Edgar left the Thornleighs that day with several quite new subjects of thought. His heart was touched to the very quick by that little revelation which Gussy had made to him of her sister’s history. It stopped him quite suddenly in the current of his previous reflections. He had been so full of the unprofitableness and unmeaningness of the new existence into which he found himself thrown, that the discovery of a tragedy so simple and so hopeless, just one step out of it, upset once more all his conclusions. The idea he had been forming was, that within the range of “Society” strong feeling of any kind, much less passion, was impossible—even suffering and death seemed things too great and too human to penetrate within that artificial ring. He could have imagined the same routine going on for ever and ever, without any novelty in it, or touch of the real. Yet here, upon the very edge of the eternal dance, here was a single silent figure who had suffered (as Edgar felt, in the fervour of youthful sympathy) the extremity of human woe. How strange it was! The contrast confused him, and gave another turn, as it were, to his whirling brain. They were then human creatures after all, those people of fashion, whirling on and on in their everlasting round. Sometimes pain, passion, disappointment, tragical rending asunder of hearts and lives, proved their real nature. Perhaps even the man who was trying to take all the use out of his life by means of engagements twenty deep, had been pierced through and through with some such shaft as that which had killed poor Ada’s lover. Perhaps some of those women who hurried from one assemblage to another as fast as hours and horses could carry them had suffered in silence all that Ada had done, and lost all savour and sweetness in life like her. Edgar felt himself pulled up short, and paused in his wholesale criticisms. How could he tell—how could any one tell—what lay underneath the surface of the stream? He paused, and then he went off at a tangent, as young philosophers are apt to do, and asked himself whether this flutter and crowding and universal buzz of amusement was not a vast pretence, adopted by common consent, to hide what everybody was suffering underneath? outside an attempt to appear as if they were having things their own way, enjoying to the height of their capacity all the good the world could give; but underneath a deep universal conviction that life was naught, and happiness a dream! Was this the true theory of life? The question occupied him a great deal more perhaps than the readers of this history will sympathise with; but then, it must be remembered that it was all very new to him, and that every novel phase of life strikes us more strongly than that to which we are accustomed. To Arthur Arden, for instance, the course of existence which startled Edgar was too common to call for a single question. It was the ordinary state of affairs to him. But Edgar knew the other forms so much better. He understood those conditions under which a man labours that he may live. That theory was familiar to him which makes the day’s work necessary to the day; but to exist in order to get rid of your existence—to bend all your faculties to the question, not how you are to provide for, but how you are to spend and dispose of your days, that was new to him. And therefore he puzzled over it in a way which a man of fashion to the manner born could not possibly understand. The man of fashion would probably have been quite as much astonished and amazed by Edgar’s prejudices in favour of something to do. Something to do! Why, Harry Thornleigh had a hundred things to do, and never a moment to spare, and yet had never been of use either to himself or any other living creature all his life!

And then this new theory—about what was expected of young men who visited in houses where there were girls—troubled Edgar much. The other question occupied his intelligence, but this one disturbed him in a tenderer point. It hurt his amour-propre in the first place; for to suppose you have been a favourite in a house on your own merits, and then to find that you are only encouraged with a view of providing for a daughter, is sadly humbling to a young man’s vanity; and it hurt him in the affectionate respect he had for women in general and the Thornleighs in particular. He liked them all so kindly and so truly, and had been so pleased to believe that they liked him; whereas, apparently, it was only on the chance that he should bestow what he had upon one of them that they admitted him so freely. What a disenchantment it was! Instead of being their friend, whom they had confidence in, he was a man who meant nothing like Arthur Arden—a man whose inclinations were speculated upon, and his indifference despised. Edgar asked himself with a certain bitterness which of them it was whom he was expected to address. Perhaps the stately Helena, notwithstanding her views about the occupations of women, had been given to understand that it was her duty to accept Arden instead; perhaps Gussy—— But Edgar could not help feeling sore on this subject. He was fond of Gussy, he said to himself; she was so frank, and so friendly, and so sympathetic, so ready to respond, so willing to communicate. He could not bear the idea that she had been making merchandise of him, and calculating upon Arden—for, of course, it is Arden, not me, he thought. I for myself am nobody—less a great deal than the poor fellow who died, whom they seem to have had a kind of human feeling for. She cried over him even—and laughed, and said I meant nothing, Edgar added, in a sudden flush of pique and dissatisfaction. What meaning, I wonder, did she intend me to have? From this it will be seen that Edgar Arden was not in love—was not the least in love; but yet did not care that Gussy should think of him as an article of merchandise—a creature representing settlements and a house of her own. It is a humiliating position for a man to find himself in. It is pleasant (perhaps) to be the object of pursuit, and to feel that mothers and daughters are fluttered by your entrance or exit, or by any silly word it may be your pleasure to address to the young women who are being put up to market. But even to those young women who are put up to market the transaction is scarcely so humbling as it is to the man, who is reckoned among them not as a man at all, but as so much money, so many lands, so many luxuries. Edgar was cast down by this revelation—down to the very depths. What a fool he had been to think they liked him. Was he worth liking by anybody? Was he not rather an insignificant, common-place wretch, unworthy the least notice on his own merits? And he did not in the least desire to be noticed for the sake of Arden. It seemed to him the very last depth of contempt.

For a few days after this Edgar went about very sadly, abstaining from everybody, and feeling very much like a culprit. He kept away from Lady Augusta’s pleasant house, and that did not make him any the happier; and then it suddenly occurred to him that he might be thought, in the odious jargon of “society,” to be “behaving badly” to Gussy, a thought which stung him so that he seized his hat and rushed out to call, meaning he knew not what—perhaps to ask her piteously if she really wanted Arden, and to offer it to her acceptance. But the room was full of visitors, and Gussy took very little notice of him, and it would be impossible to say how small he felt, how impertinent and presumptuous; but still the thought came back.

It is usual to take it for granted that only one or two of the greater and more primitive sentiments are concerned in that great act of marriage, which is so important a matter for good or for evil in human life. People marry for love, which is the natural motive; or they marry for money or money’s equivalent—comfort, advancement, and advantageous development of life. And, no doubt, it is very true that in the majority of cases these are the feelings which are most involved. But yet it is astonishing how many secondary motives come in to determine the most momentous of personal decisions. Edgar Arden had never experienced a grande passion. He had thought himself in love two or three times in his life, and he knew that he had got over the feeling. It was a thing he was ashamed of when he came to think of it, but nevertheless it was quite true that he had got over it. He had just skimmed the surface of those emotions which culminate in the kind of love which is for ever. At the moment he had thought himself deeply moved, but afterwards, with mingled amusement and shame, he had confessed to himself that it was nothing but a passing ripple which had gone over him. Perhaps he was not of a passionate nature, nor one who would be subject to any tragic force of feeling. His love would be tender and deep and true, but it would not be wild or all-absorbing, and he was a man who would be capable of considering the interests of the woman he loved apart from himself, which is a kind of generosity sometimes not at all appreciated by the object of such affection. Perhaps, on the whole, the most real lover, the one most attractive to a woman, is the selfish man who wants her for his own happiness, and will have her, whatever the obstacles may be, rather than the disinterested man who prizes her happiness most, and sacrifices himself and lets her go—not sufficiently realising, perhaps, that he has sacrificed her too. But the absence of this impassioned selfishness on Edgar’s part laid him open to the action of all the secondary motives. Never did there exist a more friendly affectionate soul. He would have put himself to trouble to procure what it wanted for any child he heard crying by the way. It came natural to him, as it comes natural to some men, by hook or by crook, to secure their own advantage. And if it really should be the case that he himself, or rather Mr. Arden of Arden, was a thing that Gussy Thornleigh wanted very much, and would be the happier for, why should not she have it? The idea was a little absurd, and yet he could not bring forward a single sufficient reason why it should not be so. Actually, when he considered the matter fully, he had no personal objections. She would be a very sweet, very bright little companion—not a fault could be found with her in any way—— Nay, Edgar was too chivalrous to discuss Gussy or any other woman in this irreverent manner—— What he meant to himself was rather that any man might be proud and happy to have such a wife. And he had no other love to stand between him and her; no; no other love—except that visionary love whom every young man looks to find somewhere, the Una of imagination, the perfect woman. She only, and no other—and she was no woman’s rival. No doubt she would fold her wings and drop down out of the skies, and shadow over and melt into the being of Edgar’s wife. Therefore if Gussy chose—— Why should not this be——

But perhaps he was just as glad that he had not been allowed a possibility of committing himself. It was not his fault; he would have done it had he been alone with her, or even had he been able to get her to himself in a corner of the drawing-room, apart from immediate observation. But that had been impossible; and consequently it was Providence, not Edgar, which had kept it from coming to pass. Yet he was not sorry; he reflected philosophically that there was plenty of time. She was not in love with him, he felt sure, any more than he was in love with her. She was not in any hurry. She was a dear, good, reasonable girl. In short, the more he thought of it, the more he came to see that (apart from romance, which was always absurd) nothing could be more appropriate in every way. They were made for each other. They were neither of them solemn, passionate people—they were both lively, cheerful, fond of a little movement and commotion, and yet fond of the country and of a reasonable life, with duty and responsibility in it. Gussy, alas! thought very little, had he but known it, of duty and responsibility; but this was how the matter shaped itself in Edgar’s mind. Of course, there was no need for anything being decided in a hurry. Clare would probably marry first—or, if not, Clare’s wishes must be supreme, whatever they were. She would live with them at Arden—she would still be mistress—no, that was perhaps impossible. At all events, she would still be—— Here Edgar found himself in deep waters and stuck fast, not quite making out how this was to be settled. Clare in Arden, and not mistress of Arden was impossible. No doubt, had his feelings been very deeply concerned, he would not have been deterred by such a thought—but as it was chiefly for other people’s satisfaction that he was planning the arrangement, it was a very serious drawback. What! please Gussy at the cost of Clare? This was the most grave obstacle to the plan which had yet come in his way.

He was still in this perplexity, and not without a consciousness of its whimsical character, when he received Clare’s letter. There was something strained and strange in its expression which struck him curiously. Why should she write to him so? Of course she might ask anything of him—call him to her as she pleased. To make a journey from London to Lancashire was not much—a great deal farther, to the end of the world had she wished it, he would have gone willingly for his sister. He wrote her a little note, full of affectionate playful reproach. “Though I have a hundred things to do,” he said; “though I am engaged to go to twenty balls, and ten dinners, and three concerts, and seventeen afternoon teas, in the course of the next four days, yet I will hurry through the most pressing of my engagements, and come home on Saturday.” But the meaning of the letter was not in the least the thing that struck him—she wanted to consult him about something, that was all he made of it. And as for the manner of expression, Clare was in haste, or she was annoyed about something, or perhaps a little out of temper. Now and then Clare could be a little out of temper, he knew. Perhaps the village people had been troublesome—perhaps it had vexed her that Arthur Arden should be staying with the Pimpernels. But, on the whole, haste was the most natural explanation. Thus he settled the matter with himself with very little difficulty; and on the whole he was very glad to be called home. And then it occurred to him all at once that the Thornleighs were going on Monday—and then——

Surely, and beyond all question, fate must have decided this matter for him. His summons had come to him at such a moment and in such a way that he must be supposed to be following the Thornleighs home, as he had been supposed to follow them to town. He could not but laugh as he perceived this new complication. Now, indeed, unless he took pains to show that he did mean something, there could be no doubt that it would be said Gussy was badly treated. When he went into the solemn shades of the Minerva to seek Lord Newmarch, with whom he had some business, he felt already sure what would be said to him. “Going home on Saturday!” said the politician; “what, before the education debate, which I so much wanted you to hear! Arden, I suppose it is clear enough to see what that means. But must you go because they go? Though you are not in Parliament, you have a duty to the public too——”

“I go because I am called home on business,” said Edgar, “for no other reason, I assure you. I have heard from Clare to-day——”

“Oh, ah,” said Lord Newmarch; “of course, we all understand urgent private affairs. But, Arden, though it does not become me to speak, I wish you had not meant to marry immediately. I should be more happy to congratulate you as member for East Lancashire than as Benedict the married man.”

“The chances are you will never congratulate me as either,” said Edgar, with a certain wayward pathos which puzzled himself; “I am not going to marry, and I don’t intend to go into Parliament. I should not be much credit to you in that way; I should go in for impracticable measures, and call a spade a spade. Let me tame down first, and get used to parliamentary language and all the other fictions of life——”

“My dear fellow, I wish you were not so bitter about the fictions of life,” said Lord Newmarch, shaking his head.

“Bitter!” said Edgar, with a laugh.

“Well, if not bitter, cynical—cynical—perhaps that is a better word. I have been thinking a great deal about what you said the other day, and I don’t think there is much in it. Society must be kept up—some sacrifice must be made to keep up that fine atmosphere—that air so sensitive to everything that comes into it—that brilliant, witty, refined——”

“Newmarch,” said another young man, lounging up, “where were you that one couldn’t see you at the Strathfeldsays’ dance the other night? Awful bore! Never was at anything much worse all my life—the women all frights and the men all notabilities. Ah, Arden, I never see you anywhere now. Where has the t’other Arden gone—Arthur Arden—that one used to meet about? He used to be always with the Lowestofts. Lowestoft wouldn’t stand it at the last. Deuced bore! Some men are insufferable in that way. Pull you up short, whether you mean anything or not, and spoil the whole affair. Been doing anything in the House?—Education Bill, and that sort of thing. Hang education! What is the good of it? What has it ever done for you or me?”

“What, indeed!” cried Edgar—a backing which was received with the warmth it merited.

“Eton and Christchurch are reckoned pretty well,” said their new companion; “but I don’t know what they ever did for me. And as for those confounded fellows that never wash and have votes, what do they want with it? Depend upon it, they are a great deal better without. Teaches them to be discontented; then teaches you to humbug and tell lies for them to read in the newspapers. By the way, where are you going to-night? I’ve got some men coming to dine with me. Will you make one—or, rather, will you make two, if Arden likes? Then there is that deuced affair on at the Bodmillers’ which I suppose I shall have to look in upon; and the Chromatics are giving a grand concert, with Squallini and Whiskerando. Little Squallini is worth listening to, I can tell you. There are heaps of things I never attempt, and one is, going to musical nights promiscuous, not knowing what you’re to hear. But the Chromatics know what is what. Going? I shall look out somebody, and have a rubber till five. These concerts and things are a confounded bore.”

“Is that your brilliant, witty, refined—— is that the sort of thing we should make a sacrifice to keep up?” said Edgar, as they went out together. “What an amount of trouble it has taken to produce him! And now he has to be kept up at a sacrifice. I should prefer to make a sacrifice to get rid of him, Newmarch. He is not so witty as his own groom, nor half so useful as that crossing sweeper——”

“You would find the crossing-sweeper dull, too, if you met him every day,” said Newmarch. “The fact is, it is not a very good world, but it is the best we can get; and if a man does as much as he can with it—— You must get into the House, Arden. I don’t mean to say society is enough for an energetic man, with a great deal of time on his hands: but my occupations I hope are solid enough. I have had three or four hours of committees already; and I am going down to Westminster straight. Of course, it is pleasant to sit over that little table in the corner of the Thornleighs’ drawing-room. Ah!—that sort of thing is not for me,” said the legislator, with a sigh.

And Edgar laughed—partly at his friend, partly at himself, partly at the universal vanity. Lord Newmarch was no Solomon. The country could have gone on all the same had he, too, gossiped over a tea-table as so many of the youth of England were doing at that moment with relish as great as though they had been so many washer-women, and tongues sharpened at the clubs. England would not have suffered had Lord Newmarch gossiped too. And Edgar was not much more genuine as he walked with him as far as Berkeley Square, and then dropped off “to say good-bye to the Thornleighs,” leaving the liveliest certainty on Lord Newmarch’s mind as to what were his relations with the family. Nor, perhaps, was Gussy more true, as she sat and filled out the tea, and saw, with a little thrill, the man coming in who was to fix her fate. She did not love him any more than he loved her, and yet, in all likelihood, her life was in his hands. What a strange, aimless whirl it was in which everybody moved, or seemed to move, as some blind fate required, and could not stop themselves, nor change the current which kept drifting them on! The crossing-sweeper was the braver and the more genuine personage. The mud cleared away before his broom; the road grew passable where he moved; he had it in his power to make a new passage wherever he was so minded. At least, so one supposed looking at his mystery from outside. Perhaps within, the guild of crossing-sweepers has its tyrannical limitations too.