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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ade5996 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #54186 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54186) diff --git a/old/54186-0.txt b/old/54186-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 418c775..0000000 --- a/old/54186-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7158 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Squire Arden; volume 3 of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Squire Arden; volume 3 of 3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: February 17, 2017 [EBook #54186] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SQUIRE ARDEN; VOLUME 3 OF 3 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - SQUIRE ARDEN. - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT, - - AUTHOR OF - “CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” - “SALEM CHAPEL,” “THE MINISTER’S WIFE,” - ETC., ETC. - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - VOL. III. - - LONDON: - HURST & BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, - 13 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. - 1871. - - _The Right of Translation is Reserved._ - - PERTH: - SAMUEL COWAN & CO., PRINTERS. - - - - - SQUIRE ARDEN. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -“How is Miss Pimpernel?” Arthur asked as he entered the house. He went -in with a great appearance of anxiety and haste, and he repeated his -question to a maid who was just preparing to ascend the stairs. The -footman had given him no answer--a fact which he did not even observe; -and the maid made him a little curtsey, and cast down her eyes, and -looked confused and uncomfortable. “My mistress is coming, sir,” she -said; and Arthur, looking up, saw that Mrs. Pimpernel herself was -advancing to meet him. He saw at the first glance that there was to be -war, and war to the knife, and that conciliation was impossible. “How is -Miss Pimpernel?” he asked, taking the first word. “I was so glad to see -she was able to move at once; but I fear she must have been much shaken, -at least.” - -Mrs. Pimpernel came downstairs upon him before she made any answer. She -bore down like a conquering ship or a charge of cavalry. Her face was -crimson; her eyes bright with anger; her head was agitated by a little -nervous tremble. “Mr. Arden,” she said, rushing, as it were, into the -fray, “I don’t think Miss Pimpernel would have been much the better for -you, whatever had happened. I don’t think from what I have heard, that -your kind service would have been much good to her. To tell the truth, -when I heard some one asking, I never thought it could be you.” - -“Miss Pimpernel fortunately, had no need of my services,” said Arthur -firmly, standing his ground. “I cannot tell you what a relief it was to -me to find her unhurt.” - -“Unhurt, indeed!” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “Who says she is unhurt? A -delicate young creature thrown from a high phæton like that, and all but -trampled under the horses’ feet! And whose fault was it, Mr. Arden? I -hope I shall have patience to speak. Whose _fault_ was it, I say? And -then to find herself deserted by those that ought to have taken care of -her! All for the sake of a designing girl--an artful little cheat and -hussy--a--a----” - -“I am not the girl’s defender,” said Arthur Arden. “She may be all you -say, and it is quite unimportant to me; but I thought she was killed, -and Mr. Pimpernel and my cousin Edgar Arden were with your daughter.” - -“Ah, Mr. Arden!” said Mrs. Pimpernel, “he is a gentleman--he is a true -gentleman, notwithstanding all the nonsense you have been putting in Mr. -Pimpernel’s head. And I tell you I don’t believe a word of it--not a -word! Mr. Arden is what he always was, and you are a poor, mean, shabby -adventurer, poking into people’s houses, and making yourself agreeable, -and all that. Yes! I’ll make you hear me! that I shall! I tell you you -are no better than a----” - -“Is it necessary that John and Mary should assist at this explanation?” -said Arthur. He smiled, but he was very pale. He said to himself that to -attach any importance to the words of such a woman would be folly -indeed; but yet shame and rage tore him asunder. A lady would not have -condescended to abuse him. She would have treated him with deadly -civility, and given him to understand that his room was wanted for -another guest. But Mrs. Pimpernel had not been trained to habits of -conventional decorum. Her face was red, her head trembled with rage and -excitement. She had suffered a great deal in silence nursing her -wrath--and now there was no longer any need to restrain herself. Now, -Mr. Pimpernel himself was convinced, and Alice was indignant. He had -been making use of them, trifling with them, taking advantage of the -shelter of their house to carry on first one “affair” and then another. -Had it been Clare Arden who had at this last crowning moment led him -away from Alice, the affront would have been bitter, but not so -unpardonable. But a girl out of the village, a nobody, an artful---- -Words forsook Mrs. Pimpernel’s burning lips. She felt herself no longer -able to stand and pour forth her wrath. She made a dash at the door of -Mr. Pimpernel’s library, and sat down, calling the culprit before her, -with a wave of her hand. Arthur went in; but he shut the door, which was -not what she had wanted. A certain moral support was in the fact that -she stood, as it were, in the open centre of her own house, speaking -loud enough to be heard by her husband and daughter above, and by the -servants below stairs. But Mrs. Pimpernel, notwithstanding her courage, -did not feel so comfortable when she found herself shut into the silence -of a separate room, with Arthur Arden, pale and composed, and -overwhelmingly gentlemanly, before her, and not even the presence of -John or Mary to give her strength. It was a strategical mistake. - -“I am glad to say it does not matter to me who hears me,” she said. “Let -those be ashamed that have acted shabby, and shown themselves what they -are. For my part, I couldn’t have believed it. To creep into a house, -and live on the best of everything, and carriages and horses and all at -your command--I should have been ashamed to do it. No man would have -done it that was better than an adventurer--a mean, miserable----” - -“Mrs. Pimpernel,” said Arthur, “you have been very civil and friendly, -asking me to your house, and I have done my best to repay it in the way -that was expected. Pray don’t suppose I am ignorant it was an affair of -barter--the best of everything, as you say, and the carriages, &c., on -one side; but on my side a very just equivalent. Let us understand each -other. What am I supposed to have done amiss? Of course, our mutual -accommodation is over, after this scene--but I should be glad to know, -before I accept my dismissal, what I am supposed to have done amiss----” - -“Equivalent! Accommodation! Oh you!---- Without a penny to bless yourself -with--and living on the fat of the land---- Champagne like water, and -everything you could set your face to. And now you brazen it out to me. -Oh you poor creature! Oh you beggarly, penniless----” - -“Pray let us come to particulars,” said Arthur; “these reproaches are -sadly vague. Come, things are not so bad after all. You expected me to -be your attendant, a sort of upper footman, and I have been such. You -expected me to lend the name of an Arden to all your junketings, and I -have done it. You expected me, perhaps---- But I don’t want to bring in -the name of Miss Pimpernel----” - -“No, don’t--if you dare!” cried the mother. “Mention my child, if you -dare. As if she was not, and hadn’t always been, a deal too good for -you. Thirty thousand pounds of her own, and as pretty a girl and as good -a girl---- Oh, don’t you suppose she cares! She would not look at you -out of her window, if there was not another man; she would never bemean -herself, wouldn’t my Alice. You think yourself a great man with the -ladies, but you may find out your mistake. Your cousin won’t see you, -nor look at you--you know that. Oh, you may start! She has seen through -you long ago, has Miss Arden--and if you thought for a moment that my -Alice---- Good gracious!--to think a man should venture to look me in -the face, after leaving my child to be killed, and going after a---- -Don’t speak to me! Yes, I know you. I always saw through you. If it -hadn’t been for Mr. Pimpernel, and that sweet angel upstairs----” - -And here Mrs. Pimpernel paused, and sobbed, and shed tears--giving her -adversary the advantage over her. She was all the more angry that she -felt she had wasted her words, and had not transfixed and made an end -of him, as she had hoped--as she had meant to do. To see him standing -there unsubdued, with a smile on his face, was gall and wormwood to her. -She choked with impotent rage and passion. She could have flown at him, -tooth and claw, if she had not put force on herself. Arthur felt the -height of exasperation to which he was driving her, and, perhaps, -enjoyed it; but nothing was to be made by continuing such a struggle. - -“I am sorry to have to take my leave of you in such a way,” he said, in -his most courteous tone. “I shall explain to Mr. Pimpernel how grieved I -am to quit his house so abruptly; but after this unfortunate colloquy, -of course there is no more to be said. It is a pity to speak when one is -so excited--one says more always than one means. Many thanks to you for -a pleasant visit, such as it has been. You have done your best to amuse -me with croquet and that sort of thing. Society, of course, one cannot -always command. My man will bring over my things to--Arden in the course -of the day. I trust that if we meet in the county, as we may perhaps do, -that we shall both be able to forget this little passage of arms. -Good-bye, and many thanks, Mrs. Pimpernel.” - -Mrs. Pimpernel gave a little stammering cry of passion and annoyance. -She had never calculated upon her prey escaping so easily. She had not -even meant to dismiss him entirely, but only to subdue him, and bring -him under discipline. After all, he was an Arden, and going to Arden--as -he said--and might procure invitations to Arden, probably, -notwithstanding her affirmation about Clare. But Arthur left her no time -for repentance. He withdrew at once when he had discharged this parting -shot, closing the door after him, and leaving the panting, enraged woman -shut up in that cool and silent place to come to herself as she best -might. He was a little pleased with his victory, and satisfied to think -that he had had the best of it. The maid was still standing outside, -listening near the door, when he opened it suddenly. “Your mistress is a -little put out, Mary,” he said to her, with a smile. “Perhaps it would -be better to leave her to herself for a few minutes. I hope Miss -Pimpernel is not really hurt. Tell her I am grieved to have to go away -without saying good-bye.” And then he stopped to give John directions -about his things, and distributed his few remaining sovereigns among -them with fine liberality. The servants had grinned at his discomfiture -before, but they grinned still more now at the thought of their mistress -weeping with rage in the library, and her visitor escaped from her. “He -was always quite the gentleman,” Mary said to John, as he left the -house; and they laid their heads together over the discomfiture that -would follow his departure. Thus Arthur Arden shook the dust of the Red -House from his feet, and went out upon the world again, not knowing -where he was to go. - -And his thoughts were far from cheerful, as he made his way among the -shrubberies, which sometimes had looked to him like prison walls. Poor -Alice and her thirty thousand pounds had always been something to fall -back upon. If Clare did not relent, and would not explain herself, a man -must do something--and though it was letting himself go very cheap, -still thirty thousand pounds was not contemptible. And now that was -over--the hope which after all had been his surest hope--all (once more) -from thinking of other people’s rather than of his own interests. What -was Jeanie to him? She had never given him a kind word or smile. She was -a child--a bloodless being--out of whom it was impossible to get even a -little amusement. Yet for her sake here was thirty thousand pounds lost -to him. And probably she would go and die, now that she had done him as -much harm as possible, leaving it altogether out of his power to do her -any harm, or compensate himself in the smallest degree. And in the -meantime where was he to go? Arthur’s funds were at a very low ebb. All -this time which he had been wasting in the country he had been out of -the way of putting a penny in his pocket; and for the moment he did not -know what he was to do? He had said he was going to Arden, partly to -impose on Mrs. Pimpernel, partly with a sudden sense that to throw -himself upon Edgar’s hospitality was about the best thing on the cards -for him. Might he venture to go there at once, and risk welcome or -rejection? At the very worst they could not refuse to take him in till -Monday. But then it would be better to secure himself for longer than -Monday--and Clare was very uncompromising, and Edgar firm, -notwithstanding his good nature. Altogether the position was difficult. -He had been making great way with the Pimpernels since Clare had shut -her doors upon him. There had been nothing to disturb him, nothing to -divide his allegiance, and therefore he had been utterly unprepared for -this sudden derangement of plans. The Pimpernels, too, were utterly -unprepared. His hostess had meant to “set him down,” as she said, “to -show him his proper place,” to “bring him to his senses,” but she had -never intended the matter to be concluded so promptly. The discomfiture -on both sides was equally great. He took a little pleasure in the -thought of this, but yet it did not enlighten him as to where he was to -go. - -The conclusion of the matter was that for that night he went to the -Arden Arms. Edgar had disappeared when he returned to the village, and -all was quiet and silent. Arthur met Dr. Somers going down to the -cottage in which Jeanie still was. The Doctor shook his head, but would -not say much. “She is young, and she may pull through, if the place is -kept quiet,” was all the information he would give. But he asked Arthur -to dinner, which was a momentary relief to him, and Arthur recounted to -him, with many amusing details, the history of his dismissal by the -Pimpernels. The Doctor chuckled, partly because it was a good story, and -made the Pimpernels ridiculous, and partly because Arthur Arden, though -he put the best possible face upon it, must have been himself -discomfited. “Serve him right,” the Doctor said within himself; but he -asked him to dinner, and saved him from the horrors of a chop at the -Arden Arms and a solitary evening in its little sanded parlour, which -was a work of true benevolence--for Dr. Somers’ dinner and his claret -would have been worthy of notice anywhere--much more when contrasted -with the greasy attractions of a chop at the Arden Arms. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -While Arthur went to the Red House, Edgar had been exerting himself to -still all the roads and deaden every sound about Sally Timms’ cottage. -Sally’s boys considered the operation as a personal compliment. They -tumbled in the straw, and threw it about, and buried each other with -cries of delight which had to be suppressed in the most forcible and -emphatic way--until at last Edgar, driven to interfere, had to order the -removal of Johnny and Tommy. “They can go to the West Lodge for the -night,” he said, with a hospitable liberality, at which the West Lodge -keeper, who was helping in the work, groaned aloud. Sally herself, -however, was very indignant at this exercise of despotic authority. She -rushed to the front, and demanded to know why her cottage should be -taken possession of, and the children carried off for the benefit of a -stranger. “A lass as nobody knows, nor don’t care to know,” said Sally, -“as has a deal too many gentlefolks alooking after her to be an honest -lass.” “Take her away too,” said Edgar with benevolent tyranny. And -Sally, with a scream of despair, snatched the old petticoat which -stuffed her broken window, and fled from the bystanders, who did not -attempt to carry out the Squire’s command. “I’ll go and I’ll see what -Miss Clare says to it,” she cried. Edgar was a great deal too busy to -pay any attention. He saw the work completed, and urged the necessity of -care upon John Hesketh and his wife without considering that even they -were but partial sympathisers. “I don’t hold with no such a fuss,” the -women were saying among themselves. “If it had been the mother of a -family she’d have had to take her chance; but a bit of a wench with a -pretty face----” Thus he got no credit for his exertions, -notwithstanding the injunctions of Dr. Somers. If Jeanie had been -altogether unfriended, the village people would have shown her all -manner of care and sympathy; but the Squire’s kindness put an end to -theirs. They sympathised with Sally in her banishment. “You’ll see as -Miss Clare won’t like it a bit,” cried one. “I don’t think nothing of -Sally, but she has a right to her own place.” “She’ll be well paid for -it all,” said another. Sally, and the fuss that was being made, and Miss -Clare’s supposed sentiments bulked much more largely with the villagers -than the thought that Jeanie lay between life and death, although many -of them liked Jeanie, and had grown used to see her, so small and so -fair, wandering about the street. Only old Sarah stood with her apron to -her eyes. “I’m as fond of her as if she was my own. She’s the sweetest, -patientest, good-temperedest lamb--none of you wenches can hold a candle -to her,” sobbed the old woman. “She stitches beautiful, though I’m not -one as holds with your pretty faces,” said Sally, the sexton’s daughter; -but these were the only voices raised in poor Jeanie’s favour throughout -the village crowd. - -Edgar lingered last of all at the cottage door. John Hesketh’s wife, -partly moved by pity for the grandmother left thus alone, partly by -curiosity to investigate the amount of dirt and discomfort in Sally -Timms’ cottage--had taken her place in the outer room, to remain with -Mrs. Murray until Sally returned or some other assistant came. And Edgar -lingered to hear the last news of the patient before going away. The -twilight by this time was falling, faint little stars were appearing in -the sky, the dew and the peacefulness of approaching night were in the -atmosphere. While he stood waiting at the door, Mrs. Murray herself came -out upon him all at once. She had an air of suppressed excitement about -her which struck him strangely--not so much anxiety, as agitation, -highly excited feeling. He put out his hand to her as she approached, -feeling, he could not tell how, that she wanted his aid and consolation. -She took his hand between both hers, and held it tight and pressed it -close; and then surely the strangest words came from her lips that were -ever spoken in such circumstances. “He carried her here in his arms--he -left the other to save her. You’ll no forget it to him--you’ll no forget -it to him. That is the charge I lay on you.” - -Edgar half drew away his hand in his surprise; but she held it fast, not -seeming even to feel his attempt at withdrawal. “What do you mean?” he -said. “I came to ask for Jeanie. Is it of Arthur Arden you are -speaking--my cousin? But it is about Jeanie I want to know.” - -“Ay, your cousin,” she said anxiously. “It’s strange that I never kent -you had a cousin. Nobody ever told me that---- But mind, mind what I -say. Whatever happens, you’ll no forget this. He carried her here in his -arms. He forgot all the rest, all the rest. And you’ll no forget it to -him. That’s my injunction upon you, whatever anybody may say.” - -“This is very strange,” Edgar said, in spite of himself. Who was she, -that she should lay injunctions upon him--should bid him do this or -that? And then he thought to himself that her head too must be a little -turned. So startling an event probably had confused her, as Jeanie had -been confused by a sudden shock. He looked at her very sympathetically, -and pressed the hands that held his. “Tell me first how Jeanie is--poor -little Jeanie; that is by far the most important now.” - -“It’s no the most important,” said the old woman almost obstinately. “I -ken both sides, and you ken but little--very, very little. But whatever -you do or say, you’ll no forget him for this--promise me that you’ll -never forget.” - -“That is easy enough to promise,” said Edgar; “but he was to blame, for -it was he who put her in the carriage. I think he was to blame. And what -am I to reward him for?--for carrying the poor child home?” - -“Yes, for carrying her home,” said Mrs. Murray, “in his arms, when the -other was waiting that was more to him than Jeanie. You’ll no please me, -nor do your duty, if you do not mind this good deed. They say he’s no a -good man; but the poor have many a temptation that never comes near the -rich; and if he had been in your place at Arden and you in his--or -even----” - -“My dear, kind woman,” said Edgar, trying with a pressure of her hands -to recall her to herself, “don’t trouble yourself about Arthur or me. -You are excited with all that has happened. Think of Jeanie. Don’t take -any trouble about us----” - -“Eh, if I could help troubling!” she said, loosing her hands from his. -And then the look of excitement slowly faded out of her face. “I am -bidding you bear my burdens,” she said, with a deep sigh; “as if the -innocent could bear the load of the guilty, or make amends---- You must -not mind what I say. I’ve been a solitary woman, and whiles I put things -into words that are meant for nobody’s ear. You were asking about -Jeanie. She is real ill--in a kind of faint--but if she is kept quiet, -the doctor says she may come round. I think she will come round, for my -part. She is delicate, but there is _life_ in her: me and mine have all -so much life.” When she said these words Mrs. Murray fixed her eyes upon -Edgar keenly and surveyed him, as if trying to fathom his constitution -and powers. “I cannot tell for you,” she said, with a sudden pause. He -smiled, but he was grieved, thinking sadly that her brain was affected, -as Jeanie’s had been. What was to become of the hapless pair if the -mother’s brain was gone as well as the child’s. The thought filled him -with infinite pity, so great as almost to bring tears to his eyes. - -“You must try and compose yourself,” he said. “I will send Perfitt to -see that you have everything you want, and perhaps when she is a little -better she may be removed to your own rooms. This is not a comfortable -cottage, I fear. But you must compose yourself, and not allow yourself -to be worried one way or another. You may be quite sure I will stand by -you, and take care of you as much as I can--you who have been so kind to -everybody, so good----” - -“Oh no, no, no good!” she cried, “not good. I think night and day, but I -cannot see what to do; and when a wronged man heaps coals of fire on -your head---- Oh, you’re kind, kind; and I’m no ungrateful, though I may -look it. And it is not excitement, as you say, that makes me speak. -There’s many a thing of which a young lad like you is ignorant. You’ll -mind this to his credit if ever you can do him a good turn----” - -“Yes, yes,” said Edgar impatiently; and then he added, “Think of Jeanie. -Arthur Arden is very well qualified to take care of himself.” - -And so he turned away, chafed and disquieted. Arthur Arden had been the -cause of his leaving home, and here as soon as he returned Arthur Arden -again was in his way, and a trouble to him. He walked through the -village street very uneasy about poor Mrs. Murray, and Jeanie, who -would be in her sole charge. If the grandmother’s mind was unsettled, -how could she look after the child, and what would become of two -creatures so helpless in a strange place? No doubt it must be in the -family, as people say. Jeanie’s monomania was about her brother, and -Mrs. Murray’s was about Arthur Arden. What had he to do with Arthur -Arden? He was not his brother’s keeper, that he should step in and make -of himself a providence for Arthur’s benefit. Altogether it was odd and -disagreeable and discomposing. As his mind was thus occupied he walked -along the village street, pre-occupied and absorbed. When he had nearly -reached the Arden Arms he met Dr. Somers, and immediately seized the -opportunity to make inquiries. The Doctor held up his hand as if warding -him off. - -“Not a word, Mr. Edgar, not another word. I have said if she’s kept -quiet and not excited she’ll do. I don’t like fuss any more than the -villagers. You don’t put straw down when a comfortable matron adds to -the number of society, and why should you for this girl? You are all mad -about Jeanie. She is a pretty girl, I allow; but there is as pretty to -be seen elsewhere. You should hear your cousin on that subject. He and -his misfortunes are as good as a play.” - -“What are his misfortunes?” said Edgar, and in spite of himself a -certain coldness crept into his voice. - -“You don’t like him?” said Dr. Somers; “neither do I. I hate a man who -lives on his wits. Generally neither the wits nor the man are worth -much. But as I say, this time Arthur Arden’s as good as a play. He has -been turned out of the Red House--the Pimpernels will have no more of -him. It is a capital story. He has been sponging upon them for a month -(this, of course, is between ourselves), and I daresay they were very -glad to get rid of him. You never can tell when such a visitor may go -away.” - -“I thought the Pimpernels liked it,” said Edgar; but did not care to -enter into any discussion about his cousin; and he walked on in silence -for some seconds by the Doctor’s side, meaning thus to express his -desire to be quit of the subject. He had, on the whole, had quite too -much of Arthur Arden. He felt with the Pimpernels that to be quit of him -would be a relief. - -“Where are you going?” said the Doctor. “It is getting late. Come with -me and dine. I have just asked Arden. He is houseless and homeless, you -know; and I know what it is to be condemned to the hospitalities of the -Arden Arms----” - -“Is he at the Arden Arms?” said Edgar. “I suppose only for to-night. He -must have plenty of houses to go to--a man who is so well known in the -world. Thanks, Doctor; but Clare must have been expecting me for some -time. I must go home.” - -“Clare has not been very well,” said the Doctor. “I am glad you have -come back. If there ever had been such a thing as brain disease among -the Ardens I should have been frightened. Fielding gave me a hint, and I -went to see her. The girl has something on her mind. I don’t know if it -is about Arthur Arden----” - -“Confound Arthur Arden!” said Edgar. “What do you suppose he could have -to do with my sister Clare?” - -“Oh, nothing; nothing, of course,” said the Doctor, “except that they -were great friends, and now they are friends no longer. And she has not -looked well since; there is a look of anxiety and trouble about her. My -dear fellow, you and I may not think much of Arthur Arden, but with -women he could cut us both out. Some men have that way. There is no -genuine feeling about them, and yet they get far before the best. His -father was the same sort of fellow; he was my contemporary, and it used -to set me on edge to see him. My poor sister, Letty, to this day -imagines that he was fond of her. Your cousin is not a man to be -despised.” - -“Doctor, I don’t doubt you are very wise and very right,” said Edgar; -“but you forget you are speaking of Clare. Tell Miss Somers I am coming -to see her to-morrow after church. And, Doctor, I think it would be -worth your while to examine the old woman, Jeanie’s grandmother. I don’t -think she is quite right. She was speaking wildly. I did not know what -to make of her. And if you consider what a helpless pair they would be! -What could they do? especially if they were both ill in that way----” - -“In what way?--concussion of the brain?” said the Doctor. “Is it Mrs. -Murray’s brain you are anxious for? My dear boy, you may dismiss your -fears. That woman has life enough for half-a-dozen of us cold-blooded -people. Her brain is as sound as yours and mine. But it is a very -anxious case, and it may well disturb her. Perhaps the accident may be -good for the child if she mends. Everything is so mysterious about the -brain. Won’t you reconsider the matter, and come? I don’t want to say -too much for my dinner; but it is not bad--not bad, you know--a little -better than usual, I think. No? Well, I think it would do you more real -good than a long walk in the dark; but, of course, you must have your -own way.” - -And thus they parted at the great gates. The avenue was very dark, and -Edgar was not in brilliant spirits. He seemed to himself to be entering -a moral as well as a physical obscurity, confused by many mysterious -shadows, as he took the way to his own door. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -The dogcart reached home with news of Edgar’s approach before he himself -arrived. It passed him in the avenue, and so did Sally Timms, who had -rushed to the Hall to carry the news of Jeanie’s accident, and to make -an appeal on her own account to Clare. Thus his sister had been made -acquainted with the cause of his detention--which was a relief to him: -for he was fatigued with his recent exertions. He stopped Sally, and -recommended her guest to her best care, and gave her a sovereign; and -then he went on tired to his own house. His own house! The words were -pleasant. The woods rustled darkly about him, concealing everything but -the Hall itself, with lights glimmering in its windows; but the sense of -secure proprietorship and undisturbed possession was sweet. The sight of -Arden brought back the thought of Gussy Thornleigh and of all the new -combinations and arrangements that might be coming, which did not excite -him, perhaps, so much as they ought to have done, but yet were sweet, -and had a soft thrill of pleasure in them. She would be a most genial, -gracious little mistress of the house. True, the thought of dethroning -Clare was a great trouble to him, an immense obstacle in the way; but -probably Clare would marry too, or something would happen. And in the -meantime Gussy’s image was very pleasant, mingling with that of his -sister, giving him a sense of a double welcome, a double interest in his -movements. To be loved was very sweet to Edgar. The warm domestic -affection, the sense of home enclosing all that was dear, filled his -heart with something more tender, almost more delicate than passion. He -would never be overpoweringly in love, perhaps; but was that necessary -to the happiness of life? With so much as he had he felt that he should -be content. - -Clare did not come down stairs to meet him, as he expected, which gave -him a little chill and check in the warmth of his affectionate pleasure. -He had to go up by himself, somewhat startled by the quietness of the -house; feeling as if there was nobody in it, or at least nobody to whom -his return was an event. And then he bethought himself of what Dr. -Somers had said of Clare. He had been so angry about the allusion to -Arthur Arden that the report of the state of his sister’s health had -escaped his attention. When he thought of this he ran hastily up stairs -and made his way to the favourite sitting-room, where she had always -received him. But there was nobody there. Clare was in the big -ceremonious drawing-room--the place for strangers, with many lights, and -the formal air of a room which was not much used. He rushed forward as -she rose from the sofa at his entrance. He was about to take her into -his arms, but she held out her hand. Her cheeks were flushed, her brow -cloudy; she did not meet his eye, but averted her face from him in the -strangest way. “You are come at last! I had almost given up thoughts of -you,” she said, and sat down again on her sofa, constrained and -cold;--cold, though her hand was burning and her cheek flushed crimson. -Could it be possible that she was merely angry at his delay? - -“I am late, I know,” he said, “but I will tell you why--or, I suppose, -you have heard why, as I met Sally Timms coming down the avenue. But, -Clare, are you ill? What is the matter? Are you not glad to see me? I -lost no more time than I could help in obeying your summons, and this -little detention to-night is not my fault.” - -“I have not blamed you,” said Clare. “Thanks--I am quite well. It is -rather late, however, and I fear your dinner----” - -“Oh, never mind my dinner,” said Edgar, “if that is all. I am delighted -to get back to you, though you don’t look glad to see me. I met Somers -in the village, and he told me you had been ill. You must have been -worrying yourself while you have been alone. You must not stay here -alone again. I begin to think it is bad for everybody. My dear Clare, -you change colour every moment. Have I frightened you? I am so -grieved--so sorry;” and he stooped over her, and took her hand in his -and kissed her cheek. Clare trembled, body and soul. She could not -shrink from him--she could not respond to him. She wanted to break -away--to shut herself up, never to see him more; and yet she wanted to -lay her head down upon his shoulder, and cry, “Oh, my brother! my -brother!” What was she to do? The end was that, torn by these different -impulses, she remained quite motionless and unresponsive, giving to -Edgar an impression of utter coldness and repulsion, which he struggled -vainly against. He looked at her for a moment with unfeigned wonder. -Then he let her hands drop. He had seen her out of temper, and he had -seen her sorrowful; but this was more than either, and he could not tell -what it meant. - -“I have worried you by being so late,” he said quietly; “I am very -sorry, Clare. I did not think you would be anxious. But to-morrow I -hope you will be all right. Must I go and dine? I am not hungry; but -surely you will come too?” - -“Yes, I will come, if you want me,” said Clare, faintly, and Edgar -walked away to his dressing-room with the strangest sense of desertion. -What had he done to separate his sister from him? It was obviously -something he had done; not any accidental cloud on her part, but -something he was guilty of. Poor Edgar put himself in order for dinner -with a feeling that the weather had grown suddenly cold, and he had -arrived, not in his own but in a strange house. When he went down Clare -was in the dining-room, already seated at the opposite end of the great -dining-table. “Where is our little round table that we used to have,” he -asked, with distress that was almost comical. “You forget that we had -been having visitors when you went away,” said Clare. Was she angry -still that he had gone away? Was it the dismissal of the visitors which -had made her angry? Was it--Arthur Arden? Edgar was too much distressed -and amazed to speak. He told her the story of the accident, feeling as -if it was necessary to raise his voice to reach her where she sat -half-a-mile off, with her face now pale and fixed into a blank absence -of expression, as if she were determined to give no clue to her -meaning. But even this history which seemed to him a perfectly innocent -and impersonal matter, having nothing to do with themselves, and -therefore a safe subject for talk, was received with a certain chill of -incredulity which drove poor Edgar wild. Did they not believe him? He -said “they” in his mind, because even Wilkins had put on an air -incredulous and disapproving, as he stood behind Clare’s chair. Finally -Edgar grew half amused by dint of amazement and discomfiture. The -oddness of this curious tacit disapproval struck him, in spite of -himself. He felt tempted to get up and make them a serio-comic speech. -“What have I done that you are both sitting upon me?” he felt disposed -to say; but after all the atmosphere was terribly chilly and -discouraging, and even a laugh was not to be obtained. - -After the servants had retired it was worse than ever. Clare sat in the -distance and made her little set speeches, with an attempt at -indifferent conversation. And when he got up and brought his chair and -his glass of claret close to her, she shrank a little, insensibly. Then -for the first time he perceived a sealed packet which lay beside her on -the table. This is the cause of my offending, Edgar said to himself. -Some nonsense verses or letters about my youthful pranks. But these -youthful pranks of his had not been at all serious, and he was not much -afraid. He smiled to himself, to see how his prevision was verified when -she rose from the table. - -“I am very tired,” said Clare. “I don’t know why I should be so stupid -to-night. Here are some papers which I found in the bureau--in the -library. I have not opened them as you will see. I read one sentence -through a tear in the envelope---- and I thought--it appeared to me---- -I imagined--that you ought to see them. I think I shall go to bed now. -Perhaps you will take them and--examine them--when you feel disposed. I -am so stupid to-night.” - -“Surely I will examine them--or anything else you like me to do,” said -Edgar. “My sister ought to know I would do anything to please her. Must -it be done to-night? for do you know I am unhappy to see you look so -strangely at me--and a little tired too.” - -“Oh, not to-night, unless you wish--when you think proper. They have -never been out of my hands,” said Clare, with growing seriousness. “I -should like you, please, till you look at them, to keep them very safe.” - -“Certainly,” he said, with the promptest goodwill, and put the parcel -into his breast pocket, which was scarcely large enough to contain it, -and bulged out. “It does not look very graceful, does it?” he said with -a smile as he lighted her candle for her, and then looked wistfully into -her eyes. “I hope you will be better, dear, to-morrow,” he said -tenderly. “I am so sorry to have annoyed you to-night.” - -“Not annoyed me,” Clare said, choking, and made a few steps across the -threshold. Then she came back quickly, almost running to him, where he -stood holding the door in his hand looking wistfully after her. “Oh -Edgar, forgive me. I can’t help it!” she moaned; and held up a pale -cheek to him, and turned and fled. - -Edgar sat down again by the table, very much puzzled indeed. What did -she mean? what could be the matter with her? Poor Clare? Could it be -this Arthur Arden, this light o’ love--this man who was attractive to -women, as Dr. Somers said? Edgar’s pride in his sister and his sense of -delicacy revolted at the idea. And then it occurred to him that the -packet she had given him might contain Arden’s letters, and that Clare -was struggling with her feelings and endeavouring to cast him off. He -took the packet out of his pocket, and opened the envelope. But when he -found the original enclosure inside, old and brown, and scorched, with -yellow letters showing through the worn cover, this idea faded from -Edgar’s mind. He put them back into the outer cover with a sigh of -relief. Of course, had Clare exacted it, he said to himself, he would -have read them at once; but they were old things which could not be -urgent--could not be of much weight one way or another. And he was -anxious and tired, and not in a state of mind to be bothered with old -letters. Poor Clare! She had been a little unkind to him; but then she -had made that touching little apology which atoned for everything. To -console himself, Edgar got up, and, lighting a cigar, strolled out upon -the terrace; for as most men know, there is not only consolation, but -counsel in tobacco. Clare’s window was on that side of the house, and he -watched the light in it with a grieved and tender sympathy. Yes, poor -Clare! She had no mother to tell her troubles to, no sister to share her -life. Her lot (he thought) was a hard one, notwithstanding all her -advantages. Her father had been her only companion, and he was gone, and -his memory, instead of uniting his two orphan children together, hung -like a cloud between them. Perhaps there might even now be memories -belonging to the old Squire’s time which troubled Clare, and which she -could not confide to her brother. His heart melted over her as he -mused. Would Gussy, he wondered, take a sister’s place, and beguile -Clare out of herself? And then he thought he would talk the matter over -with Lady Augusta, and ask her motherly advice. As this crossed his -mind, he realised more than ever how pleasant it would be to have such -people belonging to him. He who had been cast out of his family, and had -in reality nothing but the merely natural bond, the tie of blood between -himself and his only sister, felt--much more than a man could who had -been trained in the ordinary way--how pleasant it would be to be adopted -by real choice and affection into a family. Perhaps it seemed to him -more pleasant in imagination and prospect than it ever could be in -reality--perhaps Gussy’s brothers, who were prone to get into scrapes, -might, indeed, turn out rather a bore than otherwise. But he had no -thought of such considerations now. And, when he went to his room, he -locked up carefully out of the way of harm Clare’s papers. To-morrow, -perhaps, when his mind was more fresh, he would look them over to please -her, or, if not to-morrow, some day soon. He was quite tranquil about -them, while she was so anxious. His sister’s good-night had soothed him, -and so, to tell the truth, had his cigar. He had a peaceful, lovely -Sunday before him, and then the arrival of the Thornleighs, and then---- -Thus it was, with a mind much tranquillised, and the feeling of home -once more strong upon him, that Edgar went to rest in his own house. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Next morning was a calm bright summer Sunday, one of those days which -are real Sabbaths--moments of rest. It was like the “sweet day, so cool, -so calm, so bright,” of George Herbert’s tender fancy. Nothing that -jarred or was discordant was audible in the soft air. The voices -outside, the passing steps, were as harmonious as the birds and the bees -that murmured all about--everything that was harsh had died out of the -world. There was nothing in this Sunday but universal quiet and calm. - -Except in Clare Arden’s face and voice. She came down stairs before her -brother, long before him, as if she had been unable to sleep. Her brow -was drawn in and contracted as if by some pressing uncertainty and -suspense. Her voice had a broken tone in it, a tone like a strained -string. With a restlessness which it was impossible to conceal, she -waited for Edgar’s appearance, gliding back and forward from the library -to the dining-room where breakfast was laid. The round table had been -placed for them in the window not by Clare’s care, but by Wilkins; a -great vase of late roses--red and white--stood in the centre. The roses -were all but over, for it was the second Sunday in July; but still the -lawns and rosebeds of Arden produced enough for this. How strange she -thought that he should be so late. Was it out of mere wantonness? Was it -because he had been sitting up late over the enclosures she had given -him; was it that he feared to meet her after---- She suggested all these -reasons to herself, but they did not still her restlessness nor bring -Edgar down a moment earlier. She could not control her excitement. How -was she to meet him for the first time after this discovery, if it was a -discovery? How would he look at her after such a revelation? And yet -Clare did not know what manner of revelation it was; or it might be no -revelation at all. It might be her fancy only which had put meaning into -the words she had seen. They might refer to something entirely -indifferent to her brother and herself. Clare said so in her own mind, -but she could not bring herself to believe it. The thought had seized -upon her with crushing bewildering force. It had left her no time to -think. She did not quite know what she fancied, but it was something -that would shake her life and his life to their foundations, and change -everything in heaven and earth. - -Edgar came down at his usual hour, bright and light-hearted, as his -nature was. He went up to the breakfast table with its vase of roses, -and bent his face down over it. “How pleasant Sunday is,” he said, “and -how pleasant it is to be at home! I hope you are better this morning, -Clare. Could any one help being better in this sweet air and this lovely -place? I never thought Arden was half so beautiful. Fancy, there are -people in town just now wasting their lives away! I am sure you are -better, Clare----” - -“I--think so,” she said, looking at him anxiously. Had he read them? Had -he not read them? That was the question. Her whole soul was bent upon -that and that alone. - -“You are not looking well,” he said, with tender anxiety. “What have you -been doing to yourself? I would say I hoped you had missed me; but you -don’t look so very glad to see me now--not nearly so glad as I am to see -you. If you had come with me to town it might have done you good. And I -am sure it would have done me good. It is dreary work living alone--in -London above all----” - -“Not for a man,” said Clare. Her voice was still constrained; but she -made a desperate effort, and put away from her as much as she could her -disinclination for talk. How unlike he was to other men--how strange -that he should not take pleasure in things that everybody else took -pleasure in; dreary work living alone, for a young man of his position, -in London--how ridiculous it was! - -“Well, I assure you I found it so,” said Edgar; “if you had been with -me, I should have enjoyed it. As it was, I was only amused. The -Thornleighs are coming back to-morrow. I saw a great deal of them--more -than before they went to town----” - -Here he paused, and a warmer colour, a certain air of pleasure and -content diffused itself over his face. A thrill of pain and apprehension -ran through Clare. The Thornleighs!--were they to be brought into the -matter too? She half rose from the seat she had taken at the table. -“Have you read those letters?” she asked, in a hasty, half-whispering, -yet almost stern voice. - -“What letters? Oh, those you gave me last night! No, not yet. Do you -wish me to do it at once? You said it did not matter, I think; or, at -least, I understood there was no haste.” - -“Oh, no haste!” said Clare, with a certain sense of desperation stealing -over her; and then she took courage. “I don’t mean that; they have -troubled me very much. The sooner you read them, the sooner I shall be -relieved, if I am to be relieved. If it would not trouble you too much -to go over them to-night?” - -“My dear Clare, of course I will read them directly if you wish it,” -said Edgar, half-provoked. “You have but to say so. Of course, nothing -troubles me that you wish. I sent down to ask after poor little Jeanie -this morning,” he added, after a pause, falling into his usual tone; -“and the doctor says she has had a tolerably good night. I must go and -see Miss Somers after church. She will have learned all about it by this -time, and that story about Arthur Arden and the Pimpernels. Miss -Pimpernel, I told you, was thrown out of the carriage as well as -Jeanie----” - -“I think you told me,” said Clare faintly. “I know so little about Miss -Pimpernel; and I do not like that other girl. It may be prejudice, but I -don’t like her. I wish you would not talk of her to me.” - -Edgar looked up at his sister with grave wonder--“As you please,” he -said seriously, but his cheek flushed, half with anger, half with -disappointment. What could have happened to Clare? She was not like -herself. She scarcely looked at him even when she spoke. She was -constrained and cold as if he were the merest stranger. She had again -avoided his kiss, and never addressed him by his name. What could it -mean? Scarcely anything more was said at breakfast. Clare could not open -her lips, and Edgar was annoyed, and did not. It seemed so very -mysterious to him. He was indeed as nearly angry as it was in his nature -to be. It seemed to him a mere freak of temper--an ebullition of pride. -And he was so entirely innocent in respect to Jeanie! The child herself -was so innocent. Poor little Jeanie!--he thought of her with additional -tenderness as he looked at his sister’s unsympathetic face. - -“I suppose we may walk together to church as usual,” he said. It was the -only remark that had broken the silence for nearly half an hour. - -“If you have no objection”--said Clare formally, with something of that -aggravating submission which wives sometimes show to their husbands, -driving them frantic, “I think I shall drive--but not if you object to -the horses being taken out.” - -“Why should I object?” he said, restraining himself with an effort, -“except that I am very sorry not to have your company, Clare.” - -Then she wavered once more, feeling the empire of old affection steal -over her. But he had turned away to the window, grieved and impatient. -It was like a conjugal quarrel, not like the frank differences between -brother and sister. And this was not how Clare’s temper had ever shown -itself before. Edgar left the table, with a sense of pain and -disappointment which it was very hard to bear. Why was it? What had he -done? His heart was so open to her, he was so full of confidence in her, -and admiration for her, that the check he had thus received was doubly -hard. His sister had always been to him the first among women. Gussy of -course was different--but Gussy had never taken the same place in his -respect and admiring enthusiasm. Clare had been to him, barring a few -faults which were but as specks on an angel’s wing, the first of created -things; and it hurt him that she should thus turn from him, and expel -him, as it were, from her sympathies. He stood uncertain at the window, -not knowing whether he should make another attempt to win her back; but -when he turned round he found, to his astonishment, that she was gone. -How strange--how very strange it was. As she had abandoned him, he saw -no advantage in waiting. He could go and ask for Jeanie, and see how -things were going on, at least, if he was not required here. He gave -Wilkins orders about the carriage with a sigh. “My sister proposes to -drive,” he said; and as he said it he looked out upon the lovely summer -Sunday morning, and the wonder of it struck him more than ever. She had -liked to walk with him down the leafy avenue, under the protecting -shadows, when he came home first, and now she changed her habits to -avoid him. What could it mean? Could this, too, be Arthur Arden’s fault? - -Thus it was that Edgar left the house so early, ill at ease. His sister -thought that probably the effect of her constraint and withdrawal of -sympathy would be that, tracing her changed demeanour to its right -cause, he would hasten to read the packet she had given him. But Edgar -never thought of the packet. It did not occur to him that a parcel of -old letters could have anything to do with this most present and painful -estrangement. While he went out, poor fellow, with his heart full of -pain, Clare looked at him from the window with anger and astonishment. -What did he care? Perhaps he had known it all along--perhaps he was a -conscious---- But no, no. Not till the last moment--not till evidence was -before her which she could not resist--would she believe that. So the -carriage came round, and she was driven to church in solitary -state--sometimes excusing, sometimes condemning herself. It was a thing -which happened so rarely that the village folks were in a state of -commotion. Miss Arden was ill, they thought--nothing else could explain -it; and so thought the kind old Rector and even Dr. Somers, who knew, or -thought he knew, better than any of the others. As for Arthur Arden, -who had gone to church with the hope of being invited by Edgar to -accompany him home, he was in despair. - -Edgar, for his part, walked down very gloomily through the village to -ask for Jeanie, and had his news confirmed that she had spent a -tolerably good night. “But in a dead faint all the time,” said Mrs. -Hesketh, who had taken the place of nurse. “She breathes, poor dear, and -her heart it do beat. But she don’t know none of us, nor open her eyes. -It’s awful to see one as is living, and yet dead. T’ou’d dame, she never -leaves her, not since she was a-talking to you, sir, last night.” - -“Could I see her now?” said Edgar; but Mrs. Hesketh shook her head; and -he could not tell why he wanted to see her, except as some relief to the -painful dulness which had come over him. The next best thing he could do -seemed to be to walk to the Red House, and ask after Alice Pimpernel. -There he found no lack of response. Mr. Pimpernel himself came out, and -so did Mrs. Pimpernel, with profuse and eager thanks. “If it had not -been for you Mr. Arden, my child might have perished,” said the mother. -“No, no, not so bad as that,” Edgar could not but say with surprise. -“And the person who was most to blame never even gave himself the -trouble to inquire till all was over,” the lady added with a look of -rage. They wanted to detain him, to give him breakfast, to secure his -company for Mr. Pimpernel, who was going to drive to church with the -younger children. But Edgar did not desire to join this procession, and -suffer himself to be paraded as his cousin’s successor. Somehow the -village and everything in it seemed to have changed its aspect. He -thought the people looked coldly at him--he felt annoyed and -discouraged, he could not tell why. It seemed to him as if the -Thornleighs would not come, or coming, would hear bad accounts of him, -and that he would be abandoned by all his friends. And he did not know -why, that was the worst of it; there seemed no reason. He was just the -same as he had been when Clare received him as her dearest brother. What -had happened since to change her mind towards him he was totally unable -to tell. The _sourd_ and obscure atmosphere of family discord was quite -novel to Edgar. For most of his existence he had known nothing about -family life; and then it had seemed to him so warm, so sweet, so bright. -The domestic life, the warm sense of kindred about him had been his -chief attraction to Gussy. His heart was so full, he wanted sisters and -brothers and quantities of kinsfolk. And now the discovery that those -good things could bring pain as well as pleasure confused him utterly. -Clare! his only sister, the sole creature who belonged to him, whom -nature gave him to love, to think that without a cause she should be -estranged from him! When he fairly contemplated the idea, he gave -himself, as it were spiritually, a shake, and smiled. “It takes two to -make a quarrel,” he said to himself, and resolved that it was -impossible, and could not last another hour. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Mr. Fielding preached one of his gentle little sermons upon love to your -neighbour on that especial morning. The Doctor had been quiet, and had -not bothered the Rector for some time back. There had been a good deal -of sickness at the other end of the parish, and his hands had been full. -It was a sermon which the Arden folks had heard a good many times -before; but there are some things which, like wine, improve in flavour -the longer that they are kept. Mr. Fielding produced it about once in -five years, and preached it with little illustrations added on, drawn -from his own gentle experience. And each time it was better than the -last. The good people did not remember it, having listened always with a -certain amount of distraction and slumberousness; but Dr. Somers did, -and had noted in his pocket-book the times he had heard it. “Very good, -with that story about John Styles in the appendix,” was one note; and -four or five years later it occurred again thus--“Little sketch of last -row with me put in as an illustration--John Styles much softened; always -very good.” Next time it was--“John Styles disappeared -altogether--quarrel with me going out--old Simon in the foreground; -better than ever.” The Arden folks were not alert enough in their minds -to discern this; but the gentle discourse did them good all the same. - -And there in front of him, listening to him, in the Arden pew, were -three who needed Mr. Fielding’s sermon. First, Clare, pale with that -wrath and distrust which takes all happiness out of a woman’s face, and -almost all beauty. Then, sitting next to her, with a great gap between, -now and then looking wistfully at her, now casting a hasty glance to his -other side--anxious, suspicious, watchful--Arthur Arden, at the very -lowest ebb, as he thought, of his fortunes. He had been as good as -turned out of the Red House. He had no invitation nearer than the end of -August. Clare had passed him at the church door with a bow that chilled -him. Edgar, coming in late, had taken scarcely any notice of him. -Nothing could appear less hopeful than his plan of getting himself -invited once more to Arden, covering the Pimpernels with confusion, and -showing publicly his superiority over them. Alas! he would not look -superior, he could not be happy in the Arden Arms. Accordingly he sat, -anxious about his cousins, hating all the world besides. Could he have -crushed Mrs. Pimpernel by a sudden blow he would have done it. Could he -have swept Jeanie out of his way he would have done it. Even underneath -his anxiety for their favour, a bitter germ of envy and indignation was -springing up in his heart towards his kinsfolk, Edgar and Clare. - -And next to him sat Edgar, whose heart was heavy with that sense of -discord--the first he had ever known. He had not been the sort of man -with whom people quarrel. If any of his former comrades had been out of -temper with him, it had been but for a moment--and he had no other -relation to quarrel with. The sense of being at variance with his sister -hung over him like a cloud. Edgar was the only one to whom the Rector’s -gentle sermon did any good. He was guiltless in his quarrel, and -therefore he had no _amour-propre_ concerned, no necessity laid upon him -to justify himself. He was quite ready to say that he was wrong if that -would please any one; yes, no doubt he had been wrong; most people were -wrong; he was ready to confess anything. And though he was not a very -close listener generally to Mr. Fielding’s sermons, he took in this one -into his heart. And the summer air, too, stole into his heart; and the -faint fragrance of things outside that breathed in through the open -door, and even the faint mouldy flavour of age and damp which was -within. The little village church, when he looked round it, filled him -with a strange emotion. What was it to others? What was it to himself? A -little break in life--a pause bidding the sleepy peasant rest in the -quiet, dropping warm langour on the eyelids of the children, giving to -the old a slumberous pensiveness. He saw them softly striving to keep -themselves awake--sometimes yielding to the drowsy influence--sometimes -open-eyed, listening or not listening--silent between life and death. -Such sweet, full, abounding life outside; hum of insects, flutter of -leaves, soft, all-pervading fragrance of summer roses. And within, the -monuments on the wall glimmering white; the white head in the pulpit; -the shadowy, quiet, restful place where grandsires had dozed and dreamed -before. What an Elysium it was to some of those weary, hardworking old -bodies! Edgar looked out upon them from the stage-box in which he sat -with a thrill of tender kindness. To himself it might have been a mental -and spiritual rest before the agitations of the next week. But something -had disturbed that and made it impossible. Something! That meant Clare. - -When they all left the church Arthur Arden made a bold stroke. “I will -walk up with you to the Hall if you will let me,” he said. Clare was -within hearing, and she could not restrain a slight start and tremor, -which he saw. Was she afraid of him? Did she wish him to come or to stay -away? But Clare never turned round or gave the slightest indication of -her feelings. She walked out steadily, saying a word here and there to -the village people who stood by as she passed to the carriage, which was -waiting for her at the gate. - -“I am going to see Miss Somers,” said Edgar, “and Clare is driving--but -if you choose to wait----” - -It was not a very warm invitation, but Arden accepted it. He wished the -Pimpernels to see him with his cousin. This much of feeling remained in -him. He would have been mortified had he supposed that they knew he was -only at the Arden Arms. He would go to the Doctor’s house with Edgar, -and declared himself quite ready to wait. “I don’t think Miss Somers -likes me, or I should go with you,” he said, and then he went boldly up -to Mr. Pimpernel and asked for his daughter. “I am sorry I had to leave -so abruptly,” he said, “but I could not help myself,” and he gave his -shoulders a shrug, and looked compassionately with a half smile at the -master of the Red House. - -“Yes,” said Mr. Pimpernel, accepting the tacit criticism with a certain -cleverness. “Mrs. Pimpernel expresses herself strongly sometimes. Alice -is better. Oh, yes! It was an affair of scratches only--though for a -time I was in great fear.” - -“I never was so afraid in my life,” said Arthur, and he shuddered at the -thought, which his companion thought a piece of acting, though it was -perfectly genuine and true. - -“You did not show it much,” he said, shrugging his shoulders in his -turn, “at least so far as we were concerned. But, however, that is your -affair.” And with a nod which was not very civil he called his flock -round him, and drove away. Arthur followed Edgar to the Doctor’s open -door. He went into the Doctor’s sacred study, and took refuge there. Dr. -Somers did not like him he was aware; but still he did not hesitate to -put himself into the Doctor’s easy chair. Why didn’t people like him? It -was confounded bad taste on their part! - -In the meantime Edgar had gone up stairs, where Miss Somers awaited him -anxiously. “Oh, my dear Edgar,” she said, “what a sad, sad---- Do you -think she will never get better? My brother always says to me---- but -then, you know, this isn’t asking about nothing--it’s asking about -Jeanie. And Alice, whose fault it was---- Oh Edgar, isn’t it just the -way of the world? The innocent little thing, you know--and then the one -that was really to blame escaping--it is just the way of the world.” - -“Then, it is a very disagreeable way,” said Edgar. “I wish poor little -Jeanie could have escaped, though I don’t wish any harm to Miss -Pimpernel.” - -“No, my dear,” said Miss Somers; “fancy my calling you ‘my dear,’ as if -you were my own sister! Do you know I begin now to forget which is a -gentleman and which a lady--me that was always brought up---- But what -is the good of being so very particular?--when you consider, at my time -of life. Though some people think that makes no difference. Oh, no, you -must never wish her any harm; but a little foolish, flighty--with -nothing in her head but croquet you know, and---- Young Mr. Denbigh has -so fallen off. He used to come and talk quite like---- And then he would -tell my brother what he should do. My brother does not like advice, -Edgar. Doctors never do. They are so used, you know---- And then about -these German baths and everything. He used to tell my brother---- and he -was not nice about it. Sometimes he is not very nice. He has a good -heart, and all that; but doctors, you know, as a rule, never do---- And -then your cousin--do you think he meant anything?---- I once thought it -was Clare; but then these people are rich, and when a man like that is -poor----” - -“I don’t know what he meant,” said Edgar; “but I am sure he can’t mean -anything now, for he has left the Pimpernels.” - -“And I suppose he is going to you?” said Miss Somers, “for he can’t stay -in the Arden Arms; now, can he? He is sure to be so particular. When men -have no money, my dear--and used to fine living and all that---- And I -don’t believe anything is to be had better than a chop---- Chops are -greasy in such places---- And then Arthur Arden is used to things so---- -But my dear, I think not, if I were you--on account of Clare. I do think -not, Edgar, if you were to take my advice.” - -“But I fear I can’t help myself,” said Edgar, with a shadow passing over -his face---- - -Miss Somers shook her head; but fortunately not even the gratification -of giving advice could keep her long to one subject. “Well--of course -Clare is like other girls, she is sure to marry somebody,” she -said--“and marriage is a great risk Edgar. You shouldn’t laugh. Marriage -is not a thing to make you laugh. I never could make up my mind. It is -so very serious a thing, my dear. Suppose afterwards you were to see -some one else? or suppose---- I never could run the risk--though of -course it can’t be so bad for a gentleman---- But, Edgar, when you are -going to be married--vows are nothing--I wouldn’t make any vow--but,--it -is this, Edgar--it is wrong to have secrets from your wife. I have known -such trouble in my day. When a man was poor, you know--and she would go -on, poor thing, and never find out--and then all at once---- Oh, my -dear, don’t you do that--tell her everything--that is always my--and -then she knows exactly what she can do----” - -“But I am not going to be married,” said Edgar with a smile, which did -not pass away as common smiles do, but melted over all his face. - -“I hope not,” said Miss Somers promptly, “oh, I hope not--after all this -about the Pimpernels--and---- But that was your cousin, not you. Oh, no, -I hope not. What would Clare do? If Clare were married first, then -perhaps---- But it would be so strange; Mrs. Arden--Edgar, fancy! In my -state of health, you know, I couldn’t go to call on her, my dear. She -wouldn’t expect--but then sometimes young ladies are very---- And -perhaps she won’t know me nor how helpless---- I hope she’ll be very -nice, I am sure--and--pretty, and---- Some people think it doesn’t -matter--about beauty, you know, and that---- It’s a long, long time -since I took any interest in such things--but when I was a young girl, -it used to be said---- Now I know what you are thinking in yourself--how -vain and all that--but it is not vanity, my dear. You like to look nice, -you know, and you like to please people, and you like--of course, you -like to look nice. When I was young there were people that used to -say--the little one--they always called me the little one--or little -Letty, or something---- I suppose because they were fond of me. Edgar, -everybody is fond of you when you are young.” - -“And when you are old too,” said Edgar; “everybody has been fond of you -all your life, I am sure--and will be when you are a hundred--of course -you know that.” - -“Ah, my dear,” said Miss Somers, shaking her head. “Ah my dear!”--and -two soft little tears came into the corners of her eyes--“when you are -old---- Yes. I know people are so kind--they pity you--and then every -one tries; but when you were young, oh, it was _so_---- There was no -trying then. People thought there was nobody like---- and then such -quantities of things were to happen---- But sometimes they never happen. -It was my own fault, of course. There was Mr. Templeton and Captain -Ormond, and--what is the good of going over----? That is long past, my -dear, long past----” - -And Miss Somers put her hands up softly to her eyes. She had a sort of -theoretical regret for the opportunity lost, and yet, at the same time, -a theoretical satisfaction that she had not tempted her fate--a -satisfaction which was entirely theoretical; for did she not dream of -her children who might have been, and of one who called Mamma? But Miss -Somers was incapable of mentioning such a thing to Edgar, who was a -“gentleman.” To have betrayed herself would have been impossible. Arthur -Arden was below waiting in the Doctor’s study, and he came out as Edgar -came down and joined him. He had not been idle in this moment of -waiting. Something told him that this was a great crisis, a moment not -to be neglected; and he had been arranging his plan of operations. Only -Edgar, for this once thoughtless and unwary, thought of no crisis, until -Tuesday came, when he should go to Thorne. He thought of nothing that -was likely to change his happy state so long as he remained at home. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -“The fact is, I am a little put out by having to change my quarters so -abruptly,” said Arthur Arden. “I am going to Scotland in the beginning -of September, but that is a long way off; and to go to one’s lodgings in -town now is dreary work. Besides, I said to the Pimpernels when they -drove me out--they actually turned me out of the house--I told them I -was coming here. It was the only way I could be even with them. If there -is a thing they reverence in the world it is Arden; and if they knew I -was here----” - -“It does not entirely rest with me,” said Edgar, with some -embarrassment. “Arden, we had a good deal of discussion on various -subjects before I went away.” - -“Yes; you went in order to turn me out,” said Arthur meditatively. “By -George, it’s pleasant! I used to be a popular sort of fellow. People -used to scheme for having me, instead of turning me out. Look here! Of -course, when you showed yourself my enemy, it was a point of religion -with me to pursue my own course, without regard to you; but now, equally -of course, if you take me in to serve me, my action will be different. I -should respect your prejudices, however they might run counter to my -own.” - -“That means----?” said Edgar, and then stopped short, feeling that it -was a matter which he could not discuss. - -“It is best we should not enter into any explanations. Explanations are -horrid bores. What I want is shelter for a few weeks, to be purchased by -submission to your wishes on the points we both understand.” - -“For a few weeks!” said Edgar, with a little horror. - -“Well, say for a single week. I must put my pride in my pocket, and beg, -it appears. It will be a convenience to me, and it can’t hurt you much. -Of course, I shall be on my guard in respect to Clare.” - -“I prefer that my sister’s name should not be mentioned between us,” -said Edgar, with instinctive repugnance. And then he remembered Mrs. -Murray’s strange appeal to him on behalf of his cousin. “You have all -but as much right to be in Arden as I have,” he said. “Of course, you -must come. My sister is not prepared; she does not expect any one. -Would it not be wiser to wait a little--till to-morrow--or even till -to-night?” - -“Pardon me,” said Arthur; “but Miss Arden, I am sure, will make up her -mind to the infliction better--if I am so very disagreeable--if she gets -over the first shock without preparation. Is it that I am getting old, I -wonder? I feel myself beginning to maunder. It used not to be so, you -know. Indeed, there are places still--but never mind, hospitality that -one is compelled to ask for is not often sweet.” - -It was on Edgar’s lips to say that it need not be accepted, but he -refrained, compassionate of his penniless kinsman. Why should the one be -penniless and the other have all? There was an absence of natural -justice in the arrangement that struck Edgar whenever his mind was -directed to it; and he remembered now what had been his intention when -his cousin first came to the Hall. “Arden,” he said, “I don’t think, if -I were you, I would be content to ask for hospitality, as you say; but -it is not my place to preach. You are the heir of Arden, and Arden owes -you something. I think it is my duty to offer, and yours to accept, -something more than hospitality. I will send for Mr. Fazakerly -to-morrow. I will not talk of dividing the inheritance, because that is -a thing only to be done between brothers; but, as you may become the -Squire any day by my death----” - -“I would sell my chance for five pounds,” said Arthur, giving his -kinsman a hasty look all over. “I shall be dead and buried years before -you--more’s the pity. Don’t think that I can cheat myself with any such -hope.” - -This was intended for a compliment, though it was almost a brutal one; -but its very coarseness made it more flattering--or so at least the -speaker thought. - -“Anyhow, you have a right to a provision,” Edgar continued hastily, with -a sudden flush of disgust. - -“I am agreeable,” said Arthur, with a yawn. “Nobody can be less -unwilling to receive a provision than I am. Let us have Fazakerly by all -means. Of course, I know you are rolling in money; but Old Arden to -Clare and a provision to me will make a difference. If you were to -marry, for instance, you would not find it so easy to make your -settlements. You are a very kind-hearted fellow, but you must mind what -you are about.” - -“Yes,” said Edgar, “you are quite right. What is to be done must be done -at once.” - -“Strike while the iron is hot,” said Arthur, languidly. He did not care -about it, for he did not believe in it. A few weeks at Arden in the -capacity of a visitor was much more to him than a problematical -allowance. Fazakerly would resist it, of course. It would be but a -pittance, even if Edgar was allowed to have his way. The chance of being -Clare’s companion, and regaining his power over her, and becoming lawful -master through her of Old Arden, was far more charming to his -imagination. Therefore, though he was greedy of money, as a poor man -with expensive tastes always is, in this case he was as honestly -indifferent as the most disinterested could have been. Thus they -strolled up the avenue, where the carriage wheels were still fresh which -had carried Clare; and a certain relief stole over her brother’s mind -that they would be three, not two, for the rest of the day. Strange, -most strange that it should be so far a relief to him not to be alone -with Clare. - -Clare received them with a seriousness and reserve, under which she -tried to conceal her excitement. Her cousin had deceived her, preferred -a cottage girl to her, insulted her in the most sensitive point, and yet -her heart leapt into her throat when she saw him coming. She had -foreseen he would come. When he came into church, looking at her so -wistfully, when he followed her out, asking to walk with Edgar, it -became very evident to her that he was not going to relinquish the -struggle without one other attempt to win her favour. It was a vain -hope, she thought to herself; nothing could reverse her decision, or -make her forget his sins against her; but still the very fact that he -meant to try, moved, unconsciously, her heart--or was it his presence, -the sight of him, the sound of his voice, the wistfulness in his eyes? -Clare had driven home with her heart beating, and a double tide of -excitement in all her veins. And then Arthur, too, was bound up in the -whole matter. He was the first person concerned, after Edgar and -herself; they would be three together in the house, between whom this -most strange drama was about to be played out. She waited their coming -with the most breathless expectation. And they came slowly up the -avenue, calm as the day, indifferent as strangers who had never seen -each other; pausing sometimes to talk of the trees; examining that elm -which had a great branch blown off; one of them cutting at the weeds -with his cane as undisturbed as if they were--as they thought--walking -quietly home to luncheon, instead of coming to their fate. - -“Arden is going to stay with us a little, Clare, if you can take him -in,” Edgar said, with that voluble candour which a man always exhibits -when he is about to do something which will be disagreeable to the -mistress of his house--be she mother, sister, or wife. “He has no -engagements for the moment, and neither have we. It is a transition -time--too late for town, too early for the country--so he naturally -turned his eyes this way.” - -“That is a flattering account to give of it,” said Arthur, for Clare -only bowed in reply. “The fact is, Miss Arden, I was turned out by my -late hostess. May I tell you the story? I think it is rather funny.” -And, though Clare’s response was of the coldest, he told it to her, -giving a clever sketch of the Pimpernels. He was very brilliant about -their worship of Arden, and how their hospitality to himself was solely -on account of his name. “But I have not a word to say against them. My -own object was simply self-interest,” he said. He was talking two -languages, as it were, at the same moment--one which Edgar could -understand, and one which was addressed to Clare. - -And there could be no doubt that his presence made the day pass more -easily to the other two--one of whom was so excited, and the other so -exceedingly calm. They strolled about the park in the afternoon, and got -through its weary hours somehow. They dined--Clare in her fever eating -nothing; a fact, however, which neither of her companions perceived. -They took their meal both with the most perfect self-possession, -hurrying over nothing, and giving it that importance which always -belongs to a Sunday dinner. Dinner on other days is but a meal, but on -Sunday it is the business of the day; and as such the two cousins took -it, doing full justice to its importance, while the tide rose higher and -higher in Clare’s veins. When she left them to their wine, she went to -her own room, and walked about and about it like a caged lioness. It was -not Clare’s way, who was above all demonstration of the kind; but now -she could not restrain herself. She clenched her two hands together, and -swept about the room, and moaned to herself in her impatience. “Oh, will -it never be night? Will they never have done talking? Can one go on and -go on and bear it?” she cried to herself in the silence. But after all -she had to put on her chains again, and bathe her flushed face, and go -down to the drawing-room. How like a wild creature she felt, straining -and chafing at her fetters! She sat down and poured out tea for them, -with her hand trembling, her head burning, her feet as cold as ice, her -head as hot as fire. She said to herself it was unlady-like, unwomanly, -unlike her, to be so wild and self-indulgent, but she had no power to -control herself. All this time, however, the two men made no very -particular remark. Edgar, who thought she was still angry, only grieved -and wondered. Arthur knew that she was dissatisfied with himself, and -was excited but not surprised. He gave her now and then pathetic looks. -He wove in subtle phrases of self-vindication--a hundred little -allusions, which were nothing to Edgar but full of significance to -her--into all he said. But he could not have believed, what was the -case, that Clare was far past hearing them--that she did not take up the -drift of his observations at all--that she hardly understood what was -being said, her whole soul being one whirl of excitement, expectation, -awful heartrending fear and hope. It was Edgar at last who perceived -that her strength was getting worn out. He noticed that she did not hear -what was said--that her face usually so expressive, was getting set in -its extremity of emotion. Was it emotion, was it mania? Whatever it was, -it had passed all ordinary bounds of endurance. He rose hastily when he -perceived this, and going up to his sister laid his hand softly on her -shoulder. She started and shivered as if his hand had been ice, and -looked up at him with two dilated, unfathomable eyes. If he had been -going to kill her she could not have been more tragically still--more -aghast with passion and horror. A profound compassion and pity took -possession of him. “Clare,” he said, bending over her as if she were -deaf, and putting his lips close to her ear, “Clare, you are -over-exhausted. Go to bed. Let me take you up stairs--and if that will -be a comfort to you, dear, I will go and read them now.” - -“Yes,” she said, articulating with difficulty--“Yes.” He had to take her -hand to help her to rise; but when he stooped and kissed her forehead -Clare shivered again. She passed Arthur without noticing him, then -returned and with formal courtesy bade him good-night; and so -disappeared with her candle in her hand, throwing a faint upward ray -upon her white woe-begone face. She was dressed in white, with black -ribbons and ornaments, and her utter pallor seemed to bring out the -darkness of her hair and darken the blue in her eyes, till everything -about her seemed black and white. Arthur Arden had risen too and stood -wondering, watching her as she went away. “What is the matter?” he said -abruptly to Edgar, who was no better informed than himself. - -“I don’t know. She must be ill. She is unhappy about something,” said -Edgar. For the first time the bundle of old letters acquired importance -in his eyes. “I want to look at something she has given me,” he added -simply. “You will not think me rude when you see how much concerned my -sister is? You know your room and all that. I must go and satisfy -Clare.” - -“What has she given you?” asked Arthur, with a certain precipitation. -Edgar was not disposed to answer any further questions, and this was one -which his cousin had no right to ask. - -“I must go now,” he said. “Good-night. I trust you will be comfortable. -In short, I trust we shall all be more comfortable to-morrow. Clare’s -face makes me anxious to-night.” - -And then Arthur found himself master of the great drawing-room, with all -its silent space and breadth. What did they mean? Could it be that Clare -had found this something for which he had sought, and instead of giving -it to himself had given it to her brother, the person most concerned, -who would, of course, destroy it and cut off Arthur’s hopes for ever. -The very thought set the blood boiling in his veins. He paced about as -Clare had done in her room, and could only calm himself by means of a -cigar which he went out to the terrace to smoke. There his eyes were -attracted to Clare’s window and to another not far off in which lights -were burning. That must be Edgar’s, he concluded; and there in the -seclusion of his chamber, not in any place more accessible, was he -studying the something Clare had given him? Something! What could it -be? - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -More than one strange incident happened at Arden that soft July night. -Mr. Fielding was seated in his library in the evening, after all the -Sunday work was over. He did not work very hard either on Sundays or on -any other occasions--the good, gentle old man. But yet he liked to sit, -as he had been wont to do in his youth when he had really exerted -himself, on those tranquil Sunday nights. His curate had dined with him, -but was gone, knowing the Rector’s habit; and Mr. Fielding was seated in -the twilight, with both his windows open, sipping a glass of wine -tenderly, as if he loved it, and musing in the stillness. The lamp was -never lighted on Sunday evenings till it was time for prayers. Some -devout people in the parish were of opinion that at such moments the -Rector was asking a blessing upon his labours, and “interceding” with -God for his people--and so, no doubt, he was. But yet other thoughts -were in his mind. Long, long ago, when Mr. Fielding had been young, and -had a young wife by his side, this had been their sacred hour, when they -would sit side by side and talk to each other of all that was in their -hearts. It was “Milly’s hour,” the time when she had told him all the -little troubles that beset a girl-wife in the beginning of her career; -and he had laughed at her, and been sorry for her, and comforted her as -young husbands can. It was Milly’s hour still, though Milly had gone out -of all the cares of life and housekeeping for thirty years. How the old -man remembered those little cares--how he would go over them with a soft -smile on his lip, and--no, not a tear--a glistening of the eye, which -was not weeping. How frightened she had been for big Susan, the cook; -how bravely she had struggled about the cooking of the cutlets, to have -them as her husband liked them--not as Susan pleased! And then all those -speculations as to whether Lady Augusta would call, and about Letty -Somers, and her foolish, little kind-hearted ways. The old man -remembered every one of those small troubles. How small they were, how -dear, how sacred--Milly’s troubles. Thank Heaven, she had never found -out that the world held pangs more bitter. The first real sorrow she had -ever had was to die--and was that a sorrow? to leave him; and had she -left him? This was the tender enjoyment, the little private, sad -delight of the Rector’s Sunday nights; and he did not like to be -disturbed. - -Therefore, it was clear the business must be of importance which was -brought to him at that hour. “Your reverence won’t think as it’s of my -own will I’m coming disturbing of you,” said Mrs. Solmes, the -housekeeper; “but there’s one at the door as will take no denial. She -says she aint got but a moment, and daren’t stay for fear her child -would wake. She’s been in a dead faint from yesterday at six till now. -The t’oud woman as lives at oud Sarah’s, your reverence; the Scotchy, as -they calls her--her as had her granddaughter killed last night.” - -“God bless me!” said Mr. Fielding, confused by this complication. He -knew Jeanie had not been killed; but how was he to make his way in this -twilight moment through such a maze of statements? “Killed!” he said to -himself. It was so violent a word to fall into that sacred dimness and -sadness--sadness which was more dear to him than any joy. “Let her come -in,” he added, with a sigh. “Lights? no! I don’t think we want lights. I -can see you, Mrs. Solmes, and I can see to talk without lights.” - -“As you please, sir,” said the housekeeper; “but them as is strangers, -and don’t know your habits, might think it was queer. And then to think -how a thing gets all over the village in no time. But, to be sure, sir, -it’s as you please.” - -“Then show Mrs. Murray in,” said Mr. Fielding. He had never departed -from his good opinion of her, notwithstanding that she was a Calvinist, -and looked disapproval of his sermons; but that she should come away -from her child’s sick-bed, that was extraordinary indeed. - -And then in the dark, much to the scandal of Mrs. Solmes, Mrs. Murray -came in. Even the Rector himself found it embarrassing to see only the -tall, dark figure beside him, without being able to trace (so -short-sighted as he was, too) the changes of her face. “Sit down,” he -said, “sit down,” and bustled a little to get her a chair--not the one -near him, in which, had she been alive, his Milly would have sat--(and -oh! to think Milly, had she lived, would have been older than Mrs. -Murray!)--but another at a little distance. “How is your child?” he -asked. “I meant to have gone to see her to-night, but they told me she -was insensible still.” - -“And so she is,” said the grandmother, “and I wouldna have left her to -come here but for something that’s like life and death. You’re a good -man. I canna but believe you’re a real good man, though you are no what -I call sound on all points. I want you to give me your advice. It’s a -case of a penitent woman that has done wrong, and suffered for it. Sore -she has suffered in her bairns and her life, and worse in her heart. -It’s a case of conscience; and oh! sir, your best advice----” - -“I will give you the best advice I can, you may be sure,” said Mr. -Fielding, moved by the pleading voice that reached him out of the -darkness. “But you must tell me more clearly. What has she done? I will -not ask who she is, for that does not matter. But what has she done; and -has she, or can she, make amends? Is it a sin against her neighbour or -against God?” - -“Baith, baith,” said the old woman. “Oh, Mr. Fielding, you’re an -innocent, virtuous man. I ken it by your face. This woman has been airt -and pairt in a great wrong--an awfu’ wrong; you never heard of the like. -Partly she knew what she was doing, and partly she did not. There are -some more guilty than her that have gone to their account; and there’s -none to be shamed but the innocent, that knew no guile, and think no -evil. What is she to do? If it was but to punish _her_, she’s free to -give her body to be burned or torn asunder: oh, and thankful, thankful! -Nothing you could do, but she would take and rejoice. But she canna move -without hurting the innocent. She canna right them that’s wronged -without crushing the innocent. Oh, tell me, you that are a minister, and -an old man, and have preached God’s way! Many and many a time He suffers -wrong, and never says a word. It’s done now, and canna be undone. Am I -to bear my burden and keep silent till my heart bursts, or must I -destroy, and cast down, and speak!” - -The woman spoke with a passion and vehemence which bewildered the gentle -Rector. Her voice came through the dim and pensive twilight, thrilling -with life and force and vigour. In that atmosphere, at that hour, any -whisper of penitence should have been low and soft as a sigh. It should -have been accompanied by noiseless weeping, by the tender humility which -appeals to every Christian soul; but such was not the manner of this -strange confession. Not a tear was in the eye of the penitent. Mr. -Fielding felt, though he could not see, that her eyes, those eyes which -had lost none of their brightness in growing old, were shining upon him -in the darkness, and held him fast as did those of the Ancient Mariner. -Suddenly, without any warning, he found himself brought into contact, -not with the moderate contrition of ordinary sinners, but with tragic -repentance and remorse. He could not answer for the first moment. It -took away his breath. - -“My dear, good woman,” he said, “you startle me. I do not understand -you. Do you know what you are saying? I don’t think you can have done -anything so very wrong. Hush, hush! compose yourself, and think what you -are saying. When we examine it, perhaps we will find it was not so bad. -People may do wrong, you know, and yet it need not be so very serious. -Tell me what it was.” - -“That is what I cannot do,” she said. “If I were to tell you, all would -be told. If it has to be said, it shall be said to him first that will -have the most to bear. Oh, have ye been so long in the world without -knowing that a calm face often covers a heavy heart! Many a thing have I -done for my ain and for others that cannot be blamed to me; but once I -was to blame. I tell ye, I canna tell ye what it was. It was this--I did -what was unjust and wrong. I schemed to injure a man--no, no me, for I -did not know he was in existence, and who was to tell me?--but I did the -wrong thing that made it possible for the man to be injured. Do you -understand me now? And here I am in this awful strait, like Israel at -the Red Sea. If I let things be, I am doing wrong, and keeping a man out -of his own; if I try to make amends, I am bringing destruction on the -innocent. Which, oh, which, tell me, am I to do?” - -She had raised her voice till it sounded like a cry, and yet it was not -loud. Mrs. Solmes in the kitchen heard nothing, but to Mr. Fielding it -sounded like a great wail and moaning that went to his heart. And the -silence closed over her voice as the water closes over a pebble, making -faint circles and waves of echo, not of the sound, but of the meaning of -the sound. He could not speak, with those thrills of feeling, like the -wash after a boat, rolling over him. He did not understand what she -meant; her great and violent pain bewildered the gentle old man. The -only thing he could take hold of was her last words. That, he reflected, -was always right--always the best thing to advise. He waited until the -silence and quietness settled down again, and then he said, his soft old -voice wavering with emotion, “Make amends!” - -“Is that what you say to me?” she said, lifting up her hands. He could -see the vehement movement in the gloom. - -“Make amends. What other words could a servant of God say?” - -He thought she fell when he spoke, and sprang to his feet with deep -anxiety. She had dropped down on her knees, and had bent her head, and -was covering her face with her hands. “Are you ill?” he said. “God bless -us all, she has fainted! what am I to do?” - -“No; the like of me never faints,” she answered; and then he perceived -that she retained her upright position. Her voice was choked, and -sounded like the voice of despair, and she did not take her hands from -her face. “Oh, if I could lie like Jeanie,” she went on, “quietly, like -the dead, with nae heart to feel nor voice to speak. My bit little lily -flower! would she have been broken like that--faded like that, if I had -done what was right? But, O Lord my God, my bonnie lad! what is to -become of him?” - -“Mrs. Murray! Mrs. Murray!” said Mr. Fielding, “let me put you on that -sofa. Let me get you some wine. Compose yourself. My poor woman, my good -woman! All this has been too much for you. Are you sure it is not a -delusion you have got into your mind?” - -The strange penitent took no notice of him as he stood thus beside her. -Her mind was occupied otherwise. “How am I to make amends?” she was -murmuring; “how am I to do it? Harm the innocent, crush down the -innocent!--that’s all I can do. It will relieve my mind, but it will -throw nothing but bitterness into theirs. The prophet he threw a -sweetening herb into the bitter waters, but it would be gall and -wormwood I would throw. The wrong’s done, and it canna be undone. It -would but be putting off my burden on them--giving them my pain to -bear; and it is me, and no them, that is worthy of the pain.” - -“Mrs. Murray,” said the Rector, by this time beginning to feel alarmed; -for how could he tell that it was not a madwoman he had beside him in -the dark? “you must try and compose yourself. I think things cannot be -so bad as you say. Perhaps you are tormenting yourself for nothing. My -dear good woman, sit down and rest, and compose yourself, while I ring -the bell for the lamp.” - -Then she rose up slowly in the darkness between him and the window, and -took her hands from her face. She did not raise her head, but she put -out her hand and caught his arm with a vigour which made Mr. Fielding -tremble. “I was thinking if I had anything else to say,” she said, in a -low desponding tone, “but there’s nothing more. I cannot think but of -one thing. If you’ve nothing more to say to me, I’ll go away. I’ll slip -away in the dark, as I came, and nobody will be the wiser. Mr. Fielding, -you’re a real good man, and that was your best advice?” - -“It’s my advice to everybody, in ordinary circumstances,” said Mr. -Fielding. “If you have done wrong, make amends--the one thing -necessitates the other. If you have done wrong, make amends. But, Mrs. -Murray, wait till the lamp comes and a glass of wine. You are not fit -to go back to your nursing without something to sustain you. Sit down -again.” - -“I am fit for a great deal more than that,” she said; “but no, no, nae -lights. I’ll go my ways back. I’ll slip out in the dark, as I slipped -in. I’m like the owls--I’m dazzled by the shinin’ light. That’s new to -me, that always liked the light; but, sir, I thank ye for your goodness. -I must slip away now.” - -“You are not fit to walk in this state,” he said, following her -anxiously to the door; “take my arm; let me get out the pony--I will -send you comfortably home.” - -Mrs. Murray shook her head. She declined the offer of the old man’s arm. -“I have mair strength than you think,” she said; “and Jeanie must never -know that I have been here. Oh, I’m strengthened with what you said. Oh, -I’m the better for having opened my heart; but I’ll slip out, as long as -there are none to see.” - -And, while the gentle Rector stood and wondered, she went out by the -open window, as erect and vigorous as if no emotion could touch her. -Swiftly she passed into the darkness, carrying with her her secret. What -was it? Mr. Fielding sunk into his chair with a sigh. Never before had -any interruption like this come into Milly’s hour. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -Edgar went to his own room, with a certain oppression on his mind, to -seek those papers which surely his sister gave the most exaggerated -importance to. It seemed ridiculous to go upstairs at that hour; he took -them out of his dressing-case, into which he had locked them, and went -down again to the library. It was true that he would fain have occupied -his evening in some other way. He would have preferred even to talk to -Arthur Arden, though he did not love him. He would have preferred to -read, or to walk out and enjoy the freshness of the summer night. And, -much better than any of these, he would have preferred to have Clare’s -own company, to talk to her about the many matters he had laid up in his -mind, and, perhaps, if opportunity served, to enter upon the subject of -Gussy. But this evidently was not how it was to be. He must go and read -over dull papers, to please his sister. Well, that was not so very -difficult a business, after all. It was Clare’s interest in them that -was so strange. This was what he could not understand. As he settled -himself to his task, a great many thoughts came into his mind in respect -to his sister. She had been brought up (he supposed) differently from -other girls. He could not fancy the Thornleighs, any of them, taking -such interest in a parcel of old papers. They must be about Arden -somehow, he concluded, some traditionary records of the family, -something that affected their honour and glory. Was this what she cared -for most in the world--not her brother or any future love, but Arden, -only Arden, her race. And then he reflected how odd it was that two of -Clare’s lovers had made him their confidant--Arthur, a man whom any -brother would discourage; and Lord Newmarch, who was an excellent match. -The one was so objectionable, the other so irreproachable, that Edgar -was amused by the contrast. What could they expect him to do? The one -had a right to look for his support, the other every reason to fear his -opposition; but what did Clare say, what did she think of either?--even -Arthur Arden’s presence was nothing to her, compared with these old -letters. He seated himself, without knowing it, at his father’s place, -in his father’s chair. No association sanctified the spot to him. Once -or twice, indeed, he had been called there into the Squire’s dreadful -presence, but there was nothing in these interviews to make the room -reverent or sacred. He put himself simply in the most convenient place, -lighted the candles on the table, and sat down to his work. Clare was -upstairs--he thought he heard her soft tread overhead. Yes, she was -different from other girls; and he wondered in himself what kind of a -life hers would be. Would she--after all, that was the first -question--remain in Arden when Gussy came as its mistress?--if Gussy -ever came. Would she find it possible to bend her spirit to that? Would -she marry, impatient of this first contradiction of her supremacy?--and -which would she choose if she married? All these questions passed -through Edgar’s mind, gravely at first, lightly afterwards, as the -immediate impression of her seriousness died away. Then he looked at all -the things on the table--his father’s seal, the paper in the -blotting-book, with its crest and motto. How well he remembered the few -curt letters he had received on that paper, bidding him “come home on -Friday next to spend a week or a fortnight,” as the case might be--very -curt and unyielding they had been, with no softening use of his name, no -“dear Edgar,” or “dear boy,” but only the command, whatever it was. It -was not wonderful that he had little reverence, little admiration, for -his father’s memory. His face grew sterner and paler as he turned over -those relics of the dead man, which moved Clare only to tenderest -memories. Twenty years of neglect, of injury, of unkindness came before -him, all culminating in that one look of intense hatred which he -remembered so well--the look which made it apparent to him that his -father--his father!--would have been glad had he died. - -Such thoughts had been banished from Edgar’s breast for a long time. He -had dismissed them by a vigorous effort of will when he entered upon his -life at Arden; it was but those signs and tokens of the past that -brought them back, and again he made an effort to begin his task, though -with so little relish for it. If it was anything affecting the Squire, -Edgar felt he was not able to approach it calmly. A certain impatience, -a certain disgust, came into his mind at the thought. To please -Clare--that was a different matter. He opened the enclosure slowly and -with reluctance, and once more turned over in his hand the inner packet, -still sealed up, which had the appearance of having been thrown into the -fire, and hastily snatched out again. The parcel was singed and torn, -and one of the seals had run into a great blotch of wax, obliterating -all impression. As he held it in his hand he felt the place where the -envelope was torn across, and remembered dimly that his sister had -attributed her interest in it to the words she had read through this -tear. What were they? he wondered. He turned the packet round and laid -it on the table, with the torn part uppermost. It was his father’s -handwriting that appeared below, a writing somewhat difficult to read. -He studied it, read it, lifted it nearer to his eyes--asked himself, -“What does it mean?”--then he held it up to the light and read it over -once more. What did it mean? A certain blank seemed to take possession -of all his faculties--he wondered vaguely--the powers of his mind seemed -to forsake him all at once. - -This is what was written, in uneven lines, under the torn envelope, -which had driven Clare desperate, and made her brother stupid, in his -inability to understand-- - -“_I will take him from you, bring him up as my son, and make him my -heir--as you say, for my own ends._” - -Edgar was stupefied. He sat and looked at it blankly over and over. -Son!--heir! What was the meaning of the words? He did not for the moment -ask any more. “What does the fool mean? What does the fool mean?” he -said, over and over. It did not move him to open the cover to inquire -further. He only sat stupid, and looked at it. How long he might have -continued to do so it is impossible to tell; but all at once, in the -quiet house, there was a sound of something falling, and this roused -him. What could it be? Could it be Clare who had fallen? Could it---- He -roused himself up, and went to the door and listened. He had wasted an -hour or more in one way or other before he even looked at his packet, -and now the house was at rest, and everything still. Had Clare known the -moment at which he read those words--had she fainted in sympathy? His -mind had grown altogether so confused that he could not make it out. He -stood watching at the door for some minutes, and then, hearing nothing -further, shut it carefully, and went back and sat down again. The -candles were clear enough; the writing, though difficult, was distinct. -“I will take him from you, bring him up as my son, make him my heir.” -“Perhaps there is something more about it inside,” Edgar said to -himself, with a faint smile. He spoke aloud, with a sense that he was -speaking to somebody, and then started at the sound of his own voice, -feeling as if some one else had spoken. And then he laughed. It made a -diabolical sound in the silence. Was it he that laughed, or some -devil?--there must be devils about--and what a fool he must be to be so -easily startled; what a fool--what a fool! - -Then he opened the envelope. His hands trembled a little; he came to -himself gradually, and became aware that this was no light business he -was about. It was the laugh that had roused him, the laugh with which he -himself or somebody else--could it be somebody else?--had disturbed the -silence. A quantity of letters were inside, some in his father’s -writing, some in another--a large, irregular, feminine hand. -Instinctively he secured that one which had appeared through the tear in -the cover, and read it word by word. It was one of the square letters -written before envelopes were used, and bore on the yellow outside fold -an address half-obliterated and some postmarks. He read it to the last -word; he made an effort to decipher the outside; he investigated and -noted the yellow date on the postmarks. He knew very well what he was -doing now; never had his brain been more collected, never had he been -more clear-headed all his life. Twice over he read it, word by word, and -then put it down by his side, and arranged the others according to their -dates. There were alternate letters, each with its reply. Two minds--two -souls--had met in those yellow bits of paper, and gone through a -terrible struggle; they were the tempter and the tempted--the one -advancing all his arguments, the other hesitating, doubting, -refusing--hesitating again. Carefully, slowly, Edgar read every one. -There was nothing fictitious about them. Clear and distinct as the -daylight was the terrible story they involved--the story of which he -himself, in his ignorance, was the hero--of which he was the victim. All -alone in the darkness and stillness of the night there fell upon him -this awful revelation--a thing he had never expected, never feared--a -new thing, such as man never had heard of before. - -The business he was about was too tremendous to allow time for any -reflection. He did not reflect, he did not think, he only read and knew. -He felt himself change as he read, felt the room swim, so that he had to -hold by the table, felt new lights which he had never dreamt of spring -up upon his life. Sometimes it seemed to him as if even his physical -form was changing. He was looking at himself as in a magic mirror, for -the first time seeing himself, understanding himself, beholding the -mystery clear away, the reality stand out. How clear it grew! A chill -arose about him, as of a man traversing a mine, poking through -half-lighted dreary galleries, and finding always the blue circle of -outlet, the light at the end. He went on and on, never pausing nor -drawing breath. He looked like a historical student seated there, -regulating his documents with such exactness, reading every bit of paper -only according to its date. Some of them were smoked and scorched, and -took a great deal of trouble to make out. Some were crabbed in their -handwriting and uncertain in spelling. At some words a faint momentary -smile would come upon his lips. It was a historical investigation. No -family papers ever had such interest, ever claimed such profound study. -The daylight came in over the tops of the shutters; first a faint -blueness, gradually widening and whitening into light. To see him -sitting with candles blazing on each side of him, holding up his papers -to them, and the quiet observant day flooding the room around him with -light, and the ineffectual barred shutters vainly attempting to obscure -it--oh, how strange it was! Edgar himself never perceived the change. He -felt the chill of morning, but he had been cold before, and took no -notice. How grave he was, how steady, how pale, in the flashing foolish -light of the candles! As if that was needed! as if all was not open, -clear, and legible, and patent to the light of day. - -This was the scene which Clare looked in upon when she softly opened the -door. She had not even undressed. She had sat up in her room, thinking -that he would perhaps call, perhaps come to her, perhaps laugh, and ask -her what her fright had meant, and show her how innocent and foolish -these words were which had alarmed her. And then she had dozed and slept -with a shawl round her; and then, waking up in the early morning, had -stolen out, and seeing her brother’s room open, had been seized with -sudden terror wilder than ever. Her heart beat so loudly that she felt -as if it must wake the house. She stole downstairs like a ghost, in her -white evening dress. She opened the door, and there he sat in the -daylight with his candles, not hearing her, not seeing her, intent upon -his work. Was not that enough? She gave a low cry, and with a start he -roused himself and looked up, the letters still in his hand. There was a -moment in which neither moved, but only looked at each other with a -mutual question and reply that were beyond words. Then he rose. How pale -he was--like a dead man, the blood gone out of his very lips; and yet -could it be possible he smiled? It was a smile Clare never forgot. He -got up from his chair, and placed another for her, and turned to her -with that look full of tenderness and pathos, and a certain strange -humour. “I don’t know how to address you now,” he said, the smile -retiring into his eyes. “I know who you are, but not who I am. It was -natural you should be anxious. If you sit down, I will tell you all I -know.” - -She came to him with a sudden impulse, and caught his arm with her -hands. “Oh, Edgar! oh, my brother Edgar!” she said, moaning, but gazing -at him with a desperate question, which he knew he had already answered, -in her eyes. - -“No,” he said, gently putting his hand upon hers. A sudden spasm crossed -his face, and for the moment his voice was broken. “No---- Your friend, -your servant; so long as you want me your protector still--but your -brother no more.” - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -Arthur Arden felt himself very much at a loss next morning, and could -not make it out. The brother and sister had left him to his own devices -the night before, and again he found himself alone when he came down to -breakfast. The same round table was in the window--the same vase of -roses stood in the middle--everything was arranged as usual. The only -thing which was not as usual was that neither Edgar nor Clare were -visible. In this old, orderly, well-regulated place, such a thing had -been never seen before. Wilkins paused and made a little speech, half -shocked, half apologetic, as he put a savoury dish under Arthur’s nose. -“Master’s late, sir, through business; and Miss Arden, she’s not well. -I’m sure I’m very sorry, and all the house is sorry. The first morning -like----” - -“Never mind, Wilkins,” said Arthur. “I daresay my cousin will join me -presently. I have been late often enough in this house.” - -“But never the Squire, if you’ll remember,” said Wilkins. “Master was -always punctual like the clock. But young folks has new ways. Not as -we’ve anything to complain of; but from time to time there’s changes, -Mr. Arthur, in folk’s selves, and in the world.” - -“That is very true, Wilkins,” said Arthur, with more urbanity than -usual. He was not a man who encouraged servants to talk; but at present -he was on his good behaviour--amiable to everybody. “I am very sorry to -hear Miss Arden is ill. I hope it is not anything beyond a headache. I -thought she looked very well last night.” - -“Yes, sir; she looked very well last night,” said Wilkins, with a little -emphasis; “but for a long time past we’ve all seen as there was -something to do with Miss Clare.” - -Arthur made no answer. He felt that to enter into such a discussion with -a servant would not do, though he would have been glad enough to -discover what was supposed to be the matter with Clare. So he held his -tongue and eat his breakfast; and Wilkins, after lingering about for -some minutes wooing further inquiry, took himself gradually away to the -sideboard. Arthur sat in the bow-window at the sunny end, enjoying the -pretty, flower-decked table, with all its good things; while Wilkins -glided about noiselessly in black clothes, as glossy as a popular -preacher’s, and as spotless, deferentially silent and alert, ready to -obey a whisper, the lifting of a finger. No doubt it was chiefly for his -own ends, and for the delight of gossip that life was so ready to obey, -for Wilkins generally had a will of his own. But the stillness, the -solitude, the man’s profound attention, rapt Arthur in a pleasant dream. -If he had been master here instead of his cousin. If he had been Squire -Arden instead of this boy, who was not like the Ardens, neither -externally nor in mind. His brain grew a little dizzy for a moment. Was -he so? Was the other but a dream? Should he go out presently and find -that all the people about the estate came to him, cap in hand, and that -Edgar was a shadow which had vanished away. He could not tell what -vertigo seized him, so that he could entertain even for a moment so -absurd a fancy. The next, he gave himself a slight shake and smiled, not -without some bitterness. “I am the penniless one,” he said to himself; -“I may starve, while he has everything. If he likes to turn me out -to-morrow, I shall have nowhere to go to.” How strange it was! Arthur -was, of course, a Tory of the deepest dye--he held the traditionary -politics of his race, which equally, of course, Edgar did not hold; but -at this moment it would be vain to deny that certain theories which were -wildly revolutionary crossed his mind. Why should one have so much and -another nothing? why should one inherit name, and authority, and houses, -and lands, and another be left without bread to eat? No democrat, no red -republican could have felt the difference more violently than did Arthur -Arden; as he sat that morning alone in the quiet Arden dining-room, -eating his kinsman’s bread. - -After a while Edgar came in. He was singularly pale, and his manner had -changed in a way which Arthur could not explain to himself. He perceived -the change at the first glance. He said to himself (thinking, as was -natural, of himself only), “He has come to some determination about me. -He has got something to propose to me.” Edgar looked like a man with -some weighty business on hand. He had no time for his usual careless -talk, his friendly, good-humoured notice of everything. He looked like a -general who has a difficult position to occupy, or to get his troops -safely out of a dangerous pass. His forehead, which had always been so -free of care, was lined and clouded. His very voice had changed its -tone. It was sharper, quicker, more decisive. He seemed to have made a -sudden leap from a youth into a serious man. - -“My sister, I am sorry, is not well,” he said; “and I was up very late. -I think she will stay in her room all day.” - -“I am very sorry,” said Arthur, “Wilkins has been telling me. He says -you were kept late by business; and you look like it. You look as if you -had all the cares of the nation on your head.” - -“I suppose the cares of the nation sometimes sit more lightly than one’s -own,” said Edgar, with a forced smile. - -“My dear fellow!” said his cousin, laughing in superior wisdom. “Your -cares cannot be of a very crushing kind. If it was mine you were talking -of--a poor devil who sometimes does not know where his next dinner is to -come from; but that is not a subject, perhaps, for polite ears.” - -“And the dinners have always come to you, I suspect,” said Edgar; “good -dinners too, and handsomely served. Chops have not been much in your -way; whereas you know most people who talk on such a subject----” - -“Have to content themselves with chops? Some people like them,” said -Arthur, meditatively. “By the way, Arden, does it not come within the -sphere of a reforming landlord like you to reform the _cuisine_ at the -Arden Arms? If I were you, and had poor relations likely to come and -stay there, I would make a difference. For you do consider the claims -of poor relations. Many people don’t; but you---- By the way, you said -something about Fazakerly. Is he actually coming? I should like to see -the old fellow, though he is not fond of me.” - -“He is coming, certainly,” said Edgar, with a momentary flush, “but I -think not so soon as to-morrow. I--have something to do to-morrow--an -old engagement. And then--my business with Fazakerly may be more serious -than I thought.” - -“As you please,” said Arthur, shrugging his shoulders slightly. “You are -master, I have nothing to do with it. It was bad taste to remind you, I -know. But when one’s pockets are empty, and the Mrs. Pimpernels of life -begin to cast one off--that was an alarming defeat; I begin to ask -myself, Are the crowfeet showing? is the grey visible in my hair.” - -“I can’t see it,” said Edgar, with a momentary smile. - -“No, I take care of that,” said the other; “though a touch of grey is -not objectionable sometimes--it makes a man interesting. You scorn such -levity, don’t you? But then you are five and twenty, and foolish -thoughts are extinguished in you by the cares of the estate.” - -Once more a momentary smile passed over Edgar’s face. “Have you noticed -any of the changes I have made in the estate--do you like them?” he -asked, with something like anxiety. What a strange fellow he is, Arthur -thought--if I were he, should I care what any one thought? “I have -renewed some leases which it perhaps was not quite wise to renew,” Edgar -continued, “and lent some money for draining and that sort of thing. -Probably you would not have done it. If I were to die now--let us make -the supposition----” - -“My dear Arden, I am sadly afraid you won’t die,” said his cousin; -“don’t tantalise a man by putting such hopes in his head. How can you -tell that I may not be prepared with a little white powder? If you were -to die I should probably call in your drainage money, for even then I -should be as poor as a rat--but I could not change anybody’s lease.” - -“I wonder if you would take any interest in the property?” said Edgar; -“there is a great charm in it, do you know. You feel more or less that -you have some real power over the people. I don’t think much of what -people call influence, but actual power is very different. You can speak -to them with authority. You can say, if you do this, I will do that. You -can rouse their self-interest, as well as their sense of right. I have -not done very much more than begin it, but it has been very interesting -to me. I wonder if it would have the same effect on you.” - -He means to offer me the situation of agent, said Arthur Arden to -himself. His agent! I! And then he spoke--“I’ll tell you one thing I -should take an interest in, Arden. I should look after those building -leases for the Liverpool people. It would make the greatest possible -difference to the estate; it would make up for the loss of Old Arden, -which your sister carries off. That was a wonderfully silly business, if -you will allow me to say so--I cannot imagine how you could ever think -of alienating that.” - -A curious thrill passed over Edgar. It was quite visible, and yet he did -not mean it to be visible. Up to this moment his gravity had been so -real, his manner so serious, that his cousin had not for a moment -suspected that he had anything to conceal. But this sudden shudder -struck him strangely. “Are you cold,” he asked, looking at him fixedly -with a suspicious, watchful glance, “this fine morning? or are you ill, -too?” - -“Neither,” said Edgar, restraining himself. “We were talking about the -building leases. You, who are more of an Arden than I have ever been -supposed to be----” - -He attempted to say this with a smile, but his lips were dry and -parched, and his pallor increased. Was it possible that he could have -found anything out--he whose interest, of course, was to destroy any -evidence that told against himself? At the thought Arthur Arden’s heart -sank; for if Edgar’s fears for his own position were once raised, it was -very certain that there would not long remain anything for another to -find out. - -“You mistake,” he said, “the spirit of the Ardens; they were not a -romantic race, as people suppose--they had their eyes very well open to -their interests. I don’t know what made your father so obstinate; but I -am sure his father, or his grandfather, as far back as you like to go, -would never have neglected such an opportunity of enriching themselves. -Why, look at the money it would put into your purse at the first moment. -I should do it without hesitation; but then, of course, people would say -of me--He is a needy wretch; he is always in want of money. And, of -course, it would be quite true. Has old Fazakerly’s coming anything to -do with that?” - -“It may have to do with a great many things,” said Edgar, with a certain -irritable impatience, rising from his chair. “Pardon me, Arden, I am -going down to the village. I must see how poor little Jeanie is. I have -got some business with Mr. Fielding. Perhaps you would like to make -some inquiries too.” - -“Not if you are going,” said Arthur, calmly. “The girl was going on well -yesterday. If you were likely to see her, I should send my love; but I -suppose you won’t see her. No, thanks; I can amuse myself here.” - -“As you please,” said Edgar, turning abruptly away. He could not have -borne any more. With an inexpressible relief he left the room, and freed -himself from his companion. How strange it was that, of all people in -the world, Arthur Arden should be his companion now! - -As for Arthur, he went to the window and watched his cousin’s progress -down the avenue with mingled feelings. He did not know what to make of -it. Sometimes he returned to his original idea, that Edgar, in -compassion of his poverty, was about to make a post for him on the -estate--to give him something to do, probably with some fantastic idea -that to be paid for his work would be more agreeable to Arthur than to -receive an allowance. “He need not trouble,” Arthur said to himself. “I -have no objection to an allowance. He owes it me, by Jove.” And then he -strolled into the library, which was in painful good order, bearing no -trace of the vigils of the previous night. He sat down, and wrote his -letters on the old Squire’s paper, in the old Squire’s seat. The paper -suited him exactly, the place suited him exactly. He raised his eyes and -looked over the park, and felt that, too, to be everything he could -desire. And yet a fickle fortune, an ill-judging destiny, had given it -to Edgar instead. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Edgar was thankful for the morning air, the freshness of the breeze, the -quietness of the world outside, where there was nobody to look curiously -at him--nobody to speak to him. It was the first moment of calm he had -felt since the discovery of last night, although he had been alone in -his room for three or four hours, trying to sleep. Now there was no -effort at all required of him--neither to sleep, nor to talk, nor to -render a reason. He was out in the air, which caressed him with -impartial sweetness, never asking who he was; and the mere fact that he -was out of doors made it impossible for him to write anything or read -anything, as he might have otherwise thought it his duty to do. He went -on slowly, taking the soft air, the fluttering leaves, the gleams of -golden sunshine, all the freshness of the morning, into his very heart. -Oh, how good nature was, how kind, caressing a man and refreshing him, -however unhappy he might be! But the curious thing in all this was, that -Edgar was not unhappy. He did not himself make any classification of -his feelings, nor was he aware of this fact. But he was not unhappy: he -was in pain: he felt like a man upon whom a great operation has been -performed, whose palpitating flesh has been shorn away or his bones -sawed asunder by the surgeon’s skilful torture. The great shock tingles -through his whole system, affects his nerves, occupies his thoughts, is -indeed the one subject to which he finds himself ever and ever -recurring; and yet does not go so deep as to affect the happiness of his -life or the tranquillity of his mind. Perhaps Edgar did not fully -realise what it was which had fallen upon him. He was tingling, -suffering, torn asunder with pain; and yet he was quite calm. Any trifle -would have pleased him. He was so wounded, so sore, so bleeding, that he -had not time to look any further and be unhappy. The question what he -should do had not yet entered his mind. In the meantime he was gladly -silent, taking rest after the operation he had gone through. - -He went down to the village vaguely, like a man in a dream. When he got -to the great gate he asked himself, with a sort of curious wonder and -interest, Should he go and tell Mr. Fielding--resolve all the Doctor’s -doubts for ever? But decided no, because he was too tired. Besides, he -had not made up his mind what was to be done. He had not fully realised -it--he had only felt the blow, and the rending, tearing pain--and now -the hush after the operation, his veins still tingling, his flesh -palpitating, but some soft opiate giving him a momentary, sweet -forgetfulness of his suffering. Sufferers who have taken a very strong -opiate often feel as Edgar did, especially if it does not bring sleep, -but only a strange insensibility, an unexplainable trance of relief. He -walked on and on, and he did not think. The thing had happened, the -knife had come down; but the shearing and rending were past, and he was -quiet. He was able to say nothing, think nothing--only to wait. At the -present moment this was all. - -And then he went down in his dream to the cottage where Jeanie was. As -the women curtseyed to him at their doors, and the school-children made -their little bobs, he asked himself, why? Would they do it if they knew? -What would the village think? How would the information be received? -Those Pimpernels, for instance, who had turned Arthur Arden out, how -would they take it? Somehow, Edgar felt as if he himself had changed -with Arthur Arden. It was he, he thought, who had become the poor -cousin--he who was the one disinherited. We say he thought, but he did -not really think; it was but the upper line of fancy in his mind--the -floating surface to his thoughts. Though he had not made up his mind to -any course of action, and was not even capable of thinking, yet at the -same time he felt disposed to stop and speak to everybody, and say -certain words of explanation. What could he say? You are making a -mistake. This is not me; or, rather, I am not the person you take me -for. Was that what he ought to say? And he smiled once more that curious -smile, in which a certain pathetic humour mingled. “Who am I?” he said -to himself. “What am I?--a man without a name.” It gave him a strange, -wild, melancholy amusement. It was part of the effect of the laudanum; -and yet he had not taken any laudanum. His opiate was only the great -pain, the sleepless night--the sudden softening, calming influence of -the fresh day. - -“She’s opened her eyes once,” said Mrs. Hesketh, at the cottage door. -“You don’t think much of that, sir; but it’s a deal. She opened her -eyes, and put out her hand, and said, ‘Granny!’ Oh, it’s a deal, sir, is -that! The Doctor is as pleased as Punch; and as for t’oud dame----” - -“Is she pleased?” said Edgar. - -“I don’t understand her, sir,” said the woman; “it looks to me as if she -was a bit touched”--and here Mrs. Hesketh laid her finger on her own -forehead. “Husht! she’ll hear. She won’t take a morsel of rest, won’t -t’oud dame. I canna think how she lives; but, bless you! she’s got -somethin’ else on her mind--something more than Jinny. I’m a’most -sure---- Lord! I’ve spoke below my breath, but she’s heard us, and she’s -coming here.” - -“Will you watch my bairn ten minutes, while I speak to the gentleman?” -said Mrs. Murray. “Eh! I hope you’ll be blessed and kept from a’ evil, -for you’re a good woman--you’re a good woman. Aye, she’s better. She’ll -win through, as I always said. We’ve grand constitutions in our family. -Oh, my bonnie lad! it’s a comfort to me to see your face.” - -Edgar must have started slightly at this address, for the old woman -started too, and looked at him with a bewildered air. “What did I say?” -she asked. “Mr. Edgar, I’ve sleepit none for three nights. My heart has -been like to burst. I’m worn out--worn out. If I said something that -wasna civil, I beg your pardon. It is not always quite clear to me what -I say.” - -“You said no harm,” said Edgar. “You have always spoken kindly, very -kindly, to me--more kindly than I had any right to. And I hope you will -continue to think of me kindly, for I am not very cheerful just now, -nor are my prospects very bright----” - -“_Your_ prospects no bright!” Mrs. Murray looked round to see that no -one was near, and then she came out upon the step, and closed the -cottage door behind her, and came close up to him. “Tell me what’s wrong -with you--oh, tell me what’s wrong with you!” she said, with an eager -anxiety, which was too much in earnest to pause or think whether such a -request was natural. Then she stopped dead short, recollecting--and went -on again with very little interval, but with a world of changed meaning -in her voice. “Many a one has come to me in their trouble,” she said. -“It’s _that_ that makes me ask--folk out of my ain rank like you. Whiles -I have given good advice, and whiles--oh! whiles I have given bad; but -its that that makes me ask. Dinna think it’s presumption in me.” - -“I never thought it was presumption,” said Edgar; and there came upon -him the strongest, almost irresistible, impulse to tell what had -happened to him to this poor old woman at the cottage door. Was he -growing mad too?--had his misfortune and excitement been too much for -him? He smiled feebly at her, as he bewildered himself with this -question. “If I cannot tell you now, I will afterwards,” he said; and -lingered, not saying any more. Her keen eyes investigated him while he -stood so close to her. His fresh colour was gone, and the frank and open -expression of his face. He was very pale; there were dark lines under -his eyes; his mouth was firmly closed, and yet it was tremulous with -feeling repressed and restrained. Alarm and a look of partial terror -came into Mrs. Murray’s face. - -“Tell me, tell me!” she cried, grasping his arm. - -“There is nothing to tell, my good woman,” he said, and turned away. - -She fell back a step, and opened the door which she had held closed -behind her. Her face would have been a study to any painter. Deep -mortification and wounded feeling were in it--tears had come to her -eyes. Edgar noticed nothing of all this, because he was fully occupied -with his own affairs, and had no leisure to think of hers; and had he -noticed it, his perplexity would have been so intense that he could have -made nothing of it. He stood, not looking at her at all--gone back into -his own thoughts, which were engrossing enough. - -“Ay,” she said, “that’s true--I’m but your good woman--no your friend -nor your equal that might be consulted. I had forgotten that.” - -But Edgar had given her as much attention as he was capable of giving -for the moment, and did not even remark the tone of subdued bitterness -with which she spoke. He roused himself a little as she retired from -him. “I hope you are comfortable,” he said; “I hope no one annoys you, -or interferes. The woman of the house----” - -“There she is,” said Mrs. Murray, and she made him a solemn little -curtsey, and was gone before he could say another word. He turned, -half-bewildered, from the door, and found himself face to face with -Sally Timms, who felt that her opportunity had come. - -“I don’t want to be disagreeable, sir,” said Sally, without a moment’s -pause. “I never was one that would do a nasty trick. It aint your fault, -nor it aint her fault, nor nobody’s fault, as Jinny is there. But not to -give no offence, Squire, I’d just like to know if I am ever going to get -back to my own little ’ouse?” - -“I am very sorry, Sally,” Edgar began, instinctively feeling for his -purse. - -“There’s no call to be sorry, sir,” said Sally; “it aint nobody’s fault, -as I say, and it aint much of a house neither; but it’s all as I have -for my little lads, to keep an ’ome. A neighbour has took me in,” said -Sally; “an’ it’s a sign as I have a good name in the place, when folks -is ready o’ all sides to take me in. And the little lads is at the West -Lodge. But I can’t be parted from my children for ever and ever. Who’s -to look to them if their mother don’t? Who’s to see as their faces are -clean and their clothes mended? Which they do tear their clothes and -makes holes in their trousers enough to break your heart--and nothing -else to be expected from them hearty little lads.” - -“I will give you any rent you like to put on your house,” said Edgar, -with his purse in his hand. “I wish I could make poor Jeanie better, and -give you your cottage back; but I can’t. Tell me your price, and I will -give it to you. I am very sorry you have been disturbed.” - -“It aint that, sir,” said Sally, with her apron to her eyes. “Glad am I -and ’appy to be useful to my fellow-creetures. It aint that. She shall -stay, and welcome, and all my bits o’ things at her service. I had once -a good ’ome, Squire; and many a thing is there--warming-pans, and -toasting-forks, and that--as you wouldn’t find in every cottage. Thank -ye, sir; I won’t refuse a shillin’ or two, for the little lads; but it -wasn’t that. If you please, Squire----” - -“What is it?” said Edgar, who was getting weary. The day began to pall -upon him, though it was as fresh and sweet as ever. The influence of -that opiate began to wear out. He felt himself incapable of bearing any -longer this dismal stream of talk in his ears, or even of standing still -to listen. “What is it? Make haste.” - -“If you please,” said Sally, “old John Smith, at the gate on the common, -he’s dead this morning, sir. It’s a lonesome place, but I don’t mind -that. The little lads ’ud have a long way to come to school, but I don’t -mind that; does them good, sir, and stretches their legs so long’s -they’re little. If you would think of me for the gate on the common--a -poor decent widow-woman as has her children’s bread to earn--if ye -please, Squire.” - -A sudden poignant pang went through Edgar’s heart. How he would have -laughed at such a petition yesterday! He would have told Sally to ask -anything else of him--to be made Rector of the parish, or Lord -Chancellor--and he would have thrown that sovereign into her lap and -left her. But now he thought nothing of Sally. The lodge on the common! -He had as much right to give away the throne of England, or to appoint -the Prime Minister. A sigh which was almost a groan burst from his -heart. He poured out the contents of his purse into his hands and gave -them to her, not knowing what the coins were. “Don’t disturb Jeanie,” he -said, incoherently, and rushed past her without another word. The lodge -on the common! It occurred to Edgar, in the mere sickness of his heart, -to go round there--why, he could not have told. He went on like the -wind, not heeding Sally’s cry of wonder and thanks. The morning clouds -had all blown away from the blue sky, and the scorching sun beat down -upon his head. His moment of calm after the operation was past. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Edgar walked on and on, through the village, over the perfumy common, -which lay basking in the intense unbroken sunshine. All the mossy nooks -under the gorse bushes were warm as nests which the bird has just -quitted--the seedpods were cracking under the heat, all the sweet scents -of the wild, mossy, heathery, aromatic bit of heath were coming out--the -insects buzzing, every leaf of the vegetation thrilling under the power -of the sunshine. He went straight across the common, disregarding the -paths, through gorse and juniper bushes, and tufts of bracken, and beds -of heather. He did not see and he did not care. The lodge was two miles -away along a road which was skirted on either side by the lingering -half-reclaimed edges of the heath--and if the walk had been undertaken -with the intention of making a survey of the beauties of Arden, it could -not have been better chosen. The lodge on the common was just within the -enclosure of the park. Its windows commanded the long, purple-green -stretch of heath, with the spire of Arden church rising over it in the -distance, and a white line of road, on which were few passengers; but -the lodge windows were closed that morning. The hot sun beat on them in -vain--old eyes which for fifty years had contemplated that same -landscape were now closed upon it for ever. John Smith had been growing -old when he went to the lodge; he had been there before the old Squire’s -time, having known him a boy. He had lived into Edgar’s time, and was -proud of his hundred years. “I can’t expect to see e’er another young -Squire,” he had said the last time Edgar had seen him. “Don’t you -flatter me. Short o’ old Parr, and them folks in the Bible, I don’t know -none as has gone far over the hunderd; but I don’t say but what I’d like -to see another young Squire.” The words came back into Edgar’s mind as -he paused. He knocked softly at the cottage door, and took off his hat -when the daughter, herself an old woman, steady and self-possessed, as -the poor are in their deepest grief, came to the door. “Will you come in -and look at him, sir,” she said; and her look of disappointment when he -said no, went to Edgar’s heart, full as it was of his own concerns. He -turned back, and went in, and looked with awe upon the old, old worn -face, which he remembered all his life. That wrinkled pallid countenance -might have been a thousand years old, instead of only a hundred. Only a -hundred! And poor old John, too, in his time had known troubles such as -make years of days. One son had gone for a soldier, and been killed -“abroad;” another had been the victim of an accident in the Liverpool -docks, and was a cripple for life; another had “gone to the bad;” and -there was a daughter, too, who had “gone to the bad”--landmarks enough -to portion out the life of any man. Yet there he lay, so quiet after -all, having shaken it off at last. Edgar, in his youth, in the first -terrible shock of a misfortune which seemed to throw every other -misfortune into the shade, looked at the remains of his old, old servant -with a thrill of awe. Do your best for a hundred years, suffer your -worst, take God’s will patiently, go on working and working: and at the -end this--this and no more. “He’s got to his rest now, sir,” said the -daughter, putting up her apron to her eyes which shed few tears--“we -didn’t ought to grumble nor to cry; and I try not. He’s safe now is -t’oud man. He’s with mother and the little ones as died years ago. I -can’t think as I’ll know ’em when I get there. It’s so long ago, and I’m -so old mysel’, they’d never think it was me. But I’ll know father, and -father will tell them. I can’t help cryin’ now and again, but I canno’ -grudge that he’s got to his rest.” - -Edgar went out of the house hushed for the moment in all his fever of -wild thoughts. Rest! He himself did not want rest. He was too young, too -ardent, too full of life to think of it as desirable; but anyhow there -was an end to everything: an end--and perhaps a new beginning elsewhere. -His mind was a religious mind, and his nature was not one to which real -doubts concerning the unseen were possible. But there is something in a -great mental shock which unsettles all foundations. At all events, -whatever else there might be in life, there was an end--and perhaps a -new beginning. And yet what if a man had to work on through all the -perplexities of this sick and vexed world for a hundred years?--a world -in which you never know who you are, nor what--where all in a moment you -may be thrust out of the place you believed you were born in, and your -life, all torn across and twisted awry, made to begin anew. How often -might a man have to begin anew?--until at last there came that End. - -He walked along through the woods not consciously remarking anything, -and yet noting unconsciously how all the big trunks gleamed in the -sunshine, the silvery white lines of the young birches, the happy hush -and rustle among the branches. Was it sound, or was it silence? The -leaves twinkled in the light, which seemed to fill all their veins with -joy, and yet they said Hush, hush! at their highest rapture. Hush, hush! -said all nature, except here and there a dry bough which cracked under -the flying feet of rabbit or squirrel, a broken branch or a pine cone -that fell. The dying, the falling, the injured, and broken, sent harsh, -undertones into the harmony; but the living and prospering whispered -Hush! Did this thought pass articulately through the young man’s mind as -he threaded these woodland paths? No; some broken shadow of it, a kind -of rapid suggestion--no more; and moment by moment his painful thoughts -recurred more and more to himself. - -What was he to do? It was not the wealth of Arden, or even the beauty of -Arden, or the rank he had held as its master, or any worldly advantage -derived from it that wrung his heart to think of---- All these had their -share of pain apart from the rest. The first and master pang was this, -that he was suddenly shaken out of his place, out of his rank, out of -that special niche in the world which he had supposed himself born to -fill. He was cast adrift. Who was he? what was he? what must he do? At -Arden there were quantities of things to do. He had entered upon the -work with more absolute pleasure, than he had felt in the mere enjoyment -of the riches and power connected with it. It was work he could do. He -felt that he had penetrated its secrets, held its key in his hand; and -now to discover that it was not his work at all--that it was the work of -a man who would not do it, who would never think of it, never care for -it. This thought overwhelmed him as he went through the wood. It came -upon him suddenly, without warning, like a great thunderbolt. The work -was to be transferred to a man who would not do it--whose influence -would be not for good but for evil in the place. And nobody knew---- -Hush, hush! oh, heavens, silence it! fresh breeze, blow it away! Nobody -knew--nobody but one, who had vowed never to betray, never to say a -syllable--one whose loss would be as great as his own. There was so much -that could be done for Arden--the people and the place had such powers -of development in them. There was land to be reclaimed, fit to grow seed -and bread; there were human creatures to be helped and delivered; a -thousand and a thousand things came into his mind, some great and some -small--trees to be planted even--and what Arthur Arden would do would be -to cut down the trees; cottages to be built--and what would he care for -the poor, either physically or morally? If Arden could speak, would not -it cry to heaven to be kept under the good rule of the impostor, and -saved from the right heir? And then the race which had been so proud, -how would it be covered with shame!--the house which had wrapped itself -up in high reserve, how would its every weakness be exposed to the -light! And up to this time nobody knew---- The good name of the Ardens -might be preserved, and the welfare of the estate, and every end of real -justice served--by what? Putting a few old papers into the fire. Clare -had nearly done it last night by the flame of her candle. God bless -Clare! And she, too, would have to be given up if everything else was -given up--he would no longer have a sister. His name, his work, his -domestic affections--everything he had in the world--all at the mercy of -a lit taper or a spark of fire! If Arden was to be burnt down, for -instance--such things have been--if at any time in all these years it -had been burnt down, or even the wing which contained the library, or -even the bureau in that room--no one would ever have known that there -was any doubt about the succession. Ah, if it had happened so! What a -strange, devilish malice it was to lock it up there, to throw confusion -and temptation upon two lives! Was it Squire Arden’s spirit, vindictive -and devilish, which had led Clare to that packet? But no (Edgar thought -in the wandering of his mind), it could not be Squire Arden; for Clare, -too, would be a sufferer. He saw now, so well and clearly, why he had -been made to consent to the arrangement which gave Old Arden to Clare. -Clare was of the Arden blood; whereas he---- - -And then it occurred to him to wonder who he was. Not an Arden! But he -must be some one’s son--belong to some family--probably have brothers -and sisters. And for ever and ever give up Clare!--Clare, his only -sister--the sole being in the world to whom from childhood his heart had -turned. Already he no longer ventured to touch, no longer called her by -her name. He had lost his sister; and no other in the world could ever -be so sweet. - -Edgar’s mind was gradually drained of courage and life as he went on. -How was he to do it? It was not money or position, but himself and his -life he would have to give up. How could he do it? Whereas, it was easy, -so easy to have a fire kindled in his bedroom, or even a candle---- They -had been almost burned already. If they had been burned he never would -have known. Nobody would have been the wiser; and yet he would have been -an impostor all the same. And as for Arthur Arden, he should share -everything--everything he pleased. He should have at least half the -income now, and hereafter all---- Yes; Edgar knew that such -arrangements had been made. He himself might pledge himself not to -marry; but then he thought of Gussy Thornleigh, and this time felt the -blow so overpower him that he stopped short, and leant against a tree to -recover himself. Gussy, whom he was to speak to to-morrow. Oh, good -heavens!--just heavens!--was ever innocent man so beset! It is easy to -speak of self-sacrifice; but all in a moment, in the twinkling of an -eye, that a man should give up name, home, living, his position, his -work, his very existence, his sister, and his bride--all because Squire -Arden who was dead was a damned accursed villain; and that Squire Arden -who was alive might squander so much money, spoil so many opportunities -of valiant human service! Good God! was ever innocent man so beset! - -And then, as he went on thinking, the horror of it overpowered him more -and more. Most men when they are in trouble preserve the love of those -who are dear to them--nay, have it lavished upon them, to make up for -their suffering, even when their suffering is their own fault. But Edgar -would have to relinquish all love--even his sister’s--and it was no -fault of his. No unborn babe could be more innocent than he was of any -complicity in the deception. He had been its victim all his life; and -now that he had escaped from its first tyranny, must he be a greater -victim still--a more hopeless sacrifice? Oh, God, what injustice! What -hateful and implacable tyranny! - -And the flame of a candle would set everything right again--a momentary -spark, the scented, evanescent gleam with which he lit his cigar--the -cigar itself falling by chance on the papers. And were there not a -hundred such chances occurring every day? Less than that had been known -to sweep a young, fair, blooming, beloved creature, for whose sweet life -all the estates in the world would not be an equivalent, out of the -world. And yet no spark fell to burn up those pieces of paper which -would cost Edgar everything that made life dear. He had been standing -all this while against the trunk of the tree, pondering and pondering. -He was startled by a gamekeeper passing at a distance, who took off his -hat respectfully to his master. His master? Couldn’t the fellow see? -Edgar felt a strong momentary inclination to call out to him--No; not to -me. I have no right to your obeisance, not much right even to your -respect. I am an impostor--a man paltering with temptation. Should he -break the charmed whispering silence, and shout these words out to the -winds, and deliver his soul for ever? No. For did not the leaves and -the winds and the tender grass and the buzzing insects unite in one -voice--Hush! Hush! Hush! Such was the word which Nature kept whispering, -whispering in his ear. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -The state of affairs at Arden on this strange day was very perplexing to -Arthur. Clare did not make her appearance even at dinner, but there were -sounds of going and coming on the stairs, and at one time Arthur could -have sworn he heard the voice of Edgar at his sister’s door. She was -well enough to see her brother, though not to come downstairs. And among -the letters which were brought down to be put into the post-bag surely -there was more than one in her handwriting. She had been able to carry -on her correspondence, then; consequently the illness must be a feint -altogether to avoid him, which was not on the whole flattering to his -feelings. Arthur felt himself, as he was, in a very undignified -position. He had experienced a good many humiliations of late. He had -been made to feel himself not at all so captivating, not so -sought-after, as he had once been. The Pimpernels had ejected him; and -here were his cousins, his nearest relations--two chits who might almost -be his own children, and who ought to have been but too happy to have a -man of his experience with them, a man so qualified to advise and guide -them--here were they shutting themselves up in mysterious chambers, -whispering together, and transacting their business, if they had any -business, secretly, that he might not be of the party! It was not -wonderful that this should be galling to him. He resented it bitterly. -What! shut him out from their concerns, pretend illness, whisper and -concert behind his back! He was not a man, he reflected, to thrust -himself into anybody’s private affairs; and surely the business might -have been put off, whatever it was, or they might have managed somehow -to keep it out of his sight if he was not intended to see it; whereas -this transparent and, indeed, vulgar device thrust it specially under -his eye. In the course of his reflections it suddenly flashed upon his -mind that such conduct could only proceed from the fact that what they -were occupied about was something which concerned himself. They were -laying their heads together, perhaps, to be of service to him--to “do -him good.” There was never man so careless yet but the thought that -somebody wished to do him good was gall to him. What they intended, -probably, was to make him Edgar’s agent on the estate. It would be -earning his bread honestly, doing something for his living--a step -which had often been pressed upon him. He would be left at Arden, -guardian of the greatness and the wealth of a property which he was -never to enjoy, making the best of the estate for Edgar’s benefit; -seeing him come and go, enjoying his greatness; while his poor kinsman -earned an honest living by doing his work! By Jove! Arthur Arden said to -himself; it was a very likely idea, this of the agentship--nothing could -have been more natural, more suitable. It was just the sort of thing to -have occurred to such a mind as Edgar’s, who was naturally fond of -occupation, and who would have been his own agent with pleasure. If the -truth were known, no doubt Edgar thought he was making a little -sacrifice by arranging all this for his cousin. Confound him! Arthur -said. And if such an idea had actually entered Edgar’s mind, this would -have been his reward. - -After dinner he went out into the Park to smoke his cigar. It was a -lovely night, and strolling about in the fresh evening air was better -than being shut up in a melancholy room without a creature near him to -break the silence. He took a long walk, and finally came back to the -terrace round the house. The favourite side of the terrace was that -which lay in front of the drawing-room windows; but the terrace itself -ran quite round Arden to the flower garden behind, which it joined on -the two sides. In mere wantonness Arthur extended his stroll all the way -round, which was an unfrequent occurrence. On the darkest side, where -the terrace was half-obscured by encroaching trees, he saw a glimmer of -light in some windows on the ground-floor. They were the windows of the -library, he perceived after a while, and they were partially open--that -is to say, the windows themselves were open, but the shutters closed. As -Arthur strolled along passing them, he was attracted by the sound of -voices. He stopped; his own step was inaudible on the grass, even if the -speakers within had ever thought of danger. He paused, hesitated a -moment, listened, and heard the sound more distinctly; then, after a -moment’s debate with himself, went up to the nearest window. There was -no moonlight; the night was dark, and the closest observer even from -without could scarcely have seen him. He threw his cigar away, and after -another pause seated himself on the stone sill of the window. A great -bush of clematis which clung about one side hid him in its fragrant -bower. He could have escaped in a moment, and no one would have been the -wiser; and the moths buzzed in over his head to the light, and the sound -of the two voices came out. It was Clare and Edgar who were -talking--Clare, who had been shut up in her room all day, who was too -ill to come downstairs; but she had come down now, and was talking with -the utmost energy--a tone in which certainly there was no appearance of -failing strength. It was some time before he could make out more than -the voices, but indignation and despite quickened his ears. The first, -whose words he could identify, was Clare. - -“Look here,” she said, advancing, as would seem, nearer to the window, -and speaking with an animation very unlike her ordinary tones. “Look -here, Edgar! My father himself meant to burn them. Oh, that I should -have to speak so of poor papa! But I acknowledge it. He has been wicked, -cruel! I don’t want to defend him. Yet he meant to burn them, you can -see.” - -“But did not,” said Edgar. “He did not; that is answer enough. Why, -having taken all this trouble, and burdened his soul with a crime, he -should have left behind the means of destroying his own work, heaven -knows! Probably he thought I would find it, and conceal it for -self-interest; but yet carry the sting of it for ever. I have been -thinking long on the subject: that is what he must have meant.” - -“Oh, Edgar!” said Clare. - -“That must have been his intention. I can see no other. He must have -thought there was no doubt that I would in my turn carry on the crime. -How strangely one man judges another! It was devilish, though. I don’t -want to hurt your feelings, but it was devilish. After having bound me, -as he thought, by every bond to keep his secret, he would have thrust -upon me the guilt too!” - -“Oh, Edgar, Edgar!” Clare said, with a moan of pain. From the sound of -the voices Arthur gathered that Edgar must be seated somewhere near the -table, while Clare walked about the room in her agitation. Her voice -came, now nearer, now farther from the window, and it may be supposed -with what eager interest the eavesdropper listened. He would not have -done it had there been time to think, or at least so he persuaded -himself afterwards. But for anything he knew his dearest interests might -be involved, and every word was important to him. A long silence -followed--so long, that he thought all had come to an end, and with an -intense sense of being mocked and tantalised, was about to get up and -steal away, when he was recalled once more by the voice of Clare. - -“It was I who found them,” she said, “where I had no right to look. It -was for you to say whether these papers should have been disturbed or -not. I thrust myself among them, having no right: therefore I ought to -be heard now. Edgar, listen to me! If you make them public, think of the -scandal, the exposure! Think of our name dragged in the dust, and the -house you have been brought up in--the house that is yours---- Listen to -me! Oh, Edgar! are you going to throw away your life? It is not your -fault. You are innocent of everything. You would never have known if my -father had had the justice to destroy these papers--if I had not had the -unpardonable, the horrible levity of finding them out. If you will not -do what I ask you to do, I will never, never forgive myself all my life. -I will feel that I have been the cause. Edgar! you never refused to -listen to me before.” - -“No,” he said. The voice was farther off, and Arthur Arden had to bend -forward close to the window to hear at all, but even then could not be -insensible to the thrill of feeling that was in it. “No; but you never -counselled me to do wrong before. Never! You have been like an angel to -me---- Clare.” - -There was a pause between the preceding words and the name, as if he had -difficulty in pronouncing it; but this was wholly unintelligible to -Arthur, whose worst suspicions fell so much short of the truth. - -“Oh, no, no,” she said: “do not speak to me so, Edgar. This has shown me -what I am. I have been more like a devil. I have nothing but pride, and -ill-temper, and suspicion to look back upon. Nothing, nothing else! -Remember, I might have burned them myself. If I had been worthy to live, -if I had been fit for my place in this house, if I had been such a woman -as some are--my father’s daughter--your sister, Edgar--I should have -burned them myself.” - -“My--sister,” he cried, with again a pause, and in a softened tremulous -tone. “That is the worst; that is the worst! What are you doing, Clare?” - -“My duty now,” she said wildly, “to him and to you!” - -Then there was a pause. Arthur Arden would have given everything he -possessed in the world for the power of looking inside--but he dared -not. He sat on the window-sill with all his faculties concentrated in -his ears. What was she doing? There was some movement in the room, but -sounds of gentle feet upon a Turkey carpet betray little. The first -thing audible was a broken sobbing cry from Clare. - -“Let me do it! I will go down on my knees to you. I will bless you for -it, Edgar! Edgar! You will be more my brother than ever you were in my -life!” - -Another silence--nothing but the sobbing of intense excitement and a -faint rustle as if the girl worn out had thrown herself into a chair; -and then a sound of the rustling and folding of paper. Oh, if he could -but see! The half-closed shutter jarred a little, moved by the wind; and -Arthur, roused, found a little chink, the slenderest crevice by which he -could see in. All that he saw was Edgar sealing a packet. The wax fell -upon it unsteadily, showing emotion which was not otherwise visible in -his look. Then he wrote some name upon the packet, and put it in the -breast-pocket of his coat. - -“There it is,” he said cheerfully; “I have directed it to Mr. Fazakerly, -and that settles the whole business. We must not struggle any more about -it. Do you think I have had no temptation in the matter? Do you think I -have got through without a struggle? The Thornleighs came back -to-day--and to-morrow I was going to Thorne to ask her to be my wife.” - -When he said these words, Edgar for the moment overcome with his -conflict, dropped his head upon his hands and covered his face. All the -levity, all the ease and secondary character of his feelings towards -Gussy had disappeared now. He felt the pang of giving up this sweetness -as he had not yet felt anything. All rushed upon him at once--all the -overwhelming revelations he had to make. Edgar was brave, and he had -kept the thought at bay. But now--Gussy, Clare, himself--all must -go--every love he had any right to, or any hope of--every companionship -that had ever been his, or that he had expected to become his--“Oh God!” -he said in the depths of his overthrow. It was the first cry that had -come from his lips. - -Arthur Arden, peering in, saw Clare go to him and throw her arms round -him and press his bowed head against her breast. He saw her weep over -him, plead with him in all the force of passion. “Give it to me; give it -to me; give it to me!” she cried, with the reiteration of violent -emotion. “You will make me the most miserable creature on earth. You -will take every pleasure out of my life.” - -“Hush, hush!” he said softly, “Hush! we must make an end of this. Come -and breathe the air outside? After all, what is it? An affair of a day. -To-morrow or next day we shall have made up our minds to it; and the -world cares so little one way or another. Come out with me and take -breath, Clare.” - -“I cannot, I cannot,” she cried. “What do I care for air or anything. -Edgar, for the last time, stop and think.” - -“I have thought till my brain is turning,” said Edgar, rising and -drawing her arm within his to the infinite alarm of the listener, who -transferred himself noiselessly to the other side of the great clematis -bush, which fortunately for him grew out of a great old rose tree which -was close against the wall. “For the last time, there is nothing to -think about. It is decided now, and for ever.” - -And immediately a gleam of light fell upon the window-sill where the -false kinsman had been listening; and the brother and sister came out, -she leaning closely on his arm. They took the other direction, to the -spy’s intense relief; but the last words he heard inflicted torture upon -him as the two passed out of sight and hearing; they were these: “Arthur -Arden loves you, Clare.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -Well! He had listened--he had disgraced himself--he was humbled in his -own eyes, and would be lost in Clare’s, should she ever find it out. And -what had he made by it? He had discovered that Edgar had discovered -something, which Clare would fain have destroyed--something which -evidently affected them both deeply, and to which they gave a probably -exaggerated importance. That was all. Whether it was anything that could -affect himself he had not found out--not a word had been said to throw -any light upon the mystery. The two knew what it was themselves, and -they did not stop in their conversation to give any description of it -for the benefit of the listener. Such things are done only by people on -the stage. The eavesdropper in this case was none the wiser. He was much -excited by the allusions he had heard. His faculties were all wound up -to observe and note everything. But his knowledge of the world made him -incredulous. After the first thrill of excitement--after the intense -apprehension and shame with which he watched them disappear into the -night, when he began seriously to think the matter over, he did not find -in it, it must be said, any encouragement to his hopes. Arthur Arden -knew the definite suspicion which all the circumstances of Edgar’s life -had raised in many minds, and at a very recent time he had seriously -nourished a hope of himself finding among the Squire’s papers something -which should brand the Squire’s heir with illegitimacy, and prove that -he was no Arden at all, though the offspring of Squire Arden’s wife. -Only the other day he had entertained this thought. But now, when it -would seem that some such papers had been found, the futility of it -struck him as nothing had ever done before. A posthumous accusation -would have no effect, he saw, upon the law. Squire Arden had never -disowned Edgar. He had given him his name, and acknowledged him as his -son, and no stigma that he could put upon him, now he was dead, could -counteract that acknowledgment. He smiled bitterly to think that he -himself could have been so very credulous as to believe it would; and he -smiled still more bitterly at the perturbation of these two young -people, and how soon Mr. Fazakerly would set their fears at rest. As -soon as they had disappeared, he stepped boldly into the library by the -open window, and examined the place to see if perchance any relics were -left about, of which he could judge for himself; but there was nothing -left about. And he had nothing for it but to leave the library, and -retire to the drawing-room, of which for most of the evening he had been -the solitary inmate. Some time after the sound of windows closing, of -steps softly ascending the stairs, made it apparent that Edgar and Clare -had come in, and finally separated for the night; though nobody appeared -to disturb his solitude, except Wilkins, who came in and yawned, and -pretended to look if the lamps wanted trimming. But even when he retired -to his room it seemed to Arthur that he still heard stealthy steps about -the house and whispering voices. Disturbance was in the very air. The -wind rose in the night, and moaned and shivered among the trees. There -was a shutter somewhere, or an open door, which clanged all through the -night. This, and his suspicions and doubts, broke Arthur’s sleep; and -yet it was he who slept most soundly that night of all who bore his -name. - -In the morning, they all met at breakfast as on ordinary occasions. -Clare was so pale that no doubt could be thrown upon her illness of the -preceding day. She was as white as marble, and her great blue eyes -seemed enlarged and dilated, and shone with a wistful, tearful light, -profoundly unlike their ordinary calm. And her brother, too, was very -pale. He was carefully dressed, spoke very little, and had the air of a -man so absorbed in his thoughts as to be partially unaware what was -going on around him. But Clare let nothing escape. She watched her -cousin; she watched the servants; she watched Edgar’s lips, as it were, -lest any incautious word might escape them. When he spoke, she hurried -to interrupt him, repeating or suggesting what he was about to say. And -Arthur watched too with scrutiny scarcely less keen. He might have taken -it all for a fit of temper on her part had he not heard their -conversation last night. But now, though he felt sure no results would -follow which could affect him personally, his whole being was roused--he -was ready to catch the meaning out of any indication, however slight. - -It had been late before either the brother or sister appeared, to the -great dismay of Wilkins, who made many apologies to the neglected guest. -“I don’t know what’s come over them. I don’t indeed, sir,” Wilkins had -said, with lively disapproval in his tone. And the consequence was that -it was nearly eleven before breakfast--a mere pretence to both Edgar and -Clare, though their kinsman’s appetite was not seriously affected--was -over. Then Edgar rose from his chair, looking, if possible, paler than -ever, intensely grave and self-restrained. “I think I may go now,” he -said to Clare; “it is not too early. I should be glad to have it over.” - -“Let me speak to you first,” said Clare, looking at him with eyes that -grew bigger and bigger in their intense supplication. “Edgar, before you -go, and---- Let me speak to you first----” - -“No,” he said with a faint smile. “I am not going to put myself to that -test again. I know how hard it is to resist you. No, no.” - -“Just five minutes!” cried Clare. She ran out into the hall after him; -and Arthur, full of curiosity, rose too, and followed to the open door -of the dining-room. She took her brother’s arm, put her face close to -his ear, pleaded with him in a voice so low that Arthur could make out -nothing but many repetitions of the one word, “Wait;” to which Edgar -answered only by a shake of the head or tender melancholy look at her. -This went on till his horse was brought to the door. “No,” he said, “no, -dear; no, no,” smiling upon her with a smile more touching than tears; -and then he stooped and kissed her forehead. “For the last time,” he -said softly in her ear, “I will not venture to do this when I come -back.” It was a farewell--one of those first farewells which are almost -more poignant than the last--when imagination has fully seized the -misery to come, and dwells upon it, inflicting a thousand partings. -Arthur Arden, standing at the door behind, with his hands in his -pockets, could not hear these words; but he saw the sentiment of the -scene, and was filled with wonder. What did it mean? Was he going to run -away, the fool, because he had discovered that his mother had not been -immaculate? What harm would that do him--fantastic-romantic paladin? So -sure was Arthur now that it could not do any legal harm that he was -angry with this idiotic, unnecessary display. He could be none the -better for it--nobody could be any the better for it. Why, then, should -the Squire’s legal son and unquestionable heir make this ridiculous -fuss? It roused a suppressed rage in Arthur Arden’s breast. - -And Clare, seeing him watch, came back to the dining-room as her brother -rode away from the door. She restrained the despair that was creeping -over her, and came back to defy her kinsman. Though, what was the good -of defying him, when so soon, so very soon, there would be nothing to -conceal? She went back, however, restraining herself--meeting his eyes -of wonder with a blank look of resistance to all inquiry. “Has Edgar -gone off on a journey?” Arthur asked, with well-affected simplicity. -“How strange he should have said nothing about it! Where has he gone?” - -“He has not gone on a journey,” said Clare. - -“I beg your pardon--your parting was so touching. I wish there was -somebody to be as sorry for me; but I might go to Siberia, and I don’t -think anyone would care.” - -“That is unfortunate,” said Clare. She was very defiant, anxious to try -her strength. For once more, even though all should be known this very -day, she would stand up for her brother--her brother! “But don’t you -think, Mr. Arden,” she said abruptly, “that such things depend very much -on one’s self? If _you_ are not sorry to part with any one, it is -natural that people should not interest themselves about you.” - -“I wonder if the reverse holds,” said Arthur; and then he paused, and -made a rapid, very rapid review of the situation. If this was a mere -fantastical distress, as he believed, Clare had Old Arden and -(independent of feeling, which, in his circumstances, he was compelled -to leave out of the transaction) was of all people in the world the most -suitable for him; and if there was anything in it, it was he who was the -heir, and in such a case he could make no match which would so -conciliate the county and reconcile him with the general public. His -final survey was made, his conclusion come to in the twinkling of an -eye. He drew a chair near the one on which she had listlessly thrown -herself. “I wonder,” he repeated, softly, “if the reverse holds?--when -one loves dearly, has one always a light to hope for some kind feeling -in return?--if not love, at least compassion and pity, or regret?” - -“I do not know what you are talking of,” said Clare, wearily. “I don’t -think I am equal to discussion to-day.” - -“Not discussion,” he said, very gently. “Would you try and listen and -realise what I am talking about, Clare? It seems the worst moment I -could have chosen. You are anxious and disturbed about something----” - -“No,” she said, abruptly; “you are mistaken, Mr. Arden”--and then with -equal suddenness she broke down, and covered her face with her hands. -“Oh, yes, yes, I am anxious and full of trouble--full of trouble! Oh, if -you were a man I could trust in, that I dared talk freely to---- But you -will know it soon enough.” - -It was a moment at which everything must be risked. “What if I knew -it--or, at least, what if I guessed it already?” said Arthur, bending -over her. “Ah, Clare, how surprised you look! You were too innocent to -know; but there are many people who have known that there was a danger -hanging over Edgar. You don’t suppose your father’s conduct to him could -have been noticed by everybody without there being some suspicion of the -cause?” - -Clare raised her face, quite bloodless and haggard, from her hands. She -looked at him with a look of awe and fear. “Then you knew it!” she said, -the words scarcely able to form themselves on her lips. - -“Yes,” said Arthur; “and for your consolation, Clare--though it should -be the reverse of consolation to me--I do not think he should fear. Such -things as these are very difficult to prove. The Squire never said a -word in his lifetime. I don’t know if any court of law would allow your -brother to prove his own illegitimacy--I don’t think they would. He has -no right to bring shame on his mother----” - -“What do you mean?” said Clare, looking at him suddenly with a certain -watchfulness rising in her eyes. - -“I am entering on a subject I ought not to have entered upon,” he said. -“Forgive me; it was only because I wanted to tell you that I don’t think -Edgar has any just cause for fear. If you would only trust me, dearest -Clare. I should ask your pardon for saying that, too--but though you -should never think of me, never speak to me again, you are still my -dearest. Clare, you sent me away, and I could not tell why. Don’t send -me away now. I am a poor beggar, and you are a rich lady, and yet I love -you so well that I must tell you, whatever your opinion of me may be. -Couldn’t you trust me? Couldn’t you let me help you? You think I would -be Edgar’s enemy, but I would not. He should have everything else if he -left me you.” - -She looked up at him with a movement of wonder. Her eyes interrogated -him over and over. He had wounded her so much and so often--about -Jeanie--about the Pimpernels--about---- And yet, if he really meant -it--could it be possible that he was willing to leave Edgar everything, -to give him no trouble, if only she----? Was it a bargain she was going -to make? Ah, poor Clare! She thought so--she thought her impulse was to -buy her brother’s safety with her own, but at the same moment her heart -was fluttering, beating loud, panting to be given to him whom she loved -best. And yet she loved Edgar. To her own consciousness it was her -brother she was thinking most of now--and what a comfort it would be -thus to purchase Arthur’s promise not to harm him, and to trust -everything to Arthur! She wavered for an instant, with her mind full of -longing. Then her heart misgave her. She had allowed him to take her -hands in his, and to kiss them; while she looked him in the face, with -eyes full of dumb inquiry and longing, asking him over and over again -was this true? - -“Stop, stop,” she said faintly; “if it was my own secret I would trust -you--if it was only me---- Oh, stop, stop! If you will say the same -to-morrow--when he has told you--then I will---- Oh, if I can survive it, -if I am able to say anything! Cousin Arthur, I am worn out; let me go -now.” - -“It is hard to let you go,” he said. “But, Clare, tell me again--if I -say the same to-morrow, after he has told me--you will----? Is that a -promise? You will listen to me--you will give me what I desire most in -the world--is it a promise, Clare?” - -“Let me go,” she said. “Oh, this is not a time to speak of--of our own -happiness, or our own concerns.” - -“Thanks for such words--thanks, thanks,” he cried, “I ask no more. -To-morrow--it is a bargain, Clare.” - -And thus she made her escape, half glad, half shocked that she could -think of anything but Edgar, and not half knowing what she had pledged -herself to. Neither did Arthur Arden know to what he had pledged -himself. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -Edgar rode over the verdant country, wearily, languidly, with a heart -that for once was closed to its influence. He was tired of the whole -matter. It no longer seemed to him so dreadful a thing to give up Arden, -to part from all he cared for. If he could but be done with the pain of -it, get it over, have no more trouble. Agitation had worn him out. The -thought that he would have another day like yesterday to live through, -or perhaps more than one other day, filled his heart with a sick -impatience. Why could he not ride on to the nearest railway station, and -there take any train, going anywhere, and escape from the whole -business? The mere suggestion of this relief was so sweet to him that he -actually paused at the cross road which led to the railway. But he was -not the kind of man to make an escape. To leave the burthen on others -and save himself was the last thing he was likely to do. He touched his -horse unconsciously with his whip and broke into a gay canter on the -grassy border of the road that led to Thorne. Coraggio! he cried to -himself. It would not last so long after all. He would leave no broken -bits of duty undone, no ragged edges to his past. A little pain more or -less, what did it matter? Honestly and dutifully everything must be -done; and, after all, the shame was not his. It was the honest part that -was his--the righting of wrong, the abolition of injustice. Strange that -it should be he, a stranger to the race, who had to do justice to the -Ardens! He was not one of them, and yet he had to act as their head, -royally making restitution, disposing of their destinies. He smiled a -painful smile as this thought crossed his mind. They were one of the -proudest families in England, and yet it fell to a nameless man, a man -most likely of no lineage at all, to set them right. If any forlorn -consolation was to be got out of it at all it was this. - -When Edgar was seen riding up the avenue at Thorne it made a commotion -in the house. Mary and Beatrice spied him from the window of the room -which had been their schoolroom, and where they still did their -practising and wrote their letters to their dearest friends. “Oh, there -is Edgar Arden coming to propose to Gussy!” cried Beatrice; and they -rushed to the window to have a look at him, and then rushed to the -drawing-room to warn the family. “Oh, mamma, oh, Gussy! here’s Edgar -Arden!” they cried. Lady Augusta looked up from her accounts with -composed looks. “Well, my dear children, I suppose none of us are much -surprised,” she said. Gussy, for her part, grew red with a warm glow of -rosy colour which suffused her throat and her forehead. “Poor, dear -boy!” she said to herself. He had not lost a moment. It was a little -past noon, not time for callers yet. He had not lost a moment. She -wondered within herself how it would come--if he would ask her to speak -to him alone in a formal way--if he would ask her mother--if he would -manage it as if by chance? And then what would he say? That question, -always so captivating to a girl’s imagination, was soon, very soon, to -be resolved. He would tell her he had loved her ever since he knew -her--he would tell her---- Gussy’s heart expanded and fluttered like a -bird. She would know so soon all about it; how much he cared for -her--everything he had to tell. - -But they were all shocked by his paleness when he came in. “What have -you been doing to yourself?” Gussy cried, who was the most impulsive. -“Have you been ill, Mr. Arden?” said sympathetic Ada. They were all -ready to gather about him like his sisters, to be sorry for him, and -adopt all his grievances, if he had any, with effusion. He felt himself -for the moment the centre of all their sympathies, and his hurt felt -deeper and more hopeless than it had ever done before. - -“I am not in the least ill,” he said, “and I have not been doing -anything to speak of; but Fortune has been doing something to me. Lady -Augusta, might I have half an hour’s talk with you, if it does not -disturb you? I have--something to say----” - -“Surely,” said Lady Augusta; and she closed her account-books and put -them back into her desk. He meant to take the formal way of doing it, -she supposed--a way not so usual as it used to be, but still very -becoming and respectful to the fathers and mothers. She hesitated, -however, a little, for she thought that most likely Gussy would like the -other method best. And she was not so much struck as her daughters were -by the change in his looks. Of course, he was a little excited--men -always are in such an emergency, more so than women, Lady Augusta -reflected; for when it comes to that a woman has made up her mind what -is to be the end of it, whereas the man never knows. These reflections -passed through her mind as she locked her desk upon the account-books, -thus giving him a little time to get by Gussy’s side if he preferred -that, and perhaps whisper something in her ear. - -But Edgar made no attempt to get by Gussy’s side. He stood where he had -stopped after shaking hands with them all, with a faint smile on his -face, answering the questions the girls put to him, but visibly waiting -till their mother was ready to give him the audience he had asked. “I -suppose I must go and put him out of his pain; how anxious he looks, the -foolish boy,” Lady Augusta whispered, as she rose, to her eldest -daughter. “Mamma, he looks as if he had something on his mind,” Ada -whispered back. “I know what he has on his mind,” said her mother gaily. -And then she turned round and added aloud, “Come, Mr. Arden, to my -little room where I scold my naughty children, and let us have our -talk.” - -The sisters, it must be said, were a little alarmed when Edgar was thus -led away. They came round Gussy and kissed her, and whispered courage. -As for the giddy young ones, they tried to laugh, though the solemnity -of the occasion was greater than they could have supposed possible. But -the others had no inclination to laugh. “It is only agitation, dear, not -knowing what your answer may be,” Ada said, though she did not feel any -confidence that it was so. “He should not have made so formal an affair -of it,” said Helena; “That is what makes him look so grave.” Poor Gussy, -who was the most deeply concerned of all, cried. “I am sure there is -something the matter,” she said. The three eldest kept together in a -window, while Mary and Beatrice roved away in quest of some amusement to -fill up the time. And a thrill of suspense and excitement seemed to -creep over all the house. - -Edgar’s courage came back to him in some degree, as he entered Lady -Augusta’s little boudoir. Imagination had no longer anything to do with -it, the moment for action had come. He sat down by her in the dainty -little chamber, which was hung with portraits of all her children. Just -opposite was a pretty sketch of Gussy, looking down upon him with -laughing eyes. They were all there in the mother’s private sanctuary, -the girls who were her consolation, the boys who were her plague and her -delight. What a centre it was of family cares and anxieties! She turned -to him cheerfully as she took her chair. She was not in the least afraid -of what was coming. She had not even remarked as yet how much agitated -he was. “Well, Mr. Arden!” she said. - -“I have come to make a very strange confession to you,” said Edgar. “You -will think I am mad, but I am not mad. Lady Augusta, I meant to have -come to-day to ask you---- to ask if I might ask your daughter to be my -wife.” - -“Gussy?” said Lady Augusta, with the tears coming to her eyes. There was -something in his tone which she did not understand, but still his last -words were plain enough. “Mr. Arden, I don’t know what my child’s -feelings are,” she said; “but if Gussy is pleased I should be more than -content.” - -“Oh, stop, stop,” he said. “Don’t think I want you to commit -yourself--to say anything. Something has happened since then which has -torn my life in two--I cannot express it otherwise. I parted from you -happy in the thought that as Arden was so near and everybody so kind---- -But in the meantime I have made a dreadful discovery. Lady Augusta, I am -not Edgar Arden; I am an impostor--not willingly, God knows, not -willingly----” - -“Mr. Arden,” Lady Augusta said, loudly, in her consternation, “you are -dreaming--you are out of your mind. What do you mean?” - -“I said you would think I was mad. It looks like madness, does not it?” -said Edgar, with a smile, “but, unhappily, it is true. You remember how -my father--I mean Mr. Arden--always treated me?--how he kept me away -from home? I was not treated as his son ought to have been. I have -never said a word on the subject, because I never doubted he was my -father--but I have the explanation now.” - -“Good God!” said Lady Augusta; she was so horror-stricken that she -panted for breath. But she too put upon the news the interpretation -which Arthur Arden put upon it. “Oh, Mr. Arden!” she cried, “don’t be so -ready to decide against your poor mother! A jealous man takes things -into his head which are mere madness. I knew her. I am sure she was not -a wicked woman. I am a mother myself, and why should I hesitate to speak -to you? Oh, my dear boy, don’t condemn your mother! Your father was a -proud suspicious man, and he might doubt her without cause. I believe he -doubted her without cause. What you have discovered must be some ravings -of jealousy. I would not believe it. I would not, whatever he may say!” - -And she put out her hand to him eagerly in her sympathy and indignation. -Edgar took it in his, and kissed the kind, warm, motherly hand. - -“Dear Lady Augusta,” he said, “how good you are! It is easier to tell -you now. There is no stigma upon--Mrs. Arden; that was one of the -attendant evils which have followed upon the greater crime. I am not her -son any more than I am her husband’s. I am a simple impostor. I have no -more to do with the Ardens than your servant has. I am false--all false; -a child adopted--nothing more.” - -“Good God!” said Lady Augusta once more. By degrees the reality of what -he was saying came upon her. His face so pale, yet so full of lofty -expression; his eyes that gleamed and shone as he spoke; the utter -truthfulness and sincerity of every word impressed her in her first -incredulity. Good God! he meant it. If he were not mad--and he showed no -signs of being mad--then indeed it must be true, incredible as it -seemed. And rapidly as a flash of lightning Lady Augusta’s mind ran over -the situation. How unfortunate she was! First Ada, and now---- But if -this was how it was, Gussy must not know of it. She was capable of -heaven knows what pernicious folly. Gussy must not know. All this ran -through Lady Augusta’s mind while she said the two solemn words of the -exclamation given above. - -And then there was a little pause. Edgar stopped too, partly for want of -breath. It had cost him a great deal to say what he had said, and for -the moment he could do no more. - -“Do you mean to say this is true, Mr. Arden?” said Lady Augusta. “True! -I cannot believe my ears. Why, what inducement had he? There was -Clare.” - -“So far as I can make out, it was thought to be impossible that there -should be any children; but that I cannot explain. It is so,” said -Edgar, insisting pathetically. “Believe me, it is so.” - -“And how did you find it out?” - -Lady Augusta’s tones were very low and awe-stricken; but her -interrogatory was close and persistent. Edgar was depressed after his -excitement. He thought he had calculated vainly on her sympathy. “Clare -found the letters,” he said, “in my father’s--I mean in Mr. Arden’s -room. They are too clear to admit of any doubt.” - -“_She_ found them! What does she think of it? It will not be any the -better for her; and you such a good, kind brother to her!” cried Lady -Augusta in a tone of indignation. She was glad to find some one to find -fault with. And then she made a long pause. Edgar did not move. He sat -quite still opposite, looking at her, wondering would she send him away -without a word of sympathy? She looked up suddenly as he was thinking -so, and met his wistful eyes. Then Lady Augusta, without a moment’s -warning, burst out sobbing, “Oh, my poor dear boy! my poor dear boy!” - -Edgar was at the furthest limit of self-control. He could not bear any -more. He came and knelt down before her, and took her hand, and kissed -it. It was all he could do to keep from weeping too. “Thanks, thanks,” -he said, with a trembling voice; and Lady Augusta, kind woman, put her -arm round him, and wept over him. “If I had been Clare I would have -burned them, and you should never have known--you should never have -known,” she cried. “Oh, my poor, poor boy!” - -“I am very poor now,” he said. “I thought you would be my mother--I who -never had one. And Gussy--you will tell her; and you will not blame -me----” - -“Blame you!” cried Lady Augusta. “My heart bleeds for you; but I blame -Clare. I would have burned them, and never thought it wrong.” - -“But it would have been wrong,” he said softly, rising. “Clare would -burn them now if I would let her. She is not to blame. Dear Lady -Augusta, good-bye. And you will say to Gussy----” - -He paused; and so did she, struggling with herself. Should she let him -see Gussy? Should she allow him to say good-bye? But Gussy was only a -girl, and who can tell what mad thing a girl may propose to do? “Pardon -me! pardon me!” she said; “but it is best you should not see Gussy -now.” - -“Yes,” said Edgar; “it is best.” But it was the first real sign that one -life was over for him, and another begun. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -One life over and another begun--one over and another begun: the words -chimed in his ears as he rode away. And great was the consternation of -the servants at Thorne when he rode away--great the amazement of Mary -and Beatrice, who had gone back to their private room, and were waiting -there to be called down and hear “the news.” “Gussy has refused him!” -they said to each other with indescribable dismay. Their countenances -and their hearts fell. What! the excitement all over, nothing to inquire -into, no wooing to watch, nor wedding to expect? The girls thought they -had been swindled, and went down together, arm in arm, to inquire into -it. But the succession of events at this moment was too rapid to permit -us to pause and describe the scene which they saw when they went down -stairs. - -In the meantime Edgar rode back to Arden, saying these words over to -himself--one life ended and another begun. The one so sweet and warm and -kindly and familiar, the other so cold and so unknown. He did not even -know what his name was--who he was. The letters in the packet were few -in number. They were signed only with initials. The post-marks on one -outside cover which was preserved had been partially obliterated; but -the name, so far as he could make it out, was that of some insignificant -post-town which he had never heard of. At present, however, that -question had not moved him much. He knew himself only as Edgar Arden. He -could not realise himself in any other character, although at this very -moment he had been proclaiming himself to be Edgar Arden no more. How -hard it would be to change; to tear up his roots, as it were, to be no -more Clare’s brother, to enter a world absolutely unknown. Ah, yes! but -that was a distant dread--a thing that looked less by being far. In the -meantime it was not the passive suffering, but the active, that was to -be his. As he rode along, he asked himself anxiously what must be his -next step. The Rector must be told, and Dr. Somers. He thought with a -little gleam of satisfaction of going to the Doctor, and dispersing all -his evil thoughts in the twinkling of an eye. That sweet little gentle -face in the picture, the woman who was Clare’s mother, not his--it was -his part to remove the cloud that had so long been over it. He saw now -that everybody had more or less believed in this cloud--that there had -been a feeling abroad even among those who defended her most warmly that -poor Mrs. Arden required defence. And now it was he, not her son, a -changeling, who was to do her justice. “I can clear my mother,” he said -to himself--and another swift shooting pang went through his heart the -moment he was conscious of the words he had used--but he could not -disentangle this dreary knot. The confusion would clear away with time. -He could not stop using the words he had always used, or turn his -thoughts in a moment from the channel they had flowed in all his life. - -What Edgar did first was to ride to the station, but not this time with -any thought of making his escape. He telegraphed to Mr. Fazakerly, -bidding him come at once on urgent business. “I shall expect you to -dinner to-night,” was the conclusion of his message. What had to be -done, it was best to do quickly, now as always. To be sure he had -secured it now. He had done that which made it unimportant whether the -papers were burned or not: and it was best that all should be concluded -without delay. The only thing that Edgar hesitated at was telling Arthur -Arden. He was the person most concerned: all that could be affected in -any one else was a greater or less amount of feeling--a thing always -evanescent and never to be calculated upon; but the news was as -important to Arthur as to Edgar. A man (poor Edgar thought) of high and -delicate character would have gone to Arthur first, and told him first; -but he himself was not equal to that. He did not want to tell it to -Arthur Arden. He would rather have some one else tell it to -him--Fazakerly--any one. He loathed the idea of doing it himself. He -even loathed the idea of meeting his successor, his heir, as he had so -often called him; and he could not have told why. It was not that he -expected any unkindness or want of consideration from Arthur. No doubt -he would behave just as he ought to do. He would be kind; probably he -would offer to pension the unwilling impostor. He would be happy, -exultant in his wonderful success; and that would make him kind. But -yet, the only person to whom Edgar hesitated to communicate his downfall -was the one who was most interested in it. The very thought of him -brought renewed and growing pain. For there was Clare to be thought -of--Clare whom Arthur professed to love--whom, if he loved her, he would -now be, so far as outward circumstances were concerned, a fitting match -for. Edgar had made up his mind that he must give up his sister. He had -decided that, whatever might be said or done now in this moment of -excitement and agitation, Clare was lost to him, and that the bond -between them could not be kept up. But if she were Arthur Arden’s wife -the breaking of the bond would be more harsh, more complete, than in any -other case. His breast swelled, and then it contracted painfully, -bringing bitter tears to his eyes. Never, should he live a hundred years -without seeing her, could Clare cease to be his sister. Nothing could -make her less or more to him. If it was not blood, it was something -deeper than blood. But Arthur Arden’s wife! - -Poor Edgar! he could not answer for his thoughts, which were wild and -incoherent, and rushed from one point to another with feverish speed and -intensity; but his actions were not incoherent. He rode from the railway -to the village very steadily and calmly, and stopped at Sally Timms’ -cottage-door to ask for Jeanie, who was better and had regained -consciousness. Then he went up the street, and dismounted at the Rectory -gate. He had not intended to do it, or rather he had not known what he -intended. The merest trifle, a nothing decided him. The door was open, -and the Rector’s sturdy cob was standing before it waiting for his -master. Edgar made a rapid reflection that he could now tell his story -quickly, that there would be no time for much talk. He went in without -knocking by the open door. Mr. Fielding was not in the library, nor in -his drawing-room, nor in his garden. “I expect him in every moment, -sir,” Mrs. Solmes said, with a curtsey. “He’s visiting the sick folks in -the village. The horse is for young Mr. Denbigh, please, sir. Master has -mostly given up riding now.” - -Edgar made a nod of assent. He was not capable of speech. If this had -been his first attempt to communicate the news, it would have seemed -providential to his excited fancy. But Lady Augusta had not been out, -and he had been able to tell his tale very fully there. Now, however, -there seemed a necessity laid upon him to tell it again. If not Mr. -Fielding, some one at least must know. He went across to the Doctor’s, -thinking that at least he would see Miss Somers, who would not -understand nor believe him. He had sent his horse away, telling the -groom he would walk home. He was weary, and half crazed with exhaustion, -sleeplessness, and intense emotion. He could not keep it in any longer. -It seemed to him that he would like to have the church bells rung, to -collect all the people about, to get into--no, not the pulpit, but the -Squire’s pew--the place that was like a stage-box, and tell everybody. -That would be the right thing to do. “Simon!” he called out to the old -clerk, who had been working somewhere about the churchyard, and who at -the sound of the horse’s hoofs had come to see what was going on, and -stood with his arms leaning on the wall looking over. “Is there aught ye -want as I can do for ye, Squire?” said old Simon. “No; nothing, -nothing,” said poor Edgar; and yet he would have been so glad had some -one rung the church bells. He paused, and this gentle domestic landscape -burned itself in upon his mind as he crossed to the Doctor’s door. The -village street lay asleep in the sun. Old Simon, leaning on the -churchyard wall, was watching in a lazy, rural way the cob at Mr. -Fielding’s door waiting for the curate, Edgar’s groom going off with his -master’s horse towards the big gates, and a waggon which was standing in -front of the Arden Arms. The waggoner had a tankard of ale raised to his -face, and was draining it, concealing himself behind its pewter disk. -The quietest scene: the sun caught the sign-post of the Arden Arms, -which had been newly painted in honour of Edgar, and played upon the red -cap of the drayman who stood by, and swept down the long white road, -clearing it of every shadow. All this Edgar saw and noted without -knowing it. In many a distant scene, at many a distant day, this came -back to him--the gleam of that red cap, the watchful spectatorship of -the old man over the churchyard wall. - -Dr. Somers met him coming out. “Ah!” said the Doctor, “coming to see me. -I am in no particular hurry. Come in, Edgar. It is not so often one sees -you now----” - -“You will see me less in the future,” said Edgar with a smile; “but I -don’t think there will be many broken hearts.” - -“Are you going away?” said Dr. Somers, leading the way into his own -room. “Visits, I suppose; but take my word for it, my boy, there is no -house so pleasant as your own house in autumn, when the covers are as -well populated as yours. No, no; stay at home--take your visits later in -the year.” - -“Dr. Somers,” said Edgar, “I have come to tell you something. Yes, I am -very serious, and it is very serious--there is nothing, alas, to laugh -about. Do you remember what you hinted to me once here about--Mrs. -Arden. Do you recollect the story you told me of the Agostini----” - -“Ah, yes!” said the Doctor, growing slightly red. “About your -mother--yes, perhaps I did hint; one does not like to speak to a man -plainly about anything that has been said of his mother. I am very -sorry; but I don’t think I meant any harm--to you--only to warn you what -people said----” - -“And I have come to tell you that people are mistaken,” said Edgar, with -rising colour. He felt, poor fellow, as if he were vindicating his -mother by proving that he was not her son. She was his mother in his -thoughts still and always. Dr. Somers shook his head ever so slightly; -of course, that was the right thing for her son to say. - -“You think I have come, without evidence, to make a mere assertion,” -Edgar continued. “Listen a moment----” - -“My dear fellow,” said Dr. Somers, shrugging his shoulders, “how could -you, or any one, make more than a mere assertion on such a subject. -Assert what you please. You may be right--most likely you are right; but -it is a matter which cannot be brought to proof.” - -“Yes,” said Edgar. This time it was worse than even with Lady Augusta. -With her he had the support of strong feeling, and counted on sympathy. -But the Doctor was different. A film came over the young man’s eyes; the -pulsations of his heart seemed to stop. The Doctor, looking at him, -jumped up, and rushing to a cupboard brought out some wine. - -“Drink it before you say another word. Why Edgar, what is this?” - -He put the wine away from him with some impatience. “Listen,” he said; -“this is what it is--I am not Mrs. Arden’s son!” - -Dr. Somers looked at him intently--into his eyes, in a way Edgar did not -understand. “Yes, yes,” he said, “I see--take the wine; take it to -please me--Edgar Arden, I order you, take the wine.” - -“To please you, Doctor,” said Edgar, “by all means.” And when he had -drank it, he turned to his old friend with a smile. “But I am not Edgar -Arden. I am an impostor. Doctor, do you think I am mad?” - -Dr. Somers looked at him once more with the same intent gaze. “I don’t -know what to make of you,” he said, in a subdued tone. “No more jesting, -Edgar, if this is jesting. What is it you mean?” - -“I am speaking the soberest, saddest truth,” said Edgar. “Clare will -tell you; I have no right to call her Clare. I do not know who I am; but -Mrs. Arden is clear of all blame, once and for ever. I am not her son.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -To say that the Doctor was utterly confounded by this revelation was to -say little. He had not begun so much as to think what it meant when -Edgar left him. An impatience which was foreign to his character had -come to the young man. He was eager to tell his astounding news; but it -irritated him to be doubted, to have to go over and over the same words. -He did not show this feeling. He tried hard to keep his temper, to make -all the explanations that were wanted; but within him a fire of -impatience burned. He rushed away as soon as he could get free, with -again that wild desire to be done with it which was the reverse side of -his eagerness to tell it. If he could but get away, be clear of the -whole matter, plunge into the deep quiet of the unknown, where nobody -would wonder that he was not an Arden, where he might call himself -anything he pleased! He went up the avenue with feverish speed, noting -nothing. Nature had ceased to have power to compose him. He had been -swept into a whirlpool of difficulty, from which there could be no -escape but in flight; and till his work was done he could not fly. - -And it seemed to Edgar a long, long time since he rode down between -those trees--a very long time, a month, perhaps a year. With all his -heart he longed to be able to escape, and yet a certain fascination drew -him back, a wondering sense that something more might have happened, -that there might be some new incident when he went back to divide his -attention with the old---- Perhaps were the bureau searched more closely -there might be something else found--something that would contradict the -other. All these fancies flashed through his mind as he went on. He -was but half-way up the avenue when he met Mr. Fielding coming -down. The Rector looked just as he always did--serene, kind, -short-sighted--peering at the advancing figure, with a smile of -recognition slowly rising over his face. “I know people generally by -their walk,” he said, as they met; “but I don’t recognise your walk this -morning, Edgar: you are tired? How pale you are, my dear boy! Are you -ill?” - -“Didn’t she tell you?” said Edgar, wearily. - -“She tell me?--who tell me?--what? You frighten me, Edgar, you look so -unlike yourself. I have been with Clare, and I don’t think she is well -either. She looked agitated. I warned you, you remember, about that -man----” - -“Don’t speak of him, lest I should hate him,” said Edgar. “And yet I -have no cause to hate him--it is not his fault. I will turn back with -you and tell you what Clare did not tell you. She might have confided in -you, anyhow, even if there had been a chance that it was not true.” - -The Rector put his arm kindly within that of the agitated young man. He -was the steadier of the two; he gave Edgar a certain support by the -contact. “Whatever it is that agitates you so,” he said, “you are quite -right--she might have told me; it would have been safe with me. Poor -Clare! she was agitated too----” - -This allusion overwhelmed Edgar altogether. “You must be doubly kind to -her when I am gone,” he said, hurriedly. “Poor Clare! That is another -thing that must be thought of. Where is she to go to? Would you take her -in, you who have always been so kind to us? I would rather she were with -you than at the Doctor’s. Not that I have anything to do with it now; -but one cannot get over the habits of one’s life in twenty-four hours. -Yes, poor Clare, I had no right to it, as it appears; but she was fond -of me too.” - -“Of course, she was fond of you,” said the Rector alarmed. “Come, Edgar, -rouse yourself up. What does it mean this talk about going away? You -must not go away. All your duties are at home. I could not give my -consent----” - -And then Edgar told him succinctly, in the same brief words which he had -used before, his extraordinary tale. He told it this time without any -appearance of emotion. He was getting used to the words. This time he -paid no attention to the incredulity of his listener. He simply repeated -it with a certain dull iteration. Mr. Fielding’s exclamations of wonder -and horror fell dully on his ears. He could not understand them. It -seemed so strange that any one should be surprised at a thing he had -known so long. “Sure,” he said with a smile; “am I sure of my own -existence? No, I don’t mean of my own identity, for at present I have -none. But I am as sure of it as that I am alive. Do you think it would -be any pleasure to me to go and spread such news if it were not true?” - -“But, Edgar,----” began the Rector. - -“That is the curious thing,” he said musingly; “I am not Edgar. I -suppose a man would be justified in keeping his Christian name--don’t -you think so? That surely must belong to him. I could not be John or -George all at once, after being Edgar all my life. Surely I keep that.” - -“My poor boy,” cried the Rector, in dismay. “My poor boy, come home, and -lie down, and let me bring Somers up to see you. You are not well, you -have been doing too much in town, keeping late hours, and---- You will -see, a little rest will set you all right.” - -“Do you think I am mad?” said Edgar. “Look at me--can you really think -so? I know only too well what I am saying. It is a very strange position -to be placed in, and makes one talk a little wild, perhaps. Of course, I -know nobody wants to take from me my Christian name; that was nonsense. -But when one has just had such a fall as I have had, it confuses one a -little. Will you come with me to the Hall, and see the papers? Clare -should have told you. There is no harm in my calling her Clare, do you -think, just for a time? I never can think of her but as my sister. And -we must try and arrange what she is to do.” - -“Edgar, am I to believe you?” cried Mr. Fielding. “Is it madness, or is -it something too dreadful to name? Do not look at me like that, my dear -boy. Don’t smile, for Heaven’s sake! you will break my heart.” - -“Why shouldn’t I smile?” said Edgar. “Is all the world to be covered -with gloom because I am not Squire Arden? Nonsense! It is I who must -suffer the most, and therefore I have a right to smile. Clare will get -over it by degrees,” he added. “It has been a great shock to her, but -she will get over it. I don’t know what to say about her future. Of -course I have no right to say anything, but I can’t help it. I suppose -the chances are she will marry Arthur Arden. I hate to think of that. It -is not mere prejudice against him as superseding me; it is because he is -not worthy of her. But it would be the most suitable match. Of course -you know she will lose Old Arden now that I am found out?” - -“Edgar, stop! I can’t bear it,” cried the Rector. “For Heaven’s sake -don’t say any more!” - -“But why not? It is a relief to me; and you are our oldest friend. Of -course I had no more to do with the entail than you have; all that is -null and void. For Clare’s sake I wonder he did not destroy those -papers, if for nothing else. Mr. Fielding, I have a horrible idea in my -head. I wish I could get rid of it. It is worse than all the rest. He -hated me, because of course I reminded him continually of his guilt. He -wanted me to break my neck that day after Old Arden was settled on -Clare. It would have been the most comfortable way of arranging the -matter for all parties, if I had only known. But I can’t help thinking -he carried his enmity further than that. I think he left those letters -to be a trap to me. He meant me to find them, and hide them or destroy -them, and share his guilt. Of course he believed I would do that; and -oh, God! how strong the temptation was to do it! If I had found them -myself--if they not been given to me by Clare----” - -Mr. Fielding pressed the arm he held. He doubted no longer, questioned -no longer. “My poor boy! my poor boy!” he murmured under his breath; -and, kind soul as he was, in his heart, with all the fervour of a -zealot, he cursed the old Squire. He cursed him without condition or -peradventure. God give him his reward! he said; and for the first time -in his life believed in a lake of fire and brimstone, and wished it -might be true. - -“I suppose I have got into the talking stage now,” said poor Edgar. “I -have had a long spell of it, and felt everything that can be felt, I -believe. It was on Sunday night I found it out--fancy, on Sunday -night!--a hundred years ago. And I want you to stand by me to-day. I -have telegraphed for Fazakerly. I have asked him to come to dinner; why, -I don’t know, except that dinner is a solemnity which agrees with -everything. It will be my table for the last time. Is it not odd that -Arthur Arden should be here at such a moment? not by my doing, nor -Clare’s, nor even his own--by Providence, I suppose. If Mr. Pimpernel’s -horses had not run away, and if poor little Jeanie had not been in the -carriage---- What strange, invisible threads things hang together by! Am -I talking wildly still?” - -“No, Edgar,” said Mr. Fielding, with a half sob. “No, my poor boy. -Edgar, I think it would be a relief to be able to cry---- What shall you -do? What shall you do? I think my heart will break.” - -“I shall do very well,” said Edgar, cheerily. “Remember, I have not been -brought up a fine gentleman. I shall be of as much use in the world -probably as Arthur Arden, after all. Ridiculous, is it not? but I feel -as if he were my rival, as if I should like to win some victory over -him. It galls me to think that perhaps Clare will marry him--a man no -more worthy of her---- But, of course, the match would be suitable, as -people call it, _now_.” - -“Say you don’t like it, Edgar,” said Mr. Fielding, with sudden warmth. -“Clare, you may be sure, if she ever neglected your wishes, will not -neglect them now.” - -Edgar shook his head; a certain sadness came into the meditative smile -which had been on his face. “I believe she loves him,” he said, and -then was silent, feeling even in that moment that it was not for -Clare’s good he should say more. No; it was not for him to lay any -further burdens upon his sister. His sister! “I _must_ think of her as -my sister,” he said aloud, defending himself, as it were, from some -attack. “It is like my Christian name. I can’t give that up, and I can’t -give her up--in idea, I mean; in reality, of course, I will.” - -“The man who would ask you to do so would be a brute,” cried Mr. -Fielding. - -“No man will ask me to do so,” said Edgar. “I don’t fear that; but time, -and distance, and life. But you are old--you will not forget me. You -will stand by me, won’t you, to the last!” - -The good Rector was old, as Edgar said; he could not bear any more. He -sat down on the roadside, and covered his face with his handkerchief. -And the tears came to Edgar’s eyes. But the suffering was his own, not -another’s; therefore they did not fall. - -Thus they separated, to meet again in the evening at the dinner, to -which Edgar begged the Rector to ask Dr. Somers also. “It will be my -last dinner,” he said, with a smile; and so went away--with something of -his old look and manner restored to him--home. - -Home! He had been the master of everything, secure and undoubting, -three days ago. He was the master yet to the gamekeeper, who took off -his hat in the distance; to Wilkins, who let him in so respectfully; -even to Arthur Arden, who watched him with anxious curiosity. How -strange it all was! Was he playing in some drama not comprehended by his -surroundings, or was it all a dream? - -It seemed a dream to the Rector, who hurried home, not knowing what to -think, and sent for Dr. Somers, and went over it all again. Could it be -true? Was the boy mad? What did it mean? They asked each other these -questions, wondering. But in their hearts they knew he was not mad, and -felt that his revelation was true. And so all prepared itself for the -evening, when everything should be made public. A sombre cloud fell over -Arden to everybody concerned. The sun looked sickly, the wind refused to -blow. The afternoon was close, sultry, and threatening. Even Nature -showed a certain sympathy. She would say her “hush” no longer, but with -a gathering of clouds and feverish excitement awaited the catastrophe of -the night. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -And yet amid all this excitement and lurid expectation, how strange it -was to go through the established formulas of life: the dinner, the -indifferent conversation, the regulated course of dishes and of talk! -Mr. Fazakerly made his appearance, very brisk and busy as usual. He had -come away hurriedly, in obedience to Edgar’s summons, from the very -midst of the preparations for a great wedding, involving property and -settlements so voluminous that they had turned the heads of the entire -firm and all its assistants. Fortunately he was full of this. The bride -was an heiress, with lands and wealth of every description--the -bridegroom a poor Irish peer, with titles enough to make up for the -money which was being poured upon him; and the lawyer’s whole soul was -lost in the delightful labyrinth of wealth--this which was settled upon -the lady, that which was under the control of the husband. He talked so -much on the subject, that it was some time before he perceived the -pre-occupied faces of all the rest of the company. The only one -thoroughly able to talk was Dr. Somers, whose mind was never -sufficiently absorbed by any one subject to be incapable of others, and -who knew everybody, and could discuss learnedly with his old friend upon -the property and its responsibilities. Edgar, too, did his best to talk. -His excitement had run into a kind of humour which was “only his fun” to -Mr. Fazakerly, but which brought tears to the Rector’s eyes. He meant to -die gaily, poor fellow, and make as little as possible of this supreme -act of his life. Clare sat at the head of the table, perfectly pale and -silent. She made a fashion of eating, but in reality took nothing, and -she did not even pretend to talk. Mr. Fielding by her side was as -silent. Sometimes he laid his withered gentle old hand upon hers when -she rested it on the table, and he looked at her pathetically from time -to time, especially when Edgar said something at which the others -laughed. “I wish he would not, my dear--I wish he would not,” he would -murmur to her. But Clare made no reply. He who was no longer her brother -was to her the most absorbing of interests at this moment. She could not -understand him. An Arden would have concealed the thing, she thought to -herself, or if he had been forced to divulge it, would have done it with -unwilling abruptness and severity, defying all the world in the action. -But the bitter pride which would have felt itself humbled to the dust by -such a revelation did not seem to exist in Edgar. If there was in him a -certain desperation, it was the gay desperation, the pathetic -light-heartedness of a man leading a forlorn hope. He defied nobody, but -faced the world with a smile and a tear--a man wronged, but doing -right--a soul above suspicion. And Clare was asking herself eagerly, -anxiously, what would be the difference it would make to him. It would -make a horrible difference--more, far more, than he in his sanguine soul -could understand. His friends would drop off from him. In her knowledge -of what she called the world, Clare felt but too certain of this. The -dependants who had hitherto hung upon his lightest word would become -suddenly indifferent, and she herself--his sister--what could she do? -Clare was aware that even she, in outward circumstances, must of -necessity cease to be to him what she had been. She was not his sister. -They could no longer remain together--no longer be each other’s close -companions; everything would be changed. Even if she continued as she -was, she would be compelled to treat Edgar with the ceremonies which are -universally thought to be necessary between a young woman and a young -man. If she continued as she was? Were she to marry, the case would be -different. As a married woman, he might be her brother still. And yet -how could she marry, as it were, on his ruin; how could she build a new -fabric of happiness over the sacked foundations of her brother’s house? -Her brother, and yet not her brother--a stranger to her! Clare’s brain -reeled, too, as she contemplated his position and her own. She was not -capable of feeling the contrast between Edgar’s playful talk and the -precipice on which he was standing. She was too much absorbed in a -bewildering personal discussion what he was to do, what she was to do, -what was to become of them all. - -Arthur Arden was at her other hand. He was growing more and more -interested in the situation of affairs, and more and more began to feel -that something must be in it of greater importance than he had thought. -Clare never addressed a word to him, though he was so near to her. Her -eyes were fixed on the other end of the table, where Edgar sat. Her lips -trembled with a strange quiver of sympathy, which seemed actually -physical, when her brother said anything. She looked too far gone in -some extraordinary emotion to be able to realise what was going on. When -Arthur spoke she did not hear him. She had to be called back to herself -by Mr. Fielding’s soft touch upon her hand before she noticed anything, -except Edgar. “You seem very much interested in what Mr. Fazakerly is -saying. Do you know this bride he is talking of?” Arthur said, trying to -draw her attention. “Clare, my love, Mr. Arden is speaking to you; he is -asking if you know Miss Monypenny,” said the Rector, with a warning -pressure from his thin fingers. “Oh, I beg your pardon; I did not hear -you,” Clare would reply, but she made no answer to the question. Her -attention would stray again before it was repeated. And then Mr. -Fielding gave Arthur Arden an imploring glance across the table. It -seemed to ask him to spare her--not to say anything--to leave her to -herself. “She is not well to-night,” the Rector said, softly, with tears -glistening in his old eyes. What did it mean? Arthur asked himself. It -must be something worse than he had thought. - -The silence at the other end of the table struck Mr. Fazakerly, as it -seemed, all at once. He gave two or three anxious looks in the direction -of Clare. “Your sister does not look well, Mr. Edgar,” he said. “We -can’t afford to let her be ill, she who is the pride of the county. -After Miss Monypenny’s, I hope to have her settlements to prepare. You -will not be allowed to keep her long, I promise you. But I trust she is -not ill. Doctor, I hope you have been attending to your duty. Miss Arden -can’t be allowed, in all our interests, to grow so pale.” - -“Miss Arden is not in the way of consulting me on such subjects,” said -the Doctor. “She has a will of her own, like everybody belonging to her. -I never knew such a self-willed race. When they take a thing into their -heads there is no getting it out again, as you will probably find, -Fazakerly, before you are many hours older. I have long known that there -was a disposition to mania in the family. Oh, no, not anything -dangerous--monomania--delusion on one point.” - -“I never heard of it before,” said Mr. Fazakerly, promptly, “and I -flatter myself I ought to know about the family if any one does. -Monomania! Fiddlesticks! Why, look at our young friend here. I’ll back -him against the world for clear-seeing and common sense.” - -“He has neither the one nor the other,” said Dr. Somers, hotly. “I could -have told you so any time these ten years. He may have what people call -higher qualities; I don’t pretend to pronounce; but he can’t see two -inches before his nose in anything that concerns his own interest; and -as for common sense, he is the most Quixotic young idiot I ever knew in -my life.” - -“Don’t believe such accusations against me,” said Edgar, with a smile. -“Your own opinion is the right one. I don’t pretend to be clever; but if -there is anything I pique myself upon, it is common sense. This is the -best introduction we could have to the business of the evening. It is -not anything very convivial, and it may startle you, I fear. Perhaps we -had better finish our wine first, Doctor, don’t you think?” - -“What is the matter?” said Mr. Fazakerly. “Now I begin to look round me, -you are all looking very grave. I don’t know what you mean by these -signs, Mr. Fielding. Am I making indiscreet observations? What’s the -matter? God preserve us! you all look like so many ghosts!” - -“So we are--or at least some of us,” said Edgar, “ghosts that a puff of -common air will blow away in a moment. The fact is, I have something -very disagreeable to tell you. But don’t look alarmed, it is -disagreeable chiefly to myself. To one of my guests at least it will be -good news. It is simple superstition, of course, but I can’t tell you -while you are comfortable, taking your wine. I should like you not to be -quite at your ease. If you were all seated in the library, on hard -chairs, for example----” - -“Edgar!” said Clare, in a sharp tone of pain. - -Dr. Somers laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t overdo it,” he said, with -something between remonstrance and sympathy. The Rector stood covering -his eyes with his hands. At all this Arthur Arden looked on with keen -and eager interest, and Mr. Fazakerly with the sharpest, -freshly-awakened curiosity, not knowing evidently what to make of it. -Arthur’s comment was of a kind that made the heart jump in his breast. -The secret, whatever it was, had been evidently confided both to the -Doctor and the Rector. They were reasonable men, not likely to be -affected by a foolish story; yet they both, it was apparent, considered -it something serious. A hundred pulses of impatience and excitement -began to beat within him. And yet he could not, with any regard to good -taste or good feeling, say a word. - -“Don’t be afraid,” said Edgar; “it is not bravado. What I have to say is -very serious, but it is not disgraceful--at least to me. There is no -reason why I should assume a gloom which is not congenial to myself, nor -natural so far as others are concerned. As it has been mentioned so -early, perhaps it is better not to lose any time with preliminaries now. -Will you come with me to the library? The proofs of what I have to say -are there. And without any further levity, I would rather speak to you -in that room than in this.” - -When he had said this, without waiting to hear Mr. Fazakerly’s amazed -exclamations, Edgar walked quietly to the other end of the table and -offered his arm to Clare. Before she took it, she joined her hands -together, and looked up beseechingly in his face. He shook his head, -with a tender smile at her, and drew her hand within his arm. This dumb -show was eagerly observed by Arthur Arden at her left hand. By this time -he was so lost in a maze that he no longer permitted himself to think. -What was the meaning of it all? Was the boy a fool to give in, and throw -up his arms at once? He had not, it was evident, even spoken to -Fazakerly first, as any man in his senses would have done. For once in -his life Arthur was moved to a disinterested sentiment. Even yet, after -all that had been said, he had no real hope that any advantage was -coming to himself; and something moved him to interfere to save an -unnecessary exposure. A certain compassion for this candid foolish -boy--a compassion mingled with some contempt--had arisen in his heart. - -“Arden,” he said hastily, “look here, talk it over with Fazakerly first. -I don’t know what cock-and-a-bull story you have got hold of, but before -you make a solemn business of it, for Heaven’s sake talk it over with -Fazakerly first.” - -Edgar put out his hand, without at first saying a word. It took him -nearly half a minute (a long interval at that crisis) to steady his -voice. “Thanks,” he said. “It is no cock-and-bull story; but I thank you -for thinking, and saying that. Come and hear what it is--and, for your -generosity, thanks.” - -“It was not generosity,” answered Arthur, under his breath. He was -abashed and confounded by the undeserved gratitude. But he made no -further attempt to detain the procession, which set out towards the -library. Edgar placed Clare in a chair when he had reached it. He put -her beside himself, and with a movement of the hand invited the others -to seat themselves. The table had been prepared, the lamp was burning on -it, and before one of the chairs was already laid a packet of letters -directed to B. Fazakerly, Esq. Edgar meant that his evidence should be -seen before he told his tale. - -“Will you take possession of these,” he said, seating himself at the end -of the table. “These are my proofs of what I am going to tell you; and -it is so strange that you will need proofs. My sister--I mean Miss -Arden--now seated beside me--found these papers. They have thrown the -strangest light upon my own life, and upon that of my predecessor -here.” - -“Your father?” said Mr. Fazakerly, with a glance of dismay. - -“I shall have to go back to the time when the late Squire was married,” -said Edgar. “I beg you to wait just for a few minutes and hear my story, -before you ask for any explanations. It has been commonly supposed, I -believe, that the reason for the treatment I received during my -childhood and youth, was that Squire Arden had been led to doubt whether -I was his son, and to think my mother--I mean Mrs. Arden--unfaithful to -him. This was a great slander and calumny, gentlemen. The reason Squire -Arden was unkind to me was that he knew very well I was neither his son -nor Mrs. Arden’s, but only an adopted child.” - -There was a murmur and movement among the guests. Arthur Arden rose up -in his bewilderment, and remained standing, staring at the man who had -thus declared himself to be no Arden; and Mr. Fazakerly cried out -loudly, “Nonsense; no! no! no! I know a great deal better. The boy’s -brain is turned. Don’t say another word.” - -“I asked you to hear me out,” said Edgar, whose colour and spirit were -rising. “I told you I should have to go back to the time when Squire -Arden married. He married a lady in very delicate health--or else she -fell into bad health after their marriage. Five years afterwards the -doctors told him that he had no chance whatever of having any children. -His wife was too ill for that; but not ill enough to die. She was likely -to live, indeed, as long as any one else, but never to give him an heir. -He hated, I can’t tell why, his next of kin. I am not here to excuse -him, but I believe there were excuses, for that--and after some -hesitation he formed the plan of adopting a child, giving it out to be -his own, and born abroad. The manner in which he carried out this plan -is to be found in the packet in Mr. Fazakerly’s hands; and I am the boy -whom he adopted. I can’t quite tell you,” Edgar continued, with the -faint smile which had so often during three days past quivered about his -lips, “who I am, but I am not an Arden. I am an impostor; and my -cousin--I beg his pardon--Mr. Arthur Arden, is the proprietor of this -place and all that is in it. He will allow me, I am sure, to retain his -place for the moment, simply to make all clear.” - -“To make all clear!” gasped Arthur. Clear! as if everything in heaven -and earth was not confused by this extraordinary revelation, or could -ever be made clear again. - -“He must be mad,” said Mr. Fazakerly, loudly. And yet there went a -thrill round the table--a feeling which nobody could resist--that every -word he said was true. - -“I have not sought any further,” said Edgar. “These letters have -contented me, which disclose the whole transaction; but everybody knows -as well as I do the after particulars. How Mr. Arden slighted me -persistently and continuously--and yet how, without losing a moment when -I came of age, he made use of me to provide for my--for Miss Arden. The -fact that Old Arden was settled upon her, away from me, is of itself a -corroborating evidence. Everything supports my story when you come to -think of it. It makes the past clear for the first time.” - -And then there was a pause, and they all looked at each other with blank -astonishment and dismay. At least Mr. Fazakerly looked at everybody, -while the others met his eye with appealing looks, asking him, as it -were, to interfere. “It cannot be true--it is impossible it should be -true,” they murmured, in their consternation. But it was Clare who was -the first to speak. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -Clare rose up instinctively, feeling the solemnity of the occasion to be -such that she could not meet it otherwise. She was paler than ever, if -that was possible--marble white--with great blue eyes, pathetically -fixed upon the little audience which she addressed. She put one hand -back feebly, and rested it on Edgar’s shoulder to support herself. “I -want to speak first,” she said. “There is nobody so much concerned as -me. It was I who found those papers, as my brother says. I found them, -where I had no right to have looked, in an old bureau which did not -belong to me, which I was looking through for levity and curiosity, and -because I had nothing else to do. It is my fault, and it is I who will -suffer the most. But what I want to tell you is, that I don’t believe -them. How could any one believe them? I was brought up to love my -father, and if they are true my father was a--was a---- I cannot say the -word. Edgar asks me to give up everything I have in life when he asks -me to believe in these letters. Oh, all of you, who are our old friends! -you knew papa. Was he such a man as that? Had he no honour, no justice, -no sense of right and wrong in him? You know it would be wicked to say -so. Then these papers are not true.” - -“And I know they are not true in other ways,” cried Clare, flushing -wildly as she went on. “If Edgar was not my brother, do you think I -could have felt for him as I do? I should have hated him, had he been an -impostor, as he says. Oh, he is no impostor! He is not like the rest of -us--not like us in the face--but what does that matter? He is a thousand -times better than any of us. I was not brought up with him to get into -any habit of liking him, and yet I love him with all my heart. Could -that be anything but nature? If he were not my true brother, I would -have hated him. And, on the contrary, I love him, and trust him, and -believe in him. Say anything you please--make out what you please from -these horrible letters, or any other lie against him; but I shall still -feel that he is my own brother--my dearest brother--in my heart!” - -Clare did not conclude with a burst of tears, solely because she was -past weeping. She was past herself altogether; she was not conscious of -anything but the decision about to be come to--the verdict that was to -be given by this awful tribunal. She sank back into her chair, keeping -her eyes fixed upon them, too anxious to lose a single gesture or look. -“Bring her some water,” said Dr. Somers; “give her air, Edgar; no, let -her alone--let her alone; that is best. Just now, you may be sure, she -will take no harm.” - -And then there came another pause--a pause in which every sound seemed -to thud and beat against the anxious ears that waited and listened. -Arthur Arden had taken his seat again. He was moved, too, to the very -depths of his being. He covered his face with his hands, unable to look -at the two at the head of the table, who were both gazing at the company -waiting for their fate. Edgar had taken Clare’s hand, and was holding it -fast between his own. He was saying something, of which he was not -himself conscious. “Thanks, Clare! courage, Clare!” he was repeating at -intervals, as he might have murmured any other babble in the excitement -of the moment. Mr. Fazakerly was the only one who stirred. He broke open -the seals of the packet with agitated haste, muttering also under his -breath. “Parcel of young fools!” was what Mr. Fazakerly was saying. He -let the papers drop out in a heap upon the table, and picked up one -here and one there, running it over with evident impatience and -irritation. Then he tossed them down, and pushed his spectacles off his -forehead, and wrathfully regarded the little company around him. “What -am I expected to do with these?” he asked. “They are private letters of -the late Mr. Arden, not, so far as I am aware, brought before us by any -circumstances that call for attention. I don’t know what is intended to -be done with them, or who produces them, or why we are called together. -Mr. Edgar, I think you might provide better entertainment for your old -friends than a mare’s nest like this. What is the meaning of it all? My -opinion is, they had better be replaced in the old bureau from which -Miss Clare tells us she fished them out.” - -But while he said this in his most querulous tone, Mr. Fazakerly picked -up the papers one by one, and tied them together. His irritation was -extreme, and so was his dismay, but the last was uppermost, and was not -easy to express. “If these had come before me in a proper way,” he went -on, “of course I should have taken all pains to examine them and see -what they meant; but unless there is some reason for it--some object, -some end to be gained--I always object particularly to raking up dead -men’s letters. I have known endless mischief made in that way. The -chances are that most men do quite enough harm in their lifetime, or at -least in a lawful way by their wills and so forth, after their death, -without fishing up every scrap of rancour or folly they may have left -behind them. Mr. Edgar, you have no right that I know of to go and -rummage among old papers in order to prejudice yourself. It is the -merest nonsense. I can’t, for my part, consent to it. I don’t believe a -word of it. If anybody else takes it up, and I am called upon to defend -you, of course I will act to the best of my ability; but in the meantime -I decline to have anything to do with it. Take them away----” - -Mr. Fazakerly thrust the tied-up parcel towards his client. Of course, -he knew very well that the position he took up was untenable after all -that had been said, but his irritation was real, and the idea of thus -spoiling a case went to his very heart. He pushed it along the table; -but, by one of those curious accidents which so often surpass the most -elaborate design, the little packet which had been the cause of so much -trouble, instead of reaching Edgar, stopped short in front of Arthur -Arden, who was still leaning on the table, covering his face with his -hand. It struck him lightly on the elbow, and he raised his head to see -what it was. It was all so strange that the agitated company was moved -as by a visible touch of fate. Arthur stared at it stupidly, as if the -thing was alive. He let it lie, not putting forth a finger, gazing at -it. Incredible change of fortune lay for him within the enclosure of -these faded leaves; yet he could not secure them, could not do anything, -was powerless, with Clare’s eyes looking at him, and the old friends of -the family around. His own words came back to his mind suddenly in that -pause--“Let him take everything, so long as he leaves me you.” And -Clare’s answer, “Say that again to-morrow.” To-morrow! It was not yet -to-morrow; and what was he to say? - -It was Edgar, however, and not Arthur, who was the first to speak. “If -it must be a matter of attack and defence,” he said, “the papers are now -with the rightful heir, and it is his to pursue the matter further. But -I don’t want to have any attack or defence. Mr. Arden, will you be so -good as to take the packet, and put it in your lawyer’s hands. I suppose -there are some legal forms to be gone through; but I will not by any act -of mine postpone your entrance upon your evident right.” - -A pause again--not a word said on any side--the three old men looking on -without a movement, almost without a breath; and Arthur Arden, with his -elbows still resting on the table, and his head turned aside, gazing, as -if it were a reptile in his path, at the packet beside him. How he -would have snatched at it had it not been for these spectators! There -was no impulse of generosity towards Edgar in his mind. Such an impulse -would have been at once foolish and uncalled for. Edgar himself had -taken pains to show that he wanted no such generosity--and a man cannot -part lightly with his rights. Everything would have been easy enough, -clear enough, but for Clare’s presence and her words that morning. If he -were to do what every impulse of good sense and natural feeling -prompted--take up the papers before him and make himself master of a -question affecting him so nearly--then no doubt he would lose Clare. He -would lose (but that was of small importance) the good opinion of that -foolish old Rector. He would create a most unjust prejudice against -himself if he showed any eagerness about it, even in the eyes of the -doctor and the lawyer, practical men, who knew that justice must -prevail; and he would lose Clare. What was he to do? It was cruel, he -felt, to put him to such a trial. He kept looking at the papers with his -head turned, half of it shadowed over by the hands from which he had -lifted it, half of it (his forehead and eyes) full in the light. To his -own consciousness, an hour must have passed while he thus pondered. The -others thought it five minutes, though it was not one. But another -train of thought rapidly succeeded the first in Arthur’s mind. What did -it matter, after all, what he did? He could be generous at Edgar’s cost, -who, he felt sure, would accept no sacrifice. He gave a glance at the -young man who was no Arden, who was looking on without anxiety now, with -a faint smile still on his face, and a certain bright curiosity and -interest in his eyes. It was perfectly safe. There are some people whom -even their enemies, even those who do not understand them, can calculate -upon, and Edgar was one of these. Arthur looked at him, and saw his way -to save Clare and to save appearances, and yet attain fully his will and -his rights. He took the packet up, and put it in Clare’s lap. - -“Here I put my fate and Edgar’s,” he said, with, in spite of himself, a -thrill of doubt in his voice which sounded like emotion. “Let Clare -judge between us--it is for her to decide----” - -Before Clare could speak, Edgar had taken back the papers from her. -“That means,” he said, almost gaily, with a laugh which sounded strange -to the excited company, “that they have come back to me. Clare has had -enough of this. It is no matter of romantic judgment, but one of -evidence merely. Mr. Fielding, will you take my sister away? Yes, I -will say my sister still. She does not give me up, and I can’t give her -up. Arden is little in comparison. Clare, if you could give me a -kingdom, you could not do more for me than you have done to-night. Go -with Mr. Fielding now----” - -She rose up, obeying him mechanically, at once. “Where?” she said. -“Edgar, tell me. Out of Arden? If it is no longer yours, it is no longer -mine.” - -“Hush, dear,” he said, soothing her as if she had been a child--“hush, -hush. There is no cause for any violent change. Your kinsman is not -likely to be hard upon either me or you.” - -“He put the matter into my hands,” she cried, suddenly, with a sob. “O -Edgar, listen! Let us go away at once. We must do justice--justice. Let -us go and hide ourselves at the end of the world--for it cannot be -yours, it is his.” - -She stumbled as she spoke, not fainting, but overcome by sudden -darkness, bewilderment, failure of all physical power. The strain had -been too much for Clare. They carried her out, and laid her on the sofa -in the quiet, silent room close by, where no excitement was. How strange -to go out into the placid house, to see the placid servants carrying in -trays with tea, putting in order the merest trifles! The world all -around was unconscious of what was passing--unconscious even under the -same roof--how much less in the still indifferent universe outside. -Edgar laughed, as he went to the great open door, and looked out upon -the peaceful stars. “What a fuss we are making about it!” he said to his -supplanter, whose mind was incapable of any such reflection; “and how -little it matters after all!” “Are you mad, or are you a fool?” cried -Arthur Arden under his breath. To him it mattered more than anything -else in heaven or earth. The man who was losing everything might console -himself that the big world had greater affairs in hand--but to the man -who was gaining Arden it was more than all the world--and perhaps it was -natural that it should be so. - -Half-an-hour after the three most concerned had returned to the library, -to discuss quietly and in detail the strange story and its evidences. -These three were Edgar, Arthur, and Mr. Fazakerly. The Rector sat by -Clare’s sofa, in the drawing-room, soothing her. “My dear, God will -bring something good out of it,” he was saying, with that pathetic -bewilderment which so many good people are conscious of in saying such -words. “It will be for the best, my poor child.” He patted her head and -her hand, as he spoke, which did her more good, and kept by her--a -supporter and defender. The Doctor gave her a gentle opiate, and went -away. They were all, in their vocations, ministering vaguely, feebly to -those desperate human needs which no man can supply--need of happiness, -need of peace, need of wisdom. The Rector’s soft hand smoothing one -sufferer’s hair; the doctor’s opiate; the lawyer’s discussion of the -value of certain documents, legally and morally--such was all the help -that in such an emergency man could give to man. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -The others seated themselves once more round the library table. There -was a change, however, in their circumstances and position which would -have been immediately manifest to any observer. It had been Edgar an -hour ago who was the chief person concerned; it was he who had to -communicate his story, and to note its effect upon his audience. But now -it was Arthur who was the chief; not that he had anything to tell; but -all the anxiety had transferred itself to him--all the burden. His brow -was heavy with thought and care. He was feverishly eager to read and to -hear everything that could be said, and he watched Mr. Fazakerly with -the devouring anxiety of one who felt life and death to hang on his -lips. “It does not matter what you think or what I think, but what he -thinks,” he said abruptly when Edgar explained something. His whole -attention was bent upon the lawyer. He read the letters in Mr. -Fazakerly’s look. The chances were he did not himself make out or -understand them, but he saw what the other thought of them, and that -was enough. - -“Softly, softly,” said Mr. Fazakerly; “don’t let us go too fast. I -acknowledge these are ugly letters to find; they make a very strong case -against the old Squire. He was a man who would stick at nothing to get -his own will. I would not say so before your sister, Mr. Edgar, but -still it was true. I have known cases in which he did not stick at -anything. And there can be no doubt that it affords an instant -explanation of his conduct to you. But the law distrusts too clear an -explanation of motives--the law likes facts, Mr. Edgar, and not motives. -We must go very gently in this difficult path. I will allow that I think -this is the late Mr. Arden’s handwriting--for the sake of argument I -will allow that; but these letters, you will perceive, all make a -proposition. There is nothing in them to prove that the proposition was -accepted--not a word--a fact which of itself complicates the matter -immensely. We have Mr. Arden’s word for it, without any -confirmation--nothing more.” - -“I think you mistake,” said Edgar; “there are these other letters which -consider and accept the proposal. They are, I think, remarkable letters. -The person who wrote them could no doubt be identified. I think they are -quite conclusive that the proposal was accepted. Look at this, and -this, and this----” - -“All very well--all very well,” said the lawyer. “Letters signed ‘J. -M.;’ but who is ‘J. M.’? I conclude a woman. I don’t make out what kind -of a person at all. There are errors of spelling here and there, which -do not look like a lady; and there is something about the style which is -not like an uneducated person. I decline to receive as evidence the -anonymous letters of ‘J. M.’” - -Arthur Arden followed the speakers with his eyes, and with breathless -attention. He turned from one to another, noting even their gestures, -the little motions of arm and hand with which they appealed to each -other. He was discouraged by Mr. Fazakerly’s tone; he raised his eyes to -Edgar, almost begging him to say something more--to bring forward -another argument for his own undoing. It was the strangest position for -them both. Edgar had taken upon himself, as it were, the conduct of his -adversary’s case; he was the advocate of the man who was to displace and -supersede him. He was struggling with the champion of his own rights for -those of his rival, and with the strangest simplicity that rival tacitly -appealed to him. - -“I don’t understand these matters of detail----” Edgar began. - -“Detail, my dear sir, detail!” said Mr. Fazakerly, “they are matters of -principle. If letters like these were to be accepted as affecting the -succession to a great property, nobody would be safe. How can I tell who -this ‘J. M.’ was? It might be anybody--nobody. She may have written -these letters at random altogether. And, besides, there is not a tittle -of evidence to connect you with ‘J. M.’ Even supposing the whole -correspondence perfectly genuine, which is a thing requiring proof in -the first place, how am I to know--how is any one to know--that you are -the child referred to? There is, the contrary, everything against it. -You yourself jump at a conclusion. You say you are not like the Ardens, -and that your father was unkind to you, and from these two facts you -arrive at the astounding conclusion that you are not Mr. Arden’s son. -Mr. Edgar, I do not wish to be uncivil, but there is nothing in it. We -cannot decide such a question on evidence so slight---- God bless me! -what is that?” - -The sound was startling enough; but it was only a knock, though an -emphatic and determined one, at the door. Edgar rose to open it, and -found Wilkins outside endeavouring to hold back an unlooked for visitor. -“She would come, sir,” said Wilkins in trouble---- - -“Is it you, Mrs. Murray?” said Edgar, startled he scarcely knew why; yet -somehow not feeling her presence inappropriate. “I am very busy at this -moment. I hope Jeanie is not worse----” - -She made no attempt to enter the room; but standing outside in the -imperfect light, looked anxiously in his face. “I came because I couldna -help it,” she said slowly, “because I was concerned in my mind about -yours and you.” - -“That was kind,” he said with a smile. He opened the door wide, and -revealed her standing on the threshold--a dark, commanding figure. “We -are busy about very important business,” said Edgar; “but still, if you -have anything to say to me--if Jeanie is worse----” - -“Jeanie is better, or I would not have left her,” said the Scotchwoman; -and then she put her hand suddenly upon his arm, and drew him towards -her. “It’s you I am troubled about,” she said suddenly, with the -hoarseness of great emotion. “I’ve never got you out of my mind since -you said you were in trouble. Oh, my bonnie lad! I have no right to -speak, but my heart is in sore pain. Oh, if I could but be of some -service to you!” - -Edgar never knew how it was--perhaps some trick of words like something -he had recently seen--perhaps the passion in her voice--perhaps a -sudden intuition, a touch of nature, warning him of things unknown and -unseen. Suddenly he changed the position of affairs, put his hand on her -arm, and drew her into the room. “Come,” he said, “I want you. Don’t -hesitate any longer; I have a question to ask you.” He had to exercise -almost a little force to bring her into the room. She stopped upon the -threshold, resisting the pressure of his hand. “No,” she said, “no -before these strange folk; it was for you I came, and you alone.” - -“I have something to ask you,” said Edgar. “Come in and help me. I think -you can.” - -He led her in unwillingly up to the table. She gave an alarmed and -anxious look upon the two people sitting by. Arthur Arden, whose mind -was open to everything, looked up and stared at her; but the lawyer, -after one hasty glance, took no further notice. He went on reading the -papers, shrugging his shoulders at this absurd interruption. In his own -mind it was a proof that the story he had just heard was true as the -Gospel, and that the young man who admitted every chance comer into his -intimacy could not be an Arden. But externally he paid no attention. It -was not his business to see, but to be blind. Arthur Arden was in a very -different mood; everything was important to him--he caught at the -faintest indications of meaning, and was on the outlook eagerly for any -incident. He watched closely, as Edgar led Mrs. Murray up to the table. -He perceived how reluctant she was, how she stood on the defensive, -watchful, and guarding herself against surprise. What share could she -have in the matter, that all her faculties should be thus on the alert? -Edgar’s demeanour too was very amazing to the spectator. His eye had -brightened--a curious air of quickened interest was in his face; he -looked as if he felt himself on the eve of a discovery. He led the old -woman up to the table, holding her by the arm. It was a strange scene: -the lawyer reading on steadily, taking no notice; the other spectator in -the shade, looking on so eagerly--the two figures standing between. The -woman had the air of going blindfold to encounter some unknown danger, -which, whatever it was, she was prepared to resist. Then Edgar spoke -with so much energy and impressiveness that even Mr. Fazakerly paused, -and pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, and looked up hurriedly. -“Look at these,” he said, bringing her close to the open packet of -letters--“Look at them, and tell me if you ever saw them before.” - -Mrs. Murray approached, looking straight before her, keeping, with an -evident effort, every sign of emotion from her face. But when her eye -fell on the papers, an extraordinary change came over her. She came to -a dead stop--she uttered a low cry--she looked at them, stooping over -the table, and threw up her hands with a wild gesture of dismay. And -then all at once she recollected herself, stiffened all over, stood -desperately erect, with her hands clasped before her, and looked at them -all with a dumb defiance, which was wonderful to see. - -“What did you say, sir?” she asked. “I am growing old; I am no so quick -at the up-take as I once was. I’ve been in this room before, in an hour -of great trouble and pain to me, and it works upon my nerves to see it -again. Sir, what did ye say?” - -And she turned from one to another, severally defying them. Her face had -become blank of every expression but that one. This was the way in which -she betrayed herself. She defied them all. Her face said--Find me out if -you can; I will never tell you--instead of wearing, as a more -accomplished deceiver would have done, the air of having nothing to find -out. - -“Have you ever seen these letters before?” said Edgar; and he lifted the -papers and put them into her hands. Arthur, who was watching, saw her -breast heave. He saw her hand clutch them, as if she would have torn -them in pieces. But she dared not tear them in pieces. She looked at -them, made a pretence to read, and stood as if she were an image cut -out of stone. - -“How should I have seen them?” she said, putting them back on the table -as if they had burned her. “My cousin, Thomas Perfitt, is an old servant -of your house; but how should its secrets have come to me?” - -“Look here,” said Edgar, in his excitement; “I believe you know; -something tells me that you know. Mr. Fazakerly, give us your attention. -You will not serve me by pretending ignorance if you know. I have found -out that I am not Mr. Arden’s son.” - -“Softly, softly!” said the lawyer, putting his hand on Edgar’s arm. -“That is mere assertion on your part; there is no proof.” - -“Hear me out,” cried Edgar. “I am speaking from myself only. I am -certain I am not Mr. Arden’s son, nor Mrs. Arden’s son. I am a stranger -altogether to the race. To me these letters prove it fully. For his own -evil ends, whatever they may have been, the master of this house adopted -me--perhaps bought me----” - -Here there was another interruption. Mrs. Murray put out her hand -suddenly as if to stop him, and gave a cry as of pain; but once more -stiffened back into her old attitude, regarding them with the same -defiant look. Edgar paused, he looked her full in the face, he put his -hand upon her arm. “You injure me by your silence,” he said. “Speak! Are -you my---- Am I----?” His voice shook, his whole frame trembled. “You -are something to me,” he cried, looking at her. “Speak, for God’s sake! -Was it you who wrote these letters? You know them--you recognised them. -It is for my benefit that you should speak. Answer me!--the time is past -for concealment. Tell me what you know.” - -Mrs. Murray’s lips moved, but no sound came; she looked from one to -another with rapid eager looks but the defiance in her face did not pass -away. At last her voice burst out aloud with an effort. “Let me sit -down,” she said; “I am growing old, and I am weary with watching, and I -cannot stand upon my feet.” The three men beside her leant forward to -hear these words, as if a whole revelation must be in them, so highly -were they excited. When it became apparent that she revealed nothing, -even Mr. Fazakerly was so much disturbed as to push his chair away from -the table, and to give his whole attention to the new actor in the -scene. Edgar brought her a seat, and she sat down among them with an air -of presiding over them, and with a strange knowledge of the crisis, and -all its particulars which seemed natural at the moment, and yet was -proof above all argument that she was not unprepared for the disclosure -that had been made to her. There was no surprise in her face. She was -greatly agitated, and evidently restraining herself with an effort that -was almost superhuman; but she was not astonished, as a stranger would -have been. This fact dawned upon the lawyer with curious distinctness -after the first minute. Edgar was baffled in his appeal, and Arthur -wanted the power to make use of his observations. But Mr. Fazakerly saw, -and watched, and had all his wits about him. And neither at that moment -nor at any other did the old solicitor of the Ardens, the depository of -all the family secrets, forget that the reigning Squire, whether he were -the rightful heir or not, was his client, and that he was retained for -the defence. - -“Mr. Edgar,” said Mr. Fazakerly, “and Mr. Arthur, you are both too much -interested to manage this properly. You take it for granted that -everything bears upon the one question, which this good lady, of course, -never heard of before. Leave her with me. If she knows anything--which -is very unlikely--she will inform me in confidence. Of course, whatever -I find out shall be disclosed to you at once,” he added, with a mental -reservation. “Leave it to me.” - -But whether that could have been done or not was never put to the test. -As he finished speaking, Wilkins came to the door hastily. “I beg your -pardon, sir,” he said, “but some folks is come from the village, asking -if one Mrs. Murray is here. I beg your pardon, I’m sure, for -interrupting----” - -The old Scotchwoman rose up suddenly in the midst of them with a cry of -fear, which she no longer attempted to restrain. - -“Is it my Jeanie?” she exclaimed. “Oh, good Lord, good Lord, I’m paying -dear, dear!” - -“I must go with her,” said Edgar, in his excitement. Something in his -face, some strange likeness never perceived before, startled both his -companions. Arthur Arden rose too. He did not care about Jeanie. He had -forgotten, in this greater excitement, that he was guilty in regard to -the girl. All he thought of was to follow this new clue--to see them -together--to watch the new resemblance he had found out in Edgar’s -face. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -Jeanie was lying propped up on pillows, struggling for breath. Her face, -which had always been like that of an angel, was more visionary, more -celestial than ever; the golden hair, which had always been so carefully -braided, hung about her head like a halo. It was hair which fell in -soft, even tresses, not standing on end or struggling into rebellious -curls: everything about her was soft, harmonious, submissive. Her eyes -were full of light, enlarged, with that fatal breadth and fulness which -generally has but one meaning. A little flush of fever on her cheeks -kept up the appearance of health. Her pretty lips were parted with the -panting, struggling breath. Dr. Somers stood at her bedside, looking -very grave. Sally Timms sat crying in a corner. Mrs. Hesketh came to the -door to meet the poor grandmother, with her apron at her eyes. “She was -took bad half-an-hour after you went--just about when you’d have got to -the Hall; and called and called till it made you sick to hear--‘Granny! -granny! granny!’--never another word. Oh, I’m thankful, Missis, as -you’ve come in time.” - -“Half-an-hour after I left!” said Mrs. Murray; “when I was denying the -truth. Oh, me that thought to hide it from the Lord!--me that thought -she was better, and He couldna go back! And the angel cried upon me, -Granny! granny! Lad, do you hear that!--I have lost my Jeanie for you!” - -She put her hand upon Edgar’s shoulder as she spoke. Her face was white -and ghastly with her despair. She thrust him from her, almost with -violence. “Oh, let me never see you more! Oh, let me never see you more! -I have lost my Jeanie for you!” - -“Is there no hope?” said Edgar, clutching Dr. Somers by the arm. He had -given way to the mother, to let her approach the bed, and now stood -behind with a face so grave and grieved that any answer seemed -unnecessary. He shook his head; and then, after a little interval, -spoke. - -“I know no reason why this should have come on. Some agitation which I -cannot explain. There is no hope, unless it can be calmed somehow. The -grandmother may do it, or perhaps----” - -Dr. Somers turned round and looked the newcomers in the face. Was it -possible that the innocent creature dying before his eyes could have -loved either of these men? Arthur Arden was the kind of man to pursue an -intrigue anywhere, and he had singled out Jeanie. And Edgar was young -and well-looking, and the chief object of interest to the village. Could -her eye or her heart have been caught by one of them. Why were they both -here? The Doctor’s mind was full of the one remaining chance. He looked -at Edgar again, whose face was full of emotion; he had his heart in his -eyes; he was always sympathetic, always ready to feel for any sufferer. -The Doctor mused over it a little, watching keenly the approach of the -grandmother to the bedside. Mrs. Murray went to her child as calmly as -if she had never known a disturbing feeling in her life. She bent over -her like a dove over her nest. “My bairn! my bonnie woman! my Jeanie!” -she murmured; but the patient was not stilled. The Doctor looked -anxiously on, and then he yielded to an impulse, which he could not have -explained. He took Edgar by the shoulder and drew him forward. “Go and -speak to her,” he said. “I!” whispered Edgar, astonished. “Go and speak -to her,” cried the Doctor, in tones scarcely audible, yet violently -imperative, and not to be disobeyed. The young man, deeply moved as he -was, went forward doubtfully, longing and yet afraid. What could he -say? What could he do? He did not understand the yearning that was in -his heart towards this little suffering girl. He had no sense of guilt -towards her, had never harmed her, one way or another. He longed to go -and take her in his arms, and carry her away to some halcyon place where -there would be rest. Dying was not in his thoughts; but Edgar, too, was -weary of agitation, and suffering, and distress. He had suffered, and he -had not come to the end of his sufferings. Oh, to be able to escape -somewhere, to carry away poor Jeanie, to lay her down in some cool -valley, in some heavenly silence! Tears were in his eyes. He thought of -her, and of Clare, and Gussy, all mingled together--all whom he loved -best. He went up to the bedside, behind the old woman who had thrust him -away so passionately, yet who somehow belonged to him too. “Jeanie,” he -said, in a low tremulous voice, “Jeanie, little Jeanie!” The other -spectators instinctively fell back, perceiving, they could not tell how, -that this was an experiment which was being tried. Jeanie’s panting -breath was hushed for a moment; she made a distinct effort, half raising -herself. “Who was that; who was that?” she cried. (“Speak again,” said -Dr. Somers, once more, in that imperative, violent whisper behind.) -“Jeanie,” said Edgar, advancing another step, “Do you know me? Speak to -me, Jeanie!” - -She gave a great cry. She threw herself forward, opening her arms; her -face blazed as with a sudden light of joy. “Willie! Willie! Willie!” she -cried, as on the first night when she had seen Edgar from her window, -and, leaning half out of her bed, threw herself into his arms. - -An awful pause ensued. Mrs. Murray kneeled down by the bedside, and with -her face raised, and two big tears flowing slowly down her cheeks, -lifted up her clasped hands and prayed. Her eyes were fixed upon Jeanie, -but she did nothing to detach her from the arms in which, as the -spectators thought, she would certainly die. Dr. Somers held them all -back. He held up his hand so that no one moved. He stood watching the -pair thus strangely clasping each other, standing close behind Edgar, to -give aid if necessary, with one finger laid softly on Jeanie’s wrist. -Was it for life, was it for death? Even the women, who had been looking -on, stole softly forward, with all the interest which attends the crisis -of a tragedy, staying the tears which had flowed in a kind of mechanical -sympathy at the apparent approach of death. They comprehended that death -had been stayed at least for the moment, and they did not know how. As -for Edgar, he stood in this unexpected and innocent embrace, feeling -the soft weight upon his breast, the soft, feeble arm round him, the -velvet-soft lips on his cheek, with an indescribable emotion. “If she -lives, I will be her brother. I am her brother from this hour,” he said -to himself. He held her fast, supporting her, with thoughts in which not -a single shade of evil mingled. Jeanie was sacred to him. He did not -understand what had moved her. He had, indeed, forgotten, in this sudden -change of all his thoughts, the suspicions he had of her mother. He -thought only that she had cast herself upon his support and protection, -and that henceforward she was to him as the sister he had lost. - -“Lay her back gently. Stand by her--her strength is failing,” said the -Doctor’s quick voice in his ear. “Softly, softly! Stand by her. Now the -wine--she will take it from you. Edgar, life and death are on your -steadiness. Support her--give her the wine--now--now--” - -She took it from him, as Dr. Somers said. She smiled on him, and drew -his hand feebly with both hers till she had placed it under her cheek. -Then she said “Willie!” again in a faint whisper like a sigh, and fell -asleep sweetly and suddenly, while they all watched her--fell asleep, -not in death but in life, with Edgar’s hand supporting her child-like, -angel-like face. - -Then Mrs. Murray rose from her knees. “I must speak,” she said, with a -gasp; “if I did not speak now, I would repent and tempt the Lord again. -Him that’s standing there is Jeanie’s near kin--no her brother, as my -bonnie lamb thinks he is--but near, near of kin, and like, like to him -that’s gane. And I am his mother’s mother, a guilty woman, no worthy of -God’s grace. I have made my confession, and now I can tempt the Lord no -more.” - -This strange speech fell upon, it seemed, unheeding ears. The -indifferent spectators stared, not knowing what it meant. The Doctor was -absorbed in watching his patient; and Edgar, in the new and strange -position which he was obliged to keep, did not realise what was said. He -heard the words, and was conscious of a vague wonder in respect to them, -but was too fully occupied, body and mind, to be able to make out what -they meant. Only Arthur Arden took them fully into his mind. He could -scarcely restrain an exclamation, scarcely keep himself still, when this -confirmation of every hope, and explanation of every difficulty, came to -his ears. He went out immediately, in the stupor of his delight, and -stood at the cottage door, under the twinkling stars, repeating it over -to himself. “Near of kin to Jeanie--near, near of kin.” No Arden at -all--an alien, of different name and inferior race. And it was he, -Arthur, who was Arden of Arden. Could it be true? was it true? The night -was dark, relieved only by the stars which throbbed and trembled in the -sky. One of them shone over the dark trees of Arden in the distance, as -if it were a giant fairy blossom springing out of the foliage. Was the -star his, too, as well as the tree? Was all his, really his--the dewy -land under his feet, the wide line of the horizon where it extended over -the park and the woods--the very sky, with its “lot of stars.” His head -swam and grew dizzy as the thought grew--all his--house and lands, name -and honour. A wild elation took possession of him. All that had happened -had been well for him; and there passed across his mind vaguely an echo -of that wonderful sentiment with which those who are at ease pretend to -console those who suffer. All for the best--had not all been for the -best? The accident which almost killed Jeanie--the sudden crisis of -illness which had made the watchers send to Arden for her -grandmother--all for the best. God had taken the trouble to disturb the -order of nature--to wear out the young life to such a thread as might -snap at any moment--to wring the old heart with bitterest pangs of -anxiety--all for good to him. Thus the egotist mused; and though he was -irreligious, said, with a horrible gratitude, and something like an -assumption of piety in his heart, “Thank God!”--Thank God! for all but -killing Jeanie--for working havoc in her mother’s breast. It had been -all for the best. - -Strangely enough, Mrs. Murray, after an interval, followed him out to -the door. She grasped him by the arm in her excitement. “I thought once -I was indebted to you,” she said. “I thought I should be thankful that -you brought my bairn in, carrying her in your arms; but I know now whose -blame it was she got her accident. I know now what you would have put -into her head if it had not been for her innocence. And it is for you I -must ruin my bonnie lad, and cover my name with shame. Oh, the Lord sees -if it’s hard or no! But mind you this, man, you will never be his equal -if you were to labour night and day--never his equal--nor nigh him. And -never think that those that have loved him will stoop down to the like -of you.” - -She thrust him away, as she spoke, with a scorn that made Arthur wild. -What! he the true proprietor of Arden to be dismissed so? He turned to -gaze at her as she disappeared, shutting the door upon him. An impulse -seized him to throw a stone at the window--to do something which should -show his contempt and rage; but he did not do it. He thought better of -it. He could afford to be magnanimous. He left the place where Jeanie’s -young life had been put in such jeopardy by his fault, and where he had -just concluded that it had been for the best, without seeking for any -further news of Jeanie. She might die or live for anything he cared. Her -brother was with her, or her cousin, or whatever he was--the fellow who -had kept him so long out of Arden. Thus he turned away through the dark -village, up the dark avenue, and went home to Arden, where the lights -were still burning in all the windows, and the master expected home. It -was on his lips to say--“I am master now; when that fellow comes, do not -let him in;” but in that point too he restrained himself. Fazakerly was -in the house, and Clare was in the house. He did not wish to come into -collision with either of them. For Edgar, he did not care. - -Meantime Edgar stood, fatigued and weakened by the excitement of the -day, by Jeanie’s bedside, with her cheek resting on his hand. It -required all his muscular energy to support him in that strange task. He -scarcely ventured to breathe for fear of disturbing her. When he made a -little movement, her hands tightened upon his arm as she slept. The -Doctor held wine to his lips, and encouraged him. “You are saving her -life,” he said; and Edgar smiled and stood fast. He was saving her -life--at this moment when his own strength was weakest, his own courage -lowest; but it was not he who had endangered her life. The man who was -to blame was entering Arden, full of elation and selfish joy, while -Edgar stood by the humble bedside saving the life of the almost victim. -What a strange contrast it was! But there are some men in the world -whose lot it always is to be the ones who suffer and save--and their lot -is not the worst in this life. The hours were long as they crept and -crept onward to the morning. The Doctor dozed in his chair. Even the old -mother slept by snatches in the midst of her watch--but Edgar, elevated -by weariness, and weakness, and spent excitement, out of the ordinary -regions of fleshly sensation, stood by Jeanie’s bedside, and did not -sleep. He went over it all in his heart--he felt it was now finally -settled somehow--everything confirmed and made certain, though he did -not quite know how. He thought of all that had to be given up, with a -faint, wan smile upon his lips. This time it was not an opiate, it was a -numbness that hung over him, partly physical because of his attitude, -but still more spiritual because of the exhaustion of his heart. All -was over--he was a new being, coming painfully into a changed life -through bitter pangs, of which he was but half-conscious. And Jeanie -slept with her cheek on his hand, and the other living creatures in the -cottage watched and slept, and breathed around him. And life and the -great universe moved and swam about him, like scenes in a -phantasmagoria--one scene dissolving into another, nothing steady or -definite in earth or heaven. Sometimes, as if a stray light had caught -it, one scene out of the past would suddenly shine out before him, -generally something quite unconnected with his present position; and -then a strange gleam would fall over the future, over that unknown waste -which lay before. Thus the night stole on, till every minute seemed an -hour, and every hour a day. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -Arthur Arden went 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 mere -external 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 over everything 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 himself in 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 exuberance of 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, admitting the 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’t _they_ wait?” 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, his heart 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 and there 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, the thought 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -The reader 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 not offer 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 my brother,” 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 point Edgar 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 higher _rôle_ than -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 the natural 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, was _her_ grandson! 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 -was agitated, 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 his -hopeful 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 most -iniquitous 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, “There -_must_ be 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, but -Mr. 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -Lady Augusta came 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 I -cannot, 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 said _we_,” 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 our hearts 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 beg your 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 -Gussy was. 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 so sad--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!” -she sobbed. 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 was settled, -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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -Clare left 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 against -him 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 and excellences, 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 hired house. 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 -brother can 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 to form 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, dingy drawing-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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -Miss Somers was 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 -I used 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 to herself 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 between them?--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 Arthur -was 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--a _sourd_ misery, inarticulate, not defining itself. Why -should 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 never -was 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. “He _is_ my 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 they -say. 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 would never 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. - -Some one did come for Clare at last, making her heart leap with a -painful hope; but it was only Mr. Fielding, coming anxiously to beg her -to return to dinner. She put on her hat, and went down to him with the -paleness of death in her face. Nobody cared where she went, or what she -did. They were glad that she was gone. The place that had known her knew -her no more. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -It is unnecessary to say that to one at least of the two people whose -behaviour she thus discussed in her heart Clare was unjust. Edgar had -neither forgotten her nor was he glad to be rid of her. It was late -before he knew that she was gone. All the afternoon of that day he had -spent with the lawyer, going over again all the matters which only two -months ago had been put into the hands of the heir. Mr. Fazakerly had -ceased to remonstrate. Now and then he would shake his head or shrug his -shoulders, in silent protest against the mad proceeding altogether, but -he had stopped saying anything. It was of no use making any further -resistance. His client had committed himself at every step; he -had thrown open his secret ostentatiously to all who were -concerned--ostentatiously, Mr. Fazakerly said with professional -vehemence, feeling aggrieved in every possible way. Had he been called -upon to advise in the very beginning, it is most likely that the task -would have tried him sorely; for his professional instinct to defend -and conceal would have had all the force of a conscience to contend -with. But now that he had not been consulted, he was free to protest. -When he found it no longer of any use to make objections in words, he -shook his head--he shrugged his shoulders--he made satirical -observations whenever he could find an opportunity. “Were there many -like you, Mr. Edgar,” he said, “we lawyers might shut up shop -altogether. It is like going back to the primitive ages of Christianity. -Let not brother go to law against brother is, I know, the Scriptural -rule; though it is generally the person who is attacked who says -that--the one who has something to lose. But you have gone beyond -Scripture; you have not even asked for arbitration or compensation; you -have thrown away everything at once. We might shut up shop altogether if -everybody was like you.” - -“If I were disagreeable,” said Edgar, laughing, “I should say, and no -great harm either, according to the judgment of the world.” - -“The world is a fool, Mr. Edgar,” said Mr. Fazakerly. - -“It is very possible,” said Edgar, with a smile. This was at the -termination of their business, when he felt himself at last free from -all the oft-repeated consultations and discussions of the last two or -three days. Everything was concluded. The old lawyer had his full -instructions what he was to do, and what to say. Edgar gave up -everything without reservation, and, at the instance of Mr. Fazakerly, -consented to receive from his cousin a small sum of money, enough to -carry him abroad and launch him on the world. He had been very reluctant -to do this, but Mr. Fazakerly’s strenuous representations had finally -silenced him. “After all, I suppose the family owes it me, for having -spoiled my education and career,” Edgar said, with the half smile, half -sigh which had become habitual to him; and then he was silent, musing -what his career would have been had he been left in his natural soil. -Perhaps it would have been he who should have ploughed the little farm, -and kept the family together; perhaps he might have been a sailor, like -Willie who was lost--or a doctor, or a minister, like others of his -race. How strange it was to think of it! He too had a family, though not -the family of Arden. His life had come down to him through honest hands, -across the homely generations--not peasants nor gentlefolk, but -something between--high-minded, righteous, severe people, like the woman -who was the only representative of them he knew, his mother’s mother. -His heart beat with a strange sickening speed when he thought of her--a -mixture of repulsion and attraction was in his thoughts. How was he to -tell Clare of her? He felt that nothing which had yet occurred would so -sever him from his sister as the appearance by his side of the two -strangers who were his flesh and blood. And then he remembered that in -the sickness of his heart he had made no inquiry after Jeanie during -that whole long day. - -When he went out into the hall he found boxes standing about, a sight -which struck him with surprise, and Barbara standing, bonneted and -cloaked, among them. She turned to him the moment he appeared, with an -eager appeal. “Please, sir, Miss Clare said as I was to ask you what to -do.” - -“I will speak to my sister,” said Edgar in his ignorance; but Barbara -put out her hand to detain him. - -“Oh, sir, please! Miss Clare has gone down to the Rectory. She said to -me as I was to ask you what to do with all these things. There are a -deal of things, sir, to go to the Rectory. The rooms is small--and you -was to tell me, please, what to do. Don’t you think, sir, if I was to -leave the heavy things here----” - -“Nothing must stay here,” said Edgar peremptorily. He was more angry at -this suggestion than at anything which had yet been said. “Take them -all away--to the Rectory--where Miss Arden pleases; everything must go.” -He was not aware while he spoke that Arthur Arden had made his -appearance and stood looking at him, listening with a certain bitterness -to all he said. - -“That seems hard laws,” said Arthur. “I am Miss Arden’s nearest -relative. It may be necessary that she should go at present; but why -should you take upon you to pronounce that nothing shall stay?” - -“I am her brother,” said Edgar gravely. “Mr. Arden, you will find Mr. -Fazakerly in the library with a communication to make to you. Be content -with that, and let me go my own way.” - -“No, by Jove!” cried Arthur; “not if your way includes that of Clare. -What business have you, who are nothing to her, to carry her away?” - -The servants stood gaping round, taking in every word. Mr. Fazakerly, -alarmed by the sound of the discussion, came to the door; and Edgar made -the discovery then, to his great surprise, that it hurt him to have this -revelation made to the servants. It was a poor shabby little remnant of -pride, he thought. What was the opinion of Wilkins or of Mrs. Fillpot to -him? and yet he would rather these words had been spoken in his absence. -But the point was one in which he was resolute not to yield. He gave -his orders to Wilkins peremptorily, without so much as looking at the -new heir. And then he himself went out, glad--it is impossible to say -how glad--to escape from it all. He gave a sigh of relief when he -emerged from the Arden woods. Even that avenue he had been so proud of -was full of the heavy atmosphere of pain and conflict. The air was freer -outside, and would be freer still when Arden itself and everything -connected with it had become a thing of the past. When he reached the -Rectory, Mr. Fielding was about sitting down to dinner, with Clare -opposite to him--a mournful meal, which the old man did his best to -enliven, although the girl, worn out in body and mind, was incapable of -any response. Things were a little better, to Mr. Fielding at least, -when Edgar joined them; but Clare could scarcely forgive him when she -saw that he could eat, and that a forlorn inclination for rest and -comfort was in her brother’s mind in the midst of his troubles. He was -hungry. He was glad of the quiet and friendly peace of the familiar -place. Oh, he was no Arden! every look, every word bore out the evidence -against him. - -“It looks unfeeling,” he said, “but I have neither eaten nor slept for -two days, and I am so sick of it all. If Clare were but safe and -comfortable, it would be the greatest relief to me to get away----” - -“Clare is safe here. I don’t know whether she can make herself -comfortable,” said the Rector looking at her wistfully. “Miss Arden, -from Estcombe, would come to be with you, my dear child, I am sure, if -that would be any advantage--or good Mrs. Selden----” - -“I am as comfortable as I can be,” said Clare, shortly. “What does it -matter? There is nothing more necessary. I will live through it as best -I can.” - -“My dear child,” said good Mr. Fielding, after a long pause; “think of -Edgar--it is worse for him than for you----” - -“No,” cried Clare passionately; “it is not worse for him. Look, he is -able to eat--to take comfort--he does not feel it. Half the goodness of -you good people is because you don’t feel it. But I---- It will kill -me----” - -And she thrust back her chair from the table, and burst into passionate -tears, of which she was soon ashamed. “Edgar does not mind,” she cried; -“that is worst of all. He looks at me with his grieved face, and he does -not understand me. He is not an Arden, as I am. It is not death to him, -as it is to me.” - -Edgar had risen and was going to her, but he stopped short at the name -of Arden. It felt to him like a stab--the first his sister had given -him. “I hope I shall not learn to hate the name of Arden,” he said -between his closed lips; and then he added gently, “So long as I am not -guilty, nothing can be death to me. One can bear it when one is but -sinned against, not sinning; and you have been an angel to me, -Clare----” - -“No,” she cried, “I am no angel; I am an Arden. I know you are good; but -if you had been wicked and concealed it, and stood by your rights, I -should have felt with you more!” - -It was in the revulsion of her over-excited feelings that she spoke, but -yet it was true. Perhaps it was more true than when she had stood by -Edgar and called him her dearest brother; but it was the hardest blow he -had yet had to bear. He sat down again, and covered his face with his -hands. Poor fellow! the little comfort he had been so ready to enjoy, -the quietness and friendliness, the food and rest, had lost all savour -for him now. Mr. Fielding took his hand and pressed it, but that was -only a mild consolation. After a moment he rose, rousing himself for the -last step, which up to this moment he had shrunk from. “I have a further -revelation to make to you,” he said in an altered voice; “but I have -not had the courage to do it. I have to tell you who I really belong to. -I think I have the courage now.” - -“Edgar!” she cried, in alarm, raising her head, holding out her hand to -him with a little cry of distress, “Will you not always belong to me?” - -He shook his head; he was incapable of any further explanation. “I will -go and bring my mother----” he said, with a half sob. The other two sat -amazed, and looked after him as he went away. - -“Do you know what he means?” asked Clare, in a voice so low as to be -scarcely audible. Mr. Fielding shook his head. - -“I don’t know what he means, or if his mind is giving way, poor -boy--poor boy, that thinks of everybody but himself; and you have been -hard, very hard upon him, Clare.” - -Clare did not answer a word. She rose from the table, from the fruit and -wine which she had spoiled to her gentle host, and went to the deep, -old-fashioned window which looked down the village street. She drew the -curtain aside, and sat down on the window-seat, and gazed into the -darkness. What had he meant? Whom had he gone to seek? An awful sense -that she had lost him for ever made Clare shiver and tremble; and yet -what she had said in her petulance was true. - -As for Edgar, he hastened along through the darkness with spasmodic -energy. He had wondered how he could do it; he had turned from the task -as too difficult, too painful; he had even thought of leaving Clare in -ignorance of his real origin, and writing to tell her after he had -himself disappeared for ever. But here was the moment to make the -revelation. He could do it now; his heart was very sore and full of -pain--but yet the very pain gave him an opportunity. He reflected that -though it was very hard for him, it was better for Clare that the -severance between them should be complete. He could not go on, he who -was a stranger to her blood, holding the position of her brother. Years -and distance, and the immense difference which there would most likely -be between them would gradually make an end of any such visionary -arrangement. He would have liked to keep up the pleasant fiction; the -prospect of its ending crushed his heart and forced tears into his eyes; -but it would be best for Clare. She was ready to give him up already, he -reflected, with a pang. It would be better for her to make the severance -complete. - -He went into the cottage in the dark, without being recognised by any -one. The door of the inner room was ajar, and Mrs. Murray was visible -within by the light of a candle, seated at some distance from her -child’s bedside. The bed was shaded carefully, and it was evident that -Jeanie was asleep. The old woman had no occupation whatever. A book was -lying open before her on the little table, and her knitting lay in her -lap; but she was doing nothing. Her face, which was so full of grave -thoughtfulness, was fully revealed by the light. It was the face of a -woman of whom no king need have been ashamed; every line in it was fine -and pure. Her snow-white hair, her dark eyes, which were so full of -life, the firm lines about her mouth, and the noble pose of the head, -gave her a dignity which many a duchess might have envied. True, her -dress was very simple--her place in the world humble enough; but Edgar -felt a sense of shame steal over him as he looked at her. He had shrank -from calling such a woman his mother, shrank from acknowledging her in -the face of the day; and yet there was no Arden face on the walls of the -house he had left which was more noble in feature, or half so exalted in -expression. He said this to himself, and yet he shrank still. It was the -last and highest act of renunciation. He went in so softly that she was -not disturbed. He went up to her, and laid his hand on her shoulder. His -heart stirred within him as he stood by her side. An unwilling -tenderness, a mixture of pride and shame, thrilled through him. -“Mother!” he said. It was the first time he had ever, in his -recollection, called any one by that sacred name. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -Mrs. Murray started violently, and uttered a low cry. She turned to him -with a look of sudden joy, that made her dark eyes expand and dilate. -But when she saw Edgar’s face, a change came over her own. She rose up, -half withdrawing from his touch, and signed to him to leave the room, -with a gesture towards the bed in which Jeanie lay asleep. She followed -him to the door, where they had had so many broken interviews. The -silence and the darkness, and the faint stars above, seemed a congenial -accompaniment. She put her hand upon Edgar’s arm as he stepped across -the threshold. “What is your will; what is your will?” she said, in an -agitated voice. It seemed to the young man that even this last -refuge--the affection to which he had a right--had failed him too. - -“My will?” he said. “It is for me to ask yours, you that are my mother. -My life has changed like a dream, but yours is as it always was. Do you -want nothing of me?” - -“Na,” said Mrs. Murray, with a voice of pain; “nothing, lad! nothing, -lad! You’ve been good to me and mine without knowing. You’ve saved my -Jeanie’s life. But we’re proud folk, though we were not brought up like -you. Nothing will we take but your love; and I’m no complaining. I bow -to nature and my own sin. I’ve long repented, long repented; but that is -neither here nor there; it cannot be expected that you should have any -love to give.” - -“I don’t know what I have to give,” said Edgar. “I am too weary and -heart-broken to know. Can you come with me now to see my sister?--I mean -Miss Arden. I must tell her. Don’t be grieved or pained, for I cannot -help it. It is hard.” - -“Ay, it is hard,” said Mrs. Murray; “Oh, it’s hard, hard! You were but a -babe when I put you out of my arms; but I’ve yearned after you ever -since. No, I’m asking no return; it’s no natural. You are more like to -hate us than to love us. I acknowledge that.” - -“I don’t hate you,” said Edgar. He was torn asunder with conflicting -feelings. Was it hatred or was it love? He could not tell which. - -“I’m ready to put my hands on my mouth, and my mouth in the dust,” she -went on. “I’ve sinned and sinned sore against the Lord and against you. -You were the only one left of all your mother’s bairns; and she was -dead, and he was dead--all gone that belonged to you but me--and my -hands full, full of weans and of troubles. I had the love for you, but -neither time nor bread, and I was sore, sore tempted. They said to me -there was none to be wronged, but only a house to be made glad. Oh, lad, -I sinned; and most I have sinned against you.” - -He could not say no. His heart seemed shut up and closed against her. He -could utter no forgiveness. It was true--quite true. She had sinned -against him. Squire Arden was deeply to blame, but she, too, had sinned. -There was not a word to say. - -“When you said mother, I thought my heart would burst with joy. I -thought the Lord had sent to you the spirit to forgive. But I canna -expect it; I canna look for it. Oh, no! I wouldna be ungrateful, good -Lord! He has his bonnie mother’s heart to serve his neighbour, and his -father’s that died for the poor, like Christ. I maunna complain. He has -a heart like his kin though no for me!” - -“Tell me what you mean,” cried Edgar, with a thrill of emotion tingling -to his very finger-points; “or rather come with me, come with me. Clare -must know all now----” - -“And Jeanie is sleeping,” she said. “I’ll cry upon that good woman to -watch her, and I’ll do your bidding. God bless you, lad, for Jeanie’s -life!” - -He stood and waited for her outside with a new life, it seemed, -thrilling through him. His father? He had once had a father, then--a man -who had done his duty in the world--not a tyrant, who hated him. The -idea of his mother did not so much move him; for somehow the dead woman -whose reputation he had vindicated, the sweet young face in Clare’s -picture, was his mother to Edgar in spite of all. He could not turn her -out of his imagination. But his father! A new spring of curiosity, which -was salvation to him, sprang up in his heart. Presently Mrs. Murray came -out again, in her old-fashioned shawl and bonnet. Her dress veiled the -dignity of her head. It gave him a sort of shudder to think of Clare -looking at this woman, whom she had wanted to be kind to--to treat as a -dependent--and knowing her to be his grandmother. She looked a little -like Mrs. Fillpot, in her old-fashioned bonnet and shawl--he scorned -himself for the thought, and yet it came back to him--very much like -Mrs. Fillpot until you saw her face; and Edgar was made of common flesh -and blood, and it went to his heart. He walked up the village street by -her side with the strangest feelings. If she wanted him, it would be his -duty, perhaps, to go with her--to provide for her old age--to do her the -service of a son. She had a hold on him which nobody else in the world -had. And yet---- To be very kind, tender-hearted, and generous to your -conventional inferiors is so easy; but to take a family among them into -your very heart, and acknowledge them as your own!---- Edgar shivered -with a pang that ran through every nerve; and yet it had to be done! - -He was more reconciled to it by the time he reached the Rectory. Mrs. -Murray did not say another word to conciliate or attract his regard, but -she began a long soft-voiced monologue--the story of his family. She -told him of his father, who had been a doctor, and had died of typhus -fever, caught among the poor, to whom he had dedicated his life; of his -mother, who had broken her heart; of all her own children, his -relations, who were scattered over the world. “We’re no rich nor grand, -but we are folk that none need think shame of,” she said, “no one. We’ve -done our duty by land and by sea, and served God, and wronged no -man--all but me; and the wrong I did is made right, oh my bonnie lad, -thanks to you.” - -Thus a certain comfort, a certain bitterness distilled into his heart -with every word. He made her take his arm as he entered the Rectory. He -had seen the curtain raised from the window, and some one looking out, -and felt that it was Clare watching, with perhaps a suspense as great as -his own. He led his grandmother into the dining-room, which he had left -so suddenly, leaning on his arm. Clare rose from her seat at the window -as they entered, and so did Mr. Fielding, who, really unhappy and -distressed, had been dozing in his chair. The Rector stumbled up half -asleep, and recollected the twilight visit he had received only a few -days before, and said “God bless me!” understanding it all in a moment. -But Clare did not understand. She walked forward to meet them, her face -blazing with painful colour. A totally different fancy crossed her mind. -She made a sudden conclusion, not like the reasonable and high-minded -being she desired to be, but like the inexperienced and foolish girl she -was. An almost fury blazed up in her eyes. Now that he had fallen, Edgar -was making haste to unite himself to that girl who had been the bane of -her life. He had brought the mother here to tell her so. It was Jeanie, -Jeanie, once more--the baby creature with her pretty face--who was -continually crossing her path. - -“What does this mean?” she cried haughtily. “Is this a time for folly, -for forming any miserable connexion--why do you bring this woman here?” - -“You must speak of her in other tones, if you speak of her to me,” said -Edgar. “I have shrunk from telling you, I can’t tell why. It seemed -severing the last link between us. But I must not hesitate any longer. -Miss Arden, this is Mrs. Murray, who wrote the letters you found in your -father’s room, who shared with him the guilt of the transaction which -has brought us all so much pain; but she is my mother’s mother, my -nearest relative in the world, and any one who cares for me will respect -her. This is the witness I told you of--her testimony makes everything -clear.” - -Clare stood thunderstruck, and listened to this revelation; then she -sank upon the nearest seat, turning still her pale countenance aghast -upon the old woman, who regarded her with a certain pathetic dignity. -Horror, dismay, shame of herself, sudden lighting up of a hundred -mysterious incidents--light glimmering through the darkness, yet -confounding and confusing everything, overwhelmed her. His mother’s -mother. Good Heavens! is she mine too? Clare asked herself in her -dismay, and then paused and tried to disentangle herself from that maze -of old habit and new bewildering knowledge. She could not speak nor -move, but sat and gazed upon the Scotchwoman who had been somehow -painfully mixed up in all the story of the past two months and all its -difficulties. Was this an explanation of all? or would Arthur Arden come -in next, and present this woman to her with another explanation? Clare’s -heart seemed to stand still--she could not breathe, but kept her eyes -fixed with a painful mechanical stare upon Mrs. Murray’s face. - -“Yes, Miss Arden,” said the old woman, “he says true. I was tempted and -I sinned. He was an orphan bairn, and it was said to me that no person -would be wronged by it--though it may be a comfort to you to hear that -your mother opposed it with all her might. She knew better than me. She -was a young thing, no half my age; but she knew better than me. For all -her sweetness and her kindness, she set her face against the wrong. It -was _him_ that sinned, and me----” - -And then there was a long pause. Clare seemed paralysed--she neither -moved nor spoke; and Edgar stood apart, struggling with his own heart, -trying not to long for the sympathy of the sister who had been his all -his life--trying to enter into the atmosphere of love towards the other -through whom his very life had come to him. Mr. Fielding, who was not at -the same pitch of excitement, bethought himself of those ordinary -courtesies of life which seem so out of place to the chief actors in -such a scene. He offered Mrs. Murray a chair; he begged her to take some -wine; he was hospitable, and friendly, and courteous--till Clare and -Edgar, equally moved, interposed in the same breath--“Oh, don’t, please, -don’t say anything,” Clare cried, “I cannot bear it.” And Edgar, to whom -she had not spoken a word, whom she had not even looked at, came forward -again and gave the stranger his arm. - -“Thanks,” he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness; “but now that all is -said that need be said, I must take my mother away.” - -“My dear Edgar, stop a little,” cried Mr. Fielding, in much agitation. -“This must not be permitted. If this---- lady is really your--your -grandmother, my dear boy. Pardon me, but it is so hard to realise it--to -imagine; but she cannot be left in that poor little cottage--it is -impossible. I am amazed that I could have overlooked--that I did not -see. The Rectory is small, and Clare perhaps might not think---- or I -should beg you to come here--but some other place, some better place.” - -Mrs. Murray’s face beamed with a sudden smile. Edgar looked on with -terror, fearing he could not tell what. Was she about to seize this -social elevation with vulgar eagerness? Was she about to make it -impossible for him even to respect her? “Sir,” she said, holding out her -hand to the Rector, “I thank you for my lad’s sake. Every time I see or -hear how he’s respected, how he’s thought of, my heart leaps like the -hart, and my tongue is ready to sing. It’s like forgiveness from the -Lord for the harm I’ve done---- but we’re lodged as well as we wish for -the moment, and I desire nothing of any man. We’re no rich, and we’re no -grand, but we’re proud folk.” - -“I beg your pardon, madam,” said Mr. Fielding, bowing over her hand as -if she had been a duchess. And Edgar drew the other through his arm. -“Folk that none need think shame of,” he said in his heart, and for the -first time since this misery began that heart rose with a sensation -which was not pain. - -“And good night, Miss Arden,” she said, “and God bless you for being the -light of his eyes and the comfort of his life. Well I know that he owes -all its pleasantness to you. An old woman’s blessing will do you no -harm, and it’s likely that I will never in this life see you more.” - -Thus Clare was left alone in the silence. Mr. Fielding hastened to the -door to attend his visitor out, with as much respect as if she had been -a queen. Clare remained alone, her whole frame and heart tingling with -emotion. She was ashamed, humbled, and mortified, and cast down. Her -brother!--and this was his true origin--these his relations. She, too, -had remarked that Mrs. Murray was like Mrs. Fillpot at the first -glance--a peasant woman--a farmer’s wife at the best. It was intolerable -to Clare. And yet all the while he was Edgar--her brother, whom she had -loved--her companion, whom she had kissed and hung upon--who had been -her support, her protector, her nearest and closest friend. She rose and -fled when she heard the sound of the closing door, and Mr. Fielding’s -return. She could not bear to see him, or to have her own dismay and -horror brought under remark. He would say they were unchristian, wicked; -and what if they were? Could she help it? God had made her an Arden--not -one of those common people without susceptibilities, without strong -feeling. Had Edgar been an Arden he never could have done it. He did it, -because he was of common flesh and blood; he had not felt it. All was -explained now. - -As for Edgar, he walked down again to Sally Timms’s cottage, with his -old mother on his arm. “Lean on me,” he said to her as they went along -in the dark. He could not be fond of her all at once, stranger as she -was; but he was--could it be possible?--proud of her, and it was a -pleasure to him to feel that he supported her, and did a son’s natural -duty so far. And then it went to his heart when he saw all at once in -the light of a cottage window which gleamed on her as they passed, that -she was weeping, silently putting up her hand to wipe tears from her -face. “It’s no for trouble, it’s for gladness,” she said, when he looked -up at her anxiously. “I canna think but my repentance is accepted, and -the Lord has covered over my sin.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -“These are our terms, Mr. Arden,” said Mr. Fazakerly. “It is, of course, -entirely in your own hands to accept or reject them: a provision such as -has been usually made for the daughters of Arden, for Miss Clare; and a -certain sum--say a few hundreds--he would not accept anything -more--for--your predecessor---- These are our conditions. If you accept -them, he offers (much against my will--all this surrender is against my -will) immediate possession, without any further trouble. My own opinion -is quite against this self-renunciation, but my client is obstinate----” - -“Your client!” said Arthur Arden, with a tone of contempt. “Up to this -time your clients have always been the lawful owners of Arden.” - -“Understand, sir,” said the old lawyer, with a flush of irritation on -his face, “that I do not for a moment admit that Mr. Edgar is not the -lawful owner of Arden. That rests on your assertion merely; and it is an -assertion which you might find it amazingly difficult to prove. He -offers you terms upon his own responsibility, against my advice and -wish, out of an exaggerated sense of honour, such as perhaps you don’t -enter into. My wish would have been to let you bring your suit, and -fight it out.” - -Arthur Arden was in great doubt. He paced the long library up and down, -taking council with himself. To make conditions at all--to treat with -this beggar and impostor, as he called him in his heart--was very -galling to his pride. Of course he would have been kind to the fellow -after he had taken possession of his own. He would have made some -provision for him, procured him an appointment, given him an allowance, -out of pure generosity; but it was humiliating to pause and treat, or to -acknowledge any power on the part of the usurper to exact conditions. It -was astonishing how fast and far his thoughts had travelled in the last -twenty-four hours. He had scarcely allowed the bewildering hope to take -hold of his mind then--he could not endure to be kept for another hour -out of his possessions now. He walked up and down heavily, pondering the -whole matter. It appeared to him that he had nothing to do but to -proclaim himself the reigning monarch in place of the usurper found out, -and to expel him and his belongings, and begin his own reign. But the -old lawyer stood before him, vigilant and unyielding, keeping an eye -upon him--cowing him by that glance. He came forward to the table again -with reluctant politeness. “I don’t understand it,” he said. “It stands -to reason that from the moment it is found out, everything becomes mine -as the last Squire Arden’s next of kin.” - -“You have to prove first that you are nearer of kin than his son.” - -“His son! Do you venture to keep up that fiction? How can I consent for -a moment to treat with any one who affirms a lie?” - -“Your conscience has become singularly tender, Mr. Arden,” said the -lawyer, with a smile. “I don’t think you were always so particular; and -remember you have to prove that it is a lie. You have to prove your case -at every step against all laws of probability and received belief. I do -not say that you will fail eventually, but it is a case that might -occupy half your remaining life, and consume half the value of the -estate. And I promise you you should not gain it easily if the defence -were in my hands.” - -“When I did win you should find that no Arden papers found their way -again to your hands,” said Arthur, with irritation. - -Mr. Fazakerly made him a sarcastic bow. “I can live without Arden,” he -said; “but the question is, can you?” - -Then there was another pause. “I suppose I may at least consult my -lawyer about it,” said Arthur, sullenly; and once more Mr. Fazakerly -made him a bow. - -“By all means; but should my client leave the country before you have -decided, it will be necessary to shut up the house and postpone its -transference. A few months more or less will not matter much. I will put -down our conditions, that you may submit them to your lawyer. A -provision such as other daughters of Arden have had, for Miss Clare----” - -“I will not have Miss Arden’s name mentioned,” said Arthur, angrily; -“her interests are quite safe in my hands.” - -“That may or may not be,” said Mr. Fazakerly; “but my client insists -absolutely on this point, and unless it is conceded, all negotiations -are at an end. Fit provision for Miss Clare; and a sum of money--say a -thousand pounds----” - -“You said a few hundreds,” interposed the other with irritation. Mr. -Fazakerly threw down his pen, and looked up with amazement into Arthur’s -face. - -“Good Lord,” he said, “is it the soul of a shopkeeper that you have got -within you? Do you understand what Edgar Arden is giving up? And he was -not called upon to give it up. He was not called upon to say a word -about it, to furnish you with any information. What Edgar Arden would -have done had he been guided by me----” - -“He is not Edgar Arden,” said Arthur sharply. - -“By the Lord,” cried Mr. Fazakerly, wrought up to a pitch of excitement -which would have vent, “he is by a hundred times a better man than----” -you, he was going to say, but resisted the temptation--“than most men -that one meets,” he added hastily. And then, subduing himself, sat down -and wrote the conditions fully out. He handed them to the other without -adding a word, and immediately unlocked a box full of papers which stood -on the table by him, and began to work at them, as if he were -unconscious of the presence of any stranger. Arthur stood by him for -some minutes with the paper in his hand, and then went out with a -mortification which he had to conceal as best he could. It was the -morning after Clare had left the house, and Edgar, though he had not -appeared that day was still master of the house, acknowledged by -everybody in it as its legitimate head. It is impossible to say how much -this chafed the true heir. He was so angry that he gave Wilkins to -understand the real state of affairs, to the private consternation but -well-enacted unbelief of that family retainer. Wilkins did not like -Arthur Arden--none of the servants liked him. Edgar’s kindly sway had -given them a glimpse of something better; and the butler and the -housekeeper had long entertained matrimonial intentions, and were too -well off and too much used to comfort to put up with a less satisfactory -_regime_. “I’ll ask master, sir,” was all Arthur Arden could elicit from -Wilkins. Master!--the word made him almost swear. Arthur went out, with -the conditions of surrender in his pocket, and pondered over them like a -general who is victorious yet baffled, and whose army has won the -external but not the moral victory. Of course there could be no real -question as to these conditions; under any circumstances public opinion, -or even his own reluctant sense of what was fit and necessary, would -have bound him to do as much or more. But he was irritated now, and if -he had been able, he would have liked to punish his rival for his -usurpation; while, on the contrary, that rival claimed to march out with -all the honours of war, his reputation unimpeached, his fame spread. It -galled the new Lord of Arden more than it is possible to describe. He -gnawed his moustache and his nails as he pondered, and then his thoughts -took a sudden turn. The subject which had been uppermost in his mind -before this new matter drove everything else out of the question. Come -back--Clare! For the moment she had taken Edgar’s part; but this at -least it was in his power to alter. As much as he had ever loved any -one, he loved Clare; but he was come to his kingdom, and the -intoxication of the triumph bewildered his faculties. He might marry any -one--not any longer a mere heiress, great or small, but anybody--a -duke’s daughter, a lady of the highest pretensions. Arden of Arden was -the equal of the best nobleman in Christendom. So he reasoned from the -heights of his new elevation. For a moment ambition struggled in him -with love: it was in his power now to give Clare back all, and more than -all, that she had lost; and in thus gratifying himself he could inflict -the last wound upon his adversary. In reality, notwithstanding a -thousand shortcomings, he loved her. He thought over all their -intercourse, everything that had passed between them--her last words, to -which as yet he had made no response. And the heart began to beat more -warmly, more quickly in his breast. The end of his musings was that he -took his way down the avenue to the Rectory, with his paper of -conditions in his pocket. Again it must be said for Arthur Arden that in -any case he would have taken this step; but still the alloy of his -nature mingled with all he did. Even in seeking his love, he went with a -vengeful feeling of satisfaction that if he won Clare from him, that -fellow would not have so much to brag of after all. - -Clare was seated in the deep window of the Rectory drawing-room with a -book in her hand; but she was not reading the book. She was gazing -listlessly out, seeing nothing, going over a hundred recollections. Her -life had become far more interesting than any book--too -interesting--full of pain and tragic interest. She sat with her eyes -fixed on the broad expanse of summer sunshine, the distant gleam of the -village street, the Doctor’s house opposite, with its twinkling windows. -Everything was still as peace itself. The old gardener was rolling the -grass with gentle monotony, as if he might go on doing it for ever; Dr. -Somers’ phæton stood at the door awaiting him; old Simon clamped past on -his clogs--all so peaceful as if nothing out of the usual routine could -ever happen; and yet in that very room Edgar had stood by the side of -the old Scotch woman and called her mother! A deep suppressed excitement -and resentment were in Clare’s heart. It was not his fault, but -notwithstanding she could not forgive him for it. When the door opened -she did not turn her head. Most likely it was Edgar, and she did not -wish to see him; or Mr. Fielding, with his grieved, disapproving looks. -Clare was in such a state of mind that even a look of reproof drove her -wild. She could not bear it. Therefore she kept her back turned -persistently, and gave no heed to the opening of the door. - -“Clare!” - -She looked up with a violent start, rising from her seat, and perceived -him standing over her--he whom she had tried to put out of her -calculations, and think of no more. She had been planning a proud -miserable life retired out of sight of all men, specially hidden from -him. She had resolved he should not even know where she was to insult -her with his pity--neither he nor Edgar should know; for Clare was quite -unaware that the discovery which lost her a brother lost her a fortune -too. But now at the moment when she was most miserable, most forlorn, -forming the most dreary plans, here he was! The sight of him took away -her breath, and almost her senses, for the moment. She said, “Is it -you?” faintly, gazing at him with dilated eyes and parched lips, as if -he had been a ghost. The surprise was so great that it threw down all -her defences, and brought her back to simple reality. She was not glad -to see him--these were not the words; but his sudden coming was like -life to the dead. - -And he too was touched by the sight of her utter dejection and solitude. -He dropped down on one knee beside her as she reseated herself, and took -her hand. “My Clare!” he said, “my Clare! why did you fly from me? Is -not my house your house, and my life yours? Is there any one so near to -you as me? Even now I have the only claim upon you; and when you are my -wife----” - -“No such word has ever been spoken between us,” said Clare, making an -effort to resume her old dignity. “Mr. Arden, rise--you forget----” - -“I don’t forget anything,” said Arthur. “There was one between us that -took it upon him to keep me away, that prevented me from seeing you, -prejudiced you against me, and has all but beguiled you away from me. -But, Clare, you see through it now. Are words necessary between you and -me? When I was a beggar I might hesitate to ask you to share my poverty, -but now---- Don’t you know that I would rather have you without Arden -than Arden without you----” - -Let him take everything else, as long as he leaves me you--these had -been the words Arthur Arden had spoken two days ago. They rang in -Clare’s ears as clearly as if he had just pronounced them, and they had -an echo in his own memory. But neither of them referred to that vain -offer now--neither of them said a syllable of Edgar. “If he had not so -shocked me, so repelled me, brought in that woman,” Clare said to -herself in faint self-apology--but not a word did she say aloud. She -laid down her head on Arthur Arden’s shoulder, and wept away the -accumulated excitement and irritation and misery of the past night. She -did not reproach him for his delay or ask a single question. She had -wanted him, oh, so sorely! and he had come at last. - -“It is too great happiness,” said Arthur, when they had sat there all -the bright morning through and made their plans, “that you and I should -spend all our lives together in Arden, Clare. To have you anywhere would -have seemed too much joy a month ago; but you and Arden! which I have -been kept out of, banished from, treated as a stranger in----” - -“Do not think of that now, do not think of that now! Oh, Arthur, if you -love me, be kind to him.” - -“Kind to him! when he had all but succeeded in severing you from me, in -carrying you away, with Heaven knows what intention. But, my Clare,” -said the new Squire Arden, with that paper in his pocket, of which he -did not say a word to her, “for your sake!” - -And Clare believed him, every word--she who was not credulous, nor full -of faith, and who prided herself that she knew the world--her own world, -in which people were moved by comprehensible motives, not visionary -impulses. Clare believed her lover. He would be kind, he would not be -too hard or unmerciful. He would forgive the usurper, the Edgar who was -Mrs. Murray’s son. She stifled every other feeling in that moment of -love and intoxication--if, indeed, at such a time there was room for any -other feeling towards the Edgar who had been the brother of her youth. - -And thus the last link was broken which bound Edgar to his old life. The -moment when his sister and his successor clasped hands was the -conclusion, as it were, of his career. Had Clare clung to him, and -sought to detain him, he might have held on somehow, sadly and -reluctantly, by some shadow of the former existence, trying to do -impossibilities, and to reconcile the adverse elements. Her sudden -decision was a cruel blow to him: it was his final extinction as Edgar -Arden; but at the same time, no doubt, it was a relief. It settled her -in the position which in all the world was the one most suitable for -her, which she herself preferred; and at once and for ever it severed -the bond which was now no better than a fictitious and sentimental tie. -It was best so, he said to himself, even when he felt it most sorely. -They could not have continued together: they were no longer brother and -sister. It was best for both that the severance should be complete. - -And thus it was that Edgar Arden’s life came to an end. Had he died it -could not have finished more completely. His life, his career, his very -name were gone. He existed still, and might for aught he knew continue -to exist for many years, and even make for himself another history, new -hopes, new loves, a renewed career. But here the man who has been the -hero of this story, the only Edgar known to his friends and to -himself--concluded. The change was like Death--a change of condition, -place, being, everything that makes a man. And here the story of Squire -Arden must perforce come to an end. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -POSTSCRIPT. - - -Time flies in the midst of great events; and yet it is long to look back -upon, doubling and redoubling the moments which have been great with -feeling--filling the spectator with wonder that in so short a time a -human creature could live so long or undergo so much. But after a great -crisis of life, time becomes blank, the days are endless as they pass, -and count for nothing when they have gone. Flatly they fall upon the -memory that keeps no record of them--so much blank routine, so many -months; in ordinary parlance, the fallow season, in which brain and -heart have to recover, as the earth has, under her veil of rain and -snow--chill days and weeks without a record; or bright days and weeks -which are almost as blank--for even happiness keeps no daybook--until -the time of exhaustion is over, and life moves again, most often under -the touch of pain. - -The episode of personal history, which we have just concluded, was -fully known to the world only after it was over. Then the county, and -almost the country--for the report of such a “romance of real life” -naturally afforded food for all the newspaper readers in the -kingdom--was electrified by the Arden case. It was rumoured at first -that a great lawsuit was to be brought, with an exciting trial and all -the delightful exposure of family secrets and human meanness which -generally attends a law plea between near relations. Then, Mr. Fazakerly -published a solemn statement of the facts. Then somebody in Arthur -Arden’s interest attempted to prove that Edgar had been in the secret -all along; then this imputation was indignantly contradicted by the -solicitor of Arthur Arden, Esq. of Arden, but left a sting -notwithstanding, and made many people shake their heads, and doubt the -romantic tale of generosity, which they held to be contrary to human -nature. Then the clever newspapers--those which are great in leading -articles--took the matter up, and gave each a little treatise on the -subject; and then the story was suddenly suffered to drop, and was heard -of no more. At least it was not heard of for a month, when it was all -revived by the marriage of Clare Arden to her cousin--a marriage which -rent the county asunder, making two parties for and against. “How she -could ever do it!” and “it was the very best thing she could do.” These -two events had a great effect upon Arden parish and village. They aged -Mr. Fielding, so that he was scarcely ever able for duty again, and had -to devolve almost the whole service on Mr. Denbigh, feebly uttering the -absolution only, or a benediction from the altar. They brought upon Miss -Somers that bad illness which brought her almost to death’s door; and it -is said the poor lady cried so much that she never could see very well -after, and never was seen abroad more. And they utterly crushed the -Pimpernels. Mrs. Pimpernel’s face of horror, when she found that she had -actually turned out from her house the rightful owner of Arden, was a -thing talked of all over the county; and the family never recovered the -shock. They left the Red House that summer, and removed to the other -side of the county, at least twenty miles away, and conveniently close -to a railway station. “After that accident, when my Alice was so nearly -killed, I could not bear it,” Mrs. Pimpernel said, though people -maliciously misunderstood which accident it was. - -And Jeanie, the real victim of the accident, after a long illness, -recovered sufficiently to be taken home. Dr. Somers believed, with -professional pride and a little human sympathy, that he had effected a -cure on Jeanie mentally as well as physically; but whether her gentle -mind was quite restored was, of course, a matter which time alone could -prove. Edgar, who had been absent since the day after he received -intelligence of Clare’s engagement, returned to take his relations home. -But it was not till a month after Clare’s marriage that he reappeared -finally in Arden to say good-bye to all his friends. The bride and -bridegroom had not yet returned, which was a relief to him; and his -company was a great solace and consolation to the feeble Rector, with -whom he lived. “Ah, Edgar, if you would but stay with me and be my son,” -the old man would say wistfully, as he leaned upon his vigorous arm. “I -have no one now whom I can lean upon, who will close my eyes and see me -laid in my grave. Edgar, if it were God’s will, before you go away I -should be glad to be there.” - -“Don’t say so,” said Edgar. “Everybody loves you; and my--I mean Mrs. -Arden--you must not withdraw your love from her.” - -Mr. Fielding shook his head. “She will not want my love,” he said. -“Never could I give up Clare, however I might disapprove of her; but she -will not want me. Nobody wants me; and the last fag-end of work is -dreary, just before the holiday comes; but I am grumbling, Edgar. Only -I’ll be sadly dull when you go, that’s all.” - -“And I cannot stay, you know,” said Edgar, with a sigh. - -“No,” said the old man, echoing it. That was the only thing that was -impossible. He could not stay. The Thornleighs were at Thorne, and Lady -Augusta had written him an anxious, affectionate note, bidding God bless -him, but begging him, by all he held dear, not to show himself to Gussy, -who was ill and nervous, and could not bear any shock. Poor Edgar put -the letter in his pocket and tried to smile. “She might have trusted -me,” he said. He was not to go near Thorne; he could not approach Arden; -but he went to the poor folk in the village, and received many tearful -adieus. Old Miss Somers threw her arms round him and cried. “Oh, Edgar, -my dear, my dear!----” she said, “how shall I ever----; and I who -thought you would be always----, and meant to leave you what little I -have. It is all left to you, Edgar, all the same. Oh, if you would not -go! I daresay now they will never return. Though she is your sister, my -dear, I must say---- If I were Clare I would never more come back to the -Hall----” - -“But I trust she will, and be very happy there, and that you will be all -to her you have ever been,” said Edgar, kissing the wrinkled old hand. - -“Oh, my dear boy! Oh, Edgar, God will reward---- Kiss me, my dear; -though you are a gentleman, I am so old, and ill; it can’t matter, you -know. Kiss me, Edgar! and God bless----; and if ever there was one in -this world that should have a reward----” - -A reward! Edgar smiled mournfully as he went away. The reward he had was -abandonment, banishment, solitude, the love and tears of a few old -people for whom he had done nothing and could do nothing, who loved him -because they had been good to him all his life. As he drove over to the -station in Mr. Fielding’s old gig, with Jack, silent and respectful, by -his side, he passed all the rich woods of Arden, clouds of foliage -almost as rich in colour as were the sunset clouds above them--the woods -which he had once looked at with so much pride and called his own. He -passed the little lodge on the common where he had seen old John lying -dead, and had wondered (he recollected as if it were yesterday) if that -was the end of all life’s struggles and trials? It was not the end; what -a poor joke life would be if it was!--weary days, not few, as the -patriarch complained, but oh, so weary, so endless, so full of pain to -come, as they seemed to the young man--struggles through which the soul -came only half alive. But Edgar felt alive all over as he took farewell -of all the familiar places, and remembered the human creatures, much -more dear, of whom he could not take farewell. Poor, sweet little Gussy, -“ill and nervous”--was it for him? and Clare, who had been silent to him -since her marriage, taking no notice of his existence. He brushed away a -tear from his eyes as he drove on. He was going he knew not where--to -seek his fortune---- But that was no grievance; rather his heart rose to -the necessity with a vigorous impulse, which would have been gay, had it -been less sore. God bless them!--the one who thought of him still, and -the one who had cast him off. They were alike, at least, in this--that -he loved them, and would never see them more. - -Jack had been sent away with a good-bye and a sovereign, and a sob in -his throat which almost choked him; and Edgar was alone. The train was a -little late, and he stood on the platform of the small country station -waiting for it, longing to be gone. He saw without noticing a little -brougham drawn up close to the roadside, so as to enable its occupants -to see the train as it passed. While he waited, he was attracted by the -flutter of a white handkerchief from the window. He went as close as he -could reach, and looked over the paling, wondering, yet not thinking -that this signal could be for him. There was no expectation in his -mind, only a certain sad surprise. Then suddenly Lady Augusta’s face -appeared at the window, full of anxiety and distress; and, in the corner -behind her, a little pale face--a worn little figure. “Good-bye, -Edgar!--dear Edgar, good-bye!” cried a faltering voice. “We could not -let you go without one word. God bless you!” said Lady Augusta, pulling -the check in her hand. The coachman turned his horses before Edgar could -approach a step nearer; and at the same moment the train came up like a -roll of thunder behind---- - -Edgar went back with his heart and his eyes so full that he saw nothing. -He gathered his small possessions together mechanically. His whole being -was moved by the sweetness and the bitterness of this last parting and -blessing. There was an unusual stir and commotion on the platform, but -he took no notice. What was it to him who came or went? She might have -been his bride--that tender creature with her soft voice, which came to -him like a voice from heaven. So faithful, so tender, so sweet! It was -all he could do to keep the tears which blinded him from falling. He -threw his bag into the carriage; he had his foot on the step---- - -What was that cry? Once more, “Edgar! Edgar!” The party arriving had -stopped and broken up. He turned round; through the mist in his eyes he -saw who it was. They were standing at a distance in their bridal finery: -he with a cloud on his face, with his hand upon her arm holding her -back--yet not arbitrarily nor unkindly. And even in Arthur Arden’s face -there was a certain emotion. They stood looking at each other as if -across an ocean or a continent--more than that--a whole world. Then all -at once she rushed to him, and threw her arms round his neck. “O Edgar, -speak to me, speak to me!--forgive me! I am your sister still--your only -sister; don’t go away without a word to me!” - -“God bless you, my dearest sister, my only Clare!” he cried. The tears -rained down on his cheeks. He gave her one convulsive kiss, and put her -into her husband’s arms. - -So all was over! The train rushed on, tearing wildly across the familiar -country. And Edgar fell back in the solitude, the silence, the distance, -parted from everything that was his; but not without a little of that -reward Miss Somers had prayed for--enough of it to keep his heart alive. - -THE END. - - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Squire Arden; volume 3 of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SQUIRE ARDEN; VOLUME 3 OF 3 *** - -***** This file should be named 54186-0.txt or 54186-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/1/8/54186/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Squire Arden; volume 3 of 3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: February 17, 2017 [EBook #54186] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SQUIRE ARDEN; VOLUME 3 OF 3 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="c">SQUIRE ARDEN.</p> - -<p class="c">VOL. III.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="316" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<h1> -SQUIRE ARDEN.</h1> - -<p class="c"> -BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT,<br /> -<br /> -<small>AUTHOR OF<br /> -“CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,”<br /> -“SALEM CHAPEL,” “THE MINISTER’S WIFE,”<br /> -ETC., ETC.</small><br /> -<br /> -IN THREE VOLUMES.<br /> -VOL. III.<br /> -<br /> -LONDON:<br /> -HURST & BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,<br /> -<small>13 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.</small><br /> -1871.<br /> -<br /> -<small><i>The Right of Translation is Reserved.</i><br /> -<br /> -PERTH:<br /> -<span class="smcap">Samuel Cowan & Co., Printers</span>.</small></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<p class="chpp"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I"><span class="smcap">Chapter</span> I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II"> II., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III"> III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"> IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V"> V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"> VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"> VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"> VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX"> IX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X"> X., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI"> XI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII"> XII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII"> XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"> XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV"> XV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI"> XVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII"> XVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII"> XVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX"> XIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX"> XX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI"> XXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII"> XXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII"> XXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV"> XXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV"> XXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI"> XXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII"> XXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII"> XXVIII.,</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX"> XXIX.</a> -</p> - -<h2><a name="SQUIRE_ARDEN" id="SQUIRE_ARDEN"></a>SQUIRE ARDEN.</h2> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">How</span> is Miss Pimpernel?” Arthur asked as he entered the house. He went -in with a great appearance of anxiety and haste, and he repeated his -question to a maid who was just preparing to ascend the stairs. The -footman had given him no answer—a fact which he did not even observe; -and the maid made him a little curtsey, and cast down her eyes, and -looked confused and uncomfortable. “My mistress is coming, sir,” she -said; and Arthur, looking up, saw that Mrs. Pimpernel herself was -advancing to meet him. He saw at the first glance that there was to be -war, and war to the knife, and that conciliation was impossible. “How is -Miss Pimpernel?” he asked, taking the first word. “I was so glad to see -she was able to move at once; but I fear she must have been much shaken, -at least.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Pimpernel came downstairs upon him before she made any answer. She -bore down like a conquering ship or a charge of cavalry. Her face<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2"></a>{2}</span> was -crimson; her eyes bright with anger; her head was agitated by a little -nervous tremble. “Mr. Arden,” she said, rushing, as it were, into the -fray, “I don’t think Miss Pimpernel would have been much the better for -you, whatever had happened. I don’t think from what I have heard, that -your kind service would have been much good to her. To tell the truth, -when I heard some one asking, I never thought it could be you.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Pimpernel fortunately, had no need of my services,” said Arthur -firmly, standing his ground. “I cannot tell you what a relief it was to -me to find her unhurt.”</p> - -<p>“Unhurt, indeed!” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “Who says she is unhurt? A -delicate young creature thrown from a high phæton like that, and all but -trampled under the horses’ feet! And whose fault was it, Mr. Arden? I -hope I shall have patience to speak. Whose <i>fault</i> was it, I say? And -then to find herself deserted by those that ought to have taken care of -her! All for the sake of a designing girl—an artful little cheat and -hussy—a—a——”</p> - -<p>“I am not the girl’s defender,” said Arthur Arden. “She may be all you -say, and it is quite unimportant to me; but I thought she was killed, -and Mr. Pimpernel and my cousin Edgar Arden were with your daughter.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3"></a>{3}</span></p> - -<p>“Ah, Mr. Arden!” said Mrs. Pimpernel, “he is a gentleman—he is a true -gentleman, notwithstanding all the nonsense you have been putting in Mr. -Pimpernel’s head. And I tell you I don’t believe a word of it—not a -word! Mr. Arden is what he always was, and you are a poor, mean, shabby -adventurer, poking into people’s houses, and making yourself agreeable, -and all that. Yes! I’ll make you hear me! that I shall! I tell you you -are no better than a——”</p> - -<p>“Is it necessary that John and Mary should assist at this explanation?” -said Arthur. He smiled, but he was very pale. He said to himself that to -attach any importance to the words of such a woman would be folly -indeed; but yet shame and rage tore him asunder. A lady would not have -condescended to abuse him. She would have treated him with deadly -civility, and given him to understand that his room was wanted for -another guest. But Mrs. Pimpernel had not been trained to habits of -conventional decorum. Her face was red, her head trembled with rage and -excitement. She had suffered a great deal in silence nursing her -wrath—and now there was no longer any need to restrain herself. Now, -Mr. Pimpernel himself was convinced, and Alice was indignant. He had -been making use of them,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4"></a>{4}</span> trifling with them, taking advantage of the -shelter of their house to carry on first one “affair” and then another. -Had it been Clare Arden who had at this last crowning moment led him -away from Alice, the affront would have been bitter, but not so -unpardonable. But a girl out of the village, a nobody, an artful—— -Words forsook Mrs. Pimpernel’s burning lips. She felt herself no longer -able to stand and pour forth her wrath. She made a dash at the door of -Mr. Pimpernel’s library, and sat down, calling the culprit before her, -with a wave of her hand. Arthur went in; but he shut the door, which was -not what she had wanted. A certain moral support was in the fact that -she stood, as it were, in the open centre of her own house, speaking -loud enough to be heard by her husband and daughter above, and by the -servants below stairs. But Mrs. Pimpernel, notwithstanding her courage, -did not feel so comfortable when she found herself shut into the silence -of a separate room, with Arthur Arden, pale and composed, and -overwhelmingly gentlemanly, before her, and not even the presence of -John or Mary to give her strength. It was a strategical mistake.</p> - -<p>“I am glad to say it does not matter to me who hears me,” she said. “Let -those be ashamed that have acted shabby, and shown themselves what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5"></a>{5}</span> they -are. For my part, I couldn’t have believed it. To creep into a house, -and live on the best of everything, and carriages and horses and all at -your command—I should have been ashamed to do it. No man would have -done it that was better than an adventurer—a mean, miserable——”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Pimpernel,” said Arthur, “you have been very civil and friendly, -asking me to your house, and I have done my best to repay it in the way -that was expected. Pray don’t suppose I am ignorant it was an affair of -barter—the best of everything, as you say, and the carriages, &c., on -one side; but on my side a very just equivalent. Let us understand each -other. What am I supposed to have done amiss? Of course, our mutual -accommodation is over, after this scene—but I should be glad to know, -before I accept my dismissal, what I am supposed to have done amiss——”</p> - -<p>“Equivalent! Accommodation! Oh you!—— Without a penny to bless yourself -with—and living on the fat of the land—— Champagne like water, and -everything you could set your face to. And now you brazen it out to me. -Oh you poor creature! Oh you beggarly, penniless——”</p> - -<p>“Pray let us come to particulars,” said Arthur; “these reproaches are -sadly vague. Come, things are not so bad after all. You expected me to -be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6"></a>{6}</span> your attendant, a sort of upper footman, and I have been such. You -expected me to lend the name of an Arden to all your junketings, and I -have done it. You expected me, perhaps—— But I don’t want to bring in -the name of Miss Pimpernel——”</p> - -<p>“No, don’t—if you dare!” cried the mother. “Mention my child, if you -dare. As if she was not, and hadn’t always been, a deal too good for -you. Thirty thousand pounds of her own, and as pretty a girl and as good -a girl—— Oh, don’t you suppose she cares! She would not look at you -out of her window, if there was not another man; she would never bemean -herself, wouldn’t my Alice. You think yourself a great man with the -ladies, but you may find out your mistake. Your cousin won’t see you, -nor look at you—you know that. Oh, you may start! She has seen through -you long ago, has Miss Arden—and if you thought for a moment that my -Alice—— Good gracious!—to think a man should venture to look me in -the face, after leaving my child to be killed, and going after a—— -Don’t speak to me! Yes, I know you. I always saw through you. If it -hadn’t been for Mr. Pimpernel, and that sweet angel upstairs——”</p> - -<p>And here Mrs. Pimpernel paused, and sobbed, and shed tears—giving her -adversary the advantage over her. She was all the more angry that she -felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7"></a>{7}</span> she had wasted her words, and had not transfixed and made an end -of him, as she had hoped—as she had meant to do. To see him standing -there unsubdued, with a smile on his face, was gall and wormwood to her. -She choked with impotent rage and passion. She could have flown at him, -tooth and claw, if she had not put force on herself. Arthur felt the -height of exasperation to which he was driving her, and, perhaps, -enjoyed it; but nothing was to be made by continuing such a struggle.</p> - -<p>“I am sorry to have to take my leave of you in such a way,” he said, in -his most courteous tone. “I shall explain to Mr. Pimpernel how grieved I -am to quit his house so abruptly; but after this unfortunate colloquy, -of course there is no more to be said. It is a pity to speak when one is -so excited—one says more always than one means. Many thanks to you for -a pleasant visit, such as it has been. You have done your best to amuse -me with croquet and that sort of thing. Society, of course, one cannot -always command. My man will bring over my things to—Arden in the course -of the day. I trust that if we meet in the county, as we may perhaps do, -that we shall both be able to forget this little passage of arms. -Good-bye, and many thanks, Mrs. Pimpernel.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Pimpernel gave a little stammering cry of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8"></a>{8}</span> passion and annoyance. -She had never calculated upon her prey escaping so easily. She had not -even meant to dismiss him entirely, but only to subdue him, and bring -him under discipline. After all, he was an Arden, and going to Arden—as -he said—and might procure invitations to Arden, probably, -notwithstanding her affirmation about Clare. But Arthur left her no time -for repentance. He withdrew at once when he had discharged this parting -shot, closing the door after him, and leaving the panting, enraged woman -shut up in that cool and silent place to come to herself as she best -might. He was a little pleased with his victory, and satisfied to think -that he had had the best of it. The maid was still standing outside, -listening near the door, when he opened it suddenly. “Your mistress is a -little put out, Mary,” he said to her, with a smile. “Perhaps it would -be better to leave her to herself for a few minutes. I hope Miss -Pimpernel is not really hurt. Tell her I am grieved to have to go away -without saying good-bye.” And then he stopped to give John directions -about his things, and distributed his few remaining sovereigns among -them with fine liberality. The servants had grinned at his discomfiture -before, but they grinned still more now at the thought of their mistress -weeping with rage in the library, and her visitor escaped from her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9"></a>{9}</span> “He -was always quite the gentleman,” Mary said to John, as he left the -house; and they laid their heads together over the discomfiture that -would follow his departure. Thus Arthur Arden shook the dust of the Red -House from his feet, and went out upon the world again, not knowing -where he was to go.</p> - -<p>And his thoughts were far from cheerful, as he made his way among the -shrubberies, which sometimes had looked to him like prison walls. Poor -Alice and her thirty thousand pounds had always been something to fall -back upon. If Clare did not relent, and would not explain herself, a man -must do something—and though it was letting himself go very cheap, -still thirty thousand pounds was not contemptible. And now that was -over—the hope which after all had been his surest hope—all (once more) -from thinking of other people’s rather than of his own interests. What -was Jeanie to him? She had never given him a kind word or smile. She was -a child—a bloodless being—out of whom it was impossible to get even a -little amusement. Yet for her sake here was thirty thousand pounds lost -to him. And probably she would go and die, now that she had done him as -much harm as possible, leaving it altogether out of his power to do her -any harm, or compensate himself in the smallest degree. And in the -meantime where was he to go? Arthur’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10"></a>{10}</span> funds were at a very low ebb. All -this time which he had been wasting in the country he had been out of -the way of putting a penny in his pocket; and for the moment he did not -know what he was to do? He had said he was going to Arden, partly to -impose on Mrs. Pimpernel, partly with a sudden sense that to throw -himself upon Edgar’s hospitality was about the best thing on the cards -for him. Might he venture to go there at once, and risk welcome or -rejection? At the very worst they could not refuse to take him in till -Monday. But then it would be better to secure himself for longer than -Monday—and Clare was very uncompromising, and Edgar firm, -notwithstanding his good nature. Altogether the position was difficult. -He had been making great way with the Pimpernels since Clare had shut -her doors upon him. There had been nothing to disturb him, nothing to -divide his allegiance, and therefore he had been utterly unprepared for -this sudden derangement of plans. The Pimpernels, too, were utterly -unprepared. His hostess had meant to “set him down,” as she said, “to -show him his proper place,” to “bring him to his senses,” but she had -never intended the matter to be concluded so promptly. The discomfiture -on both sides was equally great. He took a little pleasure in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11"></a>{11}</span> -thought of this, but yet it did not enlighten him as to where he was to -go.</p> - -<p>The conclusion of the matter was that for that night he went to the -Arden Arms. Edgar had disappeared when he returned to the village, and -all was quiet and silent. Arthur met Dr. Somers going down to the -cottage in which Jeanie still was. The Doctor shook his head, but would -not say much. “She is young, and she may pull through, if the place is -kept quiet,” was all the information he would give. But he asked Arthur -to dinner, which was a momentary relief to him, and Arthur recounted to -him, with many amusing details, the history of his dismissal by the -Pimpernels. The Doctor chuckled, partly because it was a good story, and -made the Pimpernels ridiculous, and partly because Arthur Arden, though -he put the best possible face upon it, must have been himself -discomfited. “Serve him right,” the Doctor said within himself; but he -asked him to dinner, and saved him from the horrors of a chop at the -Arden Arms and a solitary evening in its little sanded parlour, which -was a work of true benevolence—for Dr. Somers’ dinner and his claret -would have been worthy of notice anywhere—much more when contrasted -with the greasy attractions of a chop at the Arden Arms.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12"></a>{12}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">While</span> Arthur went to the Red House, Edgar had been exerting himself to -still all the roads and deaden every sound about Sally Timms’ cottage. -Sally’s boys considered the operation as a personal compliment. They -tumbled in the straw, and threw it about, and buried each other with -cries of delight which had to be suppressed in the most forcible and -emphatic way—until at last Edgar, driven to interfere, had to order the -removal of Johnny and Tommy. “They can go to the West Lodge for the -night,” he said, with a hospitable liberality, at which the West Lodge -keeper, who was helping in the work, groaned aloud. Sally herself, -however, was very indignant at this exercise of despotic authority. She -rushed to the front, and demanded to know why her cottage should be -taken possession of, and the children carried off for the benefit of a -stranger. “A lass as nobody knows, nor don’t care to know,” said Sally, -“as has a deal too many gentlefolks alooking after her to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13"></a>{13}</span> an honest -lass.” “Take her away too,” said Edgar with benevolent tyranny. And -Sally, with a scream of despair, snatched the old petticoat which -stuffed her broken window, and fled from the bystanders, who did not -attempt to carry out the Squire’s command. “I’ll go and I’ll see what -Miss Clare says to it,” she cried. Edgar was a great deal too busy to -pay any attention. He saw the work completed, and urged the necessity of -care upon John Hesketh and his wife without considering that even they -were but partial sympathisers. “I don’t hold with no such a fuss,” the -women were saying among themselves. “If it had been the mother of a -family she’d have had to take her chance; but a bit of a wench with a -pretty face——” Thus he got no credit for his exertions, -notwithstanding the injunctions of Dr. Somers. If Jeanie had been -altogether unfriended, the village people would have shown her all -manner of care and sympathy; but the Squire’s kindness put an end to -theirs. They sympathised with Sally in her banishment. “You’ll see as -Miss Clare won’t like it a bit,” cried one. “I don’t think nothing of -Sally, but she has a right to her own place.” “She’ll be well paid for -it all,” said another. Sally, and the fuss that was being made, and Miss -Clare’s supposed sentiments bulked much more largely with the villagers -than the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14"></a>{14}</span> thought that Jeanie lay between life and death, although many -of them liked Jeanie, and had grown used to see her, so small and so -fair, wandering about the street. Only old Sarah stood with her apron to -her eyes. “I’m as fond of her as if she was my own. She’s the sweetest, -patientest, good-temperedest lamb—none of you wenches can hold a candle -to her,” sobbed the old woman. “She stitches beautiful, though I’m not -one as holds with your pretty faces,” said Sally, the sexton’s daughter; -but these were the only voices raised in poor Jeanie’s favour throughout -the village crowd.</p> - -<p>Edgar lingered last of all at the cottage door. John Hesketh’s wife, -partly moved by pity for the grandmother left thus alone, partly by -curiosity to investigate the amount of dirt and discomfort in Sally -Timms’ cottage—had taken her place in the outer room, to remain with -Mrs. Murray until Sally returned or some other assistant came. And Edgar -lingered to hear the last news of the patient before going away. The -twilight by this time was falling, faint little stars were appearing in -the sky, the dew and the peacefulness of approaching night were in the -atmosphere. While he stood waiting at the door, Mrs. Murray herself came -out upon him all at once. She had an air of suppressed excitement about -her which struck him strangely—not so much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15"></a>{15}</span> anxiety, as agitation, -highly excited feeling. He put out his hand to her as she approached, -feeling, he could not tell how, that she wanted his aid and consolation. -She took his hand between both hers, and held it tight and pressed it -close; and then surely the strangest words came from her lips that were -ever spoken in such circumstances. “He carried her here in his arms—he -left the other to save her. You’ll no forget it to him—you’ll no forget -it to him. That is the charge I lay on you.”</p> - -<p>Edgar half drew away his hand in his surprise; but she held it fast, not -seeming even to feel his attempt at withdrawal. “What do you mean?” he -said. “I came to ask for Jeanie. Is it of Arthur Arden you are -speaking—my cousin? But it is about Jeanie I want to know.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, your cousin,” she said anxiously. “It’s strange that I never kent -you had a cousin. Nobody ever told me that—— But mind, mind what I -say. Whatever happens, you’ll no forget this. He carried her here in his -arms. He forgot all the rest, all the rest. And you’ll no forget it to -him. That’s my injunction upon you, whatever anybody may say.”</p> - -<p>“This is very strange,” Edgar said, in spite of himself. Who was she, -that she should lay injunctions<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16"></a>{16}</span> upon him—should bid him do this or -that? And then he thought to himself that her head too must be a little -turned. So startling an event probably had confused her, as Jeanie had -been confused by a sudden shock. He looked at her very sympathetically, -and pressed the hands that held his. “Tell me first how Jeanie is—poor -little Jeanie; that is by far the most important now.”</p> - -<p>“It’s no the most important,” said the old woman almost obstinately. “I -ken both sides, and you ken but little—very, very little. But whatever -you do or say, you’ll no forget him for this—promise me that you’ll -never forget.”</p> - -<p>“That is easy enough to promise,” said Edgar; “but he was to blame, for -it was he who put her in the carriage. I think he was to blame. And what -am I to reward him for?—for carrying the poor child home?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, for carrying her home,” said Mrs. Murray, “in his arms, when the -other was waiting that was more to him than Jeanie. You’ll no please me, -nor do your duty, if you do not mind this good deed. They say he’s no a -good man; but the poor have many a temptation that never comes near the -rich; and if he had been in your place at Arden and you in his—or -even——”</p> - -<p>“My dear, kind woman,” said Edgar, trying with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17"></a>{17}</span> a pressure of her hands -to recall her to herself, “don’t trouble yourself about Arthur or me. -You are excited with all that has happened. Think of Jeanie. Don’t take -any trouble about us——”</p> - -<p>“Eh, if I could help troubling!” she said, loosing her hands from his. -And then the look of excitement slowly faded out of her face. “I am -bidding you bear my burdens,” she said, with a deep sigh; “as if the -innocent could bear the load of the guilty, or make amends—— You must -not mind what I say. I’ve been a solitary woman, and whiles I put things -into words that are meant for nobody’s ear. You were asking about -Jeanie. She is real ill—in a kind of faint—but if she is kept quiet, -the doctor says she may come round. I think she will come round, for my -part. She is delicate, but there is <i>life</i> in her: me and mine have all -so much life.” When she said these words Mrs. Murray fixed her eyes upon -Edgar keenly and surveyed him, as if trying to fathom his constitution -and powers. “I cannot tell for you,” she said, with a sudden pause. He -smiled, but he was grieved, thinking sadly that her brain was affected, -as Jeanie’s had been. What was to become of the hapless pair if the -mother’s brain was gone as well as the child’s. The thought filled him -with infinite pity, so great as almost to bring tears to his eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18"></a>{18}</span></p> - -<p>“You must try and compose yourself,” he said. “I will send Perfitt to -see that you have everything you want, and perhaps when she is a little -better she may be removed to your own rooms. This is not a comfortable -cottage, I fear. But you must compose yourself, and not allow yourself -to be worried one way or another. You may be quite sure I will stand by -you, and take care of you as much as I can—you who have been so kind to -everybody, so good——”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, no, no good!” she cried, “not good. I think night and day, but I -cannot see what to do; and when a wronged man heaps coals of fire on -your head—— Oh, you’re kind, kind; and I’m no ungrateful, though I may -look it. And it is not excitement, as you say, that makes me speak. -There’s many a thing of which a young lad like you is ignorant. You’ll -mind this to his credit if ever you can do him a good turn——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” said Edgar impatiently; and then he added, “Think of Jeanie. -Arthur Arden is very well qualified to take care of himself.”</p> - -<p>And so he turned away, chafed and disquieted. Arthur Arden had been the -cause of his leaving home, and here as soon as he returned Arthur Arden -again was in his way, and a trouble to him. He walked through the -village street very uneasy about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19"></a>{19}</span> poor Mrs. Murray, and Jeanie, who -would be in her sole charge. If the grandmother’s mind was unsettled, -how could she look after the child, and what would become of two -creatures so helpless in a strange place? No doubt it must be in the -family, as people say. Jeanie’s monomania was about her brother, and -Mrs. Murray’s was about Arthur Arden. What had he to do with Arthur -Arden? He was not his brother’s keeper, that he should step in and make -of himself a providence for Arthur’s benefit. Altogether it was odd and -disagreeable and discomposing. As his mind was thus occupied he walked -along the village street, pre-occupied and absorbed. When he had nearly -reached the Arden Arms he met Dr. Somers, and immediately seized the -opportunity to make inquiries. The Doctor held up his hand as if warding -him off.</p> - -<p>“Not a word, Mr. Edgar, not another word. I have said if she’s kept -quiet and not excited she’ll do. I don’t like fuss any more than the -villagers. You don’t put straw down when a comfortable matron adds to -the number of society, and why should you for this girl? You are all mad -about Jeanie. She is a pretty girl, I allow; but there is as pretty to -be seen elsewhere. You should hear your cousin on that subject. He and -his misfortunes are as good as a play.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20"></a>{20}</span></p> - -<p>“What are his misfortunes?” said Edgar, and in spite of himself a -certain coldness crept into his voice.</p> - -<p>“You don’t like him?” said Dr. Somers; “neither do I. I hate a man who -lives on his wits. Generally neither the wits nor the man are worth -much. But as I say, this time Arthur Arden’s as good as a play. He has -been turned out of the Red House—the Pimpernels will have no more of -him. It is a capital story. He has been sponging upon them for a month -(this, of course, is between ourselves), and I daresay they were very -glad to get rid of him. You never can tell when such a visitor may go -away.”</p> - -<p>“I thought the Pimpernels liked it,” said Edgar; but did not care to -enter into any discussion about his cousin; and he walked on in silence -for some seconds by the Doctor’s side, meaning thus to express his -desire to be quit of the subject. He had, on the whole, had quite too -much of Arthur Arden. He felt with the Pimpernels that to be quit of him -would be a relief.</p> - -<p>“Where are you going?” said the Doctor. “It is getting late. Come with -me and dine. I have just asked Arden. He is houseless and homeless, you -know; and I know what it is to be condemned to the hospitalities of the -Arden Arms——”</p> - -<p>“Is he at the Arden Arms?” said Edgar. “I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21"></a>{21}</span> suppose only for to-night. He -must have plenty of houses to go to—a man who is so well known in the -world. Thanks, Doctor; but Clare must have been expecting me for some -time. I must go home.”</p> - -<p>“Clare has not been very well,” said the Doctor. “I am glad you have -come back. If there ever had been such a thing as brain disease among -the Ardens I should have been frightened. Fielding gave me a hint, and I -went to see her. The girl has something on her mind. I don’t know if it -is about Arthur Arden——”</p> - -<p>“Confound Arthur Arden!” said Edgar. “What do you suppose he could have -to do with my sister Clare?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing; nothing, of course,” said the Doctor, “except that they -were great friends, and now they are friends no longer. And she has not -looked well since; there is a look of anxiety and trouble about her. My -dear fellow, you and I may not think much of Arthur Arden, but with -women he could cut us both out. Some men have that way. There is no -genuine feeling about them, and yet they get far before the best. His -father was the same sort of fellow; he was my contemporary, and it used -to set me on edge to see him. My poor sister, Letty, to this day -imagines that he was fond of her. Your cousin is not a man to be -despised.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22"></a>{22}</span></p> - -<p>“Doctor, I don’t doubt you are very wise and very right,” said Edgar; -“but you forget you are speaking of Clare. Tell Miss Somers I am coming -to see her to-morrow after church. And, Doctor, I think it would be -worth your while to examine the old woman, Jeanie’s grandmother. I don’t -think she is quite right. She was speaking wildly. I did not know what -to make of her. And if you consider what a helpless pair they would be! -What could they do? especially if they were both ill in that way——”</p> - -<p>“In what way?—concussion of the brain?” said the Doctor. “Is it Mrs. -Murray’s brain you are anxious for? My dear boy, you may dismiss your -fears. That woman has life enough for half-a-dozen of us cold-blooded -people. Her brain is as sound as yours and mine. But it is a very -anxious case, and it may well disturb her. Perhaps the accident may be -good for the child if she mends. Everything is so mysterious about the -brain. Won’t you reconsider the matter, and come? I don’t want to say -too much for my dinner; but it is not bad—not bad, you know—a little -better than usual, I think. No? Well, I think it would do you more real -good than a long walk in the dark; but, of course, you must have your -own way.”</p> - -<p>And thus they parted at the great gates. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23"></a>{23}</span> avenue was very dark, and -Edgar was not in brilliant spirits. He seemed to himself to be entering -a moral as well as a physical obscurity, confused by many mysterious -shadows, as he took the way to his own door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24"></a>{24}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> dogcart reached home with news of Edgar’s approach before he himself -arrived. It passed him in the avenue, and so did Sally Timms, who had -rushed to the Hall to carry the news of Jeanie’s accident, and to make -an appeal on her own account to Clare. Thus his sister had been made -acquainted with the cause of his detention—which was a relief to him: -for he was fatigued with his recent exertions. He stopped Sally, and -recommended her guest to her best care, and gave her a sovereign; and -then he went on tired to his own house. His own house! The words were -pleasant. The woods rustled darkly about him, concealing everything but -the Hall itself, with lights glimmering in its windows; but the sense of -secure proprietorship and undisturbed possession was sweet. The sight of -Arden brought back the thought of Gussy Thornleigh and of all the new -combinations and arrangements that might be coming, which did not excite -him, perhaps, so much as they ought to have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25"></a>{25}</span> done, but yet were sweet, -and had a soft thrill of pleasure in them. She would be a most genial, -gracious little mistress of the house. True, the thought of dethroning -Clare was a great trouble to him, an immense obstacle in the way; but -probably Clare would marry too, or something would happen. And in the -meantime Gussy’s image was very pleasant, mingling with that of his -sister, giving him a sense of a double welcome, a double interest in his -movements. To be loved was very sweet to Edgar. The warm domestic -affection, the sense of home enclosing all that was dear, filled his -heart with something more tender, almost more delicate than passion. He -would never be overpoweringly in love, perhaps; but was that necessary -to the happiness of life? With so much as he had he felt that he should -be content.</p> - -<p>Clare did not come down stairs to meet him, as he expected, which gave -him a little chill and check in the warmth of his affectionate pleasure. -He had to go up by himself, somewhat startled by the quietness of the -house; feeling as if there was nobody in it, or at least nobody to whom -his return was an event. And then he bethought himself of what Dr. -Somers had said of Clare. He had been so angry about the allusion to -Arthur Arden that the report of the state of his sister’s health had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26"></a>{26}</span> -escaped his attention. When he thought of this he ran hastily up stairs -and made his way to the favourite sitting-room, where she had always -received him. But there was nobody there. Clare was in the big -ceremonious drawing-room—the place for strangers, with many lights, and -the formal air of a room which was not much used. He rushed forward as -she rose from the sofa at his entrance. He was about to take her into -his arms, but she held out her hand. Her cheeks were flushed, her brow -cloudy; she did not meet his eye, but averted her face from him in the -strangest way. “You are come at last! I had almost given up thoughts of -you,” she said, and sat down again on her sofa, constrained and -cold;—cold, though her hand was burning and her cheek flushed crimson. -Could it be possible that she was merely angry at his delay?</p> - -<p>“I am late, I know,” he said, “but I will tell you why—or, I suppose, -you have heard why, as I met Sally Timms coming down the avenue. But, -Clare, are you ill? What is the matter? Are you not glad to see me? I -lost no more time than I could help in obeying your summons, and this -little detention to-night is not my fault.”</p> - -<p>“I have not blamed you,” said Clare. “Thanks—I am quite well. It is -rather late, however, and I fear your dinner—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27"></a>{27}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, never mind my dinner,” said Edgar, “if that is all. I am delighted -to get back to you, though you don’t look glad to see me. I met Somers -in the village, and he told me you had been ill. You must have been -worrying yourself while you have been alone. You must not stay here -alone again. I begin to think it is bad for everybody. My dear Clare, -you change colour every moment. Have I frightened you? I am so -grieved—so sorry;” and he stooped over her, and took her hand in his -and kissed her cheek. Clare trembled, body and soul. She could not -shrink from him—she could not respond to him. She wanted to break -away—to shut herself up, never to see him more; and yet she wanted to -lay her head down upon his shoulder, and cry, “Oh, my brother! my -brother!” What was she to do? The end was that, torn by these different -impulses, she remained quite motionless and unresponsive, giving to -Edgar an impression of utter coldness and repulsion, which he struggled -vainly against. He looked at her for a moment with unfeigned wonder. -Then he let her hands drop. He had seen her out of temper, and he had -seen her sorrowful; but this was more than either, and he could not tell -what it meant.</p> - -<p>“I have worried you by being so late,” he said quietly; “I am very -sorry, Clare. I did not think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28"></a>{28}</span> you would be anxious. But to-morrow I -hope you will be all right. Must I go and dine? I am not hungry; but -surely you will come too?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I will come, if you want me,” said Clare, faintly, and Edgar -walked away to his dressing-room with the strangest sense of desertion. -What had he done to separate his sister from him? It was obviously -something he had done; not any accidental cloud on her part, but -something he was guilty of. Poor Edgar put himself in order for dinner -with a feeling that the weather had grown suddenly cold, and he had -arrived, not in his own but in a strange house. When he went down Clare -was in the dining-room, already seated at the opposite end of the great -dining-table. “Where is our little round table that we used to have,” he -asked, with distress that was almost comical. “You forget that we had -been having visitors when you went away,” said Clare. Was she angry -still that he had gone away? Was it the dismissal of the visitors which -had made her angry? Was it—Arthur Arden? Edgar was too much distressed -and amazed to speak. He told her the story of the accident, feeling as -if it was necessary to raise his voice to reach her where she sat -half-a-mile off, with her face now pale and fixed into a blank absence -of expression, as if she were determined to give<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29"></a>{29}</span> no clue to her -meaning. But even this history which seemed to him a perfectly innocent -and impersonal matter, having nothing to do with themselves, and -therefore a safe subject for talk, was received with a certain chill of -incredulity which drove poor Edgar wild. Did they not believe him? He -said “they” in his mind, because even Wilkins had put on an air -incredulous and disapproving, as he stood behind Clare’s chair. Finally -Edgar grew half amused by dint of amazement and discomfiture. The -oddness of this curious tacit disapproval struck him, in spite of -himself. He felt tempted to get up and make them a serio-comic speech. -“What have I done that you are both sitting upon me?” he felt disposed -to say; but after all the atmosphere was terribly chilly and -discouraging, and even a laugh was not to be obtained.</p> - -<p>After the servants had retired it was worse than ever. Clare sat in the -distance and made her little set speeches, with an attempt at -indifferent conversation. And when he got up and brought his chair and -his glass of claret close to her, she shrank a little, insensibly. Then -for the first time he perceived a sealed packet which lay beside her on -the table. This is the cause of my offending, Edgar said to himself. -Some nonsense verses or letters about my youthful pranks. But these -youthful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30"></a>{30}</span> pranks of his had not been at all serious, and he was not much -afraid. He smiled to himself, to see how his prevision was verified when -she rose from the table.</p> - -<p>“I am very tired,” said Clare. “I don’t know why I should be so stupid -to-night. Here are some papers which I found in the bureau—in the -library. I have not opened them as you will see. I read one sentence -through a tear in the envelope—— and I thought—it appeared to me—— -I imagined—that you ought to see them. I think I shall go to bed now. -Perhaps you will take them and—examine them—when you feel disposed. I -am so stupid to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Surely I will examine them—or anything else you like me to do,” said -Edgar. “My sister ought to know I would do anything to please her. Must -it be done to-night? for do you know I am unhappy to see you look so -strangely at me—and a little tired too.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, not to-night, unless you wish—when you think proper. They have -never been out of my hands,” said Clare, with growing seriousness. “I -should like you, please, till you look at them, to keep them very safe.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly,” he said, with the promptest goodwill, and put the parcel -into his breast pocket,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31"></a>{31}</span> which was scarcely large enough to contain it, -and bulged out. “It does not look very graceful, does it?” he said with -a smile as he lighted her candle for her, and then looked wistfully into -her eyes. “I hope you will be better, dear, to-morrow,” he said -tenderly. “I am so sorry to have annoyed you to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Not annoyed me,” Clare said, choking, and made a few steps across the -threshold. Then she came back quickly, almost running to him, where he -stood holding the door in his hand looking wistfully after her. “Oh -Edgar, forgive me. I can’t help it!” she moaned; and held up a pale -cheek to him, and turned and fled.</p> - -<p>Edgar sat down again by the table, very much puzzled indeed. What did -she mean? what could be the matter with her? Poor Clare? Could it be -this Arthur Arden, this light o’ love—this man who was attractive to -women, as Dr. Somers said? Edgar’s pride in his sister and his sense of -delicacy revolted at the idea. And then it occurred to him that the -packet she had given him might contain Arden’s letters, and that Clare -was struggling with her feelings and endeavouring to cast him off. He -took the packet out of his pocket, and opened the envelope. But when he -found the original enclosure inside, old and brown, and scorched, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32"></a>{32}</span> -yellow letters showing through the worn cover, this idea faded from -Edgar’s mind. He put them back into the outer cover with a sigh of -relief. Of course, had Clare exacted it, he said to himself, he would -have read them at once; but they were old things which could not be -urgent—could not be of much weight one way or another. And he was -anxious and tired, and not in a state of mind to be bothered with old -letters. Poor Clare! She had been a little unkind to him; but then she -had made that touching little apology which atoned for everything. To -console himself, Edgar got up, and, lighting a cigar, strolled out upon -the terrace; for as most men know, there is not only consolation, but -counsel in tobacco. Clare’s window was on that side of the house, and he -watched the light in it with a grieved and tender sympathy. Yes, poor -Clare! She had no mother to tell her troubles to, no sister to share her -life. Her lot (he thought) was a hard one, notwithstanding all her -advantages. Her father had been her only companion, and he was gone, and -his memory, instead of uniting his two orphan children together, hung -like a cloud between them. Perhaps there might even now be memories -belonging to the old Squire’s time which troubled Clare, and which she -could not confide to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33"></a>{33}</span> her brother. His heart melted over her as he -mused. Would Gussy, he wondered, take a sister’s place, and beguile -Clare out of herself? And then he thought he would talk the matter over -with Lady Augusta, and ask her motherly advice. As this crossed his -mind, he realised more than ever how pleasant it would be to have such -people belonging to him. He who had been cast out of his family, and had -in reality nothing but the merely natural bond, the tie of blood between -himself and his only sister, felt—much more than a man could who had -been trained in the ordinary way—how pleasant it would be to be adopted -by real choice and affection into a family. Perhaps it seemed to him -more pleasant in imagination and prospect than it ever could be in -reality—perhaps Gussy’s brothers, who were prone to get into scrapes, -might, indeed, turn out rather a bore than otherwise. But he had no -thought of such considerations now. And, when he went to his room, he -locked up carefully out of the way of harm Clare’s papers. To-morrow, -perhaps, when his mind was more fresh, he would look them over to please -her, or, if not to-morrow, some day soon. He was quite tranquil about -them, while she was so anxious. His sister’s good-night had soothed him, -and so, to tell the truth, had his cigar. He had a peaceful,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34"></a>{34}</span> lovely -Sunday before him, and then the arrival of the Thornleighs, and then—— -Thus it was, with a mind much tranquillised, and the feeling of home -once more strong upon him, that Edgar went to rest in his own house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35"></a>{35}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Next</span> morning was a calm bright summer Sunday, one of those days which -are real Sabbaths—moments of rest. It was like the “sweet day, so cool, -so calm, so bright,” of George Herbert’s tender fancy. Nothing that -jarred or was discordant was audible in the soft air. The voices -outside, the passing steps, were as harmonious as the birds and the bees -that murmured all about—everything that was harsh had died out of the -world. There was nothing in this Sunday but universal quiet and calm.</p> - -<p>Except in Clare Arden’s face and voice. She came down stairs before her -brother, long before him, as if she had been unable to sleep. Her brow -was drawn in and contracted as if by some pressing uncertainty and -suspense. Her voice had a broken tone in it, a tone like a strained -string. With a restlessness which it was impossible to conceal, she -waited for Edgar’s appearance, gliding back and forward from the library -to the dining-room where<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36"></a>{36}</span> breakfast was laid. The round table had been -placed for them in the window not by Clare’s care, but by Wilkins; a -great vase of late roses—red and white—stood in the centre. The roses -were all but over, for it was the second Sunday in July; but still the -lawns and rosebeds of Arden produced enough for this. How strange she -thought that he should be so late. Was it out of mere wantonness? Was it -because he had been sitting up late over the enclosures she had given -him; was it that he feared to meet her after—— She suggested all these -reasons to herself, but they did not still her restlessness nor bring -Edgar down a moment earlier. She could not control her excitement. How -was she to meet him for the first time after this discovery, if it was a -discovery? How would he look at her after such a revelation? And yet -Clare did not know what manner of revelation it was; or it might be no -revelation at all. It might be her fancy only which had put meaning into -the words she had seen. They might refer to something entirely -indifferent to her brother and herself. Clare said so in her own mind, -but she could not bring herself to believe it. The thought had seized -upon her with crushing bewildering force. It had left her no time to -think. She did not quite know what she fancied, but it was something -that would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37"></a>{37}</span> shake her life and his life to their foundations, and change -everything in heaven and earth.</p> - -<p>Edgar came down at his usual hour, bright and light-hearted, as his -nature was. He went up to the breakfast table with its vase of roses, -and bent his face down over it. “How pleasant Sunday is,” he said, “and -how pleasant it is to be at home! I hope you are better this morning, -Clare. Could any one help being better in this sweet air and this lovely -place? I never thought Arden was half so beautiful. Fancy, there are -people in town just now wasting their lives away! I am sure you are -better, Clare——”</p> - -<p>“I—think so,” she said, looking at him anxiously. Had he read them? Had -he not read them? That was the question. Her whole soul was bent upon -that and that alone.</p> - -<p>“You are not looking well,” he said, with tender anxiety. “What have you -been doing to yourself? I would say I hoped you had missed me; but you -don’t look so very glad to see me now—not nearly so glad as I am to see -you. If you had come with me to town it might have done you good. And I -am sure it would have done me good. It is dreary work living alone—in -London above all——”</p> - -<p>“Not for a man,” said Clare. Her voice was still constrained; but she -made a desperate effort, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38"></a>{38}</span> put away from her as much as she could her -disinclination for talk. How unlike he was to other men—how strange -that he should not take pleasure in things that everybody else took -pleasure in; dreary work living alone, for a young man of his position, -in London—how ridiculous it was!</p> - -<p>“Well, I assure you I found it so,” said Edgar; “if you had been with -me, I should have enjoyed it. As it was, I was only amused. The -Thornleighs are coming back to-morrow. I saw a great deal of them—more -than before they went to town——”</p> - -<p>Here he paused, and a warmer colour, a certain air of pleasure and -content diffused itself over his face. A thrill of pain and apprehension -ran through Clare. The Thornleighs!—were they to be brought into the -matter too? She half rose from the seat she had taken at the table. -“Have you read those letters?” she asked, in a hasty, half-whispering, -yet almost stern voice.</p> - -<p>“What letters? Oh, those you gave me last night! No, not yet. Do you -wish me to do it at once? You said it did not matter, I think; or, at -least, I understood there was no haste.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no haste!” said Clare, with a certain sense of desperation stealing -over her; and then she took courage. “I don’t mean that; they have -troubled me very much. The sooner you read them, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39"></a>{39}</span> sooner I shall be -relieved, if I am to be relieved. If it would not trouble you too much -to go over them to-night?”</p> - -<p>“My dear Clare, of course I will read them directly if you wish it,” -said Edgar, half-provoked. “You have but to say so. Of course, nothing -troubles me that you wish. I sent down to ask after poor little Jeanie -this morning,” he added, after a pause, falling into his usual tone; -“and the doctor says she has had a tolerably good night. I must go and -see Miss Somers after church. She will have learned all about it by this -time, and that story about Arthur Arden and the Pimpernels. Miss -Pimpernel, I told you, was thrown out of the carriage as well as -Jeanie——”</p> - -<p>“I think you told me,” said Clare faintly. “I know so little about Miss -Pimpernel; and I do not like that other girl. It may be prejudice, but I -don’t like her. I wish you would not talk of her to me.”</p> - -<p>Edgar looked up at his sister with grave wonder—“As you please,” he -said seriously, but his cheek flushed, half with anger, half with -disappointment. What could have happened to Clare? She was not like -herself. She scarcely looked at him even when she spoke. She was -constrained and cold as if he were the merest stranger. She had again -avoided<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40"></a>{40}</span> his kiss, and never addressed him by his name. What could it -mean? Scarcely anything more was said at breakfast. Clare could not open -her lips, and Edgar was annoyed, and did not. It seemed so very -mysterious to him. He was indeed as nearly angry as it was in his nature -to be. It seemed to him a mere freak of temper—an ebullition of pride. -And he was so entirely innocent in respect to Jeanie! The child herself -was so innocent. Poor little Jeanie!—he thought of her with additional -tenderness as he looked at his sister’s unsympathetic face.</p> - -<p>“I suppose we may walk together to church as usual,” he said. It was the -only remark that had broken the silence for nearly half an hour.</p> - -<p>“If you have no objection”—said Clare formally, with something of that -aggravating submission which wives sometimes show to their husbands, -driving them frantic, “I think I shall drive—but not if you object to -the horses being taken out.”</p> - -<p>“Why should I object?” he said, restraining himself with an effort, -“except that I am very sorry not to have your company, Clare.”</p> - -<p>Then she wavered once more, feeling the empire of old affection steal -over her. But he had turned away to the window, grieved and impatient. -It was like a conjugal quarrel, not like the frank differences between -brother and sister. And this was not how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41"></a>{41}</span> Clare’s temper had ever shown -itself before. Edgar left the table, with a sense of pain and -disappointment which it was very hard to bear. Why was it? What had he -done? His heart was so open to her, he was so full of confidence in her, -and admiration for her, that the check he had thus received was doubly -hard. His sister had always been to him the first among women. Gussy of -course was different—but Gussy had never taken the same place in his -respect and admiring enthusiasm. Clare had been to him, barring a few -faults which were but as specks on an angel’s wing, the first of created -things; and it hurt him that she should thus turn from him, and expel -him, as it were, from her sympathies. He stood uncertain at the window, -not knowing whether he should make another attempt to win her back; but -when he turned round he found, to his astonishment, that she was gone. -How strange—how very strange it was. As she had abandoned him, he saw -no advantage in waiting. He could go and ask for Jeanie, and see how -things were going on, at least, if he was not required here. He gave -Wilkins orders about the carriage with a sigh. “My sister proposes to -drive,” he said; and as he said it he looked out upon the lovely summer -Sunday morning, and the wonder of it struck him more than ever. She had -liked to walk with him down<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42"></a>{42}</span> the leafy avenue, under the protecting -shadows, when he came home first, and now she changed her habits to -avoid him. What could it mean? Could this, too, be Arthur Arden’s fault?</p> - -<p>Thus it was that Edgar left the house so early, ill at ease. His sister -thought that probably the effect of her constraint and withdrawal of -sympathy would be that, tracing her changed demeanour to its right -cause, he would hasten to read the packet she had given him. But Edgar -never thought of the packet. It did not occur to him that a parcel of -old letters could have anything to do with this most present and painful -estrangement. While he went out, poor fellow, with his heart full of -pain, Clare looked at him from the window with anger and astonishment. -What did he care? Perhaps he had known it all along—perhaps he was a -conscious—— But no, no. Not till the last moment—not till evidence was -before her which she could not resist—would she believe that. So the -carriage came round, and she was driven to church in solitary -state—sometimes excusing, sometimes condemning herself. It was a thing -which happened so rarely that the village folks were in a state of -commotion. Miss Arden was ill, they thought—nothing else could explain -it; and so thought the kind old Rector and even Dr. Somers, who knew, or -thought he knew,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43"></a>{43}</span> better than any of the others. As for Arthur Arden, -who had gone to church with the hope of being invited by Edgar to -accompany him home, he was in despair.</p> - -<p>Edgar, for his part, walked down very gloomily through the village to -ask for Jeanie, and had his news confirmed that she had spent a -tolerably good night. “But in a dead faint all the time,” said Mrs. -Hesketh, who had taken the place of nurse. “She breathes, poor dear, and -her heart it do beat. But she don’t know none of us, nor open her eyes. -It’s awful to see one as is living, and yet dead. T’ou’d dame, she never -leaves her, not since she was a-talking to you, sir, last night.”</p> - -<p>“Could I see her now?” said Edgar; but Mrs. Hesketh shook her head; and -he could not tell why he wanted to see her, except as some relief to the -painful dulness which had come over him. The next best thing he could do -seemed to be to walk to the Red House, and ask after Alice Pimpernel. -There he found no lack of response. Mr. Pimpernel himself came out, and -so did Mrs. Pimpernel, with profuse and eager thanks. “If it had not -been for you Mr. Arden, my child might have perished,” said the mother. -“No, no, not so bad as that,” Edgar could not but say with surprise. -“And the person who was most to blame never even gave himself the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44"></a>{44}</span> -trouble to inquire till all was over,” the lady added with a look of -rage. They wanted to detain him, to give him breakfast, to secure his -company for Mr. Pimpernel, who was going to drive to church with the -younger children. But Edgar did not desire to join this procession, and -suffer himself to be paraded as his cousin’s successor. Somehow the -village and everything in it seemed to have changed its aspect. He -thought the people looked coldly at him—he felt annoyed and -discouraged, he could not tell why. It seemed to him as if the -Thornleighs would not come, or coming, would hear bad accounts of him, -and that he would be abandoned by all his friends. And he did not know -why, that was the worst of it; there seemed no reason. He was just the -same as he had been when Clare received him as her dearest brother. What -had happened since to change her mind towards him he was totally unable -to tell. The <i>sourd</i> and obscure atmosphere of family discord was quite -novel to Edgar. For most of his existence he had known nothing about -family life; and then it had seemed to him so warm, so sweet, so bright. -The domestic life, the warm sense of kindred about him had been his -chief attraction to Gussy. His heart was so full, he wanted sisters and -brothers and quantities of kinsfolk. And now the discovery that those -good things could bring pain as well as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45"></a>{45}</span> pleasure confused him utterly. -Clare! his only sister, the sole creature who belonged to him, whom -nature gave him to love, to think that without a cause she should be -estranged from him! When he fairly contemplated the idea, he gave -himself, as it were spiritually, a shake, and smiled. “It takes two to -make a quarrel,” he said to himself, and resolved that it was -impossible, and could not last another hour.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46"></a>{46}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Fielding</span> preached one of his gentle little sermons upon love to your -neighbour on that especial morning. The Doctor had been quiet, and had -not bothered the Rector for some time back. There had been a good deal -of sickness at the other end of the parish, and his hands had been full. -It was a sermon which the Arden folks had heard a good many times -before; but there are some things which, like wine, improve in flavour -the longer that they are kept. Mr. Fielding produced it about once in -five years, and preached it with little illustrations added on, drawn -from his own gentle experience. And each time it was better than the -last. The good people did not remember it, having listened always with a -certain amount of distraction and slumberousness; but Dr. Somers did, -and had noted in his pocket-book the times he had heard it. “Very good, -with that story about John Styles in the appendix,” was one note; and -four or five years later it occurred again thus—“Little sketch of last<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47"></a>{47}</span> -row with me put in as an illustration—John Styles much softened; always -very good.” Next time it was—“John Styles disappeared -altogether—quarrel with me going out—old Simon in the foreground; -better than ever.” The Arden folks were not alert enough in their minds -to discern this; but the gentle discourse did them good all the same.</p> - -<p>And there in front of him, listening to him, in the Arden pew, were -three who needed Mr. Fielding’s sermon. First, Clare, pale with that -wrath and distrust which takes all happiness out of a woman’s face, and -almost all beauty. Then, sitting next to her, with a great gap between, -now and then looking wistfully at her, now casting a hasty glance to his -other side—anxious, suspicious, watchful—Arthur Arden, at the very -lowest ebb, as he thought, of his fortunes. He had been as good as -turned out of the Red House. He had no invitation nearer than the end of -August. Clare had passed him at the church door with a bow that chilled -him. Edgar, coming in late, had taken scarcely any notice of him. -Nothing could appear less hopeful than his plan of getting himself -invited once more to Arden, covering the Pimpernels with confusion, and -showing publicly his superiority over them. Alas! he would not look -superior, he could not be happy in the Arden Arms. Accordingly he sat,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48"></a>{48}</span> -anxious about his cousins, hating all the world besides. Could he have -crushed Mrs. Pimpernel by a sudden blow he would have done it. Could he -have swept Jeanie out of his way he would have done it. Even underneath -his anxiety for their favour, a bitter germ of envy and indignation was -springing up in his heart towards his kinsfolk, Edgar and Clare.</p> - -<p>And next to him sat Edgar, whose heart was heavy with that sense of -discord—the first he had ever known. He had not been the sort of man -with whom people quarrel. If any of his former comrades had been out of -temper with him, it had been but for a moment—and he had no other -relation to quarrel with. The sense of being at variance with his sister -hung over him like a cloud. Edgar was the only one to whom the Rector’s -gentle sermon did any good. He was guiltless in his quarrel, and -therefore he had no <i>amour-propre</i> concerned, no necessity laid upon him -to justify himself. He was quite ready to say that he was wrong if that -would please any one; yes, no doubt he had been wrong; most people were -wrong; he was ready to confess anything. And though he was not a very -close listener generally to Mr. Fielding’s sermons, he took in this one -into his heart. And the summer air, too, stole into his heart; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49"></a>{49}</span> the -faint fragrance of things outside that breathed in through the open -door, and even the faint mouldy flavour of age and damp which was -within. The little village church, when he looked round it, filled him -with a strange emotion. What was it to others? What was it to himself? A -little break in life—a pause bidding the sleepy peasant rest in the -quiet, dropping warm langour on the eyelids of the children, giving to -the old a slumberous pensiveness. He saw them softly striving to keep -themselves awake—sometimes yielding to the drowsy influence—sometimes -open-eyed, listening or not listening—silent between life and death. -Such sweet, full, abounding life outside; hum of insects, flutter of -leaves, soft, all-pervading fragrance of summer roses. And within, the -monuments on the wall glimmering white; the white head in the pulpit; -the shadowy, quiet, restful place where grandsires had dozed and dreamed -before. What an Elysium it was to some of those weary, hardworking old -bodies! Edgar looked out upon them from the stage-box in which he sat -with a thrill of tender kindness. To himself it might have been a mental -and spiritual rest before the agitations of the next week. But something -had disturbed that and made it impossible. Something! That meant Clare.</p> - -<p>When they all left the church Arthur Arden<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50"></a>{50}</span> made a bold stroke. “I will -walk up with you to the Hall if you will let me,” he said. Clare was -within hearing, and she could not restrain a slight start and tremor, -which he saw. Was she afraid of him? Did she wish him to come or to stay -away? But Clare never turned round or gave the slightest indication of -her feelings. She walked out steadily, saying a word here and there to -the village people who stood by as she passed to the carriage, which was -waiting for her at the gate.</p> - -<p>“I am going to see Miss Somers,” said Edgar, “and Clare is driving—but -if you choose to wait——”</p> - -<p>It was not a very warm invitation, but Arden accepted it. He wished the -Pimpernels to see him with his cousin. This much of feeling remained in -him. He would have been mortified had he supposed that they knew he was -only at the Arden Arms. He would go to the Doctor’s house with Edgar, -and declared himself quite ready to wait. “I don’t think Miss Somers -likes me, or I should go with you,” he said, and then he went boldly up -to Mr. Pimpernel and asked for his daughter. “I am sorry I had to leave -so abruptly,” he said, “but I could not help myself,” and he gave his -shoulders a shrug, and looked compassionately with a half smile at the -master of the Red House.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51"></a>{51}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Mr. Pimpernel, accepting the tacit criticism with a certain -cleverness. “Mrs. Pimpernel expresses herself strongly sometimes. Alice -is better. Oh, yes! It was an affair of scratches only—though for a -time I was in great fear.”</p> - -<p>“I never was so afraid in my life,” said Arthur, and he shuddered at the -thought, which his companion thought a piece of acting, though it was -perfectly genuine and true.</p> - -<p>“You did not show it much,” he said, shrugging his shoulders in his -turn, “at least so far as we were concerned. But, however, that is your -affair.” And with a nod which was not very civil he called his flock -round him, and drove away. Arthur followed Edgar to the Doctor’s open -door. He went into the Doctor’s sacred study, and took refuge there. Dr. -Somers did not like him he was aware; but still he did not hesitate to -put himself into the Doctor’s easy chair. Why didn’t people like him? It -was confounded bad taste on their part!</p> - -<p>In the meantime Edgar had gone up stairs, where Miss Somers awaited him -anxiously. “Oh, my dear Edgar,” she said, “what a sad, sad—— Do you -think she will never get better? My brother always says to me—— but -then, you know, this isn’t asking about nothing—it’s asking about -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52"></a>{52}</span>Jeanie. And Alice, whose fault it was—— Oh Edgar, isn’t it just the -way of the world? The innocent little thing, you know—and then the one -that was really to blame escaping—it is just the way of the world.”</p> - -<p>“Then, it is a very disagreeable way,” said Edgar. “I wish poor little -Jeanie could have escaped, though I don’t wish any harm to Miss -Pimpernel.”</p> - -<p>“No, my dear,” said Miss Somers; “fancy my calling you ‘my dear,’ as if -you were my own sister! Do you know I begin now to forget which is a -gentleman and which a lady—me that was always brought up—— But what -is the good of being so very particular?—when you consider, at my time -of life. Though some people think that makes no difference. Oh, no, you -must never wish her any harm; but a little foolish, flighty—with -nothing in her head but croquet you know, and—— Young Mr. Denbigh has -so fallen off. He used to come and talk quite like—— And then he would -tell my brother what he should do. My brother does not like advice, -Edgar. Doctors never do. They are so used, you know—— And then about -these German baths and everything. He used to tell my brother—— and he -was not nice about it. Sometimes he is not very nice. He has a good -heart, and all that; but doctors, you know, as a rule, never do—— And -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53"></a>{53}</span>then your cousin—do you think he meant anything?—— I once thought it -was Clare; but then these people are rich, and when a man like that is -poor——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what he meant,” said Edgar; “but I am sure he can’t mean -anything now, for he has left the Pimpernels.”</p> - -<p>“And I suppose he is going to you?” said Miss Somers, “for he can’t stay -in the Arden Arms; now, can he? He is sure to be so particular. When men -have no money, my dear—and used to fine living and all that—— And I -don’t believe anything is to be had better than a chop—— Chops are -greasy in such places—— And then Arthur Arden is used to things so—— -But my dear, I think not, if I were you—on account of Clare. I do think -not, Edgar, if you were to take my advice.”</p> - -<p>“But I fear I can’t help myself,” said Edgar, with a shadow passing over -his face——</p> - -<p>Miss Somers shook her head; but fortunately not even the gratification -of giving advice could keep her long to one subject. “Well—of course -Clare is like other girls, she is sure to marry somebody,” she -said—“and marriage is a great risk Edgar. You shouldn’t laugh. Marriage -is not a thing to make you laugh. I never could make up my mind. It is -so very serious a thing, my dear. Suppose afterwards you were to see -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54"></a>{54}</span>some one else? or suppose—— I never could run the risk—though of -course it can’t be so bad for a gentleman—— But, Edgar, when you are -going to be married—vows are nothing—I wouldn’t make any vow—but,—it -is this, Edgar—it is wrong to have secrets from your wife. I have known -such trouble in my day. When a man was poor, you know—and she would go -on, poor thing, and never find out—and then all at once—— Oh, my -dear, don’t you do that—tell her everything—that is always my—and -then she knows exactly what she can do——”</p> - -<p>“But I am not going to be married,” said Edgar with a smile, which did -not pass away as common smiles do, but melted over all his face.</p> - -<p>“I hope not,” said Miss Somers promptly, “oh, I hope not—after all this -about the Pimpernels—and—— But that was your cousin, not you. Oh, no, -I hope not. What would Clare do? If Clare were married first, then -perhaps—— But it would be so strange; Mrs. Arden—Edgar, fancy! In my -state of health, you know, I couldn’t go to call on her, my dear. She -wouldn’t expect—but then sometimes young ladies are very—— And -perhaps she won’t know me nor how helpless—— I hope she’ll be very -nice, I am sure—and—pretty, and—— Some people think it doesn’t -matter—about beauty, you know, and that—— It’s a long, long time -since I took any interest in such things—but when I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55"></a>{55}</span> a young girl, -it used to be said—— Now I know what you are thinking in yourself—how -vain and all that—but it is not vanity, my dear. You like to look nice, -you know, and you like to please people, and you like—of course, you -like to look nice. When I was young there were people that used to -say—the little one—they always called me the little one—or little -Letty, or something—— I suppose because they were fond of me. Edgar, -everybody is fond of you when you are young.”</p> - -<p>“And when you are old too,” said Edgar; “everybody has been fond of you -all your life, I am sure—and will be when you are a hundred—of course -you know that.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, my dear,” said Miss Somers, shaking her head. “Ah my dear!”—and -two soft little tears came into the corners of her eyes—“when you are -old—— Yes. I know people are so kind—they pity you—and then every -one tries; but when you were young, oh, it was <i>so</i>—— There was no -trying then. People thought there was nobody like—— and then such -quantities of things were to happen—— But sometimes they never happen. -It was my own fault, of course. There was Mr. Templeton and Captain -Ormond, and—what is the good of going over——? That is long past, my -dear, long past—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56"></a>{56}</span>—”</p> - -<p>And Miss Somers put her hands up softly to her eyes. She had a sort of -theoretical regret for the opportunity lost, and yet, at the same time, -a theoretical satisfaction that she had not tempted her fate—a -satisfaction which was entirely theoretical; for did she not dream of -her children who might have been, and of one who called Mamma? But Miss -Somers was incapable of mentioning such a thing to Edgar, who was a -“gentleman.” To have betrayed herself would have been impossible. Arthur -Arden was below waiting in the Doctor’s study, and he came out as Edgar -came down and joined him. He had not been idle in this moment of -waiting. Something told him that this was a great crisis, a moment not -to be neglected; and he had been arranging his plan of operations. Only -Edgar, for this once thoughtless and unwary, thought of no crisis, until -Tuesday came, when he should go to Thorne. He thought of nothing that -was likely to change his happy state so long as he remained at home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57"></a>{57}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">The</span> fact is, I am a little put out by having to change my quarters so -abruptly,” said Arthur Arden. “I am going to Scotland in the beginning -of September, but that is a long way off; and to go to one’s lodgings in -town now is dreary work. Besides, I said to the Pimpernels when they -drove me out—they actually turned me out of the house—I told them I -was coming here. It was the only way I could be even with them. If there -is a thing they reverence in the world it is Arden; and if they knew I -was here——”</p> - -<p>“It does not entirely rest with me,” said Edgar, with some -embarrassment. “Arden, we had a good deal of discussion on various -subjects before I went away.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; you went in order to turn me out,” said Arthur meditatively. “By -George, it’s pleasant! I used to be a popular sort of fellow. People -used to scheme for having me, instead of turning me out. Look here! Of -course, when you showed yourself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58"></a>{58}</span> my enemy, it was a point of religion -with me to pursue my own course, without regard to you; but now, equally -of course, if you take me in to serve me, my action will be different. I -should respect your prejudices, however they might run counter to my -own.”</p> - -<p>“That means——?” said Edgar, and then stopped short, feeling that it -was a matter which he could not discuss.</p> - -<p>“It is best we should not enter into any explanations. Explanations are -horrid bores. What I want is shelter for a few weeks, to be purchased by -submission to your wishes on the points we both understand.”</p> - -<p>“For a few weeks!” said Edgar, with a little horror.</p> - -<p>“Well, say for a single week. I must put my pride in my pocket, and beg, -it appears. It will be a convenience to me, and it can’t hurt you much. -Of course, I shall be on my guard in respect to Clare.”</p> - -<p>“I prefer that my sister’s name should not be mentioned between us,” -said Edgar, with instinctive repugnance. And then he remembered Mrs. -Murray’s strange appeal to him on behalf of his cousin. “You have all -but as much right to be in Arden as I have,” he said. “Of course, you -must come. My<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59"></a>{59}</span> sister is not prepared; she does not expect any one. -Would it not be wiser to wait a little—till to-morrow—or even till -to-night?”</p> - -<p>“Pardon me,” said Arthur; “but Miss Arden, I am sure, will make up her -mind to the infliction better—if I am so very disagreeable—if she gets -over the first shock without preparation. Is it that I am getting old, I -wonder? I feel myself beginning to maunder. It used not to be so, you -know. Indeed, there are places still—but never mind, hospitality that -one is compelled to ask for is not often sweet.”</p> - -<p>It was on Edgar’s lips to say that it need not be accepted, but he -refrained, compassionate of his penniless kinsman. Why should the one be -penniless and the other have all? There was an absence of natural -justice in the arrangement that struck Edgar whenever his mind was -directed to it; and he remembered now what had been his intention when -his cousin first came to the Hall. “Arden,” he said, “I don’t think, if -I were you, I would be content to ask for hospitality, as you say; but -it is not my place to preach. You are the heir of Arden, and Arden owes -you something. I think it is my duty to offer, and yours to accept, -something more than hospitality. I will send for Mr. Fazakerly -to-morrow. I will not talk of dividing the inheritance,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60"></a>{60}</span> because that is -a thing only to be done between brothers; but, as you may become the -Squire any day by my death——”</p> - -<p>“I would sell my chance for five pounds,” said Arthur, giving his -kinsman a hasty look all over. “I shall be dead and buried years before -you—more’s the pity. Don’t think that I can cheat myself with any such -hope.”</p> - -<p>This was intended for a compliment, though it was almost a brutal one; -but its very coarseness made it more flattering—or so at least the -speaker thought.</p> - -<p>“Anyhow, you have a right to a provision,” Edgar continued hastily, with -a sudden flush of disgust.</p> - -<p>“I am agreeable,” said Arthur, with a yawn. “Nobody can be less -unwilling to receive a provision than I am. Let us have Fazakerly by all -means. Of course, I know you are rolling in money; but Old Arden to -Clare and a provision to me will make a difference. If you were to -marry, for instance, you would not find it so easy to make your -settlements. You are a very kind-hearted fellow, but you must mind what -you are about.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Edgar, “you are quite right. What is to be done must be done -at once.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61"></a>{61}</span></p> - -<p>“Strike while the iron is hot,” said Arthur, languidly. He did not care -about it, for he did not believe in it. A few weeks at Arden in the -capacity of a visitor was much more to him than a problematical -allowance. Fazakerly would resist it, of course. It would be but a -pittance, even if Edgar was allowed to have his way. The chance of being -Clare’s companion, and regaining his power over her, and becoming lawful -master through her of Old Arden, was far more charming to his -imagination. Therefore, though he was greedy of money, as a poor man -with expensive tastes always is, in this case he was as honestly -indifferent as the most disinterested could have been. Thus they -strolled up the avenue, where the carriage wheels were still fresh which -had carried Clare; and a certain relief stole over her brother’s mind -that they would be three, not two, for the rest of the day. Strange, -most strange that it should be so far a relief to him not to be alone -with Clare.</p> - -<p>Clare received them with a seriousness and reserve, under which she -tried to conceal her excitement. Her cousin had deceived her, preferred -a cottage girl to her, insulted her in the most sensitive point, and yet -her heart leapt into her throat when she saw him coming. She had -foreseen he would come. When he came into church, looking at her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62"></a>{62}</span> so -wistfully, when he followed her out, asking to walk with Edgar, it -became very evident to her that he was not going to relinquish the -struggle without one other attempt to win her favour. It was a vain -hope, she thought to herself; nothing could reverse her decision, or -make her forget his sins against her; but still the very fact that he -meant to try, moved, unconsciously, her heart—or was it his presence, -the sight of him, the sound of his voice, the wistfulness in his eyes? -Clare had driven home with her heart beating, and a double tide of -excitement in all her veins. And then Arthur, too, was bound up in the -whole matter. He was the first person concerned, after Edgar and -herself; they would be three together in the house, between whom this -most strange drama was about to be played out. She waited their coming -with the most breathless expectation. And they came slowly up the -avenue, calm as the day, indifferent as strangers who had never seen -each other; pausing sometimes to talk of the trees; examining that elm -which had a great branch blown off; one of them cutting at the weeds -with his cane as undisturbed as if they were—as they thought—walking -quietly home to luncheon, instead of coming to their fate.</p> - -<p>“Arden is going to stay with us a little, Clare, if you can take him -in,” Edgar said, with that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63"></a>{63}</span> voluble candour which a man always exhibits -when he is about to do something which will be disagreeable to the -mistress of his house—be she mother, sister, or wife. “He has no -engagements for the moment, and neither have we. It is a transition -time—too late for town, too early for the country—so he naturally -turned his eyes this way.”</p> - -<p>“That is a flattering account to give of it,” said Arthur, for Clare -only bowed in reply. “The fact is, Miss Arden, I was turned out by my -late hostess. May I tell you the story? I think it is rather funny.” -And, though Clare’s response was of the coldest, he told it to her, -giving a clever sketch of the Pimpernels. He was very brilliant about -their worship of Arden, and how their hospitality to himself was solely -on account of his name. “But I have not a word to say against them. My -own object was simply self-interest,” he said. He was talking two -languages, as it were, at the same moment—one which Edgar could -understand, and one which was addressed to Clare.</p> - -<p>And there could be no doubt that his presence made the day pass more -easily to the other two—one of whom was so excited, and the other so -exceedingly calm. They strolled about the park in the afternoon, and got -through its weary hours somehow. They dined—Clare in her fever eating<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64"></a>{64}</span> -nothing; a fact, however, which neither of her companions perceived. -They took their meal both with the most perfect self-possession, -hurrying over nothing, and giving it that importance which always -belongs to a Sunday dinner. Dinner on other days is but a meal, but on -Sunday it is the business of the day; and as such the two cousins took -it, doing full justice to its importance, while the tide rose higher and -higher in Clare’s veins. When she left them to their wine, she went to -her own room, and walked about and about it like a caged lioness. It was -not Clare’s way, who was above all demonstration of the kind; but now -she could not restrain herself. She clenched her two hands together, and -swept about the room, and moaned to herself in her impatience. “Oh, will -it never be night? Will they never have done talking? Can one go on and -go on and bear it?” she cried to herself in the silence. But after all -she had to put on her chains again, and bathe her flushed face, and go -down to the drawing-room. How like a wild creature she felt, straining -and chafing at her fetters! She sat down and poured out tea for them, -with her hand trembling, her head burning, her feet as cold as ice, her -head as hot as fire. She said to herself it was unlady-like, unwomanly, -unlike her, to be so wild and self-indulgent, but she had no power to -control<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65"></a>{65}</span> herself. All this time, however, the two men made no very -particular remark. Edgar, who thought she was still angry, only grieved -and wondered. Arthur knew that she was dissatisfied with himself, and -was excited but not surprised. He gave her now and then pathetic looks. -He wove in subtle phrases of self-vindication—a hundred little -allusions, which were nothing to Edgar but full of significance to -her—into all he said. But he could not have believed, what was the -case, that Clare was far past hearing them—that she did not take up the -drift of his observations at all—that she hardly understood what was -being said, her whole soul being one whirl of excitement, expectation, -awful heartrending fear and hope. It was Edgar at last who perceived -that her strength was getting worn out. He noticed that she did not hear -what was said—that her face usually so expressive, was getting set in -its extremity of emotion. Was it emotion, was it mania? Whatever it was, -it had passed all ordinary bounds of endurance. He rose hastily when he -perceived this, and going up to his sister laid his hand softly on her -shoulder. She started and shivered as if his hand had been ice, and -looked up at him with two dilated, unfathomable eyes. If he had been -going to kill her she could not have been more tragically still—more -aghast<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66"></a>{66}</span> with passion and horror. A profound compassion and pity took -possession of him. “Clare,” he said, bending over her as if she were -deaf, and putting his lips close to her ear, “Clare, you are -over-exhausted. Go to bed. Let me take you up stairs—and if that will -be a comfort to you, dear, I will go and read them now.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, articulating with difficulty—“Yes.” He had to take her -hand to help her to rise; but when he stooped and kissed her forehead -Clare shivered again. She passed Arthur without noticing him, then -returned and with formal courtesy bade him good-night; and so -disappeared with her candle in her hand, throwing a faint upward ray -upon her white woe-begone face. She was dressed in white, with black -ribbons and ornaments, and her utter pallor seemed to bring out the -darkness of her hair and darken the blue in her eyes, till everything -about her seemed black and white. Arthur Arden had risen too and stood -wondering, watching her as she went away. “What is the matter?” he said -abruptly to Edgar, who was no better informed than himself.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. She must be ill. She is unhappy about something,” said -Edgar. For the first time the bundle of old letters acquired importance -in his eyes. “I want to look at something she has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67"></a>{67}</span> given me,” he added -simply. “You will not think me rude when you see how much concerned my -sister is? You know your room and all that. I must go and satisfy -Clare.”</p> - -<p>“What has she given you?” asked Arthur, with a certain precipitation. -Edgar was not disposed to answer any further questions, and this was one -which his cousin had no right to ask.</p> - -<p>“I must go now,” he said. “Good-night. I trust you will be comfortable. -In short, I trust we shall all be more comfortable to-morrow. Clare’s -face makes me anxious to-night.”</p> - -<p>And then Arthur found himself master of the great drawing-room, with all -its silent space and breadth. What did they mean? Could it be that Clare -had found this something for which he had sought, and instead of giving -it to himself had given it to her brother, the person most concerned, -who would, of course, destroy it and cut off Arthur’s hopes for ever. -The very thought set the blood boiling in his veins. He paced about as -Clare had done in her room, and could only calm himself by means of a -cigar which he went out to the terrace to smoke. There his eyes were -attracted to Clare’s window and to another not far off in which lights -were burning. That must be Edgar’s, he concluded; and there in the -seclusion of his chamber, not in any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68"></a>{68}</span> place more accessible, was he -studying the something Clare had given him? Something! What could it -be?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69"></a>{69}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">More</span> than one strange incident happened at Arden that soft July night. -Mr. Fielding was seated in his library in the evening, after all the -Sunday work was over. He did not work very hard either on Sundays or on -any other occasions—the good, gentle old man. But yet he liked to sit, -as he had been wont to do in his youth when he had really exerted -himself, on those tranquil Sunday nights. His curate had dined with him, -but was gone, knowing the Rector’s habit; and Mr. Fielding was seated in -the twilight, with both his windows open, sipping a glass of wine -tenderly, as if he loved it, and musing in the stillness. The lamp was -never lighted on Sunday evenings till it was time for prayers. Some -devout people in the parish were of opinion that at such moments the -Rector was asking a blessing upon his labours, and “interceding” with -God for his people—and so, no doubt, he was. But yet other thoughts -were in his mind. Long, long ago, when Mr. Fielding had been young,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70"></a>{70}</span> and -had a young wife by his side, this had been their sacred hour, when they -would sit side by side and talk to each other of all that was in their -hearts. It was “Milly’s hour,” the time when she had told him all the -little troubles that beset a girl-wife in the beginning of her career; -and he had laughed at her, and been sorry for her, and comforted her as -young husbands can. It was Milly’s hour still, though Milly had gone out -of all the cares of life and housekeeping for thirty years. How the old -man remembered those little cares—how he would go over them with a soft -smile on his lip, and—no, not a tear—a glistening of the eye, which -was not weeping. How frightened she had been for big Susan, the cook; -how bravely she had struggled about the cooking of the cutlets, to have -them as her husband liked them—not as Susan pleased! And then all those -speculations as to whether Lady Augusta would call, and about Letty -Somers, and her foolish, little kind-hearted ways. The old man -remembered every one of those small troubles. How small they were, how -dear, how sacred—Milly’s troubles. Thank Heaven, she had never found -out that the world held pangs more bitter. The first real sorrow she had -ever had was to die—and was that a sorrow? to leave him; and had she -left him? This was the tender enjoyment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71"></a>{71}</span> the little private, sad -delight of the Rector’s Sunday nights; and he did not like to be -disturbed.</p> - -<p>Therefore, it was clear the business must be of importance which was -brought to him at that hour. “Your reverence won’t think as it’s of my -own will I’m coming disturbing of you,” said Mrs. Solmes, the -housekeeper; “but there’s one at the door as will take no denial. She -says she aint got but a moment, and daren’t stay for fear her child -would wake. She’s been in a dead faint from yesterday at six till now. -The t’oud woman as lives at oud Sarah’s, your reverence; the Scotchy, as -they calls her—her as had her granddaughter killed last night.”</p> - -<p>“God bless me!” said Mr. Fielding, confused by this complication. He -knew Jeanie had not been killed; but how was he to make his way in this -twilight moment through such a maze of statements? “Killed!” he said to -himself. It was so violent a word to fall into that sacred dimness and -sadness—sadness which was more dear to him than any joy. “Let her come -in,” he added, with a sigh. “Lights? no! I don’t think we want lights. I -can see you, Mrs. Solmes, and I can see to talk without lights.”</p> - -<p>“As you please, sir,” said the housekeeper; “but them as is strangers, -and don’t know your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72"></a>{72}</span> habits, might think it was queer. And then to think -how a thing gets all over the village in no time. But, to be sure, sir, -it’s as you please.”</p> - -<p>“Then show Mrs. Murray in,” said Mr. Fielding. He had never departed -from his good opinion of her, notwithstanding that she was a Calvinist, -and looked disapproval of his sermons; but that she should come away -from her child’s sick-bed, that was extraordinary indeed.</p> - -<p>And then in the dark, much to the scandal of Mrs. Solmes, Mrs. Murray -came in. Even the Rector himself found it embarrassing to see only the -tall, dark figure beside him, without being able to trace (so -short-sighted as he was, too) the changes of her face. “Sit down,” he -said, “sit down,” and bustled a little to get her a chair—not the one -near him, in which, had she been alive, his Milly would have sat—(and -oh! to think Milly, had she lived, would have been older than Mrs. -Murray!)—but another at a little distance. “How is your child?” he -asked. “I meant to have gone to see her to-night, but they told me she -was insensible still.”</p> - -<p>“And so she is,” said the grandmother, “and I wouldna have left her to -come here but for something that’s like life and death. You’re a good -man. I canna but believe you’re a real good man, though you are no what -I call sound on all points. I want<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73"></a>{73}</span> you to give me your advice. It’s a -case of a penitent woman that has done wrong, and suffered for it. Sore -she has suffered in her bairns and her life, and worse in her heart. -It’s a case of conscience; and oh! sir, your best advice——”</p> - -<p>“I will give you the best advice I can, you may be sure,” said Mr. -Fielding, moved by the pleading voice that reached him out of the -darkness. “But you must tell me more clearly. What has she done? I will -not ask who she is, for that does not matter. But what has she done; and -has she, or can she, make amends? Is it a sin against her neighbour or -against God?”</p> - -<p>“Baith, baith,” said the old woman. “Oh, Mr. Fielding, you’re an -innocent, virtuous man. I ken it by your face. This woman has been airt -and pairt in a great wrong—an awfu’ wrong; you never heard of the like. -Partly she knew what she was doing, and partly she did not. There are -some more guilty than her that have gone to their account; and there’s -none to be shamed but the innocent, that knew no guile, and think no -evil. What is she to do? If it was but to punish <i>her</i>, she’s free to -give her body to be burned or torn asunder: oh, and thankful, thankful! -Nothing you could do, but she would take and rejoice. But she canna move -without hurting the innocent. She canna right them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74"></a>{74}</span> that’s wronged -without crushing the innocent. Oh, tell me, you that are a minister, and -an old man, and have preached God’s way! Many and many a time He suffers -wrong, and never says a word. It’s done now, and canna be undone. Am I -to bear my burden and keep silent till my heart bursts, or must I -destroy, and cast down, and speak!”</p> - -<p>The woman spoke with a passion and vehemence which bewildered the gentle -Rector. Her voice came through the dim and pensive twilight, thrilling -with life and force and vigour. In that atmosphere, at that hour, any -whisper of penitence should have been low and soft as a sigh. It should -have been accompanied by noiseless weeping, by the tender humility which -appeals to every Christian soul; but such was not the manner of this -strange confession. Not a tear was in the eye of the penitent. Mr. -Fielding felt, though he could not see, that her eyes, those eyes which -had lost none of their brightness in growing old, were shining upon him -in the darkness, and held him fast as did those of the Ancient Mariner. -Suddenly, without any warning, he found himself brought into contact, -not with the moderate contrition of ordinary sinners, but with tragic -repentance and remorse. He could not answer for the first moment. It -took away his breath.</p> - -<p>“My dear, good woman,” he said, “you startle<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75"></a>{75}</span> me. I do not understand -you. Do you know what you are saying? I don’t think you can have done -anything so very wrong. Hush, hush! compose yourself, and think what you -are saying. When we examine it, perhaps we will find it was not so bad. -People may do wrong, you know, and yet it need not be so very serious. -Tell me what it was.”</p> - -<p>“That is what I cannot do,” she said. “If I were to tell you, all would -be told. If it has to be said, it shall be said to him first that will -have the most to bear. Oh, have ye been so long in the world without -knowing that a calm face often covers a heavy heart! Many a thing have I -done for my ain and for others that cannot be blamed to me; but once I -was to blame. I tell ye, I canna tell ye what it was. It was this—I did -what was unjust and wrong. I schemed to injure a man—no, no me, for I -did not know he was in existence, and who was to tell me?—but I did the -wrong thing that made it possible for the man to be injured. Do you -understand me now? And here I am in this awful strait, like Israel at -the Red Sea. If I let things be, I am doing wrong, and keeping a man out -of his own; if I try to make amends, I am bringing destruction on the -innocent. Which, oh, which, tell me, am I to do?”</p> - -<p>She had raised her voice till it sounded like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76"></a>{76}</span> a cry, and yet it was not -loud. Mrs. Solmes in the kitchen heard nothing, but to Mr. Fielding it -sounded like a great wail and moaning that went to his heart. And the -silence closed over her voice as the water closes over a pebble, making -faint circles and waves of echo, not of the sound, but of the meaning of -the sound. He could not speak, with those thrills of feeling, like the -wash after a boat, rolling over him. He did not understand what she -meant; her great and violent pain bewildered the gentle old man. The -only thing he could take hold of was her last words. That, he reflected, -was always right—always the best thing to advise. He waited until the -silence and quietness settled down again, and then he said, his soft old -voice wavering with emotion, “Make amends!”</p> - -<p>“Is that what you say to me?” she said, lifting up her hands. He could -see the vehement movement in the gloom.</p> - -<p>“Make amends. What other words could a servant of God say?”</p> - -<p>He thought she fell when he spoke, and sprang to his feet with deep -anxiety. She had dropped down on her knees, and had bent her head, and -was covering her face with her hands. “Are you ill?” he said. “God bless -us all, she has fainted! what am I to do?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77"></a>{77}</span></p> - -<p>“No; the like of me never faints,” she answered; and then he perceived -that she retained her upright position. Her voice was choked, and -sounded like the voice of despair, and she did not take her hands from -her face. “Oh, if I could lie like Jeanie,” she went on, “quietly, like -the dead, with nae heart to feel nor voice to speak. My bit little lily -flower! would she have been broken like that—faded like that, if I had -done what was right? But, O Lord my God, my bonnie lad! what is to -become of him?”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Murray! Mrs. Murray!” said Mr. Fielding, “let me put you on that -sofa. Let me get you some wine. Compose yourself. My poor woman, my good -woman! All this has been too much for you. Are you sure it is not a -delusion you have got into your mind?”</p> - -<p>The strange penitent took no notice of him as he stood thus beside her. -Her mind was occupied otherwise. “How am I to make amends?” she was -murmuring; “how am I to do it? Harm the innocent, crush down the -innocent!—that’s all I can do. It will relieve my mind, but it will -throw nothing but bitterness into theirs. The prophet he threw a -sweetening herb into the bitter waters, but it would be gall and -wormwood I would throw. The wrong’s done, and it canna be undone. It -would but be putting off my burden on them—giving them my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78"></a>{78}</span> pain to -bear; and it is me, and no them, that is worthy of the pain.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Murray,” said the Rector, by this time beginning to feel alarmed; -for how could he tell that it was not a madwoman he had beside him in -the dark? “you must try and compose yourself. I think things cannot be -so bad as you say. Perhaps you are tormenting yourself for nothing. My -dear good woman, sit down and rest, and compose yourself, while I ring -the bell for the lamp.”</p> - -<p>Then she rose up slowly in the darkness between him and the window, and -took her hands from her face. She did not raise her head, but she put -out her hand and caught his arm with a vigour which made Mr. Fielding -tremble. “I was thinking if I had anything else to say,” she said, in a -low desponding tone, “but there’s nothing more. I cannot think but of -one thing. If you’ve nothing more to say to me, I’ll go away. I’ll slip -away in the dark, as I came, and nobody will be the wiser. Mr. Fielding, -you’re a real good man, and that was your best advice?”</p> - -<p>“It’s my advice to everybody, in ordinary circumstances,” said Mr. -Fielding. “If you have done wrong, make amends—the one thing -necessitates the other. If you have done wrong, make amends. But, Mrs. -Murray, wait till the lamp comes and a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79"></a>{79}</span> glass of wine. You are not fit -to go back to your nursing without something to sustain you. Sit down -again.”</p> - -<p>“I am fit for a great deal more than that,” she said; “but no, no, nae -lights. I’ll go my ways back. I’ll slip out in the dark, as I slipped -in. I’m like the owls—I’m dazzled by the shinin’ light. That’s new to -me, that always liked the light; but, sir, I thank ye for your goodness. -I must slip away now.”</p> - -<p>“You are not fit to walk in this state,” he said, following her -anxiously to the door; “take my arm; let me get out the pony—I will -send you comfortably home.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Murray shook her head. She declined the offer of the old man’s arm. -“I have mair strength than you think,” she said; “and Jeanie must never -know that I have been here. Oh, I’m strengthened with what you said. Oh, -I’m the better for having opened my heart; but I’ll slip out, as long as -there are none to see.”</p> - -<p>And, while the gentle Rector stood and wondered, she went out by the -open window, as erect and vigorous as if no emotion could touch her. -Swiftly she passed into the darkness, carrying with her her secret. What -was it? Mr. Fielding sunk into his chair with a sigh. Never before had -any interruption like this come into Milly’s hour.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80"></a>{80}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Edgar</span> went to his own room, with a certain oppression on his mind, to -seek those papers which surely his sister gave the most exaggerated -importance to. It seemed ridiculous to go upstairs at that hour; he took -them out of his dressing-case, into which he had locked them, and went -down again to the library. It was true that he would fain have occupied -his evening in some other way. He would have preferred even to talk to -Arthur Arden, though he did not love him. He would have preferred to -read, or to walk out and enjoy the freshness of the summer night. And, -much better than any of these, he would have preferred to have Clare’s -own company, to talk to her about the many matters he had laid up in his -mind, and, perhaps, if opportunity served, to enter upon the subject of -Gussy. But this evidently was not how it was to be. He must go and read -over dull papers, to please his sister. Well, that was not so very -difficult a business, after all. It was Clare’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81"></a>{81}</span> interest in them that -was so strange. This was what he could not understand. As he settled -himself to his task, a great many thoughts came into his mind in respect -to his sister. She had been brought up (he supposed) differently from -other girls. He could not fancy the Thornleighs, any of them, taking -such interest in a parcel of old papers. They must be about Arden -somehow, he concluded, some traditionary records of the family, -something that affected their honour and glory. Was this what she cared -for most in the world—not her brother or any future love, but Arden, -only Arden, her race. And then he reflected how odd it was that two of -Clare’s lovers had made him their confidant—Arthur, a man whom any -brother would discourage; and Lord Newmarch, who was an excellent match. -The one was so objectionable, the other so irreproachable, that Edgar -was amused by the contrast. What could they expect him to do? The one -had a right to look for his support, the other every reason to fear his -opposition; but what did Clare say, what did she think of either?—even -Arthur Arden’s presence was nothing to her, compared with these old -letters. He seated himself, without knowing it, at his father’s place, -in his father’s chair. No association sanctified the spot to him. Once -or twice, indeed, he had been called there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82"></a>{82}</span> into the Squire’s dreadful -presence, but there was nothing in these interviews to make the room -reverent or sacred. He put himself simply in the most convenient place, -lighted the candles on the table, and sat down to his work. Clare was -upstairs—he thought he heard her soft tread overhead. Yes, she was -different from other girls; and he wondered in himself what kind of a -life hers would be. Would she—after all, that was the first -question—remain in Arden when Gussy came as its mistress?—if Gussy -ever came. Would she find it possible to bend her spirit to that? Would -she marry, impatient of this first contradiction of her supremacy?—and -which would she choose if she married? All these questions passed -through Edgar’s mind, gravely at first, lightly afterwards, as the -immediate impression of her seriousness died away. Then he looked at all -the things on the table—his father’s seal, the paper in the -blotting-book, with its crest and motto. How well he remembered the few -curt letters he had received on that paper, bidding him “come home on -Friday next to spend a week or a fortnight,” as the case might be—very -curt and unyielding they had been, with no softening use of his name, no -“dear Edgar,” or “dear boy,” but only the command, whatever it was. It -was not wonderful that he had little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83"></a>{83}</span> reverence, little admiration, for -his father’s memory. His face grew sterner and paler as he turned over -those relics of the dead man, which moved Clare only to tenderest -memories. Twenty years of neglect, of injury, of unkindness came before -him, all culminating in that one look of intense hatred which he -remembered so well—the look which made it apparent to him that his -father—his father!—would have been glad had he died.</p> - -<p>Such thoughts had been banished from Edgar’s breast for a long time. He -had dismissed them by a vigorous effort of will when he entered upon his -life at Arden; it was but those signs and tokens of the past that -brought them back, and again he made an effort to begin his task, though -with so little relish for it. If it was anything affecting the Squire, -Edgar felt he was not able to approach it calmly. A certain impatience, -a certain disgust, came into his mind at the thought. To please -Clare—that was a different matter. He opened the enclosure slowly and -with reluctance, and once more turned over in his hand the inner packet, -still sealed up, which had the appearance of having been thrown into the -fire, and hastily snatched out again. The parcel was singed and torn, -and one of the seals had run into a great blotch of wax, obliterating -all impression. As he held it in his hand he felt the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84"></a>{84}</span> place where the -envelope was torn across, and remembered dimly that his sister had -attributed her interest in it to the words she had read through this -tear. What were they? he wondered. He turned the packet round and laid -it on the table, with the torn part uppermost. It was his father’s -handwriting that appeared below, a writing somewhat difficult to read. -He studied it, read it, lifted it nearer to his eyes—asked himself, -“What does it mean?”—then he held it up to the light and read it over -once more. What did it mean? A certain blank seemed to take possession -of all his faculties—he wondered vaguely—the powers of his mind seemed -to forsake him all at once.</p> - -<p>This is what was written, in uneven lines, under the torn envelope, -which had driven Clare desperate, and made her brother stupid, in his -inability to understand—</p> - -<p>“<i>I will take him from you, bring him up as my son, and make him my -heir—as you say, for my own ends.</i>”</p> - -<p>Edgar was stupefied. He sat and looked at it blankly over and over. -Son!—heir! What was the meaning of the words? He did not for the moment -ask any more. “What does the fool mean? What does the fool mean?” he -said, over and over. It did not move him to open the cover to inquire<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85"></a>{85}</span> -further. He only sat stupid, and looked at it. How long he might have -continued to do so it is impossible to tell; but all at once, in the -quiet house, there was a sound of something falling, and this roused -him. What could it be? Could it be Clare who had fallen? Could it—— He -roused himself up, and went to the door and listened. He had wasted an -hour or more in one way or other before he even looked at his packet, -and now the house was at rest, and everything still. Had Clare known the -moment at which he read those words—had she fainted in sympathy? His -mind had grown altogether so confused that he could not make it out. He -stood watching at the door for some minutes, and then, hearing nothing -further, shut it carefully, and went back and sat down again. The -candles were clear enough; the writing, though difficult, was distinct. -“I will take him from you, bring him up as my son, make him my heir.” -“Perhaps there is something more about it inside,” Edgar said to -himself, with a faint smile. He spoke aloud, with a sense that he was -speaking to somebody, and then started at the sound of his own voice, -feeling as if some one else had spoken. And then he laughed. It made a -diabolical sound in the silence. Was it he that laughed, or some -devil?—there must be devils about—and what a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86"></a>{86}</span> fool he must be to be so -easily startled; what a fool—what a fool!</p> - -<p>Then he opened the envelope. His hands trembled a little; he came to -himself gradually, and became aware that this was no light business he -was about. It was the laugh that had roused him, the laugh with which he -himself or somebody else—could it be somebody else?—had disturbed the -silence. A quantity of letters were inside, some in his father’s -writing, some in another—a large, irregular, feminine hand. -Instinctively he secured that one which had appeared through the tear in -the cover, and read it word by word. It was one of the square letters -written before envelopes were used, and bore on the yellow outside fold -an address half-obliterated and some postmarks. He read it to the last -word; he made an effort to decipher the outside; he investigated and -noted the yellow date on the postmarks. He knew very well what he was -doing now; never had his brain been more collected, never had he been -more clear-headed all his life. Twice over he read it, word by word, and -then put it down by his side, and arranged the others according to their -dates. There were alternate letters, each with its reply. Two minds—two -souls—had met in those yellow bits of paper, and gone through a -terrible struggle; they were the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87"></a>{87}</span> tempter and the tempted—the one -advancing all his arguments, the other hesitating, doubting, -refusing—hesitating again. Carefully, slowly, Edgar read every one. -There was nothing fictitious about them. Clear and distinct as the -daylight was the terrible story they involved—the story of which he -himself, in his ignorance, was the hero—of which he was the victim. All -alone in the darkness and stillness of the night there fell upon him -this awful revelation—a thing he had never expected, never feared—a -new thing, such as man never had heard of before.</p> - -<p>The business he was about was too tremendous to allow time for any -reflection. He did not reflect, he did not think, he only read and knew. -He felt himself change as he read, felt the room swim, so that he had to -hold by the table, felt new lights which he had never dreamt of spring -up upon his life. Sometimes it seemed to him as if even his physical -form was changing. He was looking at himself as in a magic mirror, for -the first time seeing himself, understanding himself, beholding the -mystery clear away, the reality stand out. How clear it grew! A chill -arose about him, as of a man traversing a mine, poking through -half-lighted dreary galleries, and finding always the blue circle of -outlet, the light at the end. He went on and on,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88"></a>{88}</span> never pausing nor -drawing breath. He looked like a historical student seated there, -regulating his documents with such exactness, reading every bit of paper -only according to its date. Some of them were smoked and scorched, and -took a great deal of trouble to make out. Some were crabbed in their -handwriting and uncertain in spelling. At some words a faint momentary -smile would come upon his lips. It was a historical investigation. No -family papers ever had such interest, ever claimed such profound study. -The daylight came in over the tops of the shutters; first a faint -blueness, gradually widening and whitening into light. To see him -sitting with candles blazing on each side of him, holding up his papers -to them, and the quiet observant day flooding the room around him with -light, and the ineffectual barred shutters vainly attempting to obscure -it—oh, how strange it was! Edgar himself never perceived the change. He -felt the chill of morning, but he had been cold before, and took no -notice. How grave he was, how steady, how pale, in the flashing foolish -light of the candles! As if that was needed! as if all was not open, -clear, and legible, and patent to the light of day.</p> - -<p>This was the scene which Clare looked in upon when she softly opened the -door. She had not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89"></a>{89}</span> even undressed. She had sat up in her room, thinking -that he would perhaps call, perhaps come to her, perhaps laugh, and ask -her what her fright had meant, and show her how innocent and foolish -these words were which had alarmed her. And then she had dozed and slept -with a shawl round her; and then, waking up in the early morning, had -stolen out, and seeing her brother’s room open, had been seized with -sudden terror wilder than ever. Her heart beat so loudly that she felt -as if it must wake the house. She stole downstairs like a ghost, in her -white evening dress. She opened the door, and there he sat in the -daylight with his candles, not hearing her, not seeing her, intent upon -his work. Was not that enough? She gave a low cry, and with a start he -roused himself and looked up, the letters still in his hand. There was a -moment in which neither moved, but only looked at each other with a -mutual question and reply that were beyond words. Then he rose. How pale -he was—like a dead man, the blood gone out of his very lips; and yet -could it be possible he smiled? It was a smile Clare never forgot. He -got up from his chair, and placed another for her, and turned to her -with that look full of tenderness and pathos, and a certain strange -humour. “I don’t know how to address you now,” he said, the smile -retiring into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90"></a>{90}</span> his eyes. “I know who you are, but not who I am. It was -natural you should be anxious. If you sit down, I will tell you all I -know.”</p> - -<p>She came to him with a sudden impulse, and caught his arm with her -hands. “Oh, Edgar! oh, my brother Edgar!” she said, moaning, but gazing -at him with a desperate question, which he knew he had already answered, -in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, gently putting his hand upon hers. A sudden spasm crossed -his face, and for the moment his voice was broken. “No—— Your friend, -your servant; so long as you want me your protector still—but your -brother no more.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91"></a>{91}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Arthur Arden</span> felt himself very much at a loss next morning, and could -not make it out. The brother and sister had left him to his own devices -the night before, and again he found himself alone when he came down to -breakfast. The same round table was in the window—the same vase of -roses stood in the middle—everything was arranged as usual. The only -thing which was not as usual was that neither Edgar nor Clare were -visible. In this old, orderly, well-regulated place, such a thing had -been never seen before. Wilkins paused and made a little speech, half -shocked, half apologetic, as he put a savoury dish under Arthur’s nose. -“Master’s late, sir, through business; and Miss Arden, she’s not well. -I’m sure I’m very sorry, and all the house is sorry. The first morning -like——”</p> - -<p>“Never mind, Wilkins,” said Arthur. “I daresay my cousin will join me -presently. I have been late often enough in this house.”</p> - -<p>“But never the Squire, if you’ll remember,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92"></a>{92}</span> Wilkins. “Master was -always punctual like the clock. But young folks has new ways. Not as -we’ve anything to complain of; but from time to time there’s changes, -Mr. Arthur, in folk’s selves, and in the world.”</p> - -<p>“That is very true, Wilkins,” said Arthur, with more urbanity than -usual. He was not a man who encouraged servants to talk; but at present -he was on his good behaviour—amiable to everybody. “I am very sorry to -hear Miss Arden is ill. I hope it is not anything beyond a headache. I -thought she looked very well last night.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir; she looked very well last night,” said Wilkins, with a little -emphasis; “but for a long time past we’ve all seen as there was -something to do with Miss Clare.”</p> - -<p>Arthur made no answer. He felt that to enter into such a discussion with -a servant would not do, though he would have been glad enough to -discover what was supposed to be the matter with Clare. So he held his -tongue and eat his breakfast; and Wilkins, after lingering about for -some minutes wooing further inquiry, took himself gradually away to the -sideboard. Arthur sat in the bow-window at the sunny end, enjoying the -pretty, flower-decked table, with all its good things; while Wilkins -glided about noiselessly in black clothes, as glossy as a popular<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93"></a>{93}</span> -preacher’s, and as spotless, deferentially silent and alert, ready to -obey a whisper, the lifting of a finger. No doubt it was chiefly for his -own ends, and for the delight of gossip that life was so ready to obey, -for Wilkins generally had a will of his own. But the stillness, the -solitude, the man’s profound attention, rapt Arthur in a pleasant dream. -If he had been master here instead of his cousin. If he had been Squire -Arden instead of this boy, who was not like the Ardens, neither -externally nor in mind. His brain grew a little dizzy for a moment. Was -he so? Was the other but a dream? Should he go out presently and find -that all the people about the estate came to him, cap in hand, and that -Edgar was a shadow which had vanished away. He could not tell what -vertigo seized him, so that he could entertain even for a moment so -absurd a fancy. The next, he gave himself a slight shake and smiled, not -without some bitterness. “I am the penniless one,” he said to himself; -“I may starve, while he has everything. If he likes to turn me out -to-morrow, I shall have nowhere to go to.” How strange it was! Arthur -was, of course, a Tory of the deepest dye—he held the traditionary -politics of his race, which equally, of course, Edgar did not hold; but -at this moment it would be vain to deny that certain theories which were -wildly revolutionary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94"></a>{94}</span> crossed his mind. Why should one have so much and -another nothing? why should one inherit name, and authority, and houses, -and lands, and another be left without bread to eat? No democrat, no red -republican could have felt the difference more violently than did Arthur -Arden; as he sat that morning alone in the quiet Arden dining-room, -eating his kinsman’s bread.</p> - -<p>After a while Edgar came in. He was singularly pale, and his manner had -changed in a way which Arthur could not explain to himself. He perceived -the change at the first glance. He said to himself (thinking, as was -natural, of himself only), “He has come to some determination about me. -He has got something to propose to me.” Edgar looked like a man with -some weighty business on hand. He had no time for his usual careless -talk, his friendly, good-humoured notice of everything. He looked like a -general who has a difficult position to occupy, or to get his troops -safely out of a dangerous pass. His forehead, which had always been so -free of care, was lined and clouded. His very voice had changed its -tone. It was sharper, quicker, more decisive. He seemed to have made a -sudden leap from a youth into a serious man.</p> - -<p>“My sister, I am sorry, is not well,” he said;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95"></a>{95}</span> “and I was up very late. -I think she will stay in her room all day.”</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry,” said Arthur, “Wilkins has been telling me. He says -you were kept late by business; and you look like it. You look as if you -had all the cares of the nation on your head.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose the cares of the nation sometimes sit more lightly than one’s -own,” said Edgar, with a forced smile.</p> - -<p>“My dear fellow!” said his cousin, laughing in superior wisdom. “Your -cares cannot be of a very crushing kind. If it was mine you were talking -of—a poor devil who sometimes does not know where his next dinner is to -come from; but that is not a subject, perhaps, for polite ears.”</p> - -<p>“And the dinners have always come to you, I suspect,” said Edgar; “good -dinners too, and handsomely served. Chops have not been much in your -way; whereas you know most people who talk on such a subject——”</p> - -<p>“Have to content themselves with chops? Some people like them,” said -Arthur, meditatively. “By the way, Arden, does it not come within the -sphere of a reforming landlord like you to reform the <i>cuisine</i> at the -Arden Arms? If I were you, and had poor relations likely to come and -stay there, I would make a difference. For you do consider the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96"></a>{96}</span> claims -of poor relations. Many people don’t; but you—— By the way, you said -something about Fazakerly. Is he actually coming? I should like to see -the old fellow, though he is not fond of me.”</p> - -<p>“He is coming, certainly,” said Edgar, with a momentary flush, “but I -think not so soon as to-morrow. I—have something to do to-morrow—an -old engagement. And then—my business with Fazakerly may be more serious -than I thought.”</p> - -<p>“As you please,” said Arthur, shrugging his shoulders slightly. “You are -master, I have nothing to do with it. It was bad taste to remind you, I -know. But when one’s pockets are empty, and the Mrs. Pimpernels of life -begin to cast one off—that was an alarming defeat; I begin to ask -myself, Are the crowfeet showing? is the grey visible in my hair.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t see it,” said Edgar, with a momentary smile.</p> - -<p>“No, I take care of that,” said the other; “though a touch of grey is -not objectionable sometimes—it makes a man interesting. You scorn such -levity, don’t you? But then you are five and twenty, and foolish -thoughts are extinguished in you by the cares of the estate.”</p> - -<p>Once more a momentary smile passed over Edgar’s face. “Have you noticed -any of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97"></a>{97}</span> changes I have made in the estate—do you like them?” he -asked, with something like anxiety. What a strange fellow he is, Arthur -thought—if I were he, should I care what any one thought? “I have -renewed some leases which it perhaps was not quite wise to renew,” Edgar -continued, “and lent some money for draining and that sort of thing. -Probably you would not have done it. If I were to die now—let us make -the supposition——”</p> - -<p>“My dear Arden, I am sadly afraid you won’t die,” said his cousin; -“don’t tantalise a man by putting such hopes in his head. How can you -tell that I may not be prepared with a little white powder? If you were -to die I should probably call in your drainage money, for even then I -should be as poor as a rat—but I could not change anybody’s lease.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder if you would take any interest in the property?” said Edgar; -“there is a great charm in it, do you know. You feel more or less that -you have some real power over the people. I don’t think much of what -people call influence, but actual power is very different. You can speak -to them with authority. You can say, if you do this, I will do that. You -can rouse their self-interest, as well as their sense of right. I have -not done very much more than begin it, but it has been very interesting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98"></a>{98}</span> -to me. I wonder if it would have the same effect on you.”</p> - -<p>He means to offer me the situation of agent, said Arthur Arden to -himself. His agent! I! And then he spoke—“I’ll tell you one thing I -should take an interest in, Arden. I should look after those building -leases for the Liverpool people. It would make the greatest possible -difference to the estate; it would make up for the loss of Old Arden, -which your sister carries off. That was a wonderfully silly business, if -you will allow me to say so—I cannot imagine how you could ever think -of alienating that.”</p> - -<p>A curious thrill passed over Edgar. It was quite visible, and yet he did -not mean it to be visible. Up to this moment his gravity had been so -real, his manner so serious, that his cousin had not for a moment -suspected that he had anything to conceal. But this sudden shudder -struck him strangely. “Are you cold,” he asked, looking at him fixedly -with a suspicious, watchful glance, “this fine morning? or are you ill, -too?”</p> - -<p>“Neither,” said Edgar, restraining himself. “We were talking about the -building leases. You, who are more of an Arden than I have ever been -supposed to be——”</p> - -<p>He attempted to say this with a smile, but his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99"></a>{99}</span> lips were dry and -parched, and his pallor increased. Was it possible that he could have -found anything out—he whose interest, of course, was to destroy any -evidence that told against himself? At the thought Arthur Arden’s heart -sank; for if Edgar’s fears for his own position were once raised, it was -very certain that there would not long remain anything for another to -find out.</p> - -<p>“You mistake,” he said, “the spirit of the Ardens; they were not a -romantic race, as people suppose—they had their eyes very well open to -their interests. I don’t know what made your father so obstinate; but I -am sure his father, or his grandfather, as far back as you like to go, -would never have neglected such an opportunity of enriching themselves. -Why, look at the money it would put into your purse at the first moment. -I should do it without hesitation; but then, of course, people would say -of me—He is a needy wretch; he is always in want of money. And, of -course, it would be quite true. Has old Fazakerly’s coming anything to -do with that?”</p> - -<p>“It may have to do with a great many things,” said Edgar, with a certain -irritable impatience, rising from his chair. “Pardon me, Arden, I am -going down to the village. I must see how poor little Jeanie is. I have -got some business with Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> Fielding. Perhaps you would like to make -some inquiries too.”</p> - -<p>“Not if you are going,” said Arthur, calmly. “The girl was going on well -yesterday. If you were likely to see her, I should send my love; but I -suppose you won’t see her. No, thanks; I can amuse myself here.”</p> - -<p>“As you please,” said Edgar, turning abruptly away. He could not have -borne any more. With an inexpressible relief he left the room, and freed -himself from his companion. How strange it was that, of all people in -the world, Arthur Arden should be his companion now!</p> - -<p>As for Arthur, he went to the window and watched his cousin’s progress -down the avenue with mingled feelings. He did not know what to make of -it. Sometimes he returned to his original idea, that Edgar, in -compassion of his poverty, was about to make a post for him on the -estate—to give him something to do, probably with some fantastic idea -that to be paid for his work would be more agreeable to Arthur than to -receive an allowance. “He need not trouble,” Arthur said to himself. “I -have no objection to an allowance. He owes it me, by Jove.” And then he -strolled into the library, which was in painful good order, bearing no -trace of the vigils of the previous night. He sat down,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> and wrote his -letters on the old Squire’s paper, in the old Squire’s seat. The paper -suited him exactly, the place suited him exactly. He raised his eyes and -looked over the park, and felt that, too, to be everything he could -desire. And yet a fickle fortune, an ill-judging destiny, had given it -to Edgar instead.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Edgar</span> was thankful for the morning air, the freshness of the breeze, the -quietness of the world outside, where there was nobody to look curiously -at him—nobody to speak to him. It was the first moment of calm he had -felt since the discovery of last night, although he had been alone in -his room for three or four hours, trying to sleep. Now there was no -effort at all required of him—neither to sleep, nor to talk, nor to -render a reason. He was out in the air, which caressed him with -impartial sweetness, never asking who he was; and the mere fact that he -was out of doors made it impossible for him to write anything or read -anything, as he might have otherwise thought it his duty to do. He went -on slowly, taking the soft air, the fluttering leaves, the gleams of -golden sunshine, all the freshness of the morning, into his very heart. -Oh, how good nature was, how kind, caressing a man and refreshing him, -however unhappy he might be! But the curious thing in all this was, that -Edgar was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> unhappy. He did not himself make any classification of -his feelings, nor was he aware of this fact. But he was not unhappy: he -was in pain: he felt like a man upon whom a great operation has been -performed, whose palpitating flesh has been shorn away or his bones -sawed asunder by the surgeon’s skilful torture. The great shock tingles -through his whole system, affects his nerves, occupies his thoughts, is -indeed the one subject to which he finds himself ever and ever -recurring; and yet does not go so deep as to affect the happiness of his -life or the tranquillity of his mind. Perhaps Edgar did not fully -realise what it was which had fallen upon him. He was tingling, -suffering, torn asunder with pain; and yet he was quite calm. Any trifle -would have pleased him. He was so wounded, so sore, so bleeding, that he -had not time to look any further and be unhappy. The question what he -should do had not yet entered his mind. In the meantime he was gladly -silent, taking rest after the operation he had gone through.</p> - -<p>He went down to the village vaguely, like a man in a dream. When he got -to the great gate he asked himself, with a sort of curious wonder and -interest, Should he go and tell Mr. Fielding—resolve all the Doctor’s -doubts for ever? But decided no, because he was too tired. Besides, he -had not made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> up his mind what was to be done. He had not fully realised -it—he had only felt the blow, and the rending, tearing pain—and now -the hush after the operation, his veins still tingling, his flesh -palpitating, but some soft opiate giving him a momentary, sweet -forgetfulness of his suffering. Sufferers who have taken a very strong -opiate often feel as Edgar did, especially if it does not bring sleep, -but only a strange insensibility, an unexplainable trance of relief. He -walked on and on, and he did not think. The thing had happened, the -knife had come down; but the shearing and rending were past, and he was -quiet. He was able to say nothing, think nothing—only to wait. At the -present moment this was all.</p> - -<p>And then he went down in his dream to the cottage where Jeanie was. As -the women curtseyed to him at their doors, and the school-children made -their little bobs, he asked himself, why? Would they do it if they knew? -What would the village think? How would the information be received? -Those Pimpernels, for instance, who had turned Arthur Arden out, how -would they take it? Somehow, Edgar felt as if he himself had changed -with Arthur Arden. It was he, he thought, who had become the poor -cousin—he who was the one disinherited. We say he thought, but he did -not really<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> think; it was but the upper line of fancy in his mind—the -floating surface to his thoughts. Though he had not made up his mind to -any course of action, and was not even capable of thinking, yet at the -same time he felt disposed to stop and speak to everybody, and say -certain words of explanation. What could he say? You are making a -mistake. This is not me; or, rather, I am not the person you take me -for. Was that what he ought to say? And he smiled once more that curious -smile, in which a certain pathetic humour mingled. “Who am I?” he said -to himself. “What am I?—a man without a name.” It gave him a strange, -wild, melancholy amusement. It was part of the effect of the laudanum; -and yet he had not taken any laudanum. His opiate was only the great -pain, the sleepless night—the sudden softening, calming influence of -the fresh day.</p> - -<p>“She’s opened her eyes once,” said Mrs. Hesketh, at the cottage door. -“You don’t think much of that, sir; but it’s a deal. She opened her -eyes, and put out her hand, and said, ‘Granny!’ Oh, it’s a deal, sir, is -that! The Doctor is as pleased as Punch; and as for t’oud dame——”</p> - -<p>“Is she pleased?” said Edgar.</p> - -<p>“I don’t understand her, sir,” said the woman; “it looks to me as if she -was a bit touched”—and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> here Mrs. Hesketh laid her finger on her own -forehead. “Husht! she’ll hear. She won’t take a morsel of rest, won’t -t’oud dame. I canna think how she lives; but, bless you! she’s got -somethin’ else on her mind—something more than Jinny. I’m a’most -sure—— Lord! I’ve spoke below my breath, but she’s heard us, and she’s -coming here.”</p> - -<p>“Will you watch my bairn ten minutes, while I speak to the gentleman?” -said Mrs. Murray. “Eh! I hope you’ll be blessed and kept from a’ evil, -for you’re a good woman—you’re a good woman. Aye, she’s better. She’ll -win through, as I always said. We’ve grand constitutions in our family. -Oh, my bonnie lad! it’s a comfort to me to see your face.”</p> - -<p>Edgar must have started slightly at this address, for the old woman -started too, and looked at him with a bewildered air. “What did I say?” -she asked. “Mr. Edgar, I’ve sleepit none for three nights. My heart has -been like to burst. I’m worn out—worn out. If I said something that -wasna civil, I beg your pardon. It is not always quite clear to me what -I say.”</p> - -<p>“You said no harm,” said Edgar. “You have always spoken kindly, very -kindly, to me—more kindly than I had any right to. And I hope you will -continue to think of me kindly, for I am not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> very cheerful just now, -nor are my prospects very bright——”</p> - -<p>“<i>Your</i> prospects no bright!” Mrs. Murray looked round to see that no -one was near, and then she came out upon the step, and closed the -cottage door behind her, and came close up to him. “Tell me what’s wrong -with you—oh, tell me what’s wrong with you!” she said, with an eager -anxiety, which was too much in earnest to pause or think whether such a -request was natural. Then she stopped dead short, recollecting—and went -on again with very little interval, but with a world of changed meaning -in her voice. “Many a one has come to me in their trouble,” she said. -“It’s <i>that</i> that makes me ask—folk out of my ain rank like you. Whiles -I have given good advice, and whiles—oh! whiles I have given bad; but -its that that makes me ask. Dinna think it’s presumption in me.”</p> - -<p>“I never thought it was presumption,” said Edgar; and there came upon -him the strongest, almost irresistible, impulse to tell what had -happened to him to this poor old woman at the cottage door. Was he -growing mad too?—had his misfortune and excitement been too much for -him? He smiled feebly at her, as he bewildered himself with this -question. “If I cannot tell you now, I will afterwards,” he said; and -lingered, not saying any more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> Her keen eyes investigated him while he -stood so close to her. His fresh colour was gone, and the frank and open -expression of his face. He was very pale; there were dark lines under -his eyes; his mouth was firmly closed, and yet it was tremulous with -feeling repressed and restrained. Alarm and a look of partial terror -came into Mrs. Murray’s face.</p> - -<p>“Tell me, tell me!” she cried, grasping his arm.</p> - -<p>“There is nothing to tell, my good woman,” he said, and turned away.</p> - -<p>She fell back a step, and opened the door which she had held closed -behind her. Her face would have been a study to any painter. Deep -mortification and wounded feeling were in it—tears had come to her -eyes. Edgar noticed nothing of all this, because he was fully occupied -with his own affairs, and had no leisure to think of hers; and had he -noticed it, his perplexity would have been so intense that he could have -made nothing of it. He stood, not looking at her at all—gone back into -his own thoughts, which were engrossing enough.</p> - -<p>“Ay,” she said, “that’s true—I’m but your good woman—no your friend -nor your equal that might be consulted. I had forgotten that.”</p> - -<p>But Edgar had given her as much attention as he was capable of giving -for the moment, and did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> not even remark the tone of subdued bitterness -with which she spoke. He roused himself a little as she retired from -him. “I hope you are comfortable,” he said; “I hope no one annoys you, -or interferes. The woman of the house——”</p> - -<p>“There she is,” said Mrs. Murray, and she made him a solemn little -curtsey, and was gone before he could say another word. He turned, -half-bewildered, from the door, and found himself face to face with -Sally Timms, who felt that her opportunity had come.</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to be disagreeable, sir,” said Sally, without a moment’s -pause. “I never was one that would do a nasty trick. It aint your fault, -nor it aint her fault, nor nobody’s fault, as Jinny is there. But not to -give no offence, Squire, I’d just like to know if I am ever going to get -back to my own little ’ouse?”</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry, Sally,” Edgar began, instinctively feeling for his -purse.</p> - -<p>“There’s no call to be sorry, sir,” said Sally; “it aint nobody’s fault, -as I say, and it aint much of a house neither; but it’s all as I have -for my little lads, to keep an ’ome. A neighbour has took me in,” said -Sally; “an’ it’s a sign as I have a good name in the place, when folks -is ready o’ all sides to take me in. And the little lads is at the West<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> -Lodge. But I can’t be parted from my children for ever and ever. Who’s -to look to them if their mother don’t? Who’s to see as their faces are -clean and their clothes mended? Which they do tear their clothes and -makes holes in their trousers enough to break your heart—and nothing -else to be expected from them hearty little lads.”</p> - -<p>“I will give you any rent you like to put on your house,” said Edgar, -with his purse in his hand. “I wish I could make poor Jeanie better, and -give you your cottage back; but I can’t. Tell me your price, and I will -give it to you. I am very sorry you have been disturbed.”</p> - -<p>“It aint that, sir,” said Sally, with her apron to her eyes. “Glad am I -and ’appy to be useful to my fellow-creetures. It aint that. She shall -stay, and welcome, and all my bits o’ things at her service. I had once -a good ’ome, Squire; and many a thing is there—warming-pans, and -toasting-forks, and that—as you wouldn’t find in every cottage. Thank -ye, sir; I won’t refuse a shillin’ or two, for the little lads; but it -wasn’t that. If you please, Squire——”</p> - -<p>“What is it?” said Edgar, who was getting weary. The day began to pall -upon him, though it was as fresh and sweet as ever. The influence of -that opiate began to wear out. He felt himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> incapable of bearing any -longer this dismal stream of talk in his ears, or even of standing still -to listen. “What is it? Make haste.”</p> - -<p>“If you please,” said Sally, “old John Smith, at the gate on the common, -he’s dead this morning, sir. It’s a lonesome place, but I don’t mind -that. The little lads ’ud have a long way to come to school, but I don’t -mind that; does them good, sir, and stretches their legs so long’s -they’re little. If you would think of me for the gate on the common—a -poor decent widow-woman as has her children’s bread to earn—if ye -please, Squire.”</p> - -<p>A sudden poignant pang went through Edgar’s heart. How he would have -laughed at such a petition yesterday! He would have told Sally to ask -anything else of him—to be made Rector of the parish, or Lord -Chancellor—and he would have thrown that sovereign into her lap and -left her. But now he thought nothing of Sally. The lodge on the common! -He had as much right to give away the throne of England, or to appoint -the Prime Minister. A sigh which was almost a groan burst from his -heart. He poured out the contents of his purse into his hands and gave -them to her, not knowing what the coins were. “Don’t disturb Jeanie,” he -said, incoherently, and rushed past her without another word. The lodge -on the common!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> It occurred to Edgar, in the mere sickness of his heart, -to go round there—why, he could not have told. He went on like the -wind, not heeding Sally’s cry of wonder and thanks. The morning clouds -had all blown away from the blue sky, and the scorching sun beat down -upon his head. His moment of calm after the operation was past.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Edgar</span> walked on and on, through the village, over the perfumy common, -which lay basking in the intense unbroken sunshine. All the mossy nooks -under the gorse bushes were warm as nests which the bird has just -quitted—the seedpods were cracking under the heat, all the sweet scents -of the wild, mossy, heathery, aromatic bit of heath were coming out—the -insects buzzing, every leaf of the vegetation thrilling under the power -of the sunshine. He went straight across the common, disregarding the -paths, through gorse and juniper bushes, and tufts of bracken, and beds -of heather. He did not see and he did not care. The lodge was two miles -away along a road which was skirted on either side by the lingering -half-reclaimed edges of the heath—and if the walk had been undertaken -with the intention of making a survey of the beauties of Arden, it could -not have been better chosen. The lodge on the common was just within the -enclosure of the park. Its windows commanded the long, purple-green -stretch of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> heath, with the spire of Arden church rising over it in the -distance, and a white line of road, on which were few passengers; but -the lodge windows were closed that morning. The hot sun beat on them in -vain—old eyes which for fifty years had contemplated that same -landscape were now closed upon it for ever. John Smith had been growing -old when he went to the lodge; he had been there before the old Squire’s -time, having known him a boy. He had lived into Edgar’s time, and was -proud of his hundred years. “I can’t expect to see e’er another young -Squire,” he had said the last time Edgar had seen him. “Don’t you -flatter me. Short o’ old Parr, and them folks in the Bible, I don’t know -none as has gone far over the hunderd; but I don’t say but what I’d like -to see another young Squire.” The words came back into Edgar’s mind as -he paused. He knocked softly at the cottage door, and took off his hat -when the daughter, herself an old woman, steady and self-possessed, as -the poor are in their deepest grief, came to the door. “Will you come in -and look at him, sir,” she said; and her look of disappointment when he -said no, went to Edgar’s heart, full as it was of his own concerns. He -turned back, and went in, and looked with awe upon the old, old worn -face, which he remembered all his life. That wrinkled pallid countenance -might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> have been a thousand years old, instead of only a hundred. Only a -hundred! And poor old John, too, in his time had known troubles such as -make years of days. One son had gone for a soldier, and been killed -“abroad;” another had been the victim of an accident in the Liverpool -docks, and was a cripple for life; another had “gone to the bad;” and -there was a daughter, too, who had “gone to the bad”—landmarks enough -to portion out the life of any man. Yet there he lay, so quiet after -all, having shaken it off at last. Edgar, in his youth, in the first -terrible shock of a misfortune which seemed to throw every other -misfortune into the shade, looked at the remains of his old, old servant -with a thrill of awe. Do your best for a hundred years, suffer your -worst, take God’s will patiently, go on working and working: and at the -end this—this and no more. “He’s got to his rest now, sir,” said the -daughter, putting up her apron to her eyes which shed few tears—“we -didn’t ought to grumble nor to cry; and I try not. He’s safe now is -t’oud man. He’s with mother and the little ones as died years ago. I -can’t think as I’ll know ’em when I get there. It’s so long ago, and I’m -so old mysel’, they’d never think it was me. But I’ll know father, and -father will tell them. I can’t help cryin’ now and again, but I canno’ -grudge that he’s got to his rest.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span></p> - -<p>Edgar went out of the house hushed for the moment in all his fever of -wild thoughts. Rest! He himself did not want rest. He was too young, too -ardent, too full of life to think of it as desirable; but anyhow there -was an end to everything: an end—and perhaps a new beginning elsewhere. -His mind was a religious mind, and his nature was not one to which real -doubts concerning the unseen were possible. But there is something in a -great mental shock which unsettles all foundations. At all events, -whatever else there might be in life, there was an end—and perhaps a -new beginning. And yet what if a man had to work on through all the -perplexities of this sick and vexed world for a hundred years?—a world -in which you never know who you are, nor what—where all in a moment you -may be thrust out of the place you believed you were born in, and your -life, all torn across and twisted awry, made to begin anew. How often -might a man have to begin anew?—until at last there came that End.</p> - -<p>He walked along through the woods not consciously remarking anything, -and yet noting unconsciously how all the big trunks gleamed in the -sunshine, the silvery white lines of the young birches, the happy hush -and rustle among the branches. Was it sound, or was it silence? The -leaves twinkled in the light, which seemed to fill<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span> all their veins with -joy, and yet they said Hush, hush! at their highest rapture. Hush, hush! -said all nature, except here and there a dry bough which cracked under -the flying feet of rabbit or squirrel, a broken branch or a pine cone -that fell. The dying, the falling, the injured, and broken, sent harsh, -undertones into the harmony; but the living and prospering whispered -Hush! Did this thought pass articulately through the young man’s mind as -he threaded these woodland paths? No; some broken shadow of it, a kind -of rapid suggestion—no more; and moment by moment his painful thoughts -recurred more and more to himself.</p> - -<p>What was he to do? It was not the wealth of Arden, or even the beauty of -Arden, or the rank he had held as its master, or any worldly advantage -derived from it that wrung his heart to think of—— All these had their -share of pain apart from the rest. The first and master pang was this, -that he was suddenly shaken out of his place, out of his rank, out of -that special niche in the world which he had supposed himself born to -fill. He was cast adrift. Who was he? what was he? what must he do? At -Arden there were quantities of things to do. He had entered upon the -work with more absolute pleasure, than he had felt in the mere enjoyment -of the riches and power connected with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> it. It was work he could do. He -felt that he had penetrated its secrets, held its key in his hand; and -now to discover that it was not his work at all—that it was the work of -a man who would not do it, who would never think of it, never care for -it. This thought overwhelmed him as he went through the wood. It came -upon him suddenly, without warning, like a great thunderbolt. The work -was to be transferred to a man who would not do it—whose influence -would be not for good but for evil in the place. And nobody knew—— -Hush, hush! oh, heavens, silence it! fresh breeze, blow it away! Nobody -knew—nobody but one, who had vowed never to betray, never to say a -syllable—one whose loss would be as great as his own. There was so much -that could be done for Arden—the people and the place had such powers -of development in them. There was land to be reclaimed, fit to grow seed -and bread; there were human creatures to be helped and delivered; a -thousand and a thousand things came into his mind, some great and some -small—trees to be planted even—and what Arthur Arden would do would be -to cut down the trees; cottages to be built—and what would he care for -the poor, either physically or morally? If Arden could speak, would not -it cry to heaven to be kept under the good rule of the impostor, and -saved from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> the right heir? And then the race which had been so proud, -how would it be covered with shame!—the house which had wrapped itself -up in high reserve, how would its every weakness be exposed to the -light! And up to this time nobody knew—— The good name of the Ardens -might be preserved, and the welfare of the estate, and every end of real -justice served—by what? Putting a few old papers into the fire. Clare -had nearly done it last night by the flame of her candle. God bless -Clare! And she, too, would have to be given up if everything else was -given up—he would no longer have a sister. His name, his work, his -domestic affections—everything he had in the world—all at the mercy of -a lit taper or a spark of fire! If Arden was to be burnt down, for -instance—such things have been—if at any time in all these years it -had been burnt down, or even the wing which contained the library, or -even the bureau in that room—no one would ever have known that there -was any doubt about the succession. Ah, if it had happened so! What a -strange, devilish malice it was to lock it up there, to throw confusion -and temptation upon two lives! Was it Squire Arden’s spirit, vindictive -and devilish, which had led Clare to that packet? But no (Edgar thought -in the wandering of his mind), it could not be Squire Arden; for Clare, -too, would be a sufferer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span> He saw now, so well and clearly, why he had -been made to consent to the arrangement which gave Old Arden to Clare. -Clare was of the Arden blood; whereas he——</p> - -<p>And then it occurred to him to wonder who he was. Not an Arden! But he -must be some one’s son—belong to some family—probably have brothers -and sisters. And for ever and ever give up Clare!—Clare, his only -sister—the sole being in the world to whom from childhood his heart had -turned. Already he no longer ventured to touch, no longer called her by -her name. He had lost his sister; and no other in the world could ever -be so sweet.</p> - -<p>Edgar’s mind was gradually drained of courage and life as he went on. -How was he to do it? It was not money or position, but himself and his -life he would have to give up. How could he do it? Whereas, it was easy, -so easy to have a fire kindled in his bedroom, or even a candle—— They -had been almost burned already. If they had been burned he never would -have known. Nobody would have been the wiser; and yet he would have been -an impostor all the same. And as for Arthur Arden, he should share -everything—everything he pleased. He should have at least half the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span>income now, and hereafter all—— Yes; Edgar knew that such -arrangements had been made. He himself might pledge himself not to -marry; but then he thought of Gussy Thornleigh, and this time felt the -blow so overpower him that he stopped short, and leant against a tree to -recover himself. Gussy, whom he was to speak to to-morrow. Oh, good -heavens!—just heavens!—was ever innocent man so beset! It is easy to -speak of self-sacrifice; but all in a moment, in the twinkling of an -eye, that a man should give up name, home, living, his position, his -work, his very existence, his sister, and his bride—all because Squire -Arden who was dead was a damned accursed villain; and that Squire Arden -who was alive might squander so much money, spoil so many opportunities -of valiant human service! Good God! was ever innocent man so beset!</p> - -<p>And then, as he went on thinking, the horror of it overpowered him more -and more. Most men when they are in trouble preserve the love of those -who are dear to them—nay, have it lavished upon them, to make up for -their suffering, even when their suffering is their own fault. But Edgar -would have to relinquish all love—even his sister’s—and it was no -fault of his. No unborn babe could be more innocent than he was of any -complicity in the deception. He had been its victim all his life; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> -now that he had escaped from its first tyranny, must he be a greater -victim still—a more hopeless sacrifice? Oh, God, what injustice! What -hateful and implacable tyranny!</p> - -<p>And the flame of a candle would set everything right again—a momentary -spark, the scented, evanescent gleam with which he lit his cigar—the -cigar itself falling by chance on the papers. And were there not a -hundred such chances occurring every day? Less than that had been known -to sweep a young, fair, blooming, beloved creature, for whose sweet life -all the estates in the world would not be an equivalent, out of the -world. And yet no spark fell to burn up those pieces of paper which -would cost Edgar everything that made life dear. He had been standing -all this while against the trunk of the tree, pondering and pondering. -He was startled by a gamekeeper passing at a distance, who took off his -hat respectfully to his master. His master? Couldn’t the fellow see? -Edgar felt a strong momentary inclination to call out to him—No; not to -me. I have no right to your obeisance, not much right even to your -respect. I am an impostor—a man paltering with temptation. Should he -break the charmed whispering silence, and shout these words out to the -winds, and deliver his soul for ever? No. For did not the leaves and -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> winds and the tender grass and the buzzing insects unite in one -voice—Hush! Hush! Hush! Such was the word which Nature kept whispering, -whispering in his ear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> state of affairs at Arden on this strange day was very perplexing to -Arthur. Clare did not make her appearance even at dinner, but there were -sounds of going and coming on the stairs, and at one time Arthur could -have sworn he heard the voice of Edgar at his sister’s door. She was -well enough to see her brother, though not to come downstairs. And among -the letters which were brought down to be put into the post-bag surely -there was more than one in her handwriting. She had been able to carry -on her correspondence, then; consequently the illness must be a feint -altogether to avoid him, which was not on the whole flattering to his -feelings. Arthur felt himself, as he was, in a very undignified -position. He had experienced a good many humiliations of late. He had -been made to feel himself not at all so captivating, not so -sought-after, as he had once been. The Pimpernels had ejected him; and -here were his cousins, his nearest relations—two chits who might almost -be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> his own children, and who ought to have been but too happy to have a -man of his experience with them, a man so qualified to advise and guide -them—here were they shutting themselves up in mysterious chambers, -whispering together, and transacting their business, if they had any -business, secretly, that he might not be of the party! It was not -wonderful that this should be galling to him. He resented it bitterly. -What! shut him out from their concerns, pretend illness, whisper and -concert behind his back! He was not a man, he reflected, to thrust -himself into anybody’s private affairs; and surely the business might -have been put off, whatever it was, or they might have managed somehow -to keep it out of his sight if he was not intended to see it; whereas -this transparent and, indeed, vulgar device thrust it specially under -his eye. In the course of his reflections it suddenly flashed upon his -mind that such conduct could only proceed from the fact that what they -were occupied about was something which concerned himself. They were -laying their heads together, perhaps, to be of service to him—to “do -him good.” There was never man so careless yet but the thought that -somebody wished to do him good was gall to him. What they intended, -probably, was to make him Edgar’s agent on the estate. It would be -earning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> his bread honestly, doing something for his living—a step -which had often been pressed upon him. He would be left at Arden, -guardian of the greatness and the wealth of a property which he was -never to enjoy, making the best of the estate for Edgar’s benefit; -seeing him come and go, enjoying his greatness; while his poor kinsman -earned an honest living by doing his work! By Jove! Arthur Arden said to -himself; it was a very likely idea, this of the agentship—nothing could -have been more natural, more suitable. It was just the sort of thing to -have occurred to such a mind as Edgar’s, who was naturally fond of -occupation, and who would have been his own agent with pleasure. If the -truth were known, no doubt Edgar thought he was making a little -sacrifice by arranging all this for his cousin. Confound him! Arthur -said. And if such an idea had actually entered Edgar’s mind, this would -have been his reward.</p> - -<p>After dinner he went out into the Park to smoke his cigar. It was a -lovely night, and strolling about in the fresh evening air was better -than being shut up in a melancholy room without a creature near him to -break the silence. He took a long walk, and finally came back to the -terrace round the house. The favourite side of the terrace was that -which lay in front of the drawing-room<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> windows; but the terrace itself -ran quite round Arden to the flower garden behind, which it joined on -the two sides. In mere wantonness Arthur extended his stroll all the way -round, which was an unfrequent occurrence. On the darkest side, where -the terrace was half-obscured by encroaching trees, he saw a glimmer of -light in some windows on the ground-floor. They were the windows of the -library, he perceived after a while, and they were partially open—that -is to say, the windows themselves were open, but the shutters closed. As -Arthur strolled along passing them, he was attracted by the sound of -voices. He stopped; his own step was inaudible on the grass, even if the -speakers within had ever thought of danger. He paused, hesitated a -moment, listened, and heard the sound more distinctly; then, after a -moment’s debate with himself, went up to the nearest window. There was -no moonlight; the night was dark, and the closest observer even from -without could scarcely have seen him. He threw his cigar away, and after -another pause seated himself on the stone sill of the window. A great -bush of clematis which clung about one side hid him in its fragrant -bower. He could have escaped in a moment, and no one would have been the -wiser; and the moths buzzed in over his head to the light, and the sound -of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> two voices came out. It was Clare and Edgar who were -talking—Clare, who had been shut up in her room all day, who was too -ill to come downstairs; but she had come down now, and was talking with -the utmost energy—a tone in which certainly there was no appearance of -failing strength. It was some time before he could make out more than -the voices, but indignation and despite quickened his ears. The first, -whose words he could identify, was Clare.</p> - -<p>“Look here,” she said, advancing, as would seem, nearer to the window, -and speaking with an animation very unlike her ordinary tones. “Look -here, Edgar! My father himself meant to burn them. Oh, that I should -have to speak so of poor papa! But I acknowledge it. He has been wicked, -cruel! I don’t want to defend him. Yet he meant to burn them, you can -see.”</p> - -<p>“But did not,” said Edgar. “He did not; that is answer enough. Why, -having taken all this trouble, and burdened his soul with a crime, he -should have left behind the means of destroying his own work, heaven -knows! Probably he thought I would find it, and conceal it for -self-interest; but yet carry the sting of it for ever. I have been -thinking long on the subject: that is what he must have meant.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, Edgar!” said Clare.</p> - -<p>“That must have been his intention. I can see no other. He must have -thought there was no doubt that I would in my turn carry on the crime. -How strangely one man judges another! It was devilish, though. I don’t -want to hurt your feelings, but it was devilish. After having bound me, -as he thought, by every bond to keep his secret, he would have thrust -upon me the guilt too!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Edgar, Edgar!” Clare said, with a moan of pain. From the sound of -the voices Arthur gathered that Edgar must be seated somewhere near the -table, while Clare walked about the room in her agitation. Her voice -came, now nearer, now farther from the window, and it may be supposed -with what eager interest the eavesdropper listened. He would not have -done it had there been time to think, or at least so he persuaded -himself afterwards. But for anything he knew his dearest interests might -be involved, and every word was important to him. A long silence -followed—so long, that he thought all had come to an end, and with an -intense sense of being mocked and tantalised, was about to get up and -steal away, when he was recalled once more by the voice of Clare.</p> - -<p>“It was I who found them,” she said, “where I had no right to look. It -was for you to say whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> these papers should have been disturbed or -not. I thrust myself among them, having no right: therefore I ought to -be heard now. Edgar, listen to me! If you make them public, think of the -scandal, the exposure! Think of our name dragged in the dust, and the -house you have been brought up in—the house that is yours—— Listen to -me! Oh, Edgar! are you going to throw away your life? It is not your -fault. You are innocent of everything. You would never have known if my -father had had the justice to destroy these papers—if I had not had the -unpardonable, the horrible levity of finding them out. If you will not -do what I ask you to do, I will never, never forgive myself all my life. -I will feel that I have been the cause. Edgar! you never refused to -listen to me before.”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said. The voice was farther off, and Arthur Arden had to bend -forward close to the window to hear at all, but even then could not be -insensible to the thrill of feeling that was in it. “No; but you never -counselled me to do wrong before. Never! You have been like an angel to -me—— Clare.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause between the preceding words and the name, as if he had -difficulty in pronouncing it; but this was wholly unintelligible to -Arthur,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> whose worst suspicions fell so much short of the truth.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no,” she said: “do not speak to me so, Edgar. This has shown me -what I am. I have been more like a devil. I have nothing but pride, and -ill-temper, and suspicion to look back upon. Nothing, nothing else! -Remember, I might have burned them myself. If I had been worthy to live, -if I had been fit for my place in this house, if I had been such a woman -as some are—my father’s daughter—your sister, Edgar—I should have -burned them myself.”</p> - -<p>“My—sister,” he cried, with again a pause, and in a softened tremulous -tone. “That is the worst; that is the worst! What are you doing, Clare?”</p> - -<p>“My duty now,” she said wildly, “to him and to you!”</p> - -<p>Then there was a pause. Arthur Arden would have given everything he -possessed in the world for the power of looking inside—but he dared -not. He sat on the window-sill with all his faculties concentrated in -his ears. What was she doing? There was some movement in the room, but -sounds of gentle feet upon a Turkey carpet betray little. The first -thing audible was a broken sobbing cry from Clare.</p> - -<p>“Let me do it! I will go down on my knees to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> you. I will bless you for -it, Edgar! Edgar! You will be more my brother than ever you were in my -life!”</p> - -<p>Another silence—nothing but the sobbing of intense excitement and a -faint rustle as if the girl worn out had thrown herself into a chair; -and then a sound of the rustling and folding of paper. Oh, if he could -but see! The half-closed shutter jarred a little, moved by the wind; and -Arthur, roused, found a little chink, the slenderest crevice by which he -could see in. All that he saw was Edgar sealing a packet. The wax fell -upon it unsteadily, showing emotion which was not otherwise visible in -his look. Then he wrote some name upon the packet, and put it in the -breast-pocket of his coat.</p> - -<p>“There it is,” he said cheerfully; “I have directed it to Mr. Fazakerly, -and that settles the whole business. We must not struggle any more about -it. Do you think I have had no temptation in the matter? Do you think I -have got through without a struggle? The Thornleighs came back -to-day—and to-morrow I was going to Thorne to ask her to be my wife.”</p> - -<p>When he said these words, Edgar for the moment overcome with his -conflict, dropped his head upon his hands and covered his face. All the -levity, all the ease and secondary character of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> feelings towards -Gussy had disappeared now. He felt the pang of giving up this sweetness -as he had not yet felt anything. All rushed upon him at once—all the -overwhelming revelations he had to make. Edgar was brave, and he had -kept the thought at bay. But now—Gussy, Clare, himself—all must -go—every love he had any right to, or any hope of—every companionship -that had ever been his, or that he had expected to become his—“Oh God!” -he said in the depths of his overthrow. It was the first cry that had -come from his lips.</p> - -<p>Arthur Arden, peering in, saw Clare go to him and throw her arms round -him and press his bowed head against her breast. He saw her weep over -him, plead with him in all the force of passion. “Give it to me; give it -to me; give it to me!” she cried, with the reiteration of violent -emotion. “You will make me the most miserable creature on earth. You -will take every pleasure out of my life.”</p> - -<p>“Hush, hush!” he said softly, “Hush! we must make an end of this. Come -and breathe the air outside? After all, what is it? An affair of a day. -To-morrow or next day we shall have made up our minds to it; and the -world cares so little one way or another. Come out with me and take -breath, Clare.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span></p> - -<p>“I cannot, I cannot,” she cried. “What do I care for air or anything. -Edgar, for the last time, stop and think.”</p> - -<p>“I have thought till my brain is turning,” said Edgar, rising and -drawing her arm within his to the infinite alarm of the listener, who -transferred himself noiselessly to the other side of the great clematis -bush, which fortunately for him grew out of a great old rose tree which -was close against the wall. “For the last time, there is nothing to -think about. It is decided now, and for ever.”</p> - -<p>And immediately a gleam of light fell upon the window-sill where the -false kinsman had been listening; and the brother and sister came out, -she leaning closely on his arm. They took the other direction, to the -spy’s intense relief; but the last words he heard inflicted torture upon -him as the two passed out of sight and hearing; they were these: “Arthur -Arden loves you, Clare.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Well</span>! He had listened—he had disgraced himself—he was humbled in his -own eyes, and would be lost in Clare’s, should she ever find it out. And -what had he made by it? He had discovered that Edgar had discovered -something, which Clare would fain have destroyed—something which -evidently affected them both deeply, and to which they gave a probably -exaggerated importance. That was all. Whether it was anything that could -affect himself he had not found out—not a word had been said to throw -any light upon the mystery. The two knew what it was themselves, and -they did not stop in their conversation to give any description of it -for the benefit of the listener. Such things are done only by people on -the stage. The eavesdropper in this case was none the wiser. He was much -excited by the allusions he had heard. His faculties were all wound up -to observe and note everything. But his knowledge of the world made him -incredulous. After the first thrill of excitement—after the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> intense -apprehension and shame with which he watched them disappear into the -night, when he began seriously to think the matter over, he did not find -in it, it must be said, any encouragement to his hopes. Arthur Arden -knew the definite suspicion which all the circumstances of Edgar’s life -had raised in many minds, and at a very recent time he had seriously -nourished a hope of himself finding among the Squire’s papers something -which should brand the Squire’s heir with illegitimacy, and prove that -he was no Arden at all, though the offspring of Squire Arden’s wife. -Only the other day he had entertained this thought. But now, when it -would seem that some such papers had been found, the futility of it -struck him as nothing had ever done before. A posthumous accusation -would have no effect, he saw, upon the law. Squire Arden had never -disowned Edgar. He had given him his name, and acknowledged him as his -son, and no stigma that he could put upon him, now he was dead, could -counteract that acknowledgment. He smiled bitterly to think that he -himself could have been so very credulous as to believe it would; and he -smiled still more bitterly at the perturbation of these two young -people, and how soon Mr. Fazakerly would set their fears at rest. As -soon as they had disappeared, he stepped boldly into the library<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> by the -open window, and examined the place to see if perchance any relics were -left about, of which he could judge for himself; but there was nothing -left about. And he had nothing for it but to leave the library, and -retire to the drawing-room, of which for most of the evening he had been -the solitary inmate. Some time after the sound of windows closing, of -steps softly ascending the stairs, made it apparent that Edgar and Clare -had come in, and finally separated for the night; though nobody appeared -to disturb his solitude, except Wilkins, who came in and yawned, and -pretended to look if the lamps wanted trimming. But even when he retired -to his room it seemed to Arthur that he still heard stealthy steps about -the house and whispering voices. Disturbance was in the very air. The -wind rose in the night, and moaned and shivered among the trees. There -was a shutter somewhere, or an open door, which clanged all through the -night. This, and his suspicions and doubts, broke Arthur’s sleep; and -yet it was he who slept most soundly that night of all who bore his -name.</p> - -<p>In the morning, they all met at breakfast as on ordinary occasions. -Clare was so pale that no doubt could be thrown upon her illness of the -preceding day. She was as white as marble, and her great blue eyes -seemed enlarged and dilated, and shone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> with a wistful, tearful light, -profoundly unlike their ordinary calm. And her brother, too, was very -pale. He was carefully dressed, spoke very little, and had the air of a -man so absorbed in his thoughts as to be partially unaware what was -going on around him. But Clare let nothing escape. She watched her -cousin; she watched the servants; she watched Edgar’s lips, as it were, -lest any incautious word might escape them. When he spoke, she hurried -to interrupt him, repeating or suggesting what he was about to say. And -Arthur watched too with scrutiny scarcely less keen. He might have taken -it all for a fit of temper on her part had he not heard their -conversation last night. But now, though he felt sure no results would -follow which could affect him personally, his whole being was roused—he -was ready to catch the meaning out of any indication, however slight.</p> - -<p>It had been late before either the brother or sister appeared, to the -great dismay of Wilkins, who made many apologies to the neglected guest. -“I don’t know what’s come over them. I don’t indeed, sir,” Wilkins had -said, with lively disapproval in his tone. And the consequence was that -it was nearly eleven before breakfast—a mere pretence to both Edgar and -Clare, though their kinsman’s appetite was not seriously affected—was -over. Then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> Edgar rose from his chair, looking, if possible, paler than -ever, intensely grave and self-restrained. “I think I may go now,” he -said to Clare; “it is not too early. I should be glad to have it over.”</p> - -<p>“Let me speak to you first,” said Clare, looking at him with eyes that -grew bigger and bigger in their intense supplication. “Edgar, before you -go, and—— Let me speak to you first——”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said with a faint smile. “I am not going to put myself to that -test again. I know how hard it is to resist you. No, no.”</p> - -<p>“Just five minutes!” cried Clare. She ran out into the hall after him; -and Arthur, full of curiosity, rose too, and followed to the open door -of the dining-room. She took her brother’s arm, put her face close to -his ear, pleaded with him in a voice so low that Arthur could make out -nothing but many repetitions of the one word, “Wait;” to which Edgar -answered only by a shake of the head or tender melancholy look at her. -This went on till his horse was brought to the door. “No,” he said, “no, -dear; no, no,” smiling upon her with a smile more touching than tears; -and then he stooped and kissed her forehead. “For the last time,” he -said softly in her ear, “I will not venture to do this when I come -back.” It was a farewell—one of those first farewells which are almost -more poignant than the last<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span>—when imagination has fully seized the -misery to come, and dwells upon it, inflicting a thousand partings. -Arthur Arden, standing at the door behind, with his hands in his -pockets, could not hear these words; but he saw the sentiment of the -scene, and was filled with wonder. What did it mean? Was he going to run -away, the fool, because he had discovered that his mother had not been -immaculate? What harm would that do him—fantastic-romantic paladin? So -sure was Arthur now that it could not do any legal harm that he was -angry with this idiotic, unnecessary display. He could be none the -better for it—nobody could be any the better for it. Why, then, should -the Squire’s legal son and unquestionable heir make this ridiculous -fuss? It roused a suppressed rage in Arthur Arden’s breast.</p> - -<p>And Clare, seeing him watch, came back to the dining-room as her brother -rode away from the door. She restrained the despair that was creeping -over her, and came back to defy her kinsman. Though, what was the good -of defying him, when so soon, so very soon, there would be nothing to -conceal? She went back, however, restraining herself—meeting his eyes -of wonder with a blank look of resistance to all inquiry. “Has Edgar -gone off on a journey?” Arthur asked, with well-affected<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> simplicity. -“How strange he should have said nothing about it! Where has he gone?”</p> - -<p>“He has not gone on a journey,” said Clare.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon—your parting was so touching. I wish there was -somebody to be as sorry for me; but I might go to Siberia, and I don’t -think anyone would care.”</p> - -<p>“That is unfortunate,” said Clare. She was very defiant, anxious to try -her strength. For once more, even though all should be known this very -day, she would stand up for her brother—her brother! “But don’t you -think, Mr. Arden,” she said abruptly, “that such things depend very much -on one’s self? If <i>you</i> are not sorry to part with any one, it is -natural that people should not interest themselves about you.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder if the reverse holds,” said Arthur; and then he paused, and -made a rapid, very rapid review of the situation. If this was a mere -fantastical distress, as he believed, Clare had Old Arden and -(independent of feeling, which, in his circumstances, he was compelled -to leave out of the transaction) was of all people in the world the most -suitable for him; and if there was anything in it, it was he who was the -heir, and in such a case he could make no match which would so -conciliate the county and reconcile him with the general public.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> His -final survey was made, his conclusion come to in the twinkling of an -eye. He drew a chair near the one on which she had listlessly thrown -herself. “I wonder,” he repeated, softly, “if the reverse holds?—when -one loves dearly, has one always a light to hope for some kind feeling -in return?—if not love, at least compassion and pity, or regret?”</p> - -<p>“I do not know what you are talking of,” said Clare, wearily. “I don’t -think I am equal to discussion to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Not discussion,” he said, very gently. “Would you try and listen and -realise what I am talking about, Clare? It seems the worst moment I -could have chosen. You are anxious and disturbed about something——”</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, abruptly; “you are mistaken, Mr. Arden”—and then with -equal suddenness she broke down, and covered her face with her hands. -“Oh, yes, yes, I am anxious and full of trouble—full of trouble! Oh, if -you were a man I could trust in, that I dared talk freely to—— But you -will know it soon enough.”</p> - -<p>It was a moment at which everything must be risked. “What if I knew -it—or, at least, what if I guessed it already?” said Arthur, bending -over her. “Ah, Clare, how surprised you look! You were too innocent to -know; but there are many people<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> who have known that there was a danger -hanging over Edgar. You don’t suppose your father’s conduct to him could -have been noticed by everybody without there being some suspicion of the -cause?”</p> - -<p>Clare raised her face, quite bloodless and haggard, from her hands. She -looked at him with a look of awe and fear. “Then you knew it!” she said, -the words scarcely able to form themselves on her lips.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Arthur; “and for your consolation, Clare—though it should -be the reverse of consolation to me—I do not think he should fear. Such -things as these are very difficult to prove. The Squire never said a -word in his lifetime. I don’t know if any court of law would allow your -brother to prove his own illegitimacy—I don’t think they would. He has -no right to bring shame on his mother——”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” said Clare, looking at him suddenly with a certain -watchfulness rising in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I am entering on a subject I ought not to have entered upon,” he said. -“Forgive me; it was only because I wanted to tell you that I don’t think -Edgar has any just cause for fear. If you would only trust me, dearest -Clare. I should ask your pardon for saying that, too—but though you -should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> never think of me, never speak to me again, you are still my -dearest. Clare, you sent me away, and I could not tell why. Don’t send -me away now. I am a poor beggar, and you are a rich lady, and yet I love -you so well that I must tell you, whatever your opinion of me may be. -Couldn’t you trust me? Couldn’t you let me help you? You think I would -be Edgar’s enemy, but I would not. He should have everything else if he -left me you.”</p> - -<p>She looked up at him with a movement of wonder. Her eyes interrogated -him over and over. He had wounded her so much and so often—about -Jeanie—about the Pimpernels—about—— And yet, if he really meant -it—could it be possible that he was willing to leave Edgar everything, -to give him no trouble, if only she——? Was it a bargain she was going -to make? Ah, poor Clare! She thought so—she thought her impulse was to -buy her brother’s safety with her own, but at the same moment her heart -was fluttering, beating loud, panting to be given to him whom she loved -best. And yet she loved Edgar. To her own consciousness it was her -brother she was thinking most of now—and what a comfort it would be -thus to purchase Arthur’s promise not to harm him, and to trust -everything to Arthur! She wavered for an instant, with her mind full of -longing. Then her heart misgave her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> She had allowed him to take her -hands in his, and to kiss them; while she looked him in the face, with -eyes full of dumb inquiry and longing, asking him over and over again -was this true?</p> - -<p>“Stop, stop,” she said faintly; “if it was my own secret I would trust -you—if it was only me—— Oh, stop, stop! If you will say the same -to-morrow—when he has told you—then I will—— Oh, if I can survive it, -if I am able to say anything! Cousin Arthur, I am worn out; let me go -now.”</p> - -<p>“It is hard to let you go,” he said. “But, Clare, tell me again—if I -say the same to-morrow, after he has told me—you will——? Is that a -promise? You will listen to me—you will give me what I desire most in -the world—is it a promise, Clare?”</p> - -<p>“Let me go,” she said. “Oh, this is not a time to speak of—of our own -happiness, or our own concerns.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks for such words—thanks, thanks,” he cried, “I ask no more. -To-morrow—it is a bargain, Clare.”</p> - -<p>And thus she made her escape, half glad, half shocked that she could -think of anything but Edgar, and not half knowing what she had pledged -herself to. Neither did Arthur Arden know to what he had pledged -himself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Edgar</span> rode over the verdant country, wearily, languidly, with a heart -that for once was closed to its influence. He was tired of the whole -matter. It no longer seemed to him so dreadful a thing to give up Arden, -to part from all he cared for. If he could but be done with the pain of -it, get it over, have no more trouble. Agitation had worn him out. The -thought that he would have another day like yesterday to live through, -or perhaps more than one other day, filled his heart with a sick -impatience. Why could he not ride on to the nearest railway station, and -there take any train, going anywhere, and escape from the whole -business? The mere suggestion of this relief was so sweet to him that he -actually paused at the cross road which led to the railway. But he was -not the kind of man to make an escape. To leave the burthen on others -and save himself was the last thing he was likely to do. He touched his -horse unconsciously with his whip and broke into a gay canter on the -grassy border<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> of the road that led to Thorne. Coraggio! he cried to -himself. It would not last so long after all. He would leave no broken -bits of duty undone, no ragged edges to his past. A little pain more or -less, what did it matter? Honestly and dutifully everything must be -done; and, after all, the shame was not his. It was the honest part that -was his—the righting of wrong, the abolition of injustice. Strange that -it should be he, a stranger to the race, who had to do justice to the -Ardens! He was not one of them, and yet he had to act as their head, -royally making restitution, disposing of their destinies. He smiled a -painful smile as this thought crossed his mind. They were one of the -proudest families in England, and yet it fell to a nameless man, a man -most likely of no lineage at all, to set them right. If any forlorn -consolation was to be got out of it at all it was this.</p> - -<p>When Edgar was seen riding up the avenue at Thorne it made a commotion -in the house. Mary and Beatrice spied him from the window of the room -which had been their schoolroom, and where they still did their -practising and wrote their letters to their dearest friends. “Oh, there -is Edgar Arden coming to propose to Gussy!” cried Beatrice; and they -rushed to the window to have a look at him, and then rushed to the -drawing-room to warn the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> family. “Oh, mamma, oh, Gussy! here’s Edgar -Arden!” they cried. Lady Augusta looked up from her accounts with -composed looks. “Well, my dear children, I suppose none of us are much -surprised,” she said. Gussy, for her part, grew red with a warm glow of -rosy colour which suffused her throat and her forehead. “Poor, dear -boy!” she said to herself. He had not lost a moment. It was a little -past noon, not time for callers yet. He had not lost a moment. She -wondered within herself how it would come—if he would ask her to speak -to him alone in a formal way—if he would ask her mother—if he would -manage it as if by chance? And then what would he say? That question, -always so captivating to a girl’s imagination, was soon, very soon, to -be resolved. He would tell her he had loved her ever since he knew -her—he would tell her—— Gussy’s heart expanded and fluttered like a -bird. She would know so soon all about it; how much he cared for -her—everything he had to tell.</p> - -<p>But they were all shocked by his paleness when he came in. “What have -you been doing to yourself?” Gussy cried, who was the most impulsive. -“Have you been ill, Mr. Arden?” said sympathetic Ada. They were all -ready to gather about him like his sisters, to be sorry for him, and -adopt all his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> grievances, if he had any, with effusion. He felt himself -for the moment the centre of all their sympathies, and his hurt felt -deeper and more hopeless than it had ever done before.</p> - -<p>“I am not in the least ill,” he said, “and I have not been doing -anything to speak of; but Fortune has been doing something to me. Lady -Augusta, might I have half an hour’s talk with you, if it does not -disturb you? I have—something to say——”</p> - -<p>“Surely,” said Lady Augusta; and she closed her account-books and put -them back into her desk. He meant to take the formal way of doing it, -she supposed—a way not so usual as it used to be, but still very -becoming and respectful to the fathers and mothers. She hesitated, -however, a little, for she thought that most likely Gussy would like the -other method best. And she was not so much struck as her daughters were -by the change in his looks. Of course, he was a little excited—men -always are in such an emergency, more so than women, Lady Augusta -reflected; for when it comes to that a woman has made up her mind what -is to be the end of it, whereas the man never knows. These reflections -passed through her mind as she locked her desk upon the account-books, -thus giving him a little time to get by Gussy’s side if he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> preferred -that, and perhaps whisper something in her ear.</p> - -<p>But Edgar made no attempt to get by Gussy’s side. He stood where he had -stopped after shaking hands with them all, with a faint smile on his -face, answering the questions the girls put to him, but visibly waiting -till their mother was ready to give him the audience he had asked. “I -suppose I must go and put him out of his pain; how anxious he looks, the -foolish boy,” Lady Augusta whispered, as she rose, to her eldest -daughter. “Mamma, he looks as if he had something on his mind,” Ada -whispered back. “I know what he has on his mind,” said her mother gaily. -And then she turned round and added aloud, “Come, Mr. Arden, to my -little room where I scold my naughty children, and let us have our -talk.”</p> - -<p>The sisters, it must be said, were a little alarmed when Edgar was thus -led away. They came round Gussy and kissed her, and whispered courage. -As for the giddy young ones, they tried to laugh, though the solemnity -of the occasion was greater than they could have supposed possible. But -the others had no inclination to laugh. “It is only agitation, dear, not -knowing what your answer may be,” Ada said, though she did not feel any -confidence that it was so. “He should not have made so formal an affair<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> -of it,” said Helena; “That is what makes him look so grave.” Poor Gussy, -who was the most deeply concerned of all, cried. “I am sure there is -something the matter,” she said. The three eldest kept together in a -window, while Mary and Beatrice roved away in quest of some amusement to -fill up the time. And a thrill of suspense and excitement seemed to -creep over all the house.</p> - -<p>Edgar’s courage came back to him in some degree, as he entered Lady -Augusta’s little boudoir. Imagination had no longer anything to do with -it, the moment for action had come. He sat down by her in the dainty -little chamber, which was hung with portraits of all her children. Just -opposite was a pretty sketch of Gussy, looking down upon him with -laughing eyes. They were all there in the mother’s private sanctuary, -the girls who were her consolation, the boys who were her plague and her -delight. What a centre it was of family cares and anxieties! She turned -to him cheerfully as she took her chair. She was not in the least afraid -of what was coming. She had not even remarked as yet how much agitated -he was. “Well, Mr. Arden!” she said.</p> - -<p>“I have come to make a very strange confession to you,” said Edgar. “You -will think I am mad, but I am not mad. Lady Augusta, I meant to have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> -come to-day to ask you—— to ask if I might ask your daughter to be my -wife.”</p> - -<p>“Gussy?” said Lady Augusta, with the tears coming to her eyes. There was -something in his tone which she did not understand, but still his last -words were plain enough. “Mr. Arden, I don’t know what my child’s -feelings are,” she said; “but if Gussy is pleased I should be more than -content.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, stop, stop,” he said. “Don’t think I want you to commit -yourself—to say anything. Something has happened since then which has -torn my life in two—I cannot express it otherwise. I parted from you -happy in the thought that as Arden was so near and everybody so kind—— -But in the meantime I have made a dreadful discovery. Lady Augusta, I am -not Edgar Arden; I am an impostor—not willingly, God knows, not -willingly——”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Arden,” Lady Augusta said, loudly, in her consternation, “you are -dreaming—you are out of your mind. What do you mean?”</p> - -<p>“I said you would think I was mad. It looks like madness, does not it?” -said Edgar, with a smile, “but, unhappily, it is true. You remember how -my father—I mean Mr. Arden—always treated me?—how he kept me away -from home? I was not treated as his son ought to have been. I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> -never said a word on the subject, because I never doubted he was my -father—but I have the explanation now.”</p> - -<p>“Good God!” said Lady Augusta; she was so horror-stricken that she -panted for breath. But she too put upon the news the interpretation -which Arthur Arden put upon it. “Oh, Mr. Arden!” she cried, “don’t be so -ready to decide against your poor mother! A jealous man takes things -into his head which are mere madness. I knew her. I am sure she was not -a wicked woman. I am a mother myself, and why should I hesitate to speak -to you? Oh, my dear boy, don’t condemn your mother! Your father was a -proud suspicious man, and he might doubt her without cause. I believe he -doubted her without cause. What you have discovered must be some ravings -of jealousy. I would not believe it. I would not, whatever he may say!”</p> - -<p>And she put out her hand to him eagerly in her sympathy and indignation. -Edgar took it in his, and kissed the kind, warm, motherly hand.</p> - -<p>“Dear Lady Augusta,” he said, “how good you are! It is easier to tell -you now. There is no stigma upon—Mrs. Arden; that was one of the -attendant evils which have followed upon the greater crime. I am not her -son any more than I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> am her husband’s. I am a simple impostor. I have no -more to do with the Ardens than your servant has. I am false—all false; -a child adopted—nothing more.”</p> - -<p>“Good God!” said Lady Augusta once more. By degrees the reality of what -he was saying came upon her. His face so pale, yet so full of lofty -expression; his eyes that gleamed and shone as he spoke; the utter -truthfulness and sincerity of every word impressed her in her first -incredulity. Good God! he meant it. If he were not mad—and he showed no -signs of being mad—then indeed it must be true, incredible as it -seemed. And rapidly as a flash of lightning Lady Augusta’s mind ran over -the situation. How unfortunate she was! First Ada, and now—— But if -this was how it was, Gussy must not know of it. She was capable of -heaven knows what pernicious folly. Gussy must not know. All this ran -through Lady Augusta’s mind while she said the two solemn words of the -exclamation given above.</p> - -<p>And then there was a little pause. Edgar stopped too, partly for want of -breath. It had cost him a great deal to say what he had said, and for -the moment he could do no more.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to say this is true, Mr. Arden?” said Lady Augusta. “True! -I cannot believe my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> ears. Why, what inducement had he? There was -Clare.”</p> - -<p>“So far as I can make out, it was thought to be impossible that there -should be any children; but that I cannot explain. It is so,” said -Edgar, insisting pathetically. “Believe me, it is so.”</p> - -<p>“And how did you find it out?”</p> - -<p>Lady Augusta’s tones were very low and awe-stricken; but her -interrogatory was close and persistent. Edgar was depressed after his -excitement. He thought he had calculated vainly on her sympathy. “Clare -found the letters,” he said, “in my father’s—I mean in Mr. Arden’s -room. They are too clear to admit of any doubt.”</p> - -<p>“<i>She</i> found them! What does she think of it? It will not be any the -better for her; and you such a good, kind brother to her!” cried Lady -Augusta in a tone of indignation. She was glad to find some one to find -fault with. And then she made a long pause. Edgar did not move. He sat -quite still opposite, looking at her, wondering would she send him away -without a word of sympathy? She looked up suddenly as he was thinking -so, and met his wistful eyes. Then Lady Augusta, without a moment’s -warning, burst out sobbing, “Oh, my poor dear boy! my poor dear boy!”</p> - -<p>Edgar was at the furthest limit of self-control.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> He could not bear any -more. He came and knelt down before her, and took her hand, and kissed -it. It was all he could do to keep from weeping too. “Thanks, thanks,” -he said, with a trembling voice; and Lady Augusta, kind woman, put her -arm round him, and wept over him. “If I had been Clare I would have -burned them, and you should never have known—you should never have -known,” she cried. “Oh, my poor, poor boy!”</p> - -<p>“I am very poor now,” he said. “I thought you would be my mother—I who -never had one. And Gussy—you will tell her; and you will not blame -me——”</p> - -<p>“Blame you!” cried Lady Augusta. “My heart bleeds for you; but I blame -Clare. I would have burned them, and never thought it wrong.”</p> - -<p>“But it would have been wrong,” he said softly, rising. “Clare would -burn them now if I would let her. She is not to blame. Dear Lady -Augusta, good-bye. And you will say to Gussy——”</p> - -<p>He paused; and so did she, struggling with herself. Should she let him -see Gussy? Should she allow him to say good-bye? But Gussy was only a -girl, and who can tell what mad thing a girl may propose to do? “Pardon -me! pardon me!” she said; “but it is best you should not see Gussy -now.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Edgar; “it is best.” But it was the first real sign that one -life was over for him, and another begun.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">One</span> life over and another begun—one over and another begun: the words -chimed in his ears as he rode away. And great was the consternation of -the servants at Thorne when he rode away—great the amazement of Mary -and Beatrice, who had gone back to their private room, and were waiting -there to be called down and hear “the news.” “Gussy has refused him!” -they said to each other with indescribable dismay. Their countenances -and their hearts fell. What! the excitement all over, nothing to inquire -into, no wooing to watch, nor wedding to expect? The girls thought they -had been swindled, and went down together, arm in arm, to inquire into -it. But the succession of events at this moment was too rapid to permit -us to pause and describe the scene which they saw when they went down -stairs.</p> - -<p>In the meantime Edgar rode back to Arden, saying these words over to -himself—one life ended and another begun. The one so sweet and warm and -kindly and familiar, the other so cold and so unknown.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> He did not even -know what his name was—who he was. The letters in the packet were few -in number. They were signed only with initials. The post-marks on one -outside cover which was preserved had been partially obliterated; but -the name, so far as he could make it out, was that of some insignificant -post-town which he had never heard of. At present, however, that -question had not moved him much. He knew himself only as Edgar Arden. He -could not realise himself in any other character, although at this very -moment he had been proclaiming himself to be Edgar Arden no more. How -hard it would be to change; to tear up his roots, as it were, to be no -more Clare’s brother, to enter a world absolutely unknown. Ah, yes! but -that was a distant dread—a thing that looked less by being far. In the -meantime it was not the passive suffering, but the active, that was to -be his. As he rode along, he asked himself anxiously what must be his -next step. The Rector must be told, and Dr. Somers. He thought with a -little gleam of satisfaction of going to the Doctor, and dispersing all -his evil thoughts in the twinkling of an eye. That sweet little gentle -face in the picture, the woman who was Clare’s mother, not his—it was -his part to remove the cloud that had so long been over it. He saw now -that everybody had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> more or less believed in this cloud—that there had -been a feeling abroad even among those who defended her most warmly that -poor Mrs. Arden required defence. And now it was he, not her son, a -changeling, who was to do her justice. “I can clear my mother,” he said -to himself—and another swift shooting pang went through his heart the -moment he was conscious of the words he had used—but he could not -disentangle this dreary knot. The confusion would clear away with time. -He could not stop using the words he had always used, or turn his -thoughts in a moment from the channel they had flowed in all his life.</p> - -<p>What Edgar did first was to ride to the station, but not this time with -any thought of making his escape. He telegraphed to Mr. Fazakerly, -bidding him come at once on urgent business. “I shall expect you to -dinner to-night,” was the conclusion of his message. What had to be -done, it was best to do quickly, now as always. To be sure he had -secured it now. He had done that which made it unimportant whether the -papers were burned or not: and it was best that all should be concluded -without delay. The only thing that Edgar hesitated at was telling Arthur -Arden. He was the person most concerned: all that could be affected in -any one else was a greater or less amount of feeling—a thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> always -evanescent and never to be calculated upon; but the news was as -important to Arthur as to Edgar. A man (poor Edgar thought) of high and -delicate character would have gone to Arthur first, and told him first; -but he himself was not equal to that. He did not want to tell it to -Arthur Arden. He would rather have some one else tell it to -him—Fazakerly—any one. He loathed the idea of doing it himself. He -even loathed the idea of meeting his successor, his heir, as he had so -often called him; and he could not have told why. It was not that he -expected any unkindness or want of consideration from Arthur. No doubt -he would behave just as he ought to do. He would be kind; probably he -would offer to pension the unwilling impostor. He would be happy, -exultant in his wonderful success; and that would make him kind. But -yet, the only person to whom Edgar hesitated to communicate his downfall -was the one who was most interested in it. The very thought of him -brought renewed and growing pain. For there was Clare to be thought -of—Clare whom Arthur professed to love—whom, if he loved her, he would -now be, so far as outward circumstances were concerned, a fitting match -for. Edgar had made up his mind that he must give up his sister. He had -decided that, whatever might be said or done now in this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> moment of -excitement and agitation, Clare was lost to him, and that the bond -between them could not be kept up. But if she were Arthur Arden’s wife -the breaking of the bond would be more harsh, more complete, than in any -other case. His breast swelled, and then it contracted painfully, -bringing bitter tears to his eyes. Never, should he live a hundred years -without seeing her, could Clare cease to be his sister. Nothing could -make her less or more to him. If it was not blood, it was something -deeper than blood. But Arthur Arden’s wife!</p> - -<p>Poor Edgar! he could not answer for his thoughts, which were wild and -incoherent, and rushed from one point to another with feverish speed and -intensity; but his actions were not incoherent. He rode from the railway -to the village very steadily and calmly, and stopped at Sally Timms’ -cottage-door to ask for Jeanie, who was better and had regained -consciousness. Then he went up the street, and dismounted at the Rectory -gate. He had not intended to do it, or rather he had not known what he -intended. The merest trifle, a nothing decided him. The door was open, -and the Rector’s sturdy cob was standing before it waiting for his -master. Edgar made a rapid reflection that he could now tell his story -quickly, that there would be no time for much talk. He went in without -knocking by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> the open door. Mr. Fielding was not in the library, nor in -his drawing-room, nor in his garden. “I expect him in every moment, -sir,” Mrs. Solmes said, with a curtsey. “He’s visiting the sick folks in -the village. The horse is for young Mr. Denbigh, please, sir. Master has -mostly given up riding now.”</p> - -<p>Edgar made a nod of assent. He was not capable of speech. If this had -been his first attempt to communicate the news, it would have seemed -providential to his excited fancy. But Lady Augusta had not been out, -and he had been able to tell his tale very fully there. Now, however, -there seemed a necessity laid upon him to tell it again. If not Mr. -Fielding, some one at least must know. He went across to the Doctor’s, -thinking that at least he would see Miss Somers, who would not -understand nor believe him. He had sent his horse away, telling the -groom he would walk home. He was weary, and half crazed with exhaustion, -sleeplessness, and intense emotion. He could not keep it in any longer. -It seemed to him that he would like to have the church bells rung, to -collect all the people about, to get into—no, not the pulpit, but the -Squire’s pew—the place that was like a stage-box, and tell everybody. -That would be the right thing to do. “Simon!” he called out to the old -clerk, who had been working somewhere about the churchyard,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> and who at -the sound of the horse’s hoofs had come to see what was going on, and -stood with his arms leaning on the wall looking over. “Is there aught ye -want as I can do for ye, Squire?” said old Simon. “No; nothing, -nothing,” said poor Edgar; and yet he would have been so glad had some -one rung the church bells. He paused, and this gentle domestic landscape -burned itself in upon his mind as he crossed to the Doctor’s door. The -village street lay asleep in the sun. Old Simon, leaning on the -churchyard wall, was watching in a lazy, rural way the cob at Mr. -Fielding’s door waiting for the curate, Edgar’s groom going off with his -master’s horse towards the big gates, and a waggon which was standing in -front of the Arden Arms. The waggoner had a tankard of ale raised to his -face, and was draining it, concealing himself behind its pewter disk. -The quietest scene: the sun caught the sign-post of the Arden Arms, -which had been newly painted in honour of Edgar, and played upon the red -cap of the drayman who stood by, and swept down the long white road, -clearing it of every shadow. All this Edgar saw and noted without -knowing it. In many a distant scene, at many a distant day, this came -back to him—the gleam of that red cap, the watchful spectatorship of -the old man over the churchyard wall.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span></p> - -<p>Dr. Somers met him coming out. “Ah!” said the Doctor, “coming to see me. -I am in no particular hurry. Come in, Edgar. It is not so often one sees -you now——”</p> - -<p>“You will see me less in the future,” said Edgar with a smile; “but I -don’t think there will be many broken hearts.”</p> - -<p>“Are you going away?” said Dr. Somers, leading the way into his own -room. “Visits, I suppose; but take my word for it, my boy, there is no -house so pleasant as your own house in autumn, when the covers are as -well populated as yours. No, no; stay at home—take your visits later in -the year.”</p> - -<p>“Dr. Somers,” said Edgar, “I have come to tell you something. Yes, I am -very serious, and it is very serious—there is nothing, alas, to laugh -about. Do you remember what you hinted to me once here about—Mrs. -Arden. Do you recollect the story you told me of the Agostini——”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes!” said the Doctor, growing slightly red. “About your -mother—yes, perhaps I did hint; one does not like to speak to a man -plainly about anything that has been said of his mother. I am very -sorry; but I don’t think I meant any harm—to you—only to warn you what -people said—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“And I have come to tell you that people are mistaken,” said Edgar, with -rising colour. He felt, poor fellow, as if he were vindicating his -mother by proving that he was not her son. She was his mother in his -thoughts still and always. Dr. Somers shook his head ever so slightly; -of course, that was the right thing for her son to say.</p> - -<p>“You think I have come, without evidence, to make a mere assertion,” -Edgar continued. “Listen a moment——”</p> - -<p>“My dear fellow,” said Dr. Somers, shrugging his shoulders, “how could -you, or any one, make more than a mere assertion on such a subject. -Assert what you please. You may be right—most likely you are right; but -it is a matter which cannot be brought to proof.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Edgar. This time it was worse than even with Lady Augusta. -With her he had the support of strong feeling, and counted on sympathy. -But the Doctor was different. A film came over the young man’s eyes; the -pulsations of his heart seemed to stop. The Doctor, looking at him, -jumped up, and rushing to a cupboard brought out some wine.</p> - -<p>“Drink it before you say another word. Why Edgar, what is this?”</p> - -<p>He put the wine away from him with some impatience.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> “Listen,” he said; -“this is what it is—I am not Mrs. Arden’s son!”</p> - -<p>Dr. Somers looked at him intently—into his eyes, in a way Edgar did not -understand. “Yes, yes,” he said, “I see—take the wine; take it to -please me—Edgar Arden, I order you, take the wine.”</p> - -<p>“To please you, Doctor,” said Edgar, “by all means.” And when he had -drank it, he turned to his old friend with a smile. “But I am not Edgar -Arden. I am an impostor. Doctor, do you think I am mad?”</p> - -<p>Dr. Somers looked at him once more with the same intent gaze. “I don’t -know what to make of you,” he said, in a subdued tone. “No more jesting, -Edgar, if this is jesting. What is it you mean?”</p> - -<p>“I am speaking the soberest, saddest truth,” said Edgar. “Clare will -tell you; I have no right to call her Clare. I do not know who I am; but -Mrs. Arden is clear of all blame, once and for ever. I am not her son.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">To</span> say that the Doctor was utterly confounded by this revelation was to -say little. He had not begun so much as to think what it meant when -Edgar left him. An impatience which was foreign to his character had -come to the young man. He was eager to tell his astounding news; but it -irritated him to be doubted, to have to go over and over the same words. -He did not show this feeling. He tried hard to keep his temper, to make -all the explanations that were wanted; but within him a fire of -impatience burned. He rushed away as soon as he could get free, with -again that wild desire to be done with it which was the reverse side of -his eagerness to tell it. If he could but get away, be clear of the -whole matter, plunge into the deep quiet of the unknown, where nobody -would wonder that he was not an Arden, where he might call himself -anything he pleased! He went up the avenue with feverish speed, noting -nothing. Nature had ceased to have power to compose him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> He had been -swept into a whirlpool of difficulty, from which there could be no -escape but in flight; and till his work was done he could not fly.</p> - -<p>And it seemed to Edgar a long, long time since he rode down between -those trees—a very long time, a month, perhaps a year. With all his -heart he longed to be able to escape, and yet a certain fascination drew -him back, a wondering sense that something more might have happened, -that there might be some new incident when he went back to divide his -attention with the old—— Perhaps were the bureau searched more closely -there might be something else found—something that would contradict the -other. All these fancies flashed through his mind as he went on. He was -but half-way up the avenue when he met Mr. Fielding coming down. The -Rector looked just as he always did—serene, kind, -short-sighted—peering at the advancing figure, with a smile of -recognition slowly rising over his face. “I know people generally by -their walk,” he said, as they met; “but I don’t recognise your walk this -morning, Edgar: you are tired? How pale you are, my dear boy! Are you -ill?”</p> - -<p>“Didn’t she tell you?” said Edgar, wearily.</p> - -<p>“She tell me?—who tell me?—what? You frighten me, Edgar, you look so -unlike yourself. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> have been with Clare, and I don’t think she is well -either. She looked agitated. I warned you, you remember, about that -man——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak of him, lest I should hate him,” said Edgar. “And yet I -have no cause to hate him—it is not his fault. I will turn back with -you and tell you what Clare did not tell you. She might have confided in -you, anyhow, even if there had been a chance that it was not true.”</p> - -<p>The Rector put his arm kindly within that of the agitated young man. He -was the steadier of the two; he gave Edgar a certain support by the -contact. “Whatever it is that agitates you so,” he said, “you are quite -right—she might have told me; it would have been safe with me. Poor -Clare! she was agitated too——”</p> - -<p>This allusion overwhelmed Edgar altogether. “You must be doubly kind to -her when I am gone,” he said, hurriedly. “Poor Clare! That is another -thing that must be thought of. Where is she to go to? Would you take her -in, you who have always been so kind to us? I would rather she were with -you than at the Doctor’s. Not that I have anything to do with it now; -but one cannot get over the habits of one’s life in twenty-four hours. -Yes, poor Clare, I had no right to it, as it appears; but she was fond -of me too.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span></p> - -<p>“Of course, she was fond of you,” said the Rector alarmed. “Come, Edgar, -rouse yourself up. What does it mean this talk about going away? You -must not go away. All your duties are at home. I could not give my -consent——”</p> - -<p>And then Edgar told him succinctly, in the same brief words which he had -used before, his extraordinary tale. He told it this time without any -appearance of emotion. He was getting used to the words. This time he -paid no attention to the incredulity of his listener. He simply repeated -it with a certain dull iteration. Mr. Fielding’s exclamations of wonder -and horror fell dully on his ears. He could not understand them. It -seemed so strange that any one should be surprised at a thing he had -known so long. “Sure,” he said with a smile; “am I sure of my own -existence? No, I don’t mean of my own identity, for at present I have -none. But I am as sure of it as that I am alive. Do you think it would -be any pleasure to me to go and spread such news if it were not true?”</p> - -<p>“But, Edgar,——” began the Rector.</p> - -<p>“That is the curious thing,” he said musingly; “I am not Edgar. I -suppose a man would be justified in keeping his Christian name—don’t -you think so? That surely must belong to him. I could not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> be John or -George all at once, after being Edgar all my life. Surely I keep that.”</p> - -<p>“My poor boy,” cried the Rector, in dismay. “My poor boy, come home, and -lie down, and let me bring Somers up to see you. You are not well, you -have been doing too much in town, keeping late hours, and—— You will -see, a little rest will set you all right.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think I am mad?” said Edgar. “Look at me—can you really think -so? I know only too well what I am saying. It is a very strange position -to be placed in, and makes one talk a little wild, perhaps. Of course, I -know nobody wants to take from me my Christian name; that was nonsense. -But when one has just had such a fall as I have had, it confuses one a -little. Will you come with me to the Hall, and see the papers? Clare -should have told you. There is no harm in my calling her Clare, do you -think, just for a time? I never can think of her but as my sister. And -we must try and arrange what she is to do.”</p> - -<p>“Edgar, am I to believe you?” cried Mr. Fielding. “Is it madness, or is -it something too dreadful to name? Do not look at me like that, my dear -boy. Don’t smile, for Heaven’s sake! you will break my heart.”</p> - -<p>“Why shouldn’t I smile?” said Edgar. “Is all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> the world to be covered -with gloom because I am not Squire Arden? Nonsense! It is I who must -suffer the most, and therefore I have a right to smile. Clare will get -over it by degrees,” he added. “It has been a great shock to her, but -she will get over it. I don’t know what to say about her future. Of -course I have no right to say anything, but I can’t help it. I suppose -the chances are she will marry Arthur Arden. I hate to think of that. It -is not mere prejudice against him as superseding me; it is because he is -not worthy of her. But it would be the most suitable match. Of course -you know she will lose Old Arden now that I am found out?”</p> - -<p>“Edgar, stop! I can’t bear it,” cried the Rector. “For Heaven’s sake -don’t say any more!”</p> - -<p>“But why not? It is a relief to me; and you are our oldest friend. Of -course I had no more to do with the entail than you have; all that is -null and void. For Clare’s sake I wonder he did not destroy those -papers, if for nothing else. Mr. Fielding, I have a horrible idea in my -head. I wish I could get rid of it. It is worse than all the rest. He -hated me, because of course I reminded him continually of his guilt. He -wanted me to break my neck that day after Old Arden was settled on -Clare. It would have been the most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> comfortable way of arranging the -matter for all parties, if I had only known. But I can’t help thinking -he carried his enmity further than that. I think he left those letters -to be a trap to me. He meant me to find them, and hide them or destroy -them, and share his guilt. Of course he believed I would do that; and -oh, God! how strong the temptation was to do it! If I had found them -myself—if they not been given to me by Clare——”</p> - -<p>Mr. Fielding pressed the arm he held. He doubted no longer, questioned -no longer. “My poor boy! my poor boy!” he murmured under his breath; -and, kind soul as he was, in his heart, with all the fervour of a -zealot, he cursed the old Squire. He cursed him without condition or -peradventure. God give him his reward! he said; and for the first time -in his life believed in a lake of fire and brimstone, and wished it -might be true.</p> - -<p>“I suppose I have got into the talking stage now,” said poor Edgar. “I -have had a long spell of it, and felt everything that can be felt, I -believe. It was on Sunday night I found it out—fancy, on Sunday -night!—a hundred years ago. And I want you to stand by me to-day. I -have telegraphed for Fazakerly. I have asked him to come to dinner; why, -I don’t know, except that dinner is a solemnity which agrees with -everything. It will be my table<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span> for the last time. Is it not odd that -Arthur Arden should be here at such a moment? not by my doing, nor -Clare’s, nor even his own—by Providence, I suppose. If Mr. Pimpernel’s -horses had not run away, and if poor little Jeanie had not been in the -carriage—— What strange, invisible threads things hang together by! Am -I talking wildly still?”</p> - -<p>“No, Edgar,” said Mr. Fielding, with a half sob. “No, my poor boy. -Edgar, I think it would be a relief to be able to cry—— What shall you -do? What shall you do? I think my heart will break.”</p> - -<p>“I shall do very well,” said Edgar, cheerily. “Remember, I have not been -brought up a fine gentleman. I shall be of as much use in the world -probably as Arthur Arden, after all. Ridiculous, is it not? but I feel -as if he were my rival, as if I should like to win some victory over -him. It galls me to think that perhaps Clare will marry him—a man no -more worthy of her—— But, of course, the match would be suitable, as -people call it, <i>now</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Say you don’t like it, Edgar,” said Mr. Fielding, with sudden warmth. -“Clare, you may be sure, if she ever neglected your wishes, will not -neglect them now.”</p> - -<p>Edgar shook his head; a certain sadness came into the meditative smile -which had been on his face. “I believe she loves him,” he said, and -then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> was silent, feeling even in that moment that it was not for -Clare’s good he should say more. No; it was not for him to lay any -further burdens upon his sister. His sister! “I <i>must</i> think of her as -my sister,” he said aloud, defending himself, as it were, from some -attack. “It is like my Christian name. I can’t give that up, and I can’t -give her up—in idea, I mean; in reality, of course, I will.”</p> - -<p>“The man who would ask you to do so would be a brute,” cried Mr. -Fielding.</p> - -<p>“No man will ask me to do so,” said Edgar. “I don’t fear that; but time, -and distance, and life. But you are old—you will not forget me. You -will stand by me, won’t you, to the last!”</p> - -<p>The good Rector was old, as Edgar said; he could not bear any more. He -sat down on the roadside, and covered his face with his handkerchief. -And the tears came to Edgar’s eyes. But the suffering was his own, not -another’s; therefore they did not fall.</p> - -<p>Thus they separated, to meet again in the evening at the dinner, to -which Edgar begged the Rector to ask Dr. Somers also. “It will be my -last dinner,” he said, with a smile; and so went away—with something of -his old look and manner restored to him—home.</p> - -<p>Home! He had been the master of everything,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> secure and undoubting, -three days ago. He was the master yet to the gamekeeper, who took off -his hat in the distance; to Wilkins, who let him in so respectfully; -even to Arthur Arden, who watched him with anxious curiosity. How -strange it all was! Was he playing in some drama not comprehended by his -surroundings, or was it all a dream?</p> - -<p>It seemed a dream to the Rector, who hurried home, not knowing what to -think, and sent for Dr. Somers, and went over it all again. Could it be -true? Was the boy mad? What did it mean? They asked each other these -questions, wondering. But in their hearts they knew he was not mad, and -felt that his revelation was true. And so all prepared itself for the -evening, when everything should be made public. A sombre cloud fell over -Arden to everybody concerned. The sun looked sickly, the wind refused to -blow. The afternoon was close, sultry, and threatening. Even Nature -showed a certain sympathy. She would say her “hush” no longer, but with -a gathering of clouds and feverish excitement awaited the catastrophe of -the night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">And</span> yet amid all this excitement and lurid expectation, how strange it -was to go through the established formulas of life: the dinner, the -indifferent conversation, the regulated course of dishes and of talk! -Mr. Fazakerly made his appearance, very brisk and busy as usual. He had -come away hurriedly, in obedience to Edgar’s summons, from the very -midst of the preparations for a great wedding, involving property and -settlements so voluminous that they had turned the heads of the entire -firm and all its assistants. Fortunately he was full of this. The bride -was an heiress, with lands and wealth of every description—the -bridegroom a poor Irish peer, with titles enough to make up for the -money which was being poured upon him; and the lawyer’s whole soul was -lost in the delightful labyrinth of wealth—this which was settled upon -the lady, that which was under the control of the husband. He talked so -much on the subject, that it was some time before he perceived the -pre-occupied<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> faces of all the rest of the company. The only one -thoroughly able to talk was Dr. Somers, whose mind was never -sufficiently absorbed by any one subject to be incapable of others, and -who knew everybody, and could discuss learnedly with his old friend upon -the property and its responsibilities. Edgar, too, did his best to talk. -His excitement had run into a kind of humour which was “only his fun” to -Mr. Fazakerly, but which brought tears to the Rector’s eyes. He meant to -die gaily, poor fellow, and make as little as possible of this supreme -act of his life. Clare sat at the head of the table, perfectly pale and -silent. She made a fashion of eating, but in reality took nothing, and -she did not even pretend to talk. Mr. Fielding by her side was as -silent. Sometimes he laid his withered gentle old hand upon hers when -she rested it on the table, and he looked at her pathetically from time -to time, especially when Edgar said something at which the others -laughed. “I wish he would not, my dear—I wish he would not,” he would -murmur to her. But Clare made no reply. He who was no longer her brother -was to her the most absorbing of interests at this moment. She could not -understand him. An Arden would have concealed the thing, she thought to -herself, or if he had been forced to divulge it, would have done it with -unwilling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> abruptness and severity, defying all the world in the action. -But the bitter pride which would have felt itself humbled to the dust by -such a revelation did not seem to exist in Edgar. If there was in him a -certain desperation, it was the gay desperation, the pathetic -light-heartedness of a man leading a forlorn hope. He defied nobody, but -faced the world with a smile and a tear—a man wronged, but doing -right—a soul above suspicion. And Clare was asking herself eagerly, -anxiously, what would be the difference it would make to him. It would -make a horrible difference—more, far more, than he in his sanguine soul -could understand. His friends would drop off from him. In her knowledge -of what she called the world, Clare felt but too certain of this. The -dependants who had hitherto hung upon his lightest word would become -suddenly indifferent, and she herself—his sister—what could she do? -Clare was aware that even she, in outward circumstances, must of -necessity cease to be to him what she had been. She was not his sister. -They could no longer remain together—no longer be each other’s close -companions; everything would be changed. Even if she continued as she -was, she would be compelled to treat Edgar with the ceremonies which are -universally thought to be necessary between a young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> woman and a young -man. If she continued as she was? Were she to marry, the case would be -different. As a married woman, he might be her brother still. And yet -how could she marry, as it were, on his ruin; how could she build a new -fabric of happiness over the sacked foundations of her brother’s house? -Her brother, and yet not her brother—a stranger to her! Clare’s brain -reeled, too, as she contemplated his position and her own. She was not -capable of feeling the contrast between Edgar’s playful talk and the -precipice on which he was standing. She was too much absorbed in a -bewildering personal discussion what he was to do, what she was to do, -what was to become of them all.</p> - -<p>Arthur Arden was at her other hand. He was growing more and more -interested in the situation of affairs, and more and more began to feel -that something must be in it of greater importance than he had thought. -Clare never addressed a word to him, though he was so near to her. Her -eyes were fixed on the other end of the table, where Edgar sat. Her lips -trembled with a strange quiver of sympathy, which seemed actually -physical, when her brother said anything. She looked too far gone in -some extraordinary emotion to be able to realise what was going on. When -Arthur spoke she did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> not hear him. She had to be called back to herself -by Mr. Fielding’s soft touch upon her hand before she noticed anything, -except Edgar. “You seem very much interested in what Mr. Fazakerly is -saying. Do you know this bride he is talking of?” Arthur said, trying to -draw her attention. “Clare, my love, Mr. Arden is speaking to you; he is -asking if you know Miss Monypenny,” said the Rector, with a warning -pressure from his thin fingers. “Oh, I beg your pardon; I did not hear -you,” Clare would reply, but she made no answer to the question. Her -attention would stray again before it was repeated. And then Mr. -Fielding gave Arthur Arden an imploring glance across the table. It -seemed to ask him to spare her—not to say anything—to leave her to -herself. “She is not well to-night,” the Rector said, softly, with tears -glistening in his old eyes. What did it mean? Arthur asked himself. It -must be something worse than he had thought.</p> - -<p>The silence at the other end of the table struck Mr. Fazakerly, as it -seemed, all at once. He gave two or three anxious looks in the direction -of Clare. “Your sister does not look well, Mr. Edgar,” he said. “We -can’t afford to let her be ill, she who is the pride of the county. -After Miss Monypenny’s, I hope to have her settlements to prepare. You -will not be allowed to keep her long, I promise you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> But I trust she is -not ill. Doctor, I hope you have been attending to your duty. Miss Arden -can’t be allowed, in all our interests, to grow so pale.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Arden is not in the way of consulting me on such subjects,” said -the Doctor. “She has a will of her own, like everybody belonging to her. -I never knew such a self-willed race. When they take a thing into their -heads there is no getting it out again, as you will probably find, -Fazakerly, before you are many hours older. I have long known that there -was a disposition to mania in the family. Oh, no, not anything -dangerous—monomania—delusion on one point.”</p> - -<p>“I never heard of it before,” said Mr. Fazakerly, promptly, “and I -flatter myself I ought to know about the family if any one does. -Monomania! Fiddlesticks! Why, look at our young friend here. I’ll back -him against the world for clear-seeing and common sense.”</p> - -<p>“He has neither the one nor the other,” said Dr. Somers, hotly. “I could -have told you so any time these ten years. He may have what people call -higher qualities; I don’t pretend to pronounce; but he can’t see two -inches before his nose in anything that concerns his own interest; and -as for common sense, he is the most Quixotic young idiot I ever knew in -my life.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span></p> - -<p>“Don’t believe such accusations against me,” said Edgar, with a smile. -“Your own opinion is the right one. I don’t pretend to be clever; but if -there is anything I pique myself upon, it is common sense. This is the -best introduction we could have to the business of the evening. It is -not anything very convivial, and it may startle you, I fear. Perhaps we -had better finish our wine first, Doctor, don’t you think?”</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” said Mr. Fazakerly. “Now I begin to look round me, -you are all looking very grave. I don’t know what you mean by these -signs, Mr. Fielding. Am I making indiscreet observations? What’s the -matter? God preserve us! you all look like so many ghosts!”</p> - -<p>“So we are—or at least some of us,” said Edgar, “ghosts that a puff of -common air will blow away in a moment. The fact is, I have something -very disagreeable to tell you. But don’t look alarmed, it is -disagreeable chiefly to myself. To one of my guests at least it will be -good news. It is simple superstition, of course, but I can’t tell you -while you are comfortable, taking your wine. I should like you not to be -quite at your ease. If you were all seated in the library, on hard -chairs, for example——”</p> - -<p>“Edgar!” said Clare, in a sharp tone of pain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span></p> - -<p>Dr. Somers laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t overdo it,” he said, with -something between remonstrance and sympathy. The Rector stood covering -his eyes with his hands. At all this Arthur Arden looked on with keen -and eager interest, and Mr. Fazakerly with the sharpest, -freshly-awakened curiosity, not knowing evidently what to make of it. -Arthur’s comment was of a kind that made the heart jump in his breast. -The secret, whatever it was, had been evidently confided both to the -Doctor and the Rector. They were reasonable men, not likely to be -affected by a foolish story; yet they both, it was apparent, considered -it something serious. A hundred pulses of impatience and excitement -began to beat within him. And yet he could not, with any regard to good -taste or good feeling, say a word.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be afraid,” said Edgar; “it is not bravado. What I have to say is -very serious, but it is not disgraceful—at least to me. There is no -reason why I should assume a gloom which is not congenial to myself, nor -natural so far as others are concerned. As it has been mentioned so -early, perhaps it is better not to lose any time with preliminaries now. -Will you come with me to the library? The proofs of what I have to say -are there. And without any further levity, I would rather speak to you -in that room than in this.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span></p> - -<p>When he had said this, without waiting to hear Mr. Fazakerly’s amazed -exclamations, Edgar walked quietly to the other end of the table and -offered his arm to Clare. Before she took it, she joined her hands -together, and looked up beseechingly in his face. He shook his head, -with a tender smile at her, and drew her hand within his arm. This dumb -show was eagerly observed by Arthur Arden at her left hand. By this time -he was so lost in a maze that he no longer permitted himself to think. -What was the meaning of it all? Was the boy a fool to give in, and throw -up his arms at once? He had not, it was evident, even spoken to -Fazakerly first, as any man in his senses would have done. For once in -his life Arthur was moved to a disinterested sentiment. Even yet, after -all that had been said, he had no real hope that any advantage was -coming to himself; and something moved him to interfere to save an -unnecessary exposure. A certain compassion for this candid foolish -boy—a compassion mingled with some contempt—had arisen in his heart.</p> - -<p>“Arden,” he said hastily, “look here, talk it over with Fazakerly first. -I don’t know what cock-and-a-bull story you have got hold of, but before -you make a solemn business of it, for Heaven’s sake talk it over with -Fazakerly first.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span></p> - -<p>Edgar put out his hand, without at first saying a word. It took him -nearly half a minute (a long interval at that crisis) to steady his -voice. “Thanks,” he said. “It is no cock-and-bull story; but I thank you -for thinking, and saying that. Come and hear what it is—and, for your -generosity, thanks.”</p> - -<p>“It was not generosity,” answered Arthur, under his breath. He was -abashed and confounded by the undeserved gratitude. But he made no -further attempt to detain the procession, which set out towards the -library. Edgar placed Clare in a chair when he had reached it. He put -her beside himself, and with a movement of the hand invited the others -to seat themselves. The table had been prepared, the lamp was burning on -it, and before one of the chairs was already laid a packet of letters -directed to B. Fazakerly, Esq. Edgar meant that his evidence should be -seen before he told his tale.</p> - -<p>“Will you take possession of these,” he said, seating himself at the end -of the table. “These are my proofs of what I am going to tell you; and -it is so strange that you will need proofs. My sister—I mean Miss -Arden—now seated beside me—found these papers. They have thrown the -strangest light upon my own life, and upon that of my predecessor -here.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span></p> - -<p>“Your father?” said Mr. Fazakerly, with a glance of dismay.</p> - -<p>“I shall have to go back to the time when the late Squire was married,” -said Edgar. “I beg you to wait just for a few minutes and hear my story, -before you ask for any explanations. It has been commonly supposed, I -believe, that the reason for the treatment I received during my -childhood and youth, was that Squire Arden had been led to doubt whether -I was his son, and to think my mother—I mean Mrs. Arden—unfaithful to -him. This was a great slander and calumny, gentlemen. The reason Squire -Arden was unkind to me was that he knew very well I was neither his son -nor Mrs. Arden’s, but only an adopted child.”</p> - -<p>There was a murmur and movement among the guests. Arthur Arden rose up -in his bewilderment, and remained standing, staring at the man who had -thus declared himself to be no Arden; and Mr. Fazakerly cried out -loudly, “Nonsense; no! no! no! I know a great deal better. The boy’s -brain is turned. Don’t say another word.”</p> - -<p>“I asked you to hear me out,” said Edgar, whose colour and spirit were -rising. “I told you I should have to go back to the time when Squire -Arden married. He married a lady in very delicate health—or else she -fell into bad health after their marriage.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> Five years afterwards the -doctors told him that he had no chance whatever of having any children. -His wife was too ill for that; but not ill enough to die. She was likely -to live, indeed, as long as any one else, but never to give him an heir. -He hated, I can’t tell why, his next of kin. I am not here to excuse -him, but I believe there were excuses, for that—and after some -hesitation he formed the plan of adopting a child, giving it out to be -his own, and born abroad. The manner in which he carried out this plan -is to be found in the packet in Mr. Fazakerly’s hands; and I am the boy -whom he adopted. I can’t quite tell you,” Edgar continued, with the -faint smile which had so often during three days past quivered about his -lips, “who I am, but I am not an Arden. I am an impostor; and my -cousin—I beg his pardon—Mr. Arthur Arden, is the proprietor of this -place and all that is in it. He will allow me, I am sure, to retain his -place for the moment, simply to make all clear.”</p> - -<p>“To make all clear!” gasped Arthur. Clear! as if everything in heaven -and earth was not confused by this extraordinary revelation, or could -ever be made clear again.</p> - -<p>“He must be mad,” said Mr. Fazakerly, loudly. And yet there went a -thrill round the table—a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> feeling which nobody could resist—that every -word he said was true.</p> - -<p>“I have not sought any further,” said Edgar. “These letters have -contented me, which disclose the whole transaction; but everybody knows -as well as I do the after particulars. How Mr. Arden slighted me -persistently and continuously—and yet how, without losing a moment when -I came of age, he made use of me to provide for my—for Miss Arden. The -fact that Old Arden was settled upon her, away from me, is of itself a -corroborating evidence. Everything supports my story when you come to -think of it. It makes the past clear for the first time.”</p> - -<p>And then there was a pause, and they all looked at each other with blank -astonishment and dismay. At least Mr. Fazakerly looked at everybody, -while the others met his eye with appealing looks, asking him, as it -were, to interfere. “It cannot be true—it is impossible it should be -true,” they murmured, in their consternation. But it was Clare who was -the first to speak.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Clare</span> rose up instinctively, feeling the solemnity of the occasion to be -such that she could not meet it otherwise. She was paler than ever, if -that was possible—marble white—with great blue eyes, pathetically -fixed upon the little audience which she addressed. She put one hand -back feebly, and rested it on Edgar’s shoulder to support herself. “I -want to speak first,” she said. “There is nobody so much concerned as -me. It was I who found those papers, as my brother says. I found them, -where I had no right to have looked, in an old bureau which did not -belong to me, which I was looking through for levity and curiosity, and -because I had nothing else to do. It is my fault, and it is I who will -suffer the most. But what I want to tell you is, that I don’t believe -them. How could any one believe them? I was brought up to love my -father, and if they are true my father was a—was a—— I cannot say the -word. Edgar asks me to give up everything I have in life when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> he asks -me to believe in these letters. Oh, all of you, who are our old friends! -you knew papa. Was he such a man as that? Had he no honour, no justice, -no sense of right and wrong in him? You know it would be wicked to say -so. Then these papers are not true.”</p> - -<p>“And I know they are not true in other ways,” cried Clare, flushing -wildly as she went on. “If Edgar was not my brother, do you think I -could have felt for him as I do? I should have hated him, had he been an -impostor, as he says. Oh, he is no impostor! He is not like the rest of -us—not like us in the face—but what does that matter? He is a thousand -times better than any of us. I was not brought up with him to get into -any habit of liking him, and yet I love him with all my heart. Could -that be anything but nature? If he were not my true brother, I would -have hated him. And, on the contrary, I love him, and trust him, and -believe in him. Say anything you please—make out what you please from -these horrible letters, or any other lie against him; but I shall still -feel that he is my own brother—my dearest brother—in my heart!”</p> - -<p>Clare did not conclude with a burst of tears, solely because she was -past weeping. She was past herself altogether; she was not conscious of -anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> but the decision about to be come to—the verdict that was to -be given by this awful tribunal. She sank back into her chair, keeping -her eyes fixed upon them, too anxious to lose a single gesture or look. -“Bring her some water,” said Dr. Somers; “give her air, Edgar; no, let -her alone—let her alone; that is best. Just now, you may be sure, she -will take no harm.”</p> - -<p>And then there came another pause—a pause in which every sound seemed -to thud and beat against the anxious ears that waited and listened. -Arthur Arden had taken his seat again. He was moved, too, to the very -depths of his being. He covered his face with his hands, unable to look -at the two at the head of the table, who were both gazing at the company -waiting for their fate. Edgar had taken Clare’s hand, and was holding it -fast between his own. He was saying something, of which he was not -himself conscious. “Thanks, Clare! courage, Clare!” he was repeating at -intervals, as he might have murmured any other babble in the excitement -of the moment. Mr. Fazakerly was the only one who stirred. He broke open -the seals of the packet with agitated haste, muttering also under his -breath. “Parcel of young fools!” was what Mr. Fazakerly was saying. He -let the papers drop out in a heap upon the table, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> picked up one -here and one there, running it over with evident impatience and -irritation. Then he tossed them down, and pushed his spectacles off his -forehead, and wrathfully regarded the little company around him. “What -am I expected to do with these?” he asked. “They are private letters of -the late Mr. Arden, not, so far as I am aware, brought before us by any -circumstances that call for attention. I don’t know what is intended to -be done with them, or who produces them, or why we are called together. -Mr. Edgar, I think you might provide better entertainment for your old -friends than a mare’s nest like this. What is the meaning of it all? My -opinion is, they had better be replaced in the old bureau from which -Miss Clare tells us she fished them out.”</p> - -<p>But while he said this in his most querulous tone, Mr. Fazakerly picked -up the papers one by one, and tied them together. His irritation was -extreme, and so was his dismay, but the last was uppermost, and was not -easy to express. “If these had come before me in a proper way,” he went -on, “of course I should have taken all pains to examine them and see -what they meant; but unless there is some reason for it—some object, -some end to be gained—I always object particularly to raking up dead -men’s letters. I have known endless mischief<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> made in that way. The -chances are that most men do quite enough harm in their lifetime, or at -least in a lawful way by their wills and so forth, after their death, -without fishing up every scrap of rancour or folly they may have left -behind them. Mr. Edgar, you have no right that I know of to go and -rummage among old papers in order to prejudice yourself. It is the -merest nonsense. I can’t, for my part, consent to it. I don’t believe a -word of it. If anybody else takes it up, and I am called upon to defend -you, of course I will act to the best of my ability; but in the meantime -I decline to have anything to do with it. Take them away——”</p> - -<p>Mr. Fazakerly thrust the tied-up parcel towards his client. Of course, -he knew very well that the position he took up was untenable after all -that had been said, but his irritation was real, and the idea of thus -spoiling a case went to his very heart. He pushed it along the table; -but, by one of those curious accidents which so often surpass the most -elaborate design, the little packet which had been the cause of so much -trouble, instead of reaching Edgar, stopped short in front of Arthur -Arden, who was still leaning on the table, covering his face with his -hand. It struck him lightly on the elbow, and he raised his head to see -what it was. It was all so strange that the agitated company was moved<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span> -as by a visible touch of fate. Arthur stared at it stupidly, as if the -thing was alive. He let it lie, not putting forth a finger, gazing at -it. Incredible change of fortune lay for him within the enclosure of -these faded leaves; yet he could not secure them, could not do anything, -was powerless, with Clare’s eyes looking at him, and the old friends of -the family around. His own words came back to his mind suddenly in that -pause—“Let him take everything, so long as he leaves me you.” And -Clare’s answer, “Say that again to-morrow.” To-morrow! It was not yet -to-morrow; and what was he to say?</p> - -<p>It was Edgar, however, and not Arthur, who was the first to speak. “If -it must be a matter of attack and defence,” he said, “the papers are now -with the rightful heir, and it is his to pursue the matter further. But -I don’t want to have any attack or defence. Mr. Arden, will you be so -good as to take the packet, and put it in your lawyer’s hands. I suppose -there are some legal forms to be gone through; but I will not by any act -of mine postpone your entrance upon your evident right.”</p> - -<p>A pause again—not a word said on any side—the three old men looking on -without a movement, almost without a breath; and Arthur Arden, with his -elbows still resting on the table, and his head turned aside, gazing, as -if it were a reptile in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> path, at the packet beside him. How he -would have snatched at it had it not been for these spectators! There -was no impulse of generosity towards Edgar in his mind. Such an impulse -would have been at once foolish and uncalled for. Edgar himself had -taken pains to show that he wanted no such generosity—and a man cannot -part lightly with his rights. Everything would have been easy enough, -clear enough, but for Clare’s presence and her words that morning. If he -were to do what every impulse of good sense and natural feeling -prompted—take up the papers before him and make himself master of a -question affecting him so nearly—then no doubt he would lose Clare. He -would lose (but that was of small importance) the good opinion of that -foolish old Rector. He would create a most unjust prejudice against -himself if he showed any eagerness about it, even in the eyes of the -doctor and the lawyer, practical men, who knew that justice must -prevail; and he would lose Clare. What was he to do? It was cruel, he -felt, to put him to such a trial. He kept looking at the papers with his -head turned, half of it shadowed over by the hands from which he had -lifted it, half of it (his forehead and eyes) full in the light. To his -own consciousness, an hour must have passed while he thus pondered. The -others thought it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> five minutes, though it was not one. But another -train of thought rapidly succeeded the first in Arthur’s mind. What did -it matter, after all, what he did? He could be generous at Edgar’s cost, -who, he felt sure, would accept no sacrifice. He gave a glance at the -young man who was no Arden, who was looking on without anxiety now, with -a faint smile still on his face, and a certain bright curiosity and -interest in his eyes. It was perfectly safe. There are some people whom -even their enemies, even those who do not understand them, can calculate -upon, and Edgar was one of these. Arthur looked at him, and saw his way -to save Clare and to save appearances, and yet attain fully his will and -his rights. He took the packet up, and put it in Clare’s lap.</p> - -<p>“Here I put my fate and Edgar’s,” he said, with, in spite of himself, a -thrill of doubt in his voice which sounded like emotion. “Let Clare -judge between us—it is for her to decide——”</p> - -<p>Before Clare could speak, Edgar had taken back the papers from her. -“That means,” he said, almost gaily, with a laugh which sounded strange -to the excited company, “that they have come back to me. Clare has had -enough of this. It is no matter of romantic judgment, but one of -evidence merely. Mr. Fielding, will you take my sister away? Yes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> I -will say my sister still. She does not give me up, and I can’t give her -up. Arden is little in comparison. Clare, if you could give me a -kingdom, you could not do more for me than you have done to-night. Go -with Mr. Fielding now——”</p> - -<p>She rose up, obeying him mechanically, at once. “Where?” she said. -“Edgar, tell me. Out of Arden? If it is no longer yours, it is no longer -mine.”</p> - -<p>“Hush, dear,” he said, soothing her as if she had been a child—“hush, -hush. There is no cause for any violent change. Your kinsman is not -likely to be hard upon either me or you.”</p> - -<p>“He put the matter into my hands,” she cried, suddenly, with a sob. “O -Edgar, listen! Let us go away at once. We must do justice—justice. Let -us go and hide ourselves at the end of the world—for it cannot be -yours, it is his.”</p> - -<p>She stumbled as she spoke, not fainting, but overcome by sudden -darkness, bewilderment, failure of all physical power. The strain had -been too much for Clare. They carried her out, and laid her on the sofa -in the quiet, silent room close by, where no excitement was. How strange -to go out into the placid house, to see the placid servants carrying in -trays with tea, putting in order the merest trifles! The world all -around was unconscious of what was passing—unconscious even under the -same roof—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span>how much less in the still indifferent universe outside. -Edgar laughed, as he went to the great open door, and looked out upon -the peaceful stars. “What a fuss we are making about it!” he said to his -supplanter, whose mind was incapable of any such reflection; “and how -little it matters after all!” “Are you mad, or are you a fool?” cried -Arthur Arden under his breath. To him it mattered more than anything -else in heaven or earth. The man who was losing everything might console -himself that the big world had greater affairs in hand—but to the man -who was gaining Arden it was more than all the world—and perhaps it was -natural that it should be so.</p> - -<p>Half-an-hour after the three most concerned had returned to the library, -to discuss quietly and in detail the strange story and its evidences. -These three were Edgar, Arthur, and Mr. Fazakerly. The Rector sat by -Clare’s sofa, in the drawing-room, soothing her. “My dear, God will -bring something good out of it,” he was saying, with that pathetic -bewilderment which so many good people are conscious of in saying such -words. “It will be for the best, my poor child.” He patted her head and -her hand, as he spoke, which did her more good, and kept by her—a -supporter and defender. The Doctor gave her a gentle opiate, and went -away. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> were all, in their vocations, ministering vaguely, feebly to -those desperate human needs which no man can supply—need of happiness, -need of peace, need of wisdom. The Rector’s soft hand smoothing one -sufferer’s hair; the doctor’s opiate; the lawyer’s discussion of the -value of certain documents, legally and morally—such was all the help -that in such an emergency man could give to man.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> others seated themselves once more round the library table. There -was a change, however, in their circumstances and position which would -have been immediately manifest to any observer. It had been Edgar an -hour ago who was the chief person concerned; it was he who had to -communicate his story, and to note its effect upon his audience. But now -it was Arthur who was the chief; not that he had anything to tell; but -all the anxiety had transferred itself to him—all the burden. His brow -was heavy with thought and care. He was feverishly eager to read and to -hear everything that could be said, and he watched Mr. Fazakerly with -the devouring anxiety of one who felt life and death to hang on his -lips. “It does not matter what you think or what I think, but what he -thinks,” he said abruptly when Edgar explained something. His whole -attention was bent upon the lawyer. He read the letters in Mr. -Fazakerly’s look. The chances were he did not himself make out or -understand<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span> them, but he saw what the other thought of them, and that -was enough.</p> - -<p>“Softly, softly,” said Mr. Fazakerly; “don’t let us go too fast. I -acknowledge these are ugly letters to find; they make a very strong case -against the old Squire. He was a man who would stick at nothing to get -his own will. I would not say so before your sister, Mr. Edgar, but -still it was true. I have known cases in which he did not stick at -anything. And there can be no doubt that it affords an instant -explanation of his conduct to you. But the law distrusts too clear an -explanation of motives—the law likes facts, Mr. Edgar, and not motives. -We must go very gently in this difficult path. I will allow that I think -this is the late Mr. Arden’s handwriting—for the sake of argument I -will allow that; but these letters, you will perceive, all make a -proposition. There is nothing in them to prove that the proposition was -accepted—not a word—a fact which of itself complicates the matter -immensely. We have Mr. Arden’s word for it, without any -confirmation—nothing more.”</p> - -<p>“I think you mistake,” said Edgar; “there are these other letters which -consider and accept the proposal. They are, I think, remarkable letters. -The person who wrote them could no doubt be identified. I think they are -quite conclusive that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> the proposal was accepted. Look at this, and -this, and this——”</p> - -<p>“All very well—all very well,” said the lawyer. “Letters signed ‘J. -M.;’ but who is ‘J. M.’? I conclude a woman. I don’t make out what kind -of a person at all. There are errors of spelling here and there, which -do not look like a lady; and there is something about the style which is -not like an uneducated person. I decline to receive as evidence the -anonymous letters of ‘J. M.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>Arthur Arden followed the speakers with his eyes, and with breathless -attention. He turned from one to another, noting even their gestures, -the little motions of arm and hand with which they appealed to each -other. He was discouraged by Mr. Fazakerly’s tone; he raised his eyes to -Edgar, almost begging him to say something more—to bring forward -another argument for his own undoing. It was the strangest position for -them both. Edgar had taken upon himself, as it were, the conduct of his -adversary’s case; he was the advocate of the man who was to displace and -supersede him. He was struggling with the champion of his own rights for -those of his rival, and with the strangest simplicity that rival tacitly -appealed to him.</p> - -<p>“I don’t understand these matters of detail——” Edgar began.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span></p> - -<p>“Detail, my dear sir, detail!” said Mr. Fazakerly, “they are matters of -principle. If letters like these were to be accepted as affecting the -succession to a great property, nobody would be safe. How can I tell who -this ‘J. M.’ was? It might be anybody—nobody. She may have written -these letters at random altogether. And, besides, there is not a tittle -of evidence to connect you with ‘J. M.’ Even supposing the whole -correspondence perfectly genuine, which is a thing requiring proof in -the first place, how am I to know—how is any one to know—that you are -the child referred to? There is, the contrary, everything against it. -You yourself jump at a conclusion. You say you are not like the Ardens, -and that your father was unkind to you, and from these two facts you -arrive at the astounding conclusion that you are not Mr. Arden’s son. -Mr. Edgar, I do not wish to be uncivil, but there is nothing in it. We -cannot decide such a question on evidence so slight—— God bless me! -what is that?”</p> - -<p>The sound was startling enough; but it was only a knock, though an -emphatic and determined one, at the door. Edgar rose to open it, and -found Wilkins outside endeavouring to hold back an unlooked for visitor. -“She would come, sir,” said Wilkins in trouble——<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span></p> - -<p>“Is it you, Mrs. Murray?” said Edgar, startled he scarcely knew why; yet -somehow not feeling her presence inappropriate. “I am very busy at this -moment. I hope Jeanie is not worse——”</p> - -<p>She made no attempt to enter the room; but standing outside in the -imperfect light, looked anxiously in his face. “I came because I couldna -help it,” she said slowly, “because I was concerned in my mind about -yours and you.”</p> - -<p>“That was kind,” he said with a smile. He opened the door wide, and -revealed her standing on the threshold—a dark, commanding figure. “We -are busy about very important business,” said Edgar; “but still, if you -have anything to say to me—if Jeanie is worse——”</p> - -<p>“Jeanie is better, or I would not have left her,” said the Scotchwoman; -and then she put her hand suddenly upon his arm, and drew him towards -her. “It’s you I am troubled about,” she said suddenly, with the -hoarseness of great emotion. “I’ve never got you out of my mind since -you said you were in trouble. Oh, my bonnie lad! I have no right to -speak, but my heart is in sore pain. Oh, if I could but be of some -service to you!”</p> - -<p>Edgar never knew how it was—perhaps some trick of words like something -he had recently seen—perhaps the passion in her voice—perhaps a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> -sudden intuition, a touch of nature, warning him of things unknown and -unseen. Suddenly he changed the position of affairs, put his hand on her -arm, and drew her into the room. “Come,” he said, “I want you. Don’t -hesitate any longer; I have a question to ask you.” He had to exercise -almost a little force to bring her into the room. She stopped upon the -threshold, resisting the pressure of his hand. “No,” she said, “no -before these strange folk; it was for you I came, and you alone.”</p> - -<p>“I have something to ask you,” said Edgar. “Come in and help me. I think -you can.”</p> - -<p>He led her in unwillingly up to the table. She gave an alarmed and -anxious look upon the two people sitting by. Arthur Arden, whose mind -was open to everything, looked up and stared at her; but the lawyer, -after one hasty glance, took no further notice. He went on reading the -papers, shrugging his shoulders at this absurd interruption. In his own -mind it was a proof that the story he had just heard was true as the -Gospel, and that the young man who admitted every chance comer into his -intimacy could not be an Arden. But externally he paid no attention. It -was not his business to see, but to be blind. Arthur Arden was in a very -different mood; everything was important to him—he caught at the -faintest indications of meaning,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> and was on the outlook eagerly for any -incident. He watched closely, as Edgar led Mrs. Murray up to the table. -He perceived how reluctant she was, how she stood on the defensive, -watchful, and guarding herself against surprise. What share could she -have in the matter, that all her faculties should be thus on the alert? -Edgar’s demeanour too was very amazing to the spectator. His eye had -brightened—a curious air of quickened interest was in his face; he -looked as if he felt himself on the eve of a discovery. He led the old -woman up to the table, holding her by the arm. It was a strange scene: -the lawyer reading on steadily, taking no notice; the other spectator in -the shade, looking on so eagerly—the two figures standing between. The -woman had the air of going blindfold to encounter some unknown danger, -which, whatever it was, she was prepared to resist. Then Edgar spoke -with so much energy and impressiveness that even Mr. Fazakerly paused, -and pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, and looked up hurriedly. -“Look at these,” he said, bringing her close to the open packet of -letters—“Look at them, and tell me if you ever saw them before.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Murray approached, looking straight before her, keeping, with an -evident effort, every sign of emotion from her face. But when her eye -fell on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> the papers, an extraordinary change came over her. She came to -a dead stop—she uttered a low cry—she looked at them, stooping over -the table, and threw up her hands with a wild gesture of dismay. And -then all at once she recollected herself, stiffened all over, stood -desperately erect, with her hands clasped before her, and looked at them -all with a dumb defiance, which was wonderful to see.</p> - -<p>“What did you say, sir?” she asked. “I am growing old; I am no so quick -at the up-take as I once was. I’ve been in this room before, in an hour -of great trouble and pain to me, and it works upon my nerves to see it -again. Sir, what did ye say?”</p> - -<p>And she turned from one to another, severally defying them. Her face had -become blank of every expression but that one. This was the way in which -she betrayed herself. She defied them all. Her face said—Find me out if -you can; I will never tell you—instead of wearing, as a more -accomplished deceiver would have done, the air of having nothing to find -out.</p> - -<p>“Have you ever seen these letters before?” said Edgar; and he lifted the -papers and put them into her hands. Arthur, who was watching, saw her -breast heave. He saw her hand clutch them, as if she would have torn -them in pieces. But she dared not tear them in pieces. She looked at -them, made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span> a pretence to read, and stood as if she were an image cut -out of stone.</p> - -<p>“How should I have seen them?” she said, putting them back on the table -as if they had burned her. “My cousin, Thomas Perfitt, is an old servant -of your house; but how should its secrets have come to me?”</p> - -<p>“Look here,” said Edgar, in his excitement; “I believe you know; -something tells me that you know. Mr. Fazakerly, give us your attention. -You will not serve me by pretending ignorance if you know. I have found -out that I am not Mr. Arden’s son.”</p> - -<p>“Softly, softly!” said the lawyer, putting his hand on Edgar’s arm. -“That is mere assertion on your part; there is no proof.”</p> - -<p>“Hear me out,” cried Edgar. “I am speaking from myself only. I am -certain I am not Mr. Arden’s son, nor Mrs. Arden’s son. I am a stranger -altogether to the race. To me these letters prove it fully. For his own -evil ends, whatever they may have been, the master of this house adopted -me—perhaps bought me——”</p> - -<p>Here there was another interruption. Mrs. Murray put out her hand -suddenly as if to stop him, and gave a cry as of pain; but once more -stiffened back into her old attitude, regarding them with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> same -defiant look. Edgar paused, he looked her full in the face, he put his -hand upon her arm. “You injure me by your silence,” he said. “Speak! Are -you my—— Am I——?” His voice shook, his whole frame trembled. “You -are something to me,” he cried, looking at her. “Speak, for God’s sake! -Was it you who wrote these letters? You know them—you recognised them. -It is for my benefit that you should speak. Answer me!—the time is past -for concealment. Tell me what you know.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Murray’s lips moved, but no sound came; she looked from one to -another with rapid eager looks but the defiance in her face did not pass -away. At last her voice burst out aloud with an effort. “Let me sit -down,” she said; “I am growing old, and I am weary with watching, and I -cannot stand upon my feet.” The three men beside her leant forward to -hear these words, as if a whole revelation must be in them, so highly -were they excited. When it became apparent that she revealed nothing, -even Mr. Fazakerly was so much disturbed as to push his chair away from -the table, and to give his whole attention to the new actor in the -scene. Edgar brought her a seat, and she sat down among them with an air -of presiding over them, and with a strange knowledge of the crisis, and -all its particulars which seemed natural at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> moment, and yet was -proof above all argument that she was not unprepared for the disclosure -that had been made to her. There was no surprise in her face. She was -greatly agitated, and evidently restraining herself with an effort that -was almost superhuman; but she was not astonished, as a stranger would -have been. This fact dawned upon the lawyer with curious distinctness -after the first minute. Edgar was baffled in his appeal, and Arthur -wanted the power to make use of his observations. But Mr. Fazakerly saw, -and watched, and had all his wits about him. And neither at that moment -nor at any other did the old solicitor of the Ardens, the depository of -all the family secrets, forget that the reigning Squire, whether he were -the rightful heir or not, was his client, and that he was retained for -the defence.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Edgar,” said Mr. Fazakerly, “and Mr. Arthur, you are both too much -interested to manage this properly. You take it for granted that -everything bears upon the one question, which this good lady, of course, -never heard of before. Leave her with me. If she knows anything—which -is very unlikely—she will inform me in confidence. Of course, whatever -I find out shall be disclosed to you at once,” he added, with a mental -reservation. “Leave it to me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span></p> - -<p>But whether that could have been done or not was never put to the test. -As he finished speaking, Wilkins came to the door hastily. “I beg your -pardon, sir,” he said, “but some folks is come from the village, asking -if one Mrs. Murray is here. I beg your pardon, I’m sure, for -interrupting——”</p> - -<p>The old Scotchwoman rose up suddenly in the midst of them with a cry of -fear, which she no longer attempted to restrain.</p> - -<p>“Is it my Jeanie?” she exclaimed. “Oh, good Lord, good Lord, I’m paying -dear, dear!”</p> - -<p>“I must go with her,” said Edgar, in his excitement. Something in his -face, some strange likeness never perceived before, startled both his -companions. Arthur Arden rose too. He did not care about Jeanie. He had -forgotten, in this greater excitement, that he was guilty in regard to -the girl. All he thought of was to follow this new clue—to see them -together—to watch the new resemblance he had found out in Edgar’s -face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Jeanie</span> was lying propped up on pillows, struggling for breath. Her face, -which had always been like that of an angel, was more visionary, more -celestial than ever; the golden hair, which had always been so carefully -braided, hung about her head like a halo. It was hair which fell in -soft, even tresses, not standing on end or struggling into rebellious -curls: everything about her was soft, harmonious, submissive. Her eyes -were full of light, enlarged, with that fatal breadth and fulness which -generally has but one meaning. A little flush of fever on her cheeks -kept up the appearance of health. Her pretty lips were parted with the -panting, struggling breath. Dr. Somers stood at her bedside, looking -very grave. Sally Timms sat crying in a corner. Mrs. Hesketh came to the -door to meet the poor grandmother, with her apron at her eyes. “She was -took bad half-an-hour after you went—just about when you’d have got to -the Hall; and called and called till it made you sick to hear—‘Granny!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> -granny! granny!’—never another word. Oh, I’m thankful, Missis, as -you’ve come in time.”</p> - -<p>“Half-an-hour after I left!” said Mrs. Murray; “when I was denying the -truth. Oh, me that thought to hide it from the Lord!—me that thought -she was better, and He couldna go back! And the angel cried upon me, -Granny! granny! Lad, do you hear that!—I have lost my Jeanie for you!”</p> - -<p>She put her hand upon Edgar’s shoulder as she spoke. Her face was white -and ghastly with her despair. She thrust him from her, almost with -violence. “Oh, let me never see you more! Oh, let me never see you more! -I have lost my Jeanie for you!”</p> - -<p>“Is there no hope?” said Edgar, clutching Dr. Somers by the arm. He had -given way to the mother, to let her approach the bed, and now stood -behind with a face so grave and grieved that any answer seemed -unnecessary. He shook his head; and then, after a little interval, -spoke.</p> - -<p>“I know no reason why this should have come on. Some agitation which I -cannot explain. There is no hope, unless it can be calmed somehow. The -grandmother may do it, or perhaps——”</p> - -<p>Dr. Somers turned round and looked the newcomers in the face. Was it -possible that the innocent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> creature dying before his eyes could have -loved either of these men? Arthur Arden was the kind of man to pursue an -intrigue anywhere, and he had singled out Jeanie. And Edgar was young -and well-looking, and the chief object of interest to the village. Could -her eye or her heart have been caught by one of them. Why were they both -here? The Doctor’s mind was full of the one remaining chance. He looked -at Edgar again, whose face was full of emotion; he had his heart in his -eyes; he was always sympathetic, always ready to feel for any sufferer. -The Doctor mused over it a little, watching keenly the approach of the -grandmother to the bedside. Mrs. Murray went to her child as calmly as -if she had never known a disturbing feeling in her life. She bent over -her like a dove over her nest. “My bairn! my bonnie woman! my Jeanie!” -she murmured; but the patient was not stilled. The Doctor looked -anxiously on, and then he yielded to an impulse, which he could not have -explained. He took Edgar by the shoulder and drew him forward. “Go and -speak to her,” he said. “I!” whispered Edgar, astonished. “Go and speak -to her,” cried the Doctor, in tones scarcely audible, yet violently -imperative, and not to be disobeyed. The young man, deeply moved as he -was, went forward doubtfully,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> longing and yet afraid. What could he -say? What could he do? He did not understand the yearning that was in -his heart towards this little suffering girl. He had no sense of guilt -towards her, had never harmed her, one way or another. He longed to go -and take her in his arms, and carry her away to some halcyon place where -there would be rest. Dying was not in his thoughts; but Edgar, too, was -weary of agitation, and suffering, and distress. He had suffered, and he -had not come to the end of his sufferings. Oh, to be able to escape -somewhere, to carry away poor Jeanie, to lay her down in some cool -valley, in some heavenly silence! Tears were in his eyes. He thought of -her, and of Clare, and Gussy, all mingled together—all whom he loved -best. He went up to the bedside, behind the old woman who had thrust him -away so passionately, yet who somehow belonged to him too. “Jeanie,” he -said, in a low tremulous voice, “Jeanie, little Jeanie!” The other -spectators instinctively fell back, perceiving, they could not tell how, -that this was an experiment which was being tried. Jeanie’s panting -breath was hushed for a moment; she made a distinct effort, half raising -herself. “Who was that; who was that?” she cried. (“Speak again,” said -Dr. Somers, once more, in that imperative, violent whisper behind.)<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> -“Jeanie,” said Edgar, advancing another step, “Do you know me? Speak to -me, Jeanie!”</p> - -<p>She gave a great cry. She threw herself forward, opening her arms; her -face blazed as with a sudden light of joy. “Willie! Willie! Willie!” she -cried, as on the first night when she had seen Edgar from her window, -and, leaning half out of her bed, threw herself into his arms.</p> - -<p>An awful pause ensued. Mrs. Murray kneeled down by the bedside, and with -her face raised, and two big tears flowing slowly down her cheeks, -lifted up her clasped hands and prayed. Her eyes were fixed upon Jeanie, -but she did nothing to detach her from the arms in which, as the -spectators thought, she would certainly die. Dr. Somers held them all -back. He held up his hand so that no one moved. He stood watching the -pair thus strangely clasping each other, standing close behind Edgar, to -give aid if necessary, with one finger laid softly on Jeanie’s wrist. -Was it for life, was it for death? Even the women, who had been looking -on, stole softly forward, with all the interest which attends the crisis -of a tragedy, staying the tears which had flowed in a kind of mechanical -sympathy at the apparent approach of death. They comprehended that death -had been stayed at least for the moment, and they did not know how. As -for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> Edgar, he stood in this unexpected and innocent embrace, feeling -the soft weight upon his breast, the soft, feeble arm round him, the -velvet-soft lips on his cheek, with an indescribable emotion. “If she -lives, I will be her brother. I am her brother from this hour,” he said -to himself. He held her fast, supporting her, with thoughts in which not -a single shade of evil mingled. Jeanie was sacred to him. He did not -understand what had moved her. He had, indeed, forgotten, in this sudden -change of all his thoughts, the suspicions he had of her mother. He -thought only that she had cast herself upon his support and protection, -and that henceforward she was to him as the sister he had lost.</p> - -<p>“Lay her back gently. Stand by her—her strength is failing,” said the -Doctor’s quick voice in his ear. “Softly, softly! Stand by her. Now the -wine—she will take it from you. Edgar, life and death are on your -steadiness. Support her—give her the wine—now—now—”</p> - -<p>She took it from him, as Dr. Somers said. She smiled on him, and drew -his hand feebly with both hers till she had placed it under her cheek. -Then she said “Willie!” again in a faint whisper like a sigh, and fell -asleep sweetly and suddenly, while they all watched her—fell asleep, -not in death but in life,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> with Edgar’s hand supporting her child-like, -angel-like face.</p> - -<p>Then Mrs. Murray rose from her knees. “I must speak,” she said, with a -gasp; “if I did not speak now, I would repent and tempt the Lord again. -Him that’s standing there is Jeanie’s near kin—no her brother, as my -bonnie lamb thinks he is—but near, near of kin, and like, like to him -that’s gane. And I am his mother’s mother, a guilty woman, no worthy of -God’s grace. I have made my confession, and now I can tempt the Lord no -more.”</p> - -<p>This strange speech fell upon, it seemed, unheeding ears. The -indifferent spectators stared, not knowing what it meant. The Doctor was -absorbed in watching his patient; and Edgar, in the new and strange -position which he was obliged to keep, did not realise what was said. He -heard the words, and was conscious of a vague wonder in respect to them, -but was too fully occupied, body and mind, to be able to make out what -they meant. Only Arthur Arden took them fully into his mind. He could -scarcely restrain an exclamation, scarcely keep himself still, when this -confirmation of every hope, and explanation of every difficulty, came to -his ears. He went out immediately, in the stupor of his delight, and -stood at the cottage door, under the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span> twinkling stars, repeating it over -to himself. “Near of kin to Jeanie—near, near of kin.” No Arden at -all—an alien, of different name and inferior race. And it was he, -Arthur, who was Arden of Arden. Could it be true? was it true? The night -was dark, relieved only by the stars which throbbed and trembled in the -sky. One of them shone over the dark trees of Arden in the distance, as -if it were a giant fairy blossom springing out of the foliage. Was the -star his, too, as well as the tree? Was all his, really his—the dewy -land under his feet, the wide line of the horizon where it extended over -the park and the woods—the very sky, with its “lot of stars.” His head -swam and grew dizzy as the thought grew—all his—house and lands, name -and honour. A wild elation took possession of him. All that had happened -had been well for him; and there passed across his mind vaguely an echo -of that wonderful sentiment with which those who are at ease pretend to -console those who suffer. All for the best—had not all been for the -best? The accident which almost killed Jeanie—the sudden crisis of -illness which had made the watchers send to Arden for her -grandmother—all for the best. God had taken the trouble to disturb the -order of nature—to wear out the young life to such a thread as might -snap at any moment—to wring the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> heart with bitterest pangs of -anxiety—all for good to him. Thus the egotist mused; and though he was -irreligious, said, with a horrible gratitude, and something like an -assumption of piety in his heart, “Thank God!”—Thank God! for all but -killing Jeanie—for working havoc in her mother’s breast. It had been -all for the best.</p> - -<p>Strangely enough, Mrs. Murray, after an interval, followed him out to -the door. She grasped him by the arm in her excitement. “I thought once -I was indebted to you,” she said. “I thought I should be thankful that -you brought my bairn in, carrying her in your arms; but I know now whose -blame it was she got her accident. I know now what you would have put -into her head if it had not been for her innocence. And it is for you I -must ruin my bonnie lad, and cover my name with shame. Oh, the Lord sees -if it’s hard or no! But mind you this, man, you will never be his equal -if you were to labour night and day—never his equal—nor nigh him. And -never think that those that have loved him will stoop down to the like -of you.”</p> - -<p>She thrust him away, as she spoke, with a scorn that made Arthur wild. -What! he the true proprietor of Arden to be dismissed so? He turned to -gaze at her as she disappeared, shutting the door upon him. An impulse -seized him to throw a stone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span> at the window—to do something which should -show his contempt and rage; but he did not do it. He thought better of -it. He could afford to be magnanimous. He left the place where Jeanie’s -young life had been put in such jeopardy by his fault, and where he had -just concluded that it had been for the best, without seeking for any -further news of Jeanie. She might die or live for anything he cared. Her -brother was with her, or her cousin, or whatever he was—the fellow who -had kept him so long out of Arden. Thus he turned away through the dark -village, up the dark avenue, and went home to Arden, where the lights -were still burning in all the windows, and the master expected home. It -was on his lips to say—“I am master now; when that fellow comes, do not -let him in;” but in that point too he restrained himself. Fazakerly was -in the house, and Clare was in the house. He did not wish to come into -collision with either of them. For Edgar, he did not care.</p> - -<p>Meantime Edgar stood, fatigued and weakened by the excitement of the -day, by Jeanie’s bedside, with her cheek resting on his hand. It -required all his muscular energy to support him in that strange task. He -scarcely ventured to breathe for fear of disturbing her. When he made a -little movement, her hands tightened upon his arm as she slept.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span> The -Doctor held wine to his lips, and encouraged him. “You are saving her -life,” he said; and Edgar smiled and stood fast. He was saving her -life—at this moment when his own strength was weakest, his own courage -lowest; but it was not he who had endangered her life. The man who was -to blame was entering Arden, full of elation and selfish joy, while -Edgar stood by the humble bedside saving the life of the almost victim. -What a strange contrast it was! But there are some men in the world -whose lot it always is to be the ones who suffer and save—and their lot -is not the worst in this life. The hours were long as they crept and -crept onward to the morning. The Doctor dozed in his chair. Even the old -mother slept by snatches in the midst of her watch—but Edgar, elevated -by weariness, and weakness, and spent excitement, out of the ordinary -regions of fleshly sensation, stood by Jeanie’s bedside, and did not -sleep. He went over it all in his heart—he felt it was now finally -settled somehow—everything confirmed and made certain, though he did -not quite know how. He thought of all that had to be given up, with a -faint, wan smile upon his lips. This time it was not an opiate, it was a -numbness that hung over him, partly physical because of his attitude, -but still more spiritual because of the exhaustion of his heart. All -was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> over—he was a new being, coming painfully into a changed life -through bitter pangs, of which he was but half-conscious. And Jeanie -slept with her cheek on his hand, and the other living creatures in the -cottage watched and slept, and breathed around him. And life and the -great universe moved and swam about him, like scenes in a -phantasmagoria—one scene dissolving into another, nothing steady or -definite in earth or heaven. Sometimes, as if a stray light had caught -it, one scene out of the past would suddenly shine out before him, -generally something quite unconnected with his present position; and -then a strange gleam would fall over the future, over that unknown waste -which lay before. Thus the night stole on, till every minute seemed an -hour, and every hour a day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Arthur Arden</span> went 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 mere<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> -external 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 over<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> everything 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 himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> in 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.</p> - -<p>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 exuberance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span> of 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, admitting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> the 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.</p> - -<p>“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?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span></p> - -<p>“Come to the other room and I’ll get it for you,” said Edgar. “The man -wants to go to bed.”</p> - -<p>“If I don’t go to bed, confound them, why can’t <i>they</i> wait?” 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, his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span> heart 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?</p> - -<p>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 and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> there 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, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span> thought 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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> reader 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 not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> offer 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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“What happened last night?” said Clare eagerly.</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>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 my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span> brother,” 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.</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly for this time,” said Clare. “Settle for me as you think best. -I will go where you please. I can’t stay—here.”</p> - -<p>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——</p> - -<p>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 point<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> Edgar 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 higher <i>rôle</i> than -himself.</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>“She is not your sister,” said Arthur, with some energy.</p> - -<p>“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 the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span> natural bonds that have been between us -all our lives.”</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>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?”</p> - -<p>“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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> 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——</p> - -<p>“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, was <i>her</i> grandson! 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——”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“Not in respect to my cousin!” Arthur said, with rising passion.</p> - -<p>“Not in respect to anything,” said the lawyer cheerfully.</p> - -<p>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 -was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> agitated, 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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>Then the client and the adviser sat down together, and Edgar related all -the particulars he had learned. Mr. Fazakerly sobered down out of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> -hopeful 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.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I should have objected,” said Edgar; “I do not want to make any -terms——”</p> - -<p>“Then what do you mean to do?” cried Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> 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?”</p> - -<p>Edgar shook his head. He smiled at the same time with a half-amused -indifference, which drove his friend to renewed impatience.</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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 most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> -iniquitous bequest, your father left her nothing else? She will be a -beggar as well as you.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Fazakerly looked at the young man aghast. He said to himself, “There -<i>must</i> be 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.</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“Please, sir, Lady Augusta Thornleigh and the young ladies is come to -call,” said Wilkins. “I’d have shown them into the drawing-room, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span> -Mr. Arthur Arden he’s in the drawing-room. Shall they come here?”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lady Augusta</span> came 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 I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span> -cannot, 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.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be angry with me,” said Edgar, gazing at her wistfully; “but was -it with that idea you came here?”</p> - -<p>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?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span></p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Poor boy!” said Lady Augusta; “poor boy!” Her heart was bleeding for -him, but she did not know what to do or say.</p> - -<p>“You said <i>we</i>,” 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.”</p> - -<p>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 our<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> hearts are breaking, and we could not let him go without one -good-bye.”</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>“And Gussy?” said Edgar eagerly.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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 beg<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span> your 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?”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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!”</p> - -<p>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 -Gussy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> was. 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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>There had never been a moment in her life so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span> sad—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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t, don’t!” cried Gussy. “Don’t thank me, Mr. Arden. I think my -heart will break.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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!” -she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> sobbed. And his heart, too, thrilled with a poignant sweetness, -ineffable misery, and consolation, and despair.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Edgar returned to the library while Lady Augusta was still in the very -midst of her interrogations.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>“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.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> and if there is anything to be done about Mr. Arthur -Arden—Clare ought not to be here.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Would you come to see me at Thorne?” said Clare. “Upon that must rest -the whole matter whether I will go or not.”</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>“Then I will not go,” said Clare. And so it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> settled, -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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Clare</span> left 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 against<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span> -him 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 and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span> excellences, 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?</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 hired<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span> house. 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.</p> - -<p>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——”</p> - -<p>“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 -brother<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> can make some arrangement for me, may I come here?”</p> - -<p>“Here!” cried the good Rector, in momentary dismay.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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!”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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 to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span> form 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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span> 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.”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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, dingy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span> drawing-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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Miss Somers</span> was 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?”</p> - -<p>“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.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span></p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“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 -I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span> used 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——”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span> “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——”</p> - -<p>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 to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span> herself 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?</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know of any marriage,” said Clare.</p> - -<p>“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 between<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span> them?—or is Edgar to be Arthur, you know? Oh! I do -wish you would tell me, Clare.”</p> - -<p>“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!”</p> - -<p>“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 Arthur -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span>was a troublesome, mischievous boy—— I can’t make out, I assure you, -how it could be——”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“I hope you don’t think my cousin is a miser or a tyrant,” said Clare, -flushing suddenly to her very hair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span></p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>Once more Clare made no reply. A cloud enveloped her, mentally and -physically—a <i>sourd</i> misery, inarticulate, not defining itself. Why<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span> -should 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.</p> - -<p>“I am not one to preach,” said Miss Somers, faltering. “I know I never -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span>was 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, <i>so</i>—— 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——”</p> - -<p>“And so am I,” said Clare, rising with a revulsion of feeling -incomprehensible to herself. “He <i>is</i> my 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——”</p> - -<p>“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 they -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span>say. But, oh! Clare, I’m not clever—I know it—and not one to——, but -I love you with all my heart!——”</p> - -<p>“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 would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span> never 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.</p> - -<p>Some one did come for Clare at last, making her heart leap with a -painful hope; but it was only Mr. Fielding, coming anxiously to beg her -to return to dinner. She put on her hat, and went down to him with the -paleness of death in her face. Nobody cared where she went, or what she -did. They were glad that she was gone. The place that had known her knew -her no more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> is unnecessary to say that to one at least of the two people whose -behaviour she thus discussed in her heart Clare was unjust. Edgar had -neither forgotten her nor was he glad to be rid of her. It was late -before he knew that she was gone. All the afternoon of that day he had -spent with the lawyer, going over again all the matters which only two -months ago had been put into the hands of the heir. Mr. Fazakerly had -ceased to remonstrate. Now and then he would shake his head or shrug his -shoulders, in silent protest against the mad proceeding altogether, but -he had stopped saying anything. It was of no use making any further -resistance. His client had committed himself at every step; he had -thrown open his secret ostentatiously to all who were -concerned—ostentatiously, Mr. Fazakerly said with professional -vehemence, feeling aggrieved in every possible way. Had he been called -upon to advise in the very beginning, it is most likely that the task -would have tried him sorely; for his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span> professional instinct to defend -and conceal would have had all the force of a conscience to contend -with. But now that he had not been consulted, he was free to protest. -When he found it no longer of any use to make objections in words, he -shook his head—he shrugged his shoulders—he made satirical -observations whenever he could find an opportunity. “Were there many -like you, Mr. Edgar,” he said, “we lawyers might shut up shop -altogether. It is like going back to the primitive ages of Christianity. -Let not brother go to law against brother is, I know, the Scriptural -rule; though it is generally the person who is attacked who says -that—the one who has something to lose. But you have gone beyond -Scripture; you have not even asked for arbitration or compensation; you -have thrown away everything at once. We might shut up shop altogether if -everybody was like you.”</p> - -<p>“If I were disagreeable,” said Edgar, laughing, “I should say, and no -great harm either, according to the judgment of the world.”</p> - -<p>“The world is a fool, Mr. Edgar,” said Mr. Fazakerly.</p> - -<p>“It is very possible,” said Edgar, with a smile. This was at the -termination of their business, when he felt himself at last free from -all the oft-repeated consultations and discussions of the last two or -three<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span> days. Everything was concluded. The old lawyer had his full -instructions what he was to do, and what to say. Edgar gave up -everything without reservation, and, at the instance of Mr. Fazakerly, -consented to receive from his cousin a small sum of money, enough to -carry him abroad and launch him on the world. He had been very reluctant -to do this, but Mr. Fazakerly’s strenuous representations had finally -silenced him. “After all, I suppose the family owes it me, for having -spoiled my education and career,” Edgar said, with the half smile, half -sigh which had become habitual to him; and then he was silent, musing -what his career would have been had he been left in his natural soil. -Perhaps it would have been he who should have ploughed the little farm, -and kept the family together; perhaps he might have been a sailor, like -Willie who was lost—or a doctor, or a minister, like others of his -race. How strange it was to think of it! He too had a family, though not -the family of Arden. His life had come down to him through honest hands, -across the homely generations—not peasants nor gentlefolk, but -something between—high-minded, righteous, severe people, like the woman -who was the only representative of them he knew, his mother’s mother. -His heart beat with a strange sickening speed when he thought of her—a -mixture<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span> of repulsion and attraction was in his thoughts. How was he to -tell Clare of her? He felt that nothing which had yet occurred would so -sever him from his sister as the appearance by his side of the two -strangers who were his flesh and blood. And then he remembered that in -the sickness of his heart he had made no inquiry after Jeanie during -that whole long day.</p> - -<p>When he went out into the hall he found boxes standing about, a sight -which struck him with surprise, and Barbara standing, bonneted and -cloaked, among them. She turned to him the moment he appeared, with an -eager appeal. “Please, sir, Miss Clare said as I was to ask you what to -do.”</p> - -<p>“I will speak to my sister,” said Edgar in his ignorance; but Barbara -put out her hand to detain him.</p> - -<p>“Oh, sir, please! Miss Clare has gone down to the Rectory. She said to -me as I was to ask you what to do with all these things. There are a -deal of things, sir, to go to the Rectory. The rooms is small—and you -was to tell me, please, what to do. Don’t you think, sir, if I was to -leave the heavy things here——”</p> - -<p>“Nothing must stay here,” said Edgar peremptorily. He was more angry at -this suggestion than at anything which had yet been said. “Take them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> -all away—to the Rectory—where Miss Arden pleases; everything must go.” -He was not aware while he spoke that Arthur Arden had made his -appearance and stood looking at him, listening with a certain bitterness -to all he said.</p> - -<p>“That seems hard laws,” said Arthur. “I am Miss Arden’s nearest -relative. It may be necessary that she should go at present; but why -should you take upon you to pronounce that nothing shall stay?”</p> - -<p>“I am her brother,” said Edgar gravely. “Mr. Arden, you will find Mr. -Fazakerly in the library with a communication to make to you. Be content -with that, and let me go my own way.”</p> - -<p>“No, by Jove!” cried Arthur; “not if your way includes that of Clare. -What business have you, who are nothing to her, to carry her away?”</p> - -<p>The servants stood gaping round, taking in every word. Mr. Fazakerly, -alarmed by the sound of the discussion, came to the door; and Edgar made -the discovery then, to his great surprise, that it hurt him to have this -revelation made to the servants. It was a poor shabby little remnant of -pride, he thought. What was the opinion of Wilkins or of Mrs. Fillpot to -him? and yet he would rather these words had been spoken in his absence. -But the point was one in which he was resolute not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span> to yield. He gave -his orders to Wilkins peremptorily, without so much as looking at the -new heir. And then he himself went out, glad—it is impossible to say -how glad—to escape from it all. He gave a sigh of relief when he -emerged from the Arden woods. Even that avenue he had been so proud of -was full of the heavy atmosphere of pain and conflict. The air was freer -outside, and would be freer still when Arden itself and everything -connected with it had become a thing of the past. When he reached the -Rectory, Mr. Fielding was about sitting down to dinner, with Clare -opposite to him—a mournful meal, which the old man did his best to -enliven, although the girl, worn out in body and mind, was incapable of -any response. Things were a little better, to Mr. Fielding at least, -when Edgar joined them; but Clare could scarcely forgive him when she -saw that he could eat, and that a forlorn inclination for rest and -comfort was in her brother’s mind in the midst of his troubles. He was -hungry. He was glad of the quiet and friendly peace of the familiar -place. Oh, he was no Arden! every look, every word bore out the evidence -against him.</p> - -<p>“It looks unfeeling,” he said, “but I have neither eaten nor slept for -two days, and I am so sick of it all. If Clare were but safe and -comfortable,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span> it would be the greatest relief to me to get away——”</p> - -<p>“Clare is safe here. I don’t know whether she can make herself -comfortable,” said the Rector looking at her wistfully. “Miss Arden, -from Estcombe, would come to be with you, my dear child, I am sure, if -that would be any advantage—or good Mrs. Selden——”</p> - -<p>“I am as comfortable as I can be,” said Clare, shortly. “What does it -matter? There is nothing more necessary. I will live through it as best -I can.”</p> - -<p>“My dear child,” said good Mr. Fielding, after a long pause; “think of -Edgar—it is worse for him than for you——”</p> - -<p>“No,” cried Clare passionately; “it is not worse for him. Look, he is -able to eat—to take comfort—he does not feel it. Half the goodness of -you good people is because you don’t feel it. But I—— It will kill -me——”</p> - -<p>And she thrust back her chair from the table, and burst into passionate -tears, of which she was soon ashamed. “Edgar does not mind,” she cried; -“that is worst of all. He looks at me with his grieved face, and he does -not understand me. He is not an Arden, as I am. It is not death to him, -as it is to me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span></p> - -<p>Edgar had risen and was going to her, but he stopped short at the name -of Arden. It felt to him like a stab—the first his sister had given -him. “I hope I shall not learn to hate the name of Arden,” he said -between his closed lips; and then he added gently, “So long as I am not -guilty, nothing can be death to me. One can bear it when one is but -sinned against, not sinning; and you have been an angel to me, -Clare——”</p> - -<p>“No,” she cried, “I am no angel; I am an Arden. I know you are good; but -if you had been wicked and concealed it, and stood by your rights, I -should have felt with you more!”</p> - -<p>It was in the revulsion of her over-excited feelings that she spoke, but -yet it was true. Perhaps it was more true than when she had stood by -Edgar and called him her dearest brother; but it was the hardest blow he -had yet had to bear. He sat down again, and covered his face with his -hands. Poor fellow! the little comfort he had been so ready to enjoy, -the quietness and friendliness, the food and rest, had lost all savour -for him now. Mr. Fielding took his hand and pressed it, but that was -only a mild consolation. After a moment he rose, rousing himself for the -last step, which up to this moment he had shrunk from. “I have a further -revelation to make to you,” he said in an altered voice; “but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span> I have -not had the courage to do it. I have to tell you who I really belong to. -I think I have the courage now.”</p> - -<p>“Edgar!” she cried, in alarm, raising her head, holding out her hand to -him with a little cry of distress, “Will you not always belong to me?”</p> - -<p>He shook his head; he was incapable of any further explanation. “I will -go and bring my mother——” he said, with a half sob. The other two sat -amazed, and looked after him as he went away.</p> - -<p>“Do you know what he means?” asked Clare, in a voice so low as to be -scarcely audible. Mr. Fielding shook his head.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what he means, or if his mind is giving way, poor -boy—poor boy, that thinks of everybody but himself; and you have been -hard, very hard upon him, Clare.”</p> - -<p>Clare did not answer a word. She rose from the table, from the fruit and -wine which she had spoiled to her gentle host, and went to the deep, -old-fashioned window which looked down the village street. She drew the -curtain aside, and sat down on the window-seat, and gazed into the -darkness. What had he meant? Whom had he gone to seek? An awful sense -that she had lost him for ever made Clare shiver and tremble; and yet -what she had said in her petulance was true.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span></p> - -<p>As for Edgar, he hastened along through the darkness with spasmodic -energy. He had wondered how he could do it; he had turned from the task -as too difficult, too painful; he had even thought of leaving Clare in -ignorance of his real origin, and writing to tell her after he had -himself disappeared for ever. But here was the moment to make the -revelation. He could do it now; his heart was very sore and full of -pain—but yet the very pain gave him an opportunity. He reflected that -though it was very hard for him, it was better for Clare that the -severance between them should be complete. He could not go on, he who -was a stranger to her blood, holding the position of her brother. Years -and distance, and the immense difference which there would most likely -be between them would gradually make an end of any such visionary -arrangement. He would have liked to keep up the pleasant fiction; the -prospect of its ending crushed his heart and forced tears into his eyes; -but it would be best for Clare. She was ready to give him up already, he -reflected, with a pang. It would be better for her to make the severance -complete.</p> - -<p>He went into the cottage in the dark, without being recognised by any -one. The door of the inner room was ajar, and Mrs. Murray was visible -within by the light of a candle, seated at some distance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span> from her -child’s bedside. The bed was shaded carefully, and it was evident that -Jeanie was asleep. The old woman had no occupation whatever. A book was -lying open before her on the little table, and her knitting lay in her -lap; but she was doing nothing. Her face, which was so full of grave -thoughtfulness, was fully revealed by the light. It was the face of a -woman of whom no king need have been ashamed; every line in it was fine -and pure. Her snow-white hair, her dark eyes, which were so full of -life, the firm lines about her mouth, and the noble pose of the head, -gave her a dignity which many a duchess might have envied. True, her -dress was very simple—her place in the world humble enough; but Edgar -felt a sense of shame steal over him as he looked at her. He had shrank -from calling such a woman his mother, shrank from acknowledging her in -the face of the day; and yet there was no Arden face on the walls of the -house he had left which was more noble in feature, or half so exalted in -expression. He said this to himself, and yet he shrank still. It was the -last and highest act of renunciation. He went in so softly that she was -not disturbed. He went up to her, and laid his hand on her shoulder. His -heart stirred within him as he stood by her side. An unwilling -tenderness, a mixture of pride and shame, thrilled through<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span> him. -“Mother!” he said. It was the first time he had ever, in his -recollection, called any one by that sacred name.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Murray</span> started violently, and uttered a low cry. She turned to him -with a look of sudden joy, that made her dark eyes expand and dilate. -But when she saw Edgar’s face, a change came over her own. She rose up, -half withdrawing from his touch, and signed to him to leave the room, -with a gesture towards the bed in which Jeanie lay asleep. She followed -him to the door, where they had had so many broken interviews. The -silence and the darkness, and the faint stars above, seemed a congenial -accompaniment. She put her hand upon Edgar’s arm as he stepped across -the threshold. “What is your will; what is your will?” she said, in an -agitated voice. It seemed to the young man that even this last -refuge—the affection to which he had a right—had failed him too.</p> - -<p>“My will?” he said. “It is for me to ask yours, you that are my mother. -My life has changed like a dream, but yours is as it always was. Do you -want nothing of me?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span></p> - -<p>“Na,” said Mrs. Murray, with a voice of pain; “nothing, lad! nothing, -lad! You’ve been good to me and mine without knowing. You’ve saved my -Jeanie’s life. But we’re proud folk, though we were not brought up like -you. Nothing will we take but your love; and I’m no complaining. I bow -to nature and my own sin. I’ve long repented, long repented; but that is -neither here nor there; it cannot be expected that you should have any -love to give.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what I have to give,” said Edgar. “I am too weary and -heart-broken to know. Can you come with me now to see my sister?—I mean -Miss Arden. I must tell her. Don’t be grieved or pained, for I cannot -help it. It is hard.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, it is hard,” said Mrs. Murray; “Oh, it’s hard, hard! You were but a -babe when I put you out of my arms; but I’ve yearned after you ever -since. No, I’m asking no return; it’s no natural. You are more like to -hate us than to love us. I acknowledge that.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t hate you,” said Edgar. He was torn asunder with conflicting -feelings. Was it hatred or was it love? He could not tell which.</p> - -<p>“I’m ready to put my hands on my mouth, and my mouth in the dust,” she -went on. “I’ve sinned and sinned sore against the Lord and against you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span> -You were the only one left of all your mother’s bairns; and she was -dead, and he was dead—all gone that belonged to you but me—and my -hands full, full of weans and of troubles. I had the love for you, but -neither time nor bread, and I was sore, sore tempted. They said to me -there was none to be wronged, but only a house to be made glad. Oh, lad, -I sinned; and most I have sinned against you.”</p> - -<p>He could not say no. His heart seemed shut up and closed against her. He -could utter no forgiveness. It was true—quite true. She had sinned -against him. Squire Arden was deeply to blame, but she, too, had sinned. -There was not a word to say.</p> - -<p>“When you said mother, I thought my heart would burst with joy. I -thought the Lord had sent to you the spirit to forgive. But I canna -expect it; I canna look for it. Oh, no! I wouldna be ungrateful, good -Lord! He has his bonnie mother’s heart to serve his neighbour, and his -father’s that died for the poor, like Christ. I maunna complain. He has -a heart like his kin though no for me!”</p> - -<p>“Tell me what you mean,” cried Edgar, with a thrill of emotion tingling -to his very finger-points; “or rather come with me, come with me. Clare -must know all now—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“And Jeanie is sleeping,” she said. “I’ll cry upon that good woman to -watch her, and I’ll do your bidding. God bless you, lad, for Jeanie’s -life!”</p> - -<p>He stood and waited for her outside with a new life, it seemed, -thrilling through him. His father? He had once had a father, then—a man -who had done his duty in the world—not a tyrant, who hated him. The -idea of his mother did not so much move him; for somehow the dead woman -whose reputation he had vindicated, the sweet young face in Clare’s -picture, was his mother to Edgar in spite of all. He could not turn her -out of his imagination. But his father! A new spring of curiosity, which -was salvation to him, sprang up in his heart. Presently Mrs. Murray came -out again, in her old-fashioned shawl and bonnet. Her dress veiled the -dignity of her head. It gave him a sort of shudder to think of Clare -looking at this woman, whom she had wanted to be kind to—to treat as a -dependent—and knowing her to be his grandmother. She looked a little -like Mrs. Fillpot, in her old-fashioned bonnet and shawl—he scorned -himself for the thought, and yet it came back to him—very much like -Mrs. Fillpot until you saw her face; and Edgar was made of common flesh -and blood, and it went to his heart. He walked up the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span> village street by -her side with the strangest feelings. If she wanted him, it would be his -duty, perhaps, to go with her—to provide for her old age—to do her the -service of a son. She had a hold on him which nobody else in the world -had. And yet—— To be very kind, tender-hearted, and generous to your -conventional inferiors is so easy; but to take a family among them into -your very heart, and acknowledge them as your own!—— Edgar shivered -with a pang that ran through every nerve; and yet it had to be done!</p> - -<p>He was more reconciled to it by the time he reached the Rectory. Mrs. -Murray did not say another word to conciliate or attract his regard, but -she began a long soft-voiced monologue—the story of his family. She -told him of his father, who had been a doctor, and had died of typhus -fever, caught among the poor, to whom he had dedicated his life; of his -mother, who had broken her heart; of all her own children, his -relations, who were scattered over the world. “We’re no rich nor grand, -but we are folk that none need think shame of,” she said, “no one. We’ve -done our duty by land and by sea, and served God, and wronged no -man—all but me; and the wrong I did is made right, oh my bonnie lad, -thanks to you.”</p> - -<p>Thus a certain comfort, a certain bitterness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span> distilled into his heart -with every word. He made her take his arm as he entered the Rectory. He -had seen the curtain raised from the window, and some one looking out, -and felt that it was Clare watching, with perhaps a suspense as great as -his own. He led his grandmother into the dining-room, which he had left -so suddenly, leaning on his arm. Clare rose from her seat at the window -as they entered, and so did Mr. Fielding, who, really unhappy and -distressed, had been dozing in his chair. The Rector stumbled up half -asleep, and recollected the twilight visit he had received only a few -days before, and said “God bless me!” understanding it all in a moment. -But Clare did not understand. She walked forward to meet them, her face -blazing with painful colour. A totally different fancy crossed her mind. -She made a sudden conclusion, not like the reasonable and high-minded -being she desired to be, but like the inexperienced and foolish girl she -was. An almost fury blazed up in her eyes. Now that he had fallen, Edgar -was making haste to unite himself to that girl who had been the bane of -her life. He had brought the mother here to tell her so. It was Jeanie, -Jeanie, once more—the baby creature with her pretty face—who was -continually crossing her path.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span></p> - -<p>“What does this mean?” she cried haughtily. “Is this a time for folly, -for forming any miserable connexion—why do you bring this woman here?”</p> - -<p>“You must speak of her in other tones, if you speak of her to me,” said -Edgar. “I have shrunk from telling you, I can’t tell why. It seemed -severing the last link between us. But I must not hesitate any longer. -Miss Arden, this is Mrs. Murray, who wrote the letters you found in your -father’s room, who shared with him the guilt of the transaction which -has brought us all so much pain; but she is my mother’s mother, my -nearest relative in the world, and any one who cares for me will respect -her. This is the witness I told you of—her testimony makes everything -clear.”</p> - -<p>Clare stood thunderstruck, and listened to this revelation; then she -sank upon the nearest seat, turning still her pale countenance aghast -upon the old woman, who regarded her with a certain pathetic dignity. -Horror, dismay, shame of herself, sudden lighting up of a hundred -mysterious incidents—light glimmering through the darkness, yet -confounding and confusing everything, overwhelmed her. His mother’s -mother. Good Heavens! is she mine too? Clare asked herself in her -dismay, and then paused and tried to disentangle herself from that maze -of old habit and new bewildering knowledge.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span> She could not speak nor -move, but sat and gazed upon the Scotchwoman who had been somehow -painfully mixed up in all the story of the past two months and all its -difficulties. Was this an explanation of all? or would Arthur Arden come -in next, and present this woman to her with another explanation? Clare’s -heart seemed to stand still—she could not breathe, but kept her eyes -fixed with a painful mechanical stare upon Mrs. Murray’s face.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Miss Arden,” said the old woman, “he says true. I was tempted and -I sinned. He was an orphan bairn, and it was said to me that no person -would be wronged by it—though it may be a comfort to you to hear that -your mother opposed it with all her might. She knew better than me. She -was a young thing, no half my age; but she knew better than me. For all -her sweetness and her kindness, she set her face against the wrong. It -was <i>him</i> that sinned, and me——”</p> - -<p>And then there was a long pause. Clare seemed paralysed—she neither -moved nor spoke; and Edgar stood apart, struggling with his own heart, -trying not to long for the sympathy of the sister who had been his all -his life—trying to enter into the atmosphere of love towards the other -through whom his very life had come to him. Mr. Fielding, who was not at -the same pitch of excitement, bethought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> himself of those ordinary -courtesies of life which seem so out of place to the chief actors in -such a scene. He offered Mrs. Murray a chair; he begged her to take some -wine; he was hospitable, and friendly, and courteous—till Clare and -Edgar, equally moved, interposed in the same breath—“Oh, don’t, please, -don’t say anything,” Clare cried, “I cannot bear it.” And Edgar, to whom -she had not spoken a word, whom she had not even looked at, came forward -again and gave the stranger his arm.</p> - -<p>“Thanks,” he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness; “but now that all is -said that need be said, I must take my mother away.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Edgar, stop a little,” cried Mr. Fielding, in much agitation. -“This must not be permitted. If this—— lady is really your—your -grandmother, my dear boy. Pardon me, but it is so hard to realise it—to -imagine; but she cannot be left in that poor little cottage—it is -impossible. I am amazed that I could have overlooked—that I did not -see. The Rectory is small, and Clare perhaps might not think—— or I -should beg you to come here—but some other place, some better place.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Murray’s face beamed with a sudden smile. Edgar looked on with -terror, fearing he could not tell what. Was she about to seize this -social elevation with vulgar eagerness? Was she about to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span> make it -impossible for him even to respect her? “Sir,” she said, holding out her -hand to the Rector, “I thank you for my lad’s sake. Every time I see or -hear how he’s respected, how he’s thought of, my heart leaps like the -hart, and my tongue is ready to sing. It’s like forgiveness from the -Lord for the harm I’ve done—— but we’re lodged as well as we wish for -the moment, and I desire nothing of any man. We’re no rich, and we’re no -grand, but we’re proud folk.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, madam,” said Mr. Fielding, bowing over her hand as -if she had been a duchess. And Edgar drew the other through his arm. -“Folk that none need think shame of,” he said in his heart, and for the -first time since this misery began that heart rose with a sensation -which was not pain.</p> - -<p>“And good night, Miss Arden,” she said, “and God bless you for being the -light of his eyes and the comfort of his life. Well I know that he owes -all its pleasantness to you. An old woman’s blessing will do you no -harm, and it’s likely that I will never in this life see you more.”</p> - -<p>Thus Clare was left alone in the silence. Mr. Fielding hastened to the -door to attend his visitor out, with as much respect as if she had been -a queen. Clare remained alone, her whole frame and heart tingling with -emotion. She was ashamed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span> humbled, and mortified, and cast down. Her -brother!—and this was his true origin—these his relations. She, too, -had remarked that Mrs. Murray was like Mrs. Fillpot at the first -glance—a peasant woman—a farmer’s wife at the best. It was intolerable -to Clare. And yet all the while he was Edgar—her brother, whom she had -loved—her companion, whom she had kissed and hung upon—who had been -her support, her protector, her nearest and closest friend. She rose and -fled when she heard the sound of the closing door, and Mr. Fielding’s -return. She could not bear to see him, or to have her own dismay and -horror brought under remark. He would say they were unchristian, wicked; -and what if they were? Could she help it? God had made her an Arden—not -one of those common people without susceptibilities, without strong -feeling. Had Edgar been an Arden he never could have done it. He did it, -because he was of common flesh and blood; he had not felt it. All was -explained now.</p> - -<p>As for Edgar, he walked down again to Sally Timms’s cottage, with his -old mother on his arm. “Lean on me,” he said to her as they went along -in the dark. He could not be fond of her all at once, stranger as she -was; but he was—could it be possible?—proud of her, and it was a -pleasure to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span> him to feel that he supported her, and did a son’s natural -duty so far. And then it went to his heart when he saw all at once in -the light of a cottage window which gleamed on her as they passed, that -she was weeping, silently putting up her hand to wipe tears from her -face. “It’s no for trouble, it’s for gladness,” she said, when he looked -up at her anxiously. “I canna think but my repentance is accepted, and -the Lord has covered over my sin.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">These</span> are our terms, Mr. Arden,” said Mr. Fazakerly. “It is, of course, -entirely in your own hands to accept or reject them: a provision such as -has been usually made for the daughters of Arden, for Miss Clare; and a -certain sum—say a few hundreds—he would not accept anything -more—for—your predecessor—— These are our conditions. If you accept -them, he offers (much against my will—all this surrender is against my -will) immediate possession, without any further trouble. My own opinion -is quite against this self-renunciation, but my client is obstinate——”</p> - -<p>“Your client!” said Arthur Arden, with a tone of contempt. “Up to this -time your clients have always been the lawful owners of Arden.”</p> - -<p>“Understand, sir,” said the old lawyer, with a flush of irritation on -his face, “that I do not for a moment admit that Mr. Edgar is not the -lawful owner of Arden. That rests on your assertion merely; and it is an -assertion which you might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span> find it amazingly difficult to prove. He -offers you terms upon his own responsibility, against my advice and -wish, out of an exaggerated sense of honour, such as perhaps you don’t -enter into. My wish would have been to let you bring your suit, and -fight it out.”</p> - -<p>Arthur Arden was in great doubt. He paced the long library up and down, -taking council with himself. To make conditions at all—to treat with -this beggar and impostor, as he called him in his heart—was very -galling to his pride. Of course he would have been kind to the fellow -after he had taken possession of his own. He would have made some -provision for him, procured him an appointment, given him an allowance, -out of pure generosity; but it was humiliating to pause and treat, or to -acknowledge any power on the part of the usurper to exact conditions. It -was astonishing how fast and far his thoughts had travelled in the last -twenty-four hours. He had scarcely allowed the bewildering hope to take -hold of his mind then—he could not endure to be kept for another hour -out of his possessions now. He walked up and down heavily, pondering the -whole matter. It appeared to him that he had nothing to do but to -proclaim himself the reigning monarch in place of the usurper found out, -and to expel him and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span> belongings, and begin his own reign. But the -old lawyer stood before him, vigilant and unyielding, keeping an eye -upon him—cowing him by that glance. He came forward to the table again -with reluctant politeness. “I don’t understand it,” he said. “It stands -to reason that from the moment it is found out, everything becomes mine -as the last Squire Arden’s next of kin.”</p> - -<p>“You have to prove first that you are nearer of kin than his son.”</p> - -<p>“His son! Do you venture to keep up that fiction? How can I consent for -a moment to treat with any one who affirms a lie?”</p> - -<p>“Your conscience has become singularly tender, Mr. Arden,” said the -lawyer, with a smile. “I don’t think you were always so particular; and -remember you have to prove that it is a lie. You have to prove your case -at every step against all laws of probability and received belief. I do -not say that you will fail eventually, but it is a case that might -occupy half your remaining life, and consume half the value of the -estate. And I promise you you should not gain it easily if the defence -were in my hands.”</p> - -<p>“When I did win you should find that no Arden papers found their way -again to your hands,” said Arthur, with irritation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span></p> - -<p>Mr. Fazakerly made him a sarcastic bow. “I can live without Arden,” he -said; “but the question is, can you?”</p> - -<p>Then there was another pause. “I suppose I may at least consult my -lawyer about it,” said Arthur, sullenly; and once more Mr. Fazakerly -made him a bow.</p> - -<p>“By all means; but should my client leave the country before you have -decided, it will be necessary to shut up the house and postpone its -transference. A few months more or less will not matter much. I will put -down our conditions, that you may submit them to your lawyer. A -provision such as other daughters of Arden have had, for Miss Clare——”</p> - -<p>“I will not have Miss Arden’s name mentioned,” said Arthur, angrily; -“her interests are quite safe in my hands.”</p> - -<p>“That may or may not be,” said Mr. Fazakerly; “but my client insists -absolutely on this point, and unless it is conceded, all negotiations -are at an end. Fit provision for Miss Clare; and a sum of money—say a -thousand pounds——”</p> - -<p>“You said a few hundreds,” interposed the other with irritation. Mr. -Fazakerly threw down his pen, and looked up with amazement into Arthur’s -face.</p> - -<p>“Good Lord,” he said, “is it the soul of a shopkeeper<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span> that you have got -within you? Do you understand what Edgar Arden is giving up? And he was -not called upon to give it up. He was not called upon to say a word -about it, to furnish you with any information. What Edgar Arden would -have done had he been guided by me——”</p> - -<p>“He is not Edgar Arden,” said Arthur sharply.</p> - -<p>“By the Lord,” cried Mr. Fazakerly, wrought up to a pitch of excitement -which would have vent, “he is by a hundred times a better man than——” -you, he was going to say, but resisted the temptation—“than most men -that one meets,” he added hastily. And then, subduing himself, sat down -and wrote the conditions fully out. He handed them to the other without -adding a word, and immediately unlocked a box full of papers which stood -on the table by him, and began to work at them, as if he were -unconscious of the presence of any stranger. Arthur stood by him for -some minutes with the paper in his hand, and then went out with a -mortification which he had to conceal as best he could. It was the -morning after Clare had left the house, and Edgar, though he had not -appeared that day was still master of the house, acknowledged by -everybody in it as its legitimate head. It is impossible to say how much -this chafed the true heir. He was so angry that he gave Wilkins to -understand<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span> the real state of affairs, to the private consternation but -well-enacted unbelief of that family retainer. Wilkins did not like -Arthur Arden—none of the servants liked him. Edgar’s kindly sway had -given them a glimpse of something better; and the butler and the -housekeeper had long entertained matrimonial intentions, and were too -well off and too much used to comfort to put up with a less satisfactory -<i>regime</i>. “I’ll ask master, sir,” was all Arthur Arden could elicit from -Wilkins. Master!—the word made him almost swear. Arthur went out, with -the conditions of surrender in his pocket, and pondered over them like a -general who is victorious yet baffled, and whose army has won the -external but not the moral victory. Of course there could be no real -question as to these conditions; under any circumstances public opinion, -or even his own reluctant sense of what was fit and necessary, would -have bound him to do as much or more. But he was irritated now, and if -he had been able, he would have liked to punish his rival for his -usurpation; while, on the contrary, that rival claimed to march out with -all the honours of war, his reputation unimpeached, his fame spread. It -galled the new Lord of Arden more than it is possible to describe. He -gnawed his moustache and his nails as he pondered, and then his thoughts -took a sudden<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> turn. The subject which had been uppermost in his mind -before this new matter drove everything else out of the question. Come -back—Clare! For the moment she had taken Edgar’s part; but this at -least it was in his power to alter. As much as he had ever loved any -one, he loved Clare; but he was come to his kingdom, and the -intoxication of the triumph bewildered his faculties. He might marry any -one—not any longer a mere heiress, great or small, but anybody—a -duke’s daughter, a lady of the highest pretensions. Arden of Arden was -the equal of the best nobleman in Christendom. So he reasoned from the -heights of his new elevation. For a moment ambition struggled in him -with love: it was in his power now to give Clare back all, and more than -all, that she had lost; and in thus gratifying himself he could inflict -the last wound upon his adversary. In reality, notwithstanding a -thousand shortcomings, he loved her. He thought over all their -intercourse, everything that had passed between them—her last words, to -which as yet he had made no response. And the heart began to beat more -warmly, more quickly in his breast. The end of his musings was that he -took his way down the avenue to the Rectory, with his paper of -conditions in his pocket. Again it must be said for Arthur Arden that in -any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span> case he would have taken this step; but still the alloy of his -nature mingled with all he did. Even in seeking his love, he went with a -vengeful feeling of satisfaction that if he won Clare from him, that -fellow would not have so much to brag of after all.</p> - -<p>Clare was seated in the deep window of the Rectory drawing-room with a -book in her hand; but she was not reading the book. She was gazing -listlessly out, seeing nothing, going over a hundred recollections. Her -life had become far more interesting than any book—too -interesting—full of pain and tragic interest. She sat with her eyes -fixed on the broad expanse of summer sunshine, the distant gleam of the -village street, the Doctor’s house opposite, with its twinkling windows. -Everything was still as peace itself. The old gardener was rolling the -grass with gentle monotony, as if he might go on doing it for ever; Dr. -Somers’ phæton stood at the door awaiting him; old Simon clamped past on -his clogs—all so peaceful as if nothing out of the usual routine could -ever happen; and yet in that very room Edgar had stood by the side of -the old Scotch woman and called her mother! A deep suppressed excitement -and resentment were in Clare’s heart. It was not his fault, but -notwithstanding she could not forgive him for it. When the door opened -she did not turn her head. Most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span> likely it was Edgar, and she did not -wish to see him; or Mr. Fielding, with his grieved, disapproving looks. -Clare was in such a state of mind that even a look of reproof drove her -wild. She could not bear it. Therefore she kept her back turned -persistently, and gave no heed to the opening of the door.</p> - -<p>“Clare!”</p> - -<p>She looked up with a violent start, rising from her seat, and perceived -him standing over her—he whom she had tried to put out of her -calculations, and think of no more. She had been planning a proud -miserable life retired out of sight of all men, specially hidden from -him. She had resolved he should not even know where she was to insult -her with his pity—neither he nor Edgar should know; for Clare was quite -unaware that the discovery which lost her a brother lost her a fortune -too. But now at the moment when she was most miserable, most forlorn, -forming the most dreary plans, here he was! The sight of him took away -her breath, and almost her senses, for the moment. She said, “Is it -you?” faintly, gazing at him with dilated eyes and parched lips, as if -he had been a ghost. The surprise was so great that it threw down all -her defences, and brought her back to simple reality. She was not glad -to see him—these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span> were not the words; but his sudden coming was like -life to the dead.</p> - -<p>And he too was touched by the sight of her utter dejection and solitude. -He dropped down on one knee beside her as she reseated herself, and took -her hand. “My Clare!” he said, “my Clare! why did you fly from me? Is -not my house your house, and my life yours? Is there any one so near to -you as me? Even now I have the only claim upon you; and when you are my -wife——”</p> - -<p>“No such word has ever been spoken between us,” said Clare, making an -effort to resume her old dignity. “Mr. Arden, rise—you forget——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t forget anything,” said Arthur. “There was one between us that -took it upon him to keep me away, that prevented me from seeing you, -prejudiced you against me, and has all but beguiled you away from me. -But, Clare, you see through it now. Are words necessary between you and -me? When I was a beggar I might hesitate to ask you to share my poverty, -but now—— Don’t you know that I would rather have you without Arden -than Arden without you——”</p> - -<p>Let him take everything else, as long as he leaves me you—these had -been the words Arthur Arden had spoken two days ago. They rang in -Clare’s ears as clearly as if he had just pronounced them,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span> and they had -an echo in his own memory. But neither of them referred to that vain -offer now—neither of them said a syllable of Edgar. “If he had not so -shocked me, so repelled me, brought in that woman,” Clare said to -herself in faint self-apology—but not a word did she say aloud. She -laid down her head on Arthur Arden’s shoulder, and wept away the -accumulated excitement and irritation and misery of the past night. She -did not reproach him for his delay or ask a single question. She had -wanted him, oh, so sorely! and he had come at last.</p> - -<p>“It is too great happiness,” said Arthur, when they had sat there all -the bright morning through and made their plans, “that you and I should -spend all our lives together in Arden, Clare. To have you anywhere would -have seemed too much joy a month ago; but you and Arden! which I have -been kept out of, banished from, treated as a stranger in——”</p> - -<p>“Do not think of that now, do not think of that now! Oh, Arthur, if you -love me, be kind to him.”</p> - -<p>“Kind to him! when he had all but succeeded in severing you from me, in -carrying you away, with Heaven knows what intention. But, my Clare,” -said the new Squire Arden, with that paper in his pocket, of which he -did not say a word to her, “for your sake!”</p> - -<p>And Clare believed him, every word—she who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span> was not credulous, nor full -of faith, and who prided herself that she knew the world—her own world, -in which people were moved by comprehensible motives, not visionary -impulses. Clare believed her lover. He would be kind, he would not be -too hard or unmerciful. He would forgive the usurper, the Edgar who was -Mrs. Murray’s son. She stifled every other feeling in that moment of -love and intoxication—if, indeed, at such a time there was room for any -other feeling towards the Edgar who had been the brother of her youth.</p> - -<p>And thus the last link was broken which bound Edgar to his old life. The -moment when his sister and his successor clasped hands was the -conclusion, as it were, of his career. Had Clare clung to him, and -sought to detain him, he might have held on somehow, sadly and -reluctantly, by some shadow of the former existence, trying to do -impossibilities, and to reconcile the adverse elements. Her sudden -decision was a cruel blow to him: it was his final extinction as Edgar -Arden; but at the same time, no doubt, it was a relief. It settled her -in the position which in all the world was the one most suitable for -her, which she herself preferred; and at once and for ever it severed -the bond which was now no better than a fictitious and sentimental tie. -It was best so, he said to himself, even when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span> he felt it most sorely. -They could not have continued together: they were no longer brother and -sister. It was best for both that the severance should be complete.</p> - -<p>And thus it was that Edgar Arden’s life came to an end. Had he died it -could not have finished more completely. His life, his career, his very -name were gone. He existed still, and might for aught he knew continue -to exist for many years, and even make for himself another history, new -hopes, new loves, a renewed career. But here the man who has been the -hero of this story, the only Edgar known to his friends and to -himself—concluded. The change was like Death—a change of condition, -place, being, everything that makes a man. And here the story of Squire -Arden must perforce come to an end.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.<br /><br /> -<small>POSTSCRIPT.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Time</span> flies in the midst of great events; and yet it is long to look back -upon, doubling and redoubling the moments which have been great with -feeling—filling the spectator with wonder that in so short a time a -human creature could live so long or undergo so much. But after a great -crisis of life, time becomes blank, the days are endless as they pass, -and count for nothing when they have gone. Flatly they fall upon the -memory that keeps no record of them—so much blank routine, so many -months; in ordinary parlance, the fallow season, in which brain and -heart have to recover, as the earth has, under her veil of rain and -snow—chill days and weeks without a record; or bright days and weeks -which are almost as blank—for even happiness keeps no daybook—until -the time of exhaustion is over, and life moves again, most often under -the touch of pain.</p> - -<p>The episode of personal history, which we have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span> just concluded, was -fully known to the world only after it was over. Then the county, and -almost the country—for the report of such a “romance of real life” -naturally afforded food for all the newspaper readers in the -kingdom—was electrified by the Arden case. It was rumoured at first -that a great lawsuit was to be brought, with an exciting trial and all -the delightful exposure of family secrets and human meanness which -generally attends a law plea between near relations. Then, Mr. Fazakerly -published a solemn statement of the facts. Then somebody in Arthur -Arden’s interest attempted to prove that Edgar had been in the secret -all along; then this imputation was indignantly contradicted by the -solicitor of Arthur Arden, Esq. of Arden, but left a sting -notwithstanding, and made many people shake their heads, and doubt the -romantic tale of generosity, which they held to be contrary to human -nature. Then the clever newspapers—those which are great in leading -articles—took the matter up, and gave each a little treatise on the -subject; and then the story was suddenly suffered to drop, and was heard -of no more. At least it was not heard of for a month, when it was all -revived by the marriage of Clare Arden to her cousin—a marriage which -rent the county asunder, making two parties for and against. “How she -could ever do it!” and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span> “it was the very best thing she could do.” These -two events had a great effect upon Arden parish and village. They aged -Mr. Fielding, so that he was scarcely ever able for duty again, and had -to devolve almost the whole service on Mr. Denbigh, feebly uttering the -absolution only, or a benediction from the altar. They brought upon Miss -Somers that bad illness which brought her almost to death’s door; and it -is said the poor lady cried so much that she never could see very well -after, and never was seen abroad more. And they utterly crushed the -Pimpernels. Mrs. Pimpernel’s face of horror, when she found that she had -actually turned out from her house the rightful owner of Arden, was a -thing talked of all over the county; and the family never recovered the -shock. They left the Red House that summer, and removed to the other -side of the county, at least twenty miles away, and conveniently close -to a railway station. “After that accident, when my Alice was so nearly -killed, I could not bear it,” Mrs. Pimpernel said, though people -maliciously misunderstood which accident it was.</p> - -<p>And Jeanie, the real victim of the accident, after a long illness, -recovered sufficiently to be taken home. Dr. Somers believed, with -professional pride and a little human sympathy, that he had effected a -cure on Jeanie mentally as well as physically; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span> whether her gentle -mind was quite restored was, of course, a matter which time alone could -prove. Edgar, who had been absent since the day after he received -intelligence of Clare’s engagement, returned to take his relations home. -But it was not till a month after Clare’s marriage that he reappeared -finally in Arden to say good-bye to all his friends. The bride and -bridegroom had not yet returned, which was a relief to him; and his -company was a great solace and consolation to the feeble Rector, with -whom he lived. “Ah, Edgar, if you would but stay with me and be my son,” -the old man would say wistfully, as he leaned upon his vigorous arm. “I -have no one now whom I can lean upon, who will close my eyes and see me -laid in my grave. Edgar, if it were God’s will, before you go away I -should be glad to be there.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say so,” said Edgar. “Everybody loves you; and my—I mean Mrs. -Arden—you must not withdraw your love from her.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Fielding shook his head. “She will not want my love,” he said. -“Never could I give up Clare, however I might disapprove of her; but she -will not want me. Nobody wants me; and the last fag-end of work is -dreary, just before the holiday comes; but I am grumbling, Edgar. Only -I’ll be sadly dull when you go, that’s all.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span></p> - -<p>“And I cannot stay, you know,” said Edgar, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“No,” said the old man, echoing it. That was the only thing that was -impossible. He could not stay. The Thornleighs were at Thorne, and Lady -Augusta had written him an anxious, affectionate note, bidding God bless -him, but begging him, by all he held dear, not to show himself to Gussy, -who was ill and nervous, and could not bear any shock. Poor Edgar put -the letter in his pocket and tried to smile. “She might have trusted -me,” he said. He was not to go near Thorne; he could not approach Arden; -but he went to the poor folk in the village, and received many tearful -adieus. Old Miss Somers threw her arms round him and cried. “Oh, Edgar, -my dear, my dear!——” she said, “how shall I ever——; and I who -thought you would be always——, and meant to leave you what little I -have. It is all left to you, Edgar, all the same. Oh, if you would not -go! I daresay now they will never return. Though she is your sister, my -dear, I must say—— If I were Clare I would never more come back to the -Hall——”</p> - -<p>“But I trust she will, and be very happy there, and that you will be all -to her you have ever been,” said Edgar, kissing the wrinkled old hand. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span> -“Oh, my dear boy! Oh, Edgar, God will reward—— Kiss me, my dear; -though you are a gentleman, I am so old, and ill; it can’t matter, you -know. Kiss me, Edgar! and God bless——; and if ever there was one in -this world that should have a reward——”</p> - -<p>A reward! Edgar smiled mournfully as he went away. The reward he had was -abandonment, banishment, solitude, the love and tears of a few old -people for whom he had done nothing and could do nothing, who loved him -because they had been good to him all his life. As he drove over to the -station in Mr. Fielding’s old gig, with Jack, silent and respectful, by -his side, he passed all the rich woods of Arden, clouds of foliage -almost as rich in colour as were the sunset clouds above them—the woods -which he had once looked at with so much pride and called his own. He -passed the little lodge on the common where he had seen old John lying -dead, and had wondered (he recollected as if it were yesterday) if that -was the end of all life’s struggles and trials? It was not the end; what -a poor joke life would be if it was!—weary days, not few, as the -patriarch complained, but oh, so weary, so endless, so full of pain to -come, as they seemed to the young man—struggles through which the soul -came only half alive. But Edgar felt alive all over as he took farewell -of all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a>{327}</span> the familiar places, and remembered the human creatures, much -more dear, of whom he could not take farewell. Poor, sweet little Gussy, -“ill and nervous”—was it for him? and Clare, who had been silent to him -since her marriage, taking no notice of his existence. He brushed away a -tear from his eyes as he drove on. He was going he knew not where—to -seek his fortune—— But that was no grievance; rather his heart rose to -the necessity with a vigorous impulse, which would have been gay, had it -been less sore. God bless them!—the one who thought of him still, and -the one who had cast him off. They were alike, at least, in this—that -he loved them, and would never see them more.</p> - -<p>Jack had been sent away with a good-bye and a sovereign, and a sob in -his throat which almost choked him; and Edgar was alone. The train was a -little late, and he stood on the platform of the small country station -waiting for it, longing to be gone. He saw without noticing a little -brougham drawn up close to the roadside, so as to enable its occupants -to see the train as it passed. While he waited, he was attracted by the -flutter of a white handkerchief from the window. He went as close as he -could reach, and looked over the paling, wondering, yet not thinking -that this signal could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a>{328}</span> be for him. There was no expectation in his -mind, only a certain sad surprise. Then suddenly Lady Augusta’s face -appeared at the window, full of anxiety and distress; and, in the corner -behind her, a little pale face—a worn little figure. “Good-bye, -Edgar!—dear Edgar, good-bye!” cried a faltering voice. “We could not -let you go without one word. God bless you!” said Lady Augusta, pulling -the check in her hand. The coachman turned his horses before Edgar could -approach a step nearer; and at the same moment the train came up like a -roll of thunder behind——</p> - -<p>Edgar went back with his heart and his eyes so full that he saw nothing. -He gathered his small possessions together mechanically. His whole being -was moved by the sweetness and the bitterness of this last parting and -blessing. There was an unusual stir and commotion on the platform, but -he took no notice. What was it to him who came or went? She might have -been his bride—that tender creature with her soft voice, which came to -him like a voice from heaven. So faithful, so tender, so sweet! It was -all he could do to keep the tears which blinded him from falling. He -threw his bag into the carriage; he had his foot on the step——</p> - -<p>What was that cry? Once more, “Edgar! Edgar!” The party arriving had -stopped and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a>{329}</span> broken up. He turned round; through the mist in his eyes he -saw who it was. They were standing at a distance in their bridal finery: -he with a cloud on his face, with his hand upon her arm holding her -back—yet not arbitrarily nor unkindly. And even in Arthur Arden’s face -there was a certain emotion. They stood looking at each other as if -across an ocean or a continent—more than that—a whole world. Then all -at once she rushed to him, and threw her arms round his neck. “O Edgar, -speak to me, speak to me!—forgive me! I am your sister still—your only -sister; don’t go away without a word to me!”</p> - -<p>“God bless you, my dearest sister, my only Clare!” he cried. The tears -rained down on his cheeks. He gave her one convulsive kiss, and put her -into her husband’s arms.</p> - -<p>So all was over! The train rushed on, tearing wildly across the familiar -country. And Edgar fell back in the solitude, the silence, the distance, -parted from everything that was his; but not without a little of that -reward Miss Somers had prayed for—enough of it to keep his heart alive.</p> - -<p class="c">THE END.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Squire Arden; volume 3 of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SQUIRE ARDEN; VOLUME 3 OF 3 *** - -***** This file should be named 54186-h.htm or 54186-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/1/8/54186/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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