Well! He had listened--he had disgraced himself--he was humbled in his
own eyes, and would be lost in Clare’s, should she ever find it out. And
what had he made by it? He had discovered that Edgar had discovered
something, which Clare would fain have destroyed--something which
evidently affected them both deeply, and to which they gave a probably
exaggerated importance. That was all. Whether it was anything that could
affect himself he had not found out--not a word had been said to throw
any light upon the mystery. The two knew what it was themselves, and
they did not stop in their conversation to give any description of it
for the benefit of the listener. Such things are done only by people on
the stage. The eavesdropper in this case was none the wiser. He was much
excited by the allusions he had heard. His faculties were all wound up
to observe and note everything. But his knowledge of the world made him
incredulous. After the first thrill of excitement--after the intense
apprehension and shame with which he watched them disappear into the
night, when he began seriously to think the matter over, he did not find
in it, it must be said, any encouragement to his hopes. Arthur Arden
knew the definite suspicion which all the circumstances of Edgar’s life
had raised in many minds, and at a very recent time he had seriously
nourished a hope of himself finding among the Squire’s papers something
which should brand the Squire’s heir with illegitimacy, and prove that
he was no Arden at all, though the offspring of Squire Arden’s wife.
Only the other day he had entertained this thought. But now, when it
would seem that some such papers had been found, the futility of it
struck him as nothing had ever done before. A posthumous accusation
would have no effect, he saw, upon the law. Squire Arden had never
disowned Edgar. He had given him his name, and acknowledged him as his
son, and no stigma that he could put upon him, now he was dead, could
counteract that acknowledgment. He smiled bitterly to think that he
himself could have been so very credulous as to believe it would; and he
smiled still more bitterly at the perturbation of these two young
people, and how soon Mr. Fazakerly would set their fears at rest. As
soon as they had disappeared, he stepped boldly into the library by the
open window, and examined the place to see if perchance any relics were
left about, of which he could judge for himself; but there was nothing
left about. And he had nothing for it but to leave the library, and
retire to the drawing-room, of which for most of the evening he had been
the solitary inmate. Some time after the sound of windows closing, of
steps softly ascending the stairs, made it apparent that Edgar and Clare
had come in, and finally separated for the night; though nobody appeared
to disturb his solitude, except Wilkins, who came in and yawned, and
pretended to look if the lamps wanted trimming. But even when he retired
to his room it seemed to Arthur that he still heard stealthy steps about
the house and whispering voices. Disturbance was in the very air. The
wind rose in the night, and moaned and shivered among the trees. There
was a shutter somewhere, or an open door, which clanged all through the
night. This, and his suspicions and doubts, broke Arthur’s sleep; and
yet it was he who slept most soundly that night of all who bore his
name.
In the morning, they all met at breakfast as on ordinary occasions.
Clare was so pale that no doubt could be thrown upon her illness of the
preceding day. She was as white as marble, and her great blue eyes
seemed enlarged and dilated, and shone with a wistful, tearful light,
profoundly unlike their ordinary calm. And her brother, too, was very
pale. He was carefully dressed, spoke very little, and had the air of a
man so absorbed in his thoughts as to be partially unaware what was
going on around him. But Clare let nothing escape. She watched her
cousin; she watched the servants; she watched Edgar’s lips, as it were,
lest any incautious word might escape them. When he spoke, she hurried
to interrupt him, repeating or suggesting what he was about to say. And
Arthur watched too with scrutiny scarcely less keen. He might have taken
it all for a fit of temper on her part had he not heard their
conversation last night. But now, though he felt sure no results would
follow which could affect him personally, his whole being was roused--he
was ready to catch the meaning out of any indication, however slight.
It had been late before either the brother or sister appeared, to the
great dismay of Wilkins, who made many apologies to the neglected guest.
“I don’t know what’s come over them. I don’t indeed, sir,” Wilkins had
said, with lively disapproval in his tone. And the consequence was that
it was nearly eleven before breakfast--a mere pretence to both Edgar and
Clare, though their kinsman’s appetite was not seriously affected--was
over. Then Edgar rose from his chair, looking, if possible, paler than
ever, intensely grave and self-restrained. “I think I may go now,” he
said to Clare; “it is not too early. I should be glad to have it over.”
“Let me speak to you first,” said Clare, looking at him with eyes that
grew bigger and bigger in their intense supplication. “Edgar, before you
go, and---- Let me speak to you first----”
“No,” he said with a faint smile. “I am not going to put myself to that
test again. I know how hard it is to resist you. No, no.”
“Just five minutes!” cried Clare. She ran out into the hall after him;
and Arthur, full of curiosity, rose too, and followed to the open door
of the dining-room. She took her brother’s arm, put her face close to
his ear, pleaded with him in a voice so low that Arthur could make out
nothing but many repetitions of the one word, “Wait;” to which Edgar
answered only by a shake of the head or tender melancholy look at her.
This went on till his horse was brought to the door. “No,” he said, “no,
dear; no, no,” smiling upon her with a smile more touching than tears;
and then he stooped and kissed her forehead. “For the last time,” he
said softly in her ear, “I will not venture to do this when I come
back.” It was a farewell--one of those first farewells which are almost
more poignant than the last--when imagination has fully seized the
misery to come, and dwells upon it, inflicting a thousand partings.
Arthur Arden, standing at the door behind, with his hands in his
pockets, could not hear these words; but he saw the sentiment of the
scene, and was filled with wonder. What did it mean? Was he going to run
away, the fool, because he had discovered that his mother had not been
immaculate? What harm would that do him--fantastic-romantic paladin? So
sure was Arthur now that it could not do any legal harm that he was
angry with this idiotic, unnecessary display. He could be none the
better for it--nobody could be any the better for it. Why, then, should
the Squire’s legal son and unquestionable heir make this ridiculous
fuss? It roused a suppressed rage in Arthur Arden’s breast.
And Clare, seeing him watch, came back to the dining-room as her brother
rode away from the door. She restrained the despair that was creeping
over her, and came back to defy her kinsman. Though, what was the good
of defying him, when so soon, so very soon, there would be nothing to
conceal? She went back, however, restraining herself--meeting his eyes
of wonder with a blank look of resistance to all inquiry. “Has Edgar
gone off on a journey?” Arthur asked, with well-affected simplicity.
“How strange he should have said nothing about it! Where has he gone?”
“He has not gone on a journey,” said Clare.
“I beg your pardon--your parting was so touching. I wish there was
somebody to be as sorry for me; but I might go to Siberia, and I don’t
think anyone would care.”
“That is unfortunate,” said Clare. She was very defiant, anxious to try
her strength. For once more, even though all should be known this very
day, she would stand up for her brother--her brother! “But don’t you
think, Mr. Arden,” she said abruptly, “that such things depend very much
on one’s self? If _you_ are not sorry to part with any one, it is
natural that people should not interest themselves about you.”
“I wonder if the reverse holds,” said Arthur; and then he paused, and
made a rapid, very rapid review of the situation. If this was a mere
fantastical distress, as he believed, Clare had Old Arden and
(independent of feeling, which, in his circumstances, he was compelled
to leave out of the transaction) was of all people in the world the most
suitable for him; and if there was anything in it, it was he who was the
heir, and in such a case he could make no match which would so
conciliate the county and reconcile him with the general public. His
final survey was made, his conclusion come to in the twinkling of an
eye. He drew a chair near the one on which she had listlessly thrown
herself. “I wonder,” he repeated, softly, “if the reverse holds?--when
one loves dearly, has one always a light to hope for some kind feeling
in return?--if not love, at least compassion and pity, or regret?”
“I do not know what you are talking of,” said Clare, wearily. “I don’t
think I am equal to discussion to-day.”
“Not discussion,” he said, very gently. “Would you try and listen and
realise what I am talking about, Clare? It seems the worst moment I
could have chosen. You are anxious and disturbed about something----”
“No,” she said, abruptly; “you are mistaken, Mr. Arden”--and then with
equal suddenness she broke down, and covered her face with her hands.
“Oh, yes, yes, I am anxious and full of trouble--full of trouble! Oh, if
you were a man I could trust in, that I dared talk freely to---- But you
will know it soon enough.”
It was a moment at which everything must be risked. “What if I knew
it--or, at least, what if I guessed it already?” said Arthur, bending
over her. “Ah, Clare, how surprised you look! You were too innocent to
know; but there are many people who have known that there was a danger
hanging over Edgar. You don’t suppose your father’s conduct to him could
have been noticed by everybody without there being some suspicion of the
cause?”
Clare raised her face, quite bloodless and haggard, from her hands. She
looked at him with a look of awe and fear. “Then you knew it!” she said,
the words scarcely able to form themselves on her lips.
“Yes,” said Arthur; “and for your consolation, Clare--though it should
be the reverse of consolation to me--I do not think he should fear. Such
things as these are very difficult to prove. The Squire never said a
word in his lifetime. I don’t know if any court of law would allow your
brother to prove his own illegitimacy--I don’t think they would. He has
no right to bring shame on his mother----”
“What do you mean?” said Clare, looking at him suddenly with a certain
watchfulness rising in her eyes.
“I am entering on a subject I ought not to have entered upon,” he said.
“Forgive me; it was only because I wanted to tell you that I don’t think
Edgar has any just cause for fear. If you would only trust me, dearest
Clare. I should ask your pardon for saying that, too--but though you
should never think of me, never speak to me again, you are still my
dearest. Clare, you sent me away, and I could not tell why. Don’t send
me away now. I am a poor beggar, and you are a rich lady, and yet I love
you so well that I must tell you, whatever your opinion of me may be.
Couldn’t you trust me? Couldn’t you let me help you? You think I would
be Edgar’s enemy, but I would not. He should have everything else if he
left me you.”
She looked up at him with a movement of wonder. Her eyes interrogated
him over and over. He had wounded her so much and so often--about
Jeanie--about the Pimpernels--about---- And yet, if he really meant
it--could it be possible that he was willing to leave Edgar everything,
to give him no trouble, if only she----? Was it a bargain she was going
to make? Ah, poor Clare! She thought so--she thought her impulse was to
buy her brother’s safety with her own, but at the same moment her heart
was fluttering, beating loud, panting to be given to him whom she loved
best. And yet she loved Edgar. To her own consciousness it was her
brother she was thinking most of now--and what a comfort it would be
thus to purchase Arthur’s promise not to harm him, and to trust
everything to Arthur! She wavered for an instant, with her mind full of
longing. Then her heart misgave her. She had allowed him to take her
hands in his, and to kiss them; while she looked him in the face, with
eyes full of dumb inquiry and longing, asking him over and over again
was this true?
“Stop, stop,” she said faintly; “if it was my own secret I would trust
you--if it was only me---- Oh, stop, stop! If you will say the same
to-morrow--when he has told you--then I will---- Oh, if I can survive it,
if I am able to say anything! Cousin Arthur, I am worn out; let me go
now.”
“It is hard to let you go,” he said. “But, Clare, tell me again--if I
say the same to-morrow, after he has told me--you will----? Is that a
promise? You will listen to me--you will give me what I desire most in
the world--is it a promise, Clare?”
“Let me go,” she said. “Oh, this is not a time to speak of--of our own
happiness, or our own concerns.”
“Thanks for such words--thanks, thanks,” he cried, “I ask no more.
To-morrow--it is a bargain, Clare.”
And thus she made her escape, half glad, half shocked that she could
think of anything but Edgar, and not half knowing what she had pledged
herself to. Neither did Arthur Arden know to what he had pledged
himself.