COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. 1420.
FOR LOVE AND LIFE BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
TAUCHNITZ EDITION
By the same Author,
THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS 2 vols.
MARGARET MAITLAND 1 vol.
AGNES 2 vols.
MADONNA MARY 2 vols.
THE MINISTER’S WIFE 2 vols.
THE RECTOR AND THE DOCTOR’S FAMILY 1 vol.
SALEM CHAPEL 2 vols.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE 2 vols.
MISS MARJORIBANKS 2 vols.
OMBRA 2 vols.
MEMOIR OF COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT 2 vols.
MAY 2 vols.
INNOCENT 2 vols.
FOR LOVE AND LIFE.
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT,
AUTHOR OF
“CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” “OMBRA,” “MAY,” ETC.
_COPYRIGHT EDITION._
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1874.
_The Right of Translation is reserved_
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 favourable opportunities slip through your
fingers; but suppose you find out in a moment, without warning, that
your interests are another’s interests, that to push your own fortune is
to push some one else’s fortune, much dearer to you than yourself; and
that, in short, you are no longer _you_ at all, but the active member of
a double personality--is as startling a sensation as can well be
conceived. This was the idea which Edgar had received into his mind for
the first time, and it was not wonderful that it excited, nay,
intoxicated him, almost beyond his power of self-control. I say for the
first time, though he had been on the eve of asking Gussy Thornleigh to
marry him three years before, and had therefore realised, or thought he
realised, what it would be to enter into such a relationship; but in
those days Edgar was rich, and petted by the world, and his bride would
have been only a delight and honour the more, not anything calling for
sacrifice or effort on his part. He could have given her everything she
desired in the world, without losing a night’s rest, or disturbing a
single habit. Now the case was very different. The new-born pride which
had made him, to his own surprise, so reluctant to apply to anyone for
employment, and so little satisfied to dance attendance on Lord
Newmarch, died at that single blow.
Dance attendance on Lord Newmarch! ask anybody, everybody for work! Yes,
to be sure he would, and never think twice; for had he not now _her_ to
think of? A glow of exhilaration came over him. He had been careless,
indifferent, sluggish, so long as it was himself only that had to be
thought of. Thinking of himself did not suit Edgar; he got sick of the
subject, and detested himself, and felt a hundred pricks of annoyance at
the thought of being a suitor and applicant for patronage, bearing the
scorns of office, and wanting as “patient merit” in a great man’s
ante-room. But now! what did he care for those petty annoyances? Why
should he object, like a pettish child, to ask for what he wanted? It
was for her. He became himself again the moment that the strange and
penetrating sweetness of this suggestion (which he declared to himself
was incredible, yet believed with all his heart) stole into his soul.
This had been what he wanted all along. To have some one to work for,
some one to give him an object in life.
Lady Mary had not a notion what she was doing when she set light to the
fire which was all ready for that touch--ready to blaze up, and carry
with it her own schemes as well as her sister’s precautions. I suppose
it was by reason of the fundamental difference between man and woman,
that neither of these ladies divined how their hint would act upon
Edgar. They thought his virtue (for which they half despised him--for
women always have a secret sympathy for the selfish ardour of men in all
questions of love) was so great that he might be trusted to restrain
even Gussy herself in her “impetuosity,” as they called it, without
considering that the young man was disposed to make a goddess of Gussy,
to take her will for law, and compass heaven and earth to procure her a
gratification. Gussy, though she held herself justified in her
unswerving attachment to Edgar, by the fact that, had it not been for
his misfortune, she would long ago have been his wife, would,
notwithstanding this consolation, have died of shame had she known how
entirely her secret had been betrayed. But the betrayal was as a new
life to Edgar. His heart rose with all its natural buoyancy; he seemed
to himself to spurn his lowliness, his inactivity, his depressed and
dejected state from him. That evening he beguiled his hosts into
numberless discussions, out of sheer lightness of heart. He laughed at
Lady Mary about her educational mania, boldly putting forth its comic
side, and begging to know whether German lectures and the use of the
globes were so much better, as means of education, than life itself,
with all its many perplexities and questions, its hard lessons, its
experiences, which no one can escape.
“If a demigod from the sixth form were to come down and seat himself on
a bench in a dame’s school,” cried Edgar, “why, to be sure, he might
learn something; but what would you think of the wisdom of the
proceeding?”
“I am not a demigod from the sixth form,” said Lady Mary.
“Pardon me, but you are. You have been among the regnant class all your
life, which of itself is an enormous cultivation. You have lived
familiarly with people who guide the nation; you have spoken with most
of those who are known to be worth speaking to, in England at least; and
you have had a good share of the problems of life submitted to you. Mr.
Tottenham’s whole career, for instance, which he says you decided--”
“What is that?” said Mr. Tottenham, looking up. “Whatever it is, what
you say is quite true. I don’t know if it’s anything much worth calling
a career; but, such as it is, it’s all her doing. You’re right there.”
“I am backed up by indisputable testimony,” said Edgar, laughing; “and
in the face of all this, you can come and tell me that you want to
educate your mind by means of the feeblest of lectures! Lady Mary, are
you laughing at us? or are the dry lessons of grammar and such like
scaffolding, really of more use in educating the mind than the far
higher lessons of life?”
“How you set yourself to discourage me,” cried Lady Mary, half angry,
half laughing. “That is not what you mean, Mr. Earnshaw. You mean that
it is hopeless to train women to the accuracy, the exactness of thought
which men are trained to. I understand you, though you put it so much
more prettily.”
“I am afraid I don’t know what accuracy means,” said Edgar, “and
exactness of thought suggests only Lord Newmarch to me; and Heaven
deliver us from prigs, male and female! If you find, however, that the
mass of young university men are so accurate, so exact, so accomplished,
so trained to think well and clearly, then I envy you your eyes and
perceptions--for to me they have a very different appearance; many of
them, I should say, never think at all, and know a good deal less than
Phil does, of whom I am the unworthy instructor--save the mark!” he
added, with a laugh. “On the whole, honours have showered on my head; I
have had greatness thrust upon me like Malvolio; not only to instruct
Phil, but to help to educate Lady Mary Tottenham! What a frightful
impostor I should feel myself if all this was my doing, and not yours.”
Lady Mary laughed too, but not without a little flush of offence. It
even crossed her mind to wonder whether the young man had taken more
wine than usual? for there was an exhilaration, a boldness, an _élan_
about him which she had never perceived before. She looked at him with
mingled suspicion and indignation--but caught such a glance from his
eyes, which were full of a new warmth, life, and meaning, that Lady Mary
dropped hers, confused and confounded, not knowing what to make of it.
Had the porter, and the footman, and the under-gardener, who had seen
Edgar kiss Lady Mary’s hand, been present at that moment, they would
certainly have drawn conclusions very unfavourable to Mr. Tottenham’s
peace of mind. But that unsuspecting personage sat engaged in his own
occupation, and took no notice. He was turning over some papers which he
had brought back with him from Tottenham’s that very day.
“When you two have done sparring,” he said--“Time will wait for no man,
and here we are within a few days of the entertainment at the shop.
Earnshaw, I wish you would go in with me on Wednesday, and help me to
help them in their arrangements. I have asked a few people for the first
time, and it will be amusing to see the fine ladies, our customers,
making themselves agreeable to my ‘assistants.’ By-the-way, that affair
of Miss Lockwood gives me a great deal of uneasiness. I don’t like to
send her away. She seemed disposed to confide in you, my dear fellow--”
“I will go and secure her confidence,” said Edgar, with that gay
readiness for everything which Lady Mary, with such amaze, had remarked
already in his tone. Up to this moment he had wanted confidence in
himself, and carried into everything the _insouciance_ of a man who
takes up with friendliness the interests of others, but has none of his
own. All this was changed. He was another man, liberated somehow from
chains which she had never realised until now, when she saw they were
broken. Could her conversation with him to-day have anything to do with
it? Lady Mary was a very clever woman, but she groped in vain in the
dark for some insight into the mind of this young man, who had seemed to
her so simple. And the less she understood him, the more she respected
Edgar; nay, her respect for him began to increase, from the moment when
she found out that he was not so absolutely virtuous as she had taken
him to be.
Next day, as soon as Phil’s lessons were over, Edgar shut himself up,
and, with a flush upon his face, and a certain tremor, which seemed to
him to make his hand and his writing, by some curious paradox, more firm
than usual, began to write letters. He wrote to Lord Newmarch, he wrote
to one or two others whom he had known in his moment of prosperity, with
a boldness and freedom at which he was himself astonished. He recalled
to his old acquaintances, without feeling the least hesitation in doing
so, the story of his past life, about which he had been, up to this
moment, so proudly silent, and appealed to them to find him something to
do. He wrote, not as a humble suitor does, but as one conscious of no
humiliation in asking. The last time he had asked he had been conscious
of humiliation; but every shadow of that self-consciousness had blown
away from him now. He wondered at himself even, while he looked at those
letters closed and directed on his writing-table. What was it that had
taken away from him all sense of dislike to this proceeding, all his old
inclination to let things go as they would? With that curious tremor
which was so full of firmness and force still vibrating through him, he
went out, avoiding Phil, who was lying in wait for him, and who moaned
his absence like a sheep deprived of its lamb--which, I think, was
something like the parental feeling Phil experienced for his tutor--and
set out for a long solitary walk across country, leaping ditches and
stumbling across ploughed fields, by way of exhausting a little his own
superabundant force and energy. Only a day or two since how dreary was
the feeling with which he had left the house, where perhaps, for aught
he knew, Gussy was at the moment thinking, with a sickening at his heart
which seemed to make all nature dim, how he must never see her again,
how he had pledged himself to keep out of the way, never to put himself
consciously where he might have even the dreary satisfaction of a look
at her. The same pledge was upon him still, and Edgar was ready to keep
it to the last letter of his promise; but now it had become a simple
dead letter. There was no more force, no more vital power in it, to keep
the two apart, who had but one strong wish between them. He could keep
it now gaily, knowing that he was in heart emancipated from it. There
was nothing he could not have done on that brilliant wintry afternoon,
when the sun shone upon him as if he had wanted cheering, and every pool
glittered, and the sky warmed and flushed under his gaze with all the
delightful sycophancy of nature for the happy. The dullest afternoon
would have been just the same to Edgar. He was liberated, he was
inspired, he felt himself a strong man, and with his life before him.
Cold winds and dreary skies would have had no effect upon his spirits,
and for this reason, I suppose, everything shone on him and flattered.
To him that hath, shall be given.
He was not to get back, however, without being roused from this beatific
condition to a consciousness of his humanity. As he passed through the
village, chance drew Edgar’s eye to the house which Lady Mary had noted
as that of the doctor, and about which Miss Annetta Baker had discoursed
so largely. A cab was at the door, boxes were standing about the steps,
and an animated conversation seemed to be going on between two men, one
an elderly personage without a hat, who stood on the steps with the air
of a man defending his door against an invader, while another and
younger figure, standing in front of the cab, seemed to demand
admission. “The new doctor has arrived before the old one is ready to go
away,” Edgar said to himself, amused by the awkwardness of the
situation. He slackened his pace, that the altercation might be over
before he passed, and saw the coach man surlily putting back again the
boxes upon the cab. The old doctor pointed over Edgar’s head to a
cottage in the distance, where, he was aware, there was lodgings to be
had; and as Edgar approached, the new doctor, as he supposed the
stranger to be, turned reluctantly away, with a word to some one in the
cab, which also began to turn slowly round to follow him. The stranger
came along the broad sandy road which encircled the Green, towards
Edgar, who, on his side, approached slowly. What was there in this slim
tall figure which filled him with vague reminiscences? He got interested
in spite of himself; was it some one he had known in his better days?
who was it? The same fancy, I suppose, rose in the mind of the
new-comer. When he turned round for the second time, after various
communications with the inmates of the cab, and suddenly perceived
Edgar, who was now within speaking distance, he gave a perceptible
start. Either his reminiscences were less vague, or he was more prepared
for the possibility of such a meeting. He hurried forward, holding out
his hand, while Edgar stood still like one stunned. “Dr. Murray?” he
said, at last, feeling for the moment as if he had been transported back
to Loch Arroch. He was too bewildered to say more.
“You are very much surprised to see me,” said Charles Murray, with his
half-frank, half-sidelong aspect; “and it is not wonderful. When we met
last I had no thought of making any move. But circumstances changed, and
a chance threw this in my way. Is it possible that we are so lucky as to
find you a resident here?”
“For the moment,” said Edgar; “but indeed I am very much surprised. You
are to be Dr. Frank’s successor? It is very odd that you should hit upon
this village of all the world.”
“I hope it is a chance not disagreeable to either of us,” said the young
doctor, with a glance of the suspicion which was natural to him; “but
circumstances once more seem against us,” he added hurriedly, going back
to the annoyance, which was then uppermost. “Here I have to go hunting
through a strange place for lodgings at this hour,--my sister tired by a
long journey. By the way, you have not seen Margaret; she is behind in
the cab; all because the Franks forsooth, cannot go out of their house
when they engaged to do so!”
“But the poor lady, I suppose, could not help it,” said Edgar,
“according to what I have heard.”
“No, I suppose she couldn’t help it--on the whole,” he allowed, crossly.
“Cabman, stop a moment--stop, I tell you! Margaret, here is some one you
have often heard of--our cousin, who has been so good to the dear old
granny--Edgar Earnshaw.”
Dr. Charles pronounced these last words with a sense of going further
than he had ever gone before, in intimacy with Edgar. He had never
ventured to call his cousin by his Christian name; and even now it was
brought in by a side wind, as it were, and scarcely meant so much as a
direct address. Edgar turned with some curiosity to the cab, to see the
sister whom he had seen waiting at the station for Dr. Murray some
months ago. He expected to see a pretty and graceful young woman; but he
was not prepared for the beauty of the face which looked at him from
the carriage-window with a soft appealing smile, such as turns men’s
heads. She was tall, with a slight stoop (though that he could not see)
and wore a hat with a long feather, which drooped with a graceful
undulation somewhat similar, he thought, to the little bow she made him.
She was pale, with very fine, refined features, a large pair of the
softest, most pathetic blue eyes, and that smile which seemed to
supplicate and implore for sympathy. There was much in Margaret’s
history which seemed to give special meaning to the plaintive affecting
character of her face; but her face was so by nature, and looked as if
its owner threw herself upon your sympathies, when indeed she had no
thought of anything of the sort. A little girl of six or seven hung upon
her, standing up in the carriage, and leaning closely against her
mother’s shoulder, in that clinging inseparable attitude, which,
especially when child and mother are both exceptionally handsome, goes
to the heart of the spectator. Edgar was subjugated at once; he took off
his hat and went reverently to the carriage-door, as if she had been a
saint.
“It is very pleasant that you should be here, and I am very glad to see
you,” she said, in soft Scotch accents, in which there was a plaintive,
almost a complaining tone. Edgar found himself immediately voluble in
his regrets as to the annoyance of their uncomfortable reception, and,
ere he knew what he was doing, had volunteered to go with Dr. Charles to
the lodgings, to introduce him, and see whether they were satisfactory.
He could not quite understand why he had done it, and thus associated
himself with a man who did not impress him favourably, as soon as he had
turned from the door of the cab, and lost sight of that beautiful face;
of course he could not help it, he could not have refused his good
offices to any stranger, he said to himself. He went on with his cousin
to the cottage, where the landlady curtseyed most deeply to the
gentleman from Tottenham’s, and was doubly anxious to serve people who
were his friends; and before he left he had seen the beautiful
new-comer, her little girl as always standing by her side leaning
against her, seated on a sofa by a comfortable fire, and forgetting or
seeming to forget, her fatigues. Dr. Charles could not smile so sweetly
or look so interesting as his sister; he continued to inveigh against
Dr. Franks, and his rashness in maintaining possession of the house.
“But the poor thing could not help it,” said Margaret, in her plaintive
voice, but not without a gleam of fun (if that were possible without
absolute desecration) in her eyes.
“They should not have stayed till the last moment; they should have made
sure that nothing would happen,” the doctor said, hurrying in and out,
and filling the little sitting-room with cloaks and wraps, and many
small articles. Margaret made no attempt to help him, but she gave Edgar
a look which seemed to say, “Forgive him! poor fellow, he is worried,
and I am so sorry he has not a good temper.” Edgar did not know what to
make of this angelical cousin. He walked away in the darkening, after
he had seen them settled, with a curious feeling, which he could not
explain to himself. Was he guilty of the meanness of being annoyed by
the arrival of these relatives, who were in a position so different from
that of his other friends? Was it possible that so paltry, so miserable
a feeling could enter his mind--or what was it? Edgar could render no
distinct account to himself of the sensation which oppressed him; but as
he walked rapidly up the avenue in the quickly falling darkness, he felt
that something had happened, which, somehow or other, he could not tell
how, was to affect his future life.