The others seated themselves once more round the library table. There
was a change, however, in their circumstances and position which would
have been immediately manifest to any observer. It had been Edgar an
hour ago who was the chief person concerned; it was he who had to
communicate his story, and to note its effect upon his audience. But now
it was Arthur who was the chief; not that he had anything to tell; but
all the anxiety had transferred itself to him--all the burden. His brow
was heavy with thought and care. He was feverishly eager to read and to
hear everything that could be said, and he watched Mr. Fazakerly with
the devouring anxiety of one who felt life and death to hang on his
lips. “It does not matter what you think or what I think, but what he
thinks,” he said abruptly when Edgar explained something. His whole
attention was bent upon the lawyer. He read the letters in Mr.
Fazakerly’s look. The chances were he did not himself make out or
understand them, but he saw what the other thought of them, and that
was enough.
“Softly, softly,” said Mr. Fazakerly; “don’t let us go too fast. I
acknowledge these are ugly letters to find; they make a very strong case
against the old Squire. He was a man who would stick at nothing to get
his own will. I would not say so before your sister, Mr. Edgar, but
still it was true. I have known cases in which he did not stick at
anything. And there can be no doubt that it affords an instant
explanation of his conduct to you. But the law distrusts too clear an
explanation of motives--the law likes facts, Mr. Edgar, and not motives.
We must go very gently in this difficult path. I will allow that I think
this is the late Mr. Arden’s handwriting--for the sake of argument I
will allow that; but these letters, you will perceive, all make a
proposition. There is nothing in them to prove that the proposition was
accepted--not a word--a fact which of itself complicates the matter
immensely. We have Mr. Arden’s word for it, without any
confirmation--nothing more.”
“I think you mistake,” said Edgar; “there are these other letters which
consider and accept the proposal. They are, I think, remarkable letters.
The person who wrote them could no doubt be identified. I think they are
quite conclusive that the proposal was accepted. Look at this, and
this, and this----”
“All very well--all very well,” said the lawyer. “Letters signed ‘J.
M.;’ but who is ‘J. M.’? I conclude a woman. I don’t make out what kind
of a person at all. There are errors of spelling here and there, which
do not look like a lady; and there is something about the style which is
not like an uneducated person. I decline to receive as evidence the
anonymous letters of ‘J. M.’”
Arthur Arden followed the speakers with his eyes, and with breathless
attention. He turned from one to another, noting even their gestures,
the little motions of arm and hand with which they appealed to each
other. He was discouraged by Mr. Fazakerly’s tone; he raised his eyes to
Edgar, almost begging him to say something more--to bring forward
another argument for his own undoing. It was the strangest position for
them both. Edgar had taken upon himself, as it were, the conduct of his
adversary’s case; he was the advocate of the man who was to displace and
supersede him. He was struggling with the champion of his own rights for
those of his rival, and with the strangest simplicity that rival tacitly
appealed to him.
“I don’t understand these matters of detail----” Edgar began.
“Detail, my dear sir, detail!” said Mr. Fazakerly, “they are matters of
principle. If letters like these were to be accepted as affecting the
succession to a great property, nobody would be safe. How can I tell who
this ‘J. M.’ was? It might be anybody--nobody. She may have written
these letters at random altogether. And, besides, there is not a tittle
of evidence to connect you with ‘J. M.’ Even supposing the whole
correspondence perfectly genuine, which is a thing requiring proof in
the first place, how am I to know--how is any one to know--that you are
the child referred to? There is, the contrary, everything against it.
You yourself jump at a conclusion. You say you are not like the Ardens,
and that your father was unkind to you, and from these two facts you
arrive at the astounding conclusion that you are not Mr. Arden’s son.
Mr. Edgar, I do not wish to be uncivil, but there is nothing in it. We
cannot decide such a question on evidence so slight---- God bless me!
what is that?”
The sound was startling enough; but it was only a knock, though an
emphatic and determined one, at the door. Edgar rose to open it, and
found Wilkins outside endeavouring to hold back an unlooked for visitor.
“She would come, sir,” said Wilkins in trouble----
“Is it you, Mrs. Murray?” said Edgar, startled he scarcely knew why; yet
somehow not feeling her presence inappropriate. “I am very busy at this
moment. I hope Jeanie is not worse----”
She made no attempt to enter the room; but standing outside in the
imperfect light, looked anxiously in his face. “I came because I couldna
help it,” she said slowly, “because I was concerned in my mind about
yours and you.”
“That was kind,” he said with a smile. He opened the door wide, and
revealed her standing on the threshold--a dark, commanding figure. “We
are busy about very important business,” said Edgar; “but still, if you
have anything to say to me--if Jeanie is worse----”
“Jeanie is better, or I would not have left her,” said the Scotchwoman;
and then she put her hand suddenly upon his arm, and drew him towards
her. “It’s you I am troubled about,” she said suddenly, with the
hoarseness of great emotion. “I’ve never got you out of my mind since
you said you were in trouble. Oh, my bonnie lad! I have no right to
speak, but my heart is in sore pain. Oh, if I could but be of some
service to you!”
Edgar never knew how it was--perhaps some trick of words like something
he had recently seen--perhaps the passion in her voice--perhaps a
sudden intuition, a touch of nature, warning him of things unknown and
unseen. Suddenly he changed the position of affairs, put his hand on her
arm, and drew her into the room. “Come,” he said, “I want you. Don’t
hesitate any longer; I have a question to ask you.” He had to exercise
almost a little force to bring her into the room. She stopped upon the
threshold, resisting the pressure of his hand. “No,” she said, “no
before these strange folk; it was for you I came, and you alone.”
“I have something to ask you,” said Edgar. “Come in and help me. I think
you can.”
He led her in unwillingly up to the table. She gave an alarmed and
anxious look upon the two people sitting by. Arthur Arden, whose mind
was open to everything, looked up and stared at her; but the lawyer,
after one hasty glance, took no further notice. He went on reading the
papers, shrugging his shoulders at this absurd interruption. In his own
mind it was a proof that the story he had just heard was true as the
Gospel, and that the young man who admitted every chance comer into his
intimacy could not be an Arden. But externally he paid no attention. It
was not his business to see, but to be blind. Arthur Arden was in a very
different mood; everything was important to him--he caught at the
faintest indications of meaning, and was on the outlook eagerly for any
incident. He watched closely, as Edgar led Mrs. Murray up to the table.
He perceived how reluctant she was, how she stood on the defensive,
watchful, and guarding herself against surprise. What share could she
have in the matter, that all her faculties should be thus on the alert?
Edgar’s demeanour too was very amazing to the spectator. His eye had
brightened--a curious air of quickened interest was in his face; he
looked as if he felt himself on the eve of a discovery. He led the old
woman up to the table, holding her by the arm. It was a strange scene:
the lawyer reading on steadily, taking no notice; the other spectator in
the shade, looking on so eagerly--the two figures standing between. The
woman had the air of going blindfold to encounter some unknown danger,
which, whatever it was, she was prepared to resist. Then Edgar spoke
with so much energy and impressiveness that even Mr. Fazakerly paused,
and pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, and looked up hurriedly.
“Look at these,” he said, bringing her close to the open packet of
letters--“Look at them, and tell me if you ever saw them before.”
Mrs. Murray approached, looking straight before her, keeping, with an
evident effort, every sign of emotion from her face. But when her eye
fell on the papers, an extraordinary change came over her. She came to
a dead stop--she uttered a low cry--she looked at them, stooping over
the table, and threw up her hands with a wild gesture of dismay. And
then all at once she recollected herself, stiffened all over, stood
desperately erect, with her hands clasped before her, and looked at them
all with a dumb defiance, which was wonderful to see.
“What did you say, sir?” she asked. “I am growing old; I am no so quick
at the up-take as I once was. I’ve been in this room before, in an hour
of great trouble and pain to me, and it works upon my nerves to see it
again. Sir, what did ye say?”
And she turned from one to another, severally defying them. Her face had
become blank of every expression but that one. This was the way in which
she betrayed herself. She defied them all. Her face said--Find me out if
you can; I will never tell you--instead of wearing, as a more
accomplished deceiver would have done, the air of having nothing to find
out.
“Have you ever seen these letters before?” said Edgar; and he lifted the
papers and put them into her hands. Arthur, who was watching, saw her
breast heave. He saw her hand clutch them, as if she would have torn
them in pieces. But she dared not tear them in pieces. She looked at
them, made a pretence to read, and stood as if she were an image cut
out of stone.
“How should I have seen them?” she said, putting them back on the table
as if they had burned her. “My cousin, Thomas Perfitt, is an old servant
of your house; but how should its secrets have come to me?”
“Look here,” said Edgar, in his excitement; “I believe you know;
something tells me that you know. Mr. Fazakerly, give us your attention.
You will not serve me by pretending ignorance if you know. I have found
out that I am not Mr. Arden’s son.”
“Softly, softly!” said the lawyer, putting his hand on Edgar’s arm.
“That is mere assertion on your part; there is no proof.”
“Hear me out,” cried Edgar. “I am speaking from myself only. I am
certain I am not Mr. Arden’s son, nor Mrs. Arden’s son. I am a stranger
altogether to the race. To me these letters prove it fully. For his own
evil ends, whatever they may have been, the master of this house adopted
me--perhaps bought me----”
Here there was another interruption. Mrs. Murray put out her hand
suddenly as if to stop him, and gave a cry as of pain; but once more
stiffened back into her old attitude, regarding them with the same
defiant look. Edgar paused, he looked her full in the face, he put his
hand upon her arm. “You injure me by your silence,” he said. “Speak! Are
you my---- Am I----?” His voice shook, his whole frame trembled. “You
are something to me,” he cried, looking at her. “Speak, for God’s sake!
Was it you who wrote these letters? You know them--you recognised them.
It is for my benefit that you should speak. Answer me!--the time is past
for concealment. Tell me what you know.”
Mrs. Murray’s lips moved, but no sound came; she looked from one to
another with rapid eager looks but the defiance in her face did not pass
away. At last her voice burst out aloud with an effort. “Let me sit
down,” she said; “I am growing old, and I am weary with watching, and I
cannot stand upon my feet.” The three men beside her leant forward to
hear these words, as if a whole revelation must be in them, so highly
were they excited. When it became apparent that she revealed nothing,
even Mr. Fazakerly was so much disturbed as to push his chair away from
the table, and to give his whole attention to the new actor in the
scene. Edgar brought her a seat, and she sat down among them with an air
of presiding over them, and with a strange knowledge of the crisis, and
all its particulars which seemed natural at the moment, and yet was
proof above all argument that she was not unprepared for the disclosure
that had been made to her. There was no surprise in her face. She was
greatly agitated, and evidently restraining herself with an effort that
was almost superhuman; but she was not astonished, as a stranger would
have been. This fact dawned upon the lawyer with curious distinctness
after the first minute. Edgar was baffled in his appeal, and Arthur
wanted the power to make use of his observations. But Mr. Fazakerly saw,
and watched, and had all his wits about him. And neither at that moment
nor at any other did the old solicitor of the Ardens, the depository of
all the family secrets, forget that the reigning Squire, whether he were
the rightful heir or not, was his client, and that he was retained for
the defence.
“Mr. Edgar,” said Mr. Fazakerly, “and Mr. Arthur, you are both too much
interested to manage this properly. You take it for granted that
everything bears upon the one question, which this good lady, of course,
never heard of before. Leave her with me. If she knows anything--which
is very unlikely--she will inform me in confidence. Of course, whatever
I find out shall be disclosed to you at once,” he added, with a mental
reservation. “Leave it to me.”
But whether that could have been done or not was never put to the test.
As he finished speaking, Wilkins came to the door hastily. “I beg your
pardon, sir,” he said, “but some folks is come from the village, asking
if one Mrs. Murray is here. I beg your pardon, I’m sure, for
interrupting----”
The old Scotchwoman rose up suddenly in the midst of them with a cry of
fear, which she no longer attempted to restrain.
“Is it my Jeanie?” she exclaimed. “Oh, good Lord, good Lord, I’m paying
dear, dear!”
“I must go with her,” said Edgar, in his excitement. Something in his
face, some strange likeness never perceived before, startled both his
companions. Arthur Arden rose too. He did not care about Jeanie. He had
forgotten, in this greater excitement, that he was guilty in regard to
the girl. All he thought of was to follow this new clue--to see them
together--to watch the new resemblance he had found out in Edgar’s
face.