“These are our terms, Mr. Arden,” said Mr. Fazakerly. “It is, of course,
entirely in your own hands to accept or reject them: a provision such as
has been usually made for the daughters of Arden, for Miss Clare; and a
certain sum--say a few hundreds--he would not accept anything
more--for--your predecessor---- These are our conditions. If you accept
them, he offers (much against my will--all this surrender is against my
will) immediate possession, without any further trouble. My own opinion
is quite against this self-renunciation, but my client is obstinate----”
“Your client!” said Arthur Arden, with a tone of contempt. “Up to this
time your clients have always been the lawful owners of Arden.”
“Understand, sir,” said the old lawyer, with a flush of irritation on
his face, “that I do not for a moment admit that Mr. Edgar is not the
lawful owner of Arden. That rests on your assertion merely; and it is an
assertion which you might find it amazingly difficult to prove. He
offers you terms upon his own responsibility, against my advice and
wish, out of an exaggerated sense of honour, such as perhaps you don’t
enter into. My wish would have been to let you bring your suit, and
fight it out.”
Arthur Arden was in great doubt. He paced the long library up and down,
taking council with himself. To make conditions at all--to treat with
this beggar and impostor, as he called him in his heart--was very
galling to his pride. Of course he would have been kind to the fellow
after he had taken possession of his own. He would have made some
provision for him, procured him an appointment, given him an allowance,
out of pure generosity; but it was humiliating to pause and treat, or to
acknowledge any power on the part of the usurper to exact conditions. It
was astonishing how fast and far his thoughts had travelled in the last
twenty-four hours. He had scarcely allowed the bewildering hope to take
hold of his mind then--he could not endure to be kept for another hour
out of his possessions now. He walked up and down heavily, pondering the
whole matter. It appeared to him that he had nothing to do but to
proclaim himself the reigning monarch in place of the usurper found out,
and to expel him and his belongings, and begin his own reign. But the
old lawyer stood before him, vigilant and unyielding, keeping an eye
upon him--cowing him by that glance. He came forward to the table again
with reluctant politeness. “I don’t understand it,” he said. “It stands
to reason that from the moment it is found out, everything becomes mine
as the last Squire Arden’s next of kin.”
“You have to prove first that you are nearer of kin than his son.”
“His son! Do you venture to keep up that fiction? How can I consent for
a moment to treat with any one who affirms a lie?”
“Your conscience has become singularly tender, Mr. Arden,” said the
lawyer, with a smile. “I don’t think you were always so particular; and
remember you have to prove that it is a lie. You have to prove your case
at every step against all laws of probability and received belief. I do
not say that you will fail eventually, but it is a case that might
occupy half your remaining life, and consume half the value of the
estate. And I promise you you should not gain it easily if the defence
were in my hands.”
“When I did win you should find that no Arden papers found their way
again to your hands,” said Arthur, with irritation.
Mr. Fazakerly made him a sarcastic bow. “I can live without Arden,” he
said; “but the question is, can you?”
Then there was another pause. “I suppose I may at least consult my
lawyer about it,” said Arthur, sullenly; and once more Mr. Fazakerly
made him a bow.
“By all means; but should my client leave the country before you have
decided, it will be necessary to shut up the house and postpone its
transference. A few months more or less will not matter much. I will put
down our conditions, that you may submit them to your lawyer. A
provision such as other daughters of Arden have had, for Miss Clare----”
“I will not have Miss Arden’s name mentioned,” said Arthur, angrily;
“her interests are quite safe in my hands.”
“That may or may not be,” said Mr. Fazakerly; “but my client insists
absolutely on this point, and unless it is conceded, all negotiations
are at an end. Fit provision for Miss Clare; and a sum of money--say a
thousand pounds----”
“You said a few hundreds,” interposed the other with irritation. Mr.
Fazakerly threw down his pen, and looked up with amazement into Arthur’s
face.
“Good Lord,” he said, “is it the soul of a shopkeeper that you have got
within you? Do you understand what Edgar Arden is giving up? And he was
not called upon to give it up. He was not called upon to say a word
about it, to furnish you with any information. What Edgar Arden would
have done had he been guided by me----”
“He is not Edgar Arden,” said Arthur sharply.
“By the Lord,” cried Mr. Fazakerly, wrought up to a pitch of excitement
which would have vent, “he is by a hundred times a better man than----”
you, he was going to say, but resisted the temptation--“than most men
that one meets,” he added hastily. And then, subduing himself, sat down
and wrote the conditions fully out. He handed them to the other without
adding a word, and immediately unlocked a box full of papers which stood
on the table by him, and began to work at them, as if he were
unconscious of the presence of any stranger. Arthur stood by him for
some minutes with the paper in his hand, and then went out with a
mortification which he had to conceal as best he could. It was the
morning after Clare had left the house, and Edgar, though he had not
appeared that day was still master of the house, acknowledged by
everybody in it as its legitimate head. It is impossible to say how much
this chafed the true heir. He was so angry that he gave Wilkins to
understand the real state of affairs, to the private consternation but
well-enacted unbelief of that family retainer. Wilkins did not like
Arthur Arden--none of the servants liked him. Edgar’s kindly sway had
given them a glimpse of something better; and the butler and the
housekeeper had long entertained matrimonial intentions, and were too
well off and too much used to comfort to put up with a less satisfactory
_regime_. “I’ll ask master, sir,” was all Arthur Arden could elicit from
Wilkins. Master!--the word made him almost swear. Arthur went out, with
the conditions of surrender in his pocket, and pondered over them like a
general who is victorious yet baffled, and whose army has won the
external but not the moral victory. Of course there could be no real
question as to these conditions; under any circumstances public opinion,
or even his own reluctant sense of what was fit and necessary, would
have bound him to do as much or more. But he was irritated now, and if
he had been able, he would have liked to punish his rival for his
usurpation; while, on the contrary, that rival claimed to march out with
all the honours of war, his reputation unimpeached, his fame spread. It
galled the new Lord of Arden more than it is possible to describe. He
gnawed his moustache and his nails as he pondered, and then his thoughts
took a sudden turn. The subject which had been uppermost in his mind
before this new matter drove everything else out of the question. Come
back--Clare! For the moment she had taken Edgar’s part; but this at
least it was in his power to alter. As much as he had ever loved any
one, he loved Clare; but he was come to his kingdom, and the
intoxication of the triumph bewildered his faculties. He might marry any
one--not any longer a mere heiress, great or small, but anybody--a
duke’s daughter, a lady of the highest pretensions. Arden of Arden was
the equal of the best nobleman in Christendom. So he reasoned from the
heights of his new elevation. For a moment ambition struggled in him
with love: it was in his power now to give Clare back all, and more than
all, that she had lost; and in thus gratifying himself he could inflict
the last wound upon his adversary. In reality, notwithstanding a
thousand shortcomings, he loved her. He thought over all their
intercourse, everything that had passed between them--her last words, to
which as yet he had made no response. And the heart began to beat more
warmly, more quickly in his breast. The end of his musings was that he
took his way down the avenue to the Rectory, with his paper of
conditions in his pocket. Again it must be said for Arthur Arden that in
any case he would have taken this step; but still the alloy of his
nature mingled with all he did. Even in seeking his love, he went with a
vengeful feeling of satisfaction that if he won Clare from him, that
fellow would not have so much to brag of after all.
Clare was seated in the deep window of the Rectory drawing-room with a
book in her hand; but she was not reading the book. She was gazing
listlessly out, seeing nothing, going over a hundred recollections. Her
life had become far more interesting than any book--too
interesting--full of pain and tragic interest. She sat with her eyes
fixed on the broad expanse of summer sunshine, the distant gleam of the
village street, the Doctor’s house opposite, with its twinkling windows.
Everything was still as peace itself. The old gardener was rolling the
grass with gentle monotony, as if he might go on doing it for ever; Dr.
Somers’ phæton stood at the door awaiting him; old Simon clamped past on
his clogs--all so peaceful as if nothing out of the usual routine could
ever happen; and yet in that very room Edgar had stood by the side of
the old Scotch woman and called her mother! A deep suppressed excitement
and resentment were in Clare’s heart. It was not his fault, but
notwithstanding she could not forgive him for it. When the door opened
she did not turn her head. Most likely it was Edgar, and she did not
wish to see him; or Mr. Fielding, with his grieved, disapproving looks.
Clare was in such a state of mind that even a look of reproof drove her
wild. She could not bear it. Therefore she kept her back turned
persistently, and gave no heed to the opening of the door.
“Clare!”
She looked up with a violent start, rising from her seat, and perceived
him standing over her--he whom she had tried to put out of her
calculations, and think of no more. She had been planning a proud
miserable life retired out of sight of all men, specially hidden from
him. She had resolved he should not even know where she was to insult
her with his pity--neither he nor Edgar should know; for Clare was quite
unaware that the discovery which lost her a brother lost her a fortune
too. But now at the moment when she was most miserable, most forlorn,
forming the most dreary plans, here he was! The sight of him took away
her breath, and almost her senses, for the moment. She said, “Is it
you?” faintly, gazing at him with dilated eyes and parched lips, as if
he had been a ghost. The surprise was so great that it threw down all
her defences, and brought her back to simple reality. She was not glad
to see him--these were not the words; but his sudden coming was like
life to the dead.
And he too was touched by the sight of her utter dejection and solitude.
He dropped down on one knee beside her as she reseated herself, and took
her hand. “My Clare!” he said, “my Clare! why did you fly from me? Is
not my house your house, and my life yours? Is there any one so near to
you as me? Even now I have the only claim upon you; and when you are my
wife----”
“No such word has ever been spoken between us,” said Clare, making an
effort to resume her old dignity. “Mr. Arden, rise--you forget----”
“I don’t forget anything,” said Arthur. “There was one between us that
took it upon him to keep me away, that prevented me from seeing you,
prejudiced you against me, and has all but beguiled you away from me.
But, Clare, you see through it now. Are words necessary between you and
me? When I was a beggar I might hesitate to ask you to share my poverty,
but now---- Don’t you know that I would rather have you without Arden
than Arden without you----”
Let him take everything else, as long as he leaves me you--these had
been the words Arthur Arden had spoken two days ago. They rang in
Clare’s ears as clearly as if he had just pronounced them, and they had
an echo in his own memory. But neither of them referred to that vain
offer now--neither of them said a syllable of Edgar. “If he had not so
shocked me, so repelled me, brought in that woman,” Clare said to
herself in faint self-apology--but not a word did she say aloud. She
laid down her head on Arthur Arden’s shoulder, and wept away the
accumulated excitement and irritation and misery of the past night. She
did not reproach him for his delay or ask a single question. She had
wanted him, oh, so sorely! and he had come at last.
“It is too great happiness,” said Arthur, when they had sat there all
the bright morning through and made their plans, “that you and I should
spend all our lives together in Arden, Clare. To have you anywhere would
have seemed too much joy a month ago; but you and Arden! which I have
been kept out of, banished from, treated as a stranger in----”
“Do not think of that now, do not think of that now! Oh, Arthur, if you
love me, be kind to him.”
“Kind to him! when he had all but succeeded in severing you from me, in
carrying you away, with Heaven knows what intention. But, my Clare,”
said the new Squire Arden, with that paper in his pocket, of which he
did not say a word to her, “for your sake!”
And Clare believed him, every word--she who was not credulous, nor full
of faith, and who prided herself that she knew the world--her own world,
in which people were moved by comprehensible motives, not visionary
impulses. Clare believed her lover. He would be kind, he would not be
too hard or unmerciful. He would forgive the usurper, the Edgar who was
Mrs. Murray’s son. She stifled every other feeling in that moment of
love and intoxication--if, indeed, at such a time there was room for any
other feeling towards the Edgar who had been the brother of her youth.
And thus the last link was broken which bound Edgar to his old life. The
moment when his sister and his successor clasped hands was the
conclusion, as it were, of his career. Had Clare clung to him, and
sought to detain him, he might have held on somehow, sadly and
reluctantly, by some shadow of the former existence, trying to do
impossibilities, and to reconcile the adverse elements. Her sudden
decision was a cruel blow to him: it was his final extinction as Edgar
Arden; but at the same time, no doubt, it was a relief. It settled her
in the position which in all the world was the one most suitable for
her, which she herself preferred; and at once and for ever it severed
the bond which was now no better than a fictitious and sentimental tie.
It was best so, he said to himself, even when he felt it most sorely.
They could not have continued together: they were no longer brother and
sister. It was best for both that the severance should be complete.
And thus it was that Edgar Arden’s life came to an end. Had he died it
could not have finished more completely. His life, his career, his very
name were gone. He existed still, and might for aught he knew continue
to exist for many years, and even make for himself another history, new
hopes, new loves, a renewed career. But here the man who has been the
hero of this story, the only Edgar known to his friends and to
himself--concluded. The change was like Death--a change of condition,
place, being, everything that makes a man. And here the story of Squire
Arden must perforce come to an end.