Two Culprits on their Trial.
“You’re surprised, Sir, that a stranger should be so ready to speak up
to you,” said Miss Lockwood, “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 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 nothing was further from his thoughts on entering this most
commonplace of scenes, the great shop, than to be thrown back into his
own past life, 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
rancour 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.”
“_Mrs._ Arden, indeed!” said Miss Lockwood with contemptuous emphasis,
tossing her handsome head.
“Yes. What has Mrs. Arden done to you?” said Edgar, half angry, half
amused with what seemed to him the impotent spitefulness; the absurdity
of the woman’s scorn struck him with ludicrous effect; and yet a certain
uneasiness was in the puzzle. Clare Arden had never possessed that
natural instinctive courtesy which makes dependents friends. Probably
she had wounded the _amour propre_ of the shopwoman; but then no doubt
shopwomen 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 me? 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 altogether unforeseen interrupted this not
unpleasant operation, and threw Miss Lockwood and her mystery into, the
shade. When the conversation had advanced thus far, a new personage
suddenly appeared 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 sudden 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 narrowness 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. Her searchings
of heart were all directed (unconsciously) 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 Lady 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 starting 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 attention
of the Tottenhams, Lady Augusta Thornleigh was altogether ignorant of
it. She had no expectation 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 do? 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 sacrifice; 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, 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. ----?” 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. Tottenham 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 offers, and threatened to go into a sisterhood,
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
agitation 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 excitement 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 decline 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 inconstant 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 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 resented. Lady Augusta drew herself up more
and more.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am to have interrupted 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
embarrassed laugh, feeling himself grow red against his will. What did
it matter to Lady Augusta whom he might converse with? But,
notwithstanding, 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.
“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
qualifications 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 Phil?” She did not seem able to do more than repeat
the words.
“You may well be surprised,” said Edgar, trying to laugh; “no one could
be more so than myself; but as they were so good as to overlook my
deficiencies, what could I say?”
“I was not thinking of your deficiencies. Oh! Mr. Earnshaw, oh! Edgar,
could not your old 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,
always 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, perhaps,
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
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 different 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 impossible. Her very person seemed to stiffen as
she spoke, and she made a little pause, as Lord Newmarch 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 somehow
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 feelings at the moment were somewhat bitter; and as
for good Mr. Tottenham, he was perplexed and perturbed, not perceiving
any reason why his 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, concisely; 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 discouraged 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 to leave 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 console 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.
“Ah! you mean if every _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.”
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 for? 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
departments. 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 ached 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 compunction; “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.”
“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 me? No, don’t go
yourself, 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.