“Mr. Earnshaw,” she said, solemnly, “after all that has passed between us, and all you have promised—I must believe that there is some very grave reason for your unexpected visit to-day.”
What a different reception it was from that she had given him, when—coming, as she supposed, on the same errand which really brought him now—he had to tell her of his loss of everything! Then the whole house had been pleasantly excited over the impending proposal; and Gussy had been kissed and petted by all her sisters, as the heroine of the drama; and Lady Augusta’s motherly heart had swelled with gratitude to God that she had secured for her daughter not only a good match, but a good man. It was difficult for Edgar, at least, to shut out all recollection of the one scene in the other. He answered with less humility than he had shown before, and with a dignity which impressed her, in spite of herself,
“Yes, there is a very grave reason for it,” he said—“the gravest reason—without which I should not have intruded upon you. I made you a voluntary promise some time since, seeing your dismay at my re-appearance, that I would not interfere with any of your plans, or put myself in your way.”
“Yes,” said Lady Augusta, in all the horror of suspense. Gussy, behind, whispered, “You have not!—you have not!” till her mother turned and looked at her, when she sank upon the nearest seat, and covered her face with her hands.
“I might say that I have not, according to the mere letter of my word,” said Edgar; “but I will not stand by that. Lady Augusta, I have come to tell you that I have broken my promise. I find I had no right to make it. I answered for myself, but not for another dearer than myself. The pledge was given in ignorance, and foolishly. I have broken it, and I have come to ask you to forgive me.”
“You have broken your word? Mr. Earnshaw, I was not aware that gentlemen ever did so. I do not believe you are capable of doing so,” she cried, in great agitation. “Gussy, go upstairs, you have nothing to do with this discussion—you were not a party to the bargain. I cannot—cannot allow myself to be treated in this way! Mr. Earnshaw, think what you are saying! You cannot go back from your word!”
“Forgive me,” he said, “I have done it. Had I known all, I would not have given the promise; I told Lady Mary Tottenham so; my pledge was for myself, to restrain my own feelings. From the moment that it was betrayed to me that she too had feelings to restrain, my very principle of action, my rule of honour, was changed. It was no longer my duty to deny myself to obey you. My first duty was to her, Lady Augusta—if in that I disappoint you, if I grieve you——”
“You do more than disappoint me—you horrify me!” cried Lady Augusta. “You make me think that nothing is to be relied upon—no man’s word to be trusted, No, no, we must have no more of this,” she said, with vehemence. “Forget what you have said, Mr. Earnshaw, and I will try to forget it. Go to your room, Gussy—this is no scene for you.”
Edgar stood before his judge motionless, saying no more. I think he felt now how completely the tables were turned, and what an almost cruel advantage he had over her. His part was that of fact and reality, which no one could conjure back into nothingness; and hers that of opposition, disapproval, resistance to the inevitable. He was the rock, and she the vexed and vexing waves, dashing against it, unable to overthrow it. In their last great encounter these positions had been reversed, and it was she who had command of the situation. Now, howsoever parental authority might resist, or the world oppose, the two lovers knew very well, being persons in their full senses, and of full age, that they had but to persevere, and their point would be gained.
Lady Augusta felt it too—it was this which had made her so deeply alarmed from the first, so anxious to keep Edgar at arm’s length. The moment she caught sight of him on this particular morning, she felt that all was over. But that certainty unfortunately does not quench the feelings of opposition, though it may take all hope of eventual success from them. All that this secret conviction of the uselessness of resistance did for Lady Augusta was to make her more hot, more desperate, more acharnée than she had ever been. She grew angry at the silence of her opponent—his very patience seemed a renewed wrong, a contemptuous evidence of conscious power.