“Just five minutes!” cried Clare. She ran out into the hall after him; and Arthur, full of curiosity, rose too, and followed to the open door of the dining-room. She took her brother’s arm, put her face close to his ear, pleaded with him in a voice so low that Arthur could make out nothing but many repetitions of the one word, “Wait;” to which Edgar answered only by a shake of the head or tender melancholy look at her. This went on till his horse was brought to the door. “No,” he said, “no, dear; no, no,” smiling upon her with a smile more touching than tears; and then he stooped and kissed her forehead. “For the last time,” he said softly in her ear, “I will not venture to do this when I come back.” It was a farewell--one of those first farewells which are almost more poignant than the last--when imagination has fully seized the misery to come, and dwells upon it, inflicting a thousand partings. Arthur Arden, standing at the door behind, with his hands in his pockets, could not hear these words; but he saw the sentiment of the scene, and was filled with wonder. What did it mean? Was he going to run away, the fool, because he had discovered that his mother had not been immaculate? What harm would that do him--fantastic-romantic paladin? So sure was Arthur now that it could not do any legal harm that he was angry with this idiotic, unnecessary display. He could be none the better for it--nobody could be any the better for it. Why, then, should the Squire’s legal son and unquestionable heir make this ridiculous fuss? It roused a suppressed rage in Arthur Arden’s breast. And Clare, seeing him watch, came back to the dining-room as her brother rode away from the door. She restrained the despair that was creeping over her, and came back to defy her kinsman. Though, what was the good of defying him, when so soon, so very soon, there would be nothing to conceal? She went back, however, restraining herself--meeting his eyes of wonder with a blank look of resistance to all inquiry. “Has Edgar gone off on a journey?” Arthur asked, with well-affected simplicity. “How strange he should have said nothing about it! Where has he gone?” “He has not gone on a journey,” said Clare. “I beg your pardon--your parting was so touching. I wish there was somebody to be as sorry for me; but I might go to Siberia, and I don’t think anyone would care.” “That is unfortunate,” said Clare. She was very defiant, anxious to try her strength. For once more, even though all should be known this very day, she would stand up for her brother--her brother! “But don’t you think, Mr. Arden,” she said abruptly, “that such things depend very much on one’s self? If _you_ are not sorry to part with any one, it is natural that people should not interest themselves about you.”