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.