“I should not have said that. I mean, you know, her being so young. Why, I don’t think she was as old as Clare when they came back here with you a baby——”
“I was born abroad,” said Edgar, half in the tone of one making an inquiry, half as asserting a fact.
“If you would try not to interrupt me, please,” said Mr. Fielding, piteously. “You put me off my story. Yes, you were born abroad. They came home in October, and you had been born in the end of the previous year. They took everybody a good deal by surprise. In the first place, few people knew there was a baby; and no one knew when your father and mother were coming. There were no bells rung for you, Edgar, when you came home first, and the old wives have a notion—but never mind that.”
“Tell me the notion,” said Edgar.
“Oh, nothing—about mischief to the heir for whom no bells are rung. That’s all; and heaven be praised, no mischief has come to you, Edgar. They came quite suddenly and the baby. Your father never made a fuss about babies. That is to say, my dear boy,” said the old Rector, lowering his voice, “if it will not grieve you; from the very beginning that had begun.”
Edgar gave a little nod of his head, sudden and brief, understanding only too clearly; and Mr. Fielding stopped to grasp his hand, and then went on again.
“If I could have helped it, I would not have mentioned it; but, of course, it must be referred to now and then,” continued the Rector. “Instead of being proud of you, as a man, if he is good for anything, always is, he never seemed able to bear the fuss. To be sure, some men don’t. They will not be made second even for their own child. Your mother——”
“My mother was fond of me at least?” said Edgar, turning away his head, and cutting at the weeds with the light cane in his hand, doing his best to conceal his excitement and emotion.
“Your mother, poor child!—but that of course, that of course, Edgar; how could she be otherwise than fond of her first-born? Your mother’s entire life was absorbed in an attempt to satisfy her husband. I saw the whole process; and it made my heart bleed. She was a passive, gentle, little creature—not like him. She shrank from the world, and all that was going on in it. She liked melancholy books and sad songs, and all that—one of the creatures doomed to die young. And he was so different! She used to strain and strain her faculties trying to please him. She would try to amuse him even in her innocent way. It was very hard upon her, Edgar. You are an active, restless sort of being yourself; but, for heaven’s sake, don’t worry your wife when you get one. Let her follow her own constitution a little. She tried and tried till she could strive no longer: and when Clare was born, I think she was quite glad to be obliged to give in, and get a little rest in her grave. Of course, she was not here all the time. They used to come and go, and never stayed more than a month or two. You were left behind very often. The Doctor never saw her,” Mr. Fielding added pointedly, “till just before she died. He had newly come back and got settled in his house. He never saw her but on her death-bed. He knew nothing about her; but I—you may think I am bragging like a garrulous old talker as I am—but I saw a great deal of her one way or another. I think she felt she had a friend in me.”
“Thanks!” Edgar said below his breath. He was too deeply moved to look at his old friend, nor could he trust himself to speak.