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.”