It was, however, some time before Edgar got over the painful impression
made upon his mind by what Dr. Somers had said. He had known very well
for the greater part of his life that his father did not love him; but
the idea that doubt had ever fallen upon his rights, that there had been
a possibility of shutting him out from his natural inheritance, had
never entered his mind. Of course there was really no such possibility;
but still the merest suggestion of it excited the young man. It seemed
to hint at a deeper secret in his own existence than anything he had yet
suspected. He had been able to take it for granted with all the
carelessness of youth that his father disliked him. But why should his
father dislike him? What reason could there be? And then that story of
the Agostini returned to him. Edgar pondered and pondered it for days,
and rejected the suggestions conveyed in it, feeling from the moment he
had seen his mother’s picture a certain fierce sentiment of rage against
Dr. Somers as her maligner. But yet this explanation being evidently a
false one, and his mother cleared of all shadow of shame or wrong, there
remained the strange thought that there must be some clue to the
mystery; and what was it? If it had been within the bounds of
possibility that the Squire could have doubted his wife’s faithfulness,
that of course would have explained a great deal. But the evidence of
the portrait was quite conclusive that any such suspicion was out of the
question. Edgar was young and fanciful, and ready to accept the evidence
of a look, and every natural sentiment within him rose up in defence of
his mother. But he could not help asking himself, even though the
question seemed an injury to her--what if it had been possible? Had she
been another kind of woman and, capable of wickedness, what in such
horrible circumstances would it have been a man’s duty to do? He had of
course heard such questions discussed, like everybody else in the world,
as affecting the husband and wife, the immediate parties. But imagine a
young man making such a discovery, finding himself out to be a spurious
branch thus arbitrarily engrafted upon a family tree; in a position so
frightful, what would it be his duty to do? Edgar roamed about the woods
which were his, putting to himself in every point of view this
appalling question. A man could take no single step in such
circumstances without taking upon him the responsibility of heaping
shame upon his mother, and giving up her cause. It would be her whom he
would cover with disgrace, much more than himself. He would have to
decide a question which nobody but she could decide, and to give it
against her, his nearest and dearest relation. Could any one willingly
assume such an office? And, on the other hand, how could he retain a
name, an inheritance, a position to which he had no right, and probably
exclude the rightful heir? “Thank heaven,” said Edgar fervently, “_that_
can never be my case. The son of the woman to whom God gave so angelic a
countenance can never have to blush for his mother. Whatever records
came to light, _she_ never shall be shamed.” He gave up whole days to
this question, pondering it again and again in his mind. The sight of
the portrait gave him for that one day an absolute certainty that such
was not his position: and this force of conviction carried him through
the second and even the third day; but then as the first impression
waned a horrible chill of doubt stole slowly over him. That hypothesis,
terrible as it was, could it but be believed, explained so much. It
explained the Squire’s dislike to himself at once and vindicated the
unhappy old man. It explained why he was kept at so great a distance,
brought up in so strange a way; and oh, good God! if such could be the
case, what was Edgar’s duty? His brain began to whirl when he got so
far; and then he would work his way back again through all the
arguments. Dr. Somers had calculated when he threw abroad this winged
and barbed seed that Edgar was too easy-minded, too careless and
good-natured and indifferent to let it rest in his thoughts; and to hide
his consciousness of it, to be blank as a stone wall to any allusion
which might recall it, was clearly now the first duty of Mrs. Arden’s
son. If he could but be absolutely sure of it one way or other; if he
could put it utterly out of his mind, on the one hand, or--a horrible
alternative, which nevertheless would be next best--know absolutely that
it was true! But neither of these things seemed possible to Edgar. He
had to submit to that doubt which was so fundamental and
all-embracing--doubt as to his own very being, the foundations upon
which his life was built--and never to breathe a whisper of it to any
creature on the face of the earth. A hard task.
It may be thought that Clare must have observed her brother’s
abstraction, his silent wanderings and musings, and the look of thought
and care which he could not banish from his face; but the truth was
that Clare herself was occupied by a hundred reflections. She had told
her brother she hated Arthur Arden, and at the moment it was true; but
now that Edgar, for whose sake she hated him, had condoned his offences,
and asked him to the house, Clare, if her pride would have let her,
might have confessed that she loved Arthur Arden, and it would have been
equally true. He had exercised over her when she had seen him last that
strange fascination which a man much older than herself often exercises
over a girl. She had been pleased by the trouble he took to make himself
agreeable, flattered by the attentions which a man of experience knows
how to regulate according to the age and tastes of the subject under
operation, and had felt the full charm of that kindred not near enough
to be familiar, but yet sufficiently near to account for all kinds of
mysterious affinities and sympathies which he knew so well how to make
use of. He was a true Arden--everybody said so. And Clare, who was an
Arden to the very finger tips, felt all the force of the bond. She had
sighed secretly, wishing that her brother might have been like him. The
tears had come into her eyes with affectionate pity that such a genuine
representative of the family should be so poor; and again a little glow
of generous warmth had followed, as a faint dream of how it might be
made up to him stole across her mind. A man of such excellence and such
grace--so distinguished by blood and talent, and all the qualities that
adorn a hero, who could doubt that it would be made up to him? Honour
would fall at his feet for the lifting up, and if wealth should be
wanting, why then somebody whom Clare would try to love would endow him
with everything that heart could desire, and herself best of all. She
had nourished these notions until she had heard from Arthur himself,
with one of the inadvertencies common to men whose consideration for
others, however elaborate outside, does not come from the heart, of his
opposition to her distant brother. He had taken it for granted that she
must share her father’s opinion on the subject. “Why, you do not know
him!” he had said, in his astonishment, when he became aware of his
mistake. “I love my brother with all my heart,” was all the answer Clare
had made. Something of the magniloquence of youth was in this large
assertion; but the poor girl’s heart was very sore, and the struggle she
had with herself in this wild sudden revulsion of feeling was almost
more than she could bear. He was Edgar’s enemy, this man who had been
too pleasant, only too tender to herself and she hated him! She had
walked away from him at that painful moment, and when they met
afterwards had only looked at him from behind the visor of cold pride
and icy stateliness which the Ardens knew so well how to use. But the
feeling in her heart was only hatred because it had been so nearly love.
And now that the tables had been so strangely turned, now that Arthur
was coming to Arden as Edgar’s guest, Clare was seized with a sudden
giddiness of mind and heart, which made the outer world invisible to
her, or at least changed, and threw it so awry that no clear impression
came to her brain. As Edgar’s friend---- She could not feel quite sure
whether her feelings were those of excited expectation and delight or of
alarm and terror. And she was not sure either what to think of her
brother. Was he magnanimous beyond all the powers of the Arden mind to
conceive, as had been her first idea; or was he simply careless,
insensible--not capable of the amount of feeling which came natural to
the Ardens? This second thought was less pleasant than the first, and
yet in one way it was a kind of relief from an overpowering and scarcely
comprehensible excellence. “He does not feel it,” Clare said to herself;
but surely Arthur would feel it; Arthur would be moved by a forgiveness
so generous. Even now, when Edgar was fully aware what his kinsman had
done against him, it did not occur to him to withdraw his invitation or
forbid his enemy to the house. Such a sublime magnanimity could not fail
to impress the mind of the other. But yet, Clare recollected that Arthur
was a true Arden, and the Ardens were tenacious, not addicted to
forgiving or giving up their own way, as was her strange brother. Arthur
might come, concealing his enmity, watching his foe’s weak points and
the crevices in his armour, and laying up in his mind all these
particulars for future use. Such a proceeding was not so foreign to the
Arden mind as was that magnanimity or indifference--which was it?--that
made Edgar a wonder in his race. If her cousin was to do this, what
horrible thing might happen? Between Arthur’s watchfulness and Edgar’s
unwariness, Clare trembled. But then, would not she be there to guard
the one and keep the other in check?
Thus, Clare was so fully occupied with thoughts of her own that she did
not notice the change in her brother’s looks, nor his sudden love of
solitude. When Mr. Fielding expressed to her his fear that Edgar was
ill, the thought filled her with surprise. “Ill! Oh, no, there is
nothing the matter with him,” she said. “Here he comes to speak for
himself: he looks just the same as usual. Edgar, you are not ill? Mr.
Fielding has been giving me a fright.”
“I am not ill in the least,” he said, “but I wanted to see you. Are you
going into the village? I will walk there with Mr. Fielding, Clare, and
you can pick me up on your way.”
“You see there is not much the matter with him; he is always walking,”
said Clare, waving her hand to the Rector. “I will call for you, Edgar,
in half-an-hour;” and she went away smiling to put on her riding-habit.
The brother and sister were going to Thornleigh to pay their homage
before Lady Augusta should go away.
“Of course I understand you don’t want to alarm Clare,” said the Rector,
when they were on their way down the avenue; “but, my dear boy, you are
looking very poorly. I don’t like the change in your look. You should
speak to the Doctor. He has known you more or less all your life.”
“The Doctor! I do not think he knows much about it,” said Edgar, with
vehemence. “But I am not ill. I am as well as ever I was.” Then he made
a little pause; and then, putting his hand on his old friend’s arm, he
said impulsively, yet trying with all his might to hide the force of the
impulse, “Mr. Fielding, you have always been very good to me. I want you
to help me to recollect what happened long ago. I want you to tell me
something about--my mother.”
Old Mr. Fielding’s short-sighted eyes woke up amidst the puckers which
buried them, and showed a diamond twinkle of kindness in each wrinkled
socket. He gave a look of benign goodness to Edgar, and then he turned
and sent a glance towards the village which might almost have set fire
to Dr. Somers’ high roof. “Yes, Edgar,” he said quickly, “and I am very
glad you have asked me. I can tell you a great deal about your mother.”
“You knew her, then?” cried the young man, turning upon him with eager
eyes.
“I knew her very well. She was quite young, younger than you are; but as
good a woman, Edgar, as sweet a woman as ever went to heaven.”
“I was sure of that!” he cried, holding out his hand; and he grasped
that slim hand of the old Rector’s in his strong young grasp, till Mr.
Fielding would fain have cried out, but restrained himself, and bore it
smiling like a martyr, though the water stood in his eyes.
“Somers never saw her,” said Mr. Fielding, waving his hand towards the
village. “He was in Italy at the time; but ask his sister, or ask me.
Ah, Edgar! in that, as in some other things, the old parson is the best
man to come to. Why, boy, it is not you I care for! How do I know you
may not turn out a young rascal yet, or as hard as the nether millstone,
like so many of the Ardens? but I love you for _her_ sake.”