Miss Somers was seated very erect on her sofa when Clare went in—more erect than she had been known to be for many a day—and was at the moment engaged in a discussion with Mercy, which her visitor could not but hear. “I don’t believe it was Clare,” Miss Somers was saying; “not that I mean you are telling a story—oh, no! I should as soon think—— But Clare will break her heart. She was always so—— And if ever a brother deserved it—— Oh, the poor dear—— I don’t mean to say a word against my brother—he is very, very—— But, then, as to being feeling, and all that—— If you are never ill yourself, how are you to know? But, Edgar, oh!—the tender heartedest, feelingest—— She never, never could—— Oh, can it be—is it—Clare?”
“Yes,” said Clare, with her haughtiest look. “And I think you were discussing us, Miss Somers—please don’t. I do not like it, nor would my brother. Talk of us to ourselves as you like, but to others—don’t, please.”
“Mercy,” Miss Somers said, hastily interrupting her, “I must have some more wool to finish these little—white Andalusian—— Mrs. Horsfall at the post-office—you must run now. Only fancy if I had not enough to finish—and that dear little—— Run—there’s a good woman, now. O Clare, my dear!” she added, out of breath, as the maid sulkily withdrew; “it isn’t that I would take upon me—— Who am I that I should find fault? but other people’s feelings, you know—though you were only a servant—— What was I saying, my dear?—that Edgar was the best, the very best—— And so he is. I never saw any one—not any one—so unselfish, and so—— O Clare! nobody should know it so well as you.”
“Nobody knows it so well as me,” said Clare. She had come with a kind of half hope of sympathy, thinking at least that it would be a relief to let her old friend run on, and talk the whole matter over as pleased her. But now her heart closed up—her pride came uppermost. She could not bear the idea of being discussed, and made the subject of talk to all the village. “But I object to being gossiped about,” she said.
“Dear,” said Miss Somers, in her soft voice, “it is not gossip when—and I love you both. I feel as if I was both your mothers. Oh, Clare! when I used to have my little dreams sometimes—when I thought I had quite a number, you know, all growing up—there were always places for Edgar and you. Oh, Clare! I don’t understand. The Doctor you know—he has so many things to think of—and then gentlemen are so strange—they expect you to know everything without—— Oh, what is it that has happened? Something about Edgar—that he was changed at nurse—or something. I am not very clever, I know, but you understand everything, Clare. Oh, what is it?—Arthur Arden and Edgar—but it is not Arthur that is your——? It is Edgar that was—and something about that Scotch person and Mr. Fazakerly, and—oh, Clare, it makes the whole house swim, and my poor head——”
“I cannot speak of it,” said Clare. “Oh, Miss Somers, don’t you understand?—how can I speak of it. I would like to forget it all—to die, or to go away——”
“Oh, hush, my dear—oh, hush,” said Miss Somers, with a scared face; “don’t speak of such—and then, why should you? You will marry, you know, you will be quite, quite—and all this will pass away. Oh, as long as you are young, Clare—anything may happen. Brothers are very nice,” said Miss Somers, shaking her head softly, “but to give yourself up, you know—and then they may marry; the Doctor never did—if he had brought home a wife, I think often—— Though, to be sure, it might have been better, far better. But a brother is never like—he may be very nice; and I am sure Edgar—— But, on the whole, Clare, my dear, a house of your own——”
Clare was silent. Her mind had wandered away to other matters. A house of her own! The Rector had said that his house was hers, and the thought had not consoled her. Was it possible that in the years to come, in some dull distant time she too might consent, like other girls, to marry somebody—that she might have a house of her own. In the sudden change that had overwhelmed her this dream had come like many others. Was it possible that she could no longer command her own destiny, that the power of decision had gone out of her hands. Bitterness filled her heart; a bitterness too deep to find any outlet in words. A little while ago she had been conscious that it was in her power to make Arthur Arden’s life wealthy and happy. Now she had been tossed from her elevation in a moment, and the power transferred to him; and he showed no desire to use it. He was silent, condemning her to a blank of suspense, which chafed her beyond endurance. She said to herself it was intolerable, not to be borne. She would think of him no more; she would forget his very name. Would he never come? would he never come?
“I don’t pretend to understand, my dear,” said Miss Somers humbly; “and if it distresses you, of course—— It is all because the Doctor is so hasty; and never, never will—— And then he expects me to understand. But, anyhow, it will stop the marriage, I suppose. The marriage, you know—— Gussy Thornleigh, of course. I am so sorry—— I think she is such a nice girl. Not like you, Clare; not beautiful nor——; but such a nice—— I was so pleased—— Dear Edgar, he will have to wait, and perhaps she will see some one else, or he—— Gentlemen are always the worst—— But, of course, Clare, the marriage must be put off——”
“I don’t know of any marriage,” said Clare.