CHAPTER XV
One life over and another begun—one over and another begun: the words chimed in his ears as he rode away. And great was the consternation of the servants at Thorne when he rode away—great the amazement of Mary and Beatrice, who had gone back to their private room, and were waiting there to be called down and hear “the news.” “Gussy has refused him!” they said to each other with indescribable dismay. Their countenances and their hearts fell. What! the excitement all over, nothing to inquire into, no wooing to watch, nor wedding to expect? The girls thought they had been swindled, and went down together, arm in arm, to inquire into it. But the succession of events at this moment was too rapid to permit us to pause and describe the scene which they saw when they went down stairs.
In the meantime Edgar rode back to Arden, saying these words over to himself—one life ended and another begun. The one so sweet and warm and kindly and familiar, the other so cold and so unknown. He did not even know what his name was—who he was. The letters in the packet were few in number. They were signed only with initials. The post-marks on one outside cover which was preserved had been partially obliterated; but the name, so far as he could make it out, was that of some insignificant post-town which he had never heard of. At present, however, that question had not moved him much. He knew himself only as Edgar Arden. He could not realise himself in any other character, although at this very moment he had been proclaiming himself to be Edgar Arden no more. How hard it would be to change; to tear up his roots, as it were, to be no more Clare’s brother, to enter a world absolutely unknown. Ah, yes! but that was a distant dread—a thing that looked less by being far. In the meantime it was not the passive suffering, but the active, that was to be his. As he rode along, he asked himself anxiously what must be his next step. The Rector must be told, and Dr. Somers. He thought with a little gleam of satisfaction of going to the Doctor, and dispersing all his evil thoughts in the twinkling of an eye. That sweet little gentle face in the picture, the woman who was Clare’s mother, not his—it was his part to remove the cloud that had so long been over it. He saw now that everybody had more or less believed in this cloud—that there had been a feeling abroad even among those who defended her most warmly that poor Mrs. Arden required defence. And now it was he, not her son, a changeling, who was to do her justice. “I can clear my mother,” he said to himself—and another swift shooting pang went through his heart the moment he was conscious of the words he had used—but he could not disentangle this dreary knot. The confusion would clear away with time. He could not stop using the words he had always used, or turn his thoughts in a moment from the channel they had flowed in all his life.
What Edgar did first was to ride to the station, but not this time with any thought of making his escape. He telegraphed to Mr. Fazakerly, bidding him come at once on urgent business. “I shall expect you to dinner to-night,” was the conclusion of his message. What had to be done, it was best to do quickly, now as always. To be sure he had secured it now. He had done that which made it unimportant whether the papers were burned or not: and it was best that all should be concluded without delay. The only thing that Edgar hesitated at was telling Arthur Arden. He was the person most concerned: all that could be affected in any one else was a greater or less amount of feeling—a thing always evanescent and never to be calculated upon; but the news was as important to Arthur as to Edgar. A man (poor Edgar thought) of high and delicate character would have gone to Arthur first, and told him first; but he himself was not equal to that. He did not want to tell it to Arthur Arden. He would rather have some one else tell it to him—Fazakerly—any one. He loathed the idea of doing it himself. He even loathed the idea of meeting his successor, his heir, as he had so often called him; and he could not have told why. It was not that he expected any unkindness or want of consideration from Arthur. No doubt he would behave just as he ought to do. He would be kind; probably he would offer to pension the unwilling impostor. He would be happy, exultant in his wonderful success; and that would make him kind. But yet, the only person to whom Edgar hesitated to communicate his downfall was the one who was most interested in it. The very thought of him brought renewed and growing pain. For there was Clare to be thought of—Clare whom Arthur professed to love—whom, if he loved her, he would now be, so far as outward circumstances were concerned, a fitting match for. Edgar had made up his mind that he must give up his sister. He had decided that, whatever might be said or done now in this moment of excitement and agitation, Clare was lost to him, and that the bond between them could not be kept up. But if she were Arthur Arden’s wife the breaking of the bond would be more harsh, more complete, than in any other case. His breast swelled, and then it contracted painfully, bringing bitter tears to his eyes. Never, should he live a hundred years without seeing her, could Clare cease to be his sister. Nothing could make her less or more to him. If it was not blood, it was something deeper than blood. But Arthur Arden’s wife!
Poor Edgar! he could not answer for his thoughts, which were wild and incoherent, and rushed from one point to another with feverish speed and intensity; but his actions were not incoherent. He rode from the railway to the village very steadily and calmly, and stopped at Sally Timms’ cottage-door to ask for Jeanie, who was better and had regained consciousness. Then he went up the street, and dismounted at the Rectory gate. He had not intended to do it, or rather he had not known what he intended. The merest trifle, a nothing decided him. The door was open, and the Rector’s sturdy cob was standing before it waiting for his master. Edgar made a rapid reflection that he could now tell his story quickly, that there would be no time for much talk. He went in without knocking by the open door. Mr. Fielding was not in the library, nor in his drawing-room, nor in his garden. “I expect him in every moment, sir,” Mrs. Solmes said, with a curtsey. “He’s visiting the sick folks in the village. The horse is for young Mr. Denbigh, please, sir. Master has mostly given up riding now.”
Edgar made a nod of assent. He was not capable of speech. If this had been his first attempt to communicate the news, it would have seemed providential to his excited fancy. But Lady Augusta had not been out, and he had been able to tell his tale very fully there. Now, however, there seemed a necessity laid upon him to tell it again. If not Mr. Fielding, some one at least must know. He went across to the Doctor’s, thinking that at least he would see Miss Somers, who would not understand nor believe him. He had sent his horse away, telling the groom he would walk home. He was weary, and half crazed with exhaustion, sleeplessness, and intense emotion. He could not keep it in any longer. It seemed to him that he would like to have the church bells rung, to collect all the people about, to get into—no, not the pulpit, but the Squire’s pew—the place that was like a stage-box, and tell everybody. That would be the right thing to do. “Simon!” he called out to the old clerk, who had been working somewhere about the churchyard, and who at the sound of the horse’s hoofs had come to see what was going on, and stood with his arms leaning on the wall looking over. “Is there aught ye want as I can do for ye, Squire?” said old Simon. “No; nothing, nothing,” said poor Edgar; and yet he would have been so glad had some one rung the church bells. He paused, and this gentle domestic landscape burned itself in upon his mind as he crossed to the Doctor’s door. The village street lay asleep in the sun. Old Simon, leaning on the churchyard wall, was watching in a lazy, rural way the cob at Mr. Fielding’s door waiting for the curate, Edgar’s groom going off with his master’s horse towards the big gates, and a waggon which was standing in front of the Arden Arms. The waggoner had a tankard of ale raised to his face, and was draining it, concealing himself behind its pewter disk. The quietest scene: the sun caught the sign-post of the Arden Arms, which had been newly painted in honour of Edgar, and played upon the red cap of the drayman who stood by, and swept down the long white road, clearing it of every shadow. All this Edgar saw and noted without knowing it. In many a distant scene, at many a distant day, this came back to him—the gleam of that red cap, the watchful spectatorship of the old man over the churchyard wall.
Dr. Somers met him coming out. “Ah!” said the Doctor, “coming to see me. I am in no particular hurry. Come in, Edgar. It is not so often one sees you now–”
“You will see me less in the future,” said Edgar with a smile; “but I don’t think there will be many broken hearts.”
“Are you going away?” said Dr. Somers, leading the way into his own room. “Visits, I suppose; but take my word for it, my boy, there is no house so pleasant as your own house in autumn, when the covers are as well populated as yours. No, no; stay at home—take your visits later in the year.”
“Dr. Somers,” said Edgar, “I have come to tell you something. Yes, I am very serious, and it is very serious—there is nothing, alas, to laugh about. Do you remember what you hinted to me once here about—Mrs. Arden. Do you recollect the story you told me of the Agostini–”
“Ah, yes!” said the Doctor, growing slightly red. “About your mother—yes, perhaps I did hint; one does not like to speak to a man plainly about anything that has been said of his mother. I am very sorry; but I don’t think I meant any harm—to you—only to warn you what people said–”
“And I have come to tell you that people are mistaken,” said Edgar, with rising colour. He felt, poor fellow, as if he were vindicating his mother by proving that he was not her son. She was his mother in his thoughts still and always. Dr. Somers shook his head ever so slightly; of course, that was the right thing for her son to say.
“You think I have come, without evidence, to make a mere assertion,” Edgar continued. “Listen a moment–”
“My dear fellow,” said Dr. Somers, shrugging his shoulders, “how could you, or any one, make more than a mere assertion on such a subject. Assert what you please. You may be right—most likely you are right; but it is a matter which cannot be brought to proof.”
“Yes,” said Edgar. This time it was worse than even with Lady Augusta. With her he had the support of strong feeling, and counted on sympathy. But the Doctor was different. A film came over the young man’s eyes; the pulsations of his heart seemed to stop. The Doctor, looking at him, jumped up, and rushing to a cupboard brought out some wine.
“Drink it before you say another word. Why Edgar, what is this?”
He put the wine away from him with some impatience. “Listen,” he said; “this is what it is—I am not Mrs. Arden’s son!”
Dr. Somers looked at him intently—into his eyes, in a way Edgar did not understand. “Yes, yes,” he said, “I see—take the wine; take it to please me—Edgar Arden, I order you, take the wine.”
“To please you, Doctor,” said Edgar, “by all means.” And when he had drank it, he turned to his old friend with a smile. “But I am not Edgar Arden. I am an impostor. Doctor, do you think I am mad?”
Dr. Somers looked at him once more with the same intent gaze. “I don’t know what to make of you,” he said, in a subdued tone. “No more jesting, Edgar, if this is jesting. What is it you mean?”
“I am speaking the soberest, saddest truth,” said Edgar. “Clare will tell you; I have no right to call her Clare. I do not know who I am; but Mrs. Arden is clear of all blame, once and for ever. I am not her son.”
CHAPTER XVI
To say that the Doctor was utterly confounded by this revelation was to say little. He had not begun so much as to think what it meant when Edgar left him. An impatience which was foreign to his character had come to the young man. He was eager to tell his astounding news; but it irritated him to be doubted, to have to go over and over the same words. He did not show this feeling. He tried hard to keep his temper, to make all the explanations that were wanted; but within him a fire of impatience burned. He rushed away as soon as he could get free, with again that wild desire to be done with it which was the reverse side of his eagerness to tell it. If he could but get away, be clear of the whole matter, plunge into the deep quiet of the unknown, where nobody would wonder that he was not an Arden, where he might call himself anything he pleased! He went up the avenue with feverish speed, noting nothing. Nature had ceased to have power to compose him. He had been swept into a whirlpool of difficulty, from which there could be no escape but in flight; and till his work was done he could not fly.
And it seemed to Edgar a long, long time since he rode down between those trees—a very long time, a month, perhaps a year. With all his heart he longed to be able to escape, and yet a certain fascination drew him back, a wondering sense that something more might have happened, that there might be some new incident when he went back to divide his attention with the old– Perhaps were the bureau searched more closely there might be something else found—something that would contradict the other. All these fancies flashed through his mind as he went on. He was but half-way up the avenue when he met Mr. Fielding coming down. The Rector looked just as he always did—serene, kind, short-sighted—peering at the advancing figure, with a smile of recognition slowly rising over his face. “I know people generally by their walk,” he said, as they met; “but I don’t recognise your walk this morning, Edgar: you are tired? How pale you are, my dear boy! Are you ill?”
“Didn’t she tell you?” said Edgar, wearily.
“She tell me?—who tell me?—what? You frighten me, Edgar, you look so unlike yourself. I have been with Clare, and I don’t think she is well either. She looked agitated. I warned you, you remember, about that man–”
“Don’t speak of him, lest I should hate him,” said Edgar. “And yet I have no cause to hate him—it is not his fault. I will turn back with you and tell you what Clare did not tell you. She might have confided in you, anyhow, even if there had been a chance that it was not true.”
The Rector put his arm kindly within that of the agitated young man. He was the steadier of the two; he gave Edgar a certain support by the contact. “Whatever it is that agitates you so,” he said, “you are quite right—she might have told me; it would have been safe with me. Poor Clare! she was agitated too–”
This allusion overwhelmed Edgar altogether. “You must be doubly kind to her when I am gone,” he said, hurriedly. “Poor Clare! That is another thing that must be thought of. Where is she to go to? Would you take her in, you who have always been so kind to us? I would rather she were with you than at the Doctor’s. Not that I have anything to do with it now; but one cannot get over the habits of one’s life in twenty-four hours. Yes, poor Clare, I had no right to it, as it appears; but she was fond of me too.”
“Of course, she was fond of you,” said the Rector alarmed. “Come, Edgar, rouse yourself up. What does it mean this talk about going away? You must not go away. All your duties are at home. I could not give my consent–”
And then Edgar told him succinctly, in the same brief words which he had used before, his extraordinary tale. He told it this time without any appearance of emotion. He was getting used to the words. This time he paid no attention to the incredulity of his listener. He simply repeated it with a certain dull iteration. Mr. Fielding’s exclamations of wonder and horror fell dully on his ears. He could not understand them. It seemed so strange that any one should be surprised at a thing he had known so long. “Sure,” he said with a smile; “am I sure of my own existence? No, I don’t mean of my own identity, for at present I have none. But I am as sure of it as that I am alive. Do you think it would be any pleasure to me to go and spread such news if it were not true?”
“But, Edgar,–” began the Rector.
“That is the curious thing,” he said musingly; “I am not Edgar. I suppose a man would be justified in keeping his Christian name—don’t you think so? That surely must belong to him. I could not be John or George all at once, after being Edgar all my life. Surely I keep that.”
“My poor boy,” cried the Rector, in dismay. “My poor boy, come home, and lie down, and let me bring Somers up to see you. You are not well, you have been doing too much in town, keeping late hours, and– You will see, a little rest will set you all right.”
“Do you think I am mad?” said Edgar. “Look at me—can you really think so? I know only too well what I am saying. It is a very strange position to be placed in, and makes one talk a little wild, perhaps. Of course, I know nobody wants to take from me my Christian name; that was nonsense. But when one has just had such a fall as I have had, it confuses one a little. Will you come with me to the Hall, and see the papers? Clare should have told you. There is no harm in my calling her Clare, do you think, just for a time? I never can think of her but as my sister. And we must try and arrange what she is to do.”
“Edgar, am I to believe you?” cried Mr. Fielding. “Is it madness, or is it something too dreadful to name? Do not look at me like that, my dear boy. Don’t smile, for Heaven’s sake! you will break my heart.”
“Why shouldn’t I smile?” said Edgar. “Is all the world to be covered with gloom because I am not Squire Arden? Nonsense! It is I who must suffer the most, and therefore I have a right to smile. Clare will get over it by degrees,” he added. “It has been a great shock to her, but she will get over it. I don’t know what to say about her future. Of course I have no right to say anything, but I can’t help it. I suppose the chances are she will marry Arthur Arden. I hate to think of that. It is not mere prejudice against him as superseding me; it is because he is not worthy of her. But it would be the most suitable match. Of course you know she will lose Old Arden now that I am found out?”
“Edgar, stop! I can’t bear it,” cried the Rector. “For Heaven’s sake don’t say any more!”
“But why not? It is a relief to me; and you are our oldest friend. Of course I had no more to do with the entail than you have; all that is null and void. For Clare’s sake I wonder he did not destroy those papers, if for nothing else. Mr. Fielding, I have a horrible idea in my head. I wish I could get rid of it. It is worse than all the rest. He hated me, because of course I reminded him continually of his guilt. He wanted me to break my neck that day after Old Arden was settled on Clare. It would have been the most comfortable way of arranging the matter for all parties, if I had only known. But I can’t help thinking he carried his enmity further than that. I think he left those letters to be a trap to me. He meant me to find them, and hide them or destroy them, and share his guilt. Of course he believed I would do that; and oh, God! how strong the temptation was to do it! If I had found them myself—if they not been given to me by Clare–”
Mr. Fielding pressed the arm he held. He doubted no longer, questioned no longer. “My poor boy! my poor boy!” he murmured under his breath; and, kind soul as he was, in his heart, with all the fervour of a zealot, he cursed the old Squire. He cursed him without condition or peradventure. God give him his reward! he said; and for the first time in his life believed in a lake of fire and brimstone, and wished it might be true.
“I suppose I have got into the talking stage now,” said poor Edgar. “I have had a long spell of it, and felt everything that can be felt, I believe. It was on Sunday night I found it out—fancy, on Sunday night!—a hundred years ago. And I want you to stand by me to-day. I have telegraphed for Fazakerly. I have asked him to come to dinner; why, I don’t know, except that dinner is a solemnity which agrees with everything. It will be my table for the last time. Is it not odd that Arthur Arden should be here at such a moment? not by my doing, nor Clare’s, nor even his own—by Providence, I suppose. If Mr. Pimpernel’s horses had not run away, and if poor little Jeanie had not been in the carriage– What strange, invisible threads things hang together by! Am I talking wildly still?”
“No, Edgar,” said Mr. Fielding, with a half sob. “No, my poor boy. Edgar, I think it would be a relief to be able to cry– What shall you do? What shall you do? I think my heart will break.”
“I shall do very well,” said Edgar, cheerily. “Remember, I have not been brought up a fine gentleman. I shall be of as much use in the world probably as Arthur Arden, after all. Ridiculous, is it not? but I feel as if he were my rival, as if I should like to win some victory over him. It galls me to think that perhaps Clare will marry him—a man no more worthy of her– But, of course, the match would be suitable, as people call it, now.”
“Say you don’t like it, Edgar,” said Mr. Fielding, with sudden warmth. “Clare, you may be sure, if she ever neglected your wishes, will not neglect them now.”
Edgar shook his head; a certain sadness came into the meditative smile which had been on his face. “I believe she loves him,” he said, and then was silent, feeling even in that moment that it was not for Clare’s good he should say more. No; it was not for him to lay any further burdens upon his sister. His sister! “I must think of her as my sister,” he said aloud, defending himself, as it were, from some attack. “It is like my Christian name. I can’t give that up, and I can’t give her up—in idea, I mean; in reality, of course, I will.”
“The man who would ask you to do so would be a brute,” cried Mr. Fielding.
“No man will ask me to do so,” said Edgar. “I don’t fear that; but time, and distance, and life. But you are old—you will not forget me. You will stand by me, won’t you, to the last!”
The good Rector was old, as Edgar said; he could not bear any more. He sat down on the roadside, and covered his face with his handkerchief. And the tears came to Edgar’s eyes. But the suffering was his own, not another’s; therefore they did not fall.
Thus they separated, to meet again in the evening at the dinner, to which Edgar begged the Rector to ask Dr. Somers also. “It will be my last dinner,” he said, with a smile; and so went away—with something of his old look and manner restored to him—home.
Home! He had been the master of everything, secure and undoubting, three days ago. He was the master yet to the gamekeeper, who took off his hat in the distance; to Wilkins, who let him in so respectfully; even to Arthur Arden, who watched him with anxious curiosity. How strange it all was! Was he playing in some drama not comprehended by his surroundings, or was it all a dream?
It seemed a dream to the Rector, who hurried home, not knowing what to think, and sent for Dr. Somers, and went over it all again. Could it be true? Was the boy mad? What did it mean? They asked each other these questions, wondering. But in their hearts they knew he was not mad, and felt that his revelation was true. And so all prepared itself for the evening, when everything should be made public. A sombre cloud fell over Arden to everybody concerned. The sun looked sickly, the wind refused to blow. The afternoon was close, sultry, and threatening. Even Nature showed a certain sympathy. She would say her “hush” no longer, but with a gathering of clouds and feverish excitement awaited the catastrophe of the night.