It is unnecessary to say that to one at least of the two people whose
behaviour she thus discussed in her heart Clare was unjust. Edgar had
neither forgotten her nor was he glad to be rid of her. It was late
before he knew that she was gone. All the afternoon of that day he had
spent with the lawyer, going over again all the matters which only two
months ago had been put into the hands of the heir. Mr. Fazakerly had
ceased to remonstrate. Now and then he would shake his head or shrug his
shoulders, in silent protest against the mad proceeding altogether, but
he had stopped saying anything. It was of no use making any further
resistance. His client had committed himself at every step; he
had thrown open his secret ostentatiously to all who were
concerned--ostentatiously, Mr. Fazakerly said with professional
vehemence, feeling aggrieved in every possible way. Had he been called
upon to advise in the very beginning, it is most likely that the task
would have tried him sorely; for his professional instinct to defend
and conceal would have had all the force of a conscience to contend
with. But now that he had not been consulted, he was free to protest.
When he found it no longer of any use to make objections in words, he
shook his head--he shrugged his shoulders--he made satirical
observations whenever he could find an opportunity. “Were there many
like you, Mr. Edgar,” he said, “we lawyers might shut up shop
altogether. It is like going back to the primitive ages of Christianity.
Let not brother go to law against brother is, I know, the Scriptural
rule; though it is generally the person who is attacked who says
that--the one who has something to lose. But you have gone beyond
Scripture; you have not even asked for arbitration or compensation; you
have thrown away everything at once. We might shut up shop altogether if
everybody was like you.”
“If I were disagreeable,” said Edgar, laughing, “I should say, and no
great harm either, according to the judgment of the world.”
“The world is a fool, Mr. Edgar,” said Mr. Fazakerly.
“It is very possible,” said Edgar, with a smile. This was at the
termination of their business, when he felt himself at last free from
all the oft-repeated consultations and discussions of the last two or
three days. Everything was concluded. The old lawyer had his full
instructions what he was to do, and what to say. Edgar gave up
everything without reservation, and, at the instance of Mr. Fazakerly,
consented to receive from his cousin a small sum of money, enough to
carry him abroad and launch him on the world. He had been very reluctant
to do this, but Mr. Fazakerly’s strenuous representations had finally
silenced him. “After all, I suppose the family owes it me, for having
spoiled my education and career,” Edgar said, with the half smile, half
sigh which had become habitual to him; and then he was silent, musing
what his career would have been had he been left in his natural soil.
Perhaps it would have been he who should have ploughed the little farm,
and kept the family together; perhaps he might have been a sailor, like
Willie who was lost--or a doctor, or a minister, like others of his
race. How strange it was to think of it! He too had a family, though not
the family of Arden. His life had come down to him through honest hands,
across the homely generations--not peasants nor gentlefolk, but
something between--high-minded, righteous, severe people, like the woman
who was the only representative of them he knew, his mother’s mother.
His heart beat with a strange sickening speed when he thought of her--a
mixture of repulsion and attraction was in his thoughts. How was he to
tell Clare of her? He felt that nothing which had yet occurred would so
sever him from his sister as the appearance by his side of the two
strangers who were his flesh and blood. And then he remembered that in
the sickness of his heart he had made no inquiry after Jeanie during
that whole long day.
When he went out into the hall he found boxes standing about, a sight
which struck him with surprise, and Barbara standing, bonneted and
cloaked, among them. She turned to him the moment he appeared, with an
eager appeal. “Please, sir, Miss Clare said as I was to ask you what to
do.”
“I will speak to my sister,” said Edgar in his ignorance; but Barbara
put out her hand to detain him.
“Oh, sir, please! Miss Clare has gone down to the Rectory. She said to
me as I was to ask you what to do with all these things. There are a
deal of things, sir, to go to the Rectory. The rooms is small--and you
was to tell me, please, what to do. Don’t you think, sir, if I was to
leave the heavy things here----”
“Nothing must stay here,” said Edgar peremptorily. He was more angry at
this suggestion than at anything which had yet been said. “Take them
all away--to the Rectory--where Miss Arden pleases; everything must go.”
He was not aware while he spoke that Arthur Arden had made his
appearance and stood looking at him, listening with a certain bitterness
to all he said.
“That seems hard laws,” said Arthur. “I am Miss Arden’s nearest
relative. It may be necessary that she should go at present; but why
should you take upon you to pronounce that nothing shall stay?”
“I am her brother,” said Edgar gravely. “Mr. Arden, you will find Mr.
Fazakerly in the library with a communication to make to you. Be content
with that, and let me go my own way.”
“No, by Jove!” cried Arthur; “not if your way includes that of Clare.
What business have you, who are nothing to her, to carry her away?”
The servants stood gaping round, taking in every word. Mr. Fazakerly,
alarmed by the sound of the discussion, came to the door; and Edgar made
the discovery then, to his great surprise, that it hurt him to have this
revelation made to the servants. It was a poor shabby little remnant of
pride, he thought. What was the opinion of Wilkins or of Mrs. Fillpot to
him? and yet he would rather these words had been spoken in his absence.
But the point was one in which he was resolute not to yield. He gave
his orders to Wilkins peremptorily, without so much as looking at the
new heir. And then he himself went out, glad--it is impossible to say
how glad--to escape from it all. He gave a sigh of relief when he
emerged from the Arden woods. Even that avenue he had been so proud of
was full of the heavy atmosphere of pain and conflict. The air was freer
outside, and would be freer still when Arden itself and everything
connected with it had become a thing of the past. When he reached the
Rectory, Mr. Fielding was about sitting down to dinner, with Clare
opposite to him--a mournful meal, which the old man did his best to
enliven, although the girl, worn out in body and mind, was incapable of
any response. Things were a little better, to Mr. Fielding at least,
when Edgar joined them; but Clare could scarcely forgive him when she
saw that he could eat, and that a forlorn inclination for rest and
comfort was in her brother’s mind in the midst of his troubles. He was
hungry. He was glad of the quiet and friendly peace of the familiar
place. Oh, he was no Arden! every look, every word bore out the evidence
against him.
“It looks unfeeling,” he said, “but I have neither eaten nor slept for
two days, and I am so sick of it all. If Clare were but safe and
comfortable, it would be the greatest relief to me to get away----”
“Clare is safe here. I don’t know whether she can make herself
comfortable,” said the Rector looking at her wistfully. “Miss Arden,
from Estcombe, would come to be with you, my dear child, I am sure, if
that would be any advantage--or good Mrs. Selden----”
“I am as comfortable as I can be,” said Clare, shortly. “What does it
matter? There is nothing more necessary. I will live through it as best
I can.”
“My dear child,” said good Mr. Fielding, after a long pause; “think of
Edgar--it is worse for him than for you----”
“No,” cried Clare passionately; “it is not worse for him. Look, he is
able to eat--to take comfort--he does not feel it. Half the goodness of
you good people is because you don’t feel it. But I---- It will kill
me----”
And she thrust back her chair from the table, and burst into passionate
tears, of which she was soon ashamed. “Edgar does not mind,” she cried;
“that is worst of all. He looks at me with his grieved face, and he does
not understand me. He is not an Arden, as I am. It is not death to him,
as it is to me.”
Edgar had risen and was going to her, but he stopped short at the name
of Arden. It felt to him like a stab--the first his sister had given
him. “I hope I shall not learn to hate the name of Arden,” he said
between his closed lips; and then he added gently, “So long as I am not
guilty, nothing can be death to me. One can bear it when one is but
sinned against, not sinning; and you have been an angel to me,
Clare----”
“No,” she cried, “I am no angel; I am an Arden. I know you are good; but
if you had been wicked and concealed it, and stood by your rights, I
should have felt with you more!”
It was in the revulsion of her over-excited feelings that she spoke, but
yet it was true. Perhaps it was more true than when she had stood by
Edgar and called him her dearest brother; but it was the hardest blow he
had yet had to bear. He sat down again, and covered his face with his
hands. Poor fellow! the little comfort he had been so ready to enjoy,
the quietness and friendliness, the food and rest, had lost all savour
for him now. Mr. Fielding took his hand and pressed it, but that was
only a mild consolation. After a moment he rose, rousing himself for the
last step, which up to this moment he had shrunk from. “I have a further
revelation to make to you,” he said in an altered voice; “but I have
not had the courage to do it. I have to tell you who I really belong to.
I think I have the courage now.”
“Edgar!” she cried, in alarm, raising her head, holding out her hand to
him with a little cry of distress, “Will you not always belong to me?”
He shook his head; he was incapable of any further explanation. “I will
go and bring my mother----” he said, with a half sob. The other two sat
amazed, and looked after him as he went away.
“Do you know what he means?” asked Clare, in a voice so low as to be
scarcely audible. Mr. Fielding shook his head.
“I don’t know what he means, or if his mind is giving way, poor
boy--poor boy, that thinks of everybody but himself; and you have been
hard, very hard upon him, Clare.”
Clare did not answer a word. She rose from the table, from the fruit and
wine which she had spoiled to her gentle host, and went to the deep,
old-fashioned window which looked down the village street. She drew the
curtain aside, and sat down on the window-seat, and gazed into the
darkness. What had he meant? Whom had he gone to seek? An awful sense
that she had lost him for ever made Clare shiver and tremble; and yet
what she had said in her petulance was true.
As for Edgar, he hastened along through the darkness with spasmodic
energy. He had wondered how he could do it; he had turned from the task
as too difficult, too painful; he had even thought of leaving Clare in
ignorance of his real origin, and writing to tell her after he had
himself disappeared for ever. But here was the moment to make the
revelation. He could do it now; his heart was very sore and full of
pain--but yet the very pain gave him an opportunity. He reflected that
though it was very hard for him, it was better for Clare that the
severance between them should be complete. He could not go on, he who
was a stranger to her blood, holding the position of her brother. Years
and distance, and the immense difference which there would most likely
be between them would gradually make an end of any such visionary
arrangement. He would have liked to keep up the pleasant fiction; the
prospect of its ending crushed his heart and forced tears into his eyes;
but it would be best for Clare. She was ready to give him up already, he
reflected, with a pang. It would be better for her to make the severance
complete.
He went into the cottage in the dark, without being recognised by any
one. The door of the inner room was ajar, and Mrs. Murray was visible
within by the light of a candle, seated at some distance from her
child’s bedside. The bed was shaded carefully, and it was evident that
Jeanie was asleep. The old woman had no occupation whatever. A book was
lying open before her on the little table, and her knitting lay in her
lap; but she was doing nothing. Her face, which was so full of grave
thoughtfulness, was fully revealed by the light. It was the face of a
woman of whom no king need have been ashamed; every line in it was fine
and pure. Her snow-white hair, her dark eyes, which were so full of
life, the firm lines about her mouth, and the noble pose of the head,
gave her a dignity which many a duchess might have envied. True, her
dress was very simple--her place in the world humble enough; but Edgar
felt a sense of shame steal over him as he looked at her. He had shrank
from calling such a woman his mother, shrank from acknowledging her in
the face of the day; and yet there was no Arden face on the walls of the
house he had left which was more noble in feature, or half so exalted in
expression. He said this to himself, and yet he shrank still. It was the
last and highest act of renunciation. He went in so softly that she was
not disturbed. He went up to her, and laid his hand on her shoulder. His
heart stirred within him as he stood by her side. An unwilling
tenderness, a mixture of pride and shame, thrilled through him.
“Mother!” he said. It was the first time he had ever, in his
recollection, called any one by that sacred name.