Clare left Arden that same afternoon. She came downstairs with her veil
over her face, trembling, yet perhaps hoping to be met upon the way.
Even Edgar was not aware of the moment when she took her flight. She had
sent her maid to see that there was no one about, and even to herself
she kept up the delusion that she wished to see no one--that she was
able for no more agitation. So many long hours had passed--a night, a
new morning, another day--yet Arthur Arden had not sought her, had not
repeated those words which she had bidden him, if he would, repeat. She
had made that concession to him in a moment of utter overthrow, when her
heart had been overwhelmed by the sense of her own weakness and
loneliness--by deepest poignant compassion and love for her brother. She
had almost appealed to him to save them all--she had put, as it were,
the welfare of the family into his hands. It had been done by
impulse--almost against her will--for had she not grievances against
him enough to embitter the warmest love? He had deserted her (she
thought) for the merest village girl--a child with a lovely face, and
nothing more. He had slighted her, making vain pretences of devotion,
spending the time with Jeanie which he might have passed at her side.
Yet all this she had forgotten in one moment when her heart was
desperate. She had turned to him as to her last hope. She had as good as
said--“Because I love you, save us.” Not in words--never in words had
she made such a confession. But could he be an Arden and not know that a
woman of the house of Arden never asked help or succour but from a man
she loved? And yet twenty-four hours had passed, and he had made no
sign. She had thought of this all the night. Her heart was sore, and
bleeding with a thousand wounds; there did not seem one corner of it
that some sword had not stabbed. She had lost her father for ever; she
could no longer think of him as she had once done; his image was driven
away into the innermost depths of her heart, where she cherished, and
wept over, and loved it, but could not reverence any longer. And her
brother was her brother no more. He had done nothing to forfeit her love
or her respect, but he was not her brother--different blood flowed in
his veins. His very best qualities, his virtues and excellences, were
not like the Ardens. He was a stranger to her and her race. Thus Clare
was left alone and unsupported in the world. And Arthur! He had wounded
her, slighted her, failed to understand her, or, understanding, scorned.
Everything seemed to close round her, every door at which she might have
knocked for sympathy. Her heart was sick, and sore, and weary with
suffering, but not resigned. How could she ever be resigned to give up
everything that was dearest to her, and all that made her prize her
life?
It was for this reason that she stole out in the dullest hour of the
afternoon, when the heart is faintest, and the vital stream flows
lowest. She had a thick veil over her face, and a cloak which completely
enveloped her figure. She left her maid behind to explain to her
brother--whom she still called her brother, though she was forsaking
him--how and where she had gone. “He will give you your orders about my
things,” she said to Barbara, who was in the highest state of restrained
excitement, feeling, as all the household had begun to feel, that
something strange must have happened. “Oh, Miss Clare, you’ve never gone
and quarrelled with master?” the girl cried, ready to weep. “No; I will
never quarrel with him. I could not quarrel with him,” cried Clare. “How
could you think so. Did you ever see so kind a brother?” “Never, Miss!”
cried Barbara, fervently; and Clare paused and cried: but then drew the
veil over her face, and set out alone--into a new world.
She paused for a moment, lingering on the steps, and gave a wistful look
round her, hoping, she said to herself, that she would see nobody--but
rather, poor Clare, with a wistful longing to see some one--to have her
path intercepted. But no one was visible. Edgar was still in the library
with Mr. Fazakerly. Arthur Arden was--no one knew where. The whole world
stood afar off, still and indifferent, letting her do what she pleased,
letting her leave her father’s house. She stood on the doorstep, with
nobody but Wilkins in sight, and took leave of the place where she was
born. Had she been called upon to leave it under any other
circumstances, her whole mind would have been occupied by the pang of
parting from Arden. Now Arden had the lightest possible share in her
pain--so little that she scarcely remembered it. She had so many more
serious matters to grieve over. She forgot even, to tell the truth, that
she was leaving Arden. She looked round, not to take farewell of her
home, but to see if there was no shadow anywhere of some one coming, or
some one going. She looked all round, deep into the shade of the trees,
far across the glimmer of the fish pond. All was silent, deserted,
lonely. The moment had come when she must step forth from the shelter in
which she had spent all her life.
The avenue sloped gently downward to the village, and yet Clare felt it
as hard as a mountainside. She seemed to herself to be toiling along,
spending all her strength. For she was so solitary--no one to lend her
an arm or a hand; no one to comfort her, or even to say the way was
long. She was (she believed) a scorned and forsaken woman. Heaven and
earth were made bitter to her by the thought. Once more she looked
round, a final double farewell. He might even have been roused, she
thought, by the sound of her step crossing the hall, by Wilkins swinging
open the door for her, as he always did when any Arden went or came; for
others, for the common world, it was open enough, as it stood usually at
half its width. Oh, how slight a noise would have roused her, how faint
a sound, had it been Arthur who was going away! She bethought herself of
an expedient she had heard of--swallowing her own pride in the vehemence
of her feelings. She wished for him with all her heart, making a
vehement conscious exertion of her will. She cried out within herself,
Arthur! Arthur! Arthur! It was a kind of Pagan prayer, addressed not to
God, but to man. Such a thing had been known to be effectual. She had
read in books, she had heard from others, that such an appeal made, with
all the heart, is never unsuccessful; that the one will thus exerted
affects the other unerringly; and that the name thus called sounds in
the ears of its owner, calling him, wherever he may be. Therefore she
did it, and watched its effect with a smothered excitement not to be
described. But there was no effect; the park spread out behind her, the
avenue ran into two lines of living green before. She was the only human
creature on the scene--the only being capable of this pain and anguish.
She drew her veil close, and went her way, with an indignation, a
resentment, a rush of shame, greater than anything she had felt in all
her life. She had called him, and he had not come. She had stooped her
pride, and humbled herself, and made that effort, and there had been no
response. Now, it was, it must be, over for ever, and life henceforward
contained nothing for her worth the trouble of existing for.
It was thus that Clare left Arden, the old home of her race, her
birthplace, the place which was, she would have said, everything to
her--without even thinking of it or caring for it, or making any more
account of it than had it been the veriest hired house. She was not
aware of her own extraordinary indifference. Had any one met her, had
her feelings been brought under her own notice, she would have said,
beyond any dispute, that her heart was breaking to leave her home. But
nobody met her to thrust any such question upon her, and the stronger
feeling swallowed up the weaker, as it always does. All the way down the
avenue not a creature, not even a servant, or a pensioner from the
village--though on ordinary occasions there was always some one
about--broke the long silent expanse of way. She was suffered to go
without a remonstrance, without a question, from any living creature.
Already it appeared the tie was broken between her and the dwelling so
familiar to her--the place which had known her already began to know her
no more.
Mr. Fielding was in his study when Clare went in upon him veiled and
cloaked--a figure almost funereal. She gave him a great start and shock,
which was scarcely softened when she raised her veil. “Something more
has happened?” he said; “something worse--Edgar has gone away? My poor
child, tell me what it is----”
“It is nothing,” said Clare. “Edgar is quite safe, so far as I know. But
I have left Arden, Mr. Fielding. I have left it for ever. Till my
brother can make some arrangement for me, may I come here?”
“Here!” cried the good Rector, in momentary dismay.
“Yes--you have so often said you felt me like a child of your own; I
will be your child, dear Mr. Fielding. Don’t make me feel I have lost
everything--everything, all in a day.”
“My dear! my dear!” cried Mr. Fielding, taking her into his old arms,
“don’t cry so, Clare; oh, my poor child, don’t cry. Of course, you shall
come here--I shall be too happy, too pleased to have you. Of that you
may be quite sure. Clare, my darling, it is not like you--oh, don’t
cry!”
“It is a relief,” she said. “Think--I have left Arden, where I was born,
and where I have lived all my life; and you are the only creature I can
come to now.”
“My poor child!” said the kind Rector. Yes, she who had been so proud of
Arden, so devoted to the home of her race, it was not wonderful that she
should feel the parting. He soothed her, and laid his kind hand on her
head, and blessed her. “My dear, you have quantities of friends. There
is not a man or woman in the county, far or near, but is your friend,
Clare,” he said; “and Edgar will always be a brother to you; and you are
young enough to form other ties. You are very young--you have your
whole life before you. Clare, my dearest child, you would have left
Arden some time in the course of nature. It is hard, but it will soon be
over--and you are welcome to me as the flowers in May.”
She had known he would be kind to her--it had required no wizard to
foresee that; and the old man’s tenderness made less impression upon her
than if it had been unlooked for. She composed herself and dried her
tears, pride coming to her aid. Yes, everybody in the county would be
her friend. She was still an Arden of Arden, though Edgar was an alien.
No one could take from her that natural distinction. Her retirement was
a proud one--not forced. She could not be mistaken in any way. If it had
been but Arden she was leaving, she would have got over it very soon,
and taken refuge in her pride. But there was more than Arden in
question--more than Edgar--something which she could confide to no
mortal ears.
Then she was conducted by the Rector through all the house, that she
might choose her room. “There are none of them half pretty enough,” he
said. “If we had known we had a princess coming, we would have done our
best to prepare her a bower. This one is very bright and sunny, and
looks out on the garden; and this is the best room--the one Mrs. Solmes
thinks most of. You must take your choice, and it shall be made pretty
for you, Clare. I know, I once knew, how a lady should be lodged. Yes,
my dear, you have but to choose.”
“It does not matter,” Clare said, almost coldly. She did not share the
good man’s pleasant flutter. It was gain to him, and only loss to her.
She threw off her cloak and her hat in the nearest room, without any
interest in the matter--an indifference which checked the Rector in the
midst of his eager hospitalities. “Don’t mind me,” she said, “dear Mr.
Fielding; go on with your work--don’t take any notice of me. I shall go
into the drawing-room, and sit there till you have finished. Never mind
me----”
“I have to go out,” the Rector said, with a distressed face. “There are
some sick people who expect me. But Clare, you know, you are mistress
here--entirely mistress. The servants will be too proud to do anything
you want; and the house is yours--absolutely yours----”
“The house is mine!” Clare said to herself, when he was gone, with a
despite which was partly the result of her mortification and grief. As
if she cared for that--as if it was anything to her being mistress
there, she who had been mistress of Arden! She sat down by herself in
the old-fashioned, dingy drawing-room--the room which Mr. Fielding had
furnished for his Milly nearly fifty years before, and where, though
everything was familiar, nothing was interesting. She could not read,
even though there had been anything to read. She had nothing to work at,
even had she cared to work. She sat all alone, idle, unoccupied--a prey
to her own thoughts. There is nothing in the world more painful than the
sudden blank which falls upon an agitated spirit when thus turned out of
confusion and excitement into the arbitrary quiet of a strange house--a
new scene. Clare walked about the room from window to window, trying
vainly to see something where there was nothing to see--the gardener
rolling the grass, old Simon clamping past the Rectory gate in his
clogs, upon some weird mission to the churchyard. Impatience took
possession of her soul. When she had borne it as long as she could, she
ran upstairs for her hat, and went across the road to the Doctor’s
house, which irritated her, twinkling with all its windows in the
slanting sunshine. Miss Somers could not be much consolation, but at
least she would maunder and talk, and give Clare’s irritation vent in
another way. The silence, the quiet, the peace, were more than she could
bear.