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