The Old Home.
Clare went to her own room, and shut herself up there. She permitted
Edgar to go with her to the door, and there dismissed him, almost
without a word. What Edgar’s feelings were on entering the house where
he had once been master, and with which so many early associations both
of pleasure and pain were connected, I need not say; he was excited
painfully and strangely by everything he saw. It seemed inconceivable to
him that he should be there; and every step in the staircase, every turn
in the corridor, reminded him of something that had happened in that
brief bit of the past in which his history was concentrated, which had
lasted so short a time, yet had been of more effect than many years. The
one thing, however, that kept him calm, and restrained his excitement,
was the utter absorption of Clare in her own troubles, which were more
absorbing than anything that had ever happened to him. She showed no
consciousness that it was anything to him to enter this house, to lead
her through its familiar passages. She ignored it so completely that
Edgar, always impressionable, felt half ashamed of himself for
recollecting, and tried to make believe, even to himself, that he
ignored it too. He took her to the door of her room, his head throbbing
with the sense that he was here again, where he had never thought to be;
and then went downstairs, to wait in the room which had once been his
own library, for Arthur Arden’s return. Fortunately the old servants
were all gone, and if any of the present household recognised Edgar at
all, their faces were unfamiliar to him. How strange to look round the
room, and note with instinctive readiness all the changes which another
man’s taste had made! The old cabinet, in which the papers had been
found which proved him no Arden, stood still against the wall, as it had
always done. The books looked neglected in their shelves, as though no
one ever touched them. It was more of a business room than it once was,
less of a library, nothing at all of the domestic place, dear to man and
woman alike, which it had been when Edgar never was so happy as with his
sister beside him. How strange it was to be there--how dismal to be
there on such an errand. In this room Clare had given him the papers
which were his ruin; here she had entreated him to destroy them; here he
had made the discovery public; and now to think the day should have come
when he was here as a stranger, caring nothing for Arden, thinking only
how to remove her of whom he seemed to have become the sole brother and
protector, from the house she had been born in!
He walked about and about the rooms, till the freshness of these
associations was over, and he began to grow impatient of the stillness
and suspense. He had told Clare that he would wait, and that she should
find him there when he was wanted. He had begged her to do nothing that
night--to wait and consider what was best; but he did not even know
whether she was able to understand him, or if he spoke to deaf ears.
Everything had happened so quickly that a sense of confusion was in
Edgar’s mind, confusion of the moral as well as the mental functions;
for he was not at all sure whether the link of sympathetic horror and
wonder between Arden and himself, as to what Clare would do, did not
approach him closer, rather than separate him further from this man, who
hated him, to begin with, and who was yet not his sister’s husband.
Somehow these two, who, since they first met, had been at opposite poles
from each other, seemed to be drawn together by one common misfortune,
rather than placed in a doubly hostile position, as became the injurer
and the defender of the injured.
When Arden came in some time after, this feeling obliterated on both
sides the enmity which, under any other circumstances, must have blazed
forth. Edgar, as he looked at the dull misery in Arthur’s face, felt a
strange pity for him soften his heart. This man, who had done so well
for himself, who had got Arden, who had married Clare, who had received
all the gifts that heaven could give, what a miserable failure he was
after all, cast down from all that made his eminence tenable or good to
hold. He was the cause of the most terrible misfortune to Clare and her
children, and yet Edgar felt no impulse to take him by the throat, but
was sorry for him in his downfall and misery. As for Arthur Arden, his
old dislike seemed exorcised by the same spirit. In any other
circumstances he would have resented Edgar’s interference deeply--but
now a gloomy indifference to everything that could happen, except one
thing, had got possession of him.
“What does she mean to do?” he said, throwing himself into a chair. All
power of self-assertion had failed in him. It seemed even right and
natural to him that Edgar should know this better than he himself did,
and give him information what her decision was.
“I think,” said Edgar, instinctively accepting the rôle of adviser,
“that the best and most delicate thing you could do would be to leave
the house to her for a few days. Let it be supposed you have business
somewhere. Go to London, if you think fit, and investigate for yourself;
but leave Clare to make up her mind at leisure. It would be the most
generous thing to do.”
Arthur stared at him blankly for a moment, with a dull suspicion in his
eyes at the strange, audacious calmness of the proposal. But seeing that
Edgar met his gaze calmly, and said these words in perfect
single-mindedness, and desire to do the best in the painful emergency,
he accepted them as they were given; and thus they remained together,
though they did not talk to each other, waiting for Clare’s appearance,
or some intimation of what she meant to do, till darkness began to fall.
When it was nearly night a maid appeared, with a scared look in her
face, and that strange consciousness of impending evil which servants
often show, like animals, without a word being said to them--and brought
to Edgar the following little note from Clare:--
“I am not able to see you to-night; and I cannot decide where to go
without consulting you; besides that there are other reasons why I
cannot take the children away, as I intended, at once. I have gone up to
the nursery beside them, and will remain there until to-morrow. Tell him
this, and ask if we may remain so, in his house, without being molested,
till to-morrow.”
Edgar handed this note to Arden without a word. He saw the quick flutter
of excitement which passed over Arthur’s face. If the letter had been
more affectionate, I doubt whether Clare’s husband could have borne it;
but as it was he gulped down his agitation, and read it without
betraying any angry feeling. When he had glanced it over, he looked
almost piteously at his companion.
“You think that is what I ought to do?” he said, almost with an appeal
against Edgar’s decision. “Then I’ll go; you can write and tell her so.
I’ll stay away if she likes, until--until she wants me,” he broke off
abruptly, and got up and left the room, and was audible a moment after,
calling loudly for his servant in the hall.
Edgar wrote this information to Clare. He told her that Arden had
decided to leave the house to her, that she might feel quite free to
make up her mind; and that he too would go to the village, where he
would wait her call, whensoever she should want him. He begged her once
more to compose herself, not to hasten her final decision, and to
believe that she would be perfectly free from intrusion or interference
of any kind--and bade God bless her, the only word of tenderness he
dared venture to add.
When he had written this, he walked down the avenue alone, in the dusk,
to the village. Arden had gone before him. The lodge-gates had been left
open, and gave to the house a certain forlorn air of openness to all
assault, which, no doubt, existed chiefly in Edgar’s fancy, but
impressed him more than I can say. To walk down that avenue at all was
for him a strange sensation; but Edgar by this time had got over all the
weaknesses of recollection. It was not hard for him at any time to put
himself to one side. He did it now completely. He felt like a man
walking in a dream; but he no longer consciously recalled to himself the
many times he had gone up and down there, and how it had once been to
him his habitual way home--the entrance to his kingdom. No doubt in his
painful circumstances these thoughts would have been hard upon him. They
died quite naturally out of his mind now. What was to become of
Clare?--where could he best convey her for shelter or safety?--and how
provide for her? His own downfall had made Clare penniless, and now that
she was no longer Arthur Arden’s wife, she could and would, he knew,
accept nothing from _him_. How was she to be provided for? This was a
far more important question to think of than any maunderings of personal
regret over the associations of his past life.
Next morning he went up again to the Hall, after a night passed not very
comfortably at the “Arden Arms,” where everyone looked at him curiously,
recognising him, but not venturing to say so. As he went up the avenue,
Arthur Arden overtook him, arriving, too, from a different direction. A
momentary flash of indignation came over Edgar’s face.
“You promised to leave Arden,” he said.
“And so I did,” said the other. “But I did not say I would not come back
to hear what she said. My God, I may have been a fool, but may I not see
my--my own children before they go? I am not made of wood or stone, do
you suppose, though I may have been in the wrong?”
His eyes were red and bloodshot, his appearance neglected and wild. He
looked as if he had not slept, nor even undressed, all night.
“Look here,” he said hoarsely, “I have got another letter, saying _she_
would accept money--a compromise. Will you persuade Clare to stay, and
make no exposure, and hush it all up, for the sake of the children--if
we have _her_ solemnly bound over to keep the secret and get her sent
away? Will you? What harm could it do you? And it might be the saving of
the boy.”
“Arden, I pity you from my heart!” said Edgar; “but I could not give
such advice to Clare.”
“It’s for the boy,” cried Arden. “Look here. We’ve never been friends,
you and I, and it’s not natural we should be; but that child shall be
brought up to think more of you than of any man on earth--to think of
you as his friend, his--well, his uncle, if you will. Grant that I’m
done for in this world, and poor Clare too, poor girl; but, Edgar, if
you liked, you might save the boy.”
“By falsehood,” said Edgar, his heart wrung with sympathetic
emotion--“by falsehood, as I was myself set up, till the time came, and
I fell. Better, surely, that he should be trained to bear the worst. You
would not choose for him such a fate as mine?”
“It has not done you any harm,” said Arden, looking keenly at the man he
had dispossessed--from whom he had taken everything. “You have always
had the best of it!” he cried, with sudden fire. “You have come out of
it all with honour, while everyone else has had a poor enough part to
play. But in this case,” he added, anxiously, in a tone of conciliation,
“nothing of the kind can happen. Who like her son and mine could have
the right here--every right of nature, if not the legal right? And I
declare to you, before God, that I never meant it. I never intended to
marry--that woman.”
“You intended only to betray her.” It was on Edgar’s lips to say these
words, but he had not the heart to aggravate the misery which the
unhappy man was already suffering. They went on together to the house,
Arden repeating at intervals his entreaties, to which Edgar could give
but little answer. He knew very well Clare would listen to no such
proposal; but so strangely did the pity within him mingle with all less
gentle sentiments, that Edgar’s friendly lips could not utter a harsh
word. He said what he could, rather, to soothe; for, after all, his
decision was of little importance, and Clare did not take the matter so
lightly as to make a compromise a possible thing to think of.
The house had already acquired something of that look of agitation which
steals so readily into the atmosphere wherever domestic peace is
threatened. There were two or three servants in the hall, who
disappeared in different directions when the gentlemen were seen
approaching; and Edgar soon perceived, by the deference with which he
himself was treated, that the instinct of the household had jumped to a
conclusion very different from the facts, but so pleasing to the
imagination as to be readily received. He had been recognised, and it
was evident that he was thought to be “righted,” to have got “his own
again.” Arthur Arden was anything but beloved at home, and the popular
heart as well as imagination sprang up, eager to greet the return of the
real master, the true heir.
“Mrs. Arden, sir, has ordered the carriage to meet the twelve o’clock
train. She’s in the morning-room, sir,” said the butler, with solemnity.
He spoke to Arthur, but he looked at Edgar. They were all of one way of
thinking; further evidence had been found out, or something had occurred
to turn the wheel of fortune, and Edgar had been restored to “his own.”
Clare was seated alone, dressed for a journey, in the little room which
had always been her favourite room. She was dressed entirely in black,
which made her extraordinary paleness more visible. She had always been
pale, but this morning her countenance was like marble--not a tinge of
colour on it, except the pink, pale also, of her lips. She received them
with equal coldness, bending her head only when the two men, both of
them almost speechless with emotion, came into her presence. She was
perfectly calm; that which had befallen her was too tremendous for any
display of feeling; it carried her beyond the regions of feeling into
those of the profoundest passion--that primitive, unmingled condition of
mind which has to be diluted with many intricate combinations before it
drops into ordinary, expressible emotion. Clare had got beyond the pain
that could be put into words, or cries or tears; she was stern, and
still, and cold, like a woman turned to stone.
“I want to explain what I am about to do,” she said, in a low tone. “We
are leaving, of course, at once. Mr. Arden” (her voice faltered for one
moment, but then grew more steady than ever), “I have taken with me what
money I have; there is fifty pounds--I will send it back to you when I
have arranged what I am to do. You will wish to see the children; they
are in the nursery waiting. Edgar will go with me to town, and help me
to find a place to live in. I do not wish to make any scandal, or cause
any anxiety. Of course I cannot change my name, as it is my own name,
as well as yours, and my children will be called what their mother is
called, as I believe children in their unfortunate position always are.”
“Clare, for God’s sake do not be so pitiless! Hear me speak. I have
much--much to say to you. I have to beg your pardon on my knees----”
“Don’t!” she cried suddenly; then went on in her calm tone--“We are past
all the limits of the theatre, Mr. Arden,” she said. “Your knees can do
me no good, nor anything else. All that is over. I cannot either upbraid
or pardon. I will try to forget your existence, and you will forget
mine.”
“That is impossible!” he cried, going towards her. His eyes were so
wild, and his manner so excited, that Edgar drew near to her in terror;
but Clare was not afraid. She looked up at him with the large, calm,
dilated eyes, which seemed larger and bluer than ever, out of the
extreme whiteness of her face.
“When I swear to you that I never meant it, that I am more wretched--far
more wretched--than you can be--that I would hang myself, or drown
myself like a dog, if that would do any good----!”
“Nothing can do any good,” said Clare. Something like a moan escaped
from her breast. “What are words?” she went on, with a certain
quickening of excitement. “I could speak too, if it came to that. There
is nothing--nothing to be said or done. Edgar, when one loses name and
fame, and home, _you_ know what to do.”
“I know what I did; but I am different from you,” said Edgar--“you, with
your babies. Clare, let us speak; we are not stones--we are men.”
“Ah! stones are better than men--less cruel, less terrible!” she cried.
“No, no; I cannot bear it. We will go in silence; there is nothing that
anyone can say.”
“You see,” said Edgar, turning to Arden--“what is my advice or my
suggestions now? To speak of compromise or negotiation----”
“Compromise!” said Clare, her pale cheek flaming; she rose up with a
sudden impulse of insupportable passion--“compromise!--to me!” Then,
turning to Edgar, she clutched at his arm, and he felt what force she
was putting upon herself, and how she trembled. “Come,” she said, “this
air kills me; take me away!”
He let her guide him, not daring to oppose her, out to the air--to the
door, down the great steps. She faltered more and more at every step she
took, then, suddenly stopping, leaned against him.
“Let me sit down somewhere. I am growing giddy,” she said.
She sat down on the steps, on the very threshold of the home she was
quitting, as she thought, for ever. The servants, in a group behind,
tried to gaze over their master’s shoulders at this extraordinary scene.
Where was she going?--what did she mean? There was a moment during which
no one spoke, and Clare, to her double horror, felt her senses forsaking
her. Her head swam, the light fluttered in her eyes. A moment more, and
she would be conscious of nothing round her. I have said she was not the
kind of woman who faints at a great crisis, but the body has its
revenges, its moments of supremacy, and she had neither slept nor
eaten, neither rested nor forgotten, for all these hours.
It was at this moment that the messenger from the “Arden Arms,” a boy,
whom no one had noticed coming up the avenue, thrust something into
Edgar’s hand.
“Be that for you, sir?” said the boy.
The sound of this new, strange voice roused everybody. Clare came out of
her half-faint, and regained her full sense of what was going on, though
she was unable to rise. Arthur Arden came close to them down the steps,
with wild eagerness in his eyes. Edgar only would have thrust the paper
away which was put into his hands. “Tush!” he said, with the momentary
impulse of tossing it from him; then, suddenly catching, as it were, a
reflection of something new possible in Arden’s wild look, and even a
gleam of some awful sublime of tragic curiosity in the opening eyes of
Clare, he looked at the paper itself, which came to him at that moment
of fate. It was a telegram, in the vulgar livery which now-a-days the
merest trifles and the most terrible events wear alike in England. He
tore it open; it was from Mr. Tottenham, dated that morning, and
contained these words only:--
“_Miss Lockwood died here at nine o’clock._”
Edgar thrust it into Arden’s hand. He felt something like a wild sea
surging in his ears; he raised up Clare in his arms, and drew her
wondering, resisting, up the great steps.
“Come back,” he cried--“come home, Clare.”