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
painful 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 sister 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
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 description--terrible, complete, and
overwhelming. It plunged him out of wealth and honours into indigence
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 from the fact that he was thus transplanted 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 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 notwithstanding 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 before 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 himself 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 justice
as soon as he heard of the wrong; and this little provision had been
augmented by the small 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 meet giants in single
combat, cannot deliver a whole district now-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 primitive, 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
downfall 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
surrounding 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
determined 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 vagabonds 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 involved, 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 comfort--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 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 him? 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 unsatisfactory 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 himself, with a certain rueful amusement; for Edgar was one of those
who could laugh at his own misfortunes. 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 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
spectators who occupied so large a share in the landscape, 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
outside world, struck upon Edgar’s ear with not unpleasant 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 condemned as alien to the scene. Yes,
it was alien to the scene. But to be reminded of the world without, 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 his 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 discord.
He was eager to get away from Loch Arroch back into the world, where, at
least, he would escape from the contemplation of that contrast between
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 importance. Had he retained his original
position, so little affected was he really by external circumstances,
that I believe he would have found the life at the Castle Farm
infinitely more reasonable, sensible, 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 rooms, the 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 content, 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 conscious of more acute feeling. I believe my good Edgar had
thus something in his character of what 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
Arroch, 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 disposition
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 gentleman?), and conscientious conviction that something
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 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 Campbell’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 Campbell, 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 Almighty’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 provide that little,” said Campbell. “We’re all
decently well off in one sense, with no scrimping of meal or milk and a
good suit of black for a Sunday 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 speaking 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 useful 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.
“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, bewildered.
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 consideration for the feelings of others.
“I have no thought of any kind in respect to Jeanie,” he said, coldly,
“except in so far as concerns 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 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’? 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.”