“It must be very flattering to you,” said Clare; but she rose instantly, and took a very summary leave, avoiding Miss Somers’s kiss. She went home, glowing with anger and mortified pride. It was but too easy to see through so simple a veil. Edgar, who met her on the way home, could not understand her glowing cheek and angry eye. He turned and walked with her, feeling quite concerned about his sister. “What has happened?” he said. “Something disagreeable at the village? Can I set it right for you, Clare?”
“No,” she said; “it is nothing disagreeable in the village. It is much nearer than the village. Edgar, I have found out why you are going away. You are going for my sake; you think I am not able to manage my own affairs—to take care of myself. You think so poorly of your sister as that!”
“What do you mean?” he said. “I think anything that is disagreeable or distasteful to you? You cannot believe it for a moment——”
“It is that Arthur Arden may go,” she said firmly, but with flaming cheeks. And Edgar looked at her confused, not knowing what to say. But after the first moment he recovered himself.
“I think he has paid us a sufficiently long visit, I confess,” he said. “I think, as it cannot be his while I live, that perhaps he had better not remain longer at Arden. But why should this be a matter of offence to you?”
Clare was silent; her blush grew hotter, her eyes were glowing still, but she faltered, and drooped her head as she went on.
“If that was all! if you had no other meaning! Edgar, do you think I am so frivolous, so lightly moved, so——”
“Clare,” he said seriously, “do not let us discuss a subject which has not yet been put in our way. I think of you as the creature I love best in the world. I prize your happiness, and comfort, and welfare more than anything in the world. What would you have me say? I do not think I am wronging any one by going for a few weeks to London. I neither reproach nor restrain by so simple a step. Don’t let us talk of it any more.”
“You do both,” said Clare, under her breath; but Edgar was kind, and would not hear. He was sorry for her, seeing her emotion, and he was half ashamed besides that his immaculate sister—the Princess whom everybody served and honoured—should suffer herself to be thus moved. It gave him a little pang to think that anything connected with Arthur Arden, or, indeed, with any man, could thus disturb her stately maidenly serenity. A man may be very respectful of love in the abstract, but the sight of his sister in love is a sight which is not pleasant to him. He tried to shut it out from himself by rushing hurriedly into other matters of conversation, and did a great deal of talking by way of covering her silence. Clare recovered her composure by degrees, and then had to recover from the shame which followed, and the feeling of having betrayed herself, so that Edgar’s monologue was of infinite value to her, though, perhaps, she was scarcely grateful enough to him for keeping it up; and it was then that she fully found out that her brother, who was so weakly considerate of everybody’s feelings, and anxious to save everybody pain, was nevertheless very firm when he thought it necessary, and did not give in, as many people supposed he would be sure to do. This discovery had a great effect upon his sister. It bewildered her, as going entirely against her preconceived notions, and it also moved her to a little alarm. For she, too, had supposed he would yield, being so tender of giving pain, and he had not yielded nor budged a step. And Clare, high-minded and high-spirited and proud as she was, grew frightened, as she glanced with furtive eyes at her gentle brother, who, she knew well, would not hurt a fly.
But if Clare was frightened, the effect upon Edgar was still more serious. He felt that his flight was too late to do any good. She loved this man whom he thought so unworthy of her. So much older, poorer, less true and good than herself; a man, with so many soils of the world upon him, whom even Edgar felt to possess experiences of which he would rather know nothing; but Clare loved him! Nothing else could account for her agitation. It was too late to banish him from the house, too late to build up defences round her—the stronghold was gone. Edgar’s quick mind jumped from that conclusion to an instant and final summary of Arthur Arden’s character. He was a man who might mend, as so many men might mend, if prosperity smiled upon him. If he had love, and money, and an established position, he might settle down, as so many have settled down, all his wild oats sown, and himself a most virtuous member of society—“a sober man among his boys,” giving them the best advice and example. Had he been the Squire, he would have fitted the place beautifully. This idea came to Edgar in spite of himself. He would have made an admirable Squire, and the little process of wild oats-sowing would have been no social disadvantage to him. Even now, if he became Mr. Arden, of Old Arden, in right of his wife—this was one of the things that annoyed Edgar, but he tried to look it in the face. His sister had said no more about giving that possession up, and Edgar did not find it within the limits of his powers to make a proposal to her on the subject—and accordingly the chances were that Arthur would be Arden, of Old Arden, while Edgar was only the young Squire. It galled even his sweet temper to think of this transference. But, putting feeling aside, and thinking only of justice, he did not doubt that his cousin would mend. He had reached the age when men often mend, when dissipation becomes less sweet, and reputation more dear, and when comfort comes in as a powerful auxiliary to virtue. To have only such satisfaction as could be given by these thoughts when he was considering Clare’s future husband, and her hopes of happiness, was poor enough; but still it was better than the thought that he was giving her over to the charge of a man who would ruin her and break her heart.