“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?