CHAPTER XXV
Miss Somers was seated very erect on her sofa when Clare went in—more erect than she had been known to be for many a day—and was at the moment engaged in a discussion with Mercy, which her visitor could not but hear. “I don’t believe it was Clare,” Miss Somers was saying; “not that I mean you are telling a story—oh, no! I should as soon think– But Clare will break her heart. She was always so– And if ever a brother deserved it– Oh, the poor dear– I don’t mean to say a word against my brother—he is very, very– But, then, as to being feeling, and all that– If you are never ill yourself, how are you to know? But, Edgar, oh!—the tender heartedest, feelingest– She never, never could– Oh, can it be—is it—Clare?”
“Yes,” said Clare, with her haughtiest look. “And I think you were discussing us, Miss Somers—please don’t. I do not like it, nor would my brother. Talk of us to ourselves as you like, but to others—don’t, please.”
“Mercy,” Miss Somers said, hastily interrupting her, “I must have some more wool to finish these little—white Andalusian– Mrs. Horsfall at the post-office—you must run now. Only fancy if I had not enough to finish—and that dear little– Run—there’s a good woman, now. O Clare, my dear!” she added, out of breath, as the maid sulkily withdrew; “it isn’t that I would take upon me– Who am I that I should find fault? but other people’s feelings, you know—though you were only a servant– What was I saying, my dear?—that Edgar was the best, the very best– And so he is. I never saw any one—not any one—so unselfish, and so– O Clare! nobody should know it so well as you.”
“Nobody knows it so well as me,” said Clare. She had come with a kind of half hope of sympathy, thinking at least that it would be a relief to let her old friend run on, and talk the whole matter over as pleased her. But now her heart closed up—her pride came uppermost. She could not bear the idea of being discussed, and made the subject of talk to all the village. “But I object to being gossiped about,” she said.
“Dear,” said Miss Somers, in her soft voice, “it is not gossip when—and I love you both. I feel as if I was both your mothers. Oh, Clare! when I used to have my little dreams sometimes—when I thought I had quite a number, you know, all growing up—there were always places for Edgar and you. Oh, Clare! I don’t understand. The Doctor you know—he has so many things to think of—and then gentlemen are so strange—they expect you to know everything without– Oh, what is it that has happened? Something about Edgar—that he was changed at nurse—or something. I am not very clever, I know, but you understand everything, Clare. Oh, what is it?—Arthur Arden and Edgar—but it is not Arthur that is your–? It is Edgar that was—and something about that Scotch person and Mr. Fazakerly, and—oh, Clare, it makes the whole house swim, and my poor head–”
“I cannot speak of it,” said Clare. “Oh, Miss Somers, don’t you understand?—how can I speak of it. I would like to forget it all—to die, or to go away–”
“Oh, hush, my dear—oh, hush,” said Miss Somers, with a scared face; “don’t speak of such—and then, why should you? You will marry, you know, you will be quite, quite—and all this will pass away. Oh, as long as you are young, Clare—anything may happen. Brothers are very nice,” said Miss Somers, shaking her head softly, “but to give yourself up, you know—and then they may marry; the Doctor never did—if he had brought home a wife, I think often– Though, to be sure, it might have been better, far better. But a brother is never like—he may be very nice; and I am sure Edgar– But, on the whole, Clare, my dear, a house of your own–”
Clare was silent. Her mind had wandered away to other matters. A house of her own! The Rector had said that his house was hers, and the thought had not consoled her. Was it possible that in the years to come, in some dull distant time she too might consent, like other girls, to marry somebody—that she might have a house of her own. In the sudden change that had overwhelmed her this dream had come like many others. Was it possible that she could no longer command her own destiny, that the power of decision had gone out of her hands. Bitterness filled her heart; a bitterness too deep to find any outlet in words. A little while ago she had been conscious that it was in her power to make Arthur Arden’s life wealthy and happy. Now she had been tossed from her elevation in a moment, and the power transferred to him; and he showed no desire to use it. He was silent, condemning her to a blank of suspense, which chafed her beyond endurance. She said to herself it was intolerable, not to be borne. She would think of him no more; she would forget his very name. Would he never come? would he never come?
“I don’t pretend to understand, my dear,” said Miss Somers humbly; “and if it distresses you, of course– It is all because the Doctor is so hasty; and never, never will– And then he expects me to understand. But, anyhow, it will stop the marriage, I suppose. The marriage, you know– Gussy Thornleigh, of course. I am so sorry– I think she is such a nice girl. Not like you, Clare; not beautiful nor–; but such a nice– I was so pleased– Dear Edgar, he will have to wait, and perhaps she will see some one else, or he– Gentlemen are always the worst– But, of course, Clare, the marriage must be put off–”
“I don’t know of any marriage,” said Clare.
“Oh, my dear, I heard– I am not of much account, but still I have some friends; and in town, you know, Clare. They were always–; and everybody knew. Poor Edgar! he must be very, very– He is so affectionate and– He is one of the men that throw themselves upon your sympathy—and you must give him your– Clare, my dear! are they to share Arden between them?—or is Edgar to be Arthur, you know? Oh! I do wish you would tell me, Clare.”
“Mr. Arthur Arden has everything,” said Clare raising her head. “It all belongs to him. My brother has no right. Oh, Miss Somers, please don’t make me talk!”
“That is just what I said,” said Miss Somers; “and oh, my dear, don’t be unhappy, as if it were death or–, when it is only money. I always say– And then he is so young; he may marry, or a hundred things. So, Arthur is Edgar now? but he is not your– I don’t understand it, Clare. He is a great deal more like you, and all that; but he was born years before your poor, dear mamma– Oh, I remember quite well—before the old Squire was married—so it is impossible he could be your– I daresay I shall have it clear after a while. Edgar is found out to be Arthur, and Arthur Edgar, but only not your– And then, Clare, if you will but think—how could they be changed at nurse? for Arthur was a big fellow when your poor, dear mamma– You could not mistake a big boy of ten, with boots and all that, you know, for a little baby– Oh, I am so fond of little babies! I remember Edgar, he was such a– But Arthur was a troublesome, mischievous boy– I can’t make out, I assure you, how it could be–”
Again Clare made no reply. She sat and pursued her own thoughts, leaving the invalid in her confused musings to make the matter out as best she could. It was better to be here, even with Miss Somers’ babble in her ears, than alone in the awful solitude of the Rectory, with nothing to break the current of her thoughts. Miss Somers waited a few minutes for an answer, but, receiving none, returned to her own way of making matters out.
“If Edgar is in want—of—anything, Clare– I mean, you know– Money is always nice, my dear. Whatever one may want– Oh, I know very well it cannot buy– but still– And then there is that nice chair: he was so very kind– Clare,” she said, sitting up erect, “if it is all true about their being changed, and all that, why, it was Arthur’s money, not Edgar’s; and I am sure if I had been shut up for a hundred years– I am not saying anything against your cousin– but it would never have occurred to him, you know– Clare, perhaps I ought to send it back–”
“I hope you don’t think my cousin is a miser or a tyrant,” said Clare, flushing suddenly to her very hair.
“Oh, no, no, dear– But then one never knows– Mr. Arthur Arden is not a miser, I know. I should not like to say– He is fond of what belongs to him, and– He is not at all like– My dear, I never knew any one like Edgar. Other gentlemen may be kind– I daresay Mr. Arthur Arden is kind– but these things would never come into his head– He is a man that is very fond of– Well, my dear, it is no harm. One ought to be rather fond of oneself– But Edgar– Clare–”
“Edgar is a fool!” cried Clare, with passion. “He is not an Arden; he would give away everything—his very life, if it would serve anybody. Such men cannot live in the world; it is wicked—it is wrong. When God sent us into the world, surely He meant we were to take care of ourselves.”
“Did he?” said Miss Somers, softly. She was roused out of her usual broken talk. “Oh, Clare, I am not clever, to talk to you. But if that is what God meant, it was not what our Saviour did. He never took care of Himself– He took care– Oh, my dear, is not Edgar more like– Don’t you understand?”
Once more Clare made no reply. A cloud enveloped her, mentally and physically—a sourd misery, inarticulate, not defining itself. Why should Edgar, why should any one, thus resign their own happiness? Happiness was the better part of life, and ought there not to be a canon against its renunciation as well as against self-murder? Self-murder was nothing to it. To give up your identity, your real existence, all the service you could do to God or man, was not that worse than simply taking your own life? So Clare asked herself. And this was what Edgar had done. He had not considered his duty at all in the matter. He had acted on a foolish, generous impulse, and thrown away more than his existence. Then, as she sat and pursued the current of her thoughts, she remembered that but for her, Edgar, in the carelessness of his security, would never have looked at those papers, would never have thought of them. It was she, and she only, who was to blame. Oh, what fancies had been in her mind—visions of wrong to Arthur, of the duty that was upon herself to right him! To right him who cared nothing for her, who was ready to let her sink into the abyss, whose heart did not impel him towards her, whose hand had never sought hers since he knew– It was her fault, not Edgar’s, after all.
“I am not one to preach,” said Miss Somers, faltering. “I know I never was clever; but oh, Clare, when one only thinks– What a fuss we make about ourselves, even me, a helpless creature! We make such a fuss—and then– As if it mattered, you know. But our Saviour never made any fuss—never minded what happened. Oh, Clare! If Edgar were like that—and he is so, so—– Oh, I don’t know how to express myself. Other people come always first with him, not himself. If he was my brother, oh, I would be so– Not that I am saying a word against the Doctor. The Doctor is very, very– But not like Edgar. Oh! if I had such a brother, I would be proud–”
“And so am I,” said Clare, rising with a revulsion of feeling incomprehensible to herself. “He is my brother. Nothing can take him away from me. I will do as he does, and maintain him in everything. Thank you, dear Miss Somers. I will never give Edgar up as long as I live–”
“Give Edgar up!” cried Miss Somers in consternation—“I should think not, indeed, when everybody is so proud– It is so sweet of you, dear, to thank me—as if what I said could ever– It is all Edgar’s doing—instead of laughing, you know, or that– And then it makes others think—she cannot be so silly after all—I know that is what they say. But, oh! Clare, I’m not clever—I know it—and not one to–, but I love you with all my heart!–”
“Thanks, dear Miss Somers,” cried Clare, and in her weariness and trouble, and the revulsion of her thoughts, she sat down resolving to be very good and kind, and to devote herself to this poor woman, who certainly was not clever, nor clear-sighted, nor powerful in any way, but yet could see further than she herself could into some sacred mysteries. She remained there all the afternoon reading to her, trying to keep up something like conversation, glad to escape from her own thoughts. But Miss Somers was trying for a long stretch. It was hard not to be impatient—hard not to contradict. Clare grew very weary, as the afternoon stole on, but no one came to deliver her. No one seemed any longer to remember her existence. She, who could not move a few days since without brother, suitor, anxious servants to watch her every movement, was left now to wander where she would, and no one took any notice. To be sure, they were all absorbed in more important matters; but then she had been the very most important matter of all, both to Edgar and Arthur, only two days ago. Even, she became sensible, as the long afternoon crept over, that there had been a feeling in her heart that she must be pursued. They would never let her go like this, the two to whom she was everything in the world. They would come after her, plead with her, remonstrate, bid her believe that whosoever had Arden, it was hers most and first of all. But they had not done so. Night was coming on, and nobody had so much as inquired where she was. They had let her go. Perhaps in all the excitement they were glad to be quit of her. Could it be possible? Thus Clare mused, making herself it is impossible to say how miserable and forlorn. Ready to let her go; glad to be rid of her. Oh, how she had been deceived! And it was these two more than any other who had taught her to believe that she was in some sort the centre of the world.
Some one did come for Clare at last, making her heart leap with a painful hope; but it was only Mr. Fielding, coming anxiously to beg her to return to dinner. She put on her hat, and went down to him with the paleness of death in her face. Nobody cared where she went, or what she did. They were glad that she was gone. The place that had known her knew her no more.
CHAPTER XXVI
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.