle," said Edgar; "I have no friends 
 to support me — I can't write — I don't think I could 
 pass an examination — " 
 
 "After twenty, and unless you've been crammed 
 for the purpose, I don't know anyone who could," 
 said Mr. Parchemin, solemnly. 
 
 "And I doubt whether I could teach anything 
 that any man in his senses would wish to know." 
 
 "I doubt it also," said the lawyer, "judging, if 
 you will pardon me for saying so, by your guidance 
 of your own affairs." 
 
 "But a tutor does not teach boys how to guide 
 their own affairs," said Edgar, recovering his sense 
 of the joke. 
 
 "That is true too. A man may be very wise in 
 giving good advice, and admirable on paper, and 
 yet be fool enough in other respects. There was 
 Goldsmith, for instance. But why shouldn't you 
 write? Plenty of stupid fellows write in the papers. 
 You are not stupid — " 
 
 "Thanks," cried Edgar, laughing. 
 
 "Of course, you have read what Thackeray 
 says on that subject — in 'Pendennis,' you know — 
 how it is all a knack that anybody can learn; and 
 it pays very well, I have always heard. There is 
 no sort of nonsense that people will not read. I 
 don't see why you should not try the newspapers; 
 if you know any one on the staff of the Tunes, for 
 instance — that is a splendid opening — or even the 
 News or the Telegraph"
 
 ALONE. 119 
 
 "But, alas, I don't know anyone." 
 
 "Do you mean to say you never met any of 
 those press fellows'? when you were a great man, 
 you know, when you were fashionable? At your 
 club, for instance? You must have met some of 
 them. Think! Why, they go everywhere, it's their 
 trade; they must have news. And, by the way, 
 they have made their own of you first and last; the 
 Arden estate, and the law-suit that was to be, and 
 the noble behaviour of the unfortunate gentle- 
 man, &c., &c. You have figured in many a para- 
 graph. Some of them you must know." 
 
 "Newmarch used to dabble in literature," said 
 Edgar, doubtfully. 
 
 "Newmarch — Lord Newmarch! Why, that is 
 better still. He's in the Ministry, a rising young 
 fellow, with the Manchester interest, and a few 
 hundred thousands a-year behind him. He's your 
 very man; he'll get you something; a school-in- 
 spectorship, or something of that sort, at the very 
 least. What is he, by-the-bye? Education and that 
 sort of thing is his hobby, so, of course, he's put 
 somewhere, like Dogberry, where there shall be no 
 occasion for such vanities. Ah! I thought so; 
 Foreign Office. He knows about as much of 
 foreign politics, my dear Sir, as my office boy. 
 That's why he's put in; that's the present people's 
 way." 
 
 "I don't think I should like to ask a favour of 
 Newmarch," said Edgar, with hesitation; and there 
 suddenly rose in his mind a spiritual presence which 
 he had never before recognised nor expected to
 
 120 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 see, a something which was Pride. He himself was 
 so unaffectedly surprised by the apparition that he 
 did not know how to encounter it; but sat silent, 
 wondering, and unable to understand the new 
 dilemma in which he found himself. No; New- 
 march was the last person of whom he should like 
 to ask a favour, he said to himself. 
 
 "Is there any one else whom you would like 
 better?" said Mr. Parchemin, somewhat satirically. 
 "So far as we have got, Lord Newmarch's is 
 much the most practicable aid you could get. 
 Would you prefer to ask your favour from any- 
 one else?" 
 
 "You are quite right," said Edgar, rousing him- 
 self. "The fact is, I don't like asking favours at 
 all. I suppose I expected the world to come to me 
 and offer me a living, hat in hand. Of course, it 
 is absurd." 
 
 "Lord Newmarch is probably too high and 
 mighty to prefer a friend unless he is sure it will 
 be for the public interest, &c.," said Mr. Parchemin. 
 "He will say as much, at least, you may be sure 
 of that. And I advise you to be prepared for a 
 great deal of this sort of lofty rubbish; but don't 
 pay any attention to it. Don't take offence." 
 
 Edgar laughed; but the laugh was unexplainable 
 to anyone but himself He had not been in the 
 habit of taking offence; he had never borne any- 
 body a grudge, so far as he knew, in his life; but 
 along with the new-born pride which had arisen in 
 him, was the faculty of offence coming too? These 
 were the first fruits of poverty, spectres which had
 
 ALONE. 121 
 
 never crossed his sunny pathway before. And 
 though he laughed, not with amusement, but in a 
 kind of dazed acknowledgment of the incongruity 
 of things, the sense of the joke began to fail in 
 Edgar's mind. The whimsical, pleasant fun of the 
 Avhole proceeding disappeared before those appari- 
 tions of Anger and Pride. Alas, was it possible 
 that such a vulgar material change as the loss of 
 money could bring such evil things into being? His 
 friendly, gentle soul was appalled. He laughed 
 with pain, not with amusement, because of the 
 strange unlikeness of this new state of mind to any- 
 thing he had known before. 
 
 "Newmarch, I suppose, is not in town; he can't 
 be in town at this time of the year," he said, with 
 a momentary hope of postponing his sufferings at 
 least. 
 
 "Ah, my dear Sir," said the lawyer, "he is one 
 of the new brooms that sweep clean. Besides, there 
 is something going on between Russia and Prussia 
 that wajits watching, and it's Lord Newmarch's busi- 
 ness to be on the spot. If you'll take my advice, 
 you'll see him at once. Before the season begins 
 he can't have so many applicants. Go, if you'll 
 take my advice, at once." 
 
 Edgar winced, as a man cannot but wince who 
 is thrown into the class of "applicants" at a blow. 
 Why shouldn't he be an applicant? he said to him- 
 self as he went out. Better men than he had been 
 obliged to kick their heels in great men's ante- 
 rooms; but fortunately the reign of patrons was so 
 far over now. Was it over? While human nature
 
 122 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 continued could it ever be over? or would it not be 
 necessary as long as the world lasted that there 
 should be some men holding out the hand to ask, 
 and others to give? Not so very long ago Lord 
 Newmarch had come to him, Edgar, hat in hand, 
 so to speak, wanting not place or living, but the 
 good graces of a rich and fair young lady with 
 whom her brother might advance him. Her brother! 
 There gleamed up before Edgar, as he walked 
 through the dusty October streets, the sudden 
 glimpse he had seen at the roadside station of 
 Margaret waiting for her brother. Alas, yes! Most 
 people had sisters, if not something still dearer, to 
 greet them, to hear the account of all they had 
 done, and consult what remained to do. I do not 
 know how it was that at this moment something 
 brought into Edgar's mind the two ladies who had 
 travelled with him from Scotland. Probably the 
 mere word Sister was enough; or perhaps it was 
 because one of them, the elder, was just turning 
 the corner of the street, and met him two minutes 
 after. She smiled with a momentary hesitation 
 (she was forty at the least), and then stopped to 
 speak. 
 
 "I had not a chance to thank you for getting 
 our cab and looking after our luggage. It was 
 very kind; but my young friend was in a great 
 hurry." 
 
 "She was, I suppose, of your sisterhood, too," 
 said Edgar, with a curiosity which was quite un- 
 justifiable, and for which he could not account. 
 
 "Who? Miss . Oh! dear no," said the
 
 ALONE. 123 
 
 good-humoured Sister. "She is what we call an 
 associate, and does what she can for our charges, 
 the poor people — in -something like our dress; but 
 it is far from being the dress of a professed sister," 
 the excellent woman added, adjusting her cross and 
 collar. "I daresay you will meet her some day in 
 society, and you need not tell her great friends that 
 a Sister of the Charity House made her travel third 
 class. We always do it; but fine people do not like 
 to know." 
 
 "I should have to betray myself," said Edgar 
 laughing, "if I betrayed you." 
 
 "That is true," said the Sister. "If you ever 
 pass by the Charity House at Amerton ask for 
 Sister Susan, and I shall be glad to show you over 
 it. I assure you it is something to see." 
 
 "I shall come some day or other," said Edgar, 
 not quite knowing what he said. Who was she 
 then, the girl with the veil who kept herself 
 shrouded from him? She had not seemed yarc>«f^^ 
 or unfriendly. She had waited quietly while he 
 did what he could for them at the railway station. 
 She had even touched his hand lightly as he put 
 her into the cab; but there had seemed to be three 
 or four veils between him and her countenance. 
 During all the long journey he had seen of her 
 nothing but the little white hand stealing from 
 under the cover of her cloak; but somehow his 
 dream came back to him, and wove itself in with 
 the semblance of this veiled stranger. Absurd! but 
 sometimes an absurdity is pleasant and comforting, 
 and so it was in this case. He could not have
 
 124 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 said what fancies came into his head, or if he had 
 any fancies. No, he was past dreaming, past all 
 that kind of boyish nonsense, he said to himself. 
 But yet the recollection of the veiled maiden 
 was pleasant to him, he could scarcely have told 
 why. 
 
 Lord Newmarch was at his office, and he was 
 ready after some time to see his visitor, whom he 
 greeted with sufficient friendliness and good feeling. 
 Lord Newmarch had been very democratic in his 
 day; he had taken workmen in their working 
 clothes to dine with him at his club in his hot 
 youth, and had made them very uncomfortable, and 
 acquired a delightful reputation himself for ad- 
 vanced ideas; which was a very great thing for a 
 new lord, whose grandfather had been a small 
 shopkeeper, to do. But somehow he was a great 
 deal more at his ease with the working men than 
 with his former friend and equal, now reduced to 
 a perfectly incredible destitution of those ordinary 
 circumstances which form the very clothing and 
 skin of most men. Edgar was in soul and being, 
 no doubt, exactly the same as ever; he had the 
 same face, the same voice, the same thought and 
 feelings. Had he lost only his money Lord New- 
 march would not have felt the difficulty half so 
 great, for indeed a great many people do (what- 
 ever the world may say) lose their money, without 
 being dropped or discredited by society. But some- 
 thing a great deal more dreadful had happened in 
 Edgar's case. He had lost, so to speak, himself; 
 and how to behave towards a man who a little
 
 ALONE. 125 
 
 while ago had been his equal, nay his superior, and 
 now was not his equal, nor anybody's, yet the same 
 man, puzzled the young statesman beyond expres- 
 sion. This is a very different sort of thing from 
 entertaining a couple of working men to the much 
 astonishment (delightful homage to one's pecu- 
 liarities) of one's club. The doctrine that all men 
 are brothers comes in with charming piquancy in 
 the one case, but is very much less easy to deal 
 with in the other. Lord Newmarch got up with 
 some perturbation from his seat when Edgar 
 came in. He shook him warmly by the hand, 
 and said, 
 
 "Oh, Arden — ah, Earnshaw," looking at the 
 card. "I beg your pardon. I am delighted to 
 see you." 
 
 And then they both sat down and looked at 
 each other after the warmth of this accost, and 
 found, as so often happens, that they had nothing 
 more to say. I do not know a more embarrassing 
 position in ordinary circumstances, even when there 
 is no additional and complicating embarrassment. 
 You meet your old friend, you shake hands, you 
 commit yourself to an expression of delight — and 
 then you are silent. He has sailed away from you 
 and you from him since you last met, and there is 
 nothing to be said between you, beyond that first 
 unguarded and uncalled for warmth of salutation, 
 the emblem of an intimacy past. This is how Lord 
 Newmarch accosted Edgar; and Edgar accepted the 
 salutation with a momentary glow at his breast. 
 And then they sat down and looked at each other;
 
 126 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 they had given forth all the feeling they had toward 
 each other, and how could they express sentiments 
 which had no existence 1 They had to glide in- 
 voluntarily into small talk about the empty state of 
 town, and the new Minister's devotion to business, 
 and the question between Prussia and Russia which 
 he had to keep at his post to watch. Lord New- 
 march allowed, with dignified resignation, that it 
 was hard upon him, and that an Under Secretary 
 of State has much that is disagreeable to bear; and 
 then he added politely, but thinking to himself — 
 oh, how much easier were two, nay half-a-dozen 
 working-men, than this! — an inquiry as to the 
 nature of his old friend's occupation. "What," said 
 the statesman, crossing and uncrossing his legs two 
 or three times in succession to get the easiest posi- 
 tion, and with a look at his shoes which expressed 
 eloquently all the many events that had passed 
 since their last meeting, "What are you doing 
 yourself? "
 
 A NOBLE PATRON. 12 7 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A Noble Patron. 
 
 When two men who have met in careless inter- 
 course, without any possibility of obliging or being 
 obliged, except so far as interchange of courtesy 
 goes, come suddenly together in relations so changed, 
 the easy question, "what are you doing?" spoken 
 by the one whose position has not altered, to the 
 one who has suffered downfall, has a new world of 
 significance in it, of tacit encouragement or repul- 
 sion of kindly or adverse meaning. It means either 
 "Can I help youl" or, "Don't think of asking me 
 for help." If the downfallen one has need of aid 
 and patronage, the faintest inflection of voice thrills 
 him with expectation or disappointment — and even 
 if he is independent, it is hard if he does not get a 
 sting of mortification out of the suspected bene- 
 volence or absence of it. Edgar listened to Lord 
 Newmarch's questions, with a sudden rising in his 
 mind of many sentiments quite unfamiliar to him. 
 He was ashamed — though he had nothing to be 
 ashamed of — angry, though no offence had been 
 given him — and tingled with excitement for which 
 there was no reason. How important it had become 
 to him all at once that this other man, for whom 
 he felt no particular respect, should be favourable
 
 128 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 to him, and how difficult to reconcile himself to the 
 process of asking, he who had never done anything 
 but give! 
 
 "I am doing nothing," he said, after a momen- 
 tary pause, which seemed long to him, but which 
 Lord Newmarch did not so much as notice, "and 
 to tell the truth, I had a great mind to come cap 
 in hand to you, to ask for something. I want occu- 
 pation — and to speak frankly, a living at the same 
 time. Not pay without work, but yet pay." 
 
 "To be sure," said Lord Newmarch; but his 
 countenance fell a little. A new applicant cannot 
 but appear a natural enemy to every official per- 
 sonage noted for high-mindedness, and a sublime 
 superiority to jobs. "I should think something might 
 be found for you — in one department or other. The 
 question is what would you like — or perhaps — what 
 could you do?" 
 
 "I can do anything a man can usually do, who 
 has never done anything in his life," said Edgar, 
 trying to laugh. "You know how little that is — a 
 great deal that is absolutely useless — nothing that 
 is much good." 
 
 "Yes," said Lord Newmarch, looking much more 
 grave than his applicant did, whose levity he had 
 always disapproved of. "It is very unfortunate that 
 what we call the education of a gentleman should 
 be so utterly unpractical. And, as you are aware, 
 all our clerkships now-a-days are disposed of by 
 competitive examination. I do not commit myself 
 as to its satisfactory character as a test of capacity 
 — there are very different opinions I know on that
 
 A NOBLE PATRON. I29 
 
 subject; but the fact is one we must bow to. Pro- 
 bably you would not care at your age to submit to 
 such an ordeal?" 
 
 "I don't care what I submit to," said Edgar, 
 which was totally untrue, for his blood was boiling 
 in the most irrational way, at the thought that this 
 man whom he had laughed at so often, should be 
 a Minister of State, while he himself was weighing 
 the probabilities of securing a clerkship in the great 
 man's office. Nothing could be more wrong or 
 foolish, for to be sure Lord Newmarch had worked 
 for his position, and had his father's wealth and in- 
 fluence behind him; but he had not generally im- 
 pressed upon his acquaintances a very profound 
 respect for his judgment. "But I don't think I could 
 pass any examination," he added with an uneasy 
 laugh. 
 
 "Few men can, without special preparation," 
 said the Under Secretary, whose face grew gradually 
 longer and longer. "Do you know I think the best 
 thing I can do will be to give you a note to the 
 Home Secretary, who is a very good friend of mine, 
 Lord Millboard. You must have met him I should 
 think — somewhere — in — " 
 
 "Better days," said Edgar, struck by a sudden 
 perception of the ludicrous. Yes, that was the 
 phrase — he had seen better days; and his com- 
 panion felt the appropriateness of it, though he 
 hesitated to employ the word. 
 
 "Yes, indeed; I am sure no one was ever more 
 regretted," said Lord Newmarch, spreading before 
 him a sheet of note-paper with a huge official stamp. 
 
 For Love and Life. /. 9
 
 130 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "I don't think Arden half fills your place. All his 
 interest goes to the other side. You hear I sup- 
 pose sometimes from your sis — I mean from Mrs. 
 Arden? What kind of post shall I say you wish to 
 haver' 
 
 "Say out the word you were going to say," said 
 Edgar, "my sister! I have not seen anyone who 
 knew her for ages. No, I thought it best not to 
 keep up any correspondence. It might have grown 
 a burden to her; but it does me good to hear you 
 say my sister. How is she looking*? Is she happy? 
 It is so long since I have heard even the name of 
 Clare." 
 
 "Mrs. Arden is quite well, 1 believe," said Lord 
 Newmarch doubtfully, not knowing whether "the 
 family" might quite like inquiries to be made for 
 her by her quondam brother. He felt almost as a 
 man does who is caught interfering in domestic 
 strife, and felt that Clare's husband might possibly 
 take it badly. "She has a couple of babies of 
 course you know. She looked very well when I 
 saw her last. Happy! yes, I suppose so — as every- 
 body is happy. In the meantime, please, what must 
 I say to Lord Millboard? Shall I recall to him 
 your — former position? And what shall I say you 
 would like to have? He has really a great deal of 
 patronage; and can do much more for you if he 
 likes than I." 
 
 "Tell him I have seen better days," said Edgar 
 with forlorn gaiety, "I have met him, but I never 
 ventured to approach so great a potentate. Tell 
 him I am not very particular what kind of work I
 
 A NOBLE PATRON. I3I 
 
 do, SO long as it is something to live by. Tell him 
 • — but to be sure, if you introduce me to him I can 
 do all that myself." 
 
 "That is true," said Lord Newmarch with a little 
 sigh of relief, and he began to write his note. 
 When, however, he had got two or three lines writ- 
 ten in his large hand, he resumed talking, though 
 his pen still ran over the paper. "You have been 
 abroad I heard. Perhaps you can tell me what is 
 the feeling in Germany about the proposed unifica- 
 tion? I am rather new to my post, and to tell the 
 truth it is not the post I should have chosen; but 
 in the service of the country one cannot always 
 follow one's favourite path. 'A gentleman of high 
 breeding and unblemished character, whose judg- 
 ment could be relied upon,' that will do, I think. 
 Millboard should find something to suit you if any 
 one can. But to return to what we were talking 
 about. I should very much like to have your 
 opinion as an impartial observer, of the attitude of 
 Bavaria and the rest, and how they take Bismarck's 
 scheme?" 
 
 "Does not the principle of competitive exami- 
 nation exist in Lord Millboard's department? " said 
 Edgar. 
 
 "Not to the same extent," said Newmarch. "He 
 has always a great deal in his power. A word from 
 Millboard goes a long way; he has a hand officially 
 or non-officially in a great many things. For in- 
 stance, I like to consult him myself before making 
 an important appointment; he knows everything. 
 He might get you some commissionership or other. 
 
 9*
 
 132 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 Some of them are very good things; a literary man 
 got one just the other day, by Millboard's influence. 
 Did you read for the bar? Nol Ah, that's a pity. 
 But you might, perhaps, be made an inspector of 
 schools; very high qualifications are not required 
 for such an appointment. By-the-by, now that I 
 think of it," he continued, pausing after he had 
 folded his letter, and looking up, "you were brought 
 up abroad? You can speak all the modern lan- 
 guages; you don't object to travel. I believe, after 
 all, you are the very man I want." 
 
 Here he paused, and Edgar waited too, attentive 
 and trying to be amused. As what did the great 
 man want him"? As courier for a travelling party? 
 While Lord Newmarch pondered, Edgar, puzzled 
 and not very much delighted with his position, had 
 hard ado to keep just as quiet and respectful as 
 became a man seeking his living. At last the Minister 
 spoke. 
 
 "What I was thinking of," he said, "was the post 
 of Queen's Messenger. You know what that is] It 
 is not badly paid, and the life is amusing. I cannot 
 tell you how important it would be to me to have 
 a man I could thoroughly trust in such a position. 
 You would be simply invaluable to me; I could 
 rely upon you for telling me how people were really 
 thinking in foreign capitals. I cannot, of course, in 
 my position, travel about as a private person can, 
 and there are a great many things I am most anxious 
 to get up." 
 
 Here he paused for some reply; but what could 
 Edgar reply? Lord Newmarch was not thinking of
 
 A NOBLE PATRON. I 33 
 
 him, but of his own need of information. Should 
 the apphcant distract the Minister's thoughts back 
 from this greater channel to that of his own private 
 case? or should he throw his own case, as it were, 
 overboard, and give all his sympathy to the Under- 
 Secretary's elevated needs'? The position was comical, 
 but perhaps Edgar was not sufficiently at ease in his 
 mind to see its comic side. 
 
 "You see how important it is," Lord Newmarch 
 said, very gravely, looking at Edgar for sympathy; 
 "everything depends upon genuine information — 
 what the people are thinking, not the on dits that 
 fly about in diplomatic circles. My dear — ehl — 
 Earnshaw," he cried, with enthusiasm, and a glance 
 at Edgar's card, "I can't tell you how much use you 
 might be to me." 
 
 Edgar could not restrain a hasty laugh, which, 
 however, had not much enjoyment in it. "I am 
 delighted to hear it," he said. 
 
 "Your name shall be put upon the list directly," 
 said Lord Newmarch. "One of our men, I know, 
 talks of resigning; and the very first vacancy, I think 
 I may almost say, without further reflection, shall 
 be yours. What are you going to do with yourself 
 for the autumn? I leave town next week, I hope, 
 but I shall be back before Christmas; and if you 
 don't hear from me by that time " 
 
 "Before Christmas!" cried Edgar; he could not 
 prevent his voice from expressing a little dismay. 
 What was he to do till Christmas? Live upon his 
 two ten-pound notes? or break into his precious 
 little capital? or The situation appalled him.
 
 134 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 I suppose he thought, having once found something 
 which he could be so veiy useful in, that it was in 
 Newmarch's power to give him an appointment at 
 once. 
 
 "Of course," said Newmarch, benignantly, "if 
 you are in the country, don't come to town on pur- 
 pose. Any time in spring would probably do; but 
 if you don't hear from me in a few months, come 
 and see me. When so much important business is 
 passing through one's hands, a little thing — and 
 especially a personal matter — is apt to slip out of 
 one's head." 
 
 "To be sure," said Edgar, rising hastily, "and I 
 am taking up, about a mere personal matter, your 
 valuable time, which belongs to the nation." 
 
 "Oh, don't apologise. I am delighted to see 
 you. And you can't think of how much use you 
 might be to me," said the great man, earnestly, 
 shaking hands with the small one, impressing upon 
 him, almost with tears in his eyes, the importance 
 he might come to, "if this man will only be so good 
 as to resign." 
 
 Edgar went away with a singing in his ears, 
 which he could scarcely understand at first. In all 
 his kindly careless life there had been so little oc- 
 casion for that thrilling of the blood to the brain, 
 in defence of the Self assailed, which now at once 
 stimulated, and made him dizzy. He scarcely knew 
 Avhat it meant, neither could he realize the bitter- 
 ness that came into his heart against his will, a 
 most unusual guest. He went out from Lord New- 
 march's office, and walked long and far before he
 
 A NOBLE PATRON. 1 35 
 
 quite came to himself. Walking has often a similar 
 effect to that which the poet tells us rhyme has, 
 "the sad mechanic exercise, like dull narcotics 
 numbing pain." When he gradually emerged from 
 the haze and heat of this first disagreeable encoun- 
 ter, Edgar took characteristic refuge in the serio- 
 comic transformation which the whole matter under- 
 went in Lord Newmarch's hands. Instead of a 
 simple question of employment for Edgar Earnshaw, 
 it became the great man's own business, a way of 
 informing him as to the points in which his educa- 
 tion was defective. Finding employment for Edgar 
 interested him moderately; but finding information 
 for himself, fired his soul; — the comical part of the 
 whole being that he expected the other, whose per- 
 sonal interests were so closely concerned, to feel 
 this superior view of the question as deeply as he 
 himself did, and to put it quite above the vulgar 
 jDreliminary of something to live by. To serve Lord 
 Newmarch, and through him the Government, and 
 through the Government the country, was not that, 
 Edgar asked himself at last, feeling finally able to 
 laugh again, a much more important matter than 
 securing bread and butter for our thriftless man? 
 As soon as he had laughed he was himself again, 
 and the after processes of thought were more easy. 
 By-and-by he persuaded himself that on the 
 whole Newmarch had behaved quite naturally, and 
 not unkindly. "As a matter of course," he said to 
 himself, "every man's own affairs are more interest- 
 ing to him than any other man's." It was quite 
 natural that Newmarch should think of his own
 
 136 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 business as most important. It ivas the most im- 
 portant, Edgar continued, in his ingenious and 
 pecuhar style of reasoning, since it was the business 
 of the country — whereas Edgar's business was only 
 his own, and of importance to nobody but himself. 
 Equally, of course, it was more important to secure 
 a good public servant, even in the humble capacity 
 of a Queen's Messenger, than to secure bread and 
 butter for Edgar Earnshaw; and, on the whole, 
 there was a great deal to be said for Newmarch, 
 Avho was a good fellow, and had been generally 
 friendly, and not too patronizing. The only worm- 
 wood that remained in his thoughts by the time 
 evening approached, and he turned his steps to- 
 wards his club in search of dinner, concerned the 
 long delay which apparently must occur before this 
 promised advancement could reach him. Before 
 Christmas; Edgar had very little idea how much a 
 man could live upon in London; but he did not 
 think it very likely that he could get through two 
 months upon twenty pounds. And even if that 
 should be possible, with his little knowledge and 
 careless habits, what should he do in the mean- 
 time? Should he linger about town, doing nothing, 
 waiting for this possible appointment, which might, 
 perhaps, never come to anything? This was a course 
 of procedure which prudence and inclination, and 
 so much experience as he possessed, alike con- 
 demned. Hanging on, waiting till something should 
 turn up! Was this all he was good for? he asked 
 himself, with a flush on his face. If only the other 
 man would be so obliging as to resign, or to be
 
 A NOBLE PATRON. I 37 
 
 killed in a railway accident, or swamped in a steam- 
 boat, or to take some foreign fever or other, of the 
 well-known kinds, which haunt those places to which 
 Queen's Messengers are habitually sent! This was 
 a lugubrious prayer, and I don't think the actual 
 Queen's Messenger against whom the anathema was 
 addressed would have been much the worse for 
 Edgar's ill-wishes. 
 
 These virulent and malignant sentiments helped 
 him to another laugh, and this was one of the cases 
 in which for a man of his temperament to laugh 
 was salvation. What a good thing it is in all cir- 
 cumstances! and from how many troubles, angers 
 and ridiculousnesses this blessed power of laughter 
 saves us! Man, I suppose, among the fast narrow- 
 ing list of his specialities, still preserves that of 
 being the only animal who laughs. Dogs some- 
 times sneer; but the genial power of this humorous 
 expression of one's sense of all life's oddities and 
 puzzles belongs only to man. 
 
 There were few people about at the club where 
 he dined alone, and the few acquaintances who re- 
 cognised him were very shy about ^is name, not 
 knowing how to address him, and asking each other 
 in corners, as he divined, what the deuce was his 
 real name, now it had been found out that he was 
 not Arden? for it must be remembered that he had 
 gone abroad immediately after his downfall, and 
 had never been known in society under his new 
 name, which by this time had become sufficiently 
 familiar to himself. His dinner, poor fellow, was 
 rather a doleful one, and accompanied by many
 
 130 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 thoughts. He went to one of the theatres after- 
 wards, where the interregnum between one season 
 and another still lasted, and foolishness more foolish 
 even than that which is permitted at other periods, 
 reigned riotous. Edgar came away wearied and 
 disgusted before the performance was over, and had 
 walked about aimlessly for some time before he 
 recollected that he had travelled all night, and had 
 a right to be tired — upon which recollection his 
 aimless steps changed their character, and he went 
 off briskly and thankfully through the bustling 
 streets under the stars, which were sharp with night 
 frost as they had been at Loch Arroch. Looking 
 up at them as they glowed and sparkled over the 
 dark house-tops in London, it was natural to think 
 what was going on at Loch Arroch now. The kye 
 would be "suppered," and Bell would have fastened 
 the ever open door, and little Jeanie upstairs would 
 be reading her "chapter" to her grandmother be- 
 fore the old lady went to bed. He had seen that 
 little, tender, pious scene more than once, when 
 Granny was feeble, and he had gone to her room 
 to say good-night. How sweet the low Scotch 
 voice, with its soft broad vowels, had sounded, 
 reading reverently those sacred verses, better than 
 invocation of angels to keep the house from harm! 
 What a peaceful, homely little house! all in it rest- 
 ing tranquil and untroubled beneath the twinkling 
 stars. He went home to his rooms, through streets 
 where very different scenes were going on, hushed 
 by the thought of the rural calm and stillness, and 
 half thinking the dark shadows he felt around him
 
 A NOBLE PATRON. 139 
 
 must be the dew-breathing shadows of the hills. 
 And when Edgar got up to his bachelor refuge in 
 Piccadilly, which he called home for the nonce for 
 lack of a better, he did the very wisest thing a 
 tired man could do, he went to bed; where he 
 slept the moment his head touched the pillow, that 
 sleep which does not always attend the innocent. 
 The morn, as says our homely proverb in Scotland, 
 would bring a new day.
 
 140 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Waiting for a Situation. 
 
 Edgar's calculations, which he began next 
 morning, and carried on for a great many days 
 after, were of a kind which many men have made 
 before him, that it would be foolish to call them 
 original. He made elaborate calculations upon 
 various pieces of paper, by which he made out that 
 with economy, he could perfectly well live upon his 
 twenty pounds for two months. To be sure his 
 rent in these rooms in Piccadilly was preposterously 
 high, and could not by any means be brought 
 within that calculation. But then he reflected to 
 himself that moving is always expensive — (he pos- 
 sessed two portmanteaus, a box of books, and a 
 dressing-case, all of which could have gone in a 
 cab) — and that very probably he might fall among 
 thieves, and get into the hands of one of those 
 proverbial landladies who steal the tea, and drink 
 the brandy, in which case it would be no economy 
 at all to save a few shillings on rent. In short, 
 Edgar said to himself, loftily, these petty little 
 savings never tell. You are much less comfortable, 
 and it is just as expensive. For the same reason, 
 he felt it was much the best way to continue dining 
 at the club. "It may be sixpence dearer, but it is
 
 WAITING FOR A SITUATION. I4I 
 
 SO infinitely more comfortable," he said to himself; 
 and, after all, comfort was worth an additional six- 
 pence. By striking off the rent of his rooms alto- 
 gether from the calculation, it seemed to him that 
 he could afford his dinners at the club; and if he 
 got his appointment by Christmas, as he certainly 
 must, it would be so easy to pay the lodgings in a 
 lump. He jotted down these calculations so often, 
 and upon so many bits of paper, that he grew to 
 believe in them as if they had been a revelation. 
 By this it will appear that his doubts about hanging 
 on, and waiting for the possible Queen's Mes- 
 sengership which he had at first set down as out of 
 the question, did not continue to appear so im- 
 practicable as time went on. He said to himself 
 every morning that it was absurd, but still he did 
 nothing else, and gradually the Queen's Messengei*- 
 ship grew to be a certain thing to him, upon which 
 he was to enter at Christmas, or a little later. After 
 all, what did it matter how he spent a week or two 
 of his time? At eight-and-twenty, life does not ap- 
 pear so short as some people have found it. A 
 week or two, a month or two, were neither here nor 
 there. 
 
 I can scarcely tell how Edgar occupied himself 
 during these wintry days. For one thing, he had 
 not been accustomed to regular occupation, and 
 the desultory life was familiar to him. The days 
 glided past he scarcely knew how. He did a great 
 m.any perfectly virtuous and laudable actions. He 
 went to the British Museum, and to all the collec- 
 tions of pictures; he even, in sheer absence of any-
 
 142 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 thing else to do, went to the Charity House, which 
 was a little way out of London, and was taken 
 over it by Sister Susan, his travelling companion, 
 and for an hour or so was seized upon by the 
 charity fever, which is very contagious, and for 
 some days kept thinking, as he went about the 
 streets, of all the miserable souls — not to say 
 bodies — consuming there, in dirt, and disease, and 
 ignorance. I do not mean to give any account of 
 the Charity-House — at least, not here and at this 
 moment. But Sister Susan undeniably exercised a 
 powerful attraction over the young man, as she dis- 
 coursed in her cheery voice of her orphans, and 
 her patients, and her penitents, all of which classes 
 Avere collected round and in "the House." She 
 was not "the Mother," who was rather a great per- 
 sonage, but she was one of the elders in the Sister- 
 hood, and her conventual talk was very amusing to 
 Edgar, who was not used to it. He did all he 
 could to make her talk of the journey in which 
 they had been fellow-travellers, and of her young 
 companion; and Sister Susan was cunningly open 
 in certain particulars: 
 
 Yes, she had been in Scotland, in the North, 
 where it was thought things were ripening for a 
 great work, and where it had been suggested a 
 Sisterhood might be of use in helping to restore a 
 benighted people to Christian unity in the bosom 
 of the afflicted Church of Scotland, the only real 
 representative of Apostolic Christianity among the 
 Presbyterians, who usurp even that faithful remnant's 
 name. But it did not carry out their expectations,
 
 WAITING FOR A SITUATION. 1 43 
 
 Sister Susan allowed. The Presbyterians were very 
 obstinate and bigoted. Poor creatures, they pre- 
 ferred their own way, though it could lead to no- 
 thing but darkness; and the idea had to be re- 
 signed. 
 
 "Was your companion with you on your mis- 
 sion? Miss- I forget what you said was her 
 
 name," said deceitful Edgar. 
 
 Sister Susan shook her head. 
 
 "She has not sufficient experience for that," she 
 said, decidedly. "No, no, no. We must not employ 
 new beginners in such delicate work. She was on 
 a visit, and was anxious to get home. I took 
 charge of her at Lady — I mean at the request of a 
 relation of hers; and I made her do a little bit of 
 self-denial, as you saw," said Sister Susan, laughing, 
 "which is an excellent thing always — not very com- 
 fortable for the body, perhaps, but excellent for the 
 soul." 
 
 "Do you think so?" said Edgar, whose present 
 experience was not much in that way, whose giv- 
 ings up had hitherto cost him little, and who had 
 begun to suspect that, notwithstanding all that had 
 happened to him, and all that he had bestowed 
 upon others, he had not even begun yet to find out 
 what self-denial meant. 
 
 "Not a doubt of it," said Sister Susan. She 
 was so sure of everything that it was a pleasure to 
 see her nod her confident little head, and cross her 
 hands. "She laughs about it now, and makes a 
 great joke; though, after all, she says it was a cheat, 
 and the third class was quite as good as the first
 
 144 ^OR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 — no originals in it, nor genuine poor people — only 
 you." 
 
 "Did she know me?" 
 
 The question burst from him in spite of him- 
 self, and it had a somewhat uncomfortable effect 
 on Sister Susan. 
 
 "Know you?" she said. "What — what — a 
 curious question, Mr. Earnshaw! Now, how could 
 she know you? You never saw her before." 
 
 "I suppose not," said Edgar, doubtfully. 
 
 "Why, you know you never did," said Sister 
 Susan, with her usual confident tone, and indeed 
 Edgar felt that she must be right. "You took her 
 for a Sister," she added, with a merry laugh. 
 
 "How should I know the difference?" asked 
 piteously the young man. 
 
 "Why, she had not this, nor this, nor this," said 
 the Sister, triumphantly touching one part of her 
 dress after another. "She had on a simple black 
 dress, and cloak, and veil — that was all. A good 
 little girl," she continued, "our orphans are all fond 
 of her, and she is very nice to those young sisters 
 of hers, who are much more taken out now-a-days 
 than she is, and carry everything before them — 
 especially since she went off so much, poor dear." 
 
 "Has she gone off?" Edgar asked, more and 
 more interested, he could scarcely tell why. 
 
 "Oh, dreadfully; lost her pretty colour, and her 
 hair used to come out in handfuls; she has been 
 obliged to have it cut off to save it. She is not 
 like what she was, poor thing; but I hope," added 
 Sister Susan devoutly, "that thinking so much more
 
 WAITING FOR A SITLIATION. 145 
 
 seriously than she used to do, the change will be 
 of great benefit to her soul." 
 
 "Poor Miss — ! You have not told me her 
 name," said Edgar. 
 
 "Haven't 11" said Sister Susan. "Dear, dear, 
 there is the bell for chapel, and I can't stay with 
 you any longer. There are a few benches near the 
 door where strangers are allowed to go, if you wish 
 to stay for evensong." 
 
 Edgar stayed, chiefly, I fear, out of mere list- 
 lessness, and took his place in the corner by the 
 door allotted to Philistines of the male gender, with 
 much submission and docility. The little chapel 
 was very richly decorated, the light intercepted by 
 small painted windows, the walls one mass of mural 
 ornament. He compared it in his imagination, 
 with a smile, to the bare little convent chapels he 
 had seen and heard of in countries where the in- 
 stitution appeared more natural. Here there was a 
 profusion of ecclesiastical luxury, an absolute parade 
 of decoration. It struck him with a double sense 
 of incongruity, but there was no one to whom he 
 could express this evil sentiment: Sister Susan did 
 not appear again as he had hoped, and he wended 
 his way back to town with some additional informa- 
 tion, which he had not possessed when he left. 
 
 AVhy should he be so curious about Miss , the 
 
 nameless onel He had thought her another Sister, 
 and entertained no profuse curiosity in respect to 
 her at first; but now it seemed to him that only a 
 little more light might make her visible to him. 
 There was no reason why he should find her out. 
 
 For Love and Life. I. lO
 
 146 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 or why he should wish to do so; but great is the 
 perversity of human nature — perhaps this was the 
 special reason why the thought occupied him so 
 much. 
 
 It was very strange to so friendly a soul to have 
 no friends whom he could go to, whom he could 
 talk to, no friendly house where the door would 
 open to him, and faces smile at his sight. It is 
 true that for three years he had been severed, to a 
 great degree, from domestic pleasures, which do 
 not thrive at foreign centres of cosmopolitan resort 
 — but yet he had never been without a large circle 
 of acquaintances, and had occasionally seen the old 
 friends of his boyhood here and there; but in Lon- 
 don, in October and November, whom could he 
 expect to see? The stray man who dropped in 
 now and then at the club, was on the wing between 
 two country houses, or was going to join a party 
 somewhere, or home to his people. Some men, of 
 course, must live in London, but these men, I pre- 
 sume, did not go much to their club, or else they 
 were so little among tlie number of l^dgar's friends 
 that they did not count. Now and then one would 
 join him at dinner, or in one of the long walks he 
 took, and he made a friend or two at the Museum, 
 among the books and prints. But he was like an 
 Australian emigrant, or other exile in savage places. 
 These were all men, and he never saw the face of 
 a woman except in the streets or shops, unless it 
 was his landlady, who did not interest him. 
 
 How strangely different from the old days, in 
 which so many fair women would smile and listen
 
 WAITING FOR A SITUATION. I47 
 
 to the young man who was at once so rich and so 
 original, a great landed proprietor, with the opinions 
 of a revolutionary. It was not his downfall, how- 
 ever, which had made all the difference, which was 
 a comfort to him; for, indeed, the families whom he 
 had once visited were out of London. Sometimes 
 it occurred to him that if the Thornleighs had been 
 in town, he would have gone to them and asked 
 leave to be admitted just once or twice, for pure 
 charity, and he had walked several times past their 
 house in Berkeley Square, and gazed at its closed 
 shutters with half a notion of calling on the house- 
 keeper, at least, and asking to see the place in 
 which he had spent so many pleasant hours. He 
 used to live all over again his first visit to London, 
 with an amused pleasure in recalling all his own 
 puzzles and difficulties. He seemed to himself to 
 have been a boy then, almost a child, playing with 
 fate and his life, and understanding nothing of all 
 that was around him. To have ten thousand a 
 year one time, and no income at all the next, but 
 only a hundred pounds iu the bank "to fall back 
 upon," and the vague promise of a post as Queen's 
 Messenger at Christmas — what a change it was! 
 Though to be sure, even now, Edgar said to him- 
 self, there were more people in London worse off 
 than he, than there were people who were better 
 off. A hundred pounds in the bank is, in reality, 
 a fortune — as long as you can keep it there; and a 
 man who has the post of Queen's Messenger 
 is independent, which is as much as any prince 
 can be.
 
 148 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 All these philosophisings were wonderfully true, 
 but they did not take away the uncomfortable, de- 
 solate, profitless sensation of living alone in Lon- 
 don without friends, doing nothing except live, 
 which, when you live for the mere sake of living, 
 and because you can't help it, is, perhaps, the 
 dreariest occupation on earth. And in November 
 — when London is at its worst, and the year at its 
 worst, when the gloomy daylight is short, and the 
 weary nights are long, and when everything that 
 bears the guise of amusement palls upon the man 
 who has nothing to do but amuse himself 
 
 Sometimes Edgar, in momentary desperation, 
 thought of rushing off to his former haunts abroad, 
 sometimes of turning back to Loch Arroch, helping 
 in whatever might be doing, getting some share in 
 human life, and some place among his fellows; but 
 then the remembrance would strike him that, now- 
 a-days, he could not do what he pleased, that he 
 had no money but that hundred pounds in the 
 bank, and no way of getting any now till the ap- 
 pointment came. 
 
 By-and-by, however, his opinion began to change 
 about the hundred pounds in the bank. It changed 
 by slow degrees after he had changed his second 
 ten-pound note, and saw those last precious sove- 
 reigns slipping out of his grasp, which they did 
 with a strange noiseless celerity inconceivable to 
 him. How did they go"? When he counted up all 
 he had si)cnt, every sixpence seemed so modest, so 
 natural! and yet they were gone, he knew not how; 
 vanished even, he thought, while he was looking at
 
 WAITING FOR A SITUATION. 149 
 
 them. Then the thought arose in his mind, why 
 keep a hundred jDOunds in the bank"? It was a 
 waste of capital, money which brought in no re- 
 turn; and for that matter, if it was merely to se- 
 cure something to "fall back upon," fifty pounds 
 were just as good as a hundred. The income of a 
 Queen's Messenger was good, he said to himself 
 (he had not, in reality, the least idea what it was!), 
 and when he got his appointment it would be very 
 easy to put back the other fifty pounds if he found 
 it expedient. But the more he thought of it the 
 less he saw any need for keeping so much money 
 lying useless. He never could get any income from 
 so small a sum, and the fifty pounds was quite 
 enough for any sudden emergency. Or supposing, 
 he said, seventy-five 1 Seventy-five pounds was 
 magnificent as a fund to fall back upon; and it was 
 with a feeling that twenty-five pounds had been 
 somehow added, not taken from his capital, that he 
 went to the bank one day in December and drew 
 out the quarter, not the half, of his little stock of 
 money. With twenty-five pounds in his pocket and 
 seventy-five in the bank, he felt much richer than 
 with the poor little undivided hundred. And some- 
 how every day as he grew poorer, he became more 
 convinced that it would be the most shortsighted 
 economy to remove from his Piccadilly lodgings, or 
 to relinquish his dinners at the club. Why, they 
 were cheap, absolutely -cheap, both the one and the 
 other, in comparison with the nasty meals and 
 wretched lodgings for which, no doubt, he might 
 pay a little less money. He even became slightly
 
 150 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 extravagant and disposed to buy little knick-knacks, 
 and to consume little delicacies as his means grew 
 smaller and smaller. 
 
 I cannot tell what produced this curious state 
 of feeling in Edgar's mind. There is a kind of 
 giddiness and desperation of poverty which seizes 
 a man when he is in the act of spending his last 
 parcel of coin. It must all go so soon that it seems 
 worse than useless to menagcr the little remnant, 
 and a kind of vertige, a rage to get it all over, 
 comes upon the mind. Perhaps it is the same feel- 
 ing which makes men in a sinking ship leap wildly 
 into the water to meet their fate instead of waiting 
 for it; and as time went on the impulse grew 
 stronger and stronger. The seventy-five pounds of 
 capital seemed magnificent in December; but after 
 Christmas it seemed to Edgar that even his fifty 
 pounds was too much to be lying useless; and he 
 had a little bottle of champagne with his dinner, 
 and resolved that, as soon as the bank was open, 
 he would draw, say ten pounds. After all, what 
 was the use of being so particular about "some- 
 thing to fall back upon?" Probably he would never 
 want it. If he fell ill, being a Queen's Messenger, 
 it was much more likely that he should fall ill in 
 Berlin or Vienna, or Rome or Naples, than at home 
 — and then it would be some one's duty to mind 
 him and take care of him. And if it should be his 
 fate to die, there would be an end of the matter. 
 Why should he save even forty pounds? — he had 
 no heir. 
 
 Poor Edgar! it was a kipd of intoxication that
 
 vVAITING FOR A SITUATION. I5I 
 
 had seized him, an intoxication caused by idleness, 
 loneliness, and the separation of his life from that 
 of every one else around him. Somehow, though 
 Christmas came and passed and he heard nothing, 
 he could not pluck up courage to go to Downing 
 Street again. Of course the appointment would 
 come some day, most likely to-morrow. He was 
 not going to worry Newmarch to death by going to 
 him every day. He could wait till to-morrow. And 
 so things went on till it ran very hard with the 
 solitary young man. It occurred to him one day 
 that his clothes were getting shabby. To be sure 
 he had unlimited credit with his tailor, having just 
 paid a large bill without inquiry or question; but 
 the fact of feeling yourself shabby when you have 
 very little money is painful and startling, and gives 
 the imagination a shock. After this his mind lost 
 the strange ease which it had possessed up to this 
 moment, and he grew troubled and restless. "I 
 must go to Newmajch again," he acknowledged at 
 last to himself, and all at once wondered with a 
 sudden pang whether his Messengership was as cer- 
 tain as he had hoped. "I must go to Newmarch 
 to-morrow," he said over and over again as, some- 
 what dazed and giddy with this sudden thought, he 
 went along the pavement thoughtfully towards the 
 club, which had become a second home to him. It 
 was the end of January by this time, and a few 
 more people were beginning to appear again in 
 these regions. He went in to his dinner, saying the 
 words to himself mechanically and half aloud.
 
 152 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Disappointment. 
 
 It is very curious how often the unintentional 
 movements of other men concur in making a crisis 
 in an individual life. When Edgar went to his 
 club that evening he knew no reason why anything 
 unusual should happen to him. His mind had been 
 roused by sudden anxiety, that anxiety which, seiz- 
 ing a man all at once upon one particular point, 
 throws a veil over everything by so doing, and 
 showed yellowness or blackness into the common 
 light; but he had no reason to suspect that any 
 new light would come to him, or any new interest 
 into his life, when he went dully and with a 
 headache to his habitual seat at his habitual table 
 and ate his dinner, which was not of a very elaborate 
 character. There were more men than usual in the 
 club that evening, and when Edgar had finished his 
 dinner he went into the library, not feeling disposed 
 for the long walk through the lighted streets with 
 which he so often ended his evening. He took a 
 book, but he was not in the mood to read. Several 
 men nodded to him as they came and went; one, 
 newly arrived, who had not seen him since his 
 downfall, came up eagerly and talked for ten min- 
 utes before he went out. The man was nobody in
 
 DJSAPPOlNTiUENT. 1 53 
 
 particular, yet his friendliness was consolatory, and 
 restored to Edgar some confidence in his own 
 identity, which had seemed to be dropping from 
 him. He put up his book before him when he was 
 left again alone, and behind this shield looked at 
 his companions, of whom he knew nothing or next 
 to nothing. 
 
 One of the people whom he thus unconsciously 
 watched was a man whom he had already noted 
 on several evenings lately, and as to whose con- 
 dition he was in some perplexity. The first evening 
 Edgar had half stumbled over him with the idea 
 that he was one of the servants, and in the glance 
 of identification with which he begged pardon, 
 decided that, though not one of the servants, he 
 must be a shopkeeper, perhaps well off and retired, 
 whom somebody had introduced, or who had been 
 admitted by one of those chances which permit the 
 rich to enter everywhere. Next evening when he 
 saw the same man again, he rubbed out as it were 
 with his finger the word shopkeeper, which he had, 
 so to speak, written across him, and wrote "city- 
 man" instead. A city-man may be anything; he 
 may be what penny-a-liners call a merchant prince, 
 without losing the characteristic features of his class. 
 This man was about forty-five, he had a long face, 
 with good but commonplace features, hair getting 
 scanty on the top, and brown whiskers growing 
 long into two points, after the fashion of the day. 
 The first time he was in evening dress, having come 
 in after dinner, which was the reason why Edgar 
 took him for one of the attendants. The next time
 
 154 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 he was in less elaborate costume, and looked 
 better; for evening dress is trying to a man who 
 has not the aii- noble which christianizes those 
 hideous garments. The third night again, Edgar, 
 in imagination, drew a pen through the word "city- 
 man," and wondered whether the stranger could be 
 a successful artist, a great portrait-painter, some- 
 thing of that description, a prosperous man to whom 
 art had become the most facile and most lucrative 
 of trades. On this particular night he again changed 
 his opinion, crossed the word artist and put man 
 about town, indefinitest of designations, yet infinitely 
 separated from all the others. Thus blurred and 
 overwritten by so many attempts at definition, the 
 new-comer attracted his attention, he could scarcely 
 tell why. There was nothing remarkable about the 
 man; he had grey eyes, a nose without much cha- 
 racter, loose lips disposed to talk, an amiable sort of 
 commonness, eagerness, universal curiosity in his 
 aspect. He knew most people in the room, and 
 went and talked to them, to each a little; he looked 
 at all the papers without choice of politics; he took 
 down a great many books, looked at them and put 
 them back again. Edgar grew a little interested in 
 him on this special evening. He had a long con- 
 versation with one of the servants, and talked to 
 him sympathetically, almost anxiously, ending by 
 giving him an address, which the man received with 
 great appearance of gratitude. Might he be a 
 physician perhaps? But his bearing and his looks 
 were alike against this hypothesis. "Benevolent," 
 Edgar said to himself.
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 155 
 
 His attention, however, was quite drawn away 
 from this stranger by the sudden entrance of Lord 
 Newmarch, who Hke himself was a member of the 
 club, and who came in hurriedly, accompanied by 
 some one less dignified but more eager than him- 
 self, with whom he was discussing some subject 
 which required frequent reference to books. Edgar 
 felt his heart stir as he perceived the great man 
 enter. Was it possible that his fate depended, ab- 
 solutely depended, upon the pleasure of this man — 
 that two words from him might make his fortune 
 secure, or plunge him into a deeper and sickening 
 uncertainty which could mean only ruin? Good 
 heaven, was it possible? A kind of inertness, moral 
 cowardice, he did not know what to call it — perhaps 
 the shrinking a doomed man feels from actual hear- 
 ing of his fate — had kept him from going to the 
 office to put the arbiter of his destinies in mind of 
 his promise. Now he could not let this opportunity 
 slip; he must go to him, he must ask him^ what was 
 to be the result. Up to this morning he had felt 
 himself sure of his post, now he felt just as sure of 
 rejection. Both impressions no doubt were equally 
 unreasonable; but who can defend himself against 
 such impressions'? Gradually Edgar grew breathless 
 as he watched that discussion which looked as if it 
 would never end. What could it be about? Some 
 vague philanthropico-political question, some bit of 
 doctrinarianism of importance to nobody — while his 
 was a matter of death and life. To be sure this 
 was his own fault, for he might, as you will per- 
 ceive, dear reader, have gone to Lord Newmarch
 
 156 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 any day, and found him at his office, where pro- 
 bably, amid all the sublime business there, Edgar's 
 affairs had gone entirely out of his head. But if 
 you think the suggestion that it was his own fault 
 made the suspense now a straw-weight more easy 
 to him, this is a point on which I do not agree 
 with you. The consequences of our own faults 
 are in all circumstances the most difficult to bear. 
 
 Oddly enough, the stranger whom Edgar had 
 been watching, seemed anxious to speak to Lord 
 Newmarch too. Edgar's eyes met his in their 
 mutual watch upon the Minister, who went on dis- 
 puting with his companion, referring to book after 
 book. It was some military question of which 1 
 suppose Lord Newmarch knew as much as his 
 grandmother did, and the other was a hapless 
 soldier endeavouring in vain to convey a lucid de- 
 scription and understanding of some important tech- 
 nical matter to the head of the Secretary of State. 
 In vain; Lord Newmarch did not try to understand 
 — he explained; to many people this method of 
 treating information is so much the most natural. 
 And the stranger watched him on one side, and 
 Edgar on the other. Their eyes met more than 
 once, and after a while the humour of the situation 
 struck Edgar, even in his trouble, and he smiled; 
 upon which a great revolution made itself apparent 
 in the other's countenance. He smiled too; not 
 with the sense of humour which moved Edgar, but 
 with a gleam of kindness in his face, which threw 
 a certain beauty over it. Edgar was struck with a 
 strange surprise: he was taken aback at the same
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 157 
 
 time, he felt as if somehow he must have appealed 
 to the kindness, the almost pity in the other's face. 
 What had he done to call forth such an expression 1 
 His newborn pride jumped up in arms; and yet 
 there was no possibility of offence meant, and no- 
 thing to warrant offence being taken. Edgar, how- 
 ever, averted his eyes hastily, and watched Lord 
 Newmarch no more. And then he took himself to 
 task, :and asked himself Was it an offence to look 
 at him kindly? Was he offended by a friendly 
 glance? Good heavens! what was he coming to, if 
 it was so. 
 
 Presently Edgar's heart beat still higher, for 
 Lord Newmarch's companion rose to go, and he, 
 having caught sight of the stranger, remained, and 
 went up to him holding out his hand. Edgar could 
 but wait on, and bide his time; his book was still 
 before him, at which he had never looked. A 
 sickening sense of humiliation crept over him. He 
 felt all the misery of dependence; here was he, so 
 lately this man's equal, waiting, sickening for a 
 word from him, for a look, wondering what he 
 would say, questioning with himself, while his heart 
 beat higher and higher, and the breath came quickly 
 on his lips. Good heavens, wondering what New- 
 march would say! a man whom he had so laughed 
 at, made fun of, but who was now to be the very 
 arbiter of his fate, whose word would make all the 
 difference between a secure and useful and worthy 
 future, and that impoverishment of hope, and means, 
 and capability altogether, which some call ruin— 
 and justly call.
 
 158 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 While Edgar sat thus waiting, excitement gradu- 
 ally gaining upon him, he saw with some surprise 
 that the man to whom he had given so ' many 
 different descriptions, was drawing back and push- 
 ing Lord Newmarch towards him; and seeing this, 
 he got up, with a half-shrinking from his fate, half- 
 eagerness to hear it. 
 
 "All right," said the unknown, "your turn first. 
 The great man must give us all audience in turn;" 
 and with a little nod he went to the other end of 
 the room and took up a newspaper, of which he 
 probably made as little use as Edgar had been do- 
 ing of his book. 
 
 "Droll fellow!" said Newmarch, "how d'ye do, 
 eh, Earnshaw? I have been in town this month past, 
 but you have never looked me up." 
 
 "I feared to bore you," said Edgar, hastily. 
 
 "It is my business never to be bored," said Lord 
 Newmarch, with a certain solemnity, which was 
 natural to him. "Where have you been — in the 
 country? what here all this time! I wish I had 
 known; 1 seldom come here, except for the library, 
 which is wonderfully good, as perhaps you know. 
 That was Cheeseman that was arguing with me 
 — Cheeseman, you know, one of those practical 
 people — and insists upon his own way." 
 
 "I wonder," said Edgar, uneasily, "whether you 
 have ever thought again of a small matter I went 
 to you aboutl" 
 
 "What, the messengcrshipl" said Lord New- 
 march, "what do you take me for — eh, Earnshaw? 
 Of course I have thought of it; there is never a
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 159 
 
 week that I do not hope something may happen to 
 old Runtherout; I don't mean anything fatal of 
 course; but there he sticks from month to month, 
 and probably so he will from year to year." 
 
 Edgar felt his countenance falling, falling. He 
 felt, or thought he felt, his jaw drop. He felt his 
 heart go down, down, like a stone. He put a 
 miserable smile upon his miserable face. "Then I 
 suppose there is no chance for me," he said. 
 
 "Oh yes, my dear fellow, certainly there is a 
 chance — as much chance as there ever was," said 
 Lord Newmarch, cheerfully, "these things, of course, 
 cannot be altered all at once, but as soon as old 
 Runtherout gives up, which cannot be long — I do 
 not mind for my part what anyone says, I shall put 
 you in. If you only knew what it would have been 
 to me to have you in Berlin now! You speak 
 German quite fluently, don't you? Good heavens, 
 what a loss to me!" 
 
 And, good heavens what a loss to me! Edgar 
 felt disposed to say. As much chance as there ever 
 was! then what had the chance been at first, for 
 which he had wasted so much time and all his 
 little stock of money. God help him! he had to 
 receive the news with a smile, the best he could 
 muster, and to listen to Lord Newmarch's assurance 
 that a few months could make very little difference. 
 "Oh, very little difference!" echoed poor Edgar, 
 with that curious fictitious brassy (why he thought 
 it was brassy I cannot tell, but that was the adjec- 
 tive he used to himself) brassy imitation of a smile; 
 and Lord Newmarch went on talking somehow up
 
 l6o FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 in the air beside him, about a number of things, to 
 which he said yes and no mechanically with some 
 certain kind of appropriateness, I suppose, for no- 
 body seemed to find out tlie semi-consciousness in 
 which he was — until the great man suddenly re- 
 collected that he must speak a few words to Totten- 
 ham, and fell back upon the man with worn grey 
 eyes and loose lips, who sprang up from behind his 
 newspaper like a jack in a box. Edgar, for his 
 part, dropped down in his chair something like the 
 same toy when shut up in its hiding-place. There 
 was a buzzing in his ears again as there had been 
 when he had his first interview with the Minister — 
 but this time the giddiness was more overpowering; 
 a hundred thoughts passed through his mind in a 
 moment, each crowding upon each, a noiseless, 
 breathless crowd. What was he to do? Everything 
 seemed to be shown to him in the space of a mo- 
 ment, as fable says, a whole lifetime is shown in 
 a moment to those who die suddenly. Good God! 
 a few months! what was he to do? 
 
 Some people can face the prospect of living for 
 a few months on nothing quite i)leasantly, and some 
 people do it habitually (without being at all bad 
 people), and get through somehow, and come to no 
 tragical end. But Edgar was young and unaccustomed 
 to poverty. He was even unaccustomed to live 
 from hand to mouth, as so many of us do, light- 
 hearted wretches, without taking thought for the 
 morrow. It was some time, it was true, before he 
 was roused to think of the morrow at all, but, 
 when he did, it seized upon him like a vulture. He
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 1 6 I 
 
 sank back into his chair, and sat there Hke a log, 
 with vacant eyes, but mind preternaturally busy and 
 occupied. What was he to do? 
 
 He was roused from this outward stupor, but 
 inner ferment, by seeing Newmarch again come up 
 accompanied by the stranger, whose very existence 
 he had forgotten. "Mr. Tottenham, Mr. Edgar 
 Earnshaw," said the Under-Secretary, "one of my 
 best friends. Come and see me, won't you, in 
 Eaton Place, I must go now; and come to the office 
 soon, and let us talk your affair over. The mo- 
 ment old Runtherout will consent to take himself 
 out of the way — As for you, Tottenham, I envy 
 you. All your schemes in your own hands, no 
 chief to thwart you, no office to keep on recom- 
 mending this man and that, when they know you 
 have a man of your own. You may thank heaven 
 that you have only your own theories to serve, and 
 not Her Majesty. Good night, good night." 
 
 "Good night," said Edgar, absently. 
 
 Mr. Tottenham said nothing, but he gave Lord 
 Newmarch a finger to shake, and turned to his new 
 companion, who sat with his head down, and paid 
 little attention to his presence. He fixed his eyes 
 very closely on Edgar, which is a thing that can 
 scarcely be done without attracting finally the notice 
 of the person looked at. When he had caught 
 Edgar's wondering but dazed and dreamy look, he 
 smiled — the same smile by which Edgar had al- 
 ready been half pleased, half angered. 
 
 "Mr. Earnshaw," he said, "you have a story, 
 and I know it. I hope I should have tried to be- 
 
 For Love and Life. J. I •
 
 1 62 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 have as well myself; but I don't know. And I have 
 a story too. Will you come into the smoking-room 
 if you have nothing better to do, and I'll tell it 
 youl I call it the history of a very hard case. 
 Newmarch left you to me as his substitute, for he 
 knew I wanted to talk. I like the exchange. He's 
 a profound blockhead, though he's Secretary of 
 State. Come and smoke a cigar." 
 
 Edgar rose mechanically, he scarcely knew why; 
 he was pale; he felt his legs almost give way under 
 him as he moved across the passage to the smoking- 
 room. He did not want to smoke, nor to know 
 Mr. Tottenham's story; but he had not strength of 
 mind to resist what was asked of him. 
 
 "A few months," he kept saying to himself. It 
 seemed to him that a sudden indifference to every- 
 thing else, to all things greater and more distant, 
 had come into his mind. For the first time in his 
 life he was self-engrossed, self-absorbed, able to 
 think of nothing but his own necessities, and what 
 he was to do. So strange was this to Edgar, so 
 miserable did he feel it, that even on the short 
 journey from one room to another he made an 
 effort to shake off the sudden chains with which 
 this sudden necessity had bound him, and was 
 appalled by his own weakness, almost by a sense 
 of guilt, when he found that he could take no 
 interest whatever in Mr. Tottenham, that he could 
 think of nothing but himself. For the first time, 
 there was nobody but himself involved; no justice 
 to be done, no kindness to be shown to others. 
 Wherever other people arc concerned, a certain
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 1 63 
 
 breadth, a certain freedom and largeness, come into 
 the question, even though the other people may be 
 poor and small enough; but how mean the generous 
 man feels, how petty and miserable, when he, and 
 he only, becomes by any twist of fortune the centre 
 of all his thoughts!
 
 164 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A new Friend. 
 
 "I HOPE I should have done exactly as you did 
 in that Arden business," said Mr. Tottenham; "but 
 I can't tell. The amount of meanness and falseness 
 to all one's own rules which one feels in one's self 
 in a great emergency is wonderful. I never put 
 any dependence on myself. Now I will tell who, 
 or rather what I am. The pronoun Who is inap- 
 propriate in my case. I am nobody; but when 
 you know what I am — if, indeed, my name does 
 not tell you — " 
 
 "No," said Edgar, forcing himself into attention. 
 
 "It is not a bad name; there are fine people, I 
 believe, who bear it, and who hold up their heads 
 with the best. But if you belonged to a middle- 
 class London family, and had a mother and sisters, 
 you would have no difficulty in identifying me. 
 I am not a Tottenham with a Christian name like 
 other people. I am Tottenham's, in the possessive 
 case." 
 
 "I begin to understand," said Edgar. 
 
 What an effort it was to him! But he grew 
 more capable of making the effort as he tried to 
 make it, and actually looked up now with a gleam 
 of intelligence in his eye.
 
 A NEW FRIEND. 165 
 
 "You begin to realize me," said his companion. 
 "I am Tottenham's. I have been Tottenham's all 
 my hfe. My father died when I was only a small 
 boy. I hope, though I don't know, that he might 
 have had sense enough to habituate me to my fate 
 from the beginning, which would have made it 
 much easier. But my mother, unfortunately, was a 
 lady, or thought herself so. She brought me up as 
 if there was not such a thing as a shop in the 
 world. She buys everything at Howell and James's 
 of set purpose and malice prepense, when she could 
 get all she wants at cost price in our own place; 
 to be sure she can afford it, thanks to the shop. 
 I never knew anything about this said shop till I 
 was at Eton, when I denied the connection stoutly, 
 and fought for it, and came off triumphant, though 
 the other fellow was the biggest. When I went 
 home for the holidays, I told the story. 'You were 
 quite right not to give in to it, my dear,' said my 
 mother. 'But is it truel' said I. Poor dear, how 
 she prevaricated! She would not have told a lie 
 for the world, but a tiny little bit of a fib did not 
 seem so bad. Accordingly I found it out, and had 
 to go back to Eton, and beg the fellow's pardon, 
 and tell him it wasn't a lie he told, but the truth, 
 only I had not known it. I don't think any of 
 them thought the worse of me for that." 
 
 "I should think not," cried Edgar, beginning to 
 rouse up. 
 
 "No, I don't suppose they did; but from that 
 day I became thin-skinned, as people call it, and 
 scented the shojD afar off in everything people said.
 
 1 66 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 My mother's contempt for it, and. shame of it, got 
 deep into my mind. I grew sensitive. I did not 
 Hke to give my name when I went anywhere. I felt 
 sure some one would say, 'Oh, Tottenham's!' when 
 my card was taken in. I can't tell you the misery 
 this gave me all through school and college. I 
 hated the shop, and was afraid of it. I was morbidly 
 ashamed of my name. I went and wandered about 
 in vacation, wearing other men's names as I might 
 have borrowed their coats. Not without their con- 
 sent, mind you," he added, sharply. "I did nothing 
 dishonourable; but I had a horror of being Totten- 
 ham, a horror which I cannot describe." 
 
 "That was strange!" 
 
 "You think sol Well, so do I 7iow; and it was 
 very unfortunate for me. It got me into many 
 scrapes; it almost cost me my wife. You don't 
 know my wifel I must take you out to see her. 
 I was introduced to her under somebody else's 
 name— not a very distinguished name, it is true. 
 Smith, or Brown, or something, and under that 
 name she accepted me; but when I told her how 
 things really were, her countenance flamed like that 
 of the angel, do you remember'? in Milton, when 
 Adam says something caddish — 1 forget what ex- 
 actly. How she did look at me! 'Ashamed of 
 your name!' she said, 'and yet ask ?fic to share it!' 
 There is pride and pride," said Mr. Tottenham to 
 himself with musing admiration. "The poor dear 
 mother thought she was proud; Mary is so; that 
 makes all the difference. I got into such trouble 
 as I never was in all mv life. She sent me right
 
 A NEW FRIEND. I 67 
 
 away; she would have nothing to say to me; she 
 cast me off as you might cast away that cinder 
 with that pair of tongs. For a time I was the most 
 miserable fellow on the face of the earth. I wan- 
 dered about the place where she lived night and 
 day; but even then, if you will believe me, it cost 
 me a very hard struggle indeed to get to the shop. 
 When I was desperate, I did." 
 
 "Why is he telling me all this, I wonder?" said 
 Edgar to himself; but he was interested, he could 
 not tell how, and had raised his head, and for the 
 moment shaken off something of the burden from 
 his own back. 
 
 "I made up my mind to it, and went at last,'' 
 said this odd man, puffing at his cigar with a 
 vehemence that made it evident he felt it still. "1 
 found that nobody wanted me there; that every- 
 body preferred not to be interfered with; that the 
 managers had fallen each into his own way, and 
 had no desire for me to meddle. But I am not 
 the sort of man that can stand and look on with 
 his hands in his pockets. You will wonder, and 
 perhaps you will despise me, when I tell you that I 
 found Tottenham's on the whole a very interesting 
 place." 
 
 "I neither wonder nor despise," said Edgar. 
 "What did you do?" 
 
 "What didn't I do?" said Mr. Tottenham, with 
 rueful humour. "I did all the mischief possible. I 
 turned the whole place upside down. 1 diminished 
 the profits for that year by a third part. I changed 
 the well-known good order of Tottenham's into
 
 1 68 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 confusion worse confounded. The old managers 
 resigned in a body. By-the-way, they stayed on all 
 but one afterwards, when I asked them. As for 
 the assistants, there was civil war in the place, and 
 more than one free fight between the different sides; 
 for some sided with me, perhaps because they ap- 
 proved of me, perhaps because I was the master, 
 and could do what I liked; but the end was that I 
 stayed there three months, worked there, and then 
 wrote to Mary; and she took me back." 
 
 "I am very glad to hear it," said Edgar; and he 
 smiled and sighed Avith natural sympathy. 
 
 He had become quite interested in the story 
 by this time, and totally forgotten all about his 
 own miseries. He came out of his cloud finally 
 just at this point, and took, at last, the cigar which 
 his new friend had from time to time offered him. 
 
 "Ah! come now, this is comfortable," said Tot- 
 tenham. "Up to that moment mine had been a 
 very hard case, don't you think so? I don't pre- 
 tend to have anything more to grumble about. But, 
 having had a hard case myself, I sympathize with 
 other people. Yours was a horribly hard case. Tell 
 me now, that other fellow, that Arden scamp! I 
 know him — as proud as Lucifer, and as wicked as 
 all the rest of the evil spirits put together — do you 
 mean to say he allowed you to go away, and give 
 him up all that fine property, and save him thou- 
 sands of pounds in a lawsuit, without making some 
 provision for youl Such a thing was never heard 
 of." 
 
 "No," said Edgar; "don't be unjust to him. It
 
 A NEW FRIEND. 1 69 
 
 was a bitter pill for me to take a penny from him; 
 but I did, because they made me." 
 
 "And you've spent it all!" 
 
 Edgar laughed; he could not help it. His elastic 
 nature had mounted up again; he began to feel 
 sure that he could not be ruined so completely 
 after all; he must be able to do something. He 
 looked up at his questioner with eyes full of hu- 
 mour. Mr. Tottenham, who was standing in front 
 as grave as a judge, looked at him, and did not 
 laugh. 
 
 "I don't see the fun," he said. "You shouldn't 
 have done it. You have let yourself drop half out 
 of recollection before you asked for anything, 
 whereas you should have got provided for at once. 
 Hang it all! I suppose there are some places yet 
 where a man in office may place a friend — and 
 some opportunities left to put a good man in by 
 means of a job, instead of putting in a bad man by 
 competition, or seniority, or some other humbug. 
 You should have done that at first." 
 
 "Possibly," said Edgar, who had been amused, 
 not by the idea of having spent all his money, but 
 by that of making a clean breast to this man, whom 
 he had never spoken to before, of the most private 
 particulars of his life. 
 
 Mr. Tottenham made a few turns about the 
 room, where there was for the moment nobody but 
 themselves. He said then suddenly, 
 
 "I take an interest in you. I should like to help 
 you if I could. Tottenham's is no end of a good 
 property, and I can do what I like "
 
 I/O FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "I am sure I am very much obliged," said 
 Edgar, laughing. "I should thank you still more 
 warmly if it were not so" funny. Why should you 
 take an interest in meV 
 
 "It is odd, perhaps,-" said the other; but he did 
 not laugh. A smile ran over his face, that was all, 
 and passed again like a momentary light. Then he 
 added, "It is not so odd as you think. If I could 
 conceal from you who my wife was, I might be 
 tempted to do so; but I can't, for though I'm only 
 Tottenham's, she's in the peerage. My Mary is 
 sister to Augusta Thornleigh, who- -well, who knew 
 you, my dear fellow. Look here! She's fashion- 
 able and all that; she would not let you see her 
 daughters, at present, if she could help it; but she's 
 a good woman, mind. I have heard her tell your 
 story. If ever there was a hard case, that was one; 
 and when I heard of it, 1 resolved, if I ever had 
 the chance, to stand by you. You behaved like a 
 gentleman. Since we have been made acquainted, 
 Earnshaw, we have not shaken hands yet!" 
 
 They did it now very heartily; and in those 
 restless grey eyes, which were worn by sheer use 
 and perpetual motion, there glimmered some mois- 
 ture. Edgar's eyes were dry, but his whole heart 
 was melted. There was a pause for a minute or 
 more, and the ashes fell softly on tlie hearth, and 
 the clock ticked on the mantel-piece. Then Edgar 
 asked, "How are they all?" with that sound in his 
 utterance which the French in their delicate discri- 
 mination call tears in the voice. 
 
 "Quite well, quite well!" said Tottenham hur-
 
 A NEW FRIEND. I71 
 
 riedly; and then he added, "We didn't come here 
 to speak of them. Earnshaw, I want you to come 
 to my house." 
 
 "It is very kind of you," said Edgar. "I think 
 I have seen Lady Mary. She is very sweet and 
 hvely, like — some one else; with fair hair " 
 
 "Isn't shel" cried Lady Mary's admiring hus- 
 band; and his eyes glowed again. "I want you to 
 come and stay with us while this business with 
 Newmarch gets settled." 
 
 "Why?" said Edgar, with genuine surprise; and 
 then he added, "You are a great deal too good. 1 
 should like to go for a day or two. I haven't spoken 
 to a lady for months." 
 
 "Poor fellow!" said Mr. Tottenham, taking no 
 notice of the "Whyl" "We live only a little way 
 out of town, on account of the shop. I have never 
 neglected the shop since the time 1 told you about. 
 She would not let me for that matter. Nobody, you 
 see, can snub her, in consequence of her rank; and 
 partly for her sake, partly because I'm rich, I sup- 
 pose, nobody tries to snub me. There are many 
 of my plans in which you could help me very 
 much — for a time, you know, till Newmarch comes 
 .off." 
 
 "You are very kind," said Edgar; but his atten- 
 tion wandered after this, and other thoughts came 
 into his mind, thoughts of liimself and his forlorn 
 condition, and of the profound uncertainty into 
 which he and all his ways had been plunged. He 
 scarcely paid any attention to the arrangements Mr. 
 Tottenham immediately made, though he remem-
 
 172 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 bered that he promised to go out with him next 
 day to Tottenham's, as his house was called. "The 
 same as the shop," he said, with a twinkle in the 
 corner of his grey eye. Edgar consented to these 
 arrangements passively; but his patience was worn 
 out, and he was very anxious to get away. 
 
 And so this strange evening came to an end, 
 and the morning after it. The new day arose, a 
 smoky, foggy, wintry morning, through which so 
 many people went to work; but not Edgar. He 
 looked out upon the world from his window with a 
 failing heart. Even from Kensington and Bromp- 
 ton, though these are not mercantile suburbs, crowds 
 of men were jolting along on all the omnibuses, 
 crowds pouring down on either side of the street — 
 to work. The shop people went along the road 
 getting and delivering orders; the maid-servants 
 bustled about the doors in the foggy, uncertain 
 light; the omnibuses rushed on, on, in a continuous 
 stream; and everybody was busy. Those who had 
 no work to do, pretended at least to be busy too; 
 the idlers had not come out yet, had not stirred, 
 and the active portion of the world were having 
 everything their own way. Edgar had revived from 
 his depression, but he had not regained his insonci-- 
 ance and trust in the future. On the contrary, he 
 was full of the heaviest uncertainty and care. He 
 could not wait longer for this appointment, which 
 might keep him hanging on half his life, which was 
 just as near now as when he began to calculate on 
 having it "about Christmas;" probably the next 
 Christmas would see it just as uncertain still. He
 
 A NEW FRIEND. I 73 
 
 must, he felt, attempt something else, and change 
 his tactics altogether. He must leave his expensive 
 lodgings at once; but alas! he had a big bill for 
 them, which he had meant to pay off his first quar- 
 ter's salary. He had meant to pay it the moment 
 that blessed money for which he should have 
 worked came; and now there was no appearance, 
 no hope of it ever coming — at least, only as much 
 hope as there had always been, no more. 
 
 Poor Edgar! he might have rushed out of doors 
 and taken to the first manual work he could find 
 as his heart bade him; but to go and solicit some- 
 body once more, and hang on and wait, dependent 
 upon the recollection or the caprice of some one 
 or other who could give employment, but might, 
 out of mere wantonness, withhold it — this was 
 harder than any kind of work. He could dig, he 
 felt, and would dig willingly, or do any other thing 
 that was hard and simple and straightforward; but 
 to beg for means of working he was ashamed; and 
 there seemed something so miserable, so full of the 
 spirit of dependence in having to wait on day by 
 day doing nothing, waiting till something might fall 
 into his hands. How infinitely better off working 
 men were, he said to himself; not thinking that 
 even the blessed working man, who is free from the 
 restraints and punctilios which bind gentlemen, has 
 yet to stand and wait, and ask for work too, with 
 the best. 
 
 He went back to Mr. Parchemui that morning. 
 
 "I have been waiting for Lord Newmarch," he 
 said; "he promised me a post about Christmas, and
 
 174 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 now he tells me there is just as much hope as ever, 
 but no more. 1 must do something else. Could 
 you not take me in as clerk in your own office 1 I 
 should not mind a small salary to start with; any- 
 thing would do." 
 
 Mr. Parchemin laughed, a dry and echoing 
 "Ha, ha!" which was as dusty and dry as his of- 
 fice. 
 
 "A strange clerk you would make," he said, 
 looking over his shoulder to conceal his amuse- 
 ment. "Can you engross 1" 
 
 "Of course not. How should 11 But if a man 
 were to try — " 
 
 "Do you know anything about the law? Of 
 what possible use could you be to us? No; you are 
 a fancy article, entirely a fancy article. Govern- 
 ment," said the old lawyer, "Government is the 
 thing for you." 
 
 "Government does not seem to see it in that 
 light," said Edgar. "I have waited since October." 
 
 "My dear Sir! October is but three months off. 
 You can't expect, like a child, to have your wants 
 supplied the moment you ask for anything. A slice 
 of cake may be given in that way, but not an appoint- 
 ment. You must have patience, Mr. Earnshaw, you 
 must have patience," said the old man. 
 
 "But I have spent the half of my hundred pounds," 
 Edgar was about to say; but something withheld 
 him; he could not do it. Should he not furnish the 
 old lawyer by so doing with an unquestionable 
 argument against himself? Should he not expose 
 his own foolishness, the foolishness of the man who
 
 A NEW FRIEND. I 75 
 
 thought himself able to give up everything for 
 others, and then could do nothing but run into debt 
 and ruin on his own account? Edgar could not do 
 it; he resolved rather to struggle on upon nothing, 
 rather to starve, though that was a figure of speech, 
 than to put himself so much in anyone's power; 
 which was pride, no doubt, but a useful kind of 
 pride, which sometimes keeps an erring man out of 
 further trouble. He went back at once, and paid 
 his landlord a portion of what he owed him, and 
 removed his goods to a small upstairs room which 
 he found he could have cheap, and might have had 
 all the time had he been wise enough to ask. It 
 Avas the room in which his own servant had slept 
 when he travelled with such an appendage; but the 
 new-born pride which had struggled into existence 
 in Edgar's mind had no such ignoble part in it as 
 to afflict him on this account. He was quite happy 
 to go up to his man's room, where everything was 
 clean and homely, and felt no derogation of his 
 personal dignity. Thank Heaven, this was one thing 
 done at least — a step taken, though nothing could 
 be gained by it, only something spared. 
 
 In the afternoon Mr. Tottenham met him at his 
 club, driving a pair of handsome Ijorses in a smart 
 phaeton, such a turnout as only a rich man's can 
 be, everything about it perfect. Edgar had not in- 
 dulged in any luxurious tastes during his own brief 
 reign; it had been perhaps too short to develop 
 them; but he recognised the perfect appointments 
 of the vehicle with a half sigh of satisfaction and 
 reminiscence. He did not say, why should this man
 
 176 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 be lucky enough to have all this when I have no- 
 thing'? as so many people do. He was not given to 
 such comparisons, to that ceaseless contrast of self 
 with the rest of the world, which is so common. He 
 half smiled at himself for half sighing over the day 
 when he too might have had everything that heart 
 could desire, and smiled more than half at the 
 whimsical thought that he had not taken the good 
 of his wealth half so much then as he would have 
 done now, had he the chance. He seemed to himself 
 —knowing how short Edgar Arden's tenure was — to 
 be aware of a hundred things which Edgar might 
 have done to amuse and delight him, which indeed 
 Edgar Arden, knowing nothing of his own short 
 tenure, and believing life to be very long and much 
 delight awaiting him, never dreamt of making any 
 haste to procure. A curious sense of well-being 
 seemed to take hold of him as he bowled along the 
 suburban roads by Mr. Tottenham's side, wrapped 
 in one of the fur coats which the chill and foggy 
 evening made comfortable, watching the long lines 
 of lamps that twinkled and stretched out like a 
 golden thread, and then were left behind as in the 
 twinkling of an eye. To hear of Lady Mary Totten- 
 ham, who was Lady Augusta's sister, and aunt to 
 all the young Thornleighs, seemed somehow like 
 being wafted back to the old atmosphere, to the 
 state of affairs which lasted so short a time and 
 ended so suddenly; but which was, notwithstanding 
 its brevity, the most important and influential moment 
 of his life.
 
 THE ENCHANTED PALACE. I 77 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The Enchanted Palace. 
 
 Tottenham's was about five miles from London 
 on the Bayswater side. It was a huge house, stand- 
 ing upon a httle eminence, and surrounded by acres 
 of park and clouds of thick but leafless trees, which 
 looked ghostly enough in the Winter darkness. The 
 fog had faded away from them long before they got 
 so far, and had been replaced by the starlight clear- 
 ness of a very cold evening; the sky was almost 
 black, the points of light in it dead white, and all 
 the landscape, so far as it was perceptible, an Indian 
 ink landscape in faintly differing shades of black 
 and deepest grey. Nevertheless it was a relief to 
 breathe the fresh country air, after the damp fog 
 which had clung to their throats and blinded their 
 eyes. The roads were still hard, though there were 
 signs of the breaking up of the frost, and the horses' 
 hoofs rang as they dashed along. 
 
 "It's a nice place," Mr. Tottenham said, "though 
 I, of course, only bought it from the old people, 
 who fortunately were not very venerable nor very 
 desirable. It had a fine name before, and it was 
 Mary's idea to call it Tottenham's. As we cannot 
 ignore the shop, it is as well to take the full advan- 
 tage of it. The worst thing is," he added lowering 
 
 Foy Love and Life. /. 12
 
 178 FOR LOVE AND LIFE, 
 
 his voice, "it hurts the servants' feeHngs dreadfully. 
 We have at last managed to get a butler who sees 
 the humour of it, and acknowledges the shop with 
 a condescending sense that the fact of his serving a 
 shopkeeper is the best joke in the world. You will 
 notice a consciousness of this highly humorous 
 position at once in his face; but it is a bitter pill 
 to the rest of the household. The housemaids and 
 our friend behind us, cannot bear any reference to 
 the degradation. You will respect their feelings, 
 Earnshawl I am sure you will take care to show a 
 seemly respect for their feelings." 
 
 Edgar laughed, and Mr. Tottenham went on. He 
 was a very easy man to talk with; indeed he did 
 most of the conversation himself, and was so plea- 
 santly full of his home and his wife and his evident 
 happiness, that no one, or at least no one so sym- 
 pathetic as Edgar, could have stigmatized with unkind 
 names the lengthened monologue. There was this 
 excuse for it on the other hand, that he was thus 
 making himself and his belongings known to a 
 stranger whom he had determined to make a friend 
 of Few people dislike to talk about themselves 
 when they can throw off all fear of ridicule, and 
 have a tolerable excuse for their fluency. We all 
 like it, dear reader; we know it sounds egotistical, 
 and the wiser we are the more we avoid exposing 
 our weakness; but yet when we can feel it is safe 
 and believe that it is justified, how pleasant it is to 
 tell some fresh and sympathetic listener all about 
 ourselves! Perhaps this is one of the reasons why 
 youth is so pleasant a companion to age, because
 
 THE ENCHANTED PALACE. > 1 79 
 
 the revelations on each side can be full and lengthened 
 without unsuitability or fear of misconstruction. 
 Edgar, too, possessed many of the qualities which 
 make a good listener. He was in a subdued state 
 of mind, and had no particular desire to talk in his 
 own person; he had no history for the moment that 
 would bear telHng; he was glad enough to be carried 
 lightly along upon the stream of this other man's 
 story, which amused him, if nothing else. Edgar's 
 life had come to a pause; he lay quiescent between 
 two periods, not knowing where the next tide might 
 lift him, or what might be the following chapter. He 
 was like a traveller in the night, looking in through 
 a hospitable open window at some interior all bright 
 with firelight and happiness, getting to recognise 
 which was which in the household party round the 
 fire, and listening with a gratitude more warm and 
 effusive than had the service been a greater one, to 
 the hospitable invitation to enter. As well might 
 such a traveller have censured the openness which 
 drew no curtains and closed no shutters, and warmed 
 his breast with the sight of comfort and friendliness, 
 as Edgar could have called Mr. Tottenham's talk 
 egotistical. For had not he too been called in for 
 rest and shelter out of the night? 
 
 He felt as in a dream when he entered the 
 house, and was led through the great hall and stair- 
 case, and into the bright rooms to be presented to 
 Lady Mary, who came forward to meet her hus- 
 band's new friend with the kindest welcome. She 
 was a littJe light woman with f[uantities of fair hair, 
 lively, and gay, and kind, with nothing of the worn
 
 l80 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 look which distinguished her husband, but a fresh 
 air, almost of girlhood, in her slight figure and light 
 movements. vShe was so like some one else, that Ed- 
 gar's heart beat at sight of her, as it had not beat 
 for years before. Gussy Thornleigh had gone out 
 of his life, for ever, as he thought. He had given 
 her up completely, hopelessly — and he had not felt 
 at the time of this renunciation that his love for her 
 had ever reached the length of passion, or that this 
 was one of the partings which crush all thoughts of 
 possible happiness out of the heart. But, notwith- 
 standing, her idea had somehow lingered about him, 
 as ideas passionately cherished do not always do. 
 When he had been still and musing, the light little 
 figure, the pretty head with its curls, the half laugh- 
 ing, half wise look with which this little girl would 
 discourse to him upon everything in earth and 
 heaven, had got into a way of coming up before 
 him with the most astonishing reality and vividness. 
 "I was not so very much in love with Gussy," he 
 had said to himself very often at such moments, 
 with a whimsical mixture of surprise and complaint. 
 No, he had not been so very much in love with 
 her; yet she had haunted him all these three years. 
 Lady Mary was only her aunt, which is not always 
 -an attractive relationship; generally, indeed, the 
 likeness between a pretty girl and a middle-aged 
 woman is rather discouraging to a lover, as show- 
 ing to what ])lump and prosaic good condition his 
 ethereal darling may come, than delightful; but Ed- 
 gar had no sham sentiment about him, and was not 
 apt to be assailed by any such unreal disgusts, even
 
 THE ENCHANTED PALACE. 15 I 
 
 had there been anything to call them forth. Lady 
 Mary, however, was still as lightfooted and light- 
 hearted as Gussy herself. She had the same abun- 
 dant fair hair, the same lively sweet eyes, never 
 without the possibility of a laugh in them, and never 
 anything but kind. She came up to Edgar holding 
 out both her hands. 
 
 "You are not a stranger to me," she said, "don't 
 introduce him, Tom. The only difficulty I have 
 about you, is how to address you as Mr. Earnshaw 
 — but that is only for the first moment. Sit down 
 and thaw, both of you, and I will give you some 
 tea — that is if you want tea. We have nobody with 
 us for a day or two fortunately, and you will just 
 have time to get acquainted with us, Mr. Earnshaw, 
 and know all our ways before any one else comes." 
 
 "But a day or two ought to be the limit — " Ed- 
 gar began, hesitating. 
 
 "What! you have said nothing"?" said Tady 
 Mary, hastily turning to her husband. He put his 
 finger on his lip. 
 
 "You are a most impetuous little person, Mary," 
 he said, "you don't know the kind of bird we have 
 got into the net. You think he will let you openly 
 and without any illusion put salt upon his tail. No 
 greater mistake could be. Earnshaw," he added 
 calmly, "come and let me show you your room. 
 We dine directly, as we are alone and above cere- 
 mony. You can talk to my wife as much as you 
 like after dinner — I shall go to sleep. What a 
 blessing it is to be allowed to go to sleep after 
 dinner," he went on as he led the way upstairs.
 
 I 82 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "especially on Saturday night — when one is tired 
 and has Sunday to look forward to." 
 
 "Why should it be especially blessed on Satur- 
 day night r' 
 
 "My dear fellow," said the host solemnly, usher- 
 ing his guest into a large and pleasant room, bril- 
 liant with firelight, "it is very clear that you have 
 never kept a shop." 
 
 And with these words he disappeared, leaving 
 Edgar, it must be allowed, somewhat disturbed in 
 his mind as to what it could all mean, why he had 
 been thus selected as a visitor and conducted to 
 this fairy palace; what it was that the wife won- 
 dered her husband had not said — and indeed what 
 the whole incident meant? As he looked round 
 upon his luxurious quarters, and felt himself re- 
 stored as it were to the life he had so long aban- 
 doned, curious dreams and fancies came fluttering 
 about Edgar without any will of his own. It was 
 like the adventure (often enough repeated) in the 
 Arabian nights, in which the hero is met by some 
 mysterious mute and blindfolded, and led into a 
 mysterious hall, all cool with plashing fountains and 
 sweet with flowers. These images were not exactly 
 suited to the wintry drive he had just taken, though 
 that w^as pleasant enough in its way, and no bed of 
 roses could have been so agreeable as the delight- 
 ful glimpse of the fire, and all the warm and soft 
 comfort about him. But had he been blindfolded 
 — had he been brought unawares into some bene- 
 ficent snare? Edgar's heart began to beat a little 
 quicker than usual. He did not know and dared
 
 THE ENCHANTED PALACE. I 83 
 
 not have whispered to himself what the fancies were 
 that beset him. He tried to frown them down, to 
 represent to himself that he was mad, that the cu- 
 rious freak of his new friend, and his own long 
 fasting from all social intercourse had made this 
 first taste of it too much for his brain. But all that 
 he could do was not enough to free him from the 
 wild fancies which buzzed about him like gnats in 
 Summer, each with its own particular hum and 
 sting. He dressed hurriedly and took a book by 
 way of escaping from them, a dry book which he 
 compelled himself to read, rather than go crazy al- 
 together. Good heavens, was he mad already 1 In 
 that mysterious palace where the hero is brought 
 blindfold, where he is waited on by unseen hands, 
 and finds glorious garments and wonderful feasts 
 magically prepared for him, is there not always in 
 reserve a princess more wonderful still, who takes 
 possession of the wayfarer? "Retro, Satanas!" cried 
 poor Edgar, throwing the book from him, feeling 
 his cheeks flush and burn like a girl's, and his heart 
 leap into his throat. No greater madness, no greater 
 folly could be. It was no doing of his, he protested 
 to himself with indignation and "dismay. Some evil 
 spirit had got hold of him; he refused to think, and 
 yet these dreamy mocking fancies would get into 
 his head. It was a relief beyond description to him 
 when the dinner bell rang and he could hurry down- 
 stairs. When he went into the drawing-room, how- 
 ever, all the buzzing brood of thoughts which flut- 
 tered within him, grew still and departed in a mo- 
 ment; his heart ceased to thump, and an utter quiet
 
 184 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 and stillness took the place of the former commo- 
 tion. Why? Simply because he found Lady Mary 
 and Mr. Tottenham awaiting him calmly, without a 
 vestige of any other convive, except a boy of twelve 
 and a girl two years younger, who came up to him 
 with a pretty demure frankness and put out their 
 hands in welcome. 
 
 "My boy and my girl," said Mr. Tottenham; 
 "and Molly, as your mother is going in with Mr. 
 Earnshaw, you must try to look very grown up for 
 the nonce, and take my arm and walk with me." 
 
 "And poor Phil must come alone!" said the 
 little girl with mingled regret and triumph. No, it 
 was very clear to Edgar that he himself was not 
 only a fool of the first water, but a presumptuous 
 ass, a coxcomb fool, everything that was worst and 
 vainest. And yet it had not been his doing; it was 
 not he who had originated these foolish thoughts, 
 which had assailed, and swarmed, and buzzed about 
 him like a crowd of gnats or wasps — wasps was the 
 better word; for there was spitefulness in the way 
 they had persisted and held their own; but now, 
 thank heaven, they were done with! He came to 
 himself with a little shudder, and gave Lady Mary 
 his arm, and walked through the ordinary passage 
 of an ordinary house, into a room which was a 
 handsome dining-room, but not a mystic hall; and 
 then they all sat down at table, the two children 
 opposite to him, in the most prosaic and ordinary 
 way. 
 
 "You think it wrong to have the children, Mr. 
 l^arnshaw?" said Lady Mary, "and so do I — though
 
 THE ENCHANTED PALACE. 1 85 
 
 I like it. It is only when we are alone, and it is 
 all their father's doing. I tell him it will spoil their 
 digestion and their manners — " 
 
 "If it spoils Molly's manners to associate with 
 her mother the more's the pity," said Mr. Totten- 
 ham, "we shall try the experiment anyhow. What 
 we call the lower classes don't treat their children 
 as we do; they accept the responsibility and go in 
 for the disagreeables; therefore, though we hate 
 having those brats here, we go in for them on prin- 
 ciple. Earnshaw, have you considered the matter 
 of education] Have you any ideas on the subjecf? 
 Not like your friend Lord Newmarch, who has the 
 correct ideas on everything, cut and dry, delivered 
 by the last post. I don't want that. Have you any 
 notions of your own?" 
 
 "About education?" said Edgar, "I don't think 
 it. I fear I have few ideas on any abstract subject. 
 The chances are that I will easily agree with you 
 whatever may be your opinions; heaven has pre- 
 served me from having any of my own." 
 
 "Then you will just suit each other," said Lady 
 Mary, "which he and I — forgive me for letting you 
 into our domestic miseries, Mr. Earnshaw — don't do 
 at all, on this point; for we have both ideas, and 
 flourish them about us immercifully. How happy 
 he will be as long as he can have you to listen to 
 him! not that I believe you will be half as good as 
 your word." 
 
 "Ideas are the salt of life," said Mr. Tottenham; 
 "that of course is what has made you look so lan- 
 guid for some time past."
 
 1 86 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 Edgar looked up in surprise. "Have I been 
 looking languid^ Have you been observing me?" 
 he cried. "This is after all a fairy palace where I 
 have been brought blindfolded, and where every 
 action of my life is known." 
 
 Upon this, Mr. Philip Tottenham, aged twelve, 
 pricked up his ears. "Were you brought here blind- 
 folded'?" he said. "What fun! like the Arabian 
 Nights. I wish somebody would take me like that 
 into a fairy palace, where there would be a beauti- 
 ful lady—" 
 
 "Phil, you are talking nonsense," said his 
 mother. 
 
 "Where the dinner would come when you clapped 
 your hands, and sherbets and ices and black ser- 
 vants, who would cross their arms on their breasts 
 and nod their heads like images — It was he began 
 it," cried Philip, breathless, getting it all out in a 
 burst before anyone could interpose. 
 
 "You see how these poor children are spoilt," 
 said Lady Mary; "yes, he has been observing you, 
 Mr. Earnshaw. I sent liim into town three days in 
 succession, on purpose." 
 
 "You have looked as languid as a young lady 
 after the season," said Mr. Tottenham calmly, "till 
 I saw there was nothing for you but the country, 
 and a sharp diet of talks and schemes, and the ideas 
 you scorn. When a man is happy and prosperous, 
 it is all very well for him to do nothing; but if you 
 happen to be on the wrong side of the hill, my 
 dear fellow, you can't afford to keep quiet. You 
 must move on, as Policeman X would say; or your
 
 THE ENCHANTED PALACE. I«7 
 
 friends must keep you moving on. To-morrow is 
 Sunday, unfortunately, when we shall be obliged to 
 keep moderately quiet — " 
 
 "Is it wrong to talk on Sunday?" said the little 
 girl, appealing gravely to Edgar, whom for some 
 time she had been gazing at. 
 
 "Not that I know of," Edgar replied with a 
 smile; but as he looked from one to the other of 
 the parent pair, he said to himself that there was no 
 telling what theory upon this subject these excellent 
 people might have. They might be desperate Sab- 
 batarians for anything he could tell. 
 
 "Why do you ask Mr. Earnshaw, Molly 1" said 
 Lady Mary. 
 
 "Because," said Molly, "I saw his picture once. 
 I knew him whenever I saw him, and when I asked 
 who it was, they said it was a very good man. So 
 I knew it must be quite right to ask him. Papa 
 talks more on Sunday than on other days, though 
 he always talks a great deal; and yet just now he 
 said because it is Sunday we must be quiet. Then 
 I said to myself, why must we be quiet on Sunday? 
 is it wrong?" 
 
 "This child is too logical for our peace of mind," 
 said Mr. Tottenham; "if it were Phil it would not 
 matter so much, for school would soon drive that 
 out of him." 
 
 "But he is not going to school," said Lady Mary 
 quickly. 
 
 "Not yet, perhaps — but some time or other, I 
 hope; a boy has not half lived who has not been to 
 school. I suppose politics are your strong point.
 
 100 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 Earnshawf Foreign politics, to judge from what I 
 heard Newmarch saying. That fellow wants to pick 
 your brains. I should not think it a subject that 
 would pay, unless you made it your cheval de hataille, 
 like Gordon Grant, who knows everything that 
 happens abroad better than the people themselves 
 do — ^wlio never, he tells us, see half what is go- 
 ing on." 
 
 "Quite true," said Lady Mary, "they never do; 
 one doesn't in one's own experience. One finds out 
 all the little incidents afterwards, and pieces them 
 into their places." 
 
 "Only it is Earnshaw who is to find out the little 
 incidents, and Newmarch who is to piece them into 
 their places," said her husband; "hard work for the 
 one, great fun, and great glory besides, for the other. 
 I don't think I should care to be jackal to New- 
 march; especially as he means all this to be done, 
 not by a Secretary of Legation, but by a Queen's 
 Messenger. Do you know what kind of life that 
 is % " 
 
 Edgar shook his head. He knew nothing about 
 it, and at this moment he did not care very much. 
 The buzzing and persecution of those thoughts which 
 were none of his, which had a separate existence of 
 their own, and tortured him for admission into his 
 mind, had recommenced. What had he been brought 
 here for? Why did they attempt to disgust him with 
 the only career oi)en before him? What did they 
 intend to do with him? The father and his boy 
 might be ordinary beings enough, with wliom he
 
 THE ENCHANTED PALACE. l8g 
 
 could have kept up an ordinary intercourse; but 
 Lady Mary and her Httle daughter had the strangest 
 effect upon the young man. One of them was full 
 grown, motherly, on the border of middle age — the 
 other was but a child; yet the tone of their voices, 
 the turn of their heads, all suggested to him some 
 one else who was not there. Even little Molly had 
 the family gestures, the throwing back of the light 
 locks, the sweet brightness of the eyes, which were 
 so playful and soft, yet so full of vivacious spirit 
 and life. Poor Edgar was kept in a kind of con- 
 fused rapture between the mother and the child; 
 both of them reflected another face, and echoed an- 
 other voice to him; between them they seemed to 
 be stealing all the strength out of him, the very 
 heart from his bosom. He had been absent three 
 years and had it all come to this, that the soft strain 
 of enchantment which had charmed him so softly, 
 so lightly, never to any height of passion, had grown 
 stronger with time, and moved him now more deeply 
 than at first? These persecuting thoughts made a 
 swoop upon him like a flight of birds, sweeping 
 down through the air and surrounding him, as he 
 sat there helpless. Why had he been brought to 
 this magician's palace? What did they mean to do 
 with him now? The child had seen his portrait, 
 the father had been sent to watch him, the mother 
 asked had anything been said. What was about 
 to be said? What were they going to do with him? 
 Poor Edgar looked out as from a mist, gradually 
 overwhelmed by his own excitement, and finally left 
 the doors of his helpless heart open, as it were,
 
 I 
 
 190 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 making it a highway through which any kind of 
 futile supposition might flit and dance. He sat 
 helpless, excited and wondering. What were they 
 going to do with him"? He did not know.
 
 REALITV. 191 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Reality. 
 
 The frost hardened again in the night, and 
 Tottenham's was all white and shining when Edgar 
 looked out from his window in the morning. The 
 house was square and somewhat ugly, but the great 
 semi-circle of trees which swept round it was made 
 into something magical by the feathery silvering of 
 the rime which coated every branch and every twig. 
 He made an exclamation of pleasure when he looked 
 out. The grass, the trees, the glistening pinnacles 
 of the great conservatory which stretched to the 
 south, just catching a glimpse of frosty and waver- 
 ing sunlight upon their metallic tops, were all virgin 
 white, though here and there it began to melt in 
 the sun. Edgar had been far from thinking himself 
 happy when he fell asleep on the previous night; he 
 was still confused and harassed by his thoughts, 
 keeping up a hopeless struggle against them; but he 
 woke up in a state of causeless exhilaration, he did 
 not know why. The hoar frost and the red sunshine 
 went to his head. His heart beat more lightly than 
 usual, the blood coursed pleasantly through his veins. 
 He was like most imaginative people, often glad, 
 and sorry he did not know why, and a certain un- 
 reasonable capricious confidence in his fate came
 
 192 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 over him to-day. Something good was coming to 
 him he feh sure. 
 
 The breakfast table at Tottenham's was lively 
 enough. Lady Mary and her husband were in full 
 and animated discussion about something or other, 
 with a shoal of opened letters lying before them, 
 and all the newspapers that could be had, when 
 Edgar made his appearance somewhat late. The 
 children who were present on the previous night 
 were flanked by another small pair, too small to be 
 restrained by mamma, who chattered and crowed, 
 and made themselves very happy. A bright fire 
 was burning, and the red sunshine shone in, glint- 
 ing over the white covered table and its shining- 
 dishes. 
 
 "Mr. Earnshaw will agree with me," Lady Mary 
 cried as he went in, appealing to him. 
 
 "Come along, Earnshaw, you will take my side," 
 said Mr. Tottenham. 
 
 They were both eager to claim his help, and the 
 elder children looked up at him with the freedom 
 of perfect ease and intimacy. 
 
 "Nobody can ever call Molly the late one, now 
 Mr. Earnshaw is here," cried Phil exulting. They 
 all received him as one of themselves, and in every- 
 thing they said there was a silent suggestion that he 
 belonged to them, that he was to remain with them, 
 which bewildered him beyond words. The letters 
 on the table were about every subject under heaven. 
 They had their domestic correspondence, I suppose, 
 and family affairs of their own; but these epistles 
 were all about "schemes" of one kind and another,
 
 REALITY. 193 
 
 plans for the reformation of heaven knows how 
 many classes of society, and for the improvement 
 of the world altogether, which indeed has great 
 need of improvement. I cannot tell what the spe- 
 cial question might be that morning; there were so 
 many of them that it was difficult for a stranger to 
 discriminate; and as Lady Mary had told him, she 
 and her husband very seldom agreed. They were 
 both intensely in earnest, and both threw themselves 
 with all their might into everything they did. Edgar, 
 however, was not in a mood to utter any oracles, or 
 to associate himself with one scheme or another. 
 He was disposed to enjoy the strange holiday which 
 had come to him, he could not tell how. He left 
 the father and mother to themselves, and addressed 
 himself to the children. 
 
 "Phil," he said, "you and I are ignoramuses, we 
 don't know about these deep matters. Talk to me 
 of something within my capacity; or Molly, if Phil 
 will not talk, do you." 
 
 The reply to this was that both children talked 
 together. 
 
 "Mr. Earnshaw, the ice is bearing; what an awful 
 pity it's Sunday!" said the boy, "I wanted to tell 
 you whenever you came in — " and "Oh, Mr. Earn- 
 shaw, come to church with us, and PU show you 
 the village and my pet old woman who tells us 
 stories," said the little girl. 
 
 Edgar was delighted. He asked about the ice, 
 what it was, an ornamental piece of water, or the 
 village pond; and told Molly he would go and see 
 her village, and try whether he or she could re- 
 
 Fo>- Love and Life. L 13
 
 194" FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 member most of the sermon. Phil interfered when 
 he heard this bargain. He shook his head over the 
 rashness of his new friend. 
 
 "She has an awful good memory," he said, "I 
 wouldn't try against her, Mr. Earnshaw, if I was 
 you. She remembers what people said ages and 
 ages ago, and comes down upon you after you have 
 forgotten all about it. I wouldn't go in against 
 Moll." 
 
 "But I haven't such an awfully good memory 
 for sermons," said Molly, with modest deprecation 
 of the excessive praise, "though I do remember 
 most things pretty well." 
 
 "Molly will win of course; but I shall try my 
 best," said Edgar. The children suited him best 
 on this day of Exhilaration when his heart was so 
 foolishly free. He caught the father and mother 
 looking at him, with significant glances to each 
 other, while this conversation was going on, and 
 was bewildered to think what they could mean. 
 What did they mean? It was altogether bewilder- 
 ing and perplexing. The man who attended him 
 that morning had informed him that he had been 
 told off for his especial service, and had looked 
 somewhat offended when Edgar laughed and de- 
 clared he required no particular tending. "I 'ad 
 my borders. Sir," said the man. Everybody seemed 
 to have their orders; and if that curious insanity of 
 thought which had assailed him yesterday, a running 
 riot of imagination, for which he did not feel him- 
 self to be responsible — if that came back again,
 
 REALITY. 195 
 
 tearing open the doors of his heart, and pouring 
 through them, was it his fault? 
 
 The village lay at the park gates; but vil- 
 lages so near London are not like villages in the 
 depths of the country. This was one where there 
 Avas a number of smaller gentlefolks, tributaries 
 on all great occasions of Tottenham's; but when 
 they had a chance, very glad to note any deficiency 
 on the part of the man whom they called a nouveau 
 riche, and even a shopkeeper, which was the title 
 of deepest reproach they could think of. Indeed if 
 Mr. Tottenham had not married Lady Mary, I be- 
 lieve he would have had many little pricks and 
 stings from his poor yet well-born neighbours; but 
 a Lady Mary in English village society cannot do 
 wrong. It was a pleasant walk to church, where 
 they all went together, the children walking demurely 
 in honour of Sunday, though Phil's eye and heart 
 were tempted by the long expanse of white which 
 showed between two lines of green at the right side 
 of the road. 
 
 "It is hard enough to bear the big town car- 
 riage," he said confidentially to Edgar, "or one of 
 the farmer's huge carts." 
 
 "We'll go and see it after church," said Edgar 
 in the same tone; and so the little procession moved 
 on. Perhaps Lady Mary was the one who cared 
 for this family progress to church the least. Mr. 
 Tottenham, though he was given over to schemes 
 of the most philosophical description, was the simplest 
 soul alive, doing his duty in this respect with as 
 light a heart as his children. But Lady Mary was
 
 196 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 very "viewy." She was an advanced liberal, and 
 read the "Fortnightly," and smiled at many things 
 that were said out of the pulpit once a week. Some- 
 times even she would laugh a little at the "duty" 
 of going to church, and hearing old Mr. Burton 
 maunder for half an hour; but all the same she 
 respected her husband's prejudices, and the tradi- 
 tions of the superior class, which, even when it 
 believes in natural equality, still feels it necessary 
 to set an example to its neighbours. Lady Mary 
 professed sentiments which were inclined towards 
 republicanism and democracy; but nevertheless she 
 knew that she was one of the gods, and had to 
 conduct herself as became that regnant position 
 among men. 
 
 "There goes the shopkeeper and his family," 
 said Mrs. Colonel Witherington from her window, 
 which looked out on the village green. "Girls, it is 
 time to put on your bonnets. A man like that is 
 bred up to be punctual; he comes to church as he goes 
 to the shop, as the hour strikes. There he goes — " 
 "As ostentatiously liumble as ever," said one of 
 the girls. 
 
 "And he has got one of the shopmen with him, 
 mamma," said Myra, who was the wit of the family. 
 "Not a bad looking draper's assistant; they always 
 have the shopmen out on Sundays. Poor fellows, 
 it is their only day." 
 
 "Poor fellows, indeed! I sui)pose Lady Mary 
 thinks because she is an earl's daughter she can do 
 whatever she likes; introducing such people as these 
 into the society of gentle-folks," cried the mother.
 
 REALITY. 197 
 
 '*Myra, don't stand laughing there, but put on your 
 things." 
 
 "We need not go into their society unless we 
 please," said Myra. 
 
 "And to be sure an Earl's daughter cajt do what- 
 ever she likes; no nonsense of that description will 
 make her lose caste," said the eldest Miss Wither- 
 ington, turning away from the window with a sigh. 
 This poor young lady, not being an Earl's daughter, 
 had not been able to do as she liked, or to marry 
 as she liked, and she felt the difference far more 
 keenly than her mother did, who was affected only 
 in theory. This was one of the many scraps of 
 neighbourly talk which went on at Harbour Green 
 when the party from Tottenham's were seen walking 
 through the village to church. Lady Mary was an 
 Earl's daughter, and she did take it upon her to do 
 precisely as she liked; but her neighbours directed 
 most of their indignation upon her husband who 
 had no such privileges, a man who was civil to 
 everybody, and whom they all confessed, whenever 
 they wanted anything of him, to be the best-natured 
 fellow in the world. 
 
 The service in the little church was not so well- 
 conducted as it might have been, had Lady Mary 
 taken more interest in it; but still the lesser authori- 
 ties had done something for the training of the 
 choir, and a gentle Ritualism, not too pronounced 
 as yet, kept everything in a certain good order. 
 Lady Mary herself did not take the same honest 
 and simple part in the devotions as her husband 
 and children did; various parts of the service went
 
 198 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 against her views; she smiled a little as she listened 
 to the sermon. A close observer might have noticed 
 that, though she behaved with the most perfect 
 decorum, as a great lady ought, she yet felt herself 
 somewhat superior to all that was going on. I can- 
 not say that Edgar noticed this on his first Sunday at 
 Harbour Green, though he may have remarked it 
 afterwards; but Edgar's mind was not at the present 
 moment sufficiently free to remark upon individual 
 peculiarity. The sense of novelty or something else 
 more exciting still worked in him, and left him in 
 a state of vague agitation; and when the service 
 being over. Lady Mary hurried on with the children, 
 on pretence of calling on some one, and left Mr. 
 Tottenham with Edgar, the young man felt his heart 
 beat higher, and knew that the moment at last had 
 come. 
 
 "Well, Earnshaw! you have not had much time 
 to judge, it is true; but how do you think you like 
 us?" said Mr. Tottenham. The question was odd, 
 but the questioner's face was as grave as that of a 
 judge. "We are hasty people, and you are hasty," 
 he added, "so it is not so absurd as it might be; 
 how do you think you shall like US'? Now speak 
 out, never mind our feelings. I am not asking you 
 sentimentally, but from a purely business point of 
 view." 
 
 "I am so hasty a man," said Edgar, laughing, 
 with a much stronger sense of the comic character 
 of the position than the other had, "that I made up 
 my mind at sight, as one generally does; but since 
 then you have so bribed me by kindness—"
 
 REALITY. 199 
 
 "Then you do like us!" said Mr. Tottenham, 
 holding out his hand, "I thought you would. Of 
 course if you had not liked us our whole scheme 
 would have come to nothing, and Mary had rather 
 set her heart on it. You will be sure not to take 
 offence, or to think us impertinent if I tell you what 
 we thoughf?" 
 
 "One word," said Edgar with nervous haste. 
 "Tell me first what it has been that has made you 
 take such a warm interest in me?" 
 
 Mr. Tottenham winced and twisted his slim long 
 person as a man in an embarrassing position is- apt 
 to do. "Well," he said, "Earnshaw, I don't know 
 that we can enter into it so closely as that. We 
 have always taken an interest in you, since the time 
 when you were a great friend of the Thornleigh's 
 and we were always hearing of you; and when you 
 behaved so well in that bad business. And then 
 some months ago we heard that you had been seen 
 coming up from Scotland — travelling," Mr, Totten- 
 ham added, with hesitation, "in the cheap way." 
 
 "Who told you thati" Edgar's curiosity gave a 
 sharpness which he had not intended to his voice. 
 
 "Come, come," said Mr. Tottenham good- 
 humouredly; "that is just the point which I cannot 
 enter into. But you may permit us to be interested, 
 though we can't describe in full detail how it came 
 about. Earnshaw, Mary and I are fanciful sort of 
 people, as you perceive; we don't always keep to 
 the beaten path; and we want you to do us a 
 favour. What I am going to ask may be a little
 
 200 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 irregular; it may sound a little obtrusive; you may 
 take it amiss; though I hope not — " 
 
 "I shall not take it amiss in any case," Edgar 
 managed to say; but his heart was beating very 
 loudly, and an agitation for which he could not 
 account had got possession of his whole being. His 
 mind went wildly over a whole world of conjec- 
 ture, and I need not add that he was utterly astray 
 in everything he thought of, and did not reach to the 
 faintest notion of what his companion meant to be at. 
 
 "In the first place," said Mr. Tottenham ner- 
 vously, "it is evident that you must wait till there 
 is an opening in that business with Newmarch. I 
 don't doubt in the least that he wants to have you, 
 and that he'll give you the first vacancy; but he 
 can't kill off a man on purpose, though I dare say 
 he would if he could. I don't go on to say 
 in the second place, as I might perhaps, that a 
 Queen's Messenger has a very wearisome life, and 
 not much to make amends for it — " 
 
 Here he paused to take breath, while Edgar 
 watched and wondered, getting more and more 
 bewildered every moment in the maze of conjecture 
 through which he could not find his way. 
 
 "Of course," said Mr. Tottenham, himself dis- 
 playing a certain amount of rising excitement, "I 
 don't mean to say that you ought not to accept 
 such an appointment if it was offered. But in the 
 meantime, what are you to do? Live in London, 
 and waste your resources, and break your spirit 
 with continual waiting? I say no, no, by no means; 
 and this is what put it into my head to say what I
 
 REALITY. '20 1 
 
 am going to say to you, and to insist upon your 
 coming here." 
 
 What was he going to say? Still Edgar, sub- 
 dued by his own excitement, could make no reply. 
 Mr. Tottenham paused also, as if half fearing to 
 take the plunge. 
 
 "What we meant, Earnshaw," he said abruptly, at 
 last, "what Mary and I want, if you will do it, is — that 
 you should stay with us and take charge of our boy." 
 
 The last words he uttered hastily, and almost 
 sharply, as if throwing something out that burned 
 him while he held it. And oh! dear reader, how 
 can I express to you the way in which poor Edgar 
 fell, fell, low down, and lower down, as into some 
 echoing depth, when these words fell upon his dis- 
 mayed and astonished ears! Take charge of their 
 boy! God help him! what had he been thinking 
 about? He could not himself tell; nothing, a chimera, 
 the foolishest of dreams, some wild fancy which 
 involved the future in a vain haze of brightness 
 with the image of the veiled maiden in the railway 
 carriage, and of Gussy, who was never veiled. Oh, 
 Heaven and earth! what a fool, what a fool he was! 
 She had nothing to do with it; he himself had nothing 
 to do with it. It was but a benevolent scheme of 
 people with a great many benevolent schemes about 
 them, for the relief of a poor young fellow whom 
 they knew to be in trouble. That was all. Edgar 
 went on walking as in a dream, feeling himself spin 
 round and round and go down, as to the bottom 
 of some well. He could hear that Mr. Tottenham 
 went on speaking, and the hum of his voice made,
 
 202 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 as it were, a running accompaniment to his own 
 hubbub of inarticulate thoughts; Edgar heard it, yet 
 heard it not. When he woke up from this confusion, 
 it was quite suddenly, by reason of a pause in the 
 accompanying voice. The last words his bewildered 
 intelligence caught up were these: 
 
 "You will think it over, and tell me your deci- 
 sion later. You will understand that we both beg you 
 to forgive us, if we have said or done anything 
 which is disagreeable to you, Earnshaw. You pro- 
 mise me to remember that?" 
 
 "Disagreeable!" Edgar murmured half con- 
 sciously. "Why should it be disagreeable ?" but 
 even his own voice seemed to be changed in his 
 own ear as he said it. He was all changed, and 
 everything about him. "I must go across to the 
 pond before I go in," he added, somewhat abruptly. 
 "I promised Philip to look at the ice;" and with 
 scarcely any further excuse, set off across the grass, 
 from which the whiteness and crispness of the 
 morning frosts had been stolen away by the sun. 
 He could not get free of the physical sensation of 
 having fallen. He seemed to himself to be bruised 
 and shaken; he could do nothing with his mind 
 but realize and identify his state; he could not dis- 
 cuss it with himself. It did not seem to him even 
 that he knew what he had been thinking of, what 
 he had been hoping; he knew only that he had 
 fallen from some strange height, and lay at the 
 bottom somewliere, aching and broken in heart 
 and strength, stunned by the fall, and so confused 
 that he did not know what had happened to him,
 
 REALITY. 203 
 
 or what he must do next. In this state of mind he 
 walked mechanically across the grass, and gazed 
 at the frozen pond, without knowing what he was 
 doing, and then strode mechanically away from it, 
 and went home. (How soon we begin to call any 
 kind of a place home, when we have occasion to 
 use it as such!). He went home, back to his room, 
 the room which surely, he thought to himself, was 
 too good for Mr. Tottenham's tutor, which was the 
 post he had been asked to occupy. Mr. Tottenham's 
 boy's tutor, that was the phrase. 
 
 It was his own repetition of these words which 
 roused him a little; the tutor in the house; the 
 handy man who was made to do everything; the 
 one individual among the gentlemen of the house 
 whom it was possible to order about; who was an 
 equal, and yet no equal. No, Edgar said to him- 
 self, with a generous swelling of his heart, it was 
 not thus that a dependent would be treated in Mr. 
 Tottenham's house; but the very idea of being a 
 dependent struck him with such sharp poignancy of 
 surprise, as well as pain, that he could not calm 
 himself down, or make the best of it. He had never 
 tasted what this was like yet. When he had made 
 his application to Lord Newmarch, the experience 
 had not been a pleasant one; but it was short at 
 least, and the position he had hoped for had been 
 independent at least. In it, he would have been 
 no man's servant, but the Queen's, whom all men 
 delight to serve. Mr. Tottenham's tutor was a very 
 different thing. 
 
 He sat at his window, and heard without know-
 
 204 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 ing the great luncheon-bell peal out through all the 
 echoes. He felt that he could not go downstairs 
 to confront them all, while still in the confusion 
 and stupor of his downfall; for he had sustained a 
 downfall more terrible than anyone knew, more 
 bewildering than he could even realize himself; 
 from vague, strange, delicious suspicions of some- 
 thing coming Avhich might change all his life, down 
 to a sickening certainty of something come, which 
 would indeed change everything in every way, in 
 the estimation of the world and of himself 
 
 Mr. Tottenham walked home very seriously on 
 his side, after this interview. He had some sort of 
 comprehension that the proposal he had just made 
 was one which, at the first hearing, would not delight 
 his new friend; and he was sufficiently friendly and 
 large-minded to permit the young man a little moment 
 of ruffled pride, a little misery, even a little offence, 
 before he could make up his mind to it, notwith- 
 standing that it was, on the part of the Tottcnhams, 
 an impulse of almost pure and unmixed charity 
 and kindness which had suggested it. They were 
 impulsive people both, and fond of making them- 
 selves the Providence of poorer people; and the 
 very best thing that can be said of them, better 
 even than their universal and crotchety willingness 
 to serve everybody who came in their way, was their 
 composure when the intended recipients of their 
 bounty hesitated, or, as sometimes happened, kicked 
 at it altogether. Their kindnesses, their bounties, 
 their crotchets, and their theories were all mixed up 
 together, and might occasionally be less good, and
 
 REALITY. 205 
 
 do less good than they were meant to do; but the 
 toleration which permitted a prospective protege to 
 weigh the benefit offered, without any angry con- 
 sciousness of his want of gratitude, was admirable, 
 and much more unusual in this world than even 
 the kindness itself Mr. Tottenham hurried off to 
 his wife, and told her all about it; and the two 
 together waited for Edgar's decision with sympathetic 
 excitement, almost as much disturbed in their minds 
 as he was, and with no indignant feeling that their 
 good intentions were having scanty justice. On the 
 contrary, they discussed the matter as they might 
 have done something in which their amour propre 
 was not at all engaged. 
 
 "I hope he will see it is the best thing for him," 
 said Mr. Tottenham. 
 
 "Of course it is the best thing for him, and he 
 must see it," said the more impetuous Lady Mary; 
 but neither one nor the other declared that he 
 would be a fool or ungrateful if he neglected this 
 opening, as so many intending benefactors would. 
 They discussed it all the afternoon, taking their 
 Sunday stroll together through the greenhouses, 
 which were splendid, and talking of nothing but 
 Edgar. 
 
 "He must do it; we must insist upon it, Tom," 
 Lady Mary cried, growing more and more eager. 
 
 "I cannot make him, dear, if he don't see it," 
 said the husband, shaking his head. 
 
 Thus both upstairs and downstairs there was 
 but one subject of consideration. The ugly things 
 about dependence, about domestic slavery, about
 
 2o6 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 the equal who would not be an equal, which Edgar 
 was saying to himself, found no echo in the talk of 
 the good people, full of wealth and power to 
 benefit others, who puckered their brows on the 
 subject downstairs. In this respect the thoughts of 
 the poor man whom they wanted to befriend, were 
 much less generous than theirs who wanted to 
 befriend him. He judged them harshly, and they 
 judged him kindly. He attributed intentions and 
 motives to them which they were guiltless of, and 
 thought of himself as degraded in their eyes by the 
 kindness they had offered; while, in fact, he had 
 become a most important person to them, solely on 
 that account — a person occupying a superior position, 
 with power to decide against or for them, to honour 
 or discredit their judgment. Indeed, I am bound 
 to allow that Edgar was not generous at all at this 
 moment of his career, and that his hosts were. But 
 ah me! it is so much easier to be generous, to be 
 tolerant, to think the best, when you are rich and 
 can confer favours; so difficult to keep up your 
 optimist views, and to see the best side of every- 
 thing, when you are poor! 
 
 "He will either come down and tell us that he 
 accepts, or he will pack his things and go off to- 
 night," said Lady Mary as they waited. They were 
 seated in the conservatory, in the centre circle under 
 the glittering glass dome, which had been built to 
 give room for the great feathery branches of a palm 
 tree. This was the favourite spot in which all the 
 pretty luxury of these conservatories culminated. 
 Some bright-coloured Persian rugs were laid on the
 
 REALITY. 207 
 
 floor, here and there, upon which were some half- 
 dozen chairs, half rustic and wholly luxurious. All 
 the flowers that art can extract or force from nature 
 in the depth of Winter were grouped about, great 
 moon-discs of white camellias, heaths covered with 
 fairy bells, spotless primulas rising from out the 
 rough velvet of their leaves. The atmosphere was 
 soft as a moderate gentle Summer, and the great 
 palm leaves stirred now and then against the high 
 dome of glass. Mr. Tottenham lounged on a rustic 
 sofa, with a cloud of anxiety on his face, and Lady 
 Mary, too anxious to lounge, sat bolt upright and 
 listened. Why were those good people anxious? I 
 cannot tell; they wanted, I suppose, to succeed in 
 this good action which they had set their hearts on 
 doing; they did not want to be foiled; and they 
 had set their hearts upon delivering Edgar from his 
 difficulties, and making him comfortable. Along 
 with their other sentiments there was mixed a certain 
 generous fear lest they should have been precipi- 
 tate, lest they should have hurt the feelings and 
 wounded the pride of their friend whom they wished 
 to serve. I wish there were more of such people, 
 and more of such susceptibilities in the world. 
 
 They sat thus, until the twilight grew so deep 
 and shadowy that they could scarcely see each 
 other. It was very cold outside, where everything 
 began again to congeal and whiten, and all the 
 world resigned itself with a groan to the long, long 
 interval of dead darkness, hopelessness, and cold 
 which must deepen before day. At the end of a 
 Vista of shrubs and great evergreen plants, the red
 
 208 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 glow of the drawing-room fire shone out, shining 
 there like a ruddy star in the distance. Lady Mary 
 drew her shawl round her with a little shiver, and 
 her husband got up and yawned in the weariness 
 of suspense. Had he gone away without giving an 
 answer] Had they done nothing but harm, though 
 they had wished so much to do good. They both 
 started like a couple of guilty conspirators when at 
 length a step was heard approaching, and Edgar 
 appeared, half hesitating, half eager, against the 
 glow of the distant fire.
 
 A PAIR OF PHILANTHROPISTS. 209 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A Pair of Philanthropists. 
 
 I NEED not describe the many struggles of feeling 
 which Edgar went through on that memorable Sun- 
 day, before he finally made up his mind to accept 
 Mr. Tottenham's proposal, and do the only thing 
 which remained possible for him, his only alternative 
 between work of some sort and idleness — between 
 spending his last little remnant of money and 
 beginning to earn some more — a thing which he 
 had never yet done in his life. It was very strange 
 to the young man, after so long an interval of a 
 very different life, to return vicariously, as it were, 
 not in his own right, to the habits and surroundings 
 of luxury. He felt a whimsical inclination at first 
 to explain to everybody he encountered that he 
 was, so to speak, an impostor, having no right to 
 all the good things about him, but being only Mr. 
 Tottenham's upper servant, existing in the atmo- 
 sphere of the drawing-room only on sufferance and 
 by courtesy. People in such circumstances are 
 generally, I believe, very differently affected, or so 
 at least one reads in story. They are generally 
 pictured as standing perpetually on the defensive, 
 looking out for offence, anticipating injury, and in 
 a sore state of compulsory humility or rather hu- 
 
 For Love atid Life. I. 14
 
 2-1 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 miliation. I do not know whether Edgar's humorous 
 character could ever have been driven by ill-usage 
 to feel in this way, but as he had no ill-usage 
 to put up with, but much the reverse, he took 
 a totally different view. After the first conflict 
 with himself was over, which we have already in- 
 dicated, he came to consider his tutorship a good 
 joke, as indeed, I am sorry to say, everybody else 
 did — even Phil, who was in high glee over his 
 new instructor. 
 
 "I don't know what I am to teach him," Edgar 
 had said to the boy's parents when he came down 
 to the conservatory on the memorable Sunday I 
 have already described, and joined the anxious 
 pair. 
 
 "Teach him whatever you know," Lady Mary 
 had answered; but Edgar's half mirthful, half dis- 
 mayed sense of unfitness for the post they thrust 
 upon him was not much altered by this impulsive 
 speech. 
 
 "What do I know?" he said to himself next 
 morning when, coming down, early before any one 
 else, he found himself alone in the library, with all 
 the materials for instruction round him. Edgar had 
 not himself been educated in England, and he did 
 not know whether such knowledge as he possessed 
 might not suffer from being transmitted in an un- 
 usual way without the orthodox form. "My Latin 
 and Greek may be good enough, though I doubt it," 
 he said, when Mr. Tottenham joined him, "but how 
 if they are found to be quite out of the Eton shape, 
 and therefore no good to Phil?"
 
 A PAIR OF PHILANTHROPISTS. 2 I I 
 
 "Never mind the Eton shape, or any other 
 shape," said Mr. Tottenham, "you heard what Mary 
 said, and her opinion may be reHed upon. Teach 
 him what you know. Why, he is only twelve, he 
 has time enough for mere shape, I hope." 
 
 And thus Edgar was again silenced. He was, 
 however, a tolerably good scholar, and as it hap- 
 pened, in pure idleness had lately betaken himself 
 again to those classical studies which so many men 
 lay aside with their youth. And in the library at 
 Tottenham's there was a crowd of books bearing 
 upon all possible theories of education, which Edgar, 
 with a private smile at himself, carried to his room 
 with him in detachments, and pored over with great 
 impartiality, reading the most opposite systems one 
 after another. When he told Lady Mary about his 
 studies, she afforded immediate advice and informa- 
 tion. She knew a great deal more about them than 
 he did. She had tried various systems, each antago- 
 nistic to the other, in her own pet schools in the 
 village, and she was far from having made up her 
 mind on the subject. 
 
 "I confess to you frankly, Mr. Earnshaw," said 
 Lady Mary, "sometimes I think we have nothing in 
 the world to trust to but education, which is the 
 rational view; and sometimes I feel that I put no 
 faith in it at all." 
 
 "That is something like my own opinion," said 
 Earnshaw, "though I have permitted you to do 
 yourselves the injustice of appointing me tutor to 
 Phil." 
 
 "Education, like everything else, depends so 
 
 14*
 
 2 I 2 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 much on one's theory of life," said Lady Mary, 
 "Mr. Tottenham and I think differently on the sub- 
 ject, which is a great pity, though I don't see that 
 it does us much harm. My husband is content to 
 take things as they are, which is by much the more 
 comfortable way; but that too is a matter of tem- 
 perament. Phil will be sure to get on if you will 
 bring him into real correspondence with your own 
 mind. Molly gives me a great deal more trouble; 
 a man can get himself educated one way or another, 
 a woman can't." 
 
 "Is it sol" said Edgar, "pardon my ignorance. 
 I thought most ladies were terribly well educated." 
 
 "Ah, I know what you mean!" said Lady Mary, 
 "educated in nothings, taught to display all their 
 little bits of superficial information. It is not only 
 that women get no education, Mr. Earnshaw, but 
 how are we to get it for theml Of course an effort 
 may be made for a girl in Molly's position, with 
 parents who fully appreciate the difficulties of the 
 matter; but for girls of the middle classes for in- 
 stance? they get a little very bad music, and worse 
 French, and this is considered education. I dare 
 say you will help me by and by in one of my pet 
 schemes. Some of my friends in town have been 
 so very good as to join me in a little effort I am 
 making to raise the standard. The rector here, a 
 well-meaning sort of man, has been persuaded to 
 join, and to give us a nicish sort of schoolroom 
 which hapi)ens to be unoccupied, and his coun- 
 tenance, which does us good with old fashioned 
 people. I have spent a good deal of time on the
 
 A PAIR OF PHILANTHROPISTS. 21 ^ 
 
 scheme myself, and it is one of my chief interests. 
 I quite reckon upon you to help." 
 
 "What must I dol" said Edgar with a plaintive 
 tone in his voice. Alas, worse had happened to 
 him than falling into the hands of thieves who could 
 only rob him — no more. He had fallen into the 
 hands of good Samaritans who could do a great 
 deal worse. He thought of ragged-schools and un- 
 ruly infants; his thoughts went no further, and to 
 this he resigned himself with a sigh. 
 
 "Then you will really help?" cried Lady Mary 
 delighted, "I knew from the first you would be the 
 greatest acquisition to us. My plan is to have lec- 
 tures, Mr. Earnshaw, upon various subjects; they 
 last only during the winter, and a great number of 
 girls have begun to attend. One of my friends 
 takes Latin, another French. Alas, our German 
 lecturer has just failed us! if you could supply his 
 place it would be perfect. Then we have history, 
 mathematics, and literature; we cannot do much of 
 course, but even a little is better than nothing. It 
 would not take up very much of your time; an 
 hour and a half a week, with perhaps a moment 
 now and then to look after exercises, &.c." 
 
 "Am I expected to teach German to anybody in 
 an hour and a half a weekl" said Edgar, laughing. 
 "It is a small expenditure for so great a result." 
 
 "Of course you think it can only be a smatter- 
 ing — and that a smattering is a bad thing?" said 
 the social reformer, "but we really do produce very 
 good results — you shall see if you will but try."
 
 214 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "And what branch, may I ask, do you take?" 
 said the ignorant neophyte. 
 
 "/, Mr. Earnshaw! why I learn!" cried Lady 
 Mary; "if I could I would go in for all the studies, 
 but that is impossible. I follow as many as I can, 
 and find it an admirable discipline for the mind, 
 just that discipline which is denied to women. Why 
 do you look at me so strangely? Why do you 
 laugh? I assure you I mean what I say." 
 
 "If I must not laugh, pray teach me some more 
 philosophical way of expressing my feelings," said 
 Edgar, "I fear I should laugh still more if you did 
 me the honour to select me as one of your instruc- 
 tors. A year hence when I have been well trained 
 by Phil, I may have a little more confidence in my- 
 self." 
 
 "If you mean," said Lady Mary, somewhat 
 offended, "that instructing others is the best way 
 to confirm your own knowledge, I am sure you 
 are quite right; but if you mean to laugh at my 
 scheme — " 
 
 "Pray pardon me," said Edgar, "I can't help it. 
 The idea of teaching you is too much for my gravity. 
 Tell me who the other learned pundits are from 
 whom Lady Mary Tottenham learns — " 
 
 "Lady Mary Tottenham would learn from any 
 man who had anything to teach her," she answered 
 with momentary anger; then added with a short 
 laugh, extorted from her against her will, "Mr. Earn- 
 shaw, you are very impertinent and unkind; why 
 should you laugh at one's endeavour to help one's
 
 A PAIR OF PHILANTHROPISTS. 215 
 
 fellow-creatures to a little instruction, and one's 
 self—" 
 
 "Are you quarrelling 1" said Mr. Tottenham, 
 stalking in suddenly, with his glass in his eye. 
 "What is the matterl Earnshaw, I want to interest 
 you in a very pet scheme of mine. When my wife 
 has done with you, let me have a hearing. I want 
 him to drive in with me to Tottenham's, Mary, and 
 see what is doing there." 
 
 "I hope Mr. Earnshaw will be kinder to you 
 than he has been to me," said Lady Mary; "at me 
 he does nothing but laugh. He despises women, I 
 suppose, like so many other men, and thinks us 
 beneath the range of intellectual beings." 
 
 "What a cruel judgment," said Edgar, "because 
 I am tickled beyond measure at the thought of hav- 
 ing anything to teach you, and at the suggestion 
 that you can improve your mind by attending lec- 
 tures, and are undergoing mental discipline by 
 means of mathematics and history — " 
 
 "Oh, then it is only that you think me too old," 
 said Lady Mary, with the not unagreeable amuse- 
 ment of a pretty woman who knows herself to be 
 not old, and to look still younger and fresher than 
 she feels; and they had an amiable laugh over this 
 excellent joke, which entirely restored the friendly 
 relations between them. Mr. Tottenham smiled re- 
 flectively with his glass in his eye, not looking into 
 the matter. He was too seriously occupied with his 
 own affairs to enter into any unnecessary merri- 
 ment. 
 
 "Come along, Earnshaw," he said, "I want you
 
 2l6 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 to come into Tottenham's "with me, and on the way 
 I will tell you all about my scheme, which my wife 
 takes a great interest in also. You will come to 
 the next evening, Mary? It is always so much more 
 successful when you are there." 
 
 " Surely," said Lady Mary with a vague smile, as 
 she gathered up a bundle of papers Avhich she had 
 produced to show Edgar. She shook her head over 
 them as she turned away. Her husband's schemes 
 she patronized with a gentle interest; but her own 
 occupied her a great deal more warmly as was na- 
 tural. "You have not given me half the considera- 
 tion my plan deserves," she said half pathetically, 
 "but don't think I mean to let you off on that ac- 
 count," and with a friendly smile to both the gen- 
 tlemen she went to her own concerns. The library 
 had been the scene of the conversation, and Lady 
 Mary now withdrew to her own special table, which 
 was placed in front of a great bay-window over- 
 looking the flower-garden. It was a very large room, 
 and Mr. Tottenham's table had a less favourable 
 aspect, with nothing visible but dark shrubberies 
 from the window behind him, to which he judi- 
 ciously turned his back. 
 
 "Mary prefers to look out, and I to look in," 
 he said; "to be sure I have her to look at, which 
 makes a difference." 
 
 This huge room was the centre of their morning 
 occupations, and the scene of many an amiable 
 controversy. The two tables which belonged to 
 the pair individually were l:)Oth covered with papers, 
 that of Lady Mary being the most orderly, but not
 
 A PAIR OF PHILANTHROPISTS. 217 
 
 the least crowded, while a third large table, in front 
 of the fire, covered with books and newspapers, 
 offered scope for any visitor who might chance to 
 join them in their viewy and speculative seclusion. 
 As a matter of fact, most people who came to 
 Tottenham's, gravitated sooner or later towards this 
 room. It was the point of meeting in the morning, 
 just as the palm-tree in the conservatory was the 
 centre of interest in the afternoon. 
 
 "I am writing to Lyons to come to my next 
 evening," said Mr. Tottenham, taking his place at 
 his own table, while Lady Mary with her back 
 towards the other occupants of the room scribbled 
 rapidly at hers. 
 
 "Do you think they will care for Lyons?" asked 
 Lady Mary without turning round, "you forget 
 always that amusement and not information is what 
 they want — " 
 
 "Amusement is what we all want, my dear," said 
 her husband, with apologetic mildness. "We ap- 
 proach the subject in different ways. You call in 
 the same man to instruct as I do to amuse. We 
 agree as to the man, but we don't agree as to the 
 object; and yet it comes to the very same thing at 
 last." 
 
 "You think so," said Lady Mary, still with her 
 back turned; "but we shall see by the results." 
 
 "Yes, Lyons is coming," said Mr. Tottenham. 
 "I don't know if you have heard him, Earnshaw. 
 He has been in Africa, and all over the world. My 
 own opinion is that he is rather a stupid fellow; 
 but, so long as other people don't think so, what
 
 2l8 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 does that matter? He is coming; and, my dear 
 fellow, if you would listen to what I am going to 
 tell you, and take an interest in my people — " 
 
 "What would happen?" said Edgar, as the other 
 paused. He was half amused and half alarmed by 
 the turn that things were taking, and did not know 
 what strange use he might be put to next. 
 
 "Ah, I don't know what might not happen," 
 said Mr. Tottenham, yielding for a moment to the 
 influence of Edgar's distressed but humorous coun- 
 tenance. "However, don't be frightened. You shall 
 not be forced to do anything. I don't approve of 
 over-persuasion. But supposing that you should be 
 interested, as I expect, a great deal more than you 
 think—" 
 
 This he said in a deprecatory, propitiatory way, 
 looking up suddenly from the letter he was writing. 
 Edgar stood in front of the fire, contemplating both 
 parties, and he was half touched as well as more 
 than half amused by this look. He did not even 
 know what it was he was called upon to interest 
 himself in; but the eagerness of his companions, 
 about their several plans, went to his heart. 
 
 "You may be sure, if there is anything I can 
 do — " he said, impulsively. 
 
 "You should not allow Mr. Earnshaw to commit 
 himself till he has seen what it is," said Lady Mary, 
 from the opposite table; and then she, too, turned 
 half round, pen in hand, and fixed an earnest gaze 
 upon him. "I may write to my people and tell 
 them the German class will be resumed next week?" 
 she said, with much the same entreating look as
 
 A PAIR OF PHILANTHROPISTS. 2ig 
 
 her husband had put on. It was all Edgar could 
 do to preserve his gravity, and not reply with in- 
 decorous gaiety, like that which had provoked her 
 before; for Lady Mary, on this point at least, was 
 less tolerant and more easily affronted than her 
 husband. 
 
 "If you think I can be of any use," he said, 
 trying to look as serious as possible; and thus, be- 
 fore he knew, the double bargain was made. 
 
 It would be impossible to describe in words the 
 whimsical unreality of the situation in which Edgar 
 thus found himself when he got into Mr. Tottenham's 
 phaeton to be driven back to town, in order to be 
 made acquainted with the other "Tottenham's." 
 Only a few days had passed since the wintry even- 
 ing when he arrived a stranger at the hospitable 
 but unknown house. He was a stranger still ac- 
 cording to all rules, but yet his life had suddenly 
 become entangled with the lives which a week ago 
 he had never heard of He was no visitor, but a 
 member of the family, with distinct duties in it; 
 involved even in its eccentricities, its peculiarities, 
 its quaint benevolences. Edgar felt his head swim 
 as they drove from the door which he had entered 
 for the first time so very short a while ago. Was 
 he in a dream 1 or had he gone astray out of the 
 ordinary workday world into some modern version 
 of the Arabian Nights? 
 
 "You remember what I told you, Earnshaw, about 
 the shopl" said his companion. "It is for the shop 
 that I bespeak your interest now. I told you that 
 my wife had no false pride on the subject, and how
 
 2 20 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 she cured me of my absurdity. I draw a great deal 
 of money out of it, and I employ a great number 
 of people. Of course, I have a great responsibility 
 towards these people. If they were labourers on 
 an estate, or miners in a coal-pit, everybody would 
 acknowledge this responsibility; but being only 
 shopmen and shopwomen, or, poor souls, as they 
 prefer to have it, assistants in a house of business, 
 the difficulty is much increased. Do I have your 
 attention, Earnshaw?" 
 
 "I am listening," said Edgar; "but you must 
 excuse me if my attention seems to wander a little. 
 Consider how short an acquaintance ours is, and 
 that I am somewhat giddy with the strange turn my 
 life has taken. Pure selfishness, of course; but one 
 does rank more highly than is fit in one's own 
 thoughts." 
 
 "To be sure, it is all novel and strange," said 
 Mr. Tottenham, in a soothing and consolatory tone. 
 "Never mind; you will soon get used to our ways. 
 For my own part, I think a spinning mill is nothing 
 to my shop. Several hundreds of decently dressed 
 human creatures, some of the young women looking 
 wonderfully like ladies, I can tell you, is a very 
 bewildering sort of kingdom to deal with. The 
 Queen rules in a vague sort of way compared to 
 me. She has nothing to do with our private morals 
 or manners; so long as we don't rob or steal, she 
 leaves us to our own guidance. But, in my do- 
 minions, there is all the minuteness of despotism. 
 My subjects live in my house, eat my bread, and 
 have to be regulated by my pleasure. I look after
 
 A PAIR OF PHILANTHROPISTS. 22 1 
 
 them in everything, their religious sentiments, their 
 prudential arrangements, their amusements. You 
 don't listen to me, Earnshaw." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I do. But if Phil's lessons and Lady 
 Mary's lectures come in to disturb my attention, 
 you won't mind just at first? This is the same road 
 we drove down on Saturday. There is the same 
 woman standing at the same door." 
 
 "And here are the same horses, and the same 
 man with the same sentiments driving you." 
 
 "Thanks; you are very kind," said Edgar, grate- 
 fully; "but my head goes round notwithstanding. 
 I suppose so many ups and downs put one off one's 
 balance. I promise you to wake up when we come 
 to the field of battle." 
 
 "You mean the shop," said Mr. Tottenham; 
 "don't be afraid of naming it. I am rather excited, 
 to tell the truth, about the effect it may have upon 
 you. I am like a showman, with something quite 
 original and out of the common to show."
 
 122 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 The Shop. 
 
 Tottenham's is situated in one of the great 
 thoroughfares which lead out of the heart of London, 
 towards one of its huge suburbs. It consists of an 
 immense square pile of building, facing to four 
 different streets, with frontage of plate-glass windows, 
 and masses of costly shawls and silks appearing 
 through. To many people, but these were mostly 
 ladies, Tottenham's was a kind of fairyland. It 
 represented everything, from substantial domestic 
 linen to fairy webs of lace, which money could buy. 
 In the latter particular, it is true, Tottenham's was 
 limited; it possessed only the productions of modern 
 fingers, the filmy fabrics of Flanders and France; 
 but its silks, its velvets, its magnificences of shawl 
 and drapery, its untold wealth in the homelier shape 
 of linen and cambric, were unsurpassed anywhere, 
 and the fame of them had spread throughout Lon- 
 don, nay, throughout England. The name of this 
 great establishment caused a flutter of feeling through 
 all the Home Counties, and up even to the Northern 
 borders. People sent their orders to Tottenham's 
 from every direction of the compass. The mass of 
 its cHents were, perhaps, not highly fashionable, 
 though even the creme de la creme sometimes made
 
 THE SHOP. 22^ 
 
 a raid into the vast place, which was reported cheap, 
 and where fashionable mothers were apt to assure 
 each other that people, who knew what was what, 
 might often pick up very nice things indeed at half 
 the price which Elise would ask, not to speak of 
 Worth. Persons who know what Worth has last 
 invented, and how Elise works, have an immense 
 advantage in this way over their humble neighbours. 
 But the humble neighbours themselves were very 
 good customers, and bought more largely, if with 
 less discrimination. And the middle class, like one 
 man, or rather like one woman, patronized Totten- 
 ham's. It bought its gowns there, and its carpets 
 and its thread and needles, everything that is wanted, 
 in a house. It provided its daughters' trousseaux, 
 and furnished its sons' houses out of this universal 
 emporium; not the chairs and tables, it is true, but 
 everything else. The arrangements of the interior 
 were so vast and bewildering as to drive a stranger 
 wild, though the habitues glided about from counter 
 to counter with smiling readiness. There were as 
 many departments as in the Home Office, but every- 
 body looked after his own department, which is not 
 generally the case in the Imperial shop; and the 
 hum of voices, the gliding about of many feet, the 
 rustle of many garments, the vague sound and senti- 
 ment of a multitude pervaded the alleys of counters, 
 the crowded passages between, where group was 
 jostled by group, and not an inch of space left un- 
 occupied. , 
 Edgar's entrance into this curious unexplored 
 world, which he had been brought here expressly
 
 224 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 to "take an interest" in, was made through a private 
 way, through the counting-house, where many clerks 
 sat at their desks, and where all was quiet and still 
 as in a well-ordered merchant's office. Mr. Totten- 
 ham had a large room, furnished with the morocco- 
 covered chairs and writing-tables consecrated to 
 such places, but with more luxury than usual; with 
 Turkey carpets on the floor, and rich crimson cur- 
 tains framing the great window, which looked into 
 a small court-yard surrounded with blank walls. 
 Here Mr. Tottenham paused to look over a bundle 
 of business letters, and to hear some reports that 
 were brought to him by the heads of departments. 
 These were not entirely about business. Though 
 the communications were made in a low voice, 
 Edgar could not help hearing that Mr. So-and-So 
 was in question here, and Miss Somebody there. 
 
 "If something is not done, I don't think the 
 other young ladies will stand it, Sir," said a grave 
 elderly gentleman, whom Edgar, eyeing him curi- 
 ously, felt that he would have taken at least for a 
 Member of Parliament. 
 
 "I will look into it, Robinson. You may make 
 your mind quite easy. I will certainly look into 
 it," said Mr. Tottenham, with such a look as the 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer may put on when he 
 anticipates a failure in the revenue. 
 
 "You see. Sir," added Mr. Robinson, "a piece 
 of scandal about any of the young ladies is bad 
 enough; but when it comes to be the head of a 
 department, or at least, one of the heads — and you 
 remember it was all our opinions that Miss Lock-
 
 THE SHOP. 225 
 
 wood was just the fit person for the place. I had 
 a little difficulty myself on the point, for Miss Innes 
 had been longer in the establishment; but as for 
 being ladylike-looking, and a good figure, and a 
 good manner, there could, of course, be no com- 
 parison." 
 
 "I will look into it, I will look into it," said Mr. 
 Tottenham, hurriedly. 
 
 The head of a State has to bear many worries, 
 in small things as well as in great; and the head of 
 Tottenham's was less a constitutional than a despotic 
 ruler. Limited Monarchies do not answer, it must 
 be allowed, on a small scale. The respectable Mr. 
 Robinson withdrew to one side, while other heads 
 of departments approached the Sultan of the Shop. 
 Edgar looked on with some amusement and a good 
 deal of interest. Mr. Tottenham was no longer 
 speculative and viewy. He went into all the busi- 
 ness details with a precision which surprised his 
 companion, and talked of the rise in silks, and the 
 vicissitudes in shirtings, with very much more ap- 
 parent perception of the seriousness of the matter 
 than he had ever evidenced in the other Totten- 
 ham's, the wealthy house in which the shopkeeper 
 lived as princes live. Edgar would have retired 
 when these business discussions, or rather reports 
 and audiences, began; but Mr. Tottenham restrained 
 him with a quick look and gesture, motioning him 
 to a seat close to his own. 
 
 "I want you to see what I have to do," he said 
 in a rapid interjection between one conference and 
 another. 
 
 For Love a?id Life. I, 15
 
 226 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 The last of all was a young man, studiously 
 elegant in appearance, and in reality, as Edgar 
 found out afterwards, the fine gentleman of the 
 establishment, who had charge of the recreations of 
 "the assistants," or rather the employes, which was 
 the word Mr. Watson preferred. Mr. Tottenham's 
 face lighted up when this functionary approached 
 him with a piece of paper, written in irregular lines, 
 like a programme, in his hand — and it was the 
 programme of the next evening entertainment, to 
 be given in the shop and for the shop. Mr. Wat- 
 son used no such vulgar phraseology. 
 
 "Perhaps, Sir, you will kindly look over this, 
 and favour us with any hint you may think neces- 
 sary?" he said. "Music is always popular, and as 
 we have at present a good deal of vocal talent 
 among us, I thought it best to utilize it. The part- 
 songs please the young ladies, Sir. It is the only 
 portion of the entertainment in which they can take 
 any active share." 
 
 "Then by all means let us please the ladies," 
 said Mr. Tottenham. "Look, Earnshaw; this is an 
 entertainment which we have once a month. Ah, 
 Watson, you are down, I see, for a solo on your 
 instrument?" 
 
 "I find it popular. Sir," said Mr. Watson, with 
 a smirk. "The taste for music is spreading. The 
 young ladies, Sir, are anxious to know whether, as 
 you once were good enough to promise, her Lady- 
 ship is likely this time to do us the honour—" 
 
 "Oh, yes, Watson; you may consider that 
 settled; my wife is coming," said Mr. Tottenham.
 
 THE SHOP. 227 
 
 "Trial Scene in Pickwick? Yes; very well, very- 
 well. Duet, Mr. Watson and Miss Lockwood. Ah! 
 I have been just hearing something about Miss 
 Lockwood—" 
 
 "She has enemies, Sir," said Mr. Watson, flush- 
 ing all over. He was a fair young- man, and the 
 colour showed at once in his somewhat pallid com- 
 plexion. "In an establishment like this, Sir — a little 
 world — where there are so many employes, of course, 
 she has her enemies." 
 
 "That may be," said Mr. Tottenham, musing. 
 "I have not inquired into it yet; but in the mean- 
 time, if there is any latent scandal, wouldn't it be 
 better that she took no public part?" 
 
 "Oh, of course. Sir!" cried Watson, bundling 
 up his papers; "if she is to be condemned un- 
 heard — " 
 
 Robinson, the respectable Member of Parlia- 
 ment, approached anxiously at this. 
 
 "I assure you, Mr. Tottenham," he cried, with 
 a warmth of sincerity which appeared to come from 
 the bottom of his heart, "I don't want to judge 
 Miss Lockwood, or any other young lady in the 
 establishment; but when things come to my ears, 
 I can't but take notice of them. The other young 
 ladies have a right to be considered." 
 
 "It is jealousy. Sir; nothing but jealousy!" cried 
 Watson; "because she's a deal more attractive than 
 any of 'em, and gets more attention — " 
 
 "Softly, softly," said Mr. Tottenham. "This 
 grows serious. I don't think I am apt to be moved 
 by jealousy of Miss Lockwood, eh, Watson? You 
 
 15*
 
 528 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 may go now, and if you know anything about the 
 subject, I'll see you afterwards." 
 
 "I know as she's the best saleswoman, and the 
 most ladylike-looking young lady in the house," 
 cried Watson; and then he perceived his slip of 
 grammar, and blushed hotter than ever; for he was 
 an ambitious young man, and had been instructed 
 up to the point of knowing that his native English 
 stood in need of improvement, and that bad gram- 
 mar was against his rising in life. 
 
 "That will do then; you can go," said Mr. Tot- 
 tenham. "Opinion is not evidence. Come, Robin- 
 son, if it's making a feud in the house, I had better, 
 I suppose, go into it at once." 
 
 "And I, perhaps, had better withdraw too," said 
 Edgar, whom this strange and sudden revelation of 
 human tumults going on in the great house of busi- 
 ness had interested in spite of himself. 
 
 "Stay; you are impartial, and have an unbiassed 
 judgment," said Mr. Tottenham. "Now, Robinson, 
 let us hear what you have got to say." 
 
 Robinson approached with a world of care upon 
 his face. Edgar having allowed his fancy to be 
 taken possession of by the Member-of-Parliament 
 theory, could not help the notion that this good 
 worried man had risen to call for a Committee 
 upon some subject involving peril to the nation, 
 some mysterious eruption of Jesuits or Interna- 
 tionalists, or Foreign Office squabble. He was only 
 the head of the shawl and cloak department in 
 Tottenham's; but it is quite marvellous how much
 
 THE SHOP. 229 
 
 humanity resembles itself, though the circumstances 
 were so unlike. 
 
 Mr. Robinson had not much more than begun 
 his story. He was in the preamble, discoursing, as 
 his prototype in the House of Commons would have 
 done, upon' the general danger to society which 
 was involved in carelessness and negligence of one 
 such matter as that he was about to bring before 
 the House — when a tap was heard at the door, a 
 little sharp tap, half defiant, half coquettish, sound- 
 ing as if the applicant, while impatient for ad- 
 mittance, might turn away capriciously, when the 
 door was opened. Both the judge and the pro- 
 secutor evidently divined at once who it was. 
 
 "Come ih," said Mr. Tottenham; "Come in!" 
 for the summons was not immediately obeyed. 
 
 Then there entered a — person, to use the safe 
 yet not very respectful word which Mr. J. S. Mill 
 rescued from the hands of flunkeys and policemen 
 — a female figure, to speak more romantically, clad 
 in elegant black silken robes, very well made, with 
 dark hair elaborately dressed; tall, slight, graceful, 
 one of those beings to be met with everywhere in 
 the inner recesses of great shops like Tottenham's, 
 bearing all the outward aspect of ladies, moving 
 about all day long upon rich carpets, in a warm 
 luxurious atmosphere, "trying on" one beautiful 
 garment after another, and surveying themselves in 
 great mirrors as they pass and repass. The best of 
 feminine society ebbs and flows around these soft- 
 voiced and elegant creatures — duchesses, princesses, 
 who look like washerwomen beside them, and young
 
 ^30 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 girls often not more pretty or graceful. They are 
 the Helots of the female fashionable world, and, at 
 the same time, to some degree, its despots; for 
 does not many a dumpy woman appear ridiculous 
 in the elegant garb which was proved before her 
 eyes so beautiful and becoming upon the slim 
 straight form of the "young person" who exhibited 
 and sold if? 
 
 Miss Lockwood entered, with her head well up, 
 in one of the attitudes which are considered most 
 elegant in those pretty coloured pictures of the 
 "Modes," which, to her class of young ladies, are 
 as the Louvre and the National Gallery thrown into 
 one. She was no longer, except from a profes- 
 sional point of view, to be considered absolutely as 
 a "young lady." Her face, which was a handsome 
 face, was slightly worn, and her age must have 
 been a year or two over thirty; but, as her accuser 
 admitted, and as her defender asserted, a more 
 "ladylike-looking" person, or a better figure for 
 showing off shawl or mantle had never been seen 
 in Tottenham's or any other house of business. 
 This was her great quality. She came in with a 
 little sweep and rustle of her long black silken 
 train; her dress, like her figure, was her stock-in- 
 trade. 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon," she said in an abrupt 
 yet airy tone, angry yet sensible withal of those 
 personal advantages which made it something of a 
 joke that anyone should presume to find fault with 
 her. "I hear my character is being taken away
 
 THE SHOP. 23 I 
 
 behind my back, and I have come, please, to defend 
 myself." 
 
 Edgar looked at this kind of being, which was 
 new to him, with a mixture of feelings. She had 
 the dress and appearance of a lady, and she was 
 unquestionably a woman, though she would have 
 scorned so commoft a name. He rose from his 
 seat when she came in with the intention of getting 
 a chair for her, as he would have done to any other 
 lady, but was deterred, he could scarcely tell why, 
 by her own air and that of the other two men who 
 looked at her without budging. 
 
 "Sit down, sit down," said Mr. Tottenham 
 hastily, aside to him, "of course I know what you 
 mean, but that sort of thing does not do. It makes 
 them uncomfortable; sit down; she will give us 
 trouble enough, you will see." 
 
 Edgar, however, could not go so far as to obey. 
 He kept standing, and he saw the new comer look 
 at him, and look again with a lighting up of her 
 face as though she recognised him. So far as he 
 was aware he had never seen her before in his life. 
 
 "Miss Lockwood, I do not think this is how 
 you should speak," said her employer, "you know 
 whether I am in the habit of permitting anybody's 
 character to be taken away, without giving the ac- 
 cused full opportunity to defend themselves." 
 
 "Oh yes. Sir, to defend themselves," she said 
 Avith a toss of her head, "after all the harm's done, 
 and things has been said that can't be unsaid. You 
 know as well as I do, Sir, it's all up with a young
 
 232 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 lady the moment things has been spoke of pubhcly 
 against her." 
 
 "I hope not so bad as that," said Mr. Totten- 
 ham mildly. He was a little afraid of the young 
 lady, and so was the worthy parliamentary Robin- 
 son, who had withdrawn a step behind backs, when 
 interrupted in his speech. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Tottenham! and what does it mean, 
 Sir, when you put a stop to my duet, me and Mr. 
 Watson's duet, and say it's best I shouldn't take part 
 publicly? Isn't that judging me. Sir, before ever 
 hearing me — and taking all the stories as is told 
 against me for true*?" 
 
 "I know none of the stories yet," said Mr. 
 Tottenham, "pray compose yourself. Mr. Robinson 
 was going to explain to me; but as you are here, 
 if it will at all save your feelings, I am quite ready 
 to hear your story first." 
 
 "Mr. Tottenham, Sir!" said Mr. Robinson, roused 
 to speech. 
 
 "Well! you can have no motive, and I can have 
 no motive, but to come to the truth. Take a seat. 
 Miss Lockwood, I will not keep you standing; and 
 begin — " 
 
 "Begin what?" the young woman faltered. "Oh, 
 I am not going to be the one to begin," she said 
 saucily, "nobody's obliged to criminate himself And 
 how can I tell what my enemies are saying against 
 me? They must speak first." 
 
 "Then, Robinson, do you begin," said the master; 
 but it was easier in this case to command than to 
 obey. Robinson shifted from one foot to the other.
 
 THE SHOP. 2^^ 
 
 he cleared his throat, he rubbed his hands. "I don't 
 know that I can, before her," he said hoarsely, "I 
 Ijave daughters of my own." 
 
 "I knew," said the culprit in triumphant scorn, 
 "that you daren't make up any of your stories be- 
 fore my face!" 
 
 Robinson restrained himself with an effort. He 
 was a good man, though the fuss of the incipient 
 scandal was not disagreeable to him. "It's — it's 
 about what is past, Sir," he said hurriedly, "there 
 is no reflection on Miss Lockwood's conduct now. 
 I'd rather not bring it all up here, not before 
 strangers." 
 
 "You may speak before as many strangers as 
 you please, I sha'n't mind," said the accused, giving 
 Edgar a glance which bewildered him, not so much 
 for the recognition which was in it, as for a certain 
 confidence and support which his appearance seemed 
 to give her. Mr. Tottenham drew him aside for a 
 moment, whispering in his ear. 
 
 "She seems to know you, Earnshawl" 
 
 "Yes; but I don't know how. I never saw her 
 before." 
 
 "I wonder — perhaps, if I were to take Robinson 
 away and hear his story — while you might hear 
 what she has to say?" 
 
 "11 But indeed I don't know her, I assure 
 you I have never seen her before," said Edgar in 
 dismay. 
 
 "Never mind, she knows you. She is just the 
 sort of person to prefer to confide in one whom she 
 does not see every day. I'll leave you with her,
 
 2 34 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 Earnshaw. Perhaps it will be best if you step this 
 way, Robinson; I shall hear what you have to say 
 here." 
 
 Robinson followed his superior promptly into a 
 smaller room. Edgar was left with the culprit; and 
 it is scarcely possible to realize a less comfortable 
 position. What was he to do with her? He was 
 not acquainted either with her or her class; he did 
 not know how to address her. She looked like a 
 lady, but yet was not a lady, and for the present 
 moment she was on her trial Was he to laugh, as 
 he felt inclined to do, at the shabby trick his friend 
 had played him, or was he to proceed gravely with 
 his mission? Miss Lockwood solved this question 
 for herself.
 
 TWO CULPRITS ON THEIR TRIAL. 2 35 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Two Culprits on their Trial. 
 
 "You're surprised, Sir, that a stranger should 
 be so ready to speak up to you," said Miss Lock- 
 wood, "you don't know me from Adam? but I know 
 you. You are the gentleman that was in the great 
 Arden case, the gentleman as gave up. You wouldn't 
 think it, but I am mixed up with the Ardens too; 
 and as soon as I set eyes upon you, I said to 
 myself, 'Here is one that will help me to my 
 rights.' " 
 
 "Have you, too, rights that involve the Ardens?" 
 said Edgar, startled yet half amused. "Alas, I fear 
 I cannot help you. If you know my story you 
 must know I am no Arden, and have no influence 
 with the family one way or another." 
 
 "You mightn't have influence, Sir, but you might 
 hate 'em — as I do," she said, with a gleam in her 
 eyes which changed the character of her otherwise 
 commonplace though handsome countenance. 
 
 "Hate them!" cried Edgar, still more startled. 
 "Why, this is a tragical way of approaching the 
 subject. What have the Ardens done to you that 
 you should hate them?" 
 
 "That's my story," said Miss Lockwood, meeting 
 him full with a steadfast look in her eyes, which
 
 236 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 bewildered Edgar still more. She had taken a seat, 
 and the two sat looking at each other across Mr. 
 Tottenham's writing table. Edgar had not even 
 heard the name of Arden for years past, and no- 
 thing was further from his thoughts on entering this 
 most commonplace of scenes, the great shop, than 
 to be thrown back into his own past hfe, by the 
 touch of one of the young ladies in the shawl and 
 mantle department. His curiosity was awakened, 
 but not in any high degree, for it was absurd to 
 suppose that a shopwoman in Tottenham's could 
 have any power to affect the Ardens one way or 
 another. He felt that this must be a tempest in a 
 teacup, some trifling supposed injustice, something, 
 perhaps, about a cottage on the estate, or the ran- 
 cour of a dismissed servant; for he had heard 
 vaguely that there had been considerable changes. 
 
 "I am afraid I cannot sympathize with you in 
 hating the Ardens," he said; "if you know so much 
 about me, you must know that I was brought up 
 to regard Mrs. Arden as my sister, which I still do, 
 notwithstanding the change of circumstances; and 
 no one connected with her can be to me an object 
 of hate." 
 
 "yj/rj. Arden, indeed!" said Miss Lockwood 
 with contemptuous emphasis, tossing her handsome 
 head. 
 
 "Yes. What has Mrs. Arden done to youl" 
 said Edgar, half angry, half amused with what 
 seemed to him the impotent spitefulness; the ab- 
 surdity of the woman's scorn struck him with ludi- 
 crous effect; and yet a certain uneasiness was in
 
 TWO CULPRITS ON THKIR TRIAL. 237 
 
 the puzzle. Clare Arden had never possessed that 
 natural instinctive courtesy which makes dependents 
 friends. Probably she had wounded the amour 
 propre of the shop woman; but then no doubt shop- 
 women have to make up their minds to such 
 wounds, and Mrs. Arden was much too well bred 
 and much too proud to have gone out of her way 
 to annoy a young lady at Tottenham's — any offence 
 given or taken must have been a mere inadvertence, 
 whatever it was. 
 
 "Done to mel Oh, she haven't done nothing 
 to me, not meaningly, poor creature," said Miss 
 Lockwood. "Poor thing! it's me that has that in 
 my power, not her." 
 
 "I wish you would tell me," said Edgar seriously, 
 leaning across the table towards her with deepened 
 interest and a certain alarm, "I entreat you to tell 
 me what you mean. You are right in thinking that 
 no subject could be more interesting to me." 
 
 "Ah! but it ain't, perhaps, the kind of interest 
 I expected," said Miss Lockwood with coquettish 
 familiarity, pushing back her chair. She belonged 
 to the class of women who delight to make any 
 conversation, however trivial or however important, 
 bear the air of a flirtation. She was quite ready to 
 play with her present companion, to excite and 
 tantalize his curiosity, to laugh at him, and delude 
 him, if fortune favoured her. But a chance alto- 
 gether unforeseen interrupted this not unpleasant 
 operation, and threw Miss l>ock\vood and her mystery 
 into, the shade. When the conversation had ad- 
 vanced thus far, a new personage suddenly appeared
 
 238 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 on the scene. With a little preliminary knock, but 
 without waiting for any invitation, a lady opened 
 the door, the sight of whom drove even Clare Arden 
 out of Edgar's mind. She was no longer young, 
 and her days of possible beauty were over. At 
 sight of her Edgar rose to his feet, with a sud- 
 den cry. 
 
 For a moment the new-comer stood still at the 
 door, looking at the unexpected scene. Her face 
 was care-worn, and yet it was kind, revealing one 
 of those mixtures of two beings which are to be 
 seen so often in society— the kind, genial, gentle 
 woman made by nature, with the conventional great 
 lady, formed for her position, and earnestly striving 
 as her highest duty to shape herself into the nar- 
 rowness and worldliness which it demanded. This 
 curious development of mingled good and evil has 
 not, perhaps, had so much notice as it deserves 
 from the observer. We are all acquainted with 
 characters in which a little germ of goodness strives 
 against natural dispositions which are not amiable; 
 but the other compound is not less true, if perhaps 
 more rare. Lady Augusta Thornleigh, who was 
 Lady Mary Tottenham's sister, was born one of the 
 kindest souls that ever drew breath. She had it in 
 her even to be "viewy" as Lady Mary was, or to 
 be sentimentally yielding and eager for everybody's 
 happiness. But all her canons of duty bound her 
 to regard these dispositions as weakness, almost as 
 guilt, and represented worldliness to her as the 
 highest of virtues. She sighed after this as the 
 others sigh after the higher heights of self-denial.
 
 TWO CULPRITS ON THEIR TRIAL. 239 
 
 Her searchings of heart were all directed (uncon- 
 stiously) to make the worse appear the better cause; 
 she tried to be worldly, believing that was right, as 
 other people try to be unworldly. But I do wrong 
 to keep T^ady Augusta standing at the door of Mr. 
 Tottenham's room, while I describe her characteristics 
 to the reader. She came in, calmly unexpectant of 
 any sight but that of her brother-in-law; then start- 
 ing to see two people, man and woman, seated on 
 either side of the table with every appearance of 
 being engaged in interesting conversation, made a 
 step back again, bewildered. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, I thought Mr. Tottenham 
 was here," she said, dropping her veil, which she 
 had raised on entering. Miss Lockwood sprang 
 up from her chair which she pushed back with an 
 appearance of flurry and excitement, which was 
 either real or very well counterfeited; while Edgar, 
 deeply vexed, he could scarcely have told why, to 
 be found thus, rose too, and approached his old 
 friend. He would have liked to put himself at her 
 feet, to kiss her hand, to throw himself upon her 
 old kindness, if not like a son with a mother, at 
 least like a loyal servant of one of those queens of 
 nature whom generous men love to serve like sons. 
 But he dared not do this — he dared not exceed the 
 bounds of conventional acquaintance. He went 
 forward eagerly but timidly, holding out his hands. 
 I cannot find words to say how bewildered Lady 
 Augusta was by the sight of Edgar, or with what 
 consternation she recognised him. Whatever the 
 motive had been which had drawn to him the atten-
 
 240 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 tion of the Tottenhams, Lady Augusta Thornleigh 
 was altogether ignorant of it. She had no expecta- 
 tion of seeing him, no idea that he could cross her 
 path again. The profound surprise, the rush of 
 kindly feeling which the first sight of him called 
 forth, the thrill of terror and sense of danger which 
 accompanied it, made her tremble with sudden 
 agitation. Good heavens! what was she to dol She 
 could not decline to recognise him; her heart indeed 
 yearned to him, the subject of so much misfortune; 
 but all the new complications that his presence 
 would produce, rose up before her as he approached 
 and made her heart sick. Oh, if he would only 
 take the hint given in her hesitating look, and the 
 veil which she had dropped over her face! But 
 Edgar was fond of his old friend. She was the 
 sister of his hostess, and he had felt ever since he 
 went to Tottenham's that one day or other he must 
 meet her. He tried even at that moment to forget 
 that she was anything beyond an old friend and 
 Lady Mary's sister; he tried to put the thought out 
 of his mind that she was the mother of Gussy, his 
 only love; he tried to forget the former relations 
 between them. He had not seen her since the day 
 when, leaving his former home, a nameless being, 
 without either future or past to console him, he had 
 been touched to the heart by her hurried farewell. 
 He was then in all the excitement of a great sacri- 
 fice; he was a hero, admired and pitied everywhere; 
 he had been almost her son, and she had called 
 him Edgar, and wept over him. What a difference! 
 he was a stranger now, in a totally different sphere,
 
 TWO CULPRITS ON THEIR TRIAL. 24 1 
 
 fallen out of knowledge, out of sympathy, no longer 
 a hero or representing any exciting break in the 
 ordinary level of life; but a common man probably 
 desirous of asking some favour, and one for whom 
 all his former friends must have the troublesome 
 sensation of feeling something ought to be done 
 for — I do not know if this occurred to Edgar's mind, 
 who was little apt to make such claims, but it did 
 occur to Lady Augusta. 
 
 "Is it you? — Mr. V she said faltering. She 
 
 was not even sure of his new name. 
 
 "Earnshaw," he said; "Edgar Earnshaw; you 
 recollect me even after all these years'?" 
 
 "Oh, surely. Of course I cannot but recollect 
 you," she said; "but I am taken by surprise. I did 
 not know you were in England. I never could have 
 expected to find you here." 
 
 "No," said Edgar, chilled by her tone, and 
 letting the hand drop which she had given him, he 
 felt, with hesitation. "It seems to myself the last 
 place in the world where I could be; but Mr. Tot- 
 tenham is so kind as to wish — •" 
 
 What was Mr. Tottenham so kind as to wish? 
 I cannot describe Lady Augusta's perplexity. Did 
 it mean that Edgar had been so far reduced as to 
 require employment in the shop? Had he come to 
 that — he who was all but engaged to Gussy once? 
 The idea gave her an indescribable shock; but then, 
 how foolish of Mr. Tottenham, knowing all he did 
 of Gussy and her obstinacy, and how she had all 
 but broken her parents' hearts by refusing the best 
 of ofifers, and threatened to go into a sisterhood, 
 
 For Love and Life. I. J"
 
 242 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 and came constantly to this very place to visit and 
 influence the "young ladies" of the establishment! 
 Lady Augusta grew red and grew pale in the agita- 
 tion of her feelings; but what could she say? She 
 could not ask him point-blank if this were so; she 
 could not, after all these years, throw herself once 
 more upon his chivalry, as she had done before, 
 and implore him to keep out of her daughter's way. 
 The only way of outlet she found for her excite- 
 ment and confusion was to look severely at Miss 
 Lockwood, who stood with her hands folded, and 
 an ingratiating smile on her face, stooping slightly 
 forward, as who should say. What can I have the 
 pleasure of showing your ladyship? 
 
 Lady Augusta gave this "person" a withering 
 glance. She was indignant with her for appearing 
 to be on intimate terms with this man, whom, had 
 Lady Augusta been wise, she would have gladly 
 married off at once to anybody, so that he might 
 be got out of her child's way. But, being a very 
 natural woman, with a great many tender prejudices 
 and motherly feelings, she was a little haughty and 
 offended that, having known Gussy, he should de- 
 cline to such a level as Miss Lockwood. Gussy 
 was not for him, and his very existence was a 
 danger for her; but still, that he should be incon- 
 stant to Gussy, was to her mother a wrong and 
 offence. 
 
 "I fear," she said, in her stateliest tone, "that I 
 am interrupting you - — that you were particularly 
 engaged." 
 
 "Oh no, your Ladyship, nothing but what can
 
 TWO CULPRITS ON THEIR TRIAL. 243 
 
 wait," murmured Miss Lockwood, gliding off with a 
 curtsey, and adding a sidelong half nod of leave- 
 taking to Edgar, which made him hot with anger, 
 yet was too absurd in its impertinence to be re- 
 sented. Lady Augusta drew herself up more and 
 more. 
 
 "I can't tell you how sorry I am to have inter- 
 rupted a — conversation — an interview. I expected 
 to find my brother-in-law here." 
 
 "Indeed, you have interrupted nothing," said 
 Edgar. "Mr. Tottenham, I don't know why, left 
 me here with this — lady, while he went to make 
 some inquiries about her; he will return directly. 
 She had offered to explain her case, of which I 
 knew nothing, to me," he continued, with an em- 
 barrassed laugh, feeling himself grow red against 
 his will. What did it matter to Lady Augusta 
 whom he might converse with? But, notwith- 
 standing, her manner was as that of a woman 
 offended, and forming an unfavourable judgment, 
 and Edgar was affected by this unspoken judgment 
 in spite of himself. 
 
 Then a pause ensued. Miss Lockwood had 
 glided out of the room with her long train rustling, 
 but no other sound, and Lady Augusta, like other 
 less exalted persons, did not know what to say to 
 carry on this curious conversation. She was not 
 sufficiently in friendship with Edgar to say anything 
 further to him on this subject, either as warning or 
 reproving, and there was an awkward pause. He 
 would have liked to put a hundred questions, but 
 did not know how to begin. 
 
 16*
 
 244 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "I hope all are well," he said at last, with some 
 timidity. 
 
 "Oh, quite well. There have been various 
 changes in the family, as no doubt you have heard; 
 and more are in prospect,'' Lady Augusta said 
 pointedly: "That is the worst of grown-up sons and 
 daughters. After twenty, their father and mother 
 have very little enjoyment of them. I was not 
 aware you knew my brother-in-law." 
 
 This she said with something of a jerk, having 
 forestalled all possible inquiry on Edgar's side, as 
 she thought. 
 
 "I only met him a few days ago," said Edgar. 
 "Perhaps I had better tell you at once my position 
 in respect to him. He has offered me the post of 
 tutor to his boy; and having nothing to do for the 
 moment, poor as my quahfications are, I have 
 accepted it. I need not tell you, who know them, 
 how kind to me both he and Lady Mary have 
 been." 
 
 "Tutor to — his boy!" Lady Augusta repeated 
 the words, thunderstruck. This was something more 
 terrible, more alarming than she had conceived 
 possible. "Tutor to PhiH" She did not seem able 
 to do more than repeat the words. 
 
 "You may well be surprised," said Edgar, try- 
 ing to laugh; "no one could be more so than my- 
 self; but as they were so good as to overlook my 
 deficiencies, what could I sayl" 
 
 "I was not thinking of your deficiencies. Oh! 
 Mr. Earnshaw, oh! Edgar, could not your old
 
 TWO CULPRITS ON THEIR TRIAL. 245 
 
 friends have helped you to something better than 
 this?" 
 
 Poor Lady Augusta! she was unfeignedly grieved 
 and sorry to think of him as a dependent. And at 
 the same time she was struck with terror unbounded 
 to think that he would now be always in her way, 
 in Gussy's way, never to be got rid of. She was 
 not fond of exercising what influence she possessed 
 lavishly, for she had many sons and nephews; but 
 she began to reflect immediately what she could 
 do to promote Edgar's interests. A tutor, and in 
 Tottenham's, for ever; or in Berkeley Square, al- 
 ways at hand, never to be got rid of — 
 
 "Dear me!" she cried, "tell me whom I should 
 speak to. We must not let you vegetate in such a 
 post as this." 
 
 I don't think Edgar had much difficulty in 
 divining what she meant, or which branch of, the 
 subject had most effect on her mind. And, per- 
 haps, he was slightly irritated by his insight, though 
 this effect very soon went off". 
 
 "Thank you," he said, "for the moment I am 
 well enough pleased with my position. Everybody 
 is very kind to me; and, after so long abstinence, 
 a little pleasant society is an agreeable change." 
 
 He was sorry after he had said this, for he 
 liked Lady Augusta. Her countenance fell. She 
 gave an alarmed glance at the door, where there 
 was a passing sound as of some one approaching. 
 
 "I should not have thought you would have 
 liked it," she said, with a little sigh. "Do you 
 know where Mr. Tottenham is? I want to speak to
 
 246 FOR LOVE AND LTFE. 
 
 him just for a moment. Thanks so much. I will 
 wait here till he comes." 
 
 "I shall attend to it — you may be sure I will 
 attend to it," said Mr. Tottenham's voice, making 
 itself audible before he himself appeared. "You 
 were quite right, Robinson, quite right, and you 
 may be sure I will pay every attention. Ah, Lady 
 Augusta, you here. What! and you have found 
 out our friend? I meant that for a little surprise 
 to you. Yes, here he is, and I hope to hold him 
 fast, at least till something very much better turns 
 up — a thing which will happen, I am afraid, quite 
 too soon for us." 
 
 "Let us hope so, for Mr. Earnshaw's sake," said 
 Lady Augusta, with a little solemnity. How dif- 
 ferent her tone was from that of her brother-in-law! 
 Perhaps, on the whole, her personal liking for Edgar 
 was stronger than his was; but there were so many 
 things mingled with it which made this liking im- 
 possible. Her very person seemed to stiffen as she 
 spoke, and she made a little pause, as Lord New- 
 march had done before pronouncing his name. 
 "Mr. — Earnshaw." To be sure it must be difficult, 
 having known him by one name to speak to him 
 by another; but someliow this little pause seemed 
 to Edgar another painful reminder that he was not 
 as he had once been. 
 
 And then there ensued another embarrassed 
 pause. Edgar could not say anything, for his feel- 
 ings at the moment were somewhat bitter; and as 
 for good Mr. Tottenham, he was perplexed and 
 perturbed, not perceiving any reason why his
 
 TWO CULPRITS ON THEIR TRIAL. 247 
 
 sister-in-law should put on so solemn an expression. 
 He had expected nothing less than to please her 
 and all her family, by his kindness to the man 
 whom he persisted in considering their friend. He 
 was profoundly perplexed by this stiffness and air 
 of solemnity. Had there been some quarrel, of 
 which he knew nothing, between them? He was 
 dumb in his bewilderment, and could not think of 
 anything to say. 
 
 "Did Miss Lockwood tell you much? or was 
 she frightened]" he said. "It is a troublesome 
 story, and I wish people would not be so horribly 
 officious in reporting everything. Did she open 
 her heart at all to you?" 
 
 Mr. Tottenham looked at him with calm matter- 
 of-fact seriousness, and Lady Augusta looked at 
 him with suspicious disapproval. To the woman 
 of the world the question seemed absurd, to the 
 man of ideas it was as simple as daylight; between 
 them they embarrassed the altogether innocent 
 third party, who had a clue to both their thoughts. 
 
 "She told me nothing," said Edgar, "as indeed 
 how should she, never having spoken to me before 
 to-day? She had seen me, she says, three years 
 ago, at the time of the arrangement about Arden, 
 and she chose to talk to me of that, heaven knows 
 why." 
 
 "Was that what you were talking about when I 
 came in?" said Lady Augusta, with a cold ring of 
 unbelief in her tone, a tone which irritated Edgar 
 deeply in spite of himself. 
 
 "It was what we were talking of," he said, con-
 
 248 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 cisely; and then Mr. Tottenham felt sure there had 
 been some previously existing quarrel of which he 
 knew nothing, and that his attempt to give pleasure 
 had been so far a failure. This momentarily dis- 
 couraged him — for to do harm, where you would 
 fain have done good, is confusing to every well- 
 intentioned soul. 
 
 "Mary will be glad to hear something of your 
 movements," he said. "She has been anxious for 
 some time past to know what you were going 
 to do." 
 
 "I came to tell you," said Lady Augusta. "We 
 are in town for a few weeks, chiefly about business, 
 for my little Mary has made up her mind to leave 
 me; and as it has all been made up in a hurry, 
 there will be a great deal to do." 
 
 "Made up her mind toTeave you?" 
 
 "Yes, don't you understand? She is going to 
 marry Lord Granton, the Marquis of Hautville's 
 son. Yes, you may congratulate me; it is very 
 pleasant, and just such a match as one could have 
 wished; and after Helena's sad business," said Lady 
 Augusta, with a sigh, "we wanted something to con- 
 sole us a little." 
 
 "I think Helena's was a very sensible marriage," 
 said Mr. Tottenham; "just the man for her; but I 
 am glad your pride is going to have this salve all 
 the same, and I daresay Mary will be delighted, for 
 she is a dreadful little aristocrat, notwithstanding 
 her own foolish marriage, and all she says." 
 
 "If every foolish marriage ended as well as 
 Mary's — " said Lady Augusta.
 
 TWO CULPRITS ON THEIR TRIAL. 249 
 
 "Ah! you mean if Qvcxy parvenu was rich?" said 
 Mr. Tottenham; "but that, unfortunately, is past 
 hoping for. So you have come to town for the 
 trousseau? I hope your Ladyship means to patronise 
 the shop." 
 
 "My dear Tom — " Lady Augusta began, her 
 face clouding over. 
 
 "Before your sister's time, I too was ashamed of 
 the shop," he said, "if I am not now, it is Mary's 
 doing. And so her little godchild is to be a great 
 lady! I am very glad for your sake, Augusta, and 
 I hope the little thing will be happy. Does she 
 know her own mind? I suppose Thornleigh is very 
 much pleased." 
 
 "Delighted!" cried Lady Augusta, "as we all 
 are; he is a charming fellow, and she is as happy 
 as the day is long." 
 
 "Ah, we are all charming fellows, and everybody 
 makes the best of us at that period of our lives," 
 said Mr. Tottenham; "all the same I am glad to 
 hear everything is so pleasant. And Gussy? What 
 does Gussy say?" 
 
 "Mr. Tottenham!" Lady Augusta cried in an 
 indignant whisper; and then she added, "tell Mary 
 I shall come and tell her all about it. I must not 
 detain you any longer from your business. Good- 
 bye, Mr. Earnshaw." 
 
 "Earnshaw will see you to your carriage," said 
 Mr. Tottenham, "I am very busy — don't think me 
 careless; and I know," he added in a lower tone, 
 "you will like, when you are happy yourself, to say 
 a kind word to an old friend."
 
 250 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 Happy herself! does a woman ever inquire 
 whether she is personally happy or not when she 
 has come to Lady Augusta's age, and has a large 
 family to care fori She took the arm which Edgar 
 could not but offer with an impatient sigh. 
 
 "Mr. Earnshaw does not require to be told that 
 I wish him everything that is good," she said, and 
 allowed him to lead her out, wondering how she 
 should manage to warn Beatrice, her youngest 
 daughter, who had come with her, and who was 
 looking at something in one of the many depart- 
 ments. The young Thornleighs were all fond of 
 Edgar, and Lady Augusta dared not trust a young 
 firebrand of nineteen to go and spread the news all 
 over the family, without due warning, that he had 
 appeared upon the scene again. Edgar's short- 
 lived anger had before this floated away, though his 
 heart aclied at the withdrawal from him of the 
 friendship which had been sweet to his friendly 
 soul. His heart melted more and more every step 
 he walked by her side. 
 
 "Lady Augusta," he said at last hurriedly, "you 
 were once as kind as an angel to me, when I wanted 
 it much. Don't be afraid of me; I shall never put 
 myself in your way." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Earnshaw!" she cried, struck by com- 
 punction; "I ought to ask your pardon, Edgar; I 
 ought to know you better; don't judge me harshly. 
 If you only knew — " 
 
 "I don't ask to know anything," he said, though 
 his heart beat high, "my sphere henceforth is very 
 different from yours; you need have no fear of me."
 
 TWO CULPRITS ON THEIR TRIAL. 25 I 
 
 "God bless you, whatever is your sphere! you 
 are good, and I am sure you will be happy!" she 
 cried with tears in her eyes, giving him her hand 
 as he put her into her carriage; but then she added, 
 "will you send some one to call Beatrice, little 
 Beatrice, who came with mel No, don't go your- 
 self, pray don't go — I would not give you so much 
 trouble for the world!" 
 
 Edgar did not feel sure whether he was most 
 inclined to burst into rude laughter, or to go 
 aside to the nearest corner and dry his glistening 
 eyes.
 
 252 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Schemes and Speculations. 
 
 Edgar went home in the evening, feeHng a 
 degree of agitation which he had scarcely given 
 himself credit for being capable of. He had been 
 on so low a level of feeling all these years, that he 
 believed himself to have grown duller and less 
 capable of emotion, though he could not explain to 
 himself how it should be so. But now the storm- 
 winds had begun to blow, and the tide to rise. 
 The mere sight of Lady Augusta was enough to 
 have brought back a crowd of sensations and re- 
 collections, and there had lately been so many other 
 touches upon the past to heighten the effect of this 
 broad gleam of light. Even the curious recognition 
 of him, and the apparently foolish enmity against 
 the Ardens, which the young lady at Tottenham's 
 had shown, had something to do with the ferment 
 of contending feelings in which he found himself. 
 Hate them! no, why should he hate them? But to 
 be thus called back to the recollection of them, 
 and of all that he had been, had a strangely dis- 
 turbing influence upon his mind. In his aimless 
 wanderings alone over Europe, and in his sudden 
 plunge into a family life quite new to him in Scot- 
 land, he had believed himself utterly set free from
 
 SCHEMES AND SPECULATIONS. 253 
 
 all the traditions and associations of the former 
 existence, which was indeed more like a chapter 
 out of a romance than a real episode in life. Taking 
 it at the most, it was nothing but an episode. After 
 years of neglected youth, a brief breathless moment 
 of power, independence, and a kind of greatness, 
 and then a sharp disruption from them all, and 
 plunge into obscurity again. Why should that short 
 interval affect him more than all the long tracts of 
 less highly coloured life," from which it stood out 
 like a bit of brilliant embroidery on a sombre webl 
 Edgar could not tell; he felt that it did so, but he 
 could not answer to himself why. Mr. Tottenham 
 talked all the way back about one thing and an- 
 other, about Miss Lockwood, and the scandal which 
 had suddenly shocked the establishment, about little 
 Mary Thornleigh and her brilliant marriage, about 
 the evening entertainment to be given in the shop, 
 which was quite as important to him. Fortunately 
 for Edgar, his companion was capable of mono- 
 logue, and went on quite pleasantly during their 
 drive without need of anything more than a judicious 
 question or monosyllable of assent. 
 
 "I'll tell you one thing, Earnshaw," he said, "in 
 such undertakings as mine the great thing is never 
 to be discouraged; never allow yourself to be dis- 
 couraged; that is my maxim; though I am not al- 
 ways able to carry it out. I hope I never shall 
 give in to say that because things go wrong under 
 my management, or because one meets with dis- 
 appointments — therefore things must always go 
 wrong, and nothing good ever come of it. Of
 
 254 ^^^^ LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 course, look at it from a serious point of view, con- 
 certs and penny readings, and so forth are of no 
 importance. That is what Gussy ahvays tells me. 
 She thinks religion is the only thing; she would like 
 to train my young ladies to find their chief pleasure 
 in the chapel and the daily service, like her Sisters 
 in their convent. I am not against Sisterhoods, 
 Earnshaw; I should not like to see Gussy go into 
 one, it is true — " 
 
 "Is there any likelihood of that?" Edgar asked 
 with a great start, which made the light waggon 
 they were driving in, swerve. 
 
 "Hallo! steady!" cried Mr. Tottenham, "likeli- 
 hood of it? I don't know. She wished it at one 
 time. You see, Earnshaw, we don't sufficiently 
 understand, seeing how different they are, how much 
 alike women are to ourselves. I suppose there 
 comes a time in a giul's life, as well as in a man's, 
 when she wants to be herself, and not merely her 
 father's daughter. You may say she should marry 
 in that case; but supposing she doesn't want to 
 marry, or, put the case, can't marry as she would 
 wish? What can she do? I think myself they 
 overdo the devotional part; but a Sisterhood means 
 occupation, a kind of independence, a position of 
 her own — and at the same time protection from all 
 the folly we talk about strong-minded women." 
 
 "l)Ut does it mean all this?" said Edgar sur- 
 prised, "that is not the ordinary view?" 
 
 "My dear fellow, the ordinary view is all non- 
 sense. I say it's protection against idiotic talk. 
 The last thing anyone thinks of is to bring forward
 
 SCHEMES AND SPECULATIONS. 255 
 
 the strong-minded abuse in respect to a Sisterhood. 
 But look here; I know of one, where quite quietly, 
 without any fuss, there's the Sister Doctor in full 
 practice, looking after as many children as would 
 fill a good-sized village. She's never laughed at 
 and called Dr. Mary, M.D.; and there's the Sister 
 Head-Master, with no Governing Body to make her 
 life miserable. They don't put forward that view 
 of the subject. Possibly, for human nature is very 
 queer, they think only of the sacrifice, &c.; but I 
 don't wonder, for my part, that it's a great tempta- 
 tion to a woman. Gussy Thornleigh is twenty-five, 
 too old to be only her mother's shadow; and if 
 nothing else that she likes comes in her way — " 
 
 Mr. Tottenham made a pause. Did he mean 
 anything by that paused Poor Edgar, who felt him- 
 self to be a sport to all the wild imaginations that 
 can torture a man, sat silent, and felt the blood 
 boiling in his veins and his heart leaping in his 
 throat. It was as well that his companion stopped 
 talking, for he could not have heard any voice but 
 that of his own nerves and pulses all throbbing and 
 thrilling. Heaven and earth! might it be possible that 
 this should come about, while he, a man, able and 
 willing to work, to slave, to turn head and hands 
 to any occupation on the earth, should be hanging 
 on helpless, unable to interfere? And yet he had 
 but this moment told Gussy's mother that she need 
 not fear him! A strong impulse came upon him to 
 spring down from the waggon and walk back to 
 town and tell Lady Augusta to fear everything, that 
 he would never rest nor let her rest till he won her
 
 256 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 daughter back to a more smiling life. Alas, of all 
 follies what could be so foolish? he, the tutor, the 
 dei^endent, without power to help either himself or 
 her. The waggon rushed along the dark country 
 road, making a little circle of light round its lamps, 
 while the sound of the horses' feet, and the roll of 
 the wheels, enveloped them in a circle of sound, 
 separating, as it were, this moving speck of light 
 and motion from all the inanimate world. It would 
 have been as easy to change that dark indifferent 
 sphere suddenly into the wide and soft sympathy of 
 a summer evening, as for Edgar, at this period of 
 his life, to have attempted from this hopeless ab- 
 straction, in which he was carried along by others, 
 to have interfered with another existence and turned 
 its course aside. Not now — if ever, not yet — and, 
 ah, when, if ever? It was a long time before he 
 was able to speak at all, and his companion, who 
 thus wittingly or unwittingly, threw such firebrands 
 of thought into his disturbed mind was silent too, 
 either respectful of Edgar's feelings, or totally un- 
 conscious of them, he could not tell which. 
 
 "May I ask," he inquired, after a long pause, 
 clearing his throat, which was parched and dry, 
 "what was meant by 'Helena's sad businessi' What 
 has become of that Miss Thornleigh?" 
 
 "What has become of her is, that she's married," 
 said Mr. Tottenham. "A very natural thing, though 
 Helena, I believe, was a little ashamed of herself 
 for giving into it. She married a man who has no- 
 thing but his brains to recommend him — no family 
 to speak of, and no money, which, between our-
 
 SCHEMES AND SPECULATIONS. 257 
 
 selves, is a good deal worse. He is a professor, 
 and a critic, and that sort of thing — too clever for 
 me, but he suits her better than anyone I know. 
 Helena is a totally different sort of person, sure to 
 have her own way, whatever she takes into her 
 head. Now Gussy, on the contrary " 
 
 "Mr. Tottenham," said Edgar, hoarsely, "for 
 God's sake, don't say any more." 
 
 "Ah!" said the other; and then he added, "I beg 
 your pardon, I beg your pardon," and flourished his 
 whip in the air by way of a diversion. This 
 manoeuvre was so successful that the party had quite 
 enough to think of to keep their seats, and their 
 heads cool in case of an accident, as the spirited beasts 
 plunged and dashed along the remaining bit of way. 
 "That was as near a spill as I remember," Mr. 
 Tottenham said, as he threw the reins to the groom, 
 when, after a tearing gallop up the avenue, the bays 
 drew up at the door. He was flushed with the ex- 
 citement and the struggle; and whether he had put 
 Edgar to the torture in ignorance, or with any oc- 
 cult meaning, the sufferer could not discover. The 
 momentary gleam of danger at the end had how- 
 ever done even Edgar good. 
 
 Lady Mary met them at dinner, smiling and 
 pretty, ready to lend an ear to anything interesting 
 that might be said, but full of her own projects as 
 when they left her. She had carried out her plans 
 with the business-like despatch which women so 
 often excel in, and Edgar, whose mind had been 
 so remorselessly stirred and agitated all day, found 
 
 For Love and Life. J. '7
 
 258 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 himself quite established as an active coadjutor in 
 her great scheme at night. 
 
 "I have sent a little circular to the printers," 
 said Lady Mary, "saying when the German lectures 
 would be resumed. You said Tuesday, I think, Mr. 
 Earnshaw? That is the day that suits us best. 
 Several people have been here this afternoon, and 
 a great deal of interest has been excited about it; 
 several, indeed, have sent me their names already. 
 Oh, I told them you were working half against your 
 will, without thinking very much of the greatness of 
 the object; indeed, with just a little contempt — for- 
 give me, Mr. Earnshaw — for this foolish fancy of 
 women trying to improve their minds." 
 
 "No, only for the infinitely odd fancy of think- 
 ing I can help in the process," said Edgar, dragging 
 himself, as it were, within this new circle of fantastic 
 light. His own miseries and excitements, heaven 
 help him, were fantastic enough; but how real they 
 looked by the side of this theoretical distress! or so 
 at least the young man thought. I cannot tell with 
 what half-laughing surprise, when his mind was at 
 ease — but half-irritated dismay when he was troubled 
 — he looked at this lady, infinitely more experienced 
 in men and society and serious life than himself, 
 who proposed to improve her mind by means of his 
 German lessons. Was she laughing at him and the 
 world? or was it a mere fashion of the time which 
 she had taken up? or, most wonderful of all, was 
 she sincere and believing in all this? He really 
 thought she was, and so did she, not perceiving 
 the curious misapprehension of things and words
 
 SCHEMES AND SPECULATIONS. 259 
 
 Involved. It is common to say that a sense of 
 humour saves us from exposing ourselves in many- 
 ways, yet it is amazing how little even our sense of 
 humour helps us to see our own graver absurdities, 
 though it may throw the most unclouded illumina- 
 tion upon those of other people. 
 
 "That is a polite way of concealing your senti- 
 ments," said Lady Mary; "but never mind, I am 
 not angry. I am so sure of the rightness of the 
 work, and of its eventual success, that I don't mind 
 being laughed at. To enlarge the sphere of ideas 
 ever so little is an advantage worth fighting for." 
 
 "Very well," said Edgar, "I am proud to be 
 thought capable of enlarging somebody's sphere. 
 What do lectures on German niean^ Before T be- 
 gin you must tell me what I have to do." 
 
 "You must teach them the language, Mr. Earn- 
 shaw." 
 
 "Yes, but where shall we begin? with the al- 
 phabet? Must I have a gigantic black board to 
 write the letters on?" 
 
 "Oh, not so rudimentary as that; most of the 
 ladies, in fact, know a little German," said Lady 
 Mary. "I do myself, just enough to talk." 
 
 "Enough to talk! I don't know any more of 
 English, my native tongue/' said Edgar, "than just 
 enough to talk." 
 
 "Don't laugh at me, Mr. Earnshaw. I know no- 
 thing of the grammar, for instance. We are never 
 taught grammar. We get a kind of knowledge of a 
 language, just to use it, like a tool; but what is the 
 principle of the tool, or how it is put together, or 
 
 17*
 
 26o FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 in what way it is related to other tools of the same 
 description, I know no more than Adam did." 
 
 "She knows a great deal more than I do," said 
 Mr. Tottenham, admiringly. "1 never could use 
 that sort of tool, as you call it, in my life. A 
 wonderfully convenient thing though when you can 
 do it. I never was much of a hand at languages; 
 you should learn all that when you are quite young, 
 in the nursery, when it's no trouble — not leave it 
 till you have to struggle with verbs, and all that 
 sort of thing; not to say that you never can learn 
 a foreign language by book." 
 
 Mr. Tottenham uttered these sentiments in a 
 comfortable leisurely, dressing-gown and slippers 
 sort of way. He did not give in to these indulg- 
 ences in reality, but when he came upstairs to the 
 drawing-room, and stretched himself in his great 
 chair by the fire, and felt the luxurious warmth 
 steal through him, after the chill of the drive and 
 the excitement of its conclusion,, he felt that inward 
 sense of ease and comfort which nerves a man to 
 utter daring maxims and lay down the law from a 
 genial height of good-humour and content. 
 
 "Tom!" cried Lady Mary, with impatience; and 
 then she laughed, and added, "barbarian! don't 
 throw down all my arguments in your sleepy way. 
 If there is anything of what you call cjiivalry left 
 in the world, you men, who are really educated and 
 whom people have taken pains witli, ought to 
 do your best to help us who are not educated at 
 all."
 
 SCHEMES AND SPECULATIONS. 26 1 
 
 "O! that is the state of the easel Am I so very 
 well educated'? I did not know it," said Mr. Totten- 
 ham, "but you need not compel us to follow Dog- 
 berry's maxim, and produce our education when 
 there's no need for such vanities. I have pledged 
 you to come to the shop, Mary, on Wednesday 
 week. They think a great deal of securing my lady. 
 They are going to give the trial scene from Pick- 
 wick, which is threadbare enough, but suits this 
 sort of business, and there's a performance of Wat- 
 son's on the cornet, and a duet, and some part 
 songs, and so forth. I daresay it will bore you. 
 This affair of Miss Lockwood's is very troublesome," 
 Mr. Tottenham continued, sitting upright in his 
 chair, and knitting his brows; "everything was work- 
 ing so well, and a real desire to improve showing 
 itself among the people. These very girls, a fort- 
 night since, were as much interested in the glacier 
 theory, and as much delighted with the snow photo- 
 graphs as it was possible to be; but the moment a 
 private question comes in, everything else goes to 
 the wall." 
 
 "I suppose," said Edgar, "the fact is that we 
 
 are more interested about each other, on the 
 
 whole, than in any abstract question, however 
 elevating." 
 
 "Why, that is as much as to say that everything 
 must give place to gossip," said Lady Mary, severely, 
 "a doctrine I will never give in to." 
 
 "And, by the way," said Mr. Tottenham, sinking 
 back into dreamy ease, "that reminds me of your
 
 262 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 sister's great news. What sort of a family is it] I 
 remember young Granton well enough, a good- 
 looking boy in the Guards, exactly like all the 
 others. Little Mary is, how old? Twenty-one? 
 How those children go on growing. It is the first 
 good marriage, so to speak, in the family. I am 
 glad Augusta is to have the salve of a coronet 
 after all her troubles." 
 
 "What a mixture of metaphors!" cried Lady 
 Mary, "the salve of a coronet!" 
 
 "That comes of my superior education, my 
 dear," said Mr. Tottenham. "She doesn't deny it's 
 a comfort to her. Her eyes, poor soul, had a look 
 of satisfaction in them. And she has had anxiety 
 enough of all kinds." 
 
 "We need not discuss Augusta's affairs, Tom," 
 said Lady Mary, with a glance at Edgar, so care- 
 fully veiled that the aroused and exciting state in 
 which he was, made him perceive it at once. She 
 gave her husband a much more distinct warning 
 glance; but he, good man, either did not, or would 
 not see it. 
 
 "What, not such a happy incident as this?" 
 said Mr. Tottenham; "the chances are we shall hear 
 of nothing else for some time to come. It will be 
 in the papers, and all your correspondents will send 
 you congratulations. After all, as Earnshaw says, 
 people are more interested about each other than 
 about any abstract question. I should not wonder 
 even, if, as one nail knocks out another, little Mary's 
 great marriage may banish the scandal about Miss 
 Lockwood from the mind of the shop."
 
 SCHEMES AND SPECULATIONS. 203 
 
 Lady Mary for some seconds yielded to an im- 
 pulse quite unusual to her. "What can the shop 
 possibly have to do — " she began, hastily, "with 
 the Thornleigh affairs'?" she added, in a subdued 
 tone. "If it was our own little Molly, indeed, whom 
 they all know — " 
 
 "My dear Mary, they interest themselves in all 
 your alliances," said Mr. Tottenham, "and you for- 
 get that Gussy is as well known among them as you 
 are. Besides, as Earnshaw says — Don't go, Earn- 
 shaw; the night is young, and I am unusually dis- 
 posed for talk." 
 
 "So one can see," said Lady Mary, under her 
 breath, with as strong an inclination to whip her 
 husband as could have been felt by the most un- 
 cultivated of womankind. "Come and look at my 
 prospectus and the course of studies we are ar- 
 ranging for this winter, Mr. Earnshaw. Some of the 
 girls might be stirred ap to go in for the Cam- 
 bridge examinations, I am sure. I want you so 
 much to come to the village with me, and be in- 
 troduced to a few of them. There is really a great 
 deal of intelligence among them; uneducated in- 
 telligence, alas! but under good guidance, and with 
 the help which all my friends are so kindly willing 
 to give — " 
 
 "But please remember," cried Edgar, struggling 
 for a moment on the edge of the whirlpool, "that I 
 cannot undertake to direct intelligence. I can teach 
 German if you like — though probably the first Ger- 
 man governess that came to hand would do it a 
 great deal better."
 
 264 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "Not SO, indeed; the Germans are, perhaps, 
 better trained in the theory of education than we 
 are; but no woman I have ever met had education 
 enough herself to be competent to teach in a 
 thoroughly effective way," cried Lady Mary, mount- 
 ing her steed triumphantly. Edgar sat down humbly 
 by her, almost forgetting, in his sense of the comical 
 position which fate had placed him in, the daily 
 increasing embarrassments which filled his path. 
 All the Universities put together could scarcely 
 have made up as much enthusiasm for education 
 as shone in Lady Mary's pretty eyes, and poured 
 from her lips in floods of eloquence. Mr. Totten- 
 ham, who leaned back in his chair abstractedly, 
 and pondered his plans for the perfection of the 
 faulty and troublesome little society in the shop, 
 took but little notice, being sufficiently occupied 
 with views of his own; but Edgar felt his own posi- 
 tion as a superior being, and representative of the 
 highest education, so comical, that it was all he 
 could do to keep his gravity. To guide the eager 
 uneducated intelligence, to discipline the untrained 
 thought, nay, to teach women to think, in whose 
 hands he, poor fellow, felt himself as a baby, was 
 about the most ludicrous suggestion, he felt, that 
 could have been made to him. But nothing could 
 exceed the good faith and earnestness with which 
 Lady Mary expounded her plans, and described the 
 results she hoped for. This was much safer than 
 the talk about little Mary Thornleigh's marriage — 
 or the uncxplainable reasons which kept Gussy 
 Thornleigh from marrying at all — or any other of
 
 SCHEMES AND SPECULATIONS, 265 
 
 those interesting personal problems which were 
 more exciting to the mind, and much less easily- 
 discussed.
 
 2 66 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The Village. 
 
 The next afternoon was appointed by Lady 
 Mary as the time at which Edgar should accom- 
 pany her to Harbour Green, and be made acquainted 
 with at least a portion of his future pupils. As I 
 have said, this was a safe sort of resource, and he 
 could not but feel that a compassionate under- 
 standing of his probable feelings, and difficulties of 
 a more intimate kind, had something to do with 
 Lady Mary's effort to enlist him so promptly and 
 thoroughly in the service of her scheme. Both hus- 
 band and wife, however, in this curious house were 
 so thoroughly intent upon their philanthropical 
 schemes, that it was probably mere supererogation 
 to add a more delicate unexpressed motive to the 
 all-sufficing enthusiasm which carried them forward. 
 Shortly, however, before the hour appointed, a little 
 twisted note was brought to him, postponing till the 
 next day the proposed visit to the village, and 
 Edgar was left to himself to pursue his own studies 
 on Phil's behalf, whose education he felt was quite 
 enough responsibility for one so little trained in 
 the art of conveying instruction as he was. Phil 
 had already favoured him with one of those en-
 
 THE VILLAGE. 267 
 
 grossing and devoted attachments which are so 
 pleasant, yet sometimes so fatiguing to the object. 
 He followed Edgar about wherever he went, watched 
 whatever he did with devout admiration, and 
 copied him in such minute matters as were easily 
 practicable, with the blindest adoration. The per- 
 sistence with which he quoted Mr. Earnshaw had 
 already become the joke of the house, and with a 
 devotion which was somewhat embarrassing he gave 
 Edgar his company continually, hanging about him 
 wherever he was. As Edgar read Lady Mary's note 
 which the boy brought to him, Phil volunteered ex- 
 planations. 
 
 "I know why mamma wrote you that note," he 
 said, "it's because Aunt Augusta is there. I heard 
 them saying — " 
 
 "Never mind what you heard them saying," said 
 Edgar; and then he yielded to a movement of 
 nature. "Was your aunt alone, Phill" he asked — 
 then grew crimson, feeling his weakness. 
 
 "How red your face is, Mr. Earnshaw, are 
 you angryl No, I don't think she was alone; 
 some of the girls were with her. Mamma said 
 she was engaged to you, and they made her give 
 it up." 
 
 "Naturally," said Edgar, "any day will do for 
 me. What do you say now, Phil, as I am free for 
 the afternoon, to a long walk?" 
 
 "Hurrah!" cried the boy, "I wanted so much 
 to go up to the gamekeeper's, up through the 
 woods to see the last lot of puppies. Do you
 
 268 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 mind walking that wayl Oh, thanks, awfully! I am 
 so much obliged to Aunt Augusta for stopping 
 mamma." 
 
 "Come along then," said Edgar. He was glad 
 to turn his back on the house, though he could not 
 but look back as he left, wondering whether, at any 
 moment at any door or window, the face might ap- 
 pear which he had not seen for so long — the face 
 of his little love,' whom he had once loved but 
 lightly, yet which seemed to fix itself more vividly 
 in his recollection every day. He could not sit still 
 and permit himself to think that possibly she was 
 in the same house with him, within reach, that he 
 might hear at any moment the sound of her voice. 
 No, rather, since he had given his voluntary promise 
 to her mother, and since he was so far separated 
 from her by circumstances, rather hurry out of the 
 house and turn his back upon a possibility which 
 raised such a tumult in his heart. He breathed 
 more freely when he was out of doors, in the damp 
 wintry woods, with Phil, who kept close by his side, 
 carrying on a monologue very different in subject, 
 but not so different in character from his father's 
 steady strain of talk, 'inhere is a certain charm in 
 these wintry woods, the wet greenness of the banks, 
 the mournful stillness of the atmosphere, the crackle 
 of here and there a dropping branch, the slow sail- 
 ing through the air now and then of a leaf, falling 
 yellow and stiff from the top of a bough. Edgar 
 liked the covert and the companionship of trees, 
 which were denuded like himself of all that had 
 made life brave and fair. The oaks and beeches,
 
 THE VILLAGE. 26g 
 
 stiffening in their faded russet and yellow, stood 
 against the deep green of the pine and firs, like 
 forlorn old beauties in rustling comt dresses of a 
 worn-out fashion; the great elms and spare tall 
 poplars spread their intricate lacework of branches 
 against the sky; far in the west the sun was still 
 shining, giving a deep background of red and gold 
 to the crowded groups of dry boughs. The rustle 
 of some little woodland animal warmly furred 
 among the fallen leaves and decaying husks, the 
 crackling of that branch which always breaks some- 
 where in the silence, the trickle of water, betraying 
 itself by the treacherous greenness of the mossy 
 grass — these were all the sounds about, except their 
 own footsteps, and the clear somewhat shrill voice 
 of the boy, talking with cheerful din against time, 
 and almost making up for the want of the birds, so 
 much did his cheerful aimless chatter resemble their 
 sweet confusion of song and speech, the ordinary 
 language of the woods. 
 
 "I could hit that squirrel as easy as look at him. 
 I bet you a shilling I could! only just look here, 
 cocking his shining eye at us, the cheeky little brute! 
 Here goes!" 
 
 "Don't," said Edgar, "how should you like it if 
 some Brobdingnagian being took a shot at you? 
 What do you think, Phil — were those ladies going 
 to stayT' 
 
 "Those ladiesT' cried Phil in amazement, for 
 indeed they were dragged in without rhyme or 
 reason in the middle of the woods and of their 
 walk. "Do you mean Aunt Augusta and the girls?
 
 270 FOR LOVK AND LIFE. 
 
 Oh, is that all? No, I don't suppose so. Should 
 you mind? They're jolly enough you know, after 
 all, not bad sort of girls, as girls go." 
 
 "I am glad you give so good an account of 
 them," said Edgar, amused in spite of himself. 
 
 "Oh, not half bad sort of girls! nicer a great 
 deal than the ones from the Green, who come up 
 sometimes. But, I say, Myra Witherington's an ex- 
 ception. She is fun; you should see her do old 
 Jones, or the Rector; how you would laugh! Once 
 I saw her do papa. I don't think she meant it; she 
 just caught his very tone, and the way he turns his 
 head, all in a moment; and then she flushed up 
 like fire and was in such a fright lest we should 
 notice. Nobody noticed but me." 
 
 "Your cousins, I suppose, are not so clever as 
 that," said Edgar, humouring the boy, and feeling 
 himself as he did so, the meanest of household 
 spies. 
 
 "It depends upon which it is. Mary is fun, the 
 one that's going to be married," said Phil, "I sup- 
 pose thai will spoil her; and Bee is not bad. She 
 ain't so clever as Mary, but she's not bad. Then 
 there's Gussy, is a great one for telling stories; she's 
 capital when it rains and one can't get out. She's 
 almost as good as the lady with the funny name in 
 the Arabian Nights." 
 
 "Docs she often come here?" said Edgar with a 
 tremble in his voice. 
 
 "They say she's going to be a nun," said Phil; 
 "how funny people are! I can't fancy Cousin Gussy 
 shut up in a convent, can you? I'd rather marry,
 
 THE VILLAGE. 2"] I 
 
 like Mary, some great swell; though they are never 
 any fun after they're married," Phil added paren- 
 thetically with profound gravity. As for Edgar he 
 was in no humour to laugh at this precocious wis- 
 dom. He went straight on, taking the wrong way, 
 and scarcely hearing the shouts of the boy who 
 called liim back. "This is the way to the game- 
 keeper's," cried Phil, "Mr. Earnshaw, where were 
 you going^ You look as if you had been set think- 
 ing and could not see the way." 
 
 How true it was; he had been set thinking, and 
 he knew no more what road he was going than if 
 he had been blindfolded. Years after, the damp 
 greenness of the fading year, the songless season, 
 the bare branches against the sky, would bring to 
 Edgar's mind the moment when he shot off blankly 
 across the path in the wood at Tottenham's, not 
 knowing and not caring where he went. 
 
 Next day Lady Mary fulfilled her promise. She 
 drove him down in her own pony carriage to the 
 village, and there took him upon a little round of 
 calls. They went to the Rectory, and to Mrs. 
 Witherington's, and to the Miss Bakers who were 
 great authorities at Harbour Green. The Rector 
 was a large heavy old man, with heavy eyes, who 
 had two daughters, and had come by degrees (though 
 it was secretly said not without a struggle) to be 
 very obedient to them. He said, "Ah, yes, I dare 
 say you are right," to everything Lady Mary said, 
 and gave Edgar a little admonition as to the 
 seriousness of the work he was undertaking. "No- 
 thing is more responsible, or more delicate than
 
 2"] 2 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 instructing youth," said the Rector, "for my part I 
 am not at all sure what it is to come to. The maids 
 know as much now as their mistresses used to do, 
 and as for the mistresses I do not know where they 
 are to stop." 
 
 "But you would not have us condemned to 
 ignorance, papa," said one of his daughters. 
 
 "Oh, no, I should not take it upon me to con- 
 demn you to anything," said the old man with his 
 quavering voice, "I hope only that you may not find 
 you've gone further than you had any intention of 
 going, before you've done." 
 
 This somewhat vague threat was all he ventured 
 upon in the way of remonstrance; but he did not 
 give any encouragement, and was greatly afraid of 
 the whole proceeding as revolutionary, and of Lady 
 Mary herself, as a dangerous and seditious person 
 sowing seeds of rebellion. Mrs. Witherington, to 
 whom they went next, was scarcely more encou- 
 raging. Her house was a large Queen Anne house, 
 red brick, with a pediment surmounting a great 
 many rows of twinkling windows. It fronted to the 
 Green, without any grassplot or ornamental shrubs 
 in front; but with a large well-walled garden behind, 
 out of which rich branches of lilac and laburnum 
 drooped in spring, and many scents enriched the 
 air. The rooms inside were large, but not very 
 lofty, and the two drawing-rooms occupied the whole 
 breadth of the house, one room looking to the Green 
 and the other to the garden. There were, or ought 
 to have been folding doors between, but these were 
 never used, and the opening was hung with curtains
 
 THE VILLAGE. 273 
 
 instead, curtains which were too heavy, and over- 
 weighted the rooms. But otherwise the interior was 
 pretty, with that homely gracefulness, familiar and 
 friendly, which belongs to the dwelling of a large 
 family where everyone has his, or rather her, habitual 
 concerns and occupations. The front part was the 
 most cheerful, the back the finest. There a great 
 mirror was over the mantelpiece, but here the late 
 Colonel's swords, crossed, held the place of honour. 
 The visitors entered through this plainer room, which 
 acted as ante-chamber to the other, and where Mrs. 
 Witherington was discovered, as in a scene at the 
 theatre, seated at a writing table with a pile of 
 tradesmen's books before her. She was a tall spare 
 woman, having much more the aspect which is as- 
 sociated with the opprobrious epithet, old maid, 
 than that which traditionally ought to belong to the 
 mother of nine children — all except the four daugh- 
 ters who remained at home — out and about in the 
 world. She had three sons who were scattered in 
 the different corners of the earth, and two daugh- 
 ters married, one of whom was in India, and the 
 other a consul's wife in Spain. The young ladies 
 at home were the youngest of the family, and were, 
 the two married daughters said to each other when 
 they met, which was very seldom, "very differently 
 brought up from what we were, and allowed a great 
 deal too much of their own way." Neither of these 
 ladies could understand what mamma could be 
 thinking of to indulge those girls so; but Mrs. 
 Witherington was by no means an over-indulgent 
 person by nature, and I think she must have made 
 
 For Love and Life. J. lo
 
 2 74 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 up her mind that to indulge the vagaries of the 
 girls was safest on the whole and most conducive 
 to domestic peace. 
 
 Fortunately each of these young women had a 
 "way" of her own, except Myra, the youngest, who 
 was the funny one, whom Phil and most boys ad- 
 mired. The others were — Sissy, who was under- 
 stood to have a suspended love affair, suspended in 
 consequence of the poverty of her lover, from which 
 she derived both pain and pleasure, so to speak; 
 for her sisters, not to speak of the other young 
 ladies of the Green, undoubtedly looked up to her 
 in consequence, and gave her a much more impor- 
 tant place in their little world than would have 
 been hers by nature; and Marian, who was the mu- 
 sical sister, who played "anything" at sight, and 
 was good for any amount of accompaniments, and 
 made an excellent second in a duet; and Emma, 
 who was the useful one of the family, and possessed 
 the handsome little sewing-machine in the corner, 
 at which she executed yards upon yards of stitch- 
 ing every day, and made and mended for the esta- 
 blishment. Sissy, in addition to having a love af- 
 fair, drew; so that these three sisters were all well 
 defined, and distinct. Only Myra was good for no- 
 thing in particular. She was the youngest, long the 
 baby, the pet of the rest, who had never quite 
 realized the fact that she was no longer a child. 
 Myra was saucy and clever,- and rather impertinent, 
 and considered a wit in her own family. Indeed 
 they all had been accustomed to laugh at Myra's 
 jokes, almost as long as they could recollect, and
 
 THE VILLAGE. 275 
 
 there is nothing that estabhshes the reputation of a 
 wit Hke this. Mrs. Witherington was alone in the 
 ante-room, as I have said, when Lady Mary entered, 
 followed by Edgar. She rose somewhat stiffly to 
 meet her visitors, for she too being of the old 
 school disapproved of Lady Mary, who was empha- 
 tically of the new school, and a leader of all inno- 
 vations; though from the fact of being Lady Mary, 
 she was judged more leniently than a less distin- 
 guished revolutionary would have been. Mrs. Wi- 
 therington made her greetings sufficiently loud to 
 call the attention of all the daughters, who came 
 in a little crowd, each rising from her corner to 
 hail the great lady. One of them drew the cosiest 
 chair near the fire for her, another gave her an em- 
 broidered hand-screen to shield her face from its 
 glow, and the third hung about her in silent ad- 
 miration, eagerly looking for some similar service 
 to render. Myra followed last of all, rushing audibly 
 downstairs, and bursting into the room with eager 
 exclamations of pleasure. 
 
 "I saw the pony-carriage at the Rectory gate, 
 and I hoped you were coming here," cried Myra; 
 who stopped short suddenly, however, and blushed 
 and laughed at sight of the stranger whom she had 
 not perceived. 
 
 "This is Mr. Earnshaw, Myra," said Lady Mary, 
 "whom I told you of — who is going to be so good 
 as to teach us. I am taking him to see some of 
 the ladies whom he is to help to educate." 
 
 "Please don't convey a false impression," said 
 Edgar. "You are all a hundred times better edu- 
 
 i8»
 
 276 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 cated than I am. I don't make any such preten- 
 sions." 
 
 "We are not educated at all," said Sissy Wither- 
 ington, folding her hands, with a soft sigh. She 
 said it because Lady Mary said it, and because 
 soft sighs were the natural expression of a young 
 heart blighted; but I don't think she would have 
 liked to hear the same sentiment from any one 
 else. 
 
 "Indeed, I think it is extremely disagreeable of 
 you all to say so," said Mrs. Witherington, "and a 
 reflection on your parents, who did the very best 
 they could for you. I am sure your education, 
 which you despise so, cost quite as much, at least 
 for the last year or two, as the boys' did. I beg 
 your pardon, Lady Mary — but I do think it is a 
 little hard upon the older people, all these fine 
 ideas that are being put into the girls' heads." 
 
 "But, dear Mrs. Witherington, how could you 
 help if?" said the rebel chief. "The very idea of 
 educating women is a modern invention; nobody 
 so much as thought of it in the last generation. 
 Women have never been educated. My mother 
 thought exactly the same as you do. There was 
 absolutely no education for women in her day." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Witherington, more erect than 
 ever, "I had an idea once that I myself was an edu- 
 cated person, and I daresay so had the countess — 
 till my children taught me better." 
 
 "I declare it is hard on mamma," cried Myra; 
 "the only one among us who can write a decent 
 hand, or do anything that's useful."
 
 THE VILLAGE. 277 
 
 "Of course nobody means that," said Lady 
 Mary. "What I say is that every generation ought 
 to improve and make progress, if there is to be any 
 amelioration in the world at all; and as, fortunately, 
 there has sprung up in our day an increased per- 
 ception of the advantages of education — -" 
 
 Here Emma's sewing-machine came to a little 
 knot, and there was a sharp click, and the thread 
 broke. "Oh, that comes of talking!" said Emma, 
 as she set herself to pull out the ravelled thread 
 and set it right again. She was not accustomed to 
 take much share in the conversation, and this was 
 her sole contribution to it while the visitors re- 
 mained. 
 
 "Well, a sewing-machine is a wonderful inven- 
 tion," said Mrs. Witherington; "don't you think so, 
 Mr. Earnshaw? Not that I like the work much my- 
 self. It is always coarse and rough on the wrong 
 side, and you can't use it for fine things, such as 
 baby's things, for instance; but certainly the number 
 of tucks and flounces that you can allow yourself, 
 knowing that the machine Avill do dozens in a day, 
 is extraordinary. And in a house where there are 
 so many girls! — Emma does a great deal more 
 with her machine, I am sure, than ever Penelope 
 did, who was one of your classical friends, Lady 
 Mary." 
 
 "And she can undo her work still more quick- 
 ly," cried Myra, with an outburst of laughter, "as 
 it's only chain-stitch. What a pity Penelope did 
 not know of it." 
 
 "But then the question is," said Sissy, "whether
 
 278 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 we are so very much the better for having more 
 tucks and flounces. (By the way, no one wears 
 tucks now, mamma.) The good of a sewing ma- 
 chine is that it leaves one much more time for im- 
 proving one's mind." 
 
 "In my day," said Mrs. Witherington, going on 
 with her private argument, "we had our things all 
 made of fine linen, instead of the cotton you wear 
 now, and trimmed with real lace instead of the 
 cheap imitation trash that everybody has. AVe had 
 not so much ornament, but what there was, was 
 good. My wedding things were all trimmed with 
 real Mechlin that broad — " 
 
 "That must have been very charming," said 
 Lady Mary; "but in the meantime we must settle 
 about our work. Mr. Earnshaw is willing to give 
 us an hour on Tuesdays. Should you all come? 
 You must not undertake it, if it will interfere with 
 other work." 
 
 "Oh yes, I want to know German better," said 
 Sissy. "It would be very nice to be able to speak 
 a little, especially if mamma goes abroad next sum- 
 mer as she promises. To know a language pretty 
 well is so very useful." 
 
 Lady Mary made a little gesture of despair with 
 her pretty hands. "Oh, my dear girls," she said, 
 "how are you ever to be thoroughly educated if 
 you go on thinking only of what's useful, and to 
 speak a little German when you go abroad? What 
 is wanted is to make you think — to train your minds 
 into good methods of work — to improve you alto- 
 gether mentally, and give you the exactness of
 
 THE VILLAGE. 279 
 
 properly cultivated intellects; just the thing that we 
 women never have." 
 
 Myra was the only one who had courage enough 
 to reply, which she did with such a good hearty 
 ringing peal of laughter as betrayed Edgar out 
 of the gravity becoming the situation. Myra 
 thought Lady Mary's address the best joke in the 
 world.
 
 2 80 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 wisdom and Foolishness. 
 
 "It is astonishing," said Lady Mary, mournfully, 
 "how entirely one is misunderstood in all one's 
 deeper meanings — even by those one has, so to 
 speak, trained one's self." 
 
 "Yes," said Edgar, hesitating, with the modesty 
 that became his humble pretensions; "but, after all, 
 to desire a piece of knowledge because it is useful, 
 is not an unworthy sentiment." 
 
 "Oh, no, not at all an unworthy sentiment; in- 
 deed, very right in its way; but totally subversive," 
 said Lady Mary, sadly, "of the highest principle of 
 education, which aims at thorough cultivation of 
 the mind rather than at conferring certain common- 
 place matter-of-fact acquirements. Considered in 
 that point of view, professional education would be 
 the highest, which I don't think it is. Unless edu- 
 cation is prized for itself, as a discipline of the 
 mind, and not merely as teaching us some things 
 we don't know, we can never reach the highest 
 level; and that truth, alas!" Lady Mary sighed, 
 still more sadly, with all the disappointment of a 
 baffled reformer, "women have not even begun to
 
 WISDOM AND FOOLISHNESS. 251 
 
 perceive. You laugh, Mr. Earnshaw, but, for my 
 part, I cannot laugh." 
 
 Edgar made the best apology he could for his 
 untimely merriment. He was very much inclined 
 to adopt the primitive Adamic argument, and de- 
 clare that it was Myra's fault; but either high prin- 
 ciple, or terror of Lady Mary (I think the latter) 
 intervened, and he refrained from thus committing 
 himself. They walked along the sunny side of the 
 Green together, the ponies having been sent home 
 on account of the cold. It was a pretty place, 
 like a village of romance , a succession of irregular 
 houses surrounding a large triangular green, which 
 was very green, and very well kept, and almost en- 
 tirely appropriated to the gentry, though now and 
 then. a ragged donkey of the lower classes would 
 graze peaceably in a corner, to the great advantage, 
 pictorially, of the scene. Some of the houses were, 
 like Mrs. Witherington's, of Queen Anne's time, not 
 antique, but pleasantly old-fashioned and character- 
 istic; others were white cottages, half hid in shrub- 
 beries. In one, which was very red, and very close 
 upon the road, and had its rows of windows still 
 more crowded than the others— a thin house, only 
 one room in depth, with a very brightly polished 
 brass knocker, and very white steps — there were 
 signs of confusion which caught Lady Mary's eye. 
 She explained to Edgar that it was the doctor's 
 house, that he was going away, which was not much 
 loss, as he was an old-fashioned man of the old 
 school, and did not keep pace with the times; and 
 that she trusted the new man, who was coming
 
 262 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 from Scotland, would be better. Edgar listened 
 politely, without paying much attention, for, in his 
 ignorance, he did not feel much interest in the new 
 doctor. 
 
 "I must ask Miss Annetta about him," said 
 Lady Mary, as she led the way into a house which 
 turned only its gable to the Green, and possessed a 
 carriage drive and a wilderness of lofty shrubs. The 
 cottage itself was damp and weedy, and rather 
 dark, with blinds and curtains half drawn over the 
 little windows, and a sort of dim religious light, 
 green in tone, and very limited in degree, pervad- 
 ing the place. When Edgar's eyes became ac- 
 customed to it, he saw that the little drawing-room 
 was plastered over with corner cupboards, and 
 velvet-covered shelves, and brackets, laden with old 
 china and other curious things. The room was so 
 crowded with these ornaments, and with old furni- 
 ture, that it was scarcely possible to move without 
 displacing something — a drawback which was all 
 the more apparent, as both the Miss Bakers were 
 large persons, many sizes too big for their house. 
 They were not a well-matched pair. The eldest 
 was a harsh-featured woman, looking fully forty- 
 five, and calling herself so, with a total disregard 
 to the feelings of Miss Annetta, who, all the world 
 knew, was but two years younger. Miss Baker was 
 clever, and the other was silly; but yet Miss Annetta 
 was the most calculated to attract the attention of 
 the sympathetic spectator, who could either laugh 
 at her, or weep over her, as his nature prompted. 
 She had no remnant of youth in the foolish face
 
 WISDOM AND FOOLISHNESS. 283 
 
 that had once been pretty enough; but her entire 
 development, mental and moral, seemed to have 
 been arrested when she was about seventeen, at the 
 age when croquet (if croquet existed— I am afraid 
 it did not exist at so early a period) and new pat- 
 terns for worsted work, and crochet, were the 
 furthest limits of her desires. Poor soul! to look at 
 her, she was forty-three, bieti sofines, but to listen to 
 her soft little voice and its prattle, she was seven- 
 teen, not a day more. This curious fossilised girl 
 was left to Edgar's share in the heat of the con- 
 versation, which immediately ensued between Lady 
 Mary and Miss Baker — who sympathised deeply on 
 the educational question, and had a great deal to 
 say to each other. 
 
 After Edgar had been introduced as being "so 
 good as to be disposed to help" in the great work, 
 he was for the moment forgotten, while the two 
 ladies talked of committees and schemes of lectures, 
 and a great many things which he felt to be quite 
 above his humble intelligence. Miss Annetta was 
 exactly in the same position. The talk was a great 
 deal too old and too serious for her. She sat silent 
 for a minute or two, feeling somewhat coy of ad- 
 dressing that wonder and mystery, "a gentleman," 
 giving him little looks, half-saucy, half-timid, and 
 betraying an inclination to go off into giggles of 
 laughter, which filled Edgar with the gravest sur- 
 prise. Finally, she made a bold step, and addressed 
 him, giving the curls which she wore on each side 
 of her face a little shake and toss of conscious at- 
 tractiveness before she began.
 
 284 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "You have not been long in the neighbourhood, 
 Mr. Earnshaw? Do say you like it. Dear Lady 
 Mary makes Tottenham so charming, so charming! 
 It is such an acquisition having her. Have you had 
 nice skating lately? I hear some of the young 
 ladies from the Green have been at the pond. I 
 have not gone yet myself, for I don't skate, though 
 everybody does now-a-days. They tell me I should 
 learn directly if I only had the courage to try; but 
 I am such a little coward, I really daren't venture. 
 Of course you will laugh at me; but I dare not. I 
 really haven't the courage." 
 
 "I am not at all surprised that you have not 
 the courage," said Edgar, looking at her smiling 
 face, and much disturbed in his mind as to what to 
 say. "One must make up one's mind to a good 
 many tumbles; which are all very well for boys and 
 girls — " 
 
 "Oh, I shouldn't like that," cried Miss Annetta; 
 "children, as you say, don't mind. What a pity 
 you did not come in the summer, Mr. Earnshaw. It 
 is such a sociable neighbourhood. We had a 
 garden party somewhere, at least twice a week, and 
 they are such nice things for bringing young people 
 together — don't you think so? Better than evening 
 parties; you can see so much more of people, go- 
 ing at four or five o'clock — and if you're intimate, 
 staying for high tea and a little music after. It is 
 a delightful way of spending the day. There is no- 
 thing that can take the same place in winter. To 
 be sure if a girl is bold and knows how to skate — ■
 
 WISDOM AND FOOLISHNESS. 285 
 
 but I really daren't try, I haven't the courage; — and 
 you don't give me much encouragement, Mr. Earn- 
 shaw, it must be allowed." 
 
 Edgar looked on in dismay while Miss Annetta 
 shook her curls at him, and giggled as she had 
 done when she was pretty and seventeen, just 
 twenty-six years ago. What could he say] He was 
 trying to find something polite and pleasant with 
 which to carry on the conversation, when Lady 
 Mary suddenly turned from her grave interview 
 with the elder sister, and interfered for his salva- 
 tion. 
 
 "Miss Annetta," said Lady Mary, suddenly, "I 
 am sure I can get information from you about the 
 doctor. Has he gone? and has the new one come? 
 and who is he? I hope he is not a mere stupid 
 country practitioner. I saw a great commotion at 
 the house." 
 
 "Oh, poor Mrs. Franks," said Miss Annetta, 
 "they were just preparing to go; but she, poor 
 thing, though I don't like to speak of such things 
 before gentlemen, went and had a baby this morn- 
 ing. It has put them all out so dreadfully! and she 
 had nothing ready, not so much as a little cap. 
 Just like her, you will say; and of course they can't 
 go away now for ever so long." 
 
 "Poor soul," said Lady Mary, "I must send and 
 ask if we can do anything." 
 
 "Indeed, I think it wicked to encourage such 
 people," said Miss Baker. "How dare she go on 
 having babies, knowing she can't afford it? I have
 
 286 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 no pity for such a woman. Of course she brings it 
 all on herself; and if she were the only one to 
 suffer, I shouldn't mind. But just fancy a woman 
 of my age, subject to bronchitis, left to the tender 
 mercies of her ninny of a husband, probably for six 
 weeks longer, just the worst time of the year — not 
 to speak of Annetta, who is a perfect martyr to 
 rheumatism." 
 
 "Oh, Jane!" exclaimed Miss Annetta, feebly, 
 
 "Though I think it's gout," said Miss Baker. 
 "When gout is in a family, I believe it never 
 lets you go much beyond forty without entering 
 an appearance; which is my great reason for hoping 
 I shall escape scot-free, seeing I'm forty-five." 
 
 "You must not believe all my sister says; she is 
 so fond of her fun," said Miss Annetta, in an aside 
 to Edgar. "Oh, I have heard a great deal about 
 the new doctor, Lady Mary. He is quite young, 
 and very handsome and nice, people say. He is 
 coming straight from Scotland, so I suppose he 
 must be very clever, for so many new medical things 
 are found out there. I hear he has dark hair and 
 eyes, and tall, and a very nice manner.'' 
 
 "Well I suppose these are interesting details," 
 said Lady Mary; "but I should have liked to know 
 a little more of his qualifications, I confess." 
 
 "And he has a charming sister, a widow, who 
 keeps his house; so that he will be able to ask 
 people, which a bachelor never is, except men, and 
 they don't count as society;" cried Miss Annetta, 
 continuing with breathless haste her report; for if
 
 WISDOM AND FOOLISHNESS. 287 
 
 Lady Mary had a fault, it was that she was too 
 ready to interrupt uninteresting speeches. "The 
 Franks are so poor, and they have so many chil- 
 dren, they never were any good, not even for a 
 garden party; but you must not think from what I 
 say that I don't love children, Mr. Earnshaw. I 
 adore theui! When are Phil and little Mary coming 
 for a romp, and to see all our curiosities? I do 
 feel so much at home with them. Lady Mary, you 
 can't think. Jane there says we are three romps 
 all together, and she doesn't know which is the 
 worst." 
 
 "They will be delighted to come," said Lady 
 Mary, rising. 
 
 "Oh, but I suppose I must ask permission of 
 Mr. Earnshav/ nowl" said Miss Annetta. "If you 
 will come too, you will see that your charge does 
 not get into mischief, Mr. Earnshaw, and I am sure 
 you will be quite an addition. You are not one of 
 the stern tutors that frighten poor little things like 
 me." 
 
 "Indeed I must carry Mr. Earnshaw off. We 
 have no time to spare," said Lady Mary. "Little 
 fool!" she cried, severely, as soon as they had left 
 the cottage. "I hope you don't mind her imper- 
 tinent chatter? I am sure nothing could be further 
 from my intention than to subject you to any such 
 disagreeable comment." 
 
 "Disagreeable! to call me what I am, Phil's tutor?" 
 said Edgar. "Why, what a mean-spirited wretch 
 you must think me. To accept a post, and be 
 ashamed of the name of it — "
 
 266 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "But, Mr. Earnshaw, you know that is not how 
 we think. We consider you only as a friend — and 
 take it as the greatest kindness you can do us." 
 Then Lady Mary, witli a flush of generous senti- 
 ment, took a warm little hand out of her muff, and 
 gave it to Edgar, who was a great deal more touched 
 by the a?Jiende than he had been hurt by Miss An- 
 netta's innocent assault. 
 
 "Thanks," he said, with moisture in his eyes, 
 "so much the better for me, and so much the less 
 reason for being ashamed of my post. If you 
 snubbed me, I might have some excuse perhaps for 
 making a fool of myself." 
 
 "Mr. Earnshaw!" said Lady Mary again, but 
 this time with hesitation, and almost timidity. "I 
 wonder if you will think I mean to snub you — 
 if I say something which I am almost bound to 
 say?" 
 
 "Say it!" said Edgar, smiling. He felt in a 
 moment that he knew what was coming, and looked 
 into her tremulous countenance with all the supe- 
 rior calm of a man prepared for pain, and prescient 
 of what was to come. 
 
 "You will not be angry? Oh, Mr. Earnshaw! 
 if you only knew how I fret at such restrictions — 
 how I wish we could put aside mercenary conside- 
 rations, and acknowledge ourselves all to be equal, 
 as I am sure we are by nature!" 
 
 "I don't think we are equal by nature," said 
 Edgar; "but never mind the abstract question. I
 
 WISDOM AND FOOLISHNESS. 289 
 
 promise not even to be wounded. And I think I 
 know what you are going to say." 
 
 "It is just this," said Lady Mary, hurriedly, 
 "Forgive me! The young Thornleighs, Mr. Earn- 
 shaw, have always been very much with us. I am 
 fond of them, and so is Mr. Tottenham, and they 
 are always coming and going. It would be un- 
 generous to you as well as unkind to them, if we 
 were to send them away because you are here." 
 
 Edgar did no more than bow in assent. A cer- 
 tain sense of personal dignity, quite new to him, 
 kept him from doing more. 
 
 "It would be thoroughly ungenerous to you," 
 said Lady Mary, warmly, "and contrary to the per- 
 fect trust we feel — both my husband and I — in 
 you, our friend." 
 
 "Just one word. Lady Mary," said Edgar, "and 
 pardon me if it seems harsh. Why did you not 
 think of this before 1 I came here in a mist, not 
 knowing very well what was to happen to me; but 
 you knew the whole, both my side and the other. I 
 need not say send me away, which is the most 
 natural thing to do, for you were aware of all the 
 circumstances the other day when you brought 
 me here. Of course, at any moment, I am ready 
 to go." 
 
 "That is not quite generous," said Lady Mary, 
 with an appealing look, "of course we knew, and 
 trusted you as we trust you now — fully. But, Mr. 
 Earnshaw, forgive me! I promised to Augusta to say 
 just one word." 
 
 For Love and Life. L 19
 
 290 • FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "I have already said to Lady Augusta all that 
 can be said," said Edgar; "that she need not fear 
 me — that I will not put myself in her way." 
 
 They had, by this time, reached the avenue, 
 and were walking unconsciously fast in the roused 
 state of feeling which this interview had called 
 forth, between the long level lines of leafless trees, 
 on the edge of the sodden, bright green wintry 
 grass, which tempted the feet with its mossy soft- 
 ness. It was afternoon, and the long slanting lines 
 of sunshine lighted up, but scarcely had the better 
 of, the creeping shadows which bided their time 
 in every corner. Lady Mary put out her hand 
 again suddenly, with an excitement which she did 
 not seem able to control, and laid it on Edgar's 
 arm. 
 
 "Mr. Earnshaw!" she said, the tears coming to 
 her eyes. "It is not for you. Augusta, like myself, 
 trusts you entirely; it is not you." 
 
 "What then?" said Edgar, suddenly stopping 
 short, and facing her. 
 
 "Mr. Earnshaw! Oh! how can I put into words 
 the strange service — the thing beyond words, which 
 Augusta thinks she can trust you enough to ask for. 
 Oh! Mr. Earnshaw, see how absolute is our faith 
 in you! It is not you she fears. It is the im- 
 petuosity — it is the it is her own child." 
 
 Edgar stood still, and did not speak — how could 
 he? In his life he had had enough to chill him 
 one way or another; now, all at once, there seemed 
 to burst forth a fountain of warmth and life within
 
 WISDOM AND FOOLISHNESS. 29 1 
 
 him — in his very heart. The water came to his eyes. 
 If he had been alone I beheve it would have over- 
 flowed, so poignant was the touch of this sudden, 
 scarcely comprehensible happiness. "Ah!" he cried, 
 summing up in that little syllable, as is done so often, 
 worlds of sudden understanding, of emotion inex- 
 pressible in words; and so stood gazing at the un- 
 lucky emissary, who had put things inconceivable, 
 things unbelievable, all at once into his throbbing 
 brain. 
 
 "Oh, God forgive me!" cried Lady Mary, with 
 a devoutness quite unusual to her. "What have I 
 done — what have I done]" 
 
 "Look here," said Edgar, feeling a strange dif- 
 ficulty of articulation, and with a consciousness 
 that, instead of being eloquent, as he ought to have 
 been in the circumstances, his words were homely, 
 almost rude; "So far as I am myself concerned, 
 nothing will make me swerve from my word. Lady 
 Augusta need have no fear for me; but if — " and 
 here he paused, "if the happiness of another were 
 any way involved. It is not my supposition, par- 
 don me, it is yours. If then I will be bound 
 
 by no word, no promise, nothing but — her will 
 whatever it is. I am ready to balk myself, to give 
 up the desire of my heart, to say never a word, so 
 far as I am concerned. But her I will not balk; it 
 is not my place. Her will she shall have if I can 
 get it for her — at any risk, with any pains! Lady 
 Mary, bid me go, or take the consequences; this is 
 all I will say." 
 
 19*
 
 2g2 t'OR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Earnshaw!" cried Lady Mary, in a burst 
 of injudicious sympathy. "Oh, Edgar! now I under- 
 stand them;" and with that, this very foolish, very 
 clever, little woman sat down upon the stump of 
 a tree, and cried with all her heart. She was to- 
 tally taken by surprise. She had believed him to 
 be so good, so ready to obliterate himself, that she 
 half despised him through all her generous com- 
 passion and liking. I think it is Mr. Charles Reade 
 who describes, somewhat coarsely perhaps, but very 
 powerfully, the woman's surprise at discovering her- 
 self to be, for the first time, face to face with a 
 male of her own species. The surprise, I believe, 
 is common to both sexes, and as much when love 
 is out of the question as when it is deeply involved. 
 It is one of the most penetrating of mental sensa- 
 tions — a sudden revelation. Lady Mary felt this 
 as she sat down on the stump of the tree, and 
 called Edgar Earnshaw by his Christian name, and 
 cried, suddenly abandoning her colours, giving up 
 her cause, owning herself utterly conquered. It 
 was a great deal to be accomplished by so few 
 words, and Edgar himself was so entirely moved 
 and shaken by what had occurred, that he was not 
 half sensible of his own success. All he knew was 
 that Lady Mary felt for him, understood him; and 
 this gave him comfort, wlien he suddenly dropped 
 down after the exaltation of his sudden transport 
 into a sadness which was its natural consequence. 
 Lady Mary fell too, out of her sudden enthusiasm 
 into a sense of absolute foolishness and the in- 
 discreetest of sympathetic ebullitions, and picked
 
 WISDOM AND FOOLISHNESS. 293 
 
 herself up and went meekly along the avenue by 
 Edgar's side, trying to talk about the children, and 
 raking up nursery stories of Phil's cleverness to tell 
 him, in what she would herself have thought the 
 very imbecility of motherhood. Poor Lady Mary! 
 she had the additional misery of thinking that Edgar 
 perceived her utter downfall and change of sides — 
 which he, poor fellow, with his heart jumping in 
 his throat, was far too much agitated to do. 
 
 But when they came to the great door, and 
 were about to separate, she "thought it her duty" 
 to leave him with a final word of counsel, "Mr. 
 Earnshaw," she said, almost timidly, "you saw that 
 I was carried away by my feelings — for I feel for 
 you, however I may be obliged to side with my 
 sister in what she thinks to be best. You will forget 
 all I have been so foolish as to say — and keep to 
 what you said to her, won't you? Don't let me 
 have done harm instead of good." 
 
 "I will keep to what I said to her, religiously; 
 she has my word," said Edgar, "but don't think I 
 can ever forget what you have said to me." 
 
 "Mr. Earnshaw, it was in confidence." 
 
 "In closest, dearest confidence," he said, "but 
 not to be forgotten — never to be forgotten; that is 
 not possible. It will be wiser to tell Lady Augusta 
 what I have said; and remember, dear Lady Mary, 
 you, who have been so good to me, that, at a mo- 
 ment's notice, at a word, at a look, I am ready to 
 go away." 
 
 "Not if I can help it," she said, half crying 
 again, holding out her hand; and in sight of the
 
 294 FO^ LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 biggest of the powdered footmen, and of the porter, 
 and of one of the under-gardeners, all looking on in 
 consternation, he kissed it, absolutely indifferent to 
 what any one might say. To be sure it was only a 
 little glove he kissed, warm out of her muff.
 
 THE OPPOSITE CAMP. 2g5 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Tlie Opposite Camp. 
 
 The Thornleigh family, or at least the feminine 
 portion of it, was, as has been indicated to the 
 reader, in town — though it was still very early in 
 the year — for the purpose of looking after little 
 Mary's trousseau, as her wedding was to take place 
 at Easter. Lady Augusta's family numbered eight 
 altogether — five girls and three boys; and if I could 
 tell you half the trouble she had gone through with 
 them, you would no longer wonder at the wrinkles 
 on her forehead. Her girls had been as trouble- 
 some as her boys, which seldom happens, and that 
 was saying a great deal. Harry, the eldest son, was 
 a prodigal, constantly in debt and in trouble; John, 
 the second, who, it was hoped, would have dis- 
 tinguished himself by his brains, had been plucked 
 for his degree; and the regiment of which Reginald, 
 the youngest son, was an ornament, had been sent 
 off to India, contrary to all prognostications. As 
 for the daughters, though the youngest was nine- 
 teen, only one was married — a terrible thought for 
 an anxious mother, as anxious to do her duty
 
 2g6 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 by her children as I.ady Augusta was — and that 
 one! 
 
 The eldest was Ada, who, when her lover, only 
 a poor clergyman at the best, died of typhus fever, 
 caught in his work, never would look at another 
 man, but retired meekly into old maidenhood. The 
 second, Helena, was the clever one of the family. 
 She had more brains than all the rest put together, 
 everybody said, and so indeed she herself thought 
 — more than she knew what to do with. If that 
 head could only have been put on her brother 
 John's shoulders, what a blessing to everyone con- 
 cerned! for, alas! all the good her brains did her, 
 was to betray her into a marriage with a very 
 clever and very learned professor, painfully superior 
 to everybody else, but altogether out of "her own 
 class." The third was Gussy, who had been always 
 Lady Augusta's most dearly beloved, and who, three 
 years ago, had been all but betrothed to the best 
 match in the county — young Edgar Arden; but 
 when Edgar was ruined, and disappeared, as it 
 were, off the face of the earth, Gussy, instead of 
 abandoning him as a sensible girl should have 
 done, clung with the obstinacy which distinguished 
 the Thornleighs, to the very recollection of him — 
 which, as he was still living and marriageable, 
 though no match at all, was a fanaticism much less 
 manageable than Ada's. For Ada, if she insisted 
 upon considering herself a widow, was at all events 
 quite submissive in other matters, and content to 
 be her mother's right hand at home; but Gussy, 
 who had by no means given up her personal pos-
 
 THE OPPOSITE CAMP. 297 
 
 sibilities of happiness, and whose hopes were still 
 alive, had been very restless, and worried her family 
 with many vagaries. Schemes and crotchets ran, I 
 suppose, in the noble blood which Lady Augusta 
 had transmitted to her daughters. It showed itself 
 in different ways in the sisters: Helena's ways had 
 been all intellectual, butGussy, who was benevolent 
 and religious, was more difficult to deal with. The 
 melancholy seclusion, which to an English mind is 
 the first characteristic of a convent, has little to do 
 with the busy beehive of a modern sisterhood; and 
 a young woman connected with such an institution 
 has claims made upon her which are wonderfully 
 embarrassing to a fashionable mother. Helena, in 
 her wildest days, when she had all sorts of com- 
 mittees going on, could be taken to her meetings 
 and lectures in the carriage, like a Christian, and 
 could be sent for when these seances were over; but 
 Gussy had to trudge off on foot to all sorts of 
 places in her long black cloak, and to visit houses 
 in which fever, and every kind of evil, physical and 
 moral, abounded; and was not to be shaken by any 
 remonstrances. Indeed, the parents had been glad 
 to compromise and consent to any amount of As- 
 sociate-ship, so as to keep off the dreaded possi- 
 bility of a determination on Gussy's part to enter 
 the Sisterhood for good and all. I do not think 
 that Gussy herself ever threatened this, though she 
 thought of it sometimes as her best alternative, if — ; 
 but there was still an if, a living and strong perad- 
 venture in her mind. Other good-natured friends, 
 however, strongly pressed the possibility on Lady
 
 2g8 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 Augusta's mind; they did all they could to persuade 
 the anxious mother to take forcible steps in the 
 matter, and constrain Gussy, on her obedience, to 
 give up her objectionable charities and devotions. 
 Fortunately Lady Augusta did not belong to that 
 class of women who take pleasure in worrying their 
 children for their good. She shook her head when 
 her pretty daughter, still as pretty as in her first 
 season, went out in her black cloak, and the hideous 
 bonnet, which the mother would not allow to her- 
 self was "becoming," notwithstanding its intrinsic 
 hideousness. She moaned over the dirt, the dis- 
 ease, the evil smells and sights which her child was 
 about to encounter, and about the risk of infection 
 to which she would expose herself. 
 
 "Who can tell what you may bring back with 
 you, Gussy? — fever, or one does not know what," 
 Lady Augusta said, piteously. "It is so different 
 with our poor people at home, whom we all 
 know." 
 
 "I will shut myself up in my room, mamma; or 
 I will go to the House, when there is anything in- 
 fectious about; but I cannot give up my work," 
 said Gussy, filial, but determined. 
 
 "Oh, work, child! what do you mean by work?" 
 cried Lady Augusta, driven to her wits' end. 
 "Home is surely better than the 'Llouse,' as you 
 call it, and I am sure Ada and I find plenty to do 
 at home. Why cannot you do as we do?" 
 
 "Perhaps because Ada and you do it all," said 
 Gussy, unmoved by that despairing appeal which
 
 THE OPPOSITE CAMP. SQQ 
 
 the old is always making to the new. Why cannot 
 you do as we do? 
 
 Poor Lady Augusta! It was she who had to 
 give in, not her daughter. And you may easily 
 understand, dear reader, how such a good mother 
 was affected by the break-down of all her elder 
 hopes — Ada, Helena, Gussy. Her three eldest 
 children — all failures! What a heart-breaking 
 thought it was to a woman of fashion, surrounded 
 by contemporaries who had married their daughters 
 well, and whom no man could reproach as negli- 
 gent of their highest duties! She would wake some- 
 times in the middle of the night, and ask herself 
 was it her fault] Had she put foolish notions into 
 the heads of the girls'? Certainly on the Thornleigh 
 side there were no "views" nor "crotchets;" and 
 Lady Augusta was aware that she herself had ac- 
 complished her own fate, not altogether because she 
 preferred it, and had, perhaps, smothered personal 
 predilections, which her children showed no in- 
 clination to smother. "Why cannot they do as I 
 did?" she would say in her heart, with a sigh. 
 
 But now at last a moment had come, in which 
 her natural cares were rewarded. When Lord 
 Granton proposed for Mary, her mother had almost 
 cried with joy. For the first time here was a satis- 
 factory — a completely satisfactory conclusion. So 
 unexceptionable a young man, such a title, such 
 estates, and a family which any girl might be proud 
 to enter! The delight was all the sweeter from 
 being so long deferred, so sadly missed. She for- 
 gave Helena her bad match, and Gussy and Ada
 
 300 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 their no matches at all, in the exhilaration of this 
 happy moment. All her little grievances and grudges 
 vanished in the sudden flood of sunshine. She was 
 reconciled to all the world, even to Helena's hus- 
 band, the Professor, over whom, too, a heavenly 
 radiance would be flung, when he was brother-in- 
 law to a marquis. Poor Lady Augusta! In the full 
 height of her exhilaration she betook herself to Tot- 
 tenham's to send the good news to her sister, feel- 
 ing that now at least, perhaps for the first time, 
 there was no trouble to lessen her happiness; and 
 there she encountered, without any warning, Edgar! 
 Heaven help her! a man still more objectionable, 
 because more hopelessly penniless than Helena's 
 professor, a man without a name, without a shilling, 
 without a connection! but whom Gussy, her favourite 
 daughter, was ready, she knew, to follow to the end 
 of the world. When she drove out to the rural 
 Tottenham's after this, to tell her sister the story of 
 Mary's engagement, is it wonderful that her agitated 
 mind should have poured forth all its mingled strain 
 of joy, tribulation, content, and alarm 1 The wholly 
 joyful part of her budget was soon swallowed up in 
 the revelation of her fears about Gussy, and in the 
 reproaches she could not quite restrain. Why had 
 her sister so added to her burdens, by this injudi- 
 cious, this uncalled-for interference in Edgar's 
 fortunes'? He was not so friendless. Lady Augusta 
 protested, half indignant, half weeping, that they, of 
 all the world, should have rushed into the breach, 
 and taken him up — bringing him even into their 
 house, where he could not fail to see Gussy one
 
 THE OPPOSITE CAMP. 30 1 
 
 time or other. And then the anxious mother cried, 
 and told her sister that she had no confidence in 
 Gussy. In Edgar she had every confidence; he had 
 promised never to thrust himself into her way; but 
 Gussy had made no such promise, and her mother 
 did not even dare to speak to her on the subject, 
 knowing that she would be met by unanswerable 
 arguments. Thus the two ladies, talking over the 
 whole matter, fell into a not unnatural snare, and 
 resolved to confide in Edgar, and trust to him to 
 keep Gussy, as well as himself, right — not fore- 
 seeing how that confidence would change to him 
 the whole aspect of affairs. When Ada heard how 
 far her mother's revelations had gone, and of the 
 step Lady Mary was commissioned to take, she did 
 not give it her approval, as Lady Augusta had 
 hoped, but looked very grave, and doubted much 
 the wisdom of the proceeding. "He promised never 
 to stand in my way," Lady Augusta said, much de- 
 pressed by her privy-councillor's disapproval. "But 
 he did not promise for Gussy — what right would he 
 have to undertake for Gussy T' said Ada, shaking 
 her head. It was an idea which had not entered 
 her mother's mind, for Lady Augusta had that kind 
 of confidence in Edgar, as of a man born to set 
 everything right, which women, especially when sur- 
 rounded by practical difficulties, are so ready to 
 place in an ideal man. He had never objected to 
 her commands hitherto; why should he now? Never- 
 theless, when Ada disappeared, Lady Augusta began 
 to quake lest she should have done more harm than 
 good.
 
 302 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "We must try to get something for him to do," 
 she said, faltering, "something abroad. Notwith- 
 standing all those absurd new arrangements, people 
 of influence can still command situations abroad, I 
 hope, if they choose to take the trouble. I shall 
 speak to Lord Millboard, Ada; and I am sure 
 Granton, dear fellow, would take any trouble, if he 
 knew how important it was." 
 
 "Because he is happy himself, to prevent poor 
 Gussy from being happy?" said Ada. "Oh, I am 
 not saying anything against it, mamma. I suppose 
 it will have to be." 
 
 "Of course it will have to be," said her mother, 
 "you are all very unkind — you girls. Not one of 
 you has exerted herself as I had a right to expect. 
 Do you think that I thought of nothing but pleasing 
 myself when I married? And who has lost the most 
 in losing Edgar? Well, Gussy, you may say, in one 
 way; but I too. What a help he would have been 
 to me! so kind and so understanding. Oh, Ada! if 
 you knew how much it goes against my heart to 
 shut him out. But it must be; what would your 
 father — what would every one say?" 
 
 To this, Ada could return but little answer, ex- 
 cept to murmur something about "leaving it in the 
 hands of Providence," which was not so consolatory 
 to Lady Augusta as it was meant to be. 
 
 "It is all very well to say, leave it to Providence!" 
 cried that much tried mother, "if you had lived as 
 long as I have, Ada, you would have found that all 
 the most inconvenient things that happen in the
 
 THE OPPOSITE CAMP. 3*^3 
 
 world are said to be brought about by Providence 
 — especially in the way of marriages. No, we must 
 take precautions; Gussy must not go near Totten- 
 ham's while he is there; and I'll tell you what I will 
 do. Harry is at home doing nothing particular, and 
 probably quarrelling with your poor papa, who has 
 so much to vex him. I have just been wondering 
 how they could possibly get on with all of us away. 
 I will write and tell him to offer himself to your 
 aunt Mary for a visit." 
 
 "Harry! what good will Harry doV asked Ada, 
 wondering. 
 
 "Well, my dear, at least he will be on the spot," 
 said Lady Augusta; and she breathed a long sigh, 
 as if a weight had been taken off her mind. Any 
 stop-gap, however imperfect, which takes, or seems 
 to take, a responsibility off the mind, is enough to 
 give a sense of relief to one so overborne by many 
 businesses as Lady Augusta was. "And now, my 
 dear, let us look over Mary's patterns," she said, 
 drawing a chair towards Ada's table, on which a 
 mass of samples, of linen, silk, muslin, and every 
 other fabric, known to human ingenuity, were lying, 
 ticketed and arranged in packets. This was a little 
 bit of pure enjoyment, which refreshed the anxious 
 mother in the midst of all her cares. 
 
 I need not tell what commotion was made in the 
 household when the news crept out and stole secretly 
 from one girl to another, that Tidgar had come back. 
 Mary and Beatrice put their curly heads together 
 over it, and the result was a communication to the
 
 304 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 young Granton, which effectually fortified him against 
 making himself a tool of any of poor Lady Augusta's 
 schemings to get rid of the danger. These two were 
 the children of the house, and the elder sisters paid 
 but little attention to their innocent conspiracies. 
 The elders were more interesting personages than 
 little Mary and Bee, though Mary was a predestined 
 marchioness, and there was no knowing what Bee 
 might come to in the way of matrimonial elevation. 
 There are people, no doubt, who will think the old 
 maid of the family its least interesting member; but 
 you, dear unknown friend, my gentle reader, are 
 not of that complexion; and there may be others 
 who will feel that Ada's obscure life was a poor 
 enough thing to settle down to, after all the hopes 
 and all the disappointments of youth, both of which 
 are more exciting and sustaining than the simple 
 monotony of such a commonplace existence. I am 
 not sure, however, for my own part, whether Ada's 
 soft self-renunciation never expressed in words, and 
 her constant readipess in trouble, and the numberless 
 frocks she made for her poor children — and even 
 her mother's meetings, though the family laughed at 
 them — were half so bewildering an anti-climax to 
 the high aspirations of youth as was Helena's Pro- 
 fessor, and the somewhat humdrum, if highly intel- 
 lectual routine into which she had dropped with him. 
 Helena, herself now and then, had a confused and 
 giddy consciousness that ministering to a man's 
 comforts, who was not at all a demi-god, and attend- 
 ing lectures at the Royal Society was a very odd 
 and sudden downfall from all her dreams of social
 
 THE OPPOSITE CAMP. 305 
 
 amelioration and "a great work;" but fortunately 
 she was happy, a thing which deadens the moral 
 perception. Ada was happy, too, in her different 
 way; but Gussy was not happy. She had not the 
 tranquil soul of her elder sister, nor that curious 
 mixture of sense and talent, and self-confidence and 
 absence of humour which made Helena what she 
 was. She had not "given up," as in various ways 
 both of them had done. She was dissatisfied, for 
 life as yet had lost none of its possibilities, neither 
 by fulfilment nor renunciation. All clouds might 
 yet be cleared away from her sky, and what she 
 considered perfect happiness might yet be waiting 
 for her somewhere. This remnant of possibility that 
 the soul may still have all it craves, ought, you might 
 think, to have kept Gussy's heart alive, and given 
 her a secret support; but it was in fact a very fire 
 of restlessness within her. The first step towards 
 attaining the secondary happinesses of life, is to 
 have given up and recognised as impossible the 
 primary and greater happiness. Gussy had been 
 compelled to occupy herself closely, in order to save 
 herself from becoming discontented, morbid, sour, 
 and miserable, by reason of this sense within her, 
 that everything might yet come right. 
 
 "Why should you say it was injudicious?" she 
 said to her sister, when they at length discussed the 
 subject, "why should not they help him, since he 
 wants it, because of the chance of meeting me? I 
 heard what mamma said as I came in. If he does 
 meet me, I dare say he has forgotten all about me 
 
 For Love and Lije. I. 20
 
 306 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 by this time, or at least remembers me only as a 
 friend. It would be hard indeed if any ghost of me, 
 after all these years, were to come in his way." 
 
 "And you," said her sister, "could you meet him 
 as a friend whom you remembered? Would that be 
 all?" 
 
 Gussy's lip quivered in spite of herself. "I hope 
 I could do — whatever was necessary," she said 
 proudly. But in the midst of uttering these two or 
 three words, a sudden tear fell unexpectedly out 
 of her eye and betrayed her. "How silly!" she 
 said, dashing it away; "you forget I did see him. 
 Oh, Ada, fancy travelling with him all those hours, 
 and never saying a word! It was as if we were in 
 two different worlds — like looking into another 
 existence, and seeing those whom one has lost, 
 without any power to communicate with them." 
 
 "Ah! but we are not permitted to do even that," 
 said Ada; "do you think he did not recognise you? 
 Not at all? That is so strange to me." 
 
 Gussy shook her head. "I don't think he did; 
 but you must remember," she said humbly, "that 
 he never was what you might call so very much 
 in love with me. He liked me; he was even fond 
 of me — but not exactly in love. It is different — I 
 always felt that, even when you all made so sure. 
 And what he thinks of me now, I don't know. If 
 I saw him once, I should be able to tell you; but I 
 shall try not to see him. It is best I should not 
 see him," said Gussy very low, "best in every 
 way."
 
 THE OPPOSITE CAMP. 2)'^'J 
 
 "My poor child!" said Ada; but she did not 
 contradict her, as her sister almost hoped; and 
 Gussy went away immediately after, with her heart 
 full, to put on her black cloak and close bonnet, 
 and to go forth into some very unsavoury region 
 indeed, where a serene Sister, so smiling and cheery 
 that you might be certain her mind was taken up 
 by no possible happiness, was hard at work. Gussy 
 had some very disagreeable work allotted to her 
 which gave her full occupation till it was time to 
 return to "the world," and as long as she was 
 thus engaged she was able to forget all about her- 
 self and Edgar, and everything else in the other 
 existence. Thus Rag Fair was good for her, and 
 gave her a certain amount of strength with which 
 to return to Berkeley Square. 
 
 But the reader will perceive that if Edgar's mind 
 was disturbed by what he had heard, a similar, if 
 less violent commotion had been raised, by the 
 mere intimation of his return, in the opposite camp, 
 where every member of the family instinctively felt 
 the danger, though the young and the romantic 
 among them welcomed it as rather an advantage 
 than a peril. Gussy went about her ordinary work, 
 whether in "the world" or out of it, with a soft 
 perpetual tremor, feeling that at any moment, round 
 any corner, she might meet him with whom her 
 youthful thoughts had wandered all these years. I 
 will not say that she was not somewhat anxious and 
 uncertain as to the effect which this long interval 
 might have had upon Edgar's mind; for women 
 seldom have a very strong faith, unassisted by evi- 
 
 20*
 
 308 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 dence, in the fidelity of a long absent lover; but 
 she had no sense of having given love unsought, 
 or shame in her own secret devotion. She knew 
 that if Edgar had remained rich and prosperous 
 she would have been his wife long ere now, and 
 this gave to Gussy's maiden love that sweet legiti- 
 macy and pride of duty which is so much to a 
 woman, and emboldens her to give without shame, 
 and with all her heart. 
 
 In the meantime, however, Lady Augusta took 
 that other precautionary measure which had suddenly 
 occurred to her, to Ada's great surprise and con- 
 sternation, and sent private orders to her son, Harry 
 — who was at that moment under a cloud, and 
 doing his best to act the part of a good son to a 
 very irritable father who had just paid his debts for 
 him, and was taking them out in abuse of every 
 description at Thornleigh, while the mother and 
 sisters were in town. I don't believe she had the 
 least notion what good Harry could do; but it re- 
 lieved him from a very trying ordeal, and the young 
 man jumped at it, though Ada shook her head. 
 "He will be on the spot at least, my dear," said 
 Lady Augusta, all unconscious of slang. She ex- 
 plained to her husband that the Tottenhams had 
 taken one of their fancies to Mr. Earnsliaw, whom 
 they had all once known so well as Edgar Arden, 
 and that she thought it would be well that one of 
 the family should be there to keep an eye upon 
 him, lest he and Gussy should meet. "For you 
 know, Gussy has not been the same since that 
 affair," wrote the careful mother. Mr. Thornleigh,
 
 THE OPPOSITE CAMP. 309 
 
 who had a more than ordinaiy contempt at this 
 moment for Harry's capabihties, wrote her a rather 
 rude letter in reply, telling her that she was a fool 
 indeed if she trusted in anything her hopeful son 
 could do; but nevertheless, he made no objection 
 to the visit. Thus it will be seen how emphatically 
 their own doing was all the confusion that followed 
 this momentous step, which the Thornleighs all 
 combined in their ignorance to make Harry take — 
 and which he accepted as he would have accepted 
 any change, at that moment; not having the least 
 idea of what was wanted of him, any more than 
 of what fate had in store for him. Lady Augusta 
 went on more calmly with her preparations for little 
 Mary's grand wedding when she had thus, to her 
 own satisfaction, secured a representative at Tot- 
 tenham's. And Ada studied the patterns indefati- 
 gably, and gave the mother the very best advice as 
 to which was most suitable; and Gussy had a per- 
 fect carnival of work, and spent almost all her time 
 in Rag Fair — with occasional expeditions to the 
 shop, where Mr. Tottenham had established a chapel, 
 chiefly to please her, and where one of the clergy- 
 men attached to the Charity-House kept up daily 
 service. This was much more dangerous, had Lady 
 Augusta been aware of the fact, than the rural 
 Tottenham's, where Harry was set to be sentinel 
 without knowing it. 
 
 And thus the first cold lingering days of spring 
 — spring only in name, with all winter's cold, and 
 less than winter's comfort, dragged themselves along. 
 Only to Lady Augusta, who was busy with the
 
 310 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 trousseau, and little Mary, who was making love, 
 the days were not long enough for all that had to 
 be put into them; though the others were of a 
 different mind. 
 
 END OF VOL. L
 
 COLLECTION 
 
 Ol' 
 
 BEITISn AUTHOPiS 
 
 TAUCITNITZ EDITION. 
 
 VOL. 1420. 
 FOR LOVE AND LIFE BY MRS. OLIPIIANT. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. II.
 
 TAUCHNITZ EDITION. 
 By the same Author, 
 
 TIIIC LAST OF THE M0KTIJ113KS .... 2 vols. 
 
 MARGAIiKT MAITLANl) 1 vol. 
 
 AGN'ES 2 vols. 
 
 5IAJ)ONNA MARY 2 vols. 
 
 TlIK minister's wife 2 vols. 
 
 THE RECTOR AND THE DOCTOr's FAMILY 1 vol. 
 
 SAI,EM CHAPEL 2 vols. 
 
 THE PERPETUAL CURATE 2 vols. 
 
 MISS MARJORIBANKS 2 vols. 
 
 OMBRA 2 vols. 
 
 MEMOIR OF COUNT I>E MONTALEMIiERT . 2 vols. 
 
 MAY 2 vols. 
 
 INNOCENT 2 vols.
 
 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 MRS. OLIPHANT, 
 
 author of 
 'chronicles of carlingford," "'omrra," "may," etc. 
 
 COPYRIGHT edition: 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. II. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 
 BERNHARD TAUCHXITZ 
 
 1874. 
 
 The Right 0/ Translation U 7-e.iei-!>ed
 
 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Intoxication. 
 
 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 favour- 
 able opportunities slip through your fingers; but 
 suppose you find out in a moment, without warn- 
 ing, 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 jyou 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 ex-
 
 6 FOR LOVK AND LIFE. 
 
 cited, 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 nevv-born pride which had 
 made him, to his own surprise, so reluctant to 
 apply to anyone for employment, and so little satis- 
 fied to dance attendance on Lord Newmarch, died 
 at that single blow. 
 
 Dance attendance on Lord Newmarch! ask any- 
 body, 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 acrain
 
 INTOXICATION. 7 
 
 the moment that the strange and penetrating sweet- 
 ness of tliis suggestion (which he declared to him- 
 self 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 pre- 
 cautions. I suppose it was by reason of the funda- 
 mental 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 "im- 
 petuosity," as they called it, without considering 
 that the young man was disposed to make a god- 
 dess 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
 
 8 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 evening he beguiled his hosts into numberless dis- 
 cussions, 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 arc. You have been 
 among the regnant class all your life, which of itself 
 is an enormous cultivation. You have lived famili- 
 arly 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." 
 
 "1 am backed up by indisputable testimony," 
 said Edgar, laughing; "and in the face of all this,
 
 INTOXICATION. Q 
 
 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
 
 lO FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 wonder whetlier the young man had taken more 
 wine than usual'? for there was an exhilaration, a 
 boldness, an elan 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 drojiped 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 un- 
 favourable 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 witli 
 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. Earn- 
 shaw, I wish you would go in with me on Wednes- 
 day, 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
 
 INTOXICATION. 1 I 
 
 in Ills tone. Up to this moment he had wanted 
 confidence in himself, and carried into everything 
 the hisoucia7ice of a man who takes up with friend- 
 liness 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 any- 
 thing 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 <vas 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
 
 12 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 wouldl 
 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 de- 
 prived 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, know- 
 ing that he was in heart emancipated from it.
 
 INTOXICATION. 1 3 
 
 There was nothing he could not have done on that 
 briUiant 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 conscious- 
 ness of his humanity. As he passed through the 
 village, chance drew Edgar's eye to the house which 
 Eady 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 stand- 
 ing 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 de- 
 mand 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 situa- 
 tion. 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
 
 14 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 a cottage in the distance, where, he was aware, 
 there was lodgings to be had; and as Edgar ap- 
 proached, 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; Avas 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 Avith 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
 
 INTOXICATION. 1 5 
 
 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 circum- 
 stances once more seem against us," he added hur- 
 riedly, 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 mo- 
 ment — 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 Earn- 
 shaw." 
 
 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
 
 l6 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 not prepared for the beauty of the face which looked 
 at him from the carriage-window with a soft ap- 
 pealing 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 im- 
 plore 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 excep- 
 tionally handsome, goes to the heart of the s])ectator. 
 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 immedi- 
 ately 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
 
 INTOXICATION. 1 7 
 
 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 re- 
 fused 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 anx- 
 ious to serve people who were his friends; and be- 
 fore 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 mo- 
 ment; 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 
 
 For Love and Life. II. 2
 
 1 8 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 him- 
 self. Was he guilty of the meanness of being an- 
 noyed 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 feel- 
 ing could enter his mind — or what was if? 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 dark- 
 ness, he felt that something had happened, which, 
 somehow or other, he could not tell how, was to 
 affect his future life.
 
 A YOUTHFUL SOLOMON. IQ 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A youthful Solomon. 
 
 Edgar felt so strong an inclination to say no- 
 thing 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, describ- 
 ing the brother and sister, and Margaret's remark- 
 able beauty, which had impressed him greatly. 
 
 "And really you did not know she was so 
 pretty?" Lady Mary said, fi.xing 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 incon- 
 sistent 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 Mar- 
 garet's early widowhood, and the special union 
 which existed between her and her brother. Harry 
 
 2»
 
 20 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 kin- 
 dred 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 Thorn- 
 leigh 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 propor- 
 tion 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 "oppor- 
 tunities." "A girl don't stand out like that without 
 some cause for it," Harry would have said, saga- 
 ciously; but he was too knowing to let it be per- 
 ceived that he knew. 
 
 "There is a deal of difference up at home now,"
 
 A YOUTHFUL SOLOMON. 21 
 
 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 hearl 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 disagree- 
 able! 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 sup- 
 pose, 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
 
 22 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 living happy ever after. That's bosh! but I dare- 
 say 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. 1 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 chil- 
 dren," 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.
 
 A YOUTHFUL SOLOMON. 2;^ 
 
 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 ex- 
 citement. He could do nothing to help Clare, no- 
 thing 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 no- 
 thing — 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 help- 
 lessness? 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 writ- 
 ing, the cry for aid to establish himself somehow, 
 in an independent position which he had sent forth
 
 24 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 to all who could help — a sudden revulsion of feel- 
 ing 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 instru- 
 ment 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 mur- 
 murs 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 com- 
 panion'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
 
 A YOUTHFUL SOLOMON. 25 
 
 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 fel- 
 low," 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. / 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 be- 
 tween 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 fol- 
 low any one that took it upon him to lead. I sup-
 
 26 FOR LOVE AND LIFE, 
 
 pose it is consistent with the curious vagaries of 
 human nature that this sudden sense of his im- 
 potence 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. Hariy, 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, condescend- 
 ingly. "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? / 
 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 her- 
 self. 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
 
 A YOUTHFUL SOLOMON. l"] 
 
 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, Solo- 
 mon?" 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 yoii. 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 excur- 
 sion into the past. He had mentioned Helena, who 
 was perfectly safe and proper to be mentioned, a
 
 2 8 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 ludi- 
 crous 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 sud- 
 denly 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 him- 
 self the instrument on which every one played, 
 rather than a conscious actor in the imbroglio. The 
 image got possession of his fanciful brain. Like
 
 A YOUTHFUL SOLOMON. 29 
 
 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 sensa- 
 tion, 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 imme- 
 diate 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 in- 
 visible 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. Entertain- 
 ments, in the evening — duets, pieces on the cornet, 
 Trial Scene from Pickwick; and in the morning, 
 lectures, the improvement of Lady Mary Totten- 
 ham's mind, and the grand office of teaching the 
 young ladies of Harbour Green to tliink! 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,
 
 30 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 tl^e 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 bene- 
 volent whimsey of the owner of that enormous shop.
 
 HARRY. 31 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 Harry. 
 
 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 'objection- 
 able 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 fel- 
 low." 
 
 "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."
 
 ;^2 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "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 under- 
 stand, 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 1 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 shal- 
 lower 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 mc!" cried Phil, with a great many
 
 HARRY. ^;^ 
 
 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 bil- 
 liard-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 
 
 J^or Love atid Life. II. 3
 
 34 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 fellow bother his brains when he hasn't got any, 
 and doesn't care, and nobody cares for himi 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 i/ial 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
 
 HARRY. 35 
 
 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 dof ' 
 
 "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 per- 
 suade 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 
 
 3*
 
 36 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 of attending your ladyship anywhere this afternoon, 
 or won't you have me, any more than Mr. Totten- 
 ham?" 
 
 "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 edu- 
 cated 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 circum- 
 stances — to enter my family — "
 
 HARRY. ;i'] 
 
 "Though a few years ago we should all have 
 been very glad of him," said Harry. "Oh, / 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 in- 
 stantly, 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 clon't mind non- 
 sense; 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 differ- 
 ence. Oh, yes, I like him; but you may like a fel- 
 low 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 un- 
 derstand 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 car- 
 riage. Shall you drive, or shall H" 
 
 Lady Mary was crushed by her nephew's straight- 
 forward 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
 
 38 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 rela- 
 tions. 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 esta- 
 blished 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 after- 
 noon. 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
 
 HARRY. 
 
 39 
 
 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 after- 
 noon, 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 l)ushes 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
 
 40 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 can get in to it," she said, "and a pleasant neigh- 
 bourhood;" and then in the little pause that fol- 
 lowed 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 im- 
 patience, till his aunt should have got through 
 her civilities. But just then the mistress of the cot- 
 tage 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 re- 
 ceived 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 un- 
 conscious look of ap])eal 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, af- 
 fected as he had never been in his life before.
 
 HARRY, 4t 
 
 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 inter- 
 course had gone on between this stranger and him- 
 self. She had asked him, he could not tell for what 
 — and he had thrown his whole soul into the at- 
 tempt 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 any- 
 thing 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 no- 
 thing; 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
 
 42 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 can- 
 not 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 beau- 
 tiful 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.
 
 HARRY. 43 
 
 "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," in- 
 terrupted 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 fa- 
 vourites. For his sake you must let me know if 
 there is anything I can do to make you comfortable. 
 Harry, it is time for lis 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 won- 
 derful 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 unsym- 
 pathetic laughter breaking from under Lady Mary's 
 veil by his side.
 
 44 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "Mrs. Smith!" she cried; "what a prodigious 
 anti-climax! It was all I could do to keep my gra- 
 vity 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 Avords 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 charac- 
 ter, Harry?" 
 
 "I don't understand your joke, I confess," said 
 Harry, with the loftiest superiority, drawing up at 
 the great hall door.
 
 THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN. 45 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Education of Women. 
 
 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 objection- 
 able 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. Earn- 
 shaw 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 i)romise to be good," said the
 
 46 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 father, with a laugh; "and if you will throw your- 
 self 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 gen- 
 tlemen, like you and Phil, Molly. Some of us have 
 to work for our living. If it hadn't been for Earn- 
 shaw, 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. Pll clap for him," 
 cried Phil, with facile change of sentiments; though 
 little Molly kept still eyeing her father and mother
 
 THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN. 47 
 
 alternately, not quite reassured. And thus the con- 
 versation 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
 
 48 FOR LOVE AND LiPE. 
 
 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 EDUCATION OF WOMEN. 49 
 
 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 bkie eyes had asked him, 
 those eyes which were Hke 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. No- 
 
 Foy Love and Life. II. 4
 
 50 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 thing 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 pos- 
 sessors 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 tlie good of it, than 
 any one of the girls at Harbour Green for whose 
 benefit she worked with such entliusiasm, 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
 
 THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN. 5 I 
 
 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. 
 
 "IMl 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 no- 
 body can make them do it unless they like." 
 
 "By Jove!" breathed Harry into his moustache. 
 Amaze could go no further, and he felt words in- 
 capable 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 de- 
 voutly while the earliest propositions of Euclid 
 were being explained to her, with a proud and 
 
 4*
 
 52 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 ap- 
 peared 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, un- 
 able to keep up her attention, fell to adding up her 
 bills within herself, a much more necessary mathe- 
 matical exercise in her case, but one also which did
 
 THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN. 53 
 
 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 every- 
 body 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 1" said Myra. "I don't understand it 
 a bit — but of course you know all about it."
 
 54 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "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 extraordi- 
 nary 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, laugh- 
 ing 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
 
 THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN, 55 
 
 notice the iun — 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 school- 
 boys 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."
 
 56 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "Oh, that's all very fine," said Phil, feeling the 
 exhortation against a sin for which he had no ca- 
 pability 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 non- 
 sense?" 
 
 "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 in- 
 capable 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 un-
 
 THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN. 57 
 
 likely 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 ex- 
 citement, how much good it would have done her! 
 and she would not have been so unkind as to re- 
 fuse her admirer a glance. But she did not knov»', 
 and Harry went back very unhappy, dull and de- 
 pressed, 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 herl Harry had never known what it 
 was to be troubled with extravagant hopes or ap- 
 prehensions before.
 
 58 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Mrs. Smith. 
 
 "Still no Mr. Earnshaw," said Lady Mary. 
 "This business of his and )^ours 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
 
 MRS. SMITH. 59 
 
 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 in- 
 strumental 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 pro- 
 menade 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, inter- 
 views with the housekeeper, with the gardener, with 
 the nurse, a hundred irrelevant matters. And then
 
 6o FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 en- 
 lightenment, 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 inter- 
 rupted 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 him- 
 self 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
 
 MRS. SMITH. 6 1 
 
 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 any- 
 thing so lovely as this group, the child a softened 
 repetition of the mother — in the subdued greenish
 
 62 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 super- 
 lativeness 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
 
 MRS. SMITH. 63 
 
 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 V 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 yester- 
 day—" 
 
 "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
 
 64 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 IV 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, tool" 
 
 "Yes; T know him very well," said Harry. 
 
 "He must be very good, since everybody is so 
 kind that knows him; and fancy, / don't know 
 him!" said Margaret. "Charles and he are friends, 
 but Sibby and I have only seen him once. We
 
 MRS. SMITH. 65 
 
 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 Mar- 
 garet. "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; 
 
 For Love and Life. II. 5
 
 66 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 sym- 
 pathy. 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 in- 
 tently, 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 ex- 
 plain 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
 
 MRS. SMITH. 67 
 
 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 nur- 
 sery? 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." 
 
 5*
 
 68 ' FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 com- 
 mon 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 bewilder- 
 ing 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."
 
 MRS. SMITH. 69 
 
 "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 con- 
 versation, 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 ap- 
 pealing 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
 
 70 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 con- 
 founded 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 dis- 
 appeared, 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?
 
 IN LOVE. 71 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 In Love. 
 
 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 Hfe 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 ex- 
 ternal 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.
 
 72 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "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 com- 
 forted 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 super- 
 latives 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
 
 IN LOVE. 73 
 
 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 every- 
 thing they know." 
 
 "How considerate and kind of you, Harry!" 
 cried I.ady 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. 
 Foil 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, turn- 
 ing round and looking at him — "by the way, you
 
 74 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 are of a great deal more importance. You must 
 take care she does not h.a.im jfou." 
 
 "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 help- 
 ing 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
 
 IN LOVE. 75 
 
 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 con- 
 versation 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
 
 76 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 with which, partly from sheer dehght, 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. Mar- 
 garet, 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 beau- 
 tiful 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 
 themf 
 
 "Oh no! the bonnie little beasties," cried Mar- 
 garet, 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 her- 
 self so homely a jecollection. 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
 
 IN LOVE. 77 
 
 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 con- 
 sequences. 
 
 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 thu;; 
 they flew round the park, where a little stir of 
 Spring was visible in the rough buds, and where
 
 78 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 morn- 
 ing," 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 ad- 
 vantage, 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 un-
 
 IN LOVE. 79 
 
 mingled 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 Scotch- 
 woman kept Harry's attentions down, and accorded 
 the fullest attention to her own observations. She 
 even took her nephew aside after luncheon, to im- 
 press 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 con- 
 servatories, you must recollect that it is not a mere 
 pretty girl you are with, Harry. She will not under- 
 stand 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
 
 80 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 with- 
 out 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 hei- — he was so happy — he led her away 
 quickly out of sight of his aunt — Avho 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 every- 
 body; 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
 
 IN LOVE. 8r 
 
 his agitation by cutting sprays of Cape jasmine, of 
 which there happened to be a great velvety cUister 
 in front of her seat. 
 
 "It is Hke 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 romanticl 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. Thornleighl" 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 bou(iuet on a drawing- 
 
 For Lm>e and Life. I J, ^
 
 82 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 my- 
 self 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 earnest- 
 ness. 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
 
 IN LOVE. 83 
 
 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 jas- 
 mine 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 pas- 
 sion, 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
 
 84 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 unim- 
 passioned 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.
 
 NO ENCOURAGEMENT. 85 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 No Encouragement. 
 
 "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 gloam- 
 ing — 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 Eng- 
 lish; 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
 
 86 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 Pro- 
 fessor; ladies will so seldom understand that busi- 
 ness 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 will- 
 ing to adopt your views, or at least to be en- 
 lightened 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 tyj^e; 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 con- 
 servatory in the warm soft atmosphere, under the
 
 NO ENCOURAGEMENT. 87 
 
 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 SeaT' 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 Hart- 
 stong 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 annoy- 
 ance; "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
 
 88 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 oc- 
 cupations, which included the housekeeping, Sibby's 
 lessons, and constant attendance, when he wanted 
 her, upon her brother. "I drive with him," said
 
 NO ENCOURAGEMENT. 89 
 
 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 ventur- 
 ing 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 acquire- 
 ments. Of course, I say all this with diffidence, be- 
 cause 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 Eng-
 
 go FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 lish 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 conversa- 
 tion, 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 dis- 
 cussed, 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
 
 NO ENCOURAGEMENT. 9 1 
 
 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
 
 92 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 betray- 
 ing 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 luxuri- 
 ous 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 treat- 
 ment? 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
 
 NO ENCOURAGEMENT. Q3 
 
 becomes of the greatest importance. Many an anx- 
 ious 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 con- 
 flict 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
 
 94 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 they should think it oddl 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 every- 
 body 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 down- 
 stairs, to put her into the carriage. He had whispered, 
 with a thrill in his voice: 
 
 "May I bring those books to-morrow 1" 
 He had all but brushed her dress with his face, 
 bowing over her in his solicitude. Ah, how com- 
 fortable it would be, how delightful to have a house 
 like that, a carriage like this, admiring, soft-man- 
 nered 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;
 
 NO ENCOURAGEMENT, 95 
 
 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 encourage- 
 ment. 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 kind- 
 ness, 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 al- 
 ways 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
 
 q6 for lovf. and life. 
 
 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 sliowing a rough 
 countenance to the world. They are all like 
 that," said Lady Mary, who was fond of generaliza- 
 tions. 
 
 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 at- 
 mosphere 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 repeti- 
 tion 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 be- 
 gan to talk on very much more important matters — •
 
 NO ENCOURAGEMENT. 97 
 
 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. " Re- 
 member 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, never- 
 theless, he made a private note of it, having con- 
 fidence in his sister's keen observation. Altogether, 
 
 For Loz't' and Li/c. II. 7
 
 98 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 the start at Harbour Green had been very success- 
 ful, 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 KNTERTAINMENT. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The Eiitertainmeiit al the Shoj). 
 
 The botanical lecture passed off very well in- 
 deed , and was productive of real and permanent 
 advantage to Harbour Green, by giving to Myra 
 AVitherington 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 him.self 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 lec- 
 ture. 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
 
 I 00 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 them all. You will meet us at the schoolroom 1 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 won- 
 derful 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, aban- 
 doned 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 VVitheringtons 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?"
 
 THE ENTERTAINMENT. 10 1 
 
 "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 plea- 
 sure. 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 encourage- 
 ment of her presence; for she could not, notwith- 
 standing 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 Milly, in huge ex- 
 citement. "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
 
 102 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 con- 
 sequence 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 occujjying 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. Totten- 
 ham's arm, putting up her eyeglass. Many of the 
 young ladies curtseyed to Her Grace in sign of 
 personal accjuaintance, for she was a constant patro-
 
 THE ENTERTAINMENT. IO3 
 
 ness 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 companj'^, 
 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 un- 
 known 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.
 
 I04 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 Worth 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, witli the exactitude of a showman, and led 
 his claque vigorously; but I think, on the whole, the 
 employes of Tottenham's would have enjoyed this 
 part of the entertainment more had their attention 
 been undisturbed. After the first part of the per- 
 formances 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 hus- 
 band 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.
 
 THE ENTERTAINMENT. IO5 
 
 "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, conde- 
 scendingly, 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 enter- 
 tainment 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
 
 106 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 many can sing, I perceive; and little dances, per- 
 haps?" 
 
 "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 gen- 
 tlemen have chess and so forth, and everything ex- 
 tremely nice." 
 
 "And a great deal of gossip, I sujDpose," said 
 Her Grace; "and I hope you have chaperoris to see 
 that there is not too much flirting." 
 
 "Oh, flirting!" ^aid 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 (juite 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 com- 
 posed their faces, however, as Mr. Tottenham came 
 up, called by the Duchess from another group. 
 
 "You want me. Duchess?" how fine all Totten- 
 ham's who were within hearing, felt at this — 
 especially the privileged trio, to whom she had been
 
 THE ENTERTAINMENT. IO7 
 
 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 
 I-ockwood, 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 per- 
 sons said, in the house, that she was in a con- 
 sumption, and that it was cruel to stop her duet 
 with Mr. Watson, and to inquire into her pact 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 depart- 
 ment, 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
 
 I08 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 con- 
 spicuous. 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 her- 
 self the role of fine lady. And partly from sym- 
 pathy 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 establish- 
 ment 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 Pick- 
 wick; and all the fine people, used to hear Joachim 
 play, or Patti silig, listened with much gracious re- 
 straint of their feelings. It had been intended at 
 first that the guests and the employes should sup to- 
 gether, Mr. Robinson offering his arm to Lady Mary,
 
 THE ENTERTAINMENT. lOQ 
 
 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 an- 
 other, 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 Totten- 
 ham'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
 
 no FOR LOVE J^ND LIFE. 
 
 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 entertain- 
 ment, 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 mc 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 them- 
 selves came to his ears on one side — while the soft
 
 THE ENTERTAINMENT. I I I 
 
 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 no- 
 thing 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 Au- 
 gusta, the kindest of them all, have felt a certain 
 fright at his reappearance, as of one come from the 
 dead? Alas, he ought to have remained dead, when 
 socially he was so. Edgar felt, at least, his resur- 
 rection ought not to have been here. 
 
 With this thought in his mind, he turned a dim 
 corner of the white passage, where a naked gas- 
 light burned dimly. He was close to Mr. Totten- 
 ham'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
 
 112 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 herself. Just before they met, she stopped short, 
 and uttered a low cry. 
 
 Had not his heart told him who it wasi 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.
 
 MISS LOCKWOOD'S STORY. II3 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Miss Loclcvvood's Story. 
 
 I AM obliged to go hack a few days, that the 
 reader may be made aware of the causes which de- 
 tained Edgar, and of the business which had oc- 
 cupied 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 ap- 
 pointed by his patron to be a kind of father-con- 
 fessor to Miss Lockwood, to ascertain her story, and 
 take upon himself her defence, if defence was pos- 
 sible. Why should he be selected for such a deli- 
 cate office? he asked; and when he found hmiself 
 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 
 
 For Love and Life. IL o
 
 114 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 embar- 
 rassing. 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 1" 
 
 "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,
 
 MISS LOCKWOOD's STORY. Il5 
 
 and painful to hear. "Don't you remember what I 
 said to yoni 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 mel" 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 disad- 
 vantage; 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 iil" He was alarmed by the calm 
 white vehemence with which she spoke.
 
 Il6 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "Oh! not much with my part of the business," 
 she said Hghtly. "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 coun- 
 tenance had grown whiter than hers; all power of 
 movement seemed to be taken out of him. "Prove 
 this horrible thing tliat 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
 
 MISS lockwood's story. 117 
 
 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 neces- 
 sary, 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 gentle- 
 man. 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 some- 
 thing 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
 
 Il8 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 de- 
 scriptive 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
 
 MISS LOCKWOOD S STORY. IIQ 
 
 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 cer- 
 tainty 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 every- 
 thing 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.
 
 I20 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 N 
 
 "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 situa- 
 tion. I had been in Grant and Robinson's before I 
 married, so as I didn't want to make a show of my- 
 self 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 Lock- 
 wood, "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 favour- 
 able. But I sha'n't deny it; why should I deny it?
 
 MISS LOCKWOOD's story. 121 
 
 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 1 
 — had you no feeling that, if you were safe, an- 
 other woman was about to be ruined 1" 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 cotildn't 
 she do the samel 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 be- 
 lieve 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 com- 
 ing 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 compo- 
 sure, "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 satis- 
 fied. 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 pre-
 
 122 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 ferred my freedom to that, and the power of get- 
 ting 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 comfort- 
 able, 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 your- 
 self, no one else." 
 
 "Who else should I consider?" said Miss Lock- 
 wood. "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 ex- 
 tricate her, if he could extricate her, from the
 
 MISS lockwood's story. 123 
 
 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."
 
 124 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 '■'■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 wislied that she might die, 
 that Clare might thus be saved from exposure, at 
 least from outward ruin, from the stigma upon her- 
 self 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,
 
 MISS lockwood's story. 125 
 
 but he had to bear the consciousness of this in- 
 human 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 f;xmily. None of us 
 ever were known to have anything the matter with 
 our chests." 
 
 "Have you spoken to a doctor 1" 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 any- 
 thing 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
 
 126 FOR LOVE AND LIFE, 
 
 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 herT' 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 walk- 
 ing gentleman.
 
 MISS lockwood's story. 127 
 
 Poor Edgar! if he breathed a passing anathema 
 upon enhghtened schemes and disciples of social 
 progress, I do not think that anyone need be sur- 
 prised.
 
 128 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 A Plunge into the Maze. 
 
 "Her plea is simply that she is married — that 
 seems all there is to say." 
 
 "I am aware she says that," said Mr. Totten- 
 ham. "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 mar- 
 ried 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, con- 
 found 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.
 
 A PLUNGE INTO THE MAZE. I2g 
 
 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 accom- 
 panied 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 
 
 Far Love and Life. II, 9
 
 130 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 money. And, Earnshaw," he 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 in- 
 judicious, 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 luitcrtainmcnt 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 im- 
 portant. Edgar turned his back upon the establish- 
 ment with, I fear, very little Christian feeling towards 
 Tottenham's, and all concerned with it — hating the 
 Entertainment, Aveary 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 5^cir, so destitute of any generous feeling.
 
 A PLUNGE INTO THE MAZE. 131 
 
 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 al- 
 most 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 thorough- 
 fare, 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. 
 Eleaven 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
 
 1^2 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 discovered, and the homeliness of his real origin 
 identified, Clare had shrunk from him, notwith- 
 standing 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 mar- 
 ried 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 sup- 
 posed him to have with herself. But Edgar did 
 not even remember that — he thought of nothing but 
 Clare's comfort and well-being Avhich were con- 
 cerned, and how it would be possible to confound 
 her adversaries, and save her from ignoble persecu- 
 tion. If he could keep it from her knowledge alto- 
 gether! But, alas! how could that be done? He 
 went faster and faster, driven by his thoughts.
 
 A PLUNGE INTO THE MAZE. 1 33 
 
 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 them- 
 selves, 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 build- 
 ing of which he was in search. A chapel is not a 
 thing apt to disappear, even in the changeful dis- 
 trict 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
 
 134 POI^ LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 doorl 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. 
 
 '*! 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 un- 
 foreseen 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 feel- 
 ings. 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 help- 
 lessly, another woman came up, who asked with 
 bated breath what he wanted. 
 
 "We're all church folks now hereabouts," she
 
 A PLUNGE INTO THE MAZE. 1 35 
 
 said; "but I don't mind telling you, sir, as a stranger, 
 I was always fond of the old chapel. What preach- 
 ing 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 satisfac- 
 tion; for the deacon's report was that the chapel 
 had never been, so far as he could remember, li- 
 censed for marriages, and that none had taken place 
 within it. This statement, however, was flatly con- 
 tradicted 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
 
 136 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 disin- 
 clined — having ascertained that Edgar was a stran- 
 ger, 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 Ed- 
 gar 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 Lock- 
 woods, and about the eldest daughter, who, he was 
 afraid, had come to no good. 
 
 "She said as she was married, but nobody be- 
 lieved 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 pave- 
 ments, its poor little badly-lighted shops and faint 
 lamps, not without encountering the new Rector in
 
 A PLUNGE INTO THE MAZE. 13/ 
 
 person, an omniscient personage, who had already 
 heard of his inquiries, and regarded him suspicious- 
 ly, 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, mono- 
 tonous 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 im- 
 pertinently, 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 reflec- 
 tions are the mere growth of weariness and despon- 
 dency, but they heighten the depression of which 
 they are an evidence.
 
 130 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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, defy- 
 ing 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 Lock- 
 wood business been a dream 1 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 im- 
 portant than those vague lessons to Phil, or vaguer
 
 A PLUNGE INTO THE MAZE. 139 
 
 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 edu- 
 cated and clever man should be able to outwit a 
 dressmaker girl, however deeply instructed in the 
 laws of marriage by novels and causes celi'bres, 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 una- 
 wares, 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
 
 140 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 pre- 
 sence, declared themselves to be man and wife. 
 Edgar's knowledge of such matters had, I fear, been 
 derived entirely from novels and newspaper reports,
 
 A PLUNGE INTO THE MAZE. I4I 
 
 and he read over the document, which was alarm- 
 ingly 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. Tot- 
 tenham 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.
 
 142 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 In the Depths. 
 
 Next morning he went first to his old lawyer, in 
 whom he had confidence, and having copied the cer- 
 tificate, 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, declar- 
 ing 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-wittedncss 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. 1 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 ac- 
 companied. After several days' work, however, he 
 ascertained that the chapel in Hart Street had 
 indeed been licensed, but only used once or twice
 
 IN THE DEPTHS. 1 43 
 
 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-meet- 
 ing, in which Emma Lockvvood had been admon- 
 ished for levity of demeanour, was the sole mention 
 of her to be found; and though the officials admit- 
 ted 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 per- 
 form 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 re- 
 gister had been made of the fact, and only the 
 reprimand was inscribed on the books of the com- 
 munity. 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 dissi- 
 pated 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, look-
 
 144 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 ing 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 
 didnt 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 wit- 
 nesses are alive," said Edgar. 
 
 "Ahve! — 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 think- 
 ing 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 com- 
 passion that was all the more profound because the 
 object of it neither deserved, nor would have ac- 
 cepted 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 turn- 
 out 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 be- 
 fore. And yet it was in this creature's interests he
 
 IN THE DEPTHS. 1 45 
 
 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 him- 
 self to be perfectly rational in his judgments. 
 
 "Don't let us be uncharitable," said Mr. Totten- 
 ham; "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 cer- 
 tificate. 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 per- 
 fectly remembered having put her name to the paper. 
 
 For Love and Life- II. 10
 
 146 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 safe- 
 guard 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 Canter- 
 bury. 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?
 
 IN THE DEPTHS. I47 
 
 Heaven forbid that I should do anything to save a 
 scoundrel from his just deserts!" 
 
 "But I thought you were interested — deeply in- 
 terested " 
 
 "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 con- 
 sider 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 every- 
 thing 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
 
 148 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 pro- 
 spect of personal happiness, and the profound and 
 tender exultation with which he found himself to 
 be still beloved, he had written these confident ap- 
 peals 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 caj^able of two profound and 
 passionate pre-occupations 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.
 
 IN THE DEPTHS. 14^ 
 
 "If you could take a mastership, I have interest at 
 more than one pubUc 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 f 
 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 disap- 
 pointment (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 happinessi 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: — 
 
 "Sir, 
 "It is deeply against my will that I address you,
 
 150 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 SO long after all communication has ended between 
 us; and it is possible that you may not remember 
 even the new name with which I sign this. By a 
 singular and unhappy chance, facts in your past 
 life, affecting the honour and credit of the family, 
 have been brought to my knowledge, of all people 
 in the world. If I could have avoided the con- 
 fidence, I should have done so; but it was out of 
 my power. When I say that these facts concern a 
 person called Lockwood (or so called, at least, be- 
 fore her pretended marriage), you will, I have no 
 doubt, understand what I mean. Will you meet 
 me, at any place you may choose to appoint, for 
 the purpose of discussing this most momentous and 
 fatal business? I have examined it minutely, with 
 the help of the best legal authority, from whom the 
 real names of the parties have been concealed, and 
 I cannot hold out to you any hope that it will be 
 easily arranged. In order, however, to save it from 
 being thrown at once into professional hands, and 
 exposed to the public, will you communicate with 
 me, or appoint a time and place to meet me? I 
 entreat you to do this, for the sake of your children 
 and family. I cannot trust myself to appeal to any 
 other sacred claim upon you. For God's sake, let 
 me see you, and tell me if you have any plea to 
 raise! 
 
 "Edgar Earnshaw." 
 
 He felt that the outburst at the end was in- 
 judicious, but could not restrain the ebullition of 
 feeling. If he could but be allowed to manage it
 
 IN THE DEPTHS. I5I 
 
 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 alto- 
 gether 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 be- 
 lieved 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 ad- 
 vantageous! 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
 
 152 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 Middle- 
 march is so anxious to hear you? They will enjoy
 
 IN THE DEPTHS. 153 
 
 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 re- 
 monstrances 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 with- 
 drew, 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 ap- 
 plause — 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 mo- 
 ment 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.
 
 154 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 A New Kvent. 
 
 "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 super- 
 ficial 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 (jussy turned to him with swimming 
 eyes — eyes running over with tears and wistful hap- 
 piness. 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 be- 
 fore it. "Is this how it is to hel" 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,
 
 A NEW EVENT. 155 
 
 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 in- 
 articulate utterance of all this sudden rapture, un- 
 expected, unlocked 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 sol 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
 
 156 FOR LOVE AND LIFE, 
 
 an inquiry — "Are you in love with me now?" she 
 said. 
 
 "Now; and for how long? — three years — eveiy 
 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 Guss)^ 
 "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 hap- 
 pened 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
 
 A NEW EVENT. 157 
 
 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 morn- 
 ing? 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 state- 
 ment 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
 
 158 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 hanging about his face. He was too much worn 
 out to judge anyone — to be hard upon anyone that 
 night. Fatigue and reUef 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 warn- 
 ing, and she should never have come here."
 
 A NEW EVENT. 159 
 
 "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 ex- 
 citement 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
 
 l60 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 morning," she said, disconsolately. "When can you 
 come, Edgarl 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, be- 
 tween 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
 
 A NEW EVENT. l6l 
 
 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 some- 
 what 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 un- 
 derstand me. A man may sacrifice his own happi- 
 ness, 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 con- 
 tradict her? I will do all that becomes a man," 
 cried Edgar, unconsciously adopting, in his excite- 
 ment, 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. 
 
 Fo> Love and Life. 11. H
 
 l62 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "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 Ed- 
 gar, suddenly sobered. "I must ask further indul- 
 gence from you, I fear, to see a very bad business 
 to an end." 
 
 "You mean, a few days' freedom? Yes, cer- 
 tainly; perhaps it might be as well in every way. 
 And money — are you sure you liave money? Per- 
 haps 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
 
 A NEW EVENT. 1 63 
 
 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 pos- 
 sible; 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 
 I.ady 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 indig- 
 nant wife; besides that the latter unfortunate gen- 
 tleman had also to go to the shop, and face the re- 
 signations 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 se- 
 vered from the common world than any other refuge. 
 
 The members of the party who remained longest
 
 164 fOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 up were Lady Augusta and Ada, who sat over the 
 fire in the mother's bed-room, and discussed every- 
 thing 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 morn- 
 ing, 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 wea- 
 thers 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 oug/ii 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-minfled, he can get on with anybody; 
 and I quite feel that I had a good inspiration," said
 
 A NEW EVENT. 1 65 
 
 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 
 nie 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 Au- 
 gusta; "if things had been ordered otherwise! We 
 can't change the arrangements of Providence, how- 
 ever 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"
 
 I 66 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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.
 
 BERKELEY SQUARE. I 67 
 
 CHAPTER Xni. 
 
 Berkelej' Square. 
 
 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
 
 1 68 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 mo- 
 ment]" 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 im- 
 pulse 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
 
 BERKELEY SQUARE. I 69 
 
 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 be- 
 trothed, 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 pro- 
 mised — 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
 
 170 FOR LOVE AND LIFE, 
 
 re-appearance, that I would not interfere with any 
 of your plans, or put myself in your way." 
 
 "Yes," said T.ady 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 mo- 
 ment 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
 
 HERKELRY SQUARE. I7I 
 
 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 reUed 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 ad- 
 vantage 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 en- 
 counter 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 mo- 
 ment she caught sight of him on this particular 
 morning, she felt that all was over. But that cer- 
 tainty unfortunately does not quench the feelings of
 
 172 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 
 achartiee 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 iti You 
 defy me! You teach my own child to resist my 
 will! You do not even keep up the farce of re- 
 specting 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
 
 BERKELEY SQUARE. 173 
 
 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 / 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 viel, 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
 
 174 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 feel- 
 ing. 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 na- 
 ture in extreme circumstances which the theatre has 
 seized for its own, and given a partially absurd 
 colour to; but they were saved from thus commit- 
 ting themselves by the sudden and precipitate en- 
 trance of Lady IvLiry, who flung the door open, and 
 suddenly rushed among llicm without warning or 
 preparation. 
 
 "I come to warn you," she cried, "Augusta!"
 
 BERKELEY S(^UARE. 175 
 
 Then stopped sliort, seeing at a glance the state of 
 affairs. 
 
 They all stood gazing at each other for a mo- 
 ment, 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 un- 
 clasped her hands, and stole back guiltily to her 
 chair. Edgar recovered his wits, and placed one 
 for Lady Mary. Gussy dropped upon the sofa be- 
 hind 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 occu- 
 pant of the judicial bench. 
 
 "What have you all been doing 1" 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. "I,ady 
 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. Thornlcigh 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
 
 176 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 lialf-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? / cannot forget it, if I 
 should live a hundred years. You have never aban- 
 doned 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 over- 
 came her. The tears rushed to her eyes. 
 
 "Don't speak to me!" slie cried — "don't speak 
 to me! Shall 1 not be a sufferer tool 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 an- 
 other 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 tlien 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
 
 BERKELEY SQUARE. I77 
 
 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 be- 
 fore 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 shin- 
 ing head of the future Lady Granton, destined Mar- 
 chioness (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 dis- 
 agreeable 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 sur- 
 prise. "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 
 
 For Love and Li/e- II. 12
 
 178 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 is the best judge in his own case; but, in the mean- 
 time, I am leaving town — for a day or two." 
 
 "Au fi'Z'Oir, 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 inop- 
 portune, without, however, making any breach with 
 him; he had his own reasons for keeping up a cer- 
 tain 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 en- 
 tirely 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.
 
 BERKELEY SQUARE. I7Q 
 
 many 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 Thorn- 
 leigh, 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.
 
 l80 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 A Suggestion. 
 
 Having found his family in considerable agita- 
 tion, 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 pre- 
 sumptuous 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 percep- 
 tions, 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 con- 
 fidence 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 pre- 
 cedent of the sending away of Gussy's lover was 
 perhaps not quite the best that could be wished for
 
 A SUGGESTION. l8l 
 
 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 coun- 
 try 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,
 
 1 82 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 doc- 
 tor'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 satisf^iction 
 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 senti- 
 ment could last — but for the moment so it was.
 
 A SUGGESTION. I03 
 
 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 Thorn- 
 leigh 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 gra- 
 cious, 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 at- 
 tached to a house of business had ever hobbed and 
 nobbed with the great people in society. The in- 
 dividuals who had sent in resignations were too 
 glad to be allowed to forget them, and Mr. Tot-
 
 184 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 tenliam was in the highest featlier, and felt his 
 scheme to have prospered beyond his highest hopes. 
 
 "There is nothing so humanizing as social inter- 
 course," he said. "I don't say my people are any 
 great things, and we all know that society, as re- 
 presented 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 an- 
 noyance," said Edgar. 
 
 "Oh! nothing — nothing, Earnshaw — mere baga- 
 telles. 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 hersi 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
 
 A SUGGESTION. 1 85 
 
 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, pet- 
 tishly — "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 —
 
 1 86 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 alpng the long narrow passage, where he 
 had met Gussy, back to Mr. Tottenham's room. 
 His patron called him from within as he was pass- 
 ing 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 dis- 
 regard of grammar. "Tliey 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 liack, by way of encourage-
 
 A SUGGESTION. 1 87 
 
 ment. "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 dol" 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 of- 
 ficial seal, caught his eye. He opened it hurriedly, 
 hoping to find perhaps a rapid solution of his dif- 
 ficulty there. It ran thus: — 
 
 "My dear Earnshaw, 
 "I am sorry to be obliged to inform you that, 
 after keeping us in a state of uncertainty for about 
 a year, Runtherout has suddenly announced to me 
 that he feels quite well again, and means to resume 
 work at once, and withdraw his resignation. He at- 
 tributes this fortunate change in his circumstances 
 to Parr's Life Pills, or something equally venerable. 
 I am extremely sorry for this contretemps, which at 
 once defeats my desire of serving you, and deprives
 
 l88 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 the department of the interesting information which 
 I am sure your knowledge of foreign countries 
 would have enabled you to transmit to us. The 
 Queen's Messengers seem indeed to be in a preter- 
 naturally healthy condition, and hold out few hopes 
 of any vacancy. Accept my sincere regrets for 
 this disappointment, and if you can think of any- 
 thing else I can do to assist you, command my 
 services. 
 
 "Believe me, dear Earnshaw, 
 
 "Very truly yours, 
 
 "Newmarch. 
 
 "P.S. — What would you say to a Consulship?" 
 
 Edgar read this letter with a great and sharp 
 pang of disappointment. An hour before, had any- 
 one 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 ex- 
 pected 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 Ivid 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
 
 A SUGGESTION. 1 89 
 
 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 ob- 
 served the pregnant and pithy postscript, which 
 threw a certain gleam of light upon Lord New- 
 march's letter. "How should you like a Consul- 
 ship?" Edgar had no great notion what a Consul- 
 ship was. What kind of knowledge or duties was 
 required for the humblest representative of Her 
 Majesty, he knew almost as little as if this func- 
 tionary 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 en- 
 livening effect upon this fanciful young man. Per- 
 haps, 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 of- 
 fice carefully shut up during the heat of the day, 
 with cool, green persiane all closed, a soft current
 
 I go FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 attache, but apart from 
 such gorgeous personages, the Consul, Edgar knew, 
 had a certain importance. 
 
 This inquiry filled his mind with animation dur- 
 ing all the long, familiar journey towards Arden, 
 which he had feared would be full of painful recol- 
 lections. He was almost ashamed of himself, when 
 he stopped at the next station before Arden, to find 
 that not a single recollection had visited him. Hope 
 and imagination had carried the day over everything 
 else, and the problematical Consul behind his green 
 persiane had routed even Clare. 
 
 The letter, however, which had brought him 
 here had been of a sufficiently disagreeable kind 
 to make more impression upon him. Arthur Arden 
 had never pretended to any loftiness of feeling, or 
 even civility towards his predecessor, and Edgar's 
 note had called forth the following response: — 
 
 "Sir, — I don't know by what claim you, an 
 entire stranger to my family, take it upon you to 
 thrust yourself into my affairs. I have had occasion 
 to resent this interference before, and I am certainly 
 still less inclined to support it now. I know no-
 
 A SUGGESTION. IQI 
 
 thing of any person named Lockwood, who can be 
 of tlie slightest importance to me. Nevertheless, as 
 you have taken the hberty to mix yourself up with 
 some renewed annoyance, I request you will meet 
 me on Friday, at the 'Arden Arms,' at Whitmarsh, 
 where I have some business— to let me know at 
 once what your principal means — I might easily add 
 to answer to me what you have to do with it, or 
 with me, or my concerns. 
 
 "A. Arden. 
 
 "P.S. — If you do not appear, I will take it as 
 a sign that you have thought better of it, and that 
 the person you choose to represent has come to 
 her senses." 
 
 Edgar had been able to forget this letter, and 
 the interview to which it conducted him, thinking 
 of his imaginary Consul! I think the reader will 
 agree with me that his mind must have been in a 
 very peculiar condition. He kept his great-coat 
 buttoned closely up, and his hat down over^ his 
 eyes, as he got out at the little station. He was 
 not known at Whitmarsh, as he had been known at 
 Arden, but still there was a chance that some one 
 might recognize him. The agreeable thoughts con- 
 nected 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
 
 192 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 brother, or hold him at arm's length as a stranger 1 
 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 ventur- 
 ing to take off his hat for fear of recognition, and 
 was shown into the best parlour, where Mr. Arden 
 awaited him.
 
 THE ARDENS. I93 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The Ardens. 
 
 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 Bo- 
 hemian. He was range 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, 
 
 For Love and Life. II. 1 3
 
 194 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 com- 
 parison 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 — ex- 
 cept 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 him- 
 self, looking more gloomy than usual, had gone up- 
 stairs 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 
 ruslied out, garrulous and eager.
 
 THE ARDENS, I 95 
 
 "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 up- 
 stairs?" 
 
 "If Mr. Arden is occupied with some one on 
 business — " said Clare, hesitating; but then it sud- 
 denly 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 hus- 
 band 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 uncon- 
 scious 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 im- 
 portant. 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.
 
 196 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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, 
 hoarsel}^ 
 
 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, im- 
 pressed 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 twol" 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,
 
 THE ARDENS. I 97 
 
 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
 
 198 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 pasti — any new dis- 
 covery? 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 in- 
 terest you." 
 
 "You tell lies badly," she said; "and he says 
 nothing. What does it mean? What are these pa- 
 pers? — 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!"
 
 THE ARDENS. 1 99 
 
 Clare was not dutiful or submissive by nature. 
 At the best of times such an order would have ir- 
 ritated 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 mel I should have had no right to be vexed if 
 I had known before." 
 
 "Clare!" he stammered, looking at her in con- 
 sternation. 
 
 "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 terma- 
 gant, 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
 
 200 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 mar- 
 riage! 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
 
 THE ARDENS. 201 
 
 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 wo- 
 man! 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, put- 
 ting 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 re-
 
 202 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 peated, with lips white and stammering. "The wo- 
 man!" 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 emer- 
 gency. She sat still, with the air of one stupefied; 
 but the stupor was only a kind of external atmo- 
 sphere surrounding her, within the dim circle of 
 which — a feverish circle — thought sprang up, and 
 began to whirl and twine. She thought of every- 
 thing 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
 
 THE ARDENS. 2O3 
 
 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 meV 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 rashi 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."
 
 •204 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 Arden v/atched 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 man- 
 ners, 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 fel- 
 lows. 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
 
 THE ARDENS. 205 
 
 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. Some- 
 times, 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 dis- 
 graced, 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 Avas 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 im- 
 pulse 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, throv/ing 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
 
 2o6 FOR LOVE AND LIFE, 
 
 her tenderly in little things — lift her out of the car- 
 riage, 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.
 
 THE OLD HOME, 20"] 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The Old Home. 
 
 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 plea- 
 sure 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 some- 
 thing 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
 
 2o8 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 dis- 
 covery 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 ana sus-
 
 THE OLD HOME. 20g 
 
 pense. 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 hap- 
 pened 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. Some- 
 how 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 feel- 
 ing 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 him- 
 self, 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 ter- 
 rible misfortune to Clare and her children, and yet 
 Edgar felt no impulse to take him by the throat, 
 
 For Love and Life. IL 14
 
 2lO FOR LOVE AKD LIFE. 
 
 but was sorry for him in his downfall and misery. 
 As for Arthur Arden, his old dislike seemed ex- 
 orcised by the same spirit. In any other circum- 
 stances he would have resented Edgar's interference 
 deeply — but now a gloomy indifference to every- 
 thing that could happen, except one thing, had got 
 possession of him. 
 
 "What does she mean to dol" he said, throw- 
 ing himself into a chair. All power of self-asser- 
 tion 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. 
 
 "1 think," said Edgar, instinctively accepting 
 the role 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,
 
 THE OLD HOME. 2 I I 
 
 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 can- 
 not decide where to go without consulting you; be- 
 sides 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 com- 
 panion. 
 
 "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 c[uite free to make
 
 212 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 up her mind; and that he too would go to the vil- 
 lage, 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, ex- 
 isted 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 recol- 
 lection. 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
 
 THE OLD HOME. 2I3 
 
 to be provided for ? This was a far iiiore important 
 question to think of than any maunderings of per- 
 sonal 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 curi- 
 ously, 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 1" 
 
 His eyes were red and bloodshot, his appear- 
 ance neglected and wild. He looked as if he had 
 not slept, nor even undressed, all night. 
 
 "Look here," he said hoarsely, "I have got an- 
 other 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.
 
 214 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 Avould 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 hap- 
 pen. Who like her son and mine could have the 
 right here — every right of nature, if not the legal 
 right 'I 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 en- 
 treaties, to which Edgar could give but little an-
 
 THE OLD HOME. 215 
 
 swer. 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 threat- 
 ened. 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 any- 
 thing 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 Avay 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."
 
 2l6 FOR LOVE AND LIFE, 
 
 Clare was seated alone, dressed for a journey, 
 in the little room which had always been her favour- 
 ite room. She was dressed entirely in black, which 
 made her extraordinary paleness more visible. She 
 had always been pale, but this morning her coun- 
 tenance 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 can- 
 not change my name, as it is my own name, as
 
 THE OLD HOME. 2iy 
 
 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. Some- 
 thing 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."
 
 2l8 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "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 flam- 
 ing; she rose up with a sudden impulse of insup- 
 portable 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 extra- 
 ordinary 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
 
 THE OLD HOME. 219 
 
 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 Ed- 
 gar's hand. 
 
 "Be that for you, sirl" 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 morn- 
 ing, 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 wonder- 
 ing, resisting, up the great steps. 
 
 "Come back," he cried — "come home, Clare,"
 
 220 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Harry's Turn. 
 
 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 awa)'^, 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 admis- 
 sion 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 participa- 
 tion 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
 
 HARRY S TURN. 22 1 
 
 stand discussing for hours together; whereas, by the 
 time Lord Granton had been pronounced a darUng, 
 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 1" 
 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 com- 
 monest 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
 
 211 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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, sen- 
 sible 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 any- 
 thing 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 ap- 
 pear 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 pre- 
 face of a well-conditioned, gentlemanly letter to Mr. 
 Tottenham, in which the father expressed a natural 
 regret that Gussy should show so little considera- 
 tion of external advantages, but fully acknowledged 
 Edgar's excellent qualities, and asked what his pro- 
 spects were, and what he thought of doing. 
 
 "I will never be tyrannical to any of my chil-
 
 Harry's turn. 22^ 
 
 dren," Mr. Thornleigh said; "but, on the other 
 hand, before 1 can give my sanction, however un- 
 wilhngly, to any engagement, I must fully under- 
 stand 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 conse- 
 quently took longer to calm down than she generally 
 did. It was while her brow was still puckered, and 
 her cheek flushed with this unwelcome communica- 
 tion, 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, iDut a son's ill-doing was to 
 be treated with a graver care. She led Harry ac- 
 cordingly into the library, and put herself into his 
 father's chair, and said, "What is it, my dear boyl" 
 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."
 
 224 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "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 advan-
 
 HARRY S TURN. 225 
 
 tageous one, and that she had another disappoint- 
 ment 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 Witheringtonl" 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 
 
 For Love and Life. II. '5
 
 2 26 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 harsh, coarse laugh, a bravado of which next moment 
 he was heartily ashamed. 
 
 "Her name," he said, v.ith 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?"
 
 HARRY 3 TURN. 22"] 
 
 "You did not think I could want to marry a 
 wife, did youT' 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 fellov/! 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?
 
 228 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 Are they friends of your uncle Tottenham? Dear 
 Harry, why should you- make a mystery of this 
 with meV 
 
 "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 con- 
 sternation 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 circum- 
 stances; 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 under- 
 stood all the protestations that he poured into her 
 ear after this. What was it to her that Margaret
 
 HARRY S TURN. 229 
 
 was the loveliest creature in the world? Faugh! 
 Lady Augusta turned sickening from the words. 
 Lovely creatures who rend peaceful families asun- 
 der; who lead young men astray, and ruin all 
 their hopes and prospects; who heighten all existing 
 difficulties, and make everything that was bad be- 
 fore 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 de- 
 struction!" 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 momen- 
 tary 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 —
 
 230 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "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 sym- 
 pathizer 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
 
 Harry's turn. 231 
 
 concerning Clare, and that Arthur Arden had come 
 to town witli 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 ja7-diniire. 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, hold- 
 ing 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 com- 
 municated 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
 
 22,2 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 are not what I would choose for my Gussy; but to 
 me it means Hfe, 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 tlie 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 1 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 con- 
 sent — never! And until Mr. Thornleigh dies, they 
 would have next to nothing. Oh! Edgar, if she is
 
 HARRY S TURN. • 2^^ 
 
 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 compli- 
 cation — "how could II It is terrible. How can I, 
 who am pleasing myself, say anything to Harry be- 
 cause he wants to please himself? — or to /ler, 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 my- 
 self? 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 long- 
 ing 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
 
 234 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 post- 
 pone his own will, in order that he, Edgar Earn- 
 shaw, 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.
 
 OTHER people's AFFAIRS. 235 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Other People's Affairs. 
 
 Thus, after the long lull that had happened in 
 his life, Edgar found himself deep in occupation, in- 
 termingled 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 diffi- 
 cult to folloAv, this man, in his v;retchedness, 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 sup- 
 posed brother must survive even when it was 
 known that no tie of blood existed between them, 
 acknowledged the fact now without question, al- 
 most 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 po- 
 sition 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 volun- 
 tarily; but she had accepted him at once and in- 
 stinctively as her natural support, her "next friend,"
 
 236 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 ac- 
 cepted 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 im- 
 perceptibly 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 re- 
 morseful 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
 
 OTHER people's AFFAIRS. 22,"] 
 
 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 in- 
 voluntarily, a certain share of his sympathy to the 
 guilty man, whose guilt was not to escape retribu- 
 tion. 
 
 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
 
 238 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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. Totten- 
 ham, "no farther gone, there is an appointment of 
 Brown, Consul-General, to be Ambassador some- 
 where — 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 im- 
 portance, 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 hap- - 
 piness 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
 
 OTHER PEOPLES AFFAIRS. 239 
 
 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 New- 
 march, 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 fort- 
 night 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,"
 
 240 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "He is always in the village — always, always in 
 the village; and Sibby says she /^a/t-j him!" cried little 
 Molly, who was enthusiastic for her last new friend. 
 
 "Hush, children — don't gossip," said their mo- 
 ther; 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 pro- 
 spective appointment. Then he told her of Mr. 
 Thornleigh's letter, which was so much more gra- 
 cious 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 —
 
 OTHER PEOPLES AFFAIRS, 24 I 
 
 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 1 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 motlier," said Edgar. Was it 
 the spell of kindred blood working in him? for he 
 did not like this to be said of Margaret, and in- 
 stinctively 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 an- 
 swered 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, 
 
 For Love and Lift:. II, 1 6
 
 242 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 sub- 
 dued tone. Margaret had gained her point; she was 
 acquitted of this sin, at least; but Lady Mary pro- 
 nounced 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 slie is artful and de- 
 signing, 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 \\\\o\\ 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 beautifui, half-pathetic 
 countenance, and the gentle maternity of the beau- 
 tiful young woman never separate from the beau- 
 tiful 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.
 
 OTHER PEOPLES AFFAIRS. 243 
 
 "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 Sibbyl 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 1 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 hearl" 
 
 "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 
 yoni Do you remember"? — but you could not re- 
 member — it was before your time." 
 
 i6'
 
 244 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "What? — I may have heard of it — something 
 which agitates your' 
 
 "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 wordl" 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. 7\nd granny, as you 
 call her " 
 
 "Ah! you never learnt to call her granny," said 
 Margaret, with animation. "Dear granny has never 
 l)een 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 any- 
 body could hope; and perhaps he is there now,"
 
 OTHER people's AFFAIRS. 245 
 
 said Margaret, with once more the tears faUing 
 suddenly from her eyes. 
 
 "You know him?" said Edgar. 
 
 "Oh! hioiv him! I knew him hke my own heart!" 
 cried Margaret, a ilush 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, enter- 
 ing 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 break-
 
 246 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 fast; but he stopped him now, ahiiost with a threat- 
 ening 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
 
 OTHER PEOPLE S AFFAIRS. 247 
 
 from Robert Campbell, at Loch Arroch Head, beg- 
 ging 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 companion- 
 ship 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.
 
 248 FOR LOVE AND LIFE, 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Margaret. 
 
 The relations between Harry Thornleigh and 
 Margaret had never come to any distinct explana- 
 tion. They had known each other not much more 
 tlian 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 ])enniless young widow, the poor 
 doctor's sister, sucli an advancement in life as might 
 well have turned any woman's head. She who had 
 nothing, who had to make a hard fight 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 die great j^eople of 
 the land, like Lady Mary; she who had been bred 
 at the Castle Farm on Loch Arroch, and had known
 
 MARGARET. 249 
 
 what it was to "supper the beasts," and milk the 
 kye; she who had not disdained the household work 
 of her own Httle 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 associa- 
 tions of home, where no one could have been de- 
 ceived 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 com- 
 panion, he had gradually risen in pretension and 
 aim. Their transfer to England, a step which al- 
 ways 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 — Mar- 
 garet 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 prema- 
 ture 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.
 
 250 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 w^ould 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 per- 
 fection; 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 no- 
 thing 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 en- 
 couragement?" 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 w^as sufficiently a 
 man of the world to have felt a sharp twinge some- 
 times, when his wife's family was brought in ques- 
 tion; 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
 
 MARGARET. 2^1 
 
 drawback would have detracted very little from his 
 happiness. 
 
 So things were going on, ripening pleasantly 
 towards a denouement 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, un- 
 luckily happened that the arrival of Edgar coincided 
 with her receipt of the letter, and that both to- 
 gether 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
 
 252 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 wife, and so sweet a mother! Tliat she sliould 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 tend- 
 ing towards another end, with a great deal of regret. 
 Even Edgar, when he found her ready to accom- 
 pany 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 i)robably loved her no longer, if 
 he had ever loved her. It was all to Edgar's ad- 
 vantage 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 wnrning. 
 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.
 
 MARGARET. 253 
 
 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 Avomen 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, Avhatever 
 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.
 
 254 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "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 car- 
 ried her off under our very eyes." 
 
 Even I^ady 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 be- 
 fore, and she had been musing over it, pensive, not 
 quite happy, not quite pleased, and saying to her- 
 self 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 wait- 
 ing so long for him, and proving herself so excep- 
 tionally faithful, felt that she had a certain right to 
 Edgar's company now, and to have him by her 
 side, all the more that l.ady 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 con- 
 stantly about little Mary; and Gussy felt that Edgar's
 
 MARGARET. 255 
 
 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 inter- 
 fere 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 con- 
 spiracy, and you have taken her away." 
 
 "Harry, do you remember that you are talking 
 to your mother?" cried Lady Augusta, with trem- 
 bling 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 role 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,
 
 256 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "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 be- 
 side himself. He stopped short, half-appalled, half- 
 satisfied that he had spoken his mind. 
 
 "Harry, how dare yoni" cried Gussy, facing 
 him. "Do you not see how you are wounding 
 mammal 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 keej) 
 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 mc another time," she added
 
 MARGARET. 257 
 
 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 magni- 
 ficent family. 
 
 "Oh, bosh!" he said; but it was .almost under 
 his breath. And then he told them of Edgar's de- 
 parture 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; "be- 
 cause 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 sol /set him 
 on!" cried Lady Augusta. "What you are telling 
 me is all foolishness. You are both of you frighten- 
 ing 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 werel" 
 
 "I suppose," said Harry, after a moment's hesita- 
 
 For Love and Life. II. I J
 
 258 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 tion, "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 Httle 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. 1 
 shall not wait a day longer. TU go down to Scot- 
 land 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.
 
 MARGARET. 259 
 
 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 re- 
 plied 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 1 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 neces- 
 sary 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
 
 26o FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 
 sol) 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.
 
 LOCH ARROCH once MORE, 26 I 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Loch Arroch once more. 
 
 Edgar and Margaret (accompanied, as she al- 
 ways was, by her child) arrived at I,och 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 won- 
 dered 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
 
 i62 FOR LOVE AND LlFE. 
 
 of Providence that her hfe 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 sepa- 
 rates 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 spec- 
 tators 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
 
 LOCH ARROCH ONCE MORE. 263 
 
 eyes, and Mrs. Campbell opposite, telling her sister, 
 who had but lately arrived, the details of the ill- 
 ness; 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 be- 
 tween 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 melan- 
 choly 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
 
 264 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 "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 mo- 
 ment's silence, Jeanie, with an effort, recovered that 
 command of herself which is indispensable to wo- 
 men. 
 
 "Oh! but she'll be glad — glad to sec 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 sor- 
 row, 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 hap- 
 pens," 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 down- 
 stairs. "What does it matter to him, what does it
 
 LOCH ARROCH ONCE MORE. 20^ 
 
 matter to anyone, how lonely I ami" 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 ques- 
 tions of the lingering day were over? By the bed- 
 side, 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. Camp- 
 bell, like other divines, talked of golden streets, 
 and harps and crowns, in the New Jerusalem above. 
 But here there was little room for such anticipa-
 
 266 FOR LOVE AND LTFE. 
 
 tions. 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 inter- 
 rupted. She held out her withered hand to him 
 with a glow of joy that lighted up her face. 
 
 "Jlfy 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, care- 
 ful, and troubled, between the two who were linger- 
 ing so near the calm echoes of the eternal sea. 
 
 "You've come soon, soon, my bonnie man,"
 
 LOCH ARROCH ONCE MORE. 267 
 
 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 out- 
 ward 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 death- 
 bed, 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
 
 26S FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 linger- 
 ing 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
 
 Loch arroch once more. 269 
 
 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 alter- 
 native 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; per- 
 haps, 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 anti-
 
 2/0 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 cipations. Jeanie, who never left her grandmother, 
 was not present; the Campbells, the IMacColls 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, notwith- 
 standing 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. Mac- 
 Coll. "I'm sure when we were in lodgings, Mr. 
 MacCoU 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 Ardcn, or the world in general. 
 "One of the family, perhaps?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Oh! I v/ant to spy into no secrets. Things of
 
 LOCH ARROCH ONCE MORE. 2"] I 
 
 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 every- 
 body 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
 
 272 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 MacCoU cried a little. The 
 rest of the company shook their heads, and assented 
 in different tones. 
 
 "Real good and kind, good and kind to every- 
 body! Ower guid to some that little deserved it!" 
 was the general burden, for family could not but 
 have its subdued lling at family, even in tliis 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.
 
 LOCH ARROCH ONCE MORE. 2'J i^ 
 
 " 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, ^ shadow darkened the win- 
 dow. 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 1" 
 
 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 
 
 For Love and Life. IL lo
 
 274 ^OR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 AVillie 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!
 
 THE END OF A DRAMA. 275 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 The End of a Drama. 
 
 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." 
 
 T cannot explain more than the words them- 
 selves 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 com- 
 
 18*
 
 276 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 mon 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 weak- 
 ness 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. Slie 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
 
 THE END OF A DRAMA. 277 
 
 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, feel- 
 ing 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 every- 
 thing 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
 
 278 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 keep a something — ^what are the auld rags worth 
 to you? — keep a Uttle 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, Avhich 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
 
 THE END OF A DRAMA. 2 79 
 
 but her face; she looked wistfully, fondly, as on a 
 picture she might never see more, upon all the cir- 
 cumstances 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 mo- 
 ment, 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, want-
 
 28o FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 ing 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 for- 
 bear. 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.
 
 THE END OF A DRAMA. 251 
 
 With the very next morning the distractions of 
 common earth returned. Behind the closed shut- 
 ters, 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
 
 282 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. • 
 
 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. Thorn- 
 leigh," 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 youl" 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
 
 THE END OF A DRAMA. 283 
 
 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 melan- 
 choly 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 mo- 
 ment 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 no- 
 thing in the world would Margaret have breathed 
 the cause of her lingering unwillingness to do any- 
 thing 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, be- 
 cause this union would seriously endanger his own; 
 but to help to ruin himself by encouraging a mer- 
 cenary marriage, this would be hard indeed! 
 
 "Are you sure that you would get so many 
 advantages? — to Charles and to SibbyT' he cried, 
 with a coldness impossible to conceal. 
 
 She looked at him startled, the tears arrested
 
 284 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 gentle- 
 man. Oh! Cousin Edgar, what will you think of 
 mel I have always been poor, and Charles is poor 
 — how can I put that out of my mindl" 
 
 "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.
 
 THE END OF A DRAMA. 285 
 
 Edgar stood still, looking after her with wonder- 
 ing 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, Mar- 
 garet was ready to give up even her hope of wealth 
 and state, which she loved, for this Sultan's notice. 
 Strange influence, which no rtian 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 Thorn- 
 leigh, though she did not love him, seemed less de- 
 grading 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 Mar- 
 garet. 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
 
 286 . FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 by a letter, which seemed, to Margaret, the most 
 gently temporising in the world, and which was in- 
 tended 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 com- 
 plicated 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 gene- 
 rally, not knowing any better. He lingered for a 
 day or more, waiting for the answer which Margaret
 
 THE END OF A DRAMA. 287 
 
 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 pa- 
 trimony, 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 Mar- 
 garet 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
 
 288 I'OR LUVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 sup- 
 port, 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'?
 
 ANOTHER WINDING-UP. 289 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Another Winding-up. 
 
 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 in- 
 heritor — inheritor not of land or wealth, but of 
 something more subtle and less tangible. But in- 
 deed 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 inap- 
 propriate 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 re- 
 spect." 
 
 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 
 
 For Love and Life. II. 19
 
 290 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 known, but who, in the midst of her mourning, 
 poor child, felt another pang, perhaps more ex- 
 quisite, at the thought of seeing him , too, no more. 
 All the confusion of sentiment and feeling, of mis- 
 placed loves and indifferences, which make up the 
 world were in this one little family. Jeanie had 
 given her visionary child's lieart 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 AVillie, 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 hojnely. 
 
 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 btought 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
 
 ANOTHEK WINDING-UP. 2gi 
 
 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 revul- 
 sion. 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, al- 
 most wildness. 
 
 "We did wrong, Edgar," she said, when the 
 children were sent away, and they were left to- 
 gether — "we did wrong." 
 
 "In what did we do wrong, Clarel" 
 
 "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
 
 Ig2 tOR LOVE AND LIFEl. 
 
 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 1 Because you were my brother. In- 
 stinct proves it. If you are my brother, then it is 
 you who should be master at Arden, and not — any- 
 one else." 
 
 "It is true I am your brother," he said, sitting 
 down by her, and looking tenderly into her colour- 
 less 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 no- 
 thing but think! Come, now, we must not talk any 
 more; it is time to go." 
 
 They drove together in a street cab to an ob- 
 scure 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 in- 
 cumbent was old, the clerk old, and everything in
 
 ANOTHER WINDING-UP. 293 
 
 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 facul- 
 ties 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 no- 
 thing 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,
 
 5 94 ^'OR LOVE AND LIF£. 
 
 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 arrange- 
 ments. 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 protesta- 
 tions, 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 be- 
 tween 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
 
 ANOTHER WINDING-UP. 295 
 
 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 Ikrkeley Square. 
 
 Gussy knew he was to arrive in town that morn- 
 ing, 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 men- 
 tioned 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
 
 2g6 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 and so loud that she could not hear the steps with- 
 out 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 hun- 
 dred 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 to- 
 wards 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 gar- 
 den 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
 
 ANOTHER WINDING-UP. 2g7 
 
 he came forward to her, and the warmth of his 
 greeting, and the h'ght 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 11 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 iti 
 — 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 news- 
 paper 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 glad- 
 ness. "I was half afraid you would see it before I 
 brought the news." 
 
 "I had no heart to look at the paper this morn- 
 ing," she said. 
 
 "No heart! Something has happened? Your 
 father — Harry — what is it?" cried Edgar, in alarm.
 
 298 For love and life. 
 
 "Oh! nothing," cried Gussy, crying. "I was un- 
 happy, 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, \vith a surprised, 
 frank laugh. 
 
 Never in her life had Gussy felt so much 
 ashamed of herself. She did not venture to say an- 
 other 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 com- 
 punction 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 in-
 
 ANOTHER WINDING-UP. 2Qg 
 
 dignation. "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 1 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 dis- 
 appearing, 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
 
 30O FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 it is not a mere sunshiny sinecure. I hope there is 
 something to do." 
 
 "I am very good at doing nothing," Edgar re- 
 pHed— 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 I^ady 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 notwith- 
 standing Edgar's memories, and the dark shadow of
 
 ANOTHER WINDING-UP. 3OI 
 
 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.
 
 302 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 H.B.RL's Consul.— Conclusion. 
 
 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 ex- 
 hausted, 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; j)leaded 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 w-as unable to examine 
 her reasons — unable to resist, even in herself, this 
 overwhelming influence; it overcame her principles, 
 and even her prejudices, which arc more difficult
 
 H.B.M. S CONSUL. 3O3 
 
 to overcome. Tlic 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 re- 
 vealed, and her boy's heirship made impossible; but 
 even with this argument she could not subdue her- 
 self, 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 mar- 
 riage, though she consented to it without question, 
 as a necessity, was a new outrage. In short, Clare, 
 though she acted with a determination and steadi- 
 ness 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 ab- 
 straction, 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,
 
 304 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 but on this had all the onesidedness, the narrowness 
 of madness — or of the twin-sister of madness — irre- 
 pressible 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 illl 
 You must have been suffering long, and never com- 
 plained!" cried I>ady Augusta, moved almost to 
 tears. 
 
 "Not very long," said Clare. 
 
 She had permitted her husband to be present 
 at this interview, to keep up ap])earances 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 Augunta.
 
 H.B.M. S CONSUL. 305 
 
 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 dis- 
 cussed Edgar's appointment, and the humble begin- 
 ning 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 im- 
 prudent 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 every- 
 body 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 mo.st 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. 
 
 For Love and Life. II. 20
 
 306 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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. Eittle 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 neighbour- 
 hood, 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
 
 H.B.M.'S CONSUL. 307 
 
 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 af- 
 ter 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 dis- 
 sertations 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 differ- 
 ing 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 
 
 20*
 
 3o8 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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 iclat. 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 in- 
 troductions 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 no- 
 thing 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
 
 H.B.M.'S CONSUL. 309 
 
 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 de- 
 scribed fully in the Momiiig Post, with details of 
 all the dresses, and of the bride's ornaments and 
 coiffure. 
 
 "We shall have none of these fine things, I sup- 
 pose," 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 spend- 
 ing our money vainly on making a great show for 
 you, we had much better save it, to buy some use- 
 ful 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 al- 
 ways 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 arrange- 
 ments 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
 
 3IO FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 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, ex- 
 pected 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
 
 H.B.M.'S CONSUL. 3 I I 
 
 Edgar and Gussy 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 even- 
 ing, 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 sound- 
 ing 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 un-
 
 f 
 
 ,12 FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 consciously 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. 
 
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