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.