When he had written this, he walked down the avenue alone, in the dusk, to the village. Arden had gone before him. The lodge-gates had been left open, and gave to the house a certain forlorn air of openness to all assault, which, no doubt, existed chiefly in Edgar’s fancy, but impressed him more than I can say. To walk down that avenue at all was for him a strange sensation; but Edgar by this time had got over all the weaknesses of recollection. It was not hard for him at any time to put himself to one side. He did it now completely. He felt like a man walking in a dream; but he no longer consciously recalled to himself the many times he had gone up and down there, and how it had once been to him his habitual way home--the entrance to his kingdom. No doubt in his painful circumstances these thoughts would have been hard upon him. They died quite naturally out of his mind now. What was to become of Clare?--where could he best convey her for shelter or safety?--and how provide for her? His own downfall had made Clare penniless, and now that she was no longer Arthur Arden’s wife, she could and would, he knew, accept nothing from _him_. How was she to be provided for? This was a far more important question to think of than any maunderings of personal regret over the associations of his past life. Next morning he went up again to the Hall, after a night passed not very comfortably at the “Arden Arms,” where everyone looked at him curiously, recognising him, but not venturing to say so. As he went up the avenue, Arthur Arden overtook him, arriving, too, from a different direction. A momentary flash of indignation came over Edgar’s face. “You promised to leave Arden,” he said. “And so I did,” said the other. “But I did not say I would not come back to hear what she said. My God, I may have been a fool, but may I not see my--my own children before they go? I am not made of wood or stone, do you suppose, though I may have been in the wrong?” His eyes were red and bloodshot, his appearance neglected and wild. He looked as if he had not slept, nor even undressed, all night. “Look here,” he said hoarsely, “I have got another letter, saying _she_ would accept money--a compromise. Will you persuade Clare to stay, and make no exposure, and hush it all up, for the sake of the children--if we have _her_ solemnly bound over to keep the secret and get her sent away? Will you? What harm could it do you? And it might be the saving of the boy.” “Arden, I pity you from my heart!” said Edgar; “but I could not give such advice to Clare.” “It’s for the boy,” cried Arden. “Look here. We’ve never been friends, you and I, and it’s not natural we should be; but that child shall be brought up to think more of you than of any man on earth--to think of you as his friend, his--well, his uncle, if you will. Grant that I’m done for in this world, and poor Clare too, poor girl; but, Edgar, if you liked, you might save the boy.”