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.

“Oh, my dear, I heard—— I am not of much account, but still I have some friends; and in town, you know, Clare. They were always——; and everybody knew. Poor Edgar! he must be very, very—— He is so affectionate and—— He is one of the men that throw themselves upon your sympathy—and you must give him your—— Clare, my dear! are they to share Arden between them?—or is Edgar to be Arthur, you know? Oh! I do wish you would tell me, Clare.”

“Mr. Arthur Arden has everything,” said Clare raising her head. “It all belongs to him. My brother has no right. Oh, Miss Somers, please don’t make me talk!”

“That is just what I said,” said Miss Somers; “and oh, my dear, don’t be unhappy, as if it were death or——, when it is only money. I always say—— And then he is so young; he may marry, or a hundred things. So, Arthur is Edgar now? but he is not your—— I don’t understand it, Clare. He is a great deal more like you, and all that; but he was born years before your poor, dear mamma—— Oh, I remember quite well—before the old Squire was married—so it is impossible he could be your—— I daresay I shall have it clear after a while. Edgar is found out to be Arthur, and Arthur Edgar, but only not your—— And then, Clare, if you will but think—how could they be changed at nurse? for Arthur was a big fellow when your poor, dear mamma—— You could not mistake a big boy of ten, with boots and all that, you know, for a little baby—— Oh, I am so fond of little babies! I remember Edgar, he was such a—— But Arthur was a troublesome, mischievous boy—— I can’t make out, I assure you, how it could be——”

Again Clare made no reply. She sat and pursued her own thoughts, leaving the invalid in her confused musings to make the matter out as best she could. It was better to be here, even with Miss Somers’ babble in her ears, than alone in the awful solitude of the Rectory, with nothing to break the current of her thoughts. Miss Somers waited a few minutes for an answer, but, receiving none, returned to her own way of making matters out.

“If Edgar is in want—of—anything, Clare—— I mean, you know—— Money is always nice, my dear. Whatever one may want—— Oh, I know very well it cannot buy—— but still—— And then there is that nice chair: he was so very kind—— Clare,” she said, sitting up erect, “if it is all true about their being changed, and all that, why, it was Arthur’s money, not Edgar’s; and I am sure if I had been shut up for a hundred years—— I am not saying anything against your cousin—— but it would never have occurred to him, you know—— Clare, perhaps I ought to send it back——”

“I hope you don’t think my cousin is a miser or a tyrant,” said Clare, flushing suddenly to her very hair.

“Oh, no, no, dear—— But then one never knows—— Mr. Arthur Arden is not a miser, I know. I should not like to say—— He is fond of what belongs to him, and—— He is not at all like—— My dear, I never knew any one like Edgar. Other gentlemen may be kind—— I daresay Mr. Arthur Arden is kind—— but these things would never come into his head—— He is a man that is very fond of—— Well, my dear, it is no harm. One ought to be rather fond of oneself—— But Edgar—— Clare——”

“Edgar is a fool!” cried Clare, with passion. “He is not an Arden; he would give away everything—his very life, if it would serve anybody. Such men cannot live in the world; it is wicked—it is wrong. When God sent us into the world, surely He meant we were to take care of ourselves.”

“Did he?” said Miss Somers, softly. She was roused out of her usual broken talk. “Oh, Clare, I am not clever, to talk to you. But if that is what God meant, it was not what our Saviour did. He never took care of Himself—— He took care—— Oh, my dear, is not Edgar more like—— Don’t you understand?”

Once more Clare made no reply. A cloud enveloped her, mentally and physically—a sourd misery, inarticulate, not defining itself. Why should Edgar, why should any one, thus resign their own happiness? Happiness was the better part of life, and ought there not to be a canon against its renunciation as well as against self-murder? Self-murder was nothing to it. To give up your identity, your real existence, all the service you could do to God or man, was not that worse than simply taking your own life? So Clare asked herself. And this was what Edgar had done. He had not considered his duty at all in the matter. He had acted on a foolish, generous impulse, and thrown away more than his existence. Then, as she sat and pursued the current of her thoughts, she remembered that but for her, Edgar, in the carelessness of his security, would never have looked at those papers, would never have thought of them. It was she, and she only, who was to blame. Oh, what fancies had been in her mind—visions of wrong to Arthur, of the duty that was upon herself to right him! To right him who cared nothing for her, who was ready to let her sink into the abyss, whose heart did not impel him towards her, whose hand had never sought hers since he knew—— It was her fault, not Edgar’s, after all.

“I am not one to preach,” said Miss Somers, faltering. “I know I never was clever; but oh, Clare, when one only thinks—— What a fuss we make about ourselves, even me, a helpless creature! We make such a fuss—and then—— As if it mattered, you know. But our Saviour never made any fuss—never minded what happened. Oh, Clare! If Edgar were like that—and he is so, so—— Oh, I don’t know how to express myself. Other people come always first with him, not himself. If he was my brother, oh, I would be so—— Not that I am saying a word against the Doctor. The Doctor is very, very—— But not like Edgar. Oh! if I had such a brother, I would be proud——”

“And so am I,” said Clare, rising with a revulsion of feeling incomprehensible to herself. “He is my brother. Nothing can take him away from me. I will do as he does, and maintain him in everything. Thank you, dear Miss Somers. I will never give Edgar up as long as I live——”

“Give Edgar up!” cried Miss Somers in consternation—“I should think not, indeed, when everybody is so proud—— It is so sweet of you, dear, to thank me—as if what I said could ever—— It is all Edgar’s doing—instead of laughing, you know, or that—— And then it makes others think—she cannot be so silly after all—I know that is what they say. But, oh! Clare, I’m not clever—I know it—and not one to——, but I love you with all my heart!——”

“Thanks, dear Miss Somers,” cried Clare, and in her weariness and trouble, and the revulsion of her thoughts, she sat down resolving to be very good and kind, and to devote herself to this poor woman, who certainly was not clever, nor clear-sighted, nor powerful in any way, but yet could see further than she herself could into some sacred mysteries. She remained there all the afternoon reading to her, trying to keep up something like conversation, glad to escape from her own thoughts. But Miss Somers was trying for a long stretch. It was hard not to be impatient—hard not to contradict. Clare grew very weary, as the afternoon stole on, but no one came to deliver her. No one seemed any longer to remember her existence. She, who could not move a few days since without brother, suitor, anxious servants to watch her every movement, was left now to wander where she would, and no one took any notice. To be sure, they were all absorbed in more important matters; but then she had been the very most important matter of all, both to Edgar and Arthur, only two days ago. Even, she became sensible, as the long afternoon crept over, that there had been a feeling in her heart that she must be pursued. They would never let her go like this, the two to whom she was everything in the world. They would come after her, plead with her, remonstrate, bid her believe that whosoever had Arden, it was hers most and first of all. But they had not done so. Night was coming on, and nobody had so much as inquired where she was. They had let her go. Perhaps in all the excitement they were glad to be quit of her. Could it be possible? Thus Clare mused, making herself it is impossible to say how miserable and forlorn. Ready to let her go; glad to be rid of her. Oh, how she had been deceived! And it was these two more than any other who had taught her to believe that she was in some sort the centre of the world.

Some one did come for Clare at last, making her heart leap with a painful hope; but it was only Mr. Fielding, coming anxiously to beg her to return to dinner. She put on her hat, and went down to him with the paleness of death in her face. Nobody cared where she went, or what she did. They were glad that she was gone. The place that had known her knew her no more.