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.