“That is not quite generous,” said Lady Mary, with an appealing look, “of course we knew, and trusted you as we trust you now—fully. But, Mr. Earnshaw, forgive me! I promised to Augusta to say just one word.”
“I have already said to Lady Augusta all that can be said,” said Edgar; “that she need not fear me—that I will not put myself in her way.”
They had, by this time, reached the avenue, and were walking unconsciously fast in the roused state of feeling which this interview had called forth, between the long level lines of leafless trees, on the edge of the sodden, bright green wintry grass, which tempted the feet with its mossy softness. It was afternoon, and the long slanting lines of sunshine lighted up, but scarcely had the better of, the creeping shadows which bided their time in every corner. Lady Mary put out her hand again suddenly, with an excitement which she did not seem able to control, and laid it on Edgar’s arm.
“Mr. Earnshaw!” she said, the tears coming to her eyes. “It is not for you. Augusta, like myself, trusts you entirely; it is not you.”
“What then?” said Edgar, suddenly stopping short, and facing her.
“Mr. Earnshaw! Oh! how can I put into words the strange service—the thing beyond words, which Augusta thinks she can trust you enough to ask for. Oh! Mr. Earnshaw, see how absolute is our faith in you! It is not you she fears. It is the impetuosity—it is the——it is her own child.”
Edgar stood still, and did not speak—how could he? In his life he had had enough to chill him one way or another; now, all at once, there seemed to burst forth a fountain of warmth and life within him—in his very heart. The water came to his eyes. If he had been alone I believe it would have overflowed, so poignant was the touch of this sudden, scarcely comprehensible happiness. “Ah!” he cried, summing up in that little syllable, as is done so often, worlds of sudden understanding, of emotion inexpressible in words; and so stood gazing at the unlucky emissary, who had put things inconceivable, things unbelievable, all at once into his throbbing brain.
“Oh, God forgive me!” cried Lady Mary, with a devoutness quite unusual to her. “What have I done—what have I done?”
“Look here,” said Edgar, feeling a strange difficulty of articulation, and with a consciousness that, instead of being eloquent, as he ought to have been in the circumstances, his words were homely, almost rude; “So far as I am myself concerned, nothing will make me swerve from my word. Lady Augusta need have no fear for me; but if—” and here he paused, “if the happiness of another were any way involved. It is not my supposition, pardon me, it is yours. If——then I will be bound by no word, no promise, nothing but—her will whatever it is. I am ready to balk myself, to give up the desire of my heart, to say never a word, so far as I am concerned. But her I will not balk; it is not my place. Her will she shall have if I can get it for her—at any risk, with any pains! Lady Mary, bid me go, or take the consequences; this is all I will say.”
“Oh, Mr. Earnshaw!” cried Lady Mary, in a burst of injudicious sympathy. “Oh, Edgar! now I understand them;” and with that, this very foolish, very clever, little woman sat down upon the stump of a tree, and cried with all her heart. She was totally taken by surprise. She had believed him to be so good, so ready to obliterate himself, that she half despised him through all her generous compassion and liking. I think it is Mr. Charles Reade who describes, somewhat coarsely perhaps, but very powerfully, the woman’s surprise at discovering herself to be, for the first time, face to face with a male of her own species. The surprise, I believe, is common to both sexes, and as much when love is out of the question as when it is deeply involved. It is one of the most penetrating of mental sensations—a sudden revelation. Lady Mary felt this as she sat down on the stump of the tree, and called Edgar Earnshaw by his Christian name, and cried, suddenly abandoning her colours, giving up her cause, owning herself utterly conquered. It was a great deal to be accomplished by so few words, and Edgar himself was so entirely moved and shaken by what had occurred, that he was not half sensible of his own success. All he knew was that Lady Mary felt for him, understood him; and this gave him comfort, when he suddenly dropped down after the exaltation of his sudden transport into a sadness which was its natural consequence. Lady Mary fell too, out of her sudden enthusiasm into a sense of absolute foolishness and the indiscreetest of sympathetic ebullitions, and picked herself up and went meekly along the avenue by Edgar’s side, trying to talk about the children, and raking up nursery stories of Phil’s cleverness to tell him, in what she would herself have thought the very imbecility of motherhood. Poor Lady Mary! she had the additional misery of thinking that Edgar perceived her utter downfall and change of sides—which he, poor fellow, with his heart jumping in his throat, was far too much agitated to do.