Clare raised her face, quite bloodless and haggard, from her hands. She looked at him with a look of awe and fear. “Then you knew it!” she said, the words scarcely able to form themselves on her lips.
“Yes,” said Arthur; “and for your consolation, Clare—though it should be the reverse of consolation to me—I do not think he should fear. Such things as these are very difficult to prove. The Squire never said a word in his lifetime. I don’t know if any court of law would allow your brother to prove his own illegitimacy—I don’t think they would. He has no right to bring shame on his mother——”
“What do you mean?” said Clare, looking at him suddenly with a certain watchfulness rising in her eyes.
“I am entering on a subject I ought not to have entered upon,” he said. “Forgive me; it was only because I wanted to tell you that I don’t think Edgar has any just cause for fear. If you would only trust me, dearest Clare. I should ask your pardon for saying that, too—but though you should never think of me, never speak to me again, you are still my dearest. Clare, you sent me away, and I could not tell why. Don’t send me away now. I am a poor beggar, and you are a rich lady, and yet I love you so well that I must tell you, whatever your opinion of me may be. Couldn’t you trust me? Couldn’t you let me help you? You think I would be Edgar’s enemy, but I would not. He should have everything else if he left me you.”
She looked up at him with a movement of wonder. Her eyes interrogated him over and over. He had wounded her so much and so often—about Jeanie—about the Pimpernels—about—— And yet, if he really meant it—could it be possible that he was willing to leave Edgar everything, to give him no trouble, if only she——? Was it a bargain she was going to make? Ah, poor Clare! She thought so—she thought her impulse was to buy her brother’s safety with her own, but at the same moment her heart was fluttering, beating loud, panting to be given to him whom she loved best. And yet she loved Edgar. To her own consciousness it was her brother she was thinking most of now—and what a comfort it would be thus to purchase Arthur’s promise not to harm him, and to trust everything to Arthur! She wavered for an instant, with her mind full of longing. Then her heart misgave her. She had allowed him to take her hands in his, and to kiss them; while she looked him in the face, with eyes full of dumb inquiry and longing, asking him over and over again was this true?
“Stop, stop,” she said faintly; “if it was my own secret I would trust you—if it was only me—— Oh, stop, stop! If you will say the same to-morrow—when he has told you—then I will—— Oh, if I can survive it, if I am able to say anything! Cousin Arthur, I am worn out; let me go now.”
“It is hard to let you go,” he said. “But, Clare, tell me again—if I say the same to-morrow, after he has told me—you will——? Is that a promise? You will listen to me—you will give me what I desire most in the world—is it a promise, Clare?”
“Let me go,” she said. “Oh, this is not a time to speak of—of our own happiness, or our own concerns.”
“Thanks for such words—thanks, thanks,” he cried, “I ask no more. To-morrow—it is a bargain, Clare.”
And thus she made her escape, half glad, half shocked that she could think of anything but Edgar, and not half knowing what she had pledged herself to. Neither did Arthur Arden know to what he had pledged himself.