To say that the Doctor was utterly confounded by this revelation was to
say little. He had not begun so much as to think what it meant when
Edgar left him. An impatience which was foreign to his character had
come to the young man. He was eager to tell his astounding news; but it
irritated him to be doubted, to have to go over and over the same words.
He did not show this feeling. He tried hard to keep his temper, to make
all the explanations that were wanted; but within him a fire of
impatience burned. He rushed away as soon as he could get free, with
again that wild desire to be done with it which was the reverse side of
his eagerness to tell it. If he could but get away, be clear of the
whole matter, plunge into the deep quiet of the unknown, where nobody
would wonder that he was not an Arden, where he might call himself
anything he pleased! He went up the avenue with feverish speed, noting
nothing. Nature had ceased to have power to compose him. He had been
swept into a whirlpool of difficulty, from which there could be no
escape but in flight; and till his work was done he could not fly.
And it seemed to Edgar a long, long time since he rode down between
those trees--a very long time, a month, perhaps a year. With all his
heart he longed to be able to escape, and yet a certain fascination drew
him back, a wondering sense that something more might have happened,
that there might be some new incident when he went back to divide his
attention with the old---- Perhaps were the bureau searched more closely
there might be something else found--something that would contradict the
other. All these fancies flashed through his mind as he went on. He
was but half-way up the avenue when he met Mr. Fielding coming
down. The Rector looked just as he always did--serene, kind,
short-sighted--peering at the advancing figure, with a smile of
recognition slowly rising over his face. “I know people generally by
their walk,” he said, as they met; “but I don’t recognise your walk this
morning, Edgar: you are tired? How pale you are, my dear boy! Are you
ill?”
“Didn’t she tell you?” said Edgar, wearily.
“She tell me?--who tell me?--what? You frighten me, Edgar, you look so
unlike yourself. I have been with Clare, and I don’t think she is well
either. She looked agitated. I warned you, you remember, about that
man----”
“Don’t speak of him, lest I should hate him,” said Edgar. “And yet I
have no cause to hate him--it is not his fault. I will turn back with
you and tell you what Clare did not tell you. She might have confided in
you, anyhow, even if there had been a chance that it was not true.”
The Rector put his arm kindly within that of the agitated young man. He
was the steadier of the two; he gave Edgar a certain support by the
contact. “Whatever it is that agitates you so,” he said, “you are quite
right--she might have told me; it would have been safe with me. Poor
Clare! she was agitated too----”
This allusion overwhelmed Edgar altogether. “You must be doubly kind to
her when I am gone,” he said, hurriedly. “Poor Clare! That is another
thing that must be thought of. Where is she to go to? Would you take her
in, you who have always been so kind to us? I would rather she were with
you than at the Doctor’s. Not that I have anything to do with it now;
but one cannot get over the habits of one’s life in twenty-four hours.
Yes, poor Clare, I had no right to it, as it appears; but she was fond
of me too.”
“Of course, she was fond of you,” said the Rector alarmed. “Come, Edgar,
rouse yourself up. What does it mean this talk about going away? You
must not go away. All your duties are at home. I could not give my
consent----”
And then Edgar told him succinctly, in the same brief words which he had
used before, his extraordinary tale. He told it this time without any
appearance of emotion. He was getting used to the words. This time he
paid no attention to the incredulity of his listener. He simply repeated
it with a certain dull iteration. Mr. Fielding’s exclamations of wonder
and horror fell dully on his ears. He could not understand them. It
seemed so strange that any one should be surprised at a thing he had
known so long. “Sure,” he said with a smile; “am I sure of my own
existence? No, I don’t mean of my own identity, for at present I have
none. But I am as sure of it as that I am alive. Do you think it would
be any pleasure to me to go and spread such news if it were not true?”
“But, Edgar,----” began the Rector.
“That is the curious thing,” he said musingly; “I am not Edgar. I
suppose a man would be justified in keeping his Christian name--don’t
you think so? That surely must belong to him. I could not be John or
George all at once, after being Edgar all my life. Surely I keep that.”
“My poor boy,” cried the Rector, in dismay. “My poor boy, come home, and
lie down, and let me bring Somers up to see you. You are not well, you
have been doing too much in town, keeping late hours, and---- You will
see, a little rest will set you all right.”
“Do you think I am mad?” said Edgar. “Look at me--can you really think
so? I know only too well what I am saying. It is a very strange position
to be placed in, and makes one talk a little wild, perhaps. Of course, I
know nobody wants to take from me my Christian name; that was nonsense.
But when one has just had such a fall as I have had, it confuses one a
little. Will you come with me to the Hall, and see the papers? Clare
should have told you. There is no harm in my calling her Clare, do you
think, just for a time? I never can think of her but as my sister. And
we must try and arrange what she is to do.”
“Edgar, am I to believe you?” cried Mr. Fielding. “Is it madness, or is
it something too dreadful to name? Do not look at me like that, my dear
boy. Don’t smile, for Heaven’s sake! you will break my heart.”
“Why shouldn’t I smile?” said Edgar. “Is all the world to be covered
with gloom because I am not Squire Arden? Nonsense! It is I who must
suffer the most, and therefore I have a right to smile. Clare will get
over it by degrees,” he added. “It has been a great shock to her, but
she will get over it. I don’t know what to say about her future. Of
course I have no right to say anything, but I can’t help it. I suppose
the chances are she will marry Arthur Arden. I hate to think of that. It
is not mere prejudice against him as superseding me; it is because he is
not worthy of her. But it would be the most suitable match. Of course
you know she will lose Old Arden now that I am found out?”
“Edgar, stop! I can’t bear it,” cried the Rector. “For Heaven’s sake
don’t say any more!”
“But why not? It is a relief to me; and you are our oldest friend. Of
course I had no more to do with the entail than you have; all that is
null and void. For Clare’s sake I wonder he did not destroy those
papers, if for nothing else. Mr. Fielding, I have a horrible idea in my
head. I wish I could get rid of it. It is worse than all the rest. He
hated me, because of course I reminded him continually of his guilt. He
wanted me to break my neck that day after Old Arden was settled on
Clare. It would have been the most comfortable way of arranging the
matter for all parties, if I had only known. But I can’t help thinking
he carried his enmity further than that. I think he left those letters
to be a trap to me. He meant me to find them, and hide them or destroy
them, and share his guilt. Of course he believed I would do that; and
oh, God! how strong the temptation was to do it! If I had found them
myself--if they not been given to me by Clare----”
Mr. Fielding pressed the arm he held. He doubted no longer, questioned
no longer. “My poor boy! my poor boy!” he murmured under his breath;
and, kind soul as he was, in his heart, with all the fervour of a
zealot, he cursed the old Squire. He cursed him without condition or
peradventure. God give him his reward! he said; and for the first time
in his life believed in a lake of fire and brimstone, and wished it
might be true.
“I suppose I have got into the talking stage now,” said poor Edgar. “I
have had a long spell of it, and felt everything that can be felt, I
believe. It was on Sunday night I found it out--fancy, on Sunday
night!--a hundred years ago. And I want you to stand by me to-day. I
have telegraphed for Fazakerly. I have asked him to come to dinner; why,
I don’t know, except that dinner is a solemnity which agrees with
everything. It will be my table for the last time. Is it not odd that
Arthur Arden should be here at such a moment? not by my doing, nor
Clare’s, nor even his own--by Providence, I suppose. If Mr. Pimpernel’s
horses had not run away, and if poor little Jeanie had not been in the
carriage---- What strange, invisible threads things hang together by! Am
I talking wildly still?”
“No, Edgar,” said Mr. Fielding, with a half sob. “No, my poor boy.
Edgar, I think it would be a relief to be able to cry---- What shall you
do? What shall you do? I think my heart will break.”
“I shall do very well,” said Edgar, cheerily. “Remember, I have not been
brought up a fine gentleman. I shall be of as much use in the world
probably as Arthur Arden, after all. Ridiculous, is it not? but I feel
as if he were my rival, as if I should like to win some victory over
him. It galls me to think that perhaps Clare will marry him--a man no
more worthy of her---- But, of course, the match would be suitable, as
people call it, _now_.”
“Say you don’t like it, Edgar,” said Mr. Fielding, with sudden warmth.
“Clare, you may be sure, if she ever neglected your wishes, will not
neglect them now.”
Edgar shook his head; a certain sadness came into the meditative smile
which had been on his face. “I believe she loves him,” he said, and
then was silent, feeling even in that moment that it was not for
Clare’s good he should say more. No; it was not for him to lay any
further burdens upon his sister. His sister! “I _must_ think of her as
my sister,” he said aloud, defending himself, as it were, from some
attack. “It is like my Christian name. I can’t give that up, and I can’t
give her up--in idea, I mean; in reality, of course, I will.”
“The man who would ask you to do so would be a brute,” cried Mr.
Fielding.
“No man will ask me to do so,” said Edgar. “I don’t fear that; but time,
and distance, and life. But you are old--you will not forget me. You
will stand by me, won’t you, to the last!”
The good Rector was old, as Edgar said; he could not bear any more. He
sat down on the roadside, and covered his face with his handkerchief.
And the tears came to Edgar’s eyes. But the suffering was his own, not
another’s; therefore they did not fall.
Thus they separated, to meet again in the evening at the dinner, to
which Edgar begged the Rector to ask Dr. Somers also. “It will be my
last dinner,” he said, with a smile; and so went away--with something of
his old look and manner restored to him--home.
Home! He had been the master of everything, secure and undoubting,
three days ago. He was the master yet to the gamekeeper, who took off
his hat in the distance; to Wilkins, who let him in so respectfully;
even to Arthur Arden, who watched him with anxious curiosity. How
strange it all was! Was he playing in some drama not comprehended by his
surroundings, or was it all a dream?
It seemed a dream to the Rector, who hurried home, not knowing what to
think, and sent for Dr. Somers, and went over it all again. Could it be
true? Was the boy mad? What did it mean? They asked each other these
questions, wondering. But in their hearts they knew he was not mad, and
felt that his revelation was true. And so all prepared itself for the
evening, when everything should be made public. A sombre cloud fell over
Arden to everybody concerned. The sun looked sickly, the wind refused to
blow. The afternoon was close, sultry, and threatening. Even Nature
showed a certain sympathy. She would say her “hush” no longer, but with
a gathering of clouds and feverish excitement awaited the catastrophe of
the night.