Thus, after the long lull that had happened in his life, Edgar found himself deep in occupation, intermingled in the concerns of many different people. Arthur Arden had come with him to town, and, by some strange operation of feeling, which it is difficult to follow, this man, in his wretchedness, clung to Edgar, who might almost be supposed the means of bringing it about. All his old jealousy, his old enmity, seemed to have disappeared. He who had harshly declined to admit that the relationship of habit and affection between his wife and her supposed brother must survive even when it was known that no tie of blood existed between them, acknowledged the fact now without question, almost with eagerness, speaking to the man he had hated, and disowned all connection with, of “your sister,” holding by him as a link between himself and the wife he had so nearly lost. This revolution was scarcely less wonderful than the position in which Edgar found himself in respect to Clare. Not a reference to their old affection had come from her lips, not a word of present regard. She had scarcely even given him her hand voluntarily; but she had accepted him at once and instinctively as her natural support, her “next friend,” whose help and protection she took as a matter of course. Clare treated him as if his brotherhood had never been questioned, as if he was her natural and legal defender and sustainer: up to this moment she had not even opened her mind to him, or told him what she meant to do, but she had so far accepted his guidance, and still more accepted his support, without thanking him or asking him for it, as a matter of course.
Edgar knew Clare too well to believe that when the marriage ceremony should be repeated between her husband and herself—which was the next step to be taken—their life would simply flow on again in the same channel, as if this tragical interruption to its course had never occurred. This was what Arthur Arden fondly pictured to himself, and a great many floating intentions of being a better husband, and a better man, after the salvation which had suddenly come to him, in the very moment of his need, were in his mind, softening the man imperceptibly by their influence. But Edgar did not hope for this; he made as little answer as he could to Arthur’s anticipations of the future, to his remorseful desire to be friendly.
“After it’s all over you must not drift out of sight again,—you must come to us when you can,” Arden said. “You’ve always behaved like a brick in all circumstances; I see it now. You’ve been my best friend in this terrible business. I wish I may never have a happy hour if I ever think otherwise of you than as Clare’s brother again.”
All this Edgar did his best to respond to, but he could not but feel that Arden’s hopes were fallacies. Clare had given him no insight into her plans, perhaps, even, had not formed any. She had gone back into the house at Edgar’s bidding; she had dully accepted the fact that the situation was altered, and consented to the private repetition of her marriage; but she had never looked at her husband, never addressed him; and Edgar felt, with a shudder, that, though she would accept such atonement as was possible, she was far, very far, from having arrived at the state of mind which could forgive the injury. That a woman so deeply outraged should continue tranquilly the life she had lived before she was aware of the outrage, was, he felt, impossible. He had done what he could to moderate Arden’s expectations on this point, but with no effect; and, as he did not really know, but merely feared, some proceeding on Clare’s part which should shatter the expected happiness of the future, he held his peace, transferring, almost involuntarily, a certain share of his sympathy to the guilty man, whose guilt was not to escape retribution.
Edgar’s next business was with Mr. Tottenham, who, all unaware of Harry’s folly, showed to him, with much pleasure, and some self-satisfaction, the moderate and sensible letter of Mr. Thornleigh above referred to, in which he expressed his natural regret, etc., but requested to know what the young man’s prospects were, and what he meant to do. Then Edgar produced once more Lord Newmarch’s letter, and, in the consultation which followed, almost forgot, for the moment, all that was against him. For Mr. Tottenham thought it a good opening enough, and began, with sanguine good-nature, to prophesy that Edgar would soon distinguish himself—that he would be speedily raised from post to post, and that, “with the excellent connections and interest you will have,” advancement of every kind would be possible.
“Why, in yesterday’s Gazette,” said Mr. Tottenham, “no farther gone, there is an appointment of Brown, Consul-General, to be Ambassador somewhere—Argentine States, or something of that sort. And why should not you do as well as Brown? A capital opening! I should accept it at once.”
And Edgar did so forthwith, oblivious of the circumstance that the Consulship, such as it was, the first step upon the ladder, had been, not offered, but simply suggested to him—nay, scarcely even that. This little mistake, however, was the best thing that could have happened; for Lord Newmarch, though at first deeply puzzled and embarrassed by the warm acceptance and thanks he received, nevertheless was ashamed to fall back again, and, bestirring himself, did secure the appointment for his friend. It was not very great in point of importance, but it was ideal in point of situation; and when, a few days after, Edgar saw his name gazzetted as Her Majesty’s Consul at Spezzia, the emotions which filled his mind were those of happiness as unmingled as often falls to the lot of man. He was full of cares and troubles at that particular moment, and did not see his way at all clear before him; but he suddenly felt as a boat might feel (if a boat could feel anything) which has been lying high and dry ashore, when at last the gentle persuasion of the sunshiny waves reaches it, lifts, floats it off into soft, delicious certainty of motion; or perhaps it would be more correct to say, as shipwrecked sailors might feel when they see their cobbled boat, their one ark of salvation, float strong and steady on the treacherous sea. This was the little ark of Edgar’s happier fortunes, and lo! at last it was afloat!
After he had written his letter to Lord Newmarch, he went down to Tottenham’s, from which he had been absent for a fortnight, to the total neglect of Phil’s lessons, and Lady Mary’s lectures, and everything else that had been important a fortnight ago. He went by railway, and they met him at the station, celebrating his return by a friendly demonstration. On the road by the green they met Harry, walking towards Mrs. Sims’ lodgings. He gave Edgar a very cold greeting.
“Oh! I did not know you were coming back,” he said, and pursued his way, affecting to take a different turn, as long as they were in sight.
Harry’s countenance was lowering and overcast, his address scarcely civil. He felt his interests entirely antagonistic to those of his sister and her betrothed. The children burst into remarks upon his bearishness as they went on.