Clare was seated alone, dressed for a journey, in the little room which had always been her favourite room. She was dressed entirely in black, which made her extraordinary paleness more visible. She had always been pale, but this morning her countenance was like marble—not a tinge of colour on it, except the pink, pale also, of her lips. She received them with equal coldness, bending her head only when the two men, both of them almost speechless with emotion, came into her presence. She was perfectly calm; that which had befallen her was too tremendous for any display of feeling; it carried her beyond the regions of feeling into those of the profoundest passion—that primitive, unmingled condition of mind which has to be diluted with many intricate combinations before it drops into ordinary, expressible emotion. Clare had got beyond the pain that could be put into words, or cries or tears; she was stern, and still, and cold, like a woman turned to stone.
“I want to explain what I am about to do,” she said, in a low tone. “We are leaving, of course, at once. Mr. Arden” (her voice faltered for one moment, but then grew more steady than ever), “I have taken with me what money I have; there is fifty pounds—I will send it back to you when I have arranged what I am to do. You will wish to see the children; they are in the nursery waiting. Edgar will go with me to town, and help me to find a place to live in. I do not wish to make any scandal, or cause any anxiety. Of course I cannot change my name, as it is my own name, as well as yours, and my children will be called what their mother is called, as I believe children in their unfortunate position always are.”
“Clare, for God’s sake do not be so pitiless! Hear me speak. I have much—much to say to you. I have to beg your pardon on my knees——”
“Don’t!” she cried suddenly; then went on in her calm tone—“We are past all the limits of the theatre, Mr. Arden,” she said. “Your knees can do me no good, nor anything else. All that is over. I cannot either upbraid or pardon. I will try to forget your existence, and you will forget mine.”
“That is impossible!” he cried, going towards her. His eyes were so wild, and his manner so excited, that Edgar drew near to her in terror; but Clare was not afraid. She looked up at him with the large, calm, dilated eyes, which seemed larger and bluer than ever, out of the extreme whiteness of her face.
“When I swear to you that I never meant it, that I am more wretched—far more wretched—than you can be—that I would hang myself, or drown myself like a dog, if that would do any good——!”
“Nothing can do any good,” said Clare. Something like a moan escaped from her breast. “What are words?” she went on, with a certain quickening of excitement. “I could speak too, if it came to that. There is nothing—nothing to be said or done. Edgar, when one loses name and fame, and home, you know what to do.”
“I know what I did; but I am different from you,” said Edgar—“you, with your babies. Clare, let us speak; we are not stones—we are men.”
“Ah! stones are better than men—less cruel, less terrible!” she cried. “No, no; I cannot bear it. We will go in silence; there is nothing that anyone can say.”
“You see,” said Edgar, turning to Arden—“what is my advice or my suggestions now? To speak of compromise or negotiation——”