Squire Arden; volume 3 of 3
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And then there came another pause—a pause in which every sound seemed to thud and beat against the anxious ears that waited and listened. Arthur Arden had taken his seat again. He was moved, too, to the very depths of his being. He covered his face with his hands, unable to look at the two at the head of the table, who were both gazing at the company waiting for their fate. Edgar had taken Clare’s hand, and was holding it fast between his own. He was saying something, of which he was not himself conscious. “Thanks, Clare! courage, Clare!” he was repeating at intervals, as he might have murmured any other babble in the excitement of the moment. Mr. Fazakerly was the only one who stirred. He broke open the seals of the packet with agitated haste, muttering also under his breath. “Parcel of young fools!” was what Mr. Fazakerly was saying. He let the papers drop out in a heap upon the table, and picked up one here and one there, running it over with evident impatience and irritation. Then he tossed them down, and pushed his spectacles off his forehead, and wrathfully regarded the little company around him. “What am I expected to do with these?” he asked. “They are private letters of the late Mr. Arden, not, so far as I am aware, brought before us by any circumstances that call for attention. I don’t know what is intended to be done with them, or who produces them, or why we are called together. Mr. Edgar, I think you might provide better entertainment for your old friends than a mare’s nest like this. What is the meaning of it all? My opinion is, they had better be replaced in the old bureau from which Miss Clare tells us she fished them out.”
But while he said this in his most querulous tone, Mr. Fazakerly picked up the papers one by one, and tied them together. His irritation was extreme, and so was his dismay, but the last was uppermost, and was not easy to express. “If these had come before me in a proper way,” he went on, “of course I should have taken all pains to examine them and see what they meant; but unless there is some reason for it—some object, some end to be gained—I always object particularly to raking up dead men’s letters. I have known endless mischief made in that way. The chances are that most men do quite enough harm in their lifetime, or at least in a lawful way by their wills and so forth, after their death, without fishing up every scrap of rancour or folly they may have left behind them. Mr. Edgar, you have no right that I know of to go and rummage among old papers in order to prejudice yourself. It is the merest nonsense. I can’t, for my part, consent to it. I don’t believe a word of it. If anybody else takes it up, and I am called upon to defend you, of course I will act to the best of my ability; but in the meantime I decline to have anything to do with it. Take them away–”
Mr. Fazakerly thrust the tied-up parcel towards his client. Of course, he knew very well that the position he took up was untenable after all that had been said, but his irritation was real, and the idea of thus spoiling a case went to his very heart. He pushed it along the table; but, by one of those curious accidents which so often surpass the most elaborate design, the little packet which had been the cause of so much trouble, instead of reaching Edgar, stopped short in front of Arthur Arden, who was still leaning on the table, covering his face with his hand. It struck him lightly on the elbow, and he raised his head to see what it was. It was all so strange that the agitated company was moved as by a visible touch of fate. Arthur stared at it stupidly, as if the thing was alive. He let it lie, not putting forth a finger, gazing at it. Incredible change of fortune lay for him within the enclosure of these faded leaves; yet he could not secure them, could not do anything, was powerless, with Clare’s eyes looking at him, and the old friends of the family around. His own words came back to his mind suddenly in that pause—“Let him take everything, so long as he leaves me you.” And Clare’s answer, “Say that again to-morrow.” To-morrow! It was not yet to-morrow; and what was he to say?
It was Edgar, however, and not Arthur, who was the first to speak. “If it must be a matter of attack and defence,” he said, “the papers are now with the rightful heir, and it is his to pursue the matter further. But I don’t want to have any attack or defence. Mr. Arden, will you be so good as to take the packet, and put it in your lawyer’s hands. I suppose there are some legal forms to be gone through; but I will not by any act of mine postpone your entrance upon your evident right.”
A pause again—not a word said on any side—the three old men looking on without a movement, almost without a breath; and Arthur Arden, with his elbows still resting on the table, and his head turned aside, gazing, as if it were a reptile in his path, at the packet beside him. How he would have snatched at it had it not been for these spectators! There was no impulse of generosity towards Edgar in his mind. Such an impulse would have been at once foolish and uncalled for. Edgar himself had taken pains to show that he wanted no such generosity—and a man cannot part lightly with his rights. Everything would have been easy enough, clear enough, but for Clare’s presence and her words that morning. If he were to do what every impulse of good sense and natural feeling prompted—take up the papers before him and make himself master of a question affecting him so nearly—then no doubt he would lose Clare. He would lose (but that was of small importance) the good opinion of that foolish old Rector. He would create a most unjust prejudice against himself if he showed any eagerness about it, even in the eyes of the doctor and the lawyer, practical men, who knew that justice must prevail; and he would lose Clare. What was he to do? It was cruel, he felt, to put him to such a trial. He kept looking at the papers with his head turned, half of it shadowed over by the hands from which he had lifted it, half of it (his forehead and eyes) full in the light. To his own consciousness, an hour must have passed while he thus pondered. The others thought it five minutes, though it was not one. But another train of thought rapidly succeeded the first in Arthur’s mind. What did it matter, after all, what he did? He could be generous at Edgar’s cost, who, he felt sure, would accept no sacrifice. He gave a glance at the young man who was no Arden, who was looking on without anxiety now, with a faint smile still on his face, and a certain bright curiosity and interest in his eyes. It was perfectly safe. There are some people whom even their enemies, even those who do not understand them, can calculate upon, and Edgar was one of these. Arthur looked at him, and saw his way to save Clare and to save appearances, and yet attain fully his will and his rights. He took the packet up, and put it in Clare’s lap.
“Here I put my fate and Edgar’s,” he said, with, in spite of himself, a thrill of doubt in his voice which sounded like emotion. “Let Clare judge between us—it is for her to decide–”
Before Clare could speak, Edgar had taken back the papers from her. “That means,” he said, almost gaily, with a laugh which sounded strange to the excited company, “that they have come back to me. Clare has had enough of this. It is no matter of romantic judgment, but one of evidence merely. Mr. Fielding, will you take my sister away? Yes, I will say my sister still. She does not give me up, and I can’t give her up. Arden is little in comparison. Clare, if you could give me a kingdom, you could not do more for me than you have done to-night. Go with Mr. Fielding now–”
She rose up, obeying him mechanically, at once. “Where?” she said. “Edgar, tell me. Out of Arden? If it is no longer yours, it is no longer mine.”
“Hush, dear,” he said, soothing her as if she had been a child—“hush, hush. There is no cause for any violent change. Your kinsman is not likely to be hard upon either me or you.”
“He put the matter into my hands,” she cried, suddenly, with a sob. “O Edgar, listen! Let us go away at once. We must do justice—justice. Let us go and hide ourselves at the end of the world—for it cannot be yours, it is his.”
She stumbled as she spoke, not fainting, but overcome by sudden darkness, bewilderment, failure of all physical power. The strain had been too much for Clare. They carried her out, and laid her on the sofa in the quiet, silent room close by, where no excitement was. How strange to go out into the placid house, to see the placid servants carrying in trays with tea, putting in order the merest trifles! The world all around was unconscious of what was passing—unconscious even under the same roof—how much less in the still indifferent universe outside. Edgar laughed, as he went to the great open door, and looked out upon the peaceful stars. “What a fuss we are making about it!” he said to his supplanter, whose mind was incapable of any such reflection; “and how little it matters after all!” “Are you mad, or are you a fool?” cried Arthur Arden under his breath. To him it mattered more than anything else in heaven or earth. The man who was losing everything might console himself that the big world had greater affairs in hand—but to the man who was gaining Arden it was more than all the world—and perhaps it was natural that it should be so.
Half-an-hour after the three most concerned had returned to the library, to discuss quietly and in detail the strange story and its evidences. These three were Edgar, Arthur, and Mr. Fazakerly. The Rector sat by Clare’s sofa, in the drawing-room, soothing her. “My dear, God will bring something good out of it,” he was saying, with that pathetic bewilderment which so many good people are conscious of in saying such words. “It will be for the best, my poor child.” He patted her head and her hand, as he spoke, which did her more good, and kept by her—a supporter and defender. The Doctor gave her a gentle opiate, and went away. They were all, in their vocations, ministering vaguely, feebly to those desperate human needs which no man can supply—need of happiness, need of peace, need of wisdom. The Rector’s soft hand smoothing one sufferer’s hair; the doctor’s opiate; the lawyer’s discussion of the value of certain documents, legally and morally—such was all the help that in such an emergency man could give to man.
CHAPTER XIX
The others seated themselves once more round the library table. There was a change, however, in their circumstances and position which would have been immediately manifest to any observer. It had been Edgar an hour ago who was the chief person concerned; it was he who had to communicate his story, and to note its effect upon his audience. But now it was Arthur who was the chief; not that he had anything to tell; but all the anxiety had transferred itself to him—all the burden. His brow was heavy with thought and care. He was feverishly eager to read and to hear everything that could be said, and he watched Mr. Fazakerly with the devouring anxiety of one who felt life and death to hang on his lips. “It does not matter what you think or what I think, but what he thinks,” he said abruptly when Edgar explained something. His whole attention was bent upon the lawyer. He read the letters in Mr. Fazakerly’s look. The chances were he did not himself make out or understand them, but he saw what the other thought of them, and that was enough.
“Softly, softly,” said Mr. Fazakerly; “don’t let us go too fast. I acknowledge these are ugly letters to find; they make a very strong case against the old Squire. He was a man who would stick at nothing to get his own will. I would not say so before your sister, Mr. Edgar, but still it was true. I have known cases in which he did not stick at anything. And there can be no doubt that it affords an instant explanation of his conduct to you. But the law distrusts too clear an explanation of motives—the law likes facts, Mr. Edgar, and not motives. We must go very gently in this difficult path. I will allow that I think this is the late Mr. Arden’s handwriting—for the sake of argument I will allow that; but these letters, you will perceive, all make a proposition. There is nothing in them to prove that the proposition was accepted—not a word—a fact which of itself complicates the matter immensely. We have Mr. Arden’s word for it, without any confirmation—nothing more.”
“I think you mistake,” said Edgar; “there are these other letters which consider and accept the proposal. They are, I think, remarkable letters. The person who wrote them could no doubt be identified. I think they are quite conclusive that the proposal was accepted. Look at this, and this, and this–”
“All very well—all very well,” said the lawyer. “Letters signed ‘J. M.;’ but who is ‘J. M.’? I conclude a woman. I don’t make out what kind of a person at all. There are errors of spelling here and there, which do not look like a lady; and there is something about the style which is not like an uneducated person. I decline to receive as evidence the anonymous letters of ‘J. M.’”
Arthur Arden followed the speakers with his eyes, and with breathless attention. He turned from one to another, noting even their gestures, the little motions of arm and hand with which they appealed to each other. He was discouraged by Mr. Fazakerly’s tone; he raised his eyes to Edgar, almost begging him to say something more—to bring forward another argument for his own undoing. It was the strangest position for them both. Edgar had taken upon himself, as it were, the conduct of his adversary’s case; he was the advocate of the man who was to displace and supersede him. He was struggling with the champion of his own rights for those of his rival, and with the strangest simplicity that rival tacitly appealed to him.
“I don’t understand these matters of detail–” Edgar began.
“Detail, my dear sir, detail!” said Mr. Fazakerly, “they are matters of principle. If letters like these were to be accepted as affecting the succession to a great property, nobody would be safe. How can I tell who this ‘J. M.’ was? It might be anybody—nobody. She may have written these letters at random altogether. And, besides, there is not a tittle of evidence to connect you with ‘J. M.’ Even supposing the whole correspondence perfectly genuine, which is a thing requiring proof in the first place, how am I to know—how is any one to know—that you are the child referred to? There is, the contrary, everything against it. You yourself jump at a conclusion. You say you are not like the Ardens, and that your father was unkind to you, and from these two facts you arrive at the astounding conclusion that you are not Mr. Arden’s son. Mr. Edgar, I do not wish to be uncivil, but there is nothing in it. We cannot decide such a question on evidence so slight– God bless me! what is that?”
The sound was startling enough; but it was only a knock, though an emphatic and determined one, at the door. Edgar rose to open it, and found Wilkins outside endeavouring to hold back an unlooked for visitor. “She would come, sir,” said Wilkins in trouble–
“Is it you, Mrs. Murray?” said Edgar, startled he scarcely knew why; yet somehow not feeling her presence inappropriate. “I am very busy at this moment. I hope Jeanie is not worse–”
She made no attempt to enter the room; but standing outside in the imperfect light, looked anxiously in his face. “I came because I couldna help it,” she said slowly, “because I was concerned in my mind about yours and you.”
“That was kind,” he said with a smile. He opened the door wide, and revealed her standing on the threshold—a dark, commanding figure. “We are busy about very important business,” said Edgar; “but still, if you have anything to say to me—if Jeanie is worse–”
“Jeanie is better, or I would not have left her,” said the Scotchwoman; and then she put her hand suddenly upon his arm, and drew him towards her. “It’s you I am troubled about,” she said suddenly, with the hoarseness of great emotion. “I’ve never got you out of my mind since you said you were in trouble. Oh, my bonnie lad! I have no right to speak, but my heart is in sore pain. Oh, if I could but be of some service to you!”
Edgar never knew how it was—perhaps some trick of words like something he had recently seen—perhaps the passion in her voice—perhaps a sudden intuition, a touch of nature, warning him of things unknown and unseen. Suddenly he changed the position of affairs, put his hand on her arm, and drew her into the room. “Come,” he said, “I want you. Don’t hesitate any longer; I have a question to ask you.” He had to exercise almost a little force to bring her into the room. She stopped upon the threshold, resisting the pressure of his hand. “No,” she said, “no before these strange folk; it was for you I came, and you alone.”
“I have something to ask you,” said Edgar. “Come in and help me. I think you can.”
He led her in unwillingly up to the table. She gave an alarmed and anxious look upon the two people sitting by. Arthur Arden, whose mind was open to everything, looked up and stared at her; but the lawyer, after one hasty glance, took no further notice. He went on reading the papers, shrugging his shoulders at this absurd interruption. In his own mind it was a proof that the story he had just heard was true as the Gospel, and that the young man who admitted every chance comer into his intimacy could not be an Arden. But externally he paid no attention. It was not his business to see, but to be blind. Arthur Arden was in a very different mood; everything was important to him—he caught at the faintest indications of meaning, and was on the outlook eagerly for any incident. He watched closely, as Edgar led Mrs. Murray up to the table. He perceived how reluctant she was, how she stood on the defensive, watchful, and guarding herself against surprise. What share could she have in the matter, that all her faculties should be thus on the alert? Edgar’s demeanour too was very amazing to the spectator. His eye had brightened—a curious air of quickened interest was in his face; he looked as if he felt himself on the eve of a discovery. He led the old woman up to the table, holding her by the arm. It was a strange scene: the lawyer reading on steadily, taking no notice; the other spectator in the shade, looking on so eagerly—the two figures standing between. The woman had the air of going blindfold to encounter some unknown danger, which, whatever it was, she was prepared to resist. Then Edgar spoke with so much energy and impressiveness that even Mr. Fazakerly paused, and pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, and looked up hurriedly. “Look at these,” he said, bringing her close to the open packet of letters—“Look at them, and tell me if you ever saw them before.”
Mrs. Murray approached, looking straight before her, keeping, with an evident effort, every sign of emotion from her face. But when her eye fell on the papers, an extraordinary change came over her. She came to a dead stop—she uttered a low cry—she looked at them, stooping over the table, and threw up her hands with a wild gesture of dismay. And then all at once she recollected herself, stiffened all over, stood desperately erect, with her hands clasped before her, and looked at them all with a dumb defiance, which was wonderful to see.
“What did you say, sir?” she asked. “I am growing old; I am no so quick at the up-take as I once was. I’ve been in this room before, in an hour of great trouble and pain to me, and it works upon my nerves to see it again. Sir, what did ye say?”
And she turned from one to another, severally defying them. Her face had become blank of every expression but that one. This was the way in which she betrayed herself. She defied them all. Her face said—Find me out if you can; I will never tell you—instead of wearing, as a more accomplished deceiver would have done, the air of having nothing to find out.
“Have you ever seen these letters before?” said Edgar; and he lifted the papers and put them into her hands. Arthur, who was watching, saw her breast heave. He saw her hand clutch them, as if she would have torn them in pieces. But she dared not tear them in pieces. She looked at them, made a pretence to read, and stood as if she were an image cut out of stone.
“How should I have seen them?” she said, putting them back on the table as if they had burned her. “My cousin, Thomas Perfitt, is an old servant of your house; but how should its secrets have come to me?”
“Look here,” said Edgar, in his excitement; “I believe you know; something tells me that you know. Mr. Fazakerly, give us your attention. You will not serve me by pretending ignorance if you know. I have found out that I am not Mr. Arden’s son.”
“Softly, softly!” said the lawyer, putting his hand on Edgar’s arm. “That is mere assertion on your part; there is no proof.”
“Hear me out,” cried Edgar. “I am speaking from myself only. I am certain I am not Mr. Arden’s son, nor Mrs. Arden’s son. I am a stranger altogether to the race. To me these letters prove it fully. For his own evil ends, whatever they may have been, the master of this house adopted me—perhaps bought me–”
Here there was another interruption. Mrs. Murray put out her hand suddenly as if to stop him, and gave a cry as of pain; but once more stiffened back into her old attitude, regarding them with the same defiant look. Edgar paused, he looked her full in the face, he put his hand upon her arm. “You injure me by your silence,” he said. “Speak! Are you my– Am I–?” His voice shook, his whole frame trembled. “You are something to me,” he cried, looking at her. “Speak, for God’s sake! Was it you who wrote these letters? You know them—you recognised them. It is for my benefit that you should speak. Answer me!—the time is past for concealment. Tell me what you know.”
Mrs. Murray’s lips moved, but no sound came; she looked from one to another with rapid eager looks but the defiance in her face did not pass away. At last her voice burst out aloud with an effort. “Let me sit down,” she said; “I am growing old, and I am weary with watching, and I cannot stand upon my feet.” The three men beside her leant forward to hear these words, as if a whole revelation must be in them, so highly were they excited. When it became apparent that she revealed nothing, even Mr. Fazakerly was so much disturbed as to push his chair away from the table, and to give his whole attention to the new actor in the scene. Edgar brought her a seat, and she sat down among them with an air of presiding over them, and with a strange knowledge of the crisis, and all its particulars which seemed natural at the moment, and yet was proof above all argument that she was not unprepared for the disclosure that had been made to her. There was no surprise in her face. She was greatly agitated, and evidently restraining herself with an effort that was almost superhuman; but she was not astonished, as a stranger would have been. This fact dawned upon the lawyer with curious distinctness after the first minute. Edgar was baffled in his appeal, and Arthur wanted the power to make use of his observations. But Mr. Fazakerly saw, and watched, and had all his wits about him. And neither at that moment nor at any other did the old solicitor of the Ardens, the depository of all the family secrets, forget that the reigning Squire, whether he were the rightful heir or not, was his client, and that he was retained for the defence.
“Mr. Edgar,” said Mr. Fazakerly, “and Mr. Arthur, you are both too much interested to manage this properly. You take it for granted that everything bears upon the one question, which this good lady, of course, never heard of before. Leave her with me. If she knows anything—which is very unlikely—she will inform me in confidence. Of course, whatever I find out shall be disclosed to you at once,” he added, with a mental reservation. “Leave it to me.”
But whether that could have been done or not was never put to the test. As he finished speaking, Wilkins came to the door hastily. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but some folks is come from the village, asking if one Mrs. Murray is here. I beg your pardon, I’m sure, for interrupting–”
The old Scotchwoman rose up suddenly in the midst of them with a cry of fear, which she no longer attempted to restrain.
“Is it my Jeanie?” she exclaimed. “Oh, good Lord, good Lord, I’m paying dear, dear!”
“I must go with her,” said Edgar, in his excitement. Something in his face, some strange likeness never perceived before, startled both his companions. Arthur Arden rose too. He did not care about Jeanie. He had forgotten, in this greater excitement, that he was guilty in regard to the girl. All he thought of was to follow this new clue—to see them together—to watch the new resemblance he had found out in Edgar’s face.