It was Edgar, however, and not Arthur, who was the first to speak. “If it must be a matter of attack and defence,” he said, “the papers are now with the rightful heir, and it is his to pursue the matter further. But I don’t want to have any attack or defence. Mr. Arden, will you be so good as to take the packet, and put it in your lawyer’s hands. I suppose there are some legal forms to be gone through; but I will not by any act of mine postpone your entrance upon your evident right.” A pause again--not a word said on any side--the three old men looking on without a movement, almost without a breath; and Arthur Arden, with his elbows still resting on the table, and his head turned aside, gazing, as if it were a reptile in his path, at the packet beside him. How he would have snatched at it had it not been for these spectators! There was no impulse of generosity towards Edgar in his mind. Such an impulse would have been at once foolish and uncalled for. Edgar himself had taken pains to show that he wanted no such generosity--and a man cannot part lightly with his rights. Everything would have been easy enough, clear enough, but for Clare’s presence and her words that morning. If he were to do what every impulse of good sense and natural feeling prompted--take up the papers before him and make himself master of a question affecting him so nearly--then no doubt he would lose Clare. He would lose (but that was of small importance) the good opinion of that foolish old Rector. He would create a most unjust prejudice against himself if he showed any eagerness about it, even in the eyes of the doctor and the lawyer, practical men, who knew that justice must prevail; and he would lose Clare. What was he to do? It was cruel, he felt, to put him to such a trial. He kept looking at the papers with his head turned, half of it shadowed over by the hands from which he had lifted it, half of it (his forehead and eyes) full in the light. To his own consciousness, an hour must have passed while he thus pondered. The others thought it five minutes, though it was not one. But another train of thought rapidly succeeded the first in Arthur’s mind. What did it matter, after all, what he did? He could be generous at Edgar’s cost, who, he felt sure, would accept no sacrifice. He gave a glance at the young man who was no Arden, who was looking on without anxiety now, with a faint smile still on his face, and a certain bright curiosity and interest in his eyes. It was perfectly safe. There are some people whom even their enemies, even those who do not understand them, can calculate upon, and Edgar was one of these. Arthur looked at him, and saw his way to save Clare and to save appearances, and yet attain fully his will and his rights. He took the packet up, and put it in Clare’s lap. “Here I put my fate and Edgar’s,” he said, with, in spite of himself, a thrill of doubt in his voice which sounded like emotion. “Let Clare judge between us--it is for her to decide----”