Arthur Ardenwent up to the house, which he was now convinced was his own, with the strangest mixture of feelings. He was so confused and overwhelmed by all the events of the night, by the fluctuations of feeling to which he had himself been subject, that the exultation which it was natural should be in his mind was kept down. He did exult, but he did it like a man asleep, conscious that he was dreaming. He went in, and found the house all silent and deserted. Mr. Fazakerly had gone to his room; Clare had retired to hers; the Rector had gone home. Nobody but the solemn Wilkins was visible in the house, which began, however, to show a certain consciousness of the excitement within it. The tea-tray, which nobody had looked at, still stood in the drawing-room, lights were left burning everywhere, windows were open, making the flames flutter. It was not possible to mistake that visible impression of something having happened, which shows itself so soon on the mereexternal surroundings of people in trouble. “May I make so free as to ask, sir, if ought has gone wrong?” Wilkins asked, standing at the door of the drawing-room, when he had opened it. “Yes, Wilkins, something has happened,” said Arthur. It was on his lips to announce the event, not for the solace of Wilkins, but only to assure himself, by putting it into words, that the thing was true; but he restrained the impulse. “You will know it soon,” he added, briefly dismissing the man with a slight wave of his hand. Wilkins went downstairs immediately, and informed the kitchen that “somethink was up. You can all go to bed,” he added, majestically. “I’ll wait up for master. That Arthur Arden is awful stuck up, like poor relations in general; but master he’ll tell me.” And thus the house gradually subsided into silence. Wilkins placed himself in the great chair in the hall and went to sleep, sending thrills of suppressed sound (for even in his snores he remembered his place, and kept himself down) through the silent dwelling. Arthur Arden was too much excited to sleep. He remained in the drawing-room, where he had allowed himself to be led by Wilkins. He was too self-absorbed to go from one room to another, to be conscious of place or surroundings. For hours together he paced up and down, going over and overeverything that had passed, and at every change in the scenes which formed before his fancy, stopping to tell himself that Arden was his own. His head swam; he staggered as he walked; his whole brain seemed to whirl with agitation; and yet he walked on and on, saying to himself at intervals, “Arden is mine.” How extraordinary it was! And yet, at the same time, he was only the poor relation, the heir presumptive, in the eyes of the world. Even the declaration he had heard was nothing but evidence which might have to be produced in a court of law, which it would take him infinite pains and money, and much waiting and suspense, to establish, should it be necessary to establish it, in legal form. The letters were still in the hands of those most interested to suppress them. The witness whose testimony he had just heard was in their hands, and no doubt might be suborned or sent away. If it were any one but Edgar, he would have felt that all he had heard to-night might be but as a dream, and that his supplanter might still be persuaded by Fazakerly, by Clare, by some late dawning of self-interest, to defend himself. In such a case his own position would be as difficult as could be conceived. He would have to originate a lingering expensive lawsuit, built upon evidence which he could not produce. If he were himselfin Edgar’s position, he felt that he could foil any such attack; but Edgar was a fool, a Quixote, a madman; or rather he was a low fellow, of no blood or courage, who would give in without a struggle, who had not spirit enough to strike a blow for his inheritance. By degrees he got to despise him, as he pursued his thoughts. It was want of blood which made him shirk from the contest, not the sense of justice or right, or any fantastic idea of honour. Arthur Arden himself was an honourable man—he did nothing which society could put a mark against, which could stain his reputation among men; but to expose the weakness of his own position, to relinquish voluntarily, not being forced to it, his living and name, and everything he had, in the world!—He calculated upon Edgar that he would do this, and he despised him for it, and concluded in his heart that such cowardice and weakness, though, perhaps, they might be dignified by other names—such as generosity and honour—were owing to the meanness of his extraction, the vulgarity of his nature. No Arden would have done it, he said to himself, with contempt.
At last he threw himself upon a sofa, in that feverish exhaustion which excitement and long abstinence from sleep produce. He had slept little on the previous night, and he had no longer the exuberanceof youth to carry him over any repeated shortening of his natural rest. He put himself on the sofa where Clare had lain after her faint; but he was in too great a whirl to be able to think of Clare. He propped himself up upon the pillows, and fell into feverish snatches of sleep, often broken, and full of dreams. He dreamt that he was turning Edgar and all his belongings out of Arden. He dreamt that he himself was being turned out—that Clare was standing over him like an inspired prophetess, denouncing woe on his head—that old Fazakerly was grinning in a corner and jibing at him. “You reckoned without your host,” the lawyer said; “or, at least, you reckoned without me. Am I the man to suffer my client to make a fool of himself? Wilkins, show Mr. Arthur Arden the door.” This was what he dreamed, and that the door was thrown open, and a chill air from without breathed on him, and that he knew and felt all hope of Arden was gone for ever. The chill of that outside cold so seized upon him that he awoke, and found it real. It was the hour after dawn—the coldest of the twenty-four. The sun had not yet risen out of the morning mists, and the world shivered in the cold beginning of the day. The door of the room in which he was, was standing wide open, and so was the great hall door, admittingthe cold. In the midst, as in a sketch made in black and white, he saw Edgar standing talking to Wilkins. It struck him with a certain peevish irritation as he struggled up from his pillow, half-awake. “Don’t stand there, letting in the cold,” he said, harshly. Wilkins, irritable too from the same reason, gave him a hasty answer—“When a servant as has waited all night is letting in of his master, I don’t know as folks as might have been in bed has got any reason to complain.” Arthur swore an angry oath as he sprang from the sofa. “By——, you shall not stay in this house much longer, to give me your impudence!” “That’s as the Squire pleases,” said Wilkins, utterly indifferent to the poor relation. Edgar dismissed him with a kindly nod, and went into the drawing-room. He was very pale and worn out with all his fatigues; but he was not irritable. He came in and shut the door. “I wonder you did not go to bed,” he said.
“Bed!” said Arthur, rising to his feet. “I wonder who could go to bed with all this row going on. Order that fellow to bring us some brandy. I am chilled to death on this confounded sofa, and you staying out the whole night. I haven’t patience to speak to the old villain. Will you give the order now?”
“Come to the other room and I’ll get it for you,” said Edgar. “The man wants to go to bed.”
“If I don’t go to bed, confound them, why can’ttheywait?” said Arthur. He was but half awake; excited, chilled, anxious, and miserable; altogether in a dangerous mood. But Edgar had his wits sufficiently about him to feel all the unseemliness of a quarrel between them. He took him into the dining-room, and giving him what he asked for left the room with a hurried good night. He was not able for any contention; he went upstairs with a heavy heart. The excitement which had supported him so long was failing. And this last discovery, when he had time to realise it, was not sweet to him, but bitter. He could not tell how that was. Before he had suspected her to be related to him, he had wondered at himself to feel with what confidence he had turned to the old Scotchwoman, of whose noble life Perfitt had told him. It had bewildered him more than once, and made him smile. He remembered now that he had gone to her for advice; that he had consulted her about his concerns; that he had felt an interest in all her looks and ways, which it was now only too easy to explain. He had almost loved her, knowing her only as a stranger, entirely out of his sphere. And now that he knew she was his nearest relation, hisheart recoiled from her. What harm she had done him! She had done her best—her very best—she and Squire Arden together, whose name he loathed—to ruin his life, and make him a wreck and stray in the world. By God’s help, Edgar said to himself, he would not be a wreck. But how hard it was to forgive the people who had done it—to feel any charity for them! He did not even feel the same instinctive affection for Jeanie as he had done before. And yet he had saved her life; she had called him her brother, and in utter trust and confidence had been lying on his breast. Poor little Jeanie! Yet his heart grew sick as he thought of her and of the mother, who was his mother too. They were all that was left to him, and his heart rose against them. Sadness unutterable, weariness of the world, a sore and sick shrinking of the heart from everything around him, came upon Edgar. He had kept up so long. He had done all his duty, fulfilled everything that could be required of him. Could not he go away now, and disappear for ever from Arden, and be seen of none who knew him any more?
Such was the dreary impulse in his mind—an impulse which everyone must have felt who has borne the desertion of friends, the real or supposed failure of love and honour—and which here andthere one in the chill heart-sickening pride of despair has given way to, disappearing out of life sometimes, sometimes out of all reach of friends. But Edgar was not the kind of man to break off his thread of life thus abruptly. He had duties even now to hold him fast—a duty to Clare, who, only a few hours ago (or was it years), had called him—bless her!—her true brother, her dearest brother. If he were to be tortured like an Indian at the stake, he would not abandon her till all was done for her that brother could do. And he had a duty even to the man whom he had just left, to remove all obstacles out of his way, to make perfectly plain and clear his title to Arden. His insolence cannot harm me, Edgar reflected, with a smile which was hard enough to maintain. And then there were his own people, his new family, his mother’s mother. Poor Edgar! that last reflection went through and through him with a great pang. He could not make out how it was. He had had so kind, so tender a feeling towards her, and now it seemed to him that he shrunk from her very name. Was his name, too, the same as theirs? Did he belong to them absolutely, to their condition, to their manner of life? If it were so, none in the outer world should see him shrink from them; but at this moment, in his retirement, thethought that they were his, and they only, was bitter to Edgar. He could not face it. It was not pride, nor contempt of their poverty, nor dislike to themselves; but yet the thought that they were his family—that he belonged to them—was a horror to him. Should he go back with them to their Highland cottage?—should he go and desert them, as if he were ashamed? In the profound revulsion of his heart he grew sick and faint with the thought.
And thus the night passed—in wonder and excitement, in fear and trembling of many kinds. When the morning came, Jeanie opened her soft eyes and smiled upon the watchers round her, over all of whom was a cloud which no one understood. “I’ve been in yon awful valley, but I’m come back,” she said, with her pale lips. She had come back; but ah how many hopes and pleasant dreams and schemes of existence had gone into the dark valley instead of Jeanie! The old mother, who had seen so many die, and gone through a hundred heartbreaks, bent over the one who had come back from the grave, and kissed her sadly, with a passion of mingled feelings to which she could give no outlet. “But oh, my bonnie lad!” she said under her breath with a sigh which was almost a groan. She had seen into his heart, though he did not know it.She had perceived, with a poignant sting of pain, one momentary instinctive shrinking on his part. She understood all, in her large human nature and boundless sympathy, and her heart bled, but she said never a word.
Thereader may be weary of hearing of nights which went over in agitation, and mornings which rose upon an excitement not yet calmed down. But it is inevitable in such a crisis as that which we are describing that the excitement should last from one day to another. The same party who had met on the previous night in the library to examine the packet of letters, which had occasioned all this distress and trouble, met again next morning at breakfast. Clare did not appear. She had sent for Edgar in the morning, rousing him out of the brief, uneasy slumber which he had fallen into in broad daylight, after his night of trial. She had received him in her dressing-room, with a white muslin wrapper thrown round her, and her hair hanging about her shoulders, as she would have received her brother. But though the accessories of the scene were carefully retained, there was a little flush of consciousness on Clare’s cheek that it was not her brother who was coming to her; and Edgar did notoffer the habitual kiss, but only took her hand in his while she spoke to him. “I cannot come down,” she said. “I will not come down again while Arthur Arden is in the house. That is not what I mean; for I suppose, now you have made up your mind, it is Arthur Arden’s house, and not ours.”
“It is not mine,” said Edgar. “Something else happened last night which confirmed everything. It is quite unimportant whether I make up my mind or not. The matter is beyond question now.”
“What happened last night?” said Clare eagerly.
“I will tell you another time. We found out, I think, who I really am. Don’t ask me any more,” said Edgar, with a pang which he could not explain. He did not want to tell her. He would have accepted any excuse to put the explanation off.
Clare looked at him earnestly. She did not know what to say—whether to obey a rising impulse in her heart (for she, too, was a genuine Arden) of impatience at his tame surrender of his “rights”—or the curiosity which prompted her to inquire into the new discovery; or to do what a tender instinct bade her—support him who had been so true a brother to her by one more expression of her affection. She looked up into his face, which began to show signs of the conflict, and that decided her. “You can never be anything less to me than mybrother,” she said, leaning her head softly against his arm. Edgar could not speak for a moment—the tears came thick and blinding to his eyes.
“God bless you!” he said. “I cannot thank you now, Clare. It is the only drop of sweetness in my cup; but I must not give way. Am I to say you cannot come down stairs? Am I to arrange for my dear sister, my sweet sister, for the last time?”
“Certainly for this time,” said Clare. “Settle for me as you think best. I will go where you please. I can’t stay—here.”
She would have said, “in Arthur Arden’s house,” but the words seemed to choke her; for Arthur Arden had not said a word to her—not a word—since he knew——
And thus authorised, Edgar presented himself before the others. He took no particular notice of Arthur Arden. He said calmly, “Miss Arden does not feel able to join us this morning,” and took, as a matter of course, his usual place. There was very little said. Arthur sat by sullenly, beginning to feel himself an injured man, unjustly deprived of his inheritance. He was the true heir, wrongfully kept out of his just place: yet the interest of the situation was not his, but clung to the impostor, who accepted ruin with such a cheerful and courageous quiet. He hated him, because even in this pointEdgar threw him quite into the shade. And Arthur felt that he might have taken a much superior place. He might have been magnanimous, friendly, helpful, and lost nothing by it; but even though the impulse to take this nobler part had once or twice visited him, he had not accepted it; and he felt with some bitterness that Edgar had in every way filled a higherrôlethan himself.
They had finished their silent breakfast when Edgar addressed him. He did it with a marked politeness, altogether unlike his aspect up to this time. He had been compelled to give up the hope that his successor would be his friend, and found there was nothing now but politeness possible between them. “I will inform Mr. Fazakerly at once,” he said, “of what took place last night. He will be able to put everything into shape better than we shall. As soon as I have his approbation, and have settled everything, I will take my sister away.”
“She is not your sister,” said Arthur, with some energy.
“I know that so well that it is unkind of any one to remind me,” said Edgar, with sudden tears coming to his eyes; “but never mind. I repeat we will leave Arden to-day or to-morrow. It is easier to make such an arrangement than to break thenatural bonds that have been between us all our lives.”
Arthur had made a calculation before he came downstairs. He had taken a false step last night when he adopted an insolent tone to, and almost attempted to pick a quarrel with the man who was saving him so much trouble; but in the circumstances he concluded that it was best he should keep it up. He said abruptly, “Miss Arden is not your sister. I object as her nearest relation. How do I know what use you may make of the influence you have obtained over her? I object to her removal from Arden—at least by you.”
Edgar gave Mr. Fazakerly a look of appeal, and then made a strong effort to command himself. “I have nothing to keep now but my temper,” he said, with a faint smile, “and I hope I may be able to retain that. I don’t know that Mr. Arden’s presence is at all needed for our future consultations; and I suppose, in the meantime, as I am making a voluntary surrender of everything, and he could not by legal form expel me for a long time, I am justified in considering this house, till I give it up, to be mine, and not his?”
“Certainly, Arden is yours,” said Mr. Fazakerly. “You are behaving in the most unprecedented way. I don’t understand what you would be at; but Mr.Arthur Arden is utterly without power or capability in the matter. All he can do is to inform his lawyer of what he has heard——
“No power in the matter!” cried Arthur. “When I heard that woman confess last night openly that this—this gentleman, who has for so long occupied the place I ought to occupy, washergrandson! What do you mean by no power? Is Mr.—— Murray—if that is his name—to remain master of my house, in face of what I heard with my own ears——”
“You are perfectly entitled to bring an action, and produce your witnesses,” said Mr. Fazakerly promptly; “perfectly entitled—and fully justified in taking such a step. But in the meantime Mr. Edgar Arden is the Squire, and in full possession. You may wait to see what his plans are (no doubt they are idiotical in the highest degree), or you can bring an action; but at the present moment you have not the smallest right to interfere——”
“Not in respect to my cousin!” Arthur said, with rising passion.
“Not in respect to anything,” said the lawyer cheerfully.
And then the three stood up and looked at each other—Mr. Fazakerly having taken upon himself the conduct of affairs. It was Arthur only who wasagitated, Edgar having recovered his composure by renunciation of everything, and the lawyer having fully come to himself, out of sheer pleasure in the conflict which he foresaw.
“There have been a great many indiscreet revelations made, and loose talk of all kinds,” Mr. Fazakerly continued; “enough, I don’t doubt, to disturb the ideas of a man uninstructed in such matters. That is entirely your cousin’s fault, not mine; but I repeat you have no power here, Mr. Arthur Arden, either in respect to Miss Clare or to anything else. Mere hearsay and private conversation are nothing. I doubt very much if the case will hold water at all; but if it does, it can only be of service to you after you have raised an action and proved your assertions. Good morning, Mr. Arthur. You have gone too fast and too far.”
And in another moment Arthur was left alone, struggling with himself, with fury and disappointment not to be described. He was as much cast down as he had been elated. He gave too much importance to these words, as he had given to the others. He had thought, without any pity or ruth, that he was to take possession at once; and now he felt himself cast out. He threw himself down in the window seat and gnawed his nails to the quick,and asked himself what he was to do. A lawsuit, a search for evidence, an incalculable, possibly unrecompensed expenditure—these were very different from the rapid conclusion he had hoped.
“My dear young friend,” said Mr. Fazakerly solemnly, turning round upon Edgar as they entered the library, “you have behaved like an idiot!—I don’t care who tells you otherwise, or if it has been your own unassisted genius which has brought you to this—but you have acted like a fool. It sounds uncivil, but it is true.”
“Would you have had me, as he says, carry on the imposture,” said Edgar, with an attempt at a smile. “Would you have had me, knowing who I am——”
“Pooh! pooh!” said Mr. Fazakerly. “Pooh! pooh! You don’t in the least know who you are. And that is not your business in the least—it is his. Let him prove what he can; you are Edgar Arden, of Arden, occupying a position which, for my part, I think you ought to have been contented with. To make yourself out to be somebody else is not your business. Sit down, and let me hear what you have to say.”
Then the client and the adviser sat down together, and Edgar related all the particulars he had learned. Mr. Fazakerly sobered down out of hishopeful impatience as he listened. He shook his head and said, “Bad, very bad,” at intervals. When he heard what Mrs. Murray had said, and that it was in Arthur Arden’s presence, he gave his head a redoubled shake. “Very—bad—indeed,” and pondered sadly over it all. “If you had but spoken to me first; if you had but spoken to me first!” he cried. “I don’t mean to say I would have advised you to keep it up. An unscrupulous counsellor would have told you, and with truth, that you had every chance in your favour. There was no proof whatever that you were the boy referred to before this Mrs. Murray appeared; and nothing could be easier than to take Mrs. Murray out of the way. But I don’t advise that—imposture is not in my way any more than in yours, Mr. Edgar. But at least I should have insisted upon having a respectable man to deal with, instead of that cold-blooded egotist; and we might have come to terms. It is not your fault. You are behaving most honourably—more than that—Quixotically. You are doing more than any other man would have done—and we could have made terms. There could have been no possible objection to that.”
“Yes, I should have objected,” said Edgar; “I do not want to make any terms——”
“Then what do you mean to do?” cried Mr.Fazakerly. “It is all very fine to be high-minded in theory, but what are you to do? You have not been brought up to any profession. With your notions, you could never get on in business. What are you to do?”
Edgar shook his head. He smiled at the same time with a half-amused indifference, which drove his friend to renewed impatience.
“Mr. Edgar,” he said solemnly, “I have a great respect for you. I admire some of your qualities—I would trust you with anything; but you are behaving like a fool——”
“Very likely,” said Edgar, still with a smile. “If that were all! Do you really suppose that with two hands capable of doing a few things, not to speak of a head and some odd scraps of information—do you really suppose a man without any pride to speak of, will be unable to get himself a living? That is nonsense. I am quite ready to work at anything, and I have no pride——”
“I should not like to trust too much to that,” said Mr. Fazakerly, shaking his head. “And then there is your sister. Miss Clare loses by this as much as you do. Of course now the entail stands as if you had never taken any steps in the matter, and Old Arden is hers no longer. Are you aware that, supposing her fully provided for by that mostiniquitous bequest, your father left her nothing else? She will be a beggar as well as you.”
“You don’t mean it!” cried Edgar, with a flush of warm colour rushing over his face. “Say that again! You don’t really mean it? Why, then, I shall have Clare to work for, and I don’t envy the king, much less the proprietor of Arden. Shake hands! you have made me twice the man I was. My sister is my sister still, and, after all, I am not alone in the world.”
Mr. Fazakerly looked at the young man aghast. He said to himself, “Theremustbe madness in the family,” not recollecting that nothing in the family could much affect Edgar, who did not belong to it. He sat with a certain helpless amazement looking at him, watching how the life rose in his face. He had been very weary, very pale, before, but this news, as it were, rekindled him, and gave him all his energy back.
“I thought it did not matter much what became of me,” he said, with a certain joyous ring in his voice, which stupified the old lawyer. “But it does matter now. What is it, Wilkins? What do you want?”
“Please, sir, Lady Augusta Thornleigh and the young ladies is come to call,” said Wilkins. “I’d have shown them into the drawing-room, butMr. Arthur Arden he’s in the drawing-room. Shall they come here?”
Edgar’s countenance paled again as suddenly as it had grown bright. His face was like a glass, on which all his emotions showed. “They must want to see my sister,” he said, with a certain longing and wistfulness in his tone.
“It was you, sir, as my lady asked for, not Miss Arden. It’s the second one of the young ladies as is with her—Miss Augusta I think they calls her, sir,” said Wilkins, not without some curiosity. “They said special as they didn’t want to see no strangers—only you.”
Edgar rose up once more, his face glowing crimson, his eyes wet and full. “Wherever they please—wherever they please,” he said half to himself, with a confused thrill of happiness and emotion. “I am at their orders.” He did not know what he expected. His heart rose as if it had wings. They had come to seek him. Was not he receiving compensation, more than compensation, for all his pain?
But before he could give any orders, before Mr. Fazakerly could gather up his papers, or even offer to go away, Lady Augusta herself appeared at the open door.
Lady Augustacame in with a disturbed countenance and traces of anxiety on her brow. She was alone, and though her good heart, and another pleader besides, had impelled her to take this step, she was a little doubtful as to the wisdom of what she was doing, and a little nervous as to the matter generally. She had her character for prudence to keep up, she had to keep the world in ignorance of the danger there had been to Gussy, and of all the pain this business had cost her. And yet she could not let the poor boy, who had been so disinterested and so honourable, go without a word from her—without once more holding out her hand. She said to herself that she could not have done it, and at all events it was quite certain that Gussy would have given her no peace, and would have herself done something violent and compromising, had her mother resisted her determination. “I will be very good,” Gussy had said. “I will say nothing I ought not to say; but he was fond of me, and Icannot, cannot let him go without a word!” Lady Augusta’s heart had spoken in the same tone; but the moment she had yielded, the other side of the question appeared to her, and a hundred fears lest she should compromise her child had taken possession of her mind. It was this which had brought her alone to the library door, leaving Gussy behind. She came forward, almost with shyness, with an air of timidity quite unlike her, and held out both her hands to Edgar, who for his part could scarcely repress an exclamation of disappointment at seeing her alone. “I am so glad to see Mr. Fazakerly with you,” Lady Augusta said, taking prompt advantage of this fact, and extending her hand graciously to the lawyer. “I do hope you have dismissed that incomprehensible story you told me altogether from your mind.”
“Don’t be angry with me,” said Edgar, gazing at her wistfully; “but was it with that idea you came here?”
She looked at him, and took in at a glance the change in his appearance, the pathetic look in his eyes, and her heart was touched. “No,” she said, “no, my poor boy; it was not that. We came to tell you what we felt—what we thought. Oh, Mr. Fazakerly, have you heard this dreadful story? Is it true?”
“I decline to say what is and what is not true,” said Mr. Fazakerly, doggedly. “I am not here to define truth. Your ladyship may think me very rude, but Mr. Arden is behaving like a fool.”
“Poor boy!” said Lady Augusta; “poor boy!” Her heart was bleeding for him, but she did not know what to do or say.
“You saidwe,” said Edgar. “Some one else came with you. Some one else had the same kind thought. Dear Lady Augusta, you will not take that comfort from me now.”
Lady Augusta paused, distracted between prudence and pity. Then she drew herself up with a tremulous dignity. “Mr. Fazakerly has daughters of his own,” she said. “I am not afraid that he will betray mine. Yes, Mr. Arden, Gussy has come with me. She insisted upon coming. There has never been anything between them,” she added, turning to the lawyer. “There might have been, had he not found out this; but the moment he discovered——, like a true gentleman, as he is——” Here Lady Augusta had to pause to stifle her tears. “And my Gussy’s heart is so warm. She would not let him go without bidding him good-bye. I told her it was not prudent, but she would not listen to me. Of course, it must end here; but ourhearts are breaking, and we could not let him go without one good-bye.”
She stopped, with a sob, and once more held out her hand. Poor woman! even at that moment it was more herself than him she bewailed. Standing there in his strength and youth, it did not seem possible to believe that the world could go very badly with him; but how unfortunate she was! Ada first, and then Gussy; and such a son as he would have been—somebody to trust, whatever happened. She held out her hand to him, and drew him close to her, and wept over him. How unfortunate she was!
“And Gussy?” said Edgar eagerly.
“I put her into the little morning-room, Clare’s room,” said Lady Augusta. “Go to her for a few minutes; Mr. Fazakerly will not think it wrong of me, I am sure. And oh, my dear boy, I know I can trust you not to go too far—not to suggest anything impossible, any correspondence—Edgar, do not try my poor child too far.”
He pressed her hand, and went away, with a kind of sweet despair in his heart. It was despair: hope and possibility had all gone out of any dream he had ever entertained on this subject; but still it was sweet, not bitter. Lady Augusta sat silent for some minutes, trying to compose herself. “I begyour pardon,” she said; “indeed I can’t help it. Oh, Mr. Fazakerly, could no arrangement be made? I cannot help crying. Oh, what a dear fellow he is! and going away from us with his heart broken. Could nothing be done?—could no arrangement be made?”
“A great many things could be done, if he was not behaving like a fool,” said Mr. Fazakerly. “I beg your pardon; but it is too much for me. He is like an idiot; he will hear no reason. Nobody but himself would have taken any notice. Nobody but himself——”
“Poor boy—poor dear boy!” said Lady Augusta. And then she entered into the subject eagerly, and asked a hundred questions. How it had been found out—what he was going to do—what Arthur Arden’s position would be—whether there ought not to be some provision made for Edgar? She inquired into all these matters with the eagerness of a woman who knew a great deal about business and was deeply interested for the sufferer. “But you must not suppose there was anything between him and my daughter,” she repeated piteously; “there never was—there never was!”
In the meantime, Edgar had gone hastily, with a thrill of sadness and of pleasure which it would be difficult to describe, to the room where Gussywas. He went in suddenly, excitement and emotion having brought a flush upon his cheeks. She was standing with her back to the door, and turned round as he opened it. Gussy was very much agitated—she grew red and she grew pale, her hands, which she extended to him, trembled, tears filled her eyes. “O Mr. Arden!” was all she was able to say. As for Edgar, his heart so melted over her that he had hard ado to refrain from taking her into his arms. It would have been no harm, he thought—his embrace would have been that of a brother, nothing more.
“It is very, very good of you to come,” he said, his own voice faltering and breaking in spite of him. “I don’t know how to thank you. It makes me feel everything so much less—and so much more.”
“I could not help coming,” said Gussy, with a choking voice. “O Mr. Arden, I am so grieved—I cannot speak of it—I could not let you go without—without——”
She trembled so that he could not help it—he drew her hand through his arm to support her. And then poor Gussy, overwhelmed, all her self-restraint abandoning her, drooped her head upon his shoulder as the nearest thing she could lean upon, and burst into tears.
There had never been a moment in her life sosad—or in either of their lives so strangely full of meaning. A few days ago they were all but affianced bride and groom, likely to pass their entire lives together. Now they met in a half embrace, with poignant youthful feeling, knowing that never in their lives would they again be so near to each other, that never more could they be anything to each other. It was the first time, and it would be the last.
“Dear Gussy,” Edgar said, putting his arm softly round her, “God bless you for being so good to me. I will cherish the thought of you all my life. You have always been sweet to me, always from the beginning; and then I thought—— But, thank God, you are not injured. And thank you a thousand and a thousand times.”
“Oh, don’t, don’t!” cried Gussy. “Don’t thank me, Mr. Arden. I think my heart will break.”
“Don’t call me Mr. Arden; call me Edgar now; it is the only name I have a right to; and let me kiss you once before we part.”
She lifted up her face to him, with the tears still wet upon her cheeks. They loved each other more truly at that moment than they had ever done before; and Gussy’s heart, as she said, was breaking. She threw her arms round his neck, and clung to him. “O Edgar, dear! Good-bye, good-bye!” shesobbed. And his heart, too, thrilled with a poignant sweetness, ineffable misery, and consolation, and despair.
This was how they parted for ever and ever—not with any pretence between them that it could ever be otherwise, or anything that sounded like hope. Lady Augusta’s warning was unnecessary. They said not a word to each other of anything but that final severance. Perhaps in Gussy’s secret heart, when she felt herself placed in a chair, felt another sudden hot kiss on her forehead, and found herself alone, and everything over, there was a pang more secret and deep-lying still, which felt the absence of any suggestion for the future; perhaps there had flitted before her some phantom of romance, whispering what he might do to prove himself worthy of her—revealing some glimpse of a far-off hope. Gussy knew all through that this was impossible. She was sure as of her own existence that no such thing could be; and yet, with his kiss still warm on her forehead—a kiss which only parting could have justified—she would have been pleased had he said it, only said it. As it was, she sat and cried, with a sense that all was finished and over, in which there lay the very essence of despair.
Edgar returned to the library while Lady Augusta was still in the very midst of her interrogations.She stopped short at sight of him, making an abrupt conclusion. She saw his eyes full of tears, the traces of emotion in his face, and thanked God that it was over. At such a moment, in such a mood, it would have been so difficult, so impossible to resist him. If he were to ask her for permission to write to Gussy, to cherish a hope, she felt that even to herself it would have been hard, very hard, to say absolutely, No. And her very soul trembled to think of the effect of such a petition on Gussy’s warm, romantic, young heart. But he had not made any such prayer; he had accepted the unalterable necessity. She felt sure of that by the shortness of his absence, and the look which she dared scarcely contemplate—the expression of almost solemnity which was upon his face. She got up and went forward to meet him, once more holding out both her hands.
“Edgar,” she said, “God will reward you for being so good and so true. You have not thought of yourself, you have thought of others all through, and you will not be left to suffer alone. Oh, my dear boy! I can never be your mother now, and yet I feel as if I were your mother. Kiss me too, and God bless you! I would give half of everything I have to find out that this was only a delusion, and that all was as it used to be.”
Edgar shook his head with a faint smile. There passed over his mind, as in a dream, the under-thought—If she gave half of all she had to bring him back, how soon he would replace it; how easy, were such a thing possible, any secondary sacrifice would be! But notwithstanding this faint and misty reflection, it never occurred to him to think that it was because he was losing Arden that he was being thus absolutely taken farewell of. He himself was just the same—nay, he was better than he ever had been, for he had been weighed in the balance, and not found wanting. But because he had lost Arden, and his family and place in the world, therefore, with the deepest tenderness and feeling, these good women were taking leave of him. Edgar, fortunately, did not think of that aspect of the question. He kissed Lady Augusta, and received her blessing with a real overflowing of his heart. It touched him almost as much as his parting with Gussy. She was a good woman. She cried over him, as if he had been a boy of her own.
“Tell me anything I can do for you,” she said—“anything, whatever it is. Would you like me to take charge of Clare? I will take her, and we will comfort her as we best can, if she will come with me. She ought not to be here now, while the house is so much agitated, and everything in disorder;and if there is anything to be done about Mr. Arthur Arden—Clare ought not to be here.”
She had not the heart to say, though it was on her lips, that Clare ought not to be with the man who was no longer her brother. She caught his wistful look, and she could not say the words, though they were on her lips. But her offer was not one to be refused. Edgar—poor Edgar—who had everything to do—to sign his own death-warrant, as it were, and separate himself from everything that was near to him, had to go to Clare to negotiate. Would she go with Lady Augusta? He spoke to her at the door of her room, not entering, and she, with a flush of pain on her face, stood at the door also, not inviting him to go in. The division was growing between them in spite of themselves.
“Would you come to see me at Thorne?” said Clare. “Upon that must rest the whole matter whether I will go or not.”
Edgar reflected, with again that sense of profound weariness stealing over him, and desire to be done with everything. No; he could not go through these farewells again—he could not wear his heart out bit by bit. This must be final, or it was mere folly. “No,” he said; “it would be impossible. I could not go to see you at Thorne.”
“Then I will not go,” said Clare. And so it wassettled, notwithstanding all remonstrances. The more she felt that distance creep between, the more she was determined not to recognise or acknowledge it. Edgar went back to the library and gave his message, and stayed there, restraining himself with an effort, while Mr. Fazakerly gave her ladyship his arm and conducted her to her carriage. Edgar would not even give himself that last gratification; he would not disturb Gussy again, or bring another tear to her eyes. It was all over and ended, for ever and ever. His life was being cut off, thread after thread, that he might begin anew. Thread after thread—only one trembling half-divided strand bound him at all to the old house, and name, and associations. Another clip of the remorseless shears, and he must be cut off for ever. One scene after another came, moving him to the depths of his being, and passed, and was over. The worst was over now—until, indeed, his final parting came, and Clare, in her turn, had been given up. But Clare, like himself, was penniless, and that last anguish might, perhaps, be spared.
Clareleft Arden that same afternoon. She came downstairs with her veil over her face, trembling, yet perhaps hoping to be met upon the way. Even Edgar was not aware of the moment when she took her flight. She had sent her maid to see that there was no one about, and even to herself she kept up the delusion that she wished to see no one—that she was able for no more agitation. So many long hours had passed—a night, a new morning, another day—yet Arthur Arden had not sought her, had not repeated those words which she had bidden him, if he would, repeat. She had made that concession to him in a moment of utter overthrow, when her heart had been overwhelmed by the sense of her own weakness and loneliness—by deepest poignant compassion and love for her brother. She had almost appealed to him to save them all—she had put, as it were, the welfare of the family into his hands. It had been done by impulse—almost against her will—for had she not grievances againsthim enough to embitter the warmest love? He had deserted her (she thought) for the merest village girl—a child with a lovely face, and nothing more. He had slighted her, making vain pretences of devotion, spending the time with Jeanie which he might have passed at her side. Yet all this she had forgotten in one moment when her heart was desperate. She had turned to him as to her last hope. She had as good as said—“Because I love you, save us.” Not in words—never in words had she made such a confession. But could he be an Arden and not know that a woman of the house of Arden never asked help or succour but from a man she loved? And yet twenty-four hours had passed, and he had made no sign. She had thought of this all the night. Her heart was sore, and bleeding with a thousand wounds; there did not seem one corner of it that some sword had not stabbed. She had lost her father for ever; she could no longer think of him as she had once done; his image was driven away into the innermost depths of her heart, where she cherished, and wept over, and loved it, but could not reverence any longer. And her brother was her brother no more. He had done nothing to forfeit her love or her respect, but he was not her brother—different blood flowed in his veins. His very best qualities, his virtues andexcellences, were not like the Ardens. He was a stranger to her and her race. Thus Clare was left alone and unsupported in the world. And Arthur! He had wounded her, slighted her, failed to understand her, or, understanding, scorned. Everything seemed to close round her, every door at which she might have knocked for sympathy. Her heart was sick, and sore, and weary with suffering, but not resigned. How could she ever be resigned to give up everything that was dearest to her, and all that made her prize her life?
It was for this reason that she stole out in the dullest hour of the afternoon, when the heart is faintest, and the vital stream flows lowest. She had a thick veil over her face, and a cloak which completely enveloped her figure. She left her maid behind to explain to her brother—whom she still called her brother, though she was forsaking him—how and where she had gone. “He will give you your orders about my things,” she said to Barbara, who was in the highest state of restrained excitement, feeling, as all the household had begun to feel, that something strange must have happened. “Oh, Miss Clare, you’ve never gone and quarrelled with master?” the girl cried, ready to weep. “No; I will never quarrel with him. I could not quarrel with him,” cried Clare. “How could you think so.Did you ever see so kind a brother?” “Never, Miss!” cried Barbara, fervently; and Clare paused and cried: but then drew the veil over her face, and set out alone—into a new world.
She paused for a moment, lingering on the steps, and gave a wistful look round her, hoping, she said to herself, that she would see nobody—but rather, poor Clare, with a wistful longing to see some one—to have her path intercepted. But no one was visible. Edgar was still in the library with Mr. Fazakerly. Arthur Arden was—no one knew where. The whole world stood afar off, still and indifferent, letting her do what she pleased, letting her leave her father’s house. She stood on the doorstep, with nobody but Wilkins in sight, and took leave of the place where she was born. Had she been called upon to leave it under any other circumstances, her whole mind would have been occupied by the pang of parting from Arden. Now Arden had the lightest possible share in her pain—so little that she scarcely remembered it. She had so many more serious matters to grieve over. She forgot even, to tell the truth, that she was leaving Arden. She looked round, not to take farewell of her home, but to see if there was no shadow anywhere of some one coming, or some one going. She looked all round, deep into the shade of the trees,far across the glimmer of the fish pond. All was silent, deserted, lonely. The moment had come when she must step forth from the shelter in which she had spent all her life.
The avenue sloped gently downward to the village, and yet Clare felt it as hard as a mountainside. She seemed to herself to be toiling along, spending all her strength. For she was so solitary—no one to lend her an arm or a hand; no one to comfort her, or even to say the way was long. She was (she believed) a scorned and forsaken woman. Heaven and earth were made bitter to her by the thought. Once more she looked round, a final double farewell. He might even have been roused, she thought, by the sound of her step crossing the hall, by Wilkins swinging open the door for her, as he always did when any Arden went or came; for others, for the common world, it was open enough, as it stood usually at half its width. Oh, how slight a noise would have roused her, how faint a sound, had it been Arthur who was going away! She bethought herself of an expedient she had heard of—swallowing her own pride in the vehemence of her feelings. She wished for him with all her heart, making a vehement conscious exertion of her will. She cried out within herself, Arthur! Arthur! Arthur! It was a kind of Pagan prayer,addressed not to God, but to man. Such a thing had been known to be effectual. She had read in books, she had heard from others, that such an appeal made, with all the heart, is never unsuccessful; that the one will thus exerted affects the other unerringly; and that the name thus called sounds in the ears of its owner, calling him, wherever he may be. Therefore she did it, and watched its effect with a smothered excitement not to be described. But there was no effect; the park spread out behind her, the avenue ran into two lines of living green before. She was the only human creature on the scene—the only being capable of this pain and anguish. She drew her veil close, and went her way, with an indignation, a resentment, a rush of shame, greater than anything she had felt in all her life. She had called him, and he had not come. She had stooped her pride, and humbled herself, and made that effort, and there had been no response. Now, it was, it must be, over for ever, and life henceforward contained nothing for her worth the trouble of existing for.
It was thus that Clare left Arden, the old home of her race, her birthplace, the place which was, she would have said, everything to her—without even thinking of it or caring for it, or making any more account of it than had it been the veriest hiredhouse. She was not aware of her own extraordinary indifference. Had any one met her, had her feelings been brought under her own notice, she would have said, beyond any dispute, that her heart was breaking to leave her home. But nobody met her to thrust any such question upon her, and the stronger feeling swallowed up the weaker, as it always does. All the way down the avenue not a creature, not even a servant, or a pensioner from the village—though on ordinary occasions there was always some one about—broke the long silent expanse of way. She was suffered to go without a remonstrance, without a question, from any living creature. Already it appeared the tie was broken between her and the dwelling so familiar to her—the place which had known her already began to know her no more.
Mr. Fielding was in his study when Clare went in upon him veiled and cloaked—a figure almost funereal. She gave him a great start and shock, which was scarcely softened when she raised her veil. “Something more has happened?” he said; “something worse—Edgar has gone away? My poor child, tell me what it is——”
“It is nothing,” said Clare. “Edgar is quite safe, so far as I know. But I have left Arden, Mr. Fielding. I have left it for ever. Till my brothercan make some arrangement for me, may I come here?”
“Here!” cried the good Rector, in momentary dismay.
“Yes—you have so often said you felt me like a child of your own; I will be your child, dear Mr. Fielding. Don’t make me feel I have lost everything—everything, all in a day.”
“My dear! my dear!” cried Mr. Fielding, taking her into his old arms, “don’t cry so, Clare; oh, my poor child, don’t cry. Of course, you shall come here—I shall be too happy, too pleased to have you. Of that you may be quite sure. Clare, my darling, it is not like you—oh, don’t cry!”
“It is a relief,” she said. “Think—I have left Arden, where I was born, and where I have lived all my life; and you are the only creature I can come to now.”
“My poor child!” said the kind Rector. Yes, she who had been so proud of Arden, so devoted to the home of her race, it was not wonderful that she should feel the parting. He soothed her, and laid his kind hand on her head, and blessed her. “My dear, you have quantities of friends. There is not a man or woman in the county, far or near, but is your friend, Clare,” he said; “and Edgar will always be a brother to you; and you are young enough toform other ties. You are very young—you have your whole life before you. Clare, my dearest child, you would have left Arden some time in the course of nature. It is hard, but it will soon be over—and you are welcome to me as the flowers in May.”
She had known he would be kind to her—it had required no wizard to foresee that; and the old man’s tenderness made less impression upon her than if it had been unlooked for. She composed herself and dried her tears, pride coming to her aid. Yes, everybody in the county would be her friend. She was still an Arden of Arden, though Edgar was an alien. No one could take from her that natural distinction. Her retirement was a proud one—not forced. She could not be mistaken in any way. If it had been but Arden she was leaving, she would have got over it very soon, and taken refuge in her pride. But there was more than Arden in question—more than Edgar—something which she could confide to no mortal ears.
Then she was conducted by the Rector through all the house, that she might choose her room. “There are none of them half pretty enough,” he said. “If we had known we had a princess coming, we would have done our best to prepare her a bower. This one is very bright and sunny, and looks out on the garden; and this is the best room—the one Mrs.Solmes thinks most of. You must take your choice, and it shall be made pretty for you, Clare. I know, I once knew, how a lady should be lodged. Yes, my dear, you have but to choose.”
“It does not matter,” Clare said, almost coldly. She did not share the good man’s pleasant flutter. It was gain to him, and only loss to her. She threw off her cloak and her hat in the nearest room, without any interest in the matter—an indifference which checked the Rector in the midst of his eager hospitalities. “Don’t mind me,” she said, “dear Mr. Fielding; go on with your work—don’t take any notice of me. I shall go into the drawing-room, and sit there till you have finished. Never mind me——”
“I have to go out,” the Rector said, with a distressed face. “There are some sick people who expect me. But Clare, you know, you are mistress here—entirely mistress. The servants will be too proud to do anything you want; and the house is yours—absolutely yours——”
“The house is mine!” Clare said to herself, when he was gone, with a despite which was partly the result of her mortification and grief. As if she cared for that—as if it was anything to her being mistress there, she who had been mistress of Arden! She sat down by herself in the old-fashioned, dingydrawing-room—the room which Mr. Fielding had furnished for his Milly nearly fifty years before, and where, though everything was familiar, nothing was interesting. She could not read, even though there had been anything to read. She had nothing to work at, even had she cared to work. She sat all alone, idle, unoccupied—a prey to her own thoughts. There is nothing in the world more painful than the sudden blank which falls upon an agitated spirit when thus turned out of confusion and excitement into the arbitrary quiet of a strange house—a new scene. Clare walked about the room from window to window, trying vainly to see something where there was nothing to see—the gardener rolling the grass, old Simon clamping past the Rectory gate in his clogs, upon some weird mission to the churchyard. Impatience took possession of her soul. When she had borne it as long as she could, she ran upstairs for her hat, and went across the road to the Doctor’s house, which irritated her, twinkling with all its windows in the slanting sunshine. Miss Somers could not be much consolation, but at least she would maunder and talk, and give Clare’s irritation vent in another way. The silence, the quiet, the peace, were more than she could bear.
Miss Somerswas seated very erect on her sofa when Clare went in—more erect than she had been known to be for many a day—and was at the moment engaged in a discussion with Mercy, which her visitor could not but hear. “I don’t believe it was Clare,” Miss Somers was saying; “not that I mean you are telling a story—oh, no! I should as soon think—— But Clare will break her heart. She was always so—— And if ever a brother deserved it—— Oh, the poor dear—— I don’t mean to say a word against my brother—he is very, very—— But, then, as to being feeling, and all that—— If you are never ill yourself, how are you to know? But, Edgar, oh!—the tender heartedest, feelingest—— She never, never could—— Oh, can it be—is it—Clare?”
“Yes,” said Clare, with her haughtiest look. “And I think you were discussing us, Miss Somers—please don’t. I do not like it, nor would my brother. Talk of us to ourselves as you like, but to others—don’t, please.”
“Mercy,” Miss Somers said, hastily interrupting her, “I must have some more wool to finish these little—white Andalusian—— Mrs. Horsfall at the post-office—you must run now. Only fancy if I had not enough to finish—and that dear little—— Run—there’s a good woman, now. O Clare, my dear!” she added, out of breath, as the maid sulkily withdrew; “it isn’t that I would take upon me—— Who am I that I should find fault? but other people’s feelings, you know—though you were only a servant—— What was I saying, my dear?—that Edgar was the best, the very best—— And so he is. I never saw any one—not any one—so unselfish, and so—— O Clare! nobody should know it so well as you.”
“Nobody knows it so well as me,” said Clare. She had come with a kind of half hope of sympathy, thinking at least that it would be a relief to let her old friend run on, and talk the whole matter over as pleased her. But now her heart closed up—her pride came uppermost. She could not bear the idea of being discussed, and made the subject of talk to all the village. “But I object to being gossiped about,” she said.
“Dear,” said Miss Somers, in her soft voice, “it is not gossip when—and I love you both. I feel as if I was both your mothers. Oh, Clare! when Iused to have my little dreams sometimes—when I thought I had quite a number, you know, all growing up—there were always places for Edgar and you. Oh, Clare! I don’t understand. The Doctor you know—he has so many things to think of—and then gentlemen are so strange—they expect you to know everything without—— Oh, what is it that has happened? Something about Edgar—that he was changed at nurse—or something. I am not very clever, I know, but you understand everything, Clare. Oh, what is it?—Arthur Arden and Edgar—but it is not Arthur that is your——? It is Edgar that was—and something about that Scotch person and Mr. Fazakerly, and—oh, Clare, it makes the whole house swim, and my poor head——”
“I cannot speak of it,” said Clare. “Oh, Miss Somers, don’t you understand?—how can I speak of it. I would like to forget it all—to die, or to go away——”
“Oh, hush, my dear—oh, hush,” said Miss Somers, with a scared face; “don’t speak of such—and then, why should you? You will marry, you know, you will be quite, quite—and all this will pass away. Oh, as long as you are young, Clare—anything may happen. Brothers are very nice,” said Miss Somers, shaking her head softly,“but to give yourself up, you know—and then they may marry; the Doctor never did—if he had brought home a wife, I think often—— Though, to be sure, it might have been better, far better. But a brother is never like—he may be very nice; and I am sure Edgar—— But, on the whole, Clare, my dear, a house of your own——”
Clare was silent. Her mind had wandered away to other matters. A house of her own! The Rector had said that his house was hers, and the thought had not consoled her. Was it possible that in the years to come, in some dull distant time she too might consent, like other girls, to marry somebody—that she might have a house of her own. In the sudden change that had overwhelmed her this dream had come like many others. Was it possible that she could no longer command her own destiny, that the power of decision had gone out of her hands. Bitterness filled her heart; a bitterness too deep to find any outlet in words. A little while ago she had been conscious that it was in her power to make Arthur Arden’s life wealthy and happy. Now she had been tossed from her elevation in a moment, and the power transferred to him; and he showed no desire to use it. He was silent, condemning her to a blank of suspense, which chafed her beyond endurance. She said toherself it was intolerable, not to be borne. She would think of him no more; she would forget his very name. Would he never come? would he never come?
“I don’t pretend to understand, my dear,” said Miss Somers humbly; “and if it distresses you, of course—— It is all because the Doctor is so hasty; and never, never will—— And then he expects me to understand. But, anyhow, it will stop the marriage, I suppose. The marriage, you know—— Gussy Thornleigh, of course. I am so sorry—— I think she is such a nice girl. Not like you, Clare; not beautiful nor——; but such a nice—— I was so pleased—— Dear Edgar, he will have to wait, and perhaps she will see some one else, or he—— Gentlemen are always the worst—— But, of course, Clare, the marriage must be put off——”
“I don’t know of any marriage,” said Clare.
“Oh, my dear, I heard—— I am not of much account, but still I have some friends; and in town, you know, Clare. They were always——; and everybody knew. Poor Edgar! he must be very, very—— He is so affectionate and—— He is one of the men that throw themselves upon your sympathy—and you must give him your—— Clare, my dear! are they to share Arden betweenthem?—or is Edgar to be Arthur, you know? Oh! I do wish you would tell me, Clare.”
“Mr. Arthur Arden has everything,” said Clare raising her head. “It all belongs to him. My brother has no right. Oh, Miss Somers, please don’t make me talk!”
“That is just what I said,” said Miss Somers; “and oh, my dear, don’t be unhappy, as if it were death or——, when it is only money. I always say—— And then he is so young; he may marry, or a hundred things. So, Arthur is Edgar now? but he is not your—— I don’t understand it, Clare. He is a great deal more like you, and all that; but he was born years before your poor, dear mamma—— Oh, I remember quite well—before the old Squire was married—so it is impossible he could be your—— I daresay I shall have it clear after a while. Edgar is found out to be Arthur, and Arthur Edgar, but only not your—— And then, Clare, if you will but think—how could they be changed at nurse? for Arthur was a big fellow when your poor, dear mamma—— You could not mistake a big boy of ten, with boots and all that, you know, for a little baby—— Oh, I am so fond of little babies! I remember Edgar, he was such a—— But Arthurwas a troublesome, mischievous boy—— I can’t make out, I assure you, how it could be——”
Again Clare made no reply. She sat and pursued her own thoughts, leaving the invalid in her confused musings to make the matter out as best she could. It was better to be here, even with Miss Somers’ babble in her ears, than alone in the awful solitude of the Rectory, with nothing to break the current of her thoughts. Miss Somers waited a few minutes for an answer, but, receiving none, returned to her own way of making matters out.
“If Edgar is in want—of—anything, Clare—— I mean, you know—— Money is always nice, my dear. Whatever one may want—— Oh, I know very well it cannot buy—— but still—— And then there is that nice chair: he was so very kind—— Clare,” she said, sitting up erect, “if it is all true about their being changed, and all that, why, it was Arthur’s money, not Edgar’s; and I am sure if I had been shut up for a hundred years—— I am not saying anything against your cousin—— but it would never have occurred to him, you know—— Clare, perhaps I ought to send it back——”
“I hope you don’t think my cousin is a miser or a tyrant,” said Clare, flushing suddenly to her very hair.
“Oh, no, no, dear—— But then one never knows—— Mr. Arthur Arden is not a miser, I know. I should not like to say—— He is fond of what belongs to him, and—— He is not at all like—— My dear, I never knew any one like Edgar. Other gentlemen may be kind—— I daresay Mr. Arthur Arden is kind—— but these things would never come into his head—— He is a man that is very fond of—— Well, my dear, it is no harm. One ought to be rather fond of oneself—— But Edgar—— Clare——”
“Edgar is a fool!” cried Clare, with passion. “He is not an Arden; he would give away everything—his very life, if it would serve anybody. Such men cannot live in the world; it is wicked—it is wrong. When God sent us into the world, surely He meant we were to take care of ourselves.”
“Did he?” said Miss Somers, softly. She was roused out of her usual broken talk. “Oh, Clare, I am not clever, to talk to you. But if that is what God meant, it was not what our Saviour did. He never took care of Himself—— He took care—— Oh, my dear, is not Edgar more like—— Don’t you understand?”
Once more Clare made no reply. A cloud enveloped her, mentally and physically—asourdmisery, inarticulate, not defining itself. Whyshould Edgar, why should any one, thus resign their own happiness? Happiness was the better part of life, and ought there not to be a canon against its renunciation as well as against self-murder? Self-murder was nothing to it. To give up your identity, your real existence, all the service you could do to God or man, was not that worse than simply taking your own life? So Clare asked herself. And this was what Edgar had done. He had not considered his duty at all in the matter. He had acted on a foolish, generous impulse, and thrown away more than his existence. Then, as she sat and pursued the current of her thoughts, she remembered that but for her, Edgar, in the carelessness of his security, would never have looked at those papers, would never have thought of them. It was she, and she only, who was to blame. Oh, what fancies had been in her mind—visions of wrong to Arthur, of the duty that was upon herself to right him! To right him who cared nothing for her, who was ready to let her sink into the abyss, whose heart did not impel him towards her, whose hand had never sought hers since he knew—— It was her fault, not Edgar’s, after all.
“I am not one to preach,” said Miss Somers, faltering. “I know I neverwas clever; but oh, Clare, when one only thinks—— What a fuss we make about ourselves, even me, a helpless creature! We make such a fuss—and then—— As if it mattered, you know. But our Saviour never made any fuss—never minded what happened. Oh, Clare! If Edgar were like that—and he is so,so—— Oh, I don’t know how to express myself. Other people come always first with him, not himself. If he was my brother, oh, I would be so—— Not that I am saying a word against the Doctor. The Doctor is very, very—— But not like Edgar. Oh! if I had such a brother, I would be proud——”
“And so am I,” said Clare, rising with a revulsion of feeling incomprehensible to herself. “Heismy brother. Nothing can take him away from me. I will do as he does, and maintain him in everything. Thank you, dear Miss Somers. I will never give Edgar up as long as I live——”
“Give Edgar up!” cried Miss Somers in consternation—“I should think not, indeed, when everybody is so proud—— It is so sweet of you, dear, to thank me—as if what I said could ever—— It is all Edgar’s doing—instead of laughing, you know, or that—— And then it makes others think—she cannot be so silly after all—I know that is what theysay. But, oh! Clare, I’m not clever—I know it—and not one to——, but I love you with all my heart!——”
“Thanks, dear Miss Somers,” cried Clare, and in her weariness and trouble, and the revulsion of her thoughts, she sat down resolving to be very good and kind, and to devote herself to this poor woman, who certainly was not clever, nor clear-sighted, nor powerful in any way, but yet could see further than she herself could into some sacred mysteries. She remained there all the afternoon reading to her, trying to keep up something like conversation, glad to escape from her own thoughts. But Miss Somers was trying for a long stretch. It was hard not to be impatient—hard not to contradict. Clare grew very weary, as the afternoon stole on, but no one came to deliver her. No one seemed any longer to remember her existence. She, who could not move a few days since without brother, suitor, anxious servants to watch her every movement, was left now to wander where she would, and no one took any notice. To be sure, they were all absorbed in more important matters; but then she had been the very most important matter of all, both to Edgar and Arthur, only two days ago. Even, she became sensible, as the long afternoon crept over, that there had been a feeling in her heart that she must be pursued. They wouldnever let her go like this, the two to whom she was everything in the world. They would come after her, plead with her, remonstrate, bid her believe that whosoever had Arden, it was hers most and first of all. But they had not done so. Night was coming on, and nobody had so much as inquired where she was. They had let her go. Perhaps in all the excitement they were glad to be quit of her. Could it be possible? Thus Clare mused, making herself it is impossible to say how miserable and forlorn. Ready to let her go; glad to be rid of her. Oh, how she had been deceived! And it was these two more than any other who had taught her to believe that she was in some sort the centre of the world.